My heart started beating faster than usual the second I flashed my red, white and blue card.  The fluorescent lights — or maybe my eyesight — began to flicker and there I was, surrounded by a sea of  carts and aggressive shoppers.  I had to get myself into a defensive shopping mode.  The thought of it exhausted me.  Why did I come to Costco in the middle of the day during a weekend?

I should have known better.  I even picked a different location than usual, thinking it would be less crowded.  As soon as we pulled into the parking lot I knew I had miscalculated.  But I was committed and there was no turning back.

I took a deep breath and forged my way through the point of purchase items, dodging little kids with dirty faces hanging from baskets every few feet.  Then I realized, all I could see was blue and orange. Broncos shirts were everywhere.  Even Broncos pants, hats, maybe socks.  Crap, I forgot it was the first official Broncos game of the season (clearly my household is not in sync with professional sports schedules).  And I’ve learned that Colorado people are even more insane about Broncos games than Oklahoma people are about OU and OSU games.  Which is semi-maniacal at best.

They must have all come to stock up on snacks for the game. It was war and I was about to get bloody.  And all for some cases of bottled water, a gigantic container of dish detergent and a case of flautas.

As I made my way back to the food section, I looked down, and then gasped. I was only wearing sandals.  Clearly I wasn’t prepared.  I couldn’t quit thinking how much it was going to hurt if someone ran over my toes with their shopping cart wheels of fury. I winced at the thought.  And as I circled back to find the shredded cheese (enough to feed the White House staff), I overheard a woman telling her friend “They’re like sharks in here…. we need to be more aggressive or we’re going down!”

Then my stomach rumbled and I realized I had come to Costco hungry.  Damn, not a good idea, and especially not on this kind of day.  I started scouting for the samples tables.  And forget that healthy stuff, I wanted something good. But there were swarms of  people with bad manners looming at every food sample table, and grabby hands everywhere.  I wondered what kind of training the food sample people must undergo in order to be able to protect themselves? But I really wanted to try a bite of the jalepeno cheese sausage to tide me over until I could escape.  I battled on.

A few hundred dollars later (“Since we’re here and all.. might as well pick that up.”  I think that phrase is subliminally programmed into each shopper’s mind by way of the cart handles or something.  Either that or “Apocalypse approaching!”), we headed for the check out area.  This is when my husband realized he should have gotten me out sooner.  Suddenly my eyes went wild, and I was determined to find the shortest line and knock anyone out of the way who was hesitant or undecided.  I was starting to think my life depended on it. I had to get out.

Then the lady in front of us starts thumbing through the coupon booklet – not one second before she was already at the register, a huge line behind her.  The checker was going to lose it and we all tried to remain calm.  This was not the day for dorking around with coupons to save $2.50 when you’re spending $450.00.

Finally, we made it out… (go to the light CarolAnn)…and I took a deep breath of non-commercialized air.  Our cart was stacked as if we had fourteen kids and 32 grandkids to feed.  But by God, we had some good, institutionally sized food to tide us over.

Today, I’m grateful that I won’t have to grocery shop for a long while. But mostly that we made it out alive, toes intact.

Almost every morning for this last month, I’ve had every intention of quickly throwing on some shoes, putting leashes on the dogs and getting out there to walk on the many trails in the beautiful open state park right by my house. I would be crazy not to.

But  my self talk hasn’t been convincing enough.  When it comes to regular exercise, I seem to go all-out or not so much out-at-all.  And lately it’s been more the latter.  I am determined to become more consistent. And I’m saying this so that someone out there might hold me accountable.

However yesterday I took advantage of a beautiful (although hot) day and took  a long hike. My pups were ecstatic to have the opportunity to sniff smells other than the routine scents of my neighborhood streets. My husband, who participates in 75-mile bike rides without breaking a sweat, was pleasantly surprised that his less that athletic wife wanted to take a longer walk than our usual easy neighborhood loop.

On our walk I made some observations from the trail.

