Author: Kathleen Fisher

After a rough night’s sleep, I dragged my weary butt to the kitchen where a full pot of coffee was ready and waiting for me. How I love the genius who thought to put a timer on a coffee maker. If only they could put one of those on me 🙂

I know that there have been numerous studies done on the teenage brain. Sleep, school starts, peer pressure, bullying, food intake, food outake, GPA, college entrance essay, but there is only one study I’m really interested in.

Somebody with some credentials behind their name needs to tell me why teenagers never, and I mean NEVER, get rid of an empty shampoo bottle in the shower. You go to clean the thing and they’re falling on your head, into the tub and over the tub, and all of them are empty. I’ve gone so far as to call family meetings about this and the guilty look up from Facebook and nod and it feels as though my message is getting through. Not so as nodding is nothing more than a coping mechanism for teenagers with pain-in-the-ass mothers.

Some families have mission statements regarding the direction they want their family to go spiritually, financially and academically. I’m merely asking not to get hit in the head by a plastic bottle and since all previous methods have failed, I’ve decided to adopt the mission statement practice as well.

IF YOU LEAVE AN EMPTY SHAMPOO BOTTLE IN THE SHOWER, IT WILL NOT BE REPLACED WITH A FULL ONE. YOUR HAIR WILL BEGIN TO SMELL LIKE DOG AND YOU WILL NEVER GET A DATE WHICH WILL MAKE IT IMPOSSIBLE TO LEAVE THIS HOUSE AND GET AWAY FROM YOUR PARENTS. THIS CAN HAVE ONLY THE WORST RESULTS FOR BOTH OF US. THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE DOING.

Too wordy?

How about this? You need to clean up after yourself, so help me God.

It was a hot August night when I went on a blind date to Denny’s with a pretty cute guy. When he parked the car, he hit the concrete block jerking us both forward and I said, “Well, I guess this means we’re here.”

Last weekend we went to a movie as Cute Guy declared it Date Night. When it was time to go, he went out the door first and then let it fly in my face. I got in the car and told him that when Barack and Michelle go on a date, I bet he doesn’t let the door hit her on the way out. He said, “Barack doesn’t even have to hold the door open for himself let alone his wife.”

After the movie, we walked to the parking lot and wandered around for a bit because neither one of us remembered where we parked the car. Thirty three years after that Denny’s date, we’re still a couple of smart asses trying to find our way.

I needed some undereye concealer to cover some dark circles I’ve had since 1987 when I delivered my firstborn. I headed off to Macy’s repeatedly telling myself, “Do not go crazy at the make-up counter.  Do not go crazy at the make-up counter.” As if to sabotage me from the minute I walk in the door, Lancome was having a gift with purchase. I made a beeline over there forgetting all about my stupid, little pep talk.

My concealer was $29.50 and in order to get the gift I didn’t need, I had to spend $32.50. Hmmm….$3.00 more dollars. Easy as in peasy. Our Macy’s counter is run by a guy named Anthony who is a legend around here. He can give you the once over and know exactly which eye shadow, lipstick and blush color would look fab on you and he is never wrong. Ever. When friends of mine say they’ve been to see Anthony, I tell them to send their Macy’s bill to my house so their husband doesn’t have a cow when he sees how much anti-aging costs.

I’m pretty sure that in the history of Lancome, they have never sold ANYTHING for $3.00. In fact, my whopping .52 ounce of concealer is in the start of their price range so I ended up with a few more things than I intended to buy, but Anthony said it will make me look much more youthful. I brought home my make-up bag with the itty-bitty products inside and spread it on the bed for a closer look.

Lancome is a French company with some very descriptive product names, and with the exception of some mascara and lip gloss, I have no idea what the heck the rest of this stuff is for.

 Mon mauvais. Nouveau.

 Translation: My bad. Again.

My friend, Nancy, and I have a little resale business going. The direction we’re going is somewhat in flux but we’ve had a couple of successful sales, love repurposing ugly stuff and making some money along the way. We’re always on the hunt for inventory and gravitate to the same kind of things with the same kind of price tags.

Last week I went to an estate sale on a scouting mission. The guy had some cool, old stuff and the prices were fair but not bargains. The sale was to end Saturday but he was hoping to be sold out by then. I was lusting for some leaded glass windows in the garage that were priced @ $40.00 and was hoping they’d be free by late in the day, so I drove by the house long after the sale had closed to check out the curb. Like I drove up and down the street waiting for the trash to appear whispering, “Come to Mama”.

That I have no embarrassment about pecking the estate sale carcass left along the road should be disturbing to me but, hey, business is business and if there happened to be a leaded glass window somewhere in the vicinity of the curb, I’d have taken down a whole flock of scavengers – birdish and otherwise.

Like most of the country, we’re in the midst of a doozy of a snowstorm causing the local forecasters to be on the verge of a weather orgasm. They’re so excited they’re practically breathless giving the details. Off camera they must have to take periodic hits on an oxygen tank enabling them to confidently go forward with the scare factor so the viewers realize that if they set one foot out the door, the consequences will be very, very grave.

Cue the anchor. After hearing the weatherman give the dire predication of the hours and days to come, she asks, “Just what is a blizzard?” I find it charming and endearing when news people treat the viewer as a complete idiot who has no idea between a snowstorm and a blizzard. He sleds right into his explanation (as if this wasn’t a carefully planned segment) and enlightens us about the wind, temperature and snowfall amounts that constitute a blizzard.

