If there is any possible way to offend someone, I can do it, and usually in record time. I am gifted that way.

Several years ago, I was helping my mother-in-law in her boutique in downtown Tuna, and a mature lady came in with her slightly less mature sister.  The younger sister was looking for a dress to wear to a wedding. They were both simply dressed, wore their hair styled in a bun and no make-up.  I thought nothing of it because that’s kind of how I look in Wal-Mart on any given day.

I showed them a dress that I thought the younger sister would like. It was pretty, but kind of plain. I suggested that she could put some pearls with it to dress it up because that is exactly what I would do.

“NO pearls!” the older sister barked at me.  I took a step back, puzzled at her reaction.   “No pearls?” I asked.  Certainly she had misunderstood. What’s not to like about pearls?  So I tried to clarify, and apparently the way I do it, it only clarifies the fact that I’m a bumbling idiot.

“Pearls would be great!” I enthused.  “Pearls go with everything, pearls are classic….” and on and on I went about pearls.  “No! Pearls!” she hissed. And then she stomped out of the store with her sister trailing behind her.

After they left, I told Cleo about how upset the lady was that I mentioned pearls.  Cleo laughed. She had seen the whole scene unfold and then went to hide out in a dressing room.

She told me that they were a stripe of Christian who believe women shouldn’t wear jewelry.  Well how was I supposed to know that?  I had no idea how Cleo knew that just by looking at them.  Oddly enough, although I can’t see what will set someone off just by looking at them, I can tap into it within seconds.

I lost the sale, but I did expand my list of things not to say to people under any circumstances:

“Oh! When are you due?”

“What a darling little grandchild you have!”

“How ‘bout some pearls!?”

When I woke up the other day, there were no obvious indicators that the banking industry had it in for me. So I got out of bed.

After breakfast, Sean and I set out on a few errands.  Our first stop was the bank.  I very seldom go to the bank any more, but I had a check that needed to be deposited and it was easier to zip through the drive through lane as we were out and about, rather than mailing it.  Or so I thought.

I pulled into the drive-through and prided myself that I had managed to pull close enough to the “tube thing” to reach it.  It seems that most of the time, I position the car too far away and then I have to unfasten my seatbelt, raise myself up just so and then hang out the window to grab the tube. And then do it all again to put the tube back in and send it away. And then do it a third time to retrieve the contents of the tube. And then a fourth time to put the tube back in place for the next banking customer.  Banking yoga – it works the glutes, quads, triceps and stretching; develops that inner core strength we all need.

So I easily reach out my car window and grab the tube.  I give the teller a little knowing wink and nod because even though I can’t see her, I can tell by the way she said “goodmorninghowareyou” that she is in awe of my pulling up to the tube thing skills.

I set the tube in my lap, twist off the top, tuck in my check and deposit slip, easily slip it back into its alcove and send it on its way.  The teller does her thing and in minutes, the tube has returned.  I reach out to welcome the tube back. The window magically slides open and I grab the tube.  But the tube slips from my hand.  It bounces one time and then rolls onto the ground where it wobbles back and forth for a second before deciding to make a run for it.  And then it rolls out of sight and under the car.

But because I have with such great care and expertise pulled up so close to the “tube thing” — I can’t open my car door to see where it went.

Being an expert at Banking Yoga, I unfasten my seatbelt and lean out the window to see what I can see.

The tube has rolled under the car and is resting behind the front tire.

No problem.  I will pull forward a little, jump out and get the tube.  But every time I pull forward, the little tube pulls forward.  I can’t go backwards because not only would that crush the tube, but I would have to some how get a message to the car behind me to back up and I happened to have left my bullhorn at home.

Now, it is on occasions such as this, that having a five-year-old in the backseat  is immensely helpful. It is immensely helpful when one is busy humiliating oneself in front of strangers to have a five-year-old in the back seat asking repeatedly, “Mommy what are you doing? Mommy why did you throw the tube on the ground? Mommy, what’s happening?”

The teller, being the alert banking professional that she is, notices that something has gone awry.  She gets on the loud speaker (aptly named because it can be heard in three counties) to inquire.  “Ma’am, are you having a problem?” she blasts.

Unfortunately, in my attempt to retrieve the tube, I’ve moved my car far enough ahead that I now have to roll down and shout out of my back window.  “Um, yes, I guess you could say that,” I holler in confession to her and all the other drive through banking customers.

“I seem to have dropped the tube and now it’s under my car and I can’t get it because I can’t get out of the car and I can’t back up and I can’t go forward, which is the story of my life, and I have a five-year-old in the back and he doesn’t understand and I’m on the last day of my estrogen patch and I’m having trouble and the tube… ITS ON THE GROUND and I’m trapped in my car!”

“Okay, ma’am, wait right there, don’t go anywhere,” she says, even though I felt I had made it clear I couldn’t go anywhere and that was exactly the problem.