I should note here that in shared trail situations I am borderline overly polite and will always try to make room for someone  approaching  from behind or in front of me.  I will also at least make an attempt to say hello or acknowledge with a nod. This is not the case with everyone and I find it fascinating to observe.

My sometimes cynical but realistic husband says this quite possibly puts me at a disadvantage in the larger world scheme of things where it’s every man for himself.   This, and not having a duplicitous bone in my body.  But at any rate, I’m not changing my ways anytime soon.  (And I like to think this helps cancel out my negative karma from occasional minor road rage flare ups.)

First noticed were the the friendly, comfortable in their skin, outgoing walkers.  I’ve decided these are mostly women (usually in pairs) or older men who are usually walking with a friend and/or dog.  They’re walking at a good clip, but they aren’t so hard core that they can’t look up and say hello as you pass by.  They make room for others as I do.

Then there are the dog walkers. They are also usually friendly and mostly women. Not uncommon are comments on how cute my scruffy dogs are.  They definitely make room for passing on the trail. Until, that is, my one less than social dog begins to panic at the sight of another dog and they speed up with a concerned look as if Cujo, our 24 pound adopted mix with a partial set of teeth,  is coming to eat their dog.  (We have tried for years to make him more comfortable around other dogs to no avail.)

Next are the runners, usually in pairs.  They don’t talk much and usually have earphones in place.  They pretend like they are going to make room for others on the trail but they really have no intention of doing so.  Because if you are only walking, you really don’t deserve any special effort on their part.

The casual bikers are usually biking families that almost always have a child lagging far behind and they are trying to seem patient about it and not lose their cool because people are watching.  They have good intentions of making room on the trail, but their circus train of bikes prevent it.  They are just happy to make it past us.

The semi serious bikers are next.  They are usually by themselves and always very courteous to alert you when they are approaching with “on your left.”  Sometimes they even nod a hello.

Next we have the hard core speed bikers who race up behind us one at a time with their fancy bike race shirts and helmets.  They will most likely only graze one of your legs after approaching without a warning or a peep. And certainly without losing any speed on your behalf.

And my favorite part of the trails is the expansive underground network of prairie dogs with their intricate alarm procedures.  As our trail approaches each mound, a prairie dog scout sounds the alarm for all those nearby.  The high pitched chirping signals the little guy at the next mound.  He then dips down right as the trail gets close and immediately the prairie dog at the next mound sounds his chirping alarm.  This cycle repeats for long stretches and kind of makes me wonder what it would be like to be a prairie dog.

In the end, I am embarrassed to admit that I am a little sore the next day from our long, hot walk.  But I am glad that I am physically able to get out and take a walk, for this alone is a luxury for some.  And also that I have such a beautiful trail system at my disposal, speed bikers and all.  For these things, I am grateful.

I knew in the back of my mind that it would probably have to happen at some point. But I was hoping just maybe I would get lucky and it might never happen to this one. But it has.

My youngest, my baby, my clone (poor guy) is becoming a rather sassy teenager. He’s still his kind and helpful self about 70 percent of the time.  But his new sassy self, the one disgusted by the ridiculousness of anything that I ask or suggest, is in session the other 30 percent of the time these days.  It’s during these times that his voice is a little sharper, his patience a little thinner, and his door is more often closed than not. His dry wit in both versions continues to impress me.

I am still in denial that this is even happening to my youngest offspring.  My logical self knows it isn’t personal. And knows that its part of the deal and this too shall pass.  But my illogical, more emotion-driven self is somewhat devastated half the time, wishing I could turn back the clock for a while.

The rest of the time I am able to maintain perspective and crack the respect whip with a facial expression that my boys say is frightening and hilarious at the same time.  Apparently my eyes squint with a spooky stare and my mouth turns into a version of our Shih Tzu mix pound dog’s under bite (but with a full set of teeth). I use this technique when I glare at them and wait for behavior correction or an apology.  I think they choke back their laughter and compare notes afterwards.

Luckily that majority — the stuff that makes him who he is — is priceless and makes me beam with pride. So for now I’m going to focus on being ever so grateful for his sharp-witted, perceptive and compassionate self that reappears when I’m least expecting it.  That way I can soak in every bit of it during the years left before he flies the coop.

