if that isn't love

UPDATE: July 5, 2011 ~ You may notice the site has taken on a new look.  I think it’s a very edgy, sassy design, don’t you? There are still a few tweaks to the design that are being, um, tweaked. So visit often and post your thoughts!  My content will remain the same heart and goofy humor as always!          Love to all my readers.    –J

Welcome to if that isn’t love. Since being “grounded” with a severely broken ankle, I decided to do what all cyber-savvy middle-aged moms do…blog. My goal is simple — regardless of station, ability or opportunity in life, we can all find love extended to us in small, sometimes overlooked ways. Spending twelve weeks or more off my feet, I’ve been at the mercy of everyone in my life to provide assistance with every daily task. And well, if bringing me food, helping me bathe, picking up my leg, setting it down, moving it one inch to the right, or rather, to the left, on second thought, I need another pillow….if that isn’t love then I am a sorry soul.

And love warms the heart most when shared. So please, join my bloggy efforts and share your it that isn’t love experiences. We will all be richer.

As I sit at my old metal, so-last-century desk, I noticed a pink post-it I’d stuck up a long time ago that reads,

“In order to succeed, your desire for success

should be greater than your fear of failure.” 

~Bill Cosby

What do you want to be successful at? What have you done to reach that goal? Is fear of failure holding you back? What is that fear? Lack of resources? Lack of support? Too busy with the viscous circle of life – make money to pay the bills, pay the bills and need more money?

Or is it the fear you’ll find out along the way it’s not going to work and you made a bad choice?

Are these fears founded?

Grounded?

Or just mounded in your over-active head?

When will your desire for success supersede that fear? The fear of failure must be less that the unquenchable desire to succeed.

It took all I had in the deepest part of my being to want to walk more than I feared falling again. And believe me, I had to make that choice daily for a number of months. A cancer patient has to want to beat the disease more than they fear the horrendous side-effects of treatment. Every day there are amazing stories of courage in the lives of ordinary people who simply have a greater desire to succeed than they fear failure.  The incredible human spirit is alive and well all around us.

Who are you heroes? Who is that someone in your life who’s beat the fear and became successful at whatever pursuit they were driven towards? What is their story? Or, perhaps it’s your story that ought to be told.

Send it to me. Don’t worry about writing skills or technical prowess. Just tell me a story of courage, strength and resilience. Send it to ifthatisntlove2011@gmail.com. If I get enough to compile an article, I’ll  do so and share it with you. Don’t wait! Send me that story!

As we’re experiencing, a.k.a celebrating, a very brown winter, I reflect on the past year. Slipping on ice and landing in a chair for nearly three months followed with six months of rehab was not on my bucket list in life.  And yet, while it’s been a life-altering injury, it’s perhaps a life-changing event in many positive ways.

Hello readers!!! I’ve missed writing to you. How better could I spend my evening than pounding out some quips and quirks to entertain and sustain laughing out loud moments that have inserted themselves into my otherwise mundane, yet zany existence? How better? Don’t answer that.

Story #1 Free Advertising – Get it here

I work for a news publishing company. We publish two daily newspapers and a whole slew of tabs, special sections and pages plus several stand-alone products. It’s a busy place to be sure. One of our annual tabs is a listing of local holiday events. Last year I made phone calls to get event details for a number of local organizations who put their holiday happenings in the listing — it’s free advertising, after all. Not wanting to be stuck with all those phone calls again, I brought up the tab a couple of weeks ago and asked if we should do an email merge and get going on these?

Sigh…I was told the ad is in the paper so let’s see if we get enough response to that.

Right.

Guess what?

Jayne…….we haven’t had much response… <insert eyeball rolling>. I took the hardcopy tab from last year and within an hour, created an email distribution list that I passed on to the person responsible to gather listing information. What I’d forgotten about in last year’s tab was the most interesting typo. The second event listed advertised an event that required tickets. It read “Rickets, $10. Call xxx.xxx.xxxx.”