Here’s the short answer: If you send your husband out to get the paper at the end of the driveway and he calls you four hours later from the parking lot of Wal-Mart because he couldn’t find his way back to the front door, you’re probably in the throws of a monster storm. That’s winter on steroids. It’s not charming, it’s not endearing and the only time it makes most of us breathless is when we have to shovel the driveway.

But the days ahead will be filled with graphics and scary music while reporters and camera crews are shoved out the door against their will to give us some youtube moments. We’ll watch these underpaid gophers get pummeled by the snow and wind while we look out the window and say, “Yep, kids, that there is what you call a blizzard.”

I am in love with Target as it never fails to know what I need want even when I don’t. New designer for a limited time? Check. Polka dot drinking glasses in four different colors? Check. Dog food? Check. Clearance end caps marked @ 75% off? Double check.

The weather forecasters have been freaking out for days. Snowmaggedon 2011. It’s coming right for us we’ve been told, and you might be able to go to work and take the kids to school today but your routine is about to get seriously disrupted. So what did I do to prepare? I thought of a reason to go to Target. They had a boyfriend cardigan in their Sunday ad and if the youngin and I are going to be camping out for a few days, I want to look cute. And fashionable. And Targety. Parts of the interstate were closed and I slipped in the driveway on the way to the car but I didn’t let that stop me.

I squandered an hour looking at my cardigan (geez those things make your butt look big), getting socks and gloves and candy hearts. Target was quiet, calm, civil, and a rest from the storm. From there I went to the grocery store where all hell was breaking loose in every aisle which reminded me to stop at the liquor store before heading home.

After I got home and put everything away, guilt settled in for blowing off half the day and so I asked myself what I always do when I’m feeling bad about wasting time. Will you regret this on your deathbed?

The grocery store? Without a doubt.

Target? Not so much.

The liquor store? Only if I underestimated.

In my rundown of reality (wink, wink, wink) shows that I watch, I forgot Tabatha’s Takeover. Love her, love that she kicks some business ass, and love that she’s so brutally honest I start picking up my house during the commercials for fear she can see the mess through the t.v. Who found this woman with the cut to the chase, stop your whining, my way or the highway kind of managing style that makes things happen?

I want Bravo to send Tabatha to the Congressional Salon, and when those talking heads walk up to the camera and microphone for our daily heaping of crapola sound bite, she should stand behind them in her Darth Vader garb, rolling her eyes and dropping the F bomb whenever they start the looney tunes. We can watch it all go down in the comfort of our home and like every employee of a bat-shit crazy owner, nod in agreement and wipe our teary eyes because somebody finally heard us.

So be afraid Mr. The American People Have Spoken But I Can’t Remember What They Said Cuz I Wasn’t Really Paying Attention. Tabatha is coming for you and that little dog of yours and about to make you seriously pee in your pants. How your hair turns out will be the least of your problems.

I can’t help but watch these shows.  God help me if there’s a marathon because I don’t get a damn thing done.  It’s like watching a wreck in slow motion and knowing you should alert the authorities but not being able to peel your eyes away from the impending doom.  I don’t admit this to everyone because there are some people who think I’m intelligent and I’d like them to continue thinking that even if it’s often not true, but you bring this up On The Down Low at a cocktail party and it’s like moths to the light.  There’s a whole lot of women watching crap on t.v. and all it takes is one of us to spill our guts and it becomes True Confession Time.

I recently watched an episode of Hoarders that kept me awake all night.  Rabbits.  DOZENS of rabbits in the house hopping everywhere.  Normally I’m not scared of rabbits but this was such a freaky obsession that I couldn’t close my eyes for fear of them hopping into bed with me, and I couldn’t very well tell my husband what was keeping me awake.  He’s not all that aware of how much I watch this kind of stuff because I keep my finger firmly on the “last channel” button should I hear footsteps.  Nope, this is one of those secret addictions, much like the hidden malted milk balls I keep stashed in the cabinet for when I’m stressed.

I could name ten things I do that even weird me out time after time but I don’t drink every afternoon with a bunch of botoxed women I can’t stand, never felt the need to pop out a baby every year, and prefer my garbage and wildlife on the outside of my house.  Self esteem comes in many different forms.  Mine comes by way of Bravo and TLC. Thank you very much.

Last week our family attended the funeral of my cousin’s wife, Carol.  Carol died of breast cancer at the age of 66.  To say she will be missed is an understatement.  At every significant event for our family she has been there with her movie star smile and great laugh.

Over the last two years when I would write a piece, I would email it to Carol for her input.  She was a retired music teacher and got the creative gene so I figured she was a good critic.  She never criticized.  You would have thought every essay I sent her was the best she’d ever read.  She encouraged me constantly to “get my stuff out there.”

During the Christmas holidays, my husband and I went with my mom to visit her and Hal, and though cancer had taken its toll, she was still Carol and when I left I thought, “So this is how you die.  You stay true to you.”  I can’t think of a time when a lesson was so poignant or so clear to me.

I was going thru some old emails when I found this one from her in response to something I’d written:  “I can’t help but think of Hal and I who one day won’t be here.  And I can’t help but think of the life we’ve led with no regrets and many blessings to be thankful for.  It’s been a great life…….”

That was a year ago when I told her I was going to spend more time writing.  When I was at her funeral I regretted that I spent the last year not working very hard at that and that when we met again I’d like to be able to be able to tell her that I gave it my best shot.

There was a story told at the funeral about Carol that most of us had never heard.  Late one night she got a call from a former student who was an actor in an off-Broadway play.  He was at the after party and wanted to thank her for encouraging him when he was in middle school because his dream was coming to fruition.

How lucky were we that Carol saw in us what we didn’t always see in ourselves?