I rarely remember my dreams when I wake up from a night’s sleep, even though I’ve tried many tricks to aid my recall. I do, however, often wake up with songs in my head and almost always with a distinct memory attached to them. I always wonder if the song has something to do with what I was dreaming about.  And for some reason, the songs are almost always from the mid to late 1970s.

The music in my head when I woke up today was “Blinded by the Light” from 1977.  This song instantly places me in the upstairs of my childhood house where I lived from first through eighth grades. My older sister’s room was directly across the hall from mine. She was six years older and I felt lucky to be able to soak in some of her coolness when she allowed it. My friends were envious.  She would play music on her fancy stereo and teach me dance moves as we spinned and shimmied from her room to mine and back.   Then later I would teach my friends the dance moves because they were from my cool older sister.

She taught me all the Saturday Night Fever disco moves to the Bee Gee songs that she learned at Skilley’s Dance Studio.  We danced to S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y — NIGHT!  She even bought that one for me on a 45 for my little blue plastic record player with the little thing in the middle that held the record in.   And when she played the ‘Blinded by the Light’ song, I would always try to sing along. I remember she gave me a hard time because I thought they were singing “wrapped up like a douche … another runner in the night.”  She explained to me how that was a word related to feminine hygiene and not something to be singing about.  Maybe she told me what word she thought they were really singing, I can’t remember.  But that sticks with me every time I hear that song and I’ve never figured it out.

So, when I woke up this morning the first thing I said to my husband was, “If they weren’t saying wrapped up like a douche in that “Blinded by the Night” song, what were they actually saying?”  Without pause, he just shrugged because it was early and he already knew his wife was crazy.  He offered up the word deuce as a possibility and shrugged again.  I quickly Googled it on my phone as my day began. I had to know.

It’s interesting that certain phases of my life I can more vividly remember than others.  And how certain songs put me in the Star Trek transporter and beam me right to that childhood house.   (We watched every Star Trek episode there – my sister was sort of a Trekkie.)

I can see our yellow painted, glass top kitchen table against our yellow and brown lattice design linoleum (which matched all of the Harvest Gold appliances and even our counter tops).  And hear the screeching sound the kitchen drawers made as they were opened, and my mom’s voice calling me from the bottom of the stairs, usually without my middle name which was saved for serious exceptions.

I can remember the rough texture of my pink and white sear-sucker bedspread with eyelet trim.  And see the tire swing on the tree outside my room’s window that I concocted from a tire I found in the woods.  My mom always thought that was industrious of me and I think that’s why she allowed it to remain even though it was visible from the street.  And how my mom’s room always reminded me of Mentholatum because she kept a huge green jar of it by her bedside and must have used a lot of it.

And the music, oh the music.  Billy Joel, Barry Manilow, Dust in the Wind by Kansas, and the Bee Gees’s Tragedy song that became our sarcastic theme song whenever we were jokingly giving sympathy to each other.  (My kids are very familiar with this and hate it when I sing our joking version, which makes me sing it more.)

So… the truth is finally revealed (to me anyway).  It turns out that ‘Blinded by the Light’  is a song that has some of the most commonly misunderstood lyrics of all time (I wasn’t alone).  It was written and recorded by Bruce Springsteen in 1973.  But Manford Mann’s Earth Band modified the chorus before covering it in 1976, when it became a huge hit.

The newer version of the chorus changed Springsteen’s “cut loose like a deuce” to “revved up like a deuce.”  And as Wikipedia explained, this phrase was commonly misheard as “wrapped up like a douche” because of the lead singer’s New Zealand accent.  And if you were wondering what deuce was referring to in the first place like I was, it turns out to be  ’60s slang for a 1932 Ford, a “deuce coupe,” which explains why it can be revved up and run.

