My Life On The DD List

I remember when I was younger….how I just loved the idea of Christmas.  The Christmas shows on TV, the Christmas caroles, the decorations and the presents!  I can’t remember when I stopped believing in “you know who”(this is just in case some lil’ tykes who are capable of reading are doing so over your shoulder).  I can’t remember what year Santa brought that pink bike with the basket with little plastic daisies on it.  I can’t even remember which year we got Atari (which for those of you who don’t know what Atari is….it was the X-BOX of today…and thank you, now I’m feeling old.).  I do remember, however, the year my grandfather died.  My grampa, my dad’s dad, passed away on Christmas morning.  It was Christmas, 1981.  I was 12. I remember laying in bed, barely awake, deciding if I wanted to go back to sleep or get up and open presents.  I heard the phone ring, which I thought was odd so early in the morning.   It was the nursing home facility.  They told my mother that my grandfather had…..”expired”.  Expired.  They actually used that word.  As if my grandfather was a warranty or a drivers license.  What happened to ”passed away”?  I don’t know.  It just seemed so….sterile.  I don’t remember my mother telling my father, but I do remember hearing my dad crying.  My dad is a big man.  Never really showed emotion at all when we were young.  Rarely showed anger, sadness..yanno….weakness.  But I remember him crying.  Although I was a youngster myself, I started crying for him.  I think, at the time, I thought I was crying solely because my grampa passed away.  But I think, looking back on it now and how I was feeling, I felt bad for my dad.   It was supposed to be a festive day about family and God.  It was a day of happiness and togetherness.  It was about giving and receiving.  But that day, we lost.  We lost grampa.  My father lost his father.  Grief  and sadness had entered our house.  Opening presents was…..seemed…..unimportant.   We opened presents that day, but all the while, my father was upstairs, with his cousin(who we called Uncle, long story).   Mostly, because he wanted us to try and open presents without sadness, but I know now it was partly because he didn’t want us to see him cry.

I never experienced a death up until that point.  As with tradition, there are traditions when someone dies.  There’s usually one or two days of “viewing” or “wake” which gives people their chance to say good bye.  To give people closure.  I went to the funeral parlor the first day.  Only one time.  I was so nervous because I didn’t know what to expect.  I turned the corner and smelled the sickly sweet smell of all kinds of flowers.   I saw my grandfather and I felt jolted.  Jolted is a good word.  My grampa used to wiggle his ears and make us laugh.  I looked to see if his ears were wiggling.  Needless to say, I didn’t handle the funeral parlor very well, so when it was time to go back for the evening viewing, I was left home with a neighbor.  I can’t remember if all of the kids were left home, but I know I was.  Ever since then, I can’t stand being in a florist shop, being around a lot of fragrant flowers or being around Lillie’s.   The smells remind me of sadness and bring a sickness to my stomach.  

I don’t think so, but maybe the Christmas my grampa died was the year I stopped believing in “you know who”.  I don’t know.  I do know that was the year I grew up and was pulled out of childhood and into young adulthood by getting my first two life lessons.  First, dying is a part of life and second, dad’s do cry.

Holiday time is rolling around again.  I can’t even believe a year has gone since I last ate turkey.  I’m sure though, the turkey’s in my area are relieved to hear that.  Being from the North East….ok….New York City….it was quite an adjustment after I moved to Florida.  The first year or two of 80 degree weather for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years was a novelty.  I gotta say that the novelty has worn off a LONG time ago.  I miss that BONE chilling cold weather running from store to store Christmas shopping.  I mean, who feels festive when it’s 80 degrees outside?  Santa was on a sled not a surf board, am I right?  The song “Let It Snow” just seems so…..unnecessary here.  So, while having to adjust to the warmer weather, I also had to adjust to the slower pace of the shoppers.  My area has had a population explosion and there are many people from New York who are living here now, but even still……that “hustle and bustle” that is New York eludes us here in Florida.  No matter what anyone tells you, there IS a slower pace in the south.  With all of that comes a new etiquette to learn.  A new way of doing things.  A new way of speaking with people.

I was in the grocery store(when I first moved here), when someone came up to me and asked, “Is that your buggy?”  I was puzzled.  I looked around and didn’t notice a buggy anywhere near me.  Yanno, being a city girl, I’m lookin’ for a horse attached to a buggy.   I said, “Excuse me?”   The woman replied, “That buggy.  Is it yours?” motioning her head in the direction of my shopping cart.  I finally realized what she was asking of me and answered, “OH! The cart.  Yes this cart is mine.” and I smiled at her.  Yanno, as if by smiling I could assume that “southern charm” and combine it with my VERY pronounced New Yawk accent.  The woman walked away in a huff.  I couldn’t understand why the woman was angry with me.  I thought I was being nice, but perhaps she assumed that I was correcting her on the cart vs. buggy thing.  As she walked away from me she muttered something back to me….”yankee” something or another. 

