The Model Consumer

I am the model consumer.  A product label promising new and improved qualities to my life is certain to gain my attention.  These products are strategically placed in retail stores to speak in coded tongue to shoppers like me.  Just the other day, I went to the new MegaTron, bigger than the last one, Walmart, built three sites over from the previous two.   All I needed was a loaf of bread.  As any good Southern woman knows, it is almost impossible to leave Wal-Mart without spending a hundred dollars or more. Immediately upon entry, I was drawn to the vitamin aisle with an already lingering notion that perhaps I needed more vitamin D in my life.  I actually needed a cruise to a sunny tropical island, but I temporarily quieted that wish with a bottle of sunlight and a need to shop.  Unfortunately, all the other letters of the alphabet called out to me and soon I could play a quick game of Scrabble with the bottles of Vitamin A, K, D and B in my basket.   I moved to the next aisle and a can of Skintamate shaving cream called to me from the shelf.  It was baby blue and offered Skin Therapy.  Who doesn't need skin therapy, I ask you?  I did have Vitamin D in a bottle to hold me until I could soak up UV rays at the Tropic of Cancer, but now there was skin therapy available for $4.79.   It was "Baby Soft" and "Lotionized"  My God - Lotionized!!!!  I didn't even know this was a concept, let alone an actual word, but I wanted it.  I wanted a Skintimate experience where I would bathe in skin therapy and be lotionized.  An added bonus.... It had Vitamin E!!!!   Who planned this product! They knew me so well!    Suddenly, I could hardly wait to get home and shave my legs.... an act that brought no real pleasure, unless you are 11 and getting to shave for the very first time.  After that... the fun is gone... unless you purchase Skintimate Skin Therpay.   It's funny to me that nowhere on the bottle does it actually say shaving cream.  And yet, I knew what this product could do for me and it quickly landed in the bottom of my basket with the rest of the letters of the alphabet.    By the time I made it to the bread aisle, I had well over $100 worth of items in my basket, all promising some form of new and improved life.  Truth be told.... I'm certain my life would remain just as good without these false promises of delight.  My husband uses a simple bar of Dial Soap for everything.  I spend $18 for a bottle of volumizing, moisture sealing, illuminating shampoo and he uses a bar of soap.  Our hair looks fine, except mine smells like scented expensive shampoo and his smells like clean hair.  Isn't that really all we are seeking.  Hmmmm?????  We currently have nine bottles of shampoo in our shower.... one for everybody's needs.   My son has teenage straightening shampoo.  My daughter has something that has a fun lid and smells like popsicles.  Even the dog has a bottle in there for tick and flea removal.  I know that one day I will be all leathered up in Skin Therapy and grab the wrong bottle of shampoo and find myself tick and flea free with a scent like I've just been to the vet.  My husband may be smarter than all of us with his single bar of soap and absence of label reading.  His Vitamin D comes from working in the garden and his straight hair comes from genetics.  Perhaps if I read less labels and went back to hot water and a bar of soap, I would be many dollars closer to that trip to the tropics.  I believe it may be time to let someone else do the shopping!