So there you have it.  Mystery solved.  For that I am grateful.

excerpt of lyrics:

Some silicone sister with a manager mister told me I got what it takes
She said “I’ll turn you on sonny to something strong,
play the song with the funky break”
And go-cart Mozart was checkin’ out the weather chart to see if it was safe outside
And little Early-Pearly came by in his curly-wurly and asked me if I needed a ride
Asked me if I needed a ride
But she was…
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light ………..

Today I am grateful for all the support, follows and likes from so many wonderful people out there in this blogging universe.

I’m liking the blog world and discovering more about it each day.  It’s a great way to make connections on a new level.

The fact that I made a “public” proclamation of 100 days of gratitude blogging was genius.  I owe it to my subconscious mind which is much more upfront about what a procrastinator I am than my conscious self.  Because of this, I have to do it. No excuses. Love that.

Some days of blogging are harder than others and some days it all flows more easily, but all are enjoyable and more therapeutic than I would have ever imagined.

Thank you for reading and following!

I’m convinced that my dog Piper has opposable thumbs which are retractable and only come out when we aren’t looking. Wolverine style. We’ve joked for a while about how she is a monkey dog, but I’m starting to think there may be something to it.

She’s a 25 pound crazy looking red mini golden doodle who is only 19″ tall, but her legs are quite long. And she can pull things off the counter from quite far back using a cupping technique with her paw. For real. And clearly, her grip is quite good.  I’m thinking she’s going to borrow my car one of these days.

On a regular basis I find remnants of her ‘counter surfing’ (which apparently this breed is known for) under our dining room table or in the backyard in a certain spot – her trophy areas. Tupperware lids, cottage cheese containers, butter tubs, packages from full bags of bread or bagels, cream cheese – you name it.   She’s even gotten plates off the counter and they’ve survived thanks to our kitchen rug. All I have to do is walk away from the kitchen counter for an instant and she goes in for the kill. She does this so stealthily that I usually think I’ve put whatever it is away already in the fridge or pantry. (I’m going to refrain from making an Alzheimer’s joke here since it ain’t no joke in this house.)

Last night I accidentally left the Cambozola cheese wedge (good size) in it’s wrapper on the counter after cutting a bit of it off to set out with crackers and grapes. Again, she came in so fast after I turned away that I didn’t think about it. Plus I knew I had pushed it almost to the back of the counter. So when it wasn’t on the counter when I returned five minutes later I figured someone had put it away.  Nope.

Before bed last night we found the complete empty Cambozola cheese wrapper (as well as a full size TRAY someone used to eat dessert on- not sure how she pulled that one off) under the dining room table.  Note: this cheese is a triple cream blue-veined cheese. And she ate a lot of it. A recipe for a gnarly dog mess for most dogs.

I heard a couple screams from the kids before bedtime when they caught a whiff of her breath. One son even offered to bathe her, it was that bad. It was ugly.  But amazingly, she never got sick.  We know from experience when she ate a full tub of mink oil shoe conditioner that she has an iron stomach. (That episode involved a very expensive vet call.)

And this time was no exception.  For this, we are grateful.

I count myself as one of the lucky few to have so many friendships that date back to my Luv-it jeans days.  In 3rd through 5th grades I think I had a pair with roller skates and pair with the word “Disco” on them.  And friends from my junior high days when I wore guess jeans with zippers on the ankles, and high school friends who have proof of my insanely over sized bangs and blue eye shadow.  And college friends who remember my sound effect party tricks and hand sewn wrap skirts, and friends from my early work days when I wore purple power suits and panty hose (see earlier post).

These are people who know my darkest sides, my dirtiest of laundry, and still love me.  They’ve seen me do and say some stupid things and they’ve forgiven me.  And they call me on the carpet when it’s needed.

I can call on them in my darkest or brightest hours and they are there to support me or slap me out of it.  Sometimes they even call right when I need them to, using their old friend telepathic powers.  And when they need me to do the same, I am honored to be there for them, in sickness and in health.

They believe in me more than I believe in myself sometimes.  They can snap me out of any funk.  And cheer me on to do things greater than I could have imagined on my own.

For these old pals I am forever grateful.