Caring for the Erf

Yesterday I took care of my three-year-old grandson, Joseph.

He's old enough to put the child's potty seat on and to climb up and to use it.

When he came out of the bathroom I said, "I didn't hear you flush."

"Mommy says not to flush," he said.

"Why not?"

"The erf will get mad."

The New Me

I have moved, which is a great opportunity to become a new me. This theme has appeared before in the wearing-purple blog, but now with deeper twist. In a new town in a new state, do I want to automatically re-create the old life?

It started happening in church yesterday--OK it never occurred to me to shop around in different churches, I just obediently trotted up to the "piskies," as Denny called them. Immediately inside the doors, in a pincer movement two women roped me into a meeting on Thursday a.m. I promised ONE meeting. Also, I felt called to introduce myself to the Sunday School coordinator. Today I'll buy the season tickets to the church concert series, and to the pig pickin' barbecue (insert your own witticism here) and there you go voila the old me.

But wait: I'm loving this time of not knowing anyone and having no committees. Grandchildren and shopping and reading of thrillers and watching of the Hallmark Channel fill the happy days. I have more time to write, and to sleep. How long can such happiness persist?

Like Dolly Parton's comment that it takes a lot of money to look this cheap: The life of idle days must result from great effort.
I'm going to have to think about this.

(Later) I did think about it and realized the phenomenon has less to do with identity and more to do with not having had a vacation in 6 years.

A Many-Splendored Thing

MacGregor invited me to lunch, and I'm getting ready to go. First, what to wear? I decide a skirt will look the nicest. Therefore, out comes the iron. As I'm spraying the Niagra starch and running the iron of course many associations come up.

Denny used to go upstairs after dinner every Sunday night and iron his pants and shirts for the whole work week. I am not an ironer, and he would chide me for failing to fill the steam iron. Well, steam ironing is after my time, which is 1950s Missouri when you dampened and used a regular iron.

I could go on and on about ironing--which is a bit boring which is why I don't do it so much. But down here I have no choice, everything is for summer and you look really rumpled if you don't and then you might embarrass your grandson at lunch.

So the real direction my brain started taking during the flattening of linen was preparing to meet with a boy. I'm going through the same rituals we 1950s girls would do getting ready for the Friday night movie and pizza (which we called pizza pie) or even a dance or something like that. You had to fix your hair, you had to do up your face (which didn't need it then and yields diminishing returns today), you ironed your outfit and made sure your shoes looked nice. Same in college when you're getting ready for the football weekend, with a boy.

Funny such associations re: going over to MacGregor's's elementary school. But I want to look nice, and I feel so complimented to be invited, that my grandson would want me to come over there. Ah, the many permutations of love.