The Secret Order of the Big Haired Beauties

My child learned, at a young age, the power of big hair.  It is something I have always wanted, but have never had the luxury of having.  In the 80's, when big hair defined who you were, I was cursed with short wispy blonde locks.   This tiny beauty, however, must have inherited a big hair gene that I never knew was lying dormant inside of me.  I'm guilty of big hair envy and a feeling of sadness still wells up inside of me as I pass down the hair care aisle and see all of the hair freezing and big sexy hair products used to create these heavenly coifs.  My daughter enjoys her gift of big hair and spends many an hour in front of the mirror working it into styles that would make Miss America and fairy tale princesses proud.   I've discovered, while looking in from the outside of the big hair world, that there is a sisterly bond, an unspoken covenant, between those who are lucky enough to have big hair.  This bond transcends language barriers, shorelines, and age differences.   Let me explain....Most every mall in America has vendors in the inside court area who sell hair straighteners, iron rods and such.  Many of these saleswoman are here on work visas from Israel.  They are dark haired beauties armed with kind smiles, big hair and a cash register.  While their English may be limited, they have no problem communicating with their big haired sisters.  My daughter can walk in the mall and I instantly hear.... "Oh my God,  you are beautiful.  Look at your hair!  Look at both of you."  They hug, touch each other's long locks, and speak in some kind of secret language of giggles and hair care terminology.  I hear whispers about  phenol derivatives, chemical changes and finishing sprays used to maintain styles of the hardest to hold hair. There are more giggles and dark hair begins to fly out in all directions as they shape, straighten, mold and create new beauty doos.   I stand there with my straight wispy blonde strands and wonder if the salesgirl's comments are sincere or just quoted from a sales manual that is obviously well written because before this happy reunion is over, my child's hair is three inches bigger, I'm feeling pretty sexy, too and I've written out another check for $120.00   I know women who spend thousands of dollars on pills and therapists to fight depression and raise their self esteem, so I never feel guilty about my occasional support of these hair care girl's work in America when they leave me feeling confident and sexy even if it is only until the chemicals break down and my hair is flat again.    After our last encounter with our hair care friends, my daughter left with a large bag of hair care products and I left with the notion that I, too, would look good in a pair of gold spandex pants and leather boots like Aleana and Marnisha were wearing.   Thank God better senses prevailed and I remembered that is only a look you can pull off with big hair and a small butt.  There is a mathematical formula that calculates the mass of one's hair style and the size of one's back-side to determine if you can pull off that look without defying laws of physics, breaking any fashion rules or scaring friends and neighbors.  Our friends wore this look well.  As a forty six year old mother of two, I accepted the fact that I was a few years too late and a few hairs too short  to wrap my ass in spandex and parade around in boots. But oh...if I only could!

The Darkside of Social Media

One simple desire to build a word with seven little random tiles in an on-line game called Scrabble has led me down a path of destruction where I woke this morning to find my identity has been erased.   You would think that sitting on your sofa with your children while they do homework would be a fairly harmless event.   While piddling around on the computer, my son told me about an online game site where I can play Scrabble with strangers.  Sounds fun, I thought!  As I began to register to play, I discovered a button that says I can connect with my Facebook account.  How easy… How thoughtful of them to give me this option.   Oddly when I did this, I was instantly in my account with the screen name  “Darkside 902”.  Honestly, that should have been my first red flag.  But no… I wandered down this road oblivious to the violations I was incurring.  Curious about this seemingly dark identity, I asked my children how this came to be.   My daughter informed me that the screen name was just randomly assigned.  I should have known better.  My son gave me a better explanation that his friend was on my laptop and tried to connect when I must have had my Facebook running in the background.  This seemed reasonable and I bought it.  I tried to change my screen name, but I was stuck as Darkside902.  Heck – all I wanted to do was build a word or two, so I continued on my journey.   I didn’t know that my name would be posted on the side screen where I could chat with other gamers.    While “ButterCup78”, “LuluSmiles”, and “PJinMaine” built words fast and furiously, they chatted it up on the sidelines.  Nobody wanted to talk to Darkside 902.  Somehow I felt alone – ostracized by a bunch of alphabet wielding strangers.  I built a seven letter, 32 point word and exited the room with my head hung in shame from a name I never chose and somehow couldn’t change.   I closed the computer and went to bed – unaware what was occurring in the background.  As I woke, I discovered that my Facebook account had been disabled without warning.  No reason was given - just an immediate removal from the virtual world where I have 542 friends, 1050 pictures of my children and two messages from people I haven’t seen in 30 years.   I’m being punished and I don’t even know what I did wrong.   In the pit of my stomach, I know that it has something to do with that damn Darkside 902.  I knew it was trouble.   The name, alone, screamed trouble!   Years ago, my ten year old son was banned for life from a very large on-line gaming community for “real-world” selling.   Seems he figured out how to quickly earn large amount of points, buy precious commodities and sell them on eBay where he would then meet the buyer in the virtual world and hand over the golden axes, cloaks of invisibility and crowns of honor.  This, it seems, was a frowned upon practice.   I found quickly that there was no phone number to contact anyone on the website.  Your only hope for reason is a one-time appeal where you can state your case and hope that the virtual judges and demi-Gods will shed their grace on you and forgive you.   I wrote a letter that would make my college English professor proud and apologized for my little boy’s indiscretions.  An almost instant response came back that simply said, “NO – He may not play our game.  You may ask again, once only, and we may reconsider.”    I found that the site owners were from somewhere outside the boundries of the United States and did not have a similar justice system as we.  Nor did they have compassion, forgiveness or toll-free numbers.  I could picture them laughing on their little medieval island of pages and pawns enjoying those requests for forgiveness of sins.   After begging for mercy a second time, they now informed me that they were slapping my child’s hand from across the water and that he would never mine for oar again on their lands.  We accepted defeat and moved on to other interests.   I can only hope that the owners of Facebook do not live on that same island of exclusivity and want me to come on bended knee to beg for mercy for unknown crimes.    They too, offer no real-world contact… just a button that takes me to an appeal page where I can upload a government issued I.D. to prove my identity and hope for the best.  There is no space for comments, questions, or pleas.  I believe I am slowly transforming to Darkside 902 who is standing outside the social media world with my hat in my hand begging for mercy.  Oh wait … that would be a hooded cape in hand.  I forget who I am sometimes!

