Feminine Hygiene with Ryan. . .Funny Stuff.

The Joys of People Watching

Have you ever found yourself getting caught up in watching people? Maybe you wonder what they’re thinking, what their lives are like, where they’re going and more importantly, why they’re dressed the way they are?

Most of you are saying…um…NO. Well, I love watching people. I blame it on my Mom. When we would go out for dinner and there was an inevitable wait, she would entertain us kids by pointing at a couple outside the window and asking “What do you suppose they are talking about out there?” And that’s how my people watching got started.

The stories we would create would have us laughing through the whole meal as our unsuspecting thespians carried on their business, which was, inevitably, not even close to the stories we painted for them.

In order to fully appreciate wandering humans, I must be out in public with nothing to do. Like waiting for someone to finish errands while you wait in the car.

Nobody knows I’m just sitting here in my car…watching them. People scurry through the parking lot, pretty much oblivious to everything except what’s on their shopping list. At least, that’s the safe thing to think.

I see plenty of friends wandering in and out of the store. I’m too lazy to get out and say hello, so instead I just wonder how they’re doing and make a quick mental list of people I need to catch up with. Beyond that, it’s more fun to pretend what strangers are thinking when they walk by.

Oh goodie, there’s a woman in her late fifties, wearing bright orange spandex pants and a halter top under her parka. Here’s what she’s might be thinking: “I’d better hurry or I’ll be late for my Vegas Revue. Must get more mascara and pasties, and check on my pole dancing class.”

See how easy it is?  That’s how it works.

There’s a lovely young man with a bouquet of flowers leaving the store. He wipes his brow and is talking to himself. Is he rehearsing an apology? A proposal? A request for a first date? The possibilities are endless, but I settle on the apology. It’s the middle of the day, after all. He probably stayed out too late playing poker, and really – what guy buys his woman flowers in the middle of the day for no reason at all?

There’s a harried father with two toddlers, one already pointing at the store, no doubt asking if she can hang out in the cereal or toy aisle. He’s contemplating it, but he’s also probably thinking his daughter will tell his wife when they get home, and that won’t be pretty. He pulls out the shopping list before he heads in through the noiseless sliding doors. He squares his shoulders like a man going off to war. His momma would be proud.

Sometimes, watching people is so entertaining that I’m almost disappointed when make-believe time is over. I didn’t even have a chance to think about the teenage couple holding hands, the gentleman that comes out with loads of soda cans, or the elderly lady getting out of the taxi.

The next time you’re waiting anywhere, make up your own story about the strangers walking by. Don’t be mean and judgemental, be creative. Strangers, if they notice you at all, will  be confused by the mysterious smile on your face…and that will be amusement enough.

How to Avoid Being Eaten by the Holiday Greed Monsters

So the season is upon us. White and crisp and Decembery, Christmas is only a few weeks away.

Suddenly, I hate going to the grocery store, the mall, or any other place that is stacked with consumers who are head deep in gifts for their loved ones, their credit card balances growing while their bank account is shrinking.

This is the most wonderful time of the year? Really?

What is it about the holiday season that sends most of us into a shopping tizzy? Why do we go crazy like this every single year? Stressing over who to buy for, what to buy, how much to spend and will they even like it? Should I get gift receipts with everything?

Gift receipts. It’s a cop-out. Getting a gift receipt with a present is like an admittance of guilt from the gift giver. A gift receipt says I-really-didn’t-know-what-you-wanted-and-I-know-you’ll-hate-this-so-here’s-the-receipt-you’re-going-to-ask-for-anyway-to-go-buy-what-you-really-wanted.

And the people that it’s hard to shop for? How many headaches do we need to ‘prove’ our love or kinship by buying as many gifts as our pocketbooks can possibly handle? And really, how do you know that your gifts are re-gift proof?

Here’s what I think.

The holiday season started in order to celebrate the birth of Christ.

Christ was born in a stable. Every one should get hay for Christmas to remember that.

Three kings came to visit the newborn babe. And sure, they brought gifts fit for a king, but still, Jesus was a newborn. If we’re going to remember the reason for the season, everyone should get diapers, wipes and a couple of baby bottles, wrapped in smelly barn hay or something.