Like the fairy Godmother in Cinderella minus the wand, the teller magically appears in a vapor of sparkles.  She reaches under the car and retrieves the tube. She hands me the tube without berating me. I grab my deposit slip and hand the tube back.  I smile.  I thank her. I apologize. I thank her.  She smiles, but without teeth.  A no-teeth smile tells me that she woke up this morning hoping not to have to reach under someone’s car for the teller tube.  She is polite. She does not laugh or say “What an idiot!” Out loud.  She is a professional. I thank her again. And apologize.

As I drive away, I look down at my white Capri pants and there is a giant circle of ink on the zipper, right in the place where you wouldn’t want a giant  circle of ink. A target, as it were.

In the shape of a teller tube.

One of the highlights of this past weekend at the She Speaks conference was meeting my blog friend Shelly who writes My Life on The Wild Side.

I had not met Shelly in person before, but when I met her on Friday, I connected with her immediately.  I felt like I had known her since high school.  The conversation was easy — we both grew up in the Midwest, both love words and are just similarly wired.  Since we were both on the speaker’s track, we attended some of the same sessions and enjoyed some meals together.

The afternoon of The Big 5, which is lingo for The Big 5-Minute Speech, because I’m all hip and into the use of super hip lingo, we snuck away and gave our 5-minute speeches for each other a couple of times — which was tremendously helpful to me.  She told me to slow down, I told her to not say ubiquitous.  She didn’t say ubiquitous and I didn’t slow down.  She has a more teachable spirit than I.

Anyway, the day of The Big 5, Shelly was wearing this awesomely cute little black and white tweedy type bolero jacket. It was very Jackie, which is lingo for Jackie O.  It’s hard to be as cool as I, what with all my lingo. Anyway, I coveted that jacket just a little bit.  It was covetably cute.

Well, after The Big 5, as I was passing through a crowded hallway, I spotted that awesome jacket and I was thrilled to see my new friend and report how it went.  So I went up to her and put my arm around her and put the side shoulder squeeze hug move on her and said, “Oh I’m so happy to see you!”

And then a lovely, lovely girl turned around who was not Shelly. In fact it was a girl I had never seen before.  She was either terribly kind or terribly frightened, but no charges were pressed.

As I was saying, it’s just kind of hard to be as cool as me. With or without the lingo.

So for a week or more now, I’ve had this mother dove nesting in the Carolina jasmine that is growing on the fence that runs alongside my driveway and just outside my kitchen window.  And I have to admit here, I’ve become involved with this dove.  I wonder if the dove is okay, I wonder if the dove is hungry, I wonder if the dove recognizes me, I wonder if the dove likes me.  I am obsessed with the dove.

Multiple times a day, I run outside and check on the dove.  And multiple times a day I find the dove sitting on her nest staring straight ahead pretending that I do not exist.

Early yesterday morning, we got a terrific thunder and lightning storm with some heavy rain and high winds.  It woke me up around 5am and my first thought was not “Is my child frightened? Does he need his mommy?” but “I wonder if the dove is okay.”

So an hour later, after the storm passed, I went outside in my threadbare hot pink chenille robe and fuzzy leopard print slippers to check on the dove.   I realize as I leave the house that I look a little like Crabby Maxine and for a split second I consider putting on something less likely to frighten or offend the dove. Doves probably have very delicate sensibilities when it comes to garish fashion and other startling things.

I stand on my tip toes to see her and yes, she was still there, sitting on her nest and staring straight ahead as usual.  I coo to her in a low and soothing dove-like voice.  I tell her how I worried over her.  I asked her if the storm had frightened her. I inquire of her health and tell her she is a pretty dove and that I am a kind person.  I continue our conversation along those lines and at one point she blinked which I took to mean that we were bonding.

When I turned to go back in the house, I offered a feeble wave to the speed walker at the end of the driveway who had slowed down enough to catch me talking tenderly to the Carolina jasmine.

Last week, I took a break from my adventures in home improvement to make a quick trip to Target.  My theory was that browsing the dollar bins would relieve the pain that I had in my neck from standing on a ladder and painting the ceiling. 

I approached the automatic doors to the building fully expecting them to open as they usually do.  In fact, I nearly walked head first into the doors when they didn’t open.  So I stood there waiting for them to open trying to figure out what the problem was with the doors.  And then I kind of stomped my foot a little, slightly put out that the doors weren’t working and that I might have to go to the trouble to walk three feet to the left and go in through the other doors when I was already standing in front of these doors desperately needing dollar bin relief for my neck. 

Then a Target employee came outside and opened the door for me. I wasn’t standing in front of the automatic doors. I was standing front of the regular doors. 

I twisted my brain trying to think up a face-saving excuse to offer the Target employee: 

“The guy who usually opens doors for me? He’s out sick today.” 

“My seeing eye dog is at the vet.” 

“When did they move the automatic doors?” 

“Thanks a lot. I was trying to open those doors with my mind and you just messed me up!” 

“I’m a mime. That was Act I.” 

Nothing plausible came to mind, so I just said, “Oh. Thanks.”

* * * * *

Have to add these funny ones Tom left in comments; they cracked me up:

“Took you long enough!”
or
“And now, you may push my cart.”
or
“At Piggly Wiggly, you have to say a magic word.”