I think, when people from the North East move south, they should be given a etiquette book.  The same should go for someone moving from the South to the North.   Emily Post did books for wedding or party host etiquette, so why not have books pertaining to the differences in North and South? (East and West too, for that matter)  I mean, this way, when you move, you can be more prepared and perhaps blend in a bit better.  (Right here, my thoughts go to that section of My Cousin Vinny “Oh yeah, you blend.” -Mona-Lisa Vito).  I have gotten more patient when it comes to certain things.  However my road rage has elevated since moving here.  Go figure, right?  I can also say that a slower pace, depending on the situation, isn’t always a bad thing.  Now I’m not saying that I’d be able to fit back in with the pace in New York anymore however I have to admit that, being in Florida for as long as I have, I still have not conformed 100%.  I definitely still have a New York accent.  Most who visit the restaurant ask me what part of New York I’m from after I speak with them for a few minutes.  I gotta say, that makes me feel good.  Like I’m still attached.  I think I also have a bit of New York edge;  ie:  nothing really surprises me.   I mean, it would really have to be something monumental but even then, I doubt I’d be shocked or surprised.  Although I admit that we humans can be cruel and unusual toward one another and every once in a while, something pops up on the news that does shock me.  I’m so NOT the “southern belle” type.  No matter what happens, I suppose you can take the girl out of New York, but not the New York outta this girl.

So no, I don’t call a shopping cart a buggy.  Hey, I just don’t.  But that’s me.  However, the woman who has lived here her whole life calls it a buggy.  So, I’m left to wonder….is it a cart or a buggy?  Perhaps the translation depends on whether you’re north or south of the Mason-Dixon.  But even then you may have to learn to speak the language, huh? 

So, here’s the thing.  I don’t go to a salon every 6 weeks like clock work to get my hair cut.  I guess I’m on the bottom of my list of priorities, especially my hair.  The other day I stepped out of the shower, got dressed, started blow drying my hair and froze.  I looked in the mirror.  More like stared.  There they all were.  “Look at them all.”, my mind said.  It was like a club.  A collective bunch that was not invited, yet rudely they showed up.  It was like I was popped on the back of my head and snapped out of some haze and back into reality.  I thought, “I can’t possibly be old enough to have that many……gray hairs!”  I leaned on the counter because I felt a little light headed.  So I finished drying my hair and went out and ran errands.  While I was running said errands, I stopped by a local hair cuttery to ask if someone could squeeze me in.  The nice woman with perfectly coiffed hair said, “oh absolutely.”  Oh absolutely?  Was this because she thought my hair was in as bad a shape as I did?  And did everyone else think the same thing?  Suddenly I was longing for my baseball cap.  I got a wash n’ cut by a young girl (my regular “stylist” is a rock star and is booked like a month in advance)and it wasn’t the way I wanted it, but the length was gone and quite frankly, that’s what I needed.  So, off to Target and Walmart.  I picked up a box of hair color.  “Champagne” it said.  What was MORE important was the claim that it offered 100% gray coverage, so I plucked a box from the shelf and threw it into my basket.  I covered the box up with other “stuff” I was purchasing almost as if I were one of those people embarrassed to buy feminine products or condoms.  I went straight to the “self check out” area and proceeded to ring in my items, bag them, pay for them and I was properly thanked, by the machine, for shopping at Walmart.  I went home mixed the color and applied it immediately.  The instructions said 25 minutes for light gray or 35 minutes for heavy gray.  Lets just say I left it on for 50 minutes and leave it at that, k?  I rinsed, I conditioned, I rinsed, I moussed and blew dry my new hair cut and was excited about the new color…but mostly, the eviction of the grays that were uninvited!  My hair is no longer mousey brown with grays, it’s not even Champagne blonde which is what the box promised.  My hair is now strawberry blonde.  No matter what color I pick, it comes out strawberry blonde.  My stylist said it’s because “it comes out of a box.” but I’m thinkin’ it’s a conspiracy.  ANYway, most of the grays have disappeared, but there are a few rouge strands that railed against the coloring process.  I’m going to have to fight back by going back to the store to purchase a highlighting color combo.  With a few strokes of the highlighting brush those grays will no longer be gray, but strands of “blonde”.  I’ll teach THEM to show up uninvited.  I’ll chemically beat  them into submission!

 The moral of this story?  There isn’t one.  Well maybe one.  Make sure you go get your hair cut and colored every 6 weeks and stop being so cheap!  You’re more important than that spare room you’ve been meaning to paint!