The kings each brought ONE gift. Just one. So Jesus received three presents in total. Four if you count the little drummer boy’s ode to the newborn King.

So let me ask you this. If Jesus only got three presents, and it’s His birthday, what on earth makes any of us think we deserve more than that? In fact, what makes us think we deserve anything at all?

How about if we all trim back this year? Let’s not go into massive debt to please those we love with material shows of affection. Let me ask you this. What present do you like better, the one you expect, or the one that someone brought you because they thought of you, and there’s no special day to mark the gift?

Exactly.

Three presents. Start a trend. Crash the economy. Teach your children, your teenagers. It’s not about the amount, or the value of the gift. Demands are out this Christmas. Tantrums and gift receipts, OUT.

This year, let’s only buy 3 gifts – and when you’re looked at with eyes of suspicion, eyes of disbelief that the present pile isn’t higher, ask yourself and the person looking at you with expectant eyes what they want, what they’re waiting for.

Chances are, they’ll say nothing. I mean really, who will admit they are waiting for more presents? And if they do ask?

Blame it on me. Tell them some silly writer said that nobody should get more than three presents because that’s all Jesus got.

Yeah, let them argue with that.

Merry shopping everyone. Here’s to crashing the economy even more  (but at least it will be our fault this time) and making a new meaning for the holidays and Christmas season.

Peace, joy and unconditional love.

It’s Official; I’m A.D.O.S.

After much Internet research, I have come up with a diagnosis for a very serious condition that I suffer from: ADOS. The scientific name for this sickness is Attention Deficit. . . Oooo, Sparkly!

Peter says I’m like a crow that way. But I noticed my ADOS was progressing when my wedding ring caught the sunlight in the car’s interior and threw sparkly reflections all over the ceiling. I was so enthralled I forgot I was driving until Peter covered his eyes and screamed.

ADOS isn’t like other girlie afflictions. My affliction only hits when something really pretty and shiny catches my eye. Sometimes, people get hurt in my quest for shiny things, although it’s yet to be life-threatening.

Last summer, I was in a party store in town when something so shiny caught my eye I forgot to breathe. It was pink, and had such a sparkle, the light catching it and throwing a rainbow of colours back at me, beckoning me. . . .ooooooo. . . sparkly.

I was entranced. It was behind the counter where the cashier was seemingly holding it for someone. I felt a sense of desperation and walked away from the counter, hoping that I could find one more pink sparkly thing before I passed out.

I found a clear one, just like the pink one. It was smaller, and not quite as sparkly, but it would do if I couldn’t have the coveted pink one.

I approached the counter, cradling my clear sparkly thing, my eyes glued to the pink sparkly thing.

I raised my finger and pointed. “Is that pink pretty thing for sale?”

Maureen, the ever patient and kind cashier at the time informed me of the worst news I could hear “I’m sorry, that’s the last one in the store and I’ve reserved it for myself.”

Gulp. It. Won’t. Be. Mine. I let it sink in. Or at least I tried to. “No more?” I squeaked.

“Wait. There might be one left in the display window.” She came around the counter and moved to climb in the window. I tried my best not to do a little happy dance. Sparkly pink thing, sparkly pink thing!

As Maureen came back to the floor, two boys happened to open the door to come in. Maureen’s fingers slipped into the crack of the door jamb where the hinges are. The boys didn’t see her, and the door closed.

On her fingers. Maureen hollered. I dove from the counter, knocking over a rack of something, practically impaling my thigh on some party stick or another, but I had Maureen’s fingers free in two seconds flat.

Her face was pale and her fingers were cradled in her hand. I knew that had to hurt like nobody’s business, and I started to apologize for making her look in the window for a stupid, shiny, glass, pink paperweight.

Yes that’s right. A paperweight that weighs about two pounds and is cut like a giant pink diamond.

And Maureen, in her pain-hazed cloud, said I could have the one she was going to take.

And you know what? I felt bad for her fingers (even checked in on her a couple of days later), but I wanted that pink sparkly paperweight more. So I bought it.

See what I mean? People get hurt when I am in the throes of ADOS. Hide your sparklies when I’m around – it could get ugly.

I have to go polish my giant pink diamond now.