Salutations and Traffic Circles

I was recently in the grocery store when the cashier greeted me with a friendly smile.  Out of common courtesy, I asked, "How are you today?"  While this is a pretty simple question, it doesn't always come with a simple answer.  Certainly there must be a list of inappropriate answers that everyone should avoid using. When you are stacking your overly priced organically grown produce onto the conveyor belt, an inappropriate response from your cashier is... "Well.... I'm better now that the rash is going away.  I was doing good just scratching my lower body until it spread everywhere.  My infectious disease doctor told me it could take a few months to go away completely. "   A rush of heat instantly overcame me and and it took all my might to keep from screaming, "Drop those carrots and put on some gloves!"   This was not the answer I was looking for, nor did I want.   My daughter is a complete germaphobe and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I must admit.  About the time the words "Infectious Disease" were uttered, my child instantly began bathing in germ-X and hiding fruit that wasn't wrapped in a sanitary package.  What ever happened to the answer, "I'm fine.  Thank you."?  I've tried to explain to my children that when strangers ask how you are, they really don't want to hear anything other than a few words indicating that you are well and hopefully rash free.    There is a lady in town who I often run into.  I will say, "Hello" and she always replies with, "Fine, thank you."  This has puzzled me for years, because I didn't ask yet.  The natural thing to say after "Hello" is  "How are you?" but now we have already jumped right past that.  Sometimes I get flustered and ask anyway.  It's as if my manners are on auto-pilot and that question must be asked.   The conversation goes something like this:

(Me)            "Hello"
(Stranger)    "Fine- Thank You"
(Me)            "How are you?"
(Stranger)    "I'm Fine, I said"

           long pause....

(Me)            "Uh...I'm rash free."


Obviously we never have progressed much further in this friendship than the greeting.   Sometimes when I'm walking along at work and my mind is preoccupied with important things like budget variances, what tonight's dinner might be, or that woman at the mall with the really big hair,  I will get lost in the cycle of greetings and repeat the question making everyone terribly uncomfortable.    It always happens when you combine your salutation with the question addressing the other's welfare. They should never be joined as one.     I will politely greet them with  "Hello.  How are you?" and the other person will respond appropriately with, "I'm fine... and you?"  I will return with "I'm fine.... How are you?"   It is like one of those hideous traffic circles they have in lower Louisiana or Washington D.C.  Once you get in them, you can never get out.    At some point, you are forced to just lower your windows, circle for hours and yell at all the drivers - "Hello...How are you?"   I've actually made some really close friends this way.   Sadly, when you are standing in a hallway, face to face with someone and you have asked how they are one too many times, you need not answer when they ask about you because they have already figured out that you are obviously bordering on some kind of mental breakdown, just rude, or related to Dr. Seuss who is known for his wonderfully weird greetings:  "Hello - Do you like my hat?" "No I do not like your hat - do you like mine" "Yes oh yes I like your hat - do you like mine?"     At that point, you try to break eye contact and escape into the nearest office where hopefully you will not be met with those dreaded words, "Hi - How are you?"  The simplest things in life can sometimes be the most daunting.  

