smiling through the middle years
Redundancy: are you repeating yourself? I don’t mean because Uncle Harry keeps screaming “What?” cuz he left his hearing aid at home… You unknowingly, or you have, like the rest of us, slipped into the bad habit of using phrases that are redundant.
Take a zip over to smartly- I wrote a post on the repeating monster living inside us.
It’s taken me a year to enter the sacred throes of a Starbucks as a freelance writer, blog owner, humorist, Vera Bradley card-carrying blonde. My hesitation is obvious, I’m sure: intimidation. Why I decided today I had crossed the threshold into Starbucks eligibility I’m not quite sure. This change of heart may have something to do with my new glasses. Yes, can you believe I am talking about my glasses again? I now have my third and final new pair for the next millennium.
Whereas the last seven years I have been sporting a rimless pair of specs when I went contactless, now I face the world from behind a pair of horned rims. Yes, you heard me correctly. This isn’t even the funniest part of the story. The frames were designed for children. Yes, I may be a baby boomer, but my head tells a different story. With most adult frames, I look like a cartoon character with exaggerated frames jutting out from my head.
So here I am, the successful freelance writer, decked out in the latest Talbot ensemble with coordinating Vera bag… and horned rim glasses on. The worst of this is I don’t drink coffee. I think my Starbucks’ hangout rookie status alarm went off as soon as I walked in. Of course the fact that I walked up to the beverage pick up side and stood for ten minutes had nothing to do with said developing reputation. When an observant SB worker asked if I was waiting on a drink, I confessed. The light bulb moment: now I remember I need to order on the other side. Damn, this is not going well. I casually sauntered over to the ‘order’ side. Perusing the menu board to verify my shaken iced tea order did exist: that I had not manufactured the thought in my head as I was driving around in circles trying to find this Starbucks. Check- it’s on the board. Things are going better I think, except no one asks me what I want. What am I doing wrong?
After what seemed an interminable length of time, a young girl who had been standing near me asked if I wanted to order anything. I used all my Emily Post, southern upbringing self control not to give a flippant reply. Instead, I smiled and said, “Yes, I’d like some shaken iced tea.” Immediately she asked, “Which one?” I panicked. I needed my mother; she is a seasoned Starbucks-goer. Knowing I had a deer in the headlights look, I was not surprised when she quickly rattled off the types of tea without any prompting from me. Making a quick decision to go with black tea, I then faced a familiar challenge.
“What is your name?” She stands there, sharpie pen poised, ready to pen in my name on my cup. By this point I was just not up to going through the “ridgely” serenade. As if I am undercover in this Starbucks operation, I answer demurely, “Ann.” She quickly, without hesitation pens in Ann and nods toward the “pick up” side. Familiar with the routine at this point, I step-slide-step to the pick up point. Finally, after what seemed like hours since I set off the Rookie-Starbucks-AMeter, I had a drink in my hand and was headed toward an easy chair. I half expected to open my Blue Lagoon Vera Bradley laptop case and find that I left my laptop at home. Things had not exactly been falling into place since I came in.
But, ah, there sat my MacBook Pro. Just like Linus with his blanket, I eased my computer out of the bag my uneasiness diminishing with each inch of silver becoming visible. Now, this is the image I have had in my mind for over a year: sitting in Starbucks with other writers. Forget the fact no one in here has a laptop, a baby is crying and I want one of each of the pastries in the showcase.
I have arrived in the big league.
photo courtesy of Starbucks
An unexpected pause in life leaves me with a few hours of free time. Initially, I wander around the house with the little voice inside screaming “no rest for you lady- you have too many things 1/2 done, now, chop, chop.” I sit down on the sofa, silently telling the voice to jam it. I’m going to watch TV.
As I pick up one of my penny rug projects to work on, I click on the TV. Surmising after one round through the major channels, I can definitely understand why soap operas sustain a huge following. Within moments, I find myself enraptured in the going ons of people I have known less than 15 minutes. I smile and remember my senior year in high school: we were transfixed by General Hospital. When were Luke and Laura going to get married?
Now, soap operas are not a part of my life. I skip through these stories of drama aimlessly looking for a backdrop to my stitching. Game shows are definitely out of the question. You know my heartfelt feelings on noise. Fact is, I know, only heavy duty screamers are allowed to attend game shows. Not only are individuals screened through security, they also have to get past the scream-o-meter screener.
Just in my spin-through I counted three Court TV shows with Judge Judy‘s the most notable. I was perplexed with the motivation behind “airing your dirty laundry” on national television. Without too much digging, I found my answer: regardless of the verdict, the network pays all fines. This sounds like a TV bribe. You won’t see me up there. The lighting on those shows is horrific! When I make my debut on television, it will not be on Court TV, and I can assure you the makeup people will be the highest paid personnel of the group (next to the lighting folks).
a look from the QVC control room
I am about to give up when I land on QVC. Hmm. This may be intriguing. I love to listen to the callers brown nose the presenter. I wonder what psychological need this discourse fills. I patiently wait for the customer to call in with a riveting, thought provoking comment. No luck. Instead, I imagine an alternative scenario: “product host” takes a call from my make-believe QVC viewer. Viewers are always asked, “And tell me Ethel, is this the first Quaker Factory jacket you have purchased?” With a bit of a giggle, Ethel confesses to the host she didn’t plan to buy or own a Quaker Factory jacket. She just loves saying Quaker Factory. The presenter is speechless- another anomaloy.
Then, and only, then, will I believe the calls are aired live.
Settling in with my handwork, I anxiously await the ceremonial presentation of the next item. Not that I am buying, mind you. That is, unless I hear a corking good deal. I would be foolish to let the opportunity whisk by.
Flashing tag lines tell me today’s special is next. Today’s Special is QVC’s best deal of the day: the one viewers have a hard time walking away from. 
The determinate QVC Wall did not stop me. I strolled into the kitchen, and retrieved a Diet Coke. As I moseyed back to my seat, I heard the sing-songy presenter finish telling viewers about a Washable Suede Bayou A-line hooded Suede Coat. I passed up the suede jacket because
Admittedly, we have come a long way since the rock pounding days of laundry cleaning, but washable suede? Yes, you can wash it. Last I heard, the laundry police were on strike.The question is” What does this Washable Jacket look like after said washing?” No, I had no problem walking away from that treasure, nodding at the No Exit sign as I left.
However, I almost fell in the abyss when a bright yellow pressure washer scampered across the screen. Ah…LT would love it. Should I?
I glance at my watch.
Guess what?
My pause time is over.