The Power of the Pyramid and Other Pointy Structures

Personal space comes in many sizes.  My family genetics tends to point towards a much larger personal space than most.  Creating, crafting and controlling our own little space is an involuntary function almost as important as breathing.   My daughter has understood this powerful inner driver ever since she was a very young child.  I know this to be true as I sit her looking at the teepee she has erected in my living room that she has transformed into her personal office.  Now, not many people have a teepee in their living room.  In fact, most people would not allow a teepee or any other large structure to remain for long in their living room if ever erected at all.  However.... each night as we begin homework,  my tiny princess enters the room with a zebra striped, hot pink book bag in one arm and eight foot poles covered in cloth under the other arm.  She quietly goes to work setting up her work space.  She carefully positions the structure so that she can see the television through one entrance and have healthy snacks delivered through the rear flap.   Eraser dust flies from both entrances as she dives into mathematical word problems and begins to alphabetize 47 words all beginning with “S”.  I understand that there is an unexplained phenomena about the power of sitting under a pyramid.  While the teepee isn’t a perfect geometric shape of mathematical perfection, it is a shape known to have properties filled with cosmic energy.  I was reading on line about the power of the pyramid and there are some very clear rules about managing your personal pyramid. Who even knew there was such a thing.  The first is that a pyramid is a very personal item and you should never share it with anyone.  I’m guessing that most people in this day and age that have taken the time to build their own pyramid probably will find themselves sitting in it alone anyway.  Now… as for teepees (near pyramid shapes) I notice that there is a steady stream of visitors to my daughter’s fortress and I’m guessing by the straight A’s on her report card and her 500 friends on Facebook that the power of the pyramid shape welcomes friends and guests.  There are often several pair of feet sticking out from the sides of the teepee and muted giggles coming from within.  This morning, I found two dozing cats curled up inside soaking up the mystical energy and leftover pieces of string cheese.  There were also empty juice boxes, forbidden materials in the living room, that were found laying near the cats.  I’m certain they will take the blame for securing the party goods and laying drunk amongst the discarded Juicy Juice boxes. Everyone, it seems, has been to the teepee, but me. So... Because today is the first day in some time that I have no luncheons to attend, school functions to be at, or demands to deliver forgotten items to children illegally texting from school in a panic, my plan is such... Make a healthy veggie sandwich, which nobody likes but me, drink a soda and sit in the teepee and let it reverse the effects of a week’s worth of stress and caffeinated beverages.  I’m planning on returning to work next week at least a year younger and with visions of great things headed my way all thanks to the power of the pyramid and my inability to say “no” to the wants of my tiny girl.

Hope Comes in Many Forms

The story of Randi Hope is one that must be told.  I've referred to Randi several times throughout my writings, but one must know the real story of how Randi Hope came to be.  Most families have a pet or two - normally these are cats or dogs, even fish or birds.  Then there are those that live on the outskirts of civilization that have their own private zoos with exotic creatures that both excite and frighten children all at the same time.  My family is caught somewhere between those two ends of the spectrum.   We are a normal family, in a normal house, with a normal life.  But tucked away inside these facades of normalcy are multiple pairs of little loving eyes hanging upside down from a carefully placed limb, lounging about on the roof or even running full circles on a tiny plastic wheel deep within my daughter's bedroom.  

We never set out with any goals to procure these creatures... they simply find us.  If there is an injured animal anywhere around, its internal GPS will lead it right to my back door.    The most unlikely arrival was a chicken that had fallen off of a Tyson Truck on it's way to certain demise.  A neighborhood child found the wounded fowl and brought it straight to the Brodnax house.  I stopped asking why years ago.  The little white chicken lived with our daylight challenged rooster and two ducks for almost a year until he disappeared one night without a sound.  We have earned a reputation of being able to nurse injured critters back to health.  It's not because of our mad veterinary skills or our desire to run a farm, it's because of my huband's genuine love of animals and our daughter who holds and loves and soothes every creature she comes across.  One touch from her candy coated fingers and pain seems to disappear and healing begins.  It is much like living with Snow White.  I looked out the window one day to see her walking down the street with her dog, followed by two curious cats, and a white tail deer..... Randi Hope.

Randi was one of those fallen animals that made its way into our hearts.    Almost two years ago, Randi's mother was running free and wild when she jumped a fence and broke her back.  My husband was immediately called to come and help, for the young mother deer writhed in pain on the ground in front of a growing group of onlookers.   Not wanting the children to see what was coming next, my husband attempted to load the deer into his truck until he was stopped by a policeman with orders to put the deer down.  He pulled out his gun and shot the deer, much to the surprise of those standing near.  My husband asked the much needed question, "Did you know she was pregnant?!?" and proceeded to open the now deceased deer up in an attempt to rescue the life that remained within.  With the help of a friend who happened to be an ambulance driver, they removed two baby fawns.  After mouth to mouth resuscitation and a conveniently located oxygen line, one of the two  babies survived.  The crowd cheered with delight and a young woman asked if they would name the deer after her son since it was his birthday.  Thus.... Randy was born. Forgetting that he had his own child at home that named pets before she even got them,  my husband was met with the loving eyes of his daughter who exclaimed, "Oh Daddy, can we name her after me?!?"  Compromising and sharing middle names, Randi Hope was now officially a part of our family.  She was lovingly placed on a warm blanket under a heat lamp in the corner of our living room where I was certain she would remain for weeks like a baby in an incubator.  Surprisingly, it seems a baby deer can use those spindly legs and walk upright in a matter of hours. In a few short days, they are able to jump over the couch and stand by your bedside nibbling on the ends of your hair while you sleep.  Who knew?  It took only days to move Randi to the big outdoors where she was free to roam deep into the woods and mingle and play little deer games.  The problem with this was the fact that Randy had arrived by C-Section and unbeknownst to us all, had imprinted on my husband and now believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was a charming retired fisherman.  She had no desire to join those rowdy deer in the wood. She preferred lounging on the patio furniture eating grapes and sneaking a taste of whiskey when she could.   Her life was good!   Randi roamed the neighborhood and ate the neighbor's hostas and impatiens.  A freshly planted bed of flowers looked like a snack tray laid out for her to enjoy.

Randi grew and her spots faded and she turned into a full grown doe.  One Spring day, Randi was not found lounging by the pool in her usual spot.  Several days passed and she was nowhere to be found.  She had been run away by stray dogs off to an early start of deer hunting.  Luckily, she wore a pink collar with our cell phone numbers on it and she was spotted curled up in a woman's carport miles from our home.  My husband went to get her and coaxed her into the cab of his truck.  I would have paid to have seen the next scene.   He lights a cigarette, starts the engine and about the time he shifts into drive, this loving deer goes mad and demands to exit the vehicle.  At this particular time, the only exit was the driver's window that had been lowered to allow the smoke to exit.  Smoke and a full grown deer lept from the truck window bounding on the pavement, leaving my husband uncertain what bodily injuries he had just sustained.  That is when he called me to come and help.  When I arrive on the scene he explains his plan to climb into the back of my SUV with the deer in his lap.  He will hold her until we get home.  I knew then, as I do now, that it would never play out like he imagined.   With everyone safely in the vehicle I begin to move forward.  As the car shifted into second gear, the deer began to buck and jump and it was a blur or hooves and hands and fur and hair.  I screamed that if she came over the back seat I was jumping out and they could crash together.  The battle was on and he held her down as she slammed his head against the ceiling, the side panels, the headrests and more.   It was the longest eight mile drive of my life.   Randi and my husband both survived the ride home and fell out onto the front yard when the hatch was opened.   I walked away in shock.  The deer took to it's lounge chair and my husband lay in the front yard as the bruising set in.   It didn't matter to him.  His love of that deer outweighed any cranial hermoraging that might be setting in.  To most people, this would seem unusual.  I'm certain our neighbors never viewed this as out of the ordinary for the Brodnax family.

Randi has been with us now over two years.   Her colors change with the seasons and she has overcome many a challenge.  As a fawn, she ate a roll or telephone wire and came close to death.  She was later shot while in the woods and came home with a shattered knee.  Against all advice to put her down, we allowed nature to run it's course and after months of limping and constant attention from my husband,  one day she sprang up on all four and her knee was good as new.  She  now lives in a very large fenced in area with two predator dogs that she calls brothers.  They chase each other, love on each other and most definitely respect each other.    The large dogs are fully aware of the power of a hoof to the head and the deer knows the strength in the jaws of those dogs.  Neither has ever hurt another.   She no longer roams the neighborhood, but is allowed out of her fenced area to taste the honeysuckle on particularly warm Spring days.  She has been known to sneak in the back door on occasion and realizes her mistake as those spindly legs hit the slick hard floor of the kitchen.   Wondering what she was looking for, we allowed her to enter to see where she was going.  She nosed around a bit and found her way to that tiny spot in the living room, once warmed by a heat lamp.  Love grew from that spot and Randi remembered it well.     We both smiled and knew what was next.... me with that crazed look yelling "Get out of my house!"  Off she skated on all fours in a mad attempt to exit the house.   She is a good girl.  She is one of us and she knows she is family.

   

Driven to Madness by the Dollar Menu Board

"Medium Coke, light ice, one napkin."  This is my early morning drive-thru ritual.  I pull up in my comfy car, Van Morrison spills from the window, I recite that short order, pay my $1.10, pull through and am out in 42 seconds.  I have it down to an art form.   It's so easy.   

During my twelve seconds in front of the menu board, I glance over at the dollar menu and think, "How nice that you can feed a family of four for $12 or less"..... UNLESS it's my family. Just entering the drive-thru with my car full of family members and friends brings on an anxiety that must resemble what dogs feel like days before a giant earthquake.   

I've always considered myself a confident woman who can handle most any situation with common sense and a good up-bringing.  But... a trip through the drive-thru instantly strips me of any skills I have of maintaining order.  I do attempt to take control and keep the madness at bay.  I have good skills.  I use them wisely.  They may never help me on a resume, but they have enabled me to ice 48 cupcakes before work, ensure the delivery of clean children to school minutes before the tardy bell rings, remove a Chinese Takeout Chopstick from my air-conditioner vent with a glitter pencil and a wad of gum, and lick the icing off my sleeve before meeting with coworkers to discuss strategic planning initiatives and corporate vision.  These things come easy to me.  So why is it then, that tackling the drive thru with people I love is a challenge I may never succeed at. 

As my car enters the lot, I begin by laying down drive thru rules.  You may not change your order once it has been given.  Nothing will be super-sized and drinks do not come with blended up candy bar pieces.  Once we have that understood, the kids will begin to call out Combo Meal numbers that never match the items they actually desire.  "I want a number five, 3 piece meal with Oreo McFlur."  The speaker calls back to me, "You can't get a 3 piece double cheeseburger meal."  Any semblance of order I had begins to crumble.  I can sense the giant crack in the Earth's crust racing down the street towards us.  I translate the kid's orders into English, procuring the exact amount of chicken strips, fries and sodas that match the number of seat belts in the car.  If I'm in the SUV with the fold down third row, I get two extra value meals. There are no cookie containing drink products ordered and the kids can figure out who gets Sprite and who gets Coke.    

Once I have mastered the kid's orders, none of which came from the dollar items, my husband will begin his order and this is where my world falls apart, my head falls slowly to my steering wheel and I enter a new world of dollar menu madness.  He will order items that aren't actually on the menu.  I will explain that you can't get a Fish Sandwich at Taco Bell.  He will then create menu item names that closely resemble items actually on the cash register buttons, but don't actually exist.  Last night he attempted to order Macho Dell Grandes at Taco Bell.  Curious as to what this might be, I sadly had to explain to him that there was no such item.  He will then ask me, "Why?" and I have to explain how once upon a time a focus group sat down and asked the question, "What do people like to eat?"    Macho Dell Grandes never came up, meaning he will have to chose an alternate item, perhaps something actually on the menu board.  

As cars line up behind me, he then begins to read each menu item out loud as if experiencing the taste and carefully selecting the perfect item.   The kids are salivating in the back seats, anxiously awaiting their deep fried chicken bi-products and my husband continues with his disection of the menu. "What is Baja flavor?" he will ask the young person on the other end of the speaker.  Knowing an answer is nowhere to be found, I will jump in, order some random combo number, tell him it's a Macho Dell Grande and screech around the corner waiting for the total and the peak of my complete nervous breakdown.    The cashier will smile, look at my husband and ask if we wants any sauces with our order. My hands clench the wheel, one eye begins to orbit my head and with a nervous tic brought on while in line,  I whisper through clenched teeth, "Please don't ask, Please don't ask..."  And then he speaks.... "What kind of sauces do you have?" Twenty minutes later, the people in line behind me have written down my license plate number, tracked me on google, left unfriendly messages on my Facebook page and moved over to McDonald's to enjoy the tasty fish sandwich my husband wanted from the beginning.