RICKETS! I can have my own rickets for 10 bucks! Now that’s news I can use.

P.S. I’ve practically begged the editor to let me proof the tab prior to printing so that TICKETS are no longer confused with RICKETS.

LOL

~~~~~~~~~~

Story #2.1 Watch me

This story is a twofer.

One of my admin tasks is to conduct a variety of skills tests for interviewing candidates. One of those is a basic typing test. I kid you not. I’ve seen college graduates struggle with this test. You’d think in this age of computers, everyone would have at least some level of keyboarding skills.

To conduct a typing speed test, typically, I have the applicant practice typing from the test copy for a minute or two to get used to the clunky, old keyboard and be comfortable with the repetitive, archaic test. (I recall typing this very same 4 paragraphs in middle school typing class, on a manual typewriter, topping out at 36 words per minute). After they practice, the lines are deleted and I begin timing them. Not owning a wrist watch, I had to watch a wall clock. I’d step out of the office, wait for the second hand to reach the 12 and tell the applicant “Go.”

Last week we had two applicants in one day that needed to take the typing test. As I timed the morning interviewee, a guy came tooling around the corner and looked blankly at me standing there. I said, “I’m watching the clock.” He said, “Oh Okay.” and went on his way to the men’s room.

A couple hours later, it was deja vu. What are the odds?

Applicant was pecking away at the keyboard and I was, watching the clock. The poor fella halted in his tracks, stared for a moment then asked, “Do you not have enough to do?”

Why? They pay me to stand here and watch that clock?

ROFL!!!

********

Story 2.2 Watch out

Still chuckling at that memory, I debriefed at the mall last Friday from an extraordinarily busy week. I wandered to the jewelry counter at JC Penney’s and stopped at the watches.  I have a detailed list of wrist watch criteria. It must have a small but clear clock face, numbers not lines, stretchy band, no weird colors or gold tones. I rattled this off to the cheerful, albeit bored, sales associate. She asked, “How do you feel about Timex?” I feel fine about Timex. Except I already looked at those shelves. Nothing. She’s not exactly going for the big-bucks kill.  Besides, I really didn’t think I’d find anything in any price range.

She humored me by jingling her keys unlocking one display case and then another. Who knew trying on watches was a lot like trying on, um, underwear? It’s gotta fit just right, ya know? It became clear early on I’d have to let the stretchy band requirement go. She deftly popped on one watch after another, with those tricky clasps, while informing me she can take out links in the band to make it fit. I said, “Bet you have to do training classes for that.”

“Oh yes, the most BORING videos ever!”

 As I looked dumbly at yet another won’t-do watch on my wrist, I couldn’t see how to get it off. She said, “Oh just pinch.” “Pinch what? ooooo the sides of the clasp. Clever.”  She asked if I’d thought of getting glasses. Smartie pants.

I was about to give up when I spotted one more locked, twirly rack. “How about that one?” It was perfect. Small face, clear, easy to read numbers, sparkly silver, and a fold-clasp, which I struggled with. I looked up at her and asked,

“Do you have a BORING video I can watch to learn this?”

ROFL! Or rather, ROFSC — rolling on the floor snort-n-chortle.

Two forty-something women were having way too much fun on an otherwise dull Friday evening, trying to find a watch that fit like underwear.

My delightful sales associate, Sheryl, set about removing several links, packaged it up in a beautiful box, applied my $10 off coupon, zipped my JCP Gold  card thru the card zipper, and asked me to do the online survey. Which I did. And sung her praises.

Yesterday I had yet another typing test to time. Watch out. Go.

~~~~~~~~~~

Feeling a bit low one night, I plodded my way into the local Target for a bit of retail therapy. I like those light-weight 3/4 sleeved sweaters that are easy to find this time of year and well, there was such a nice selection of them sitting there. Ooooh me thinks some jewelry to coordinate would perk up my every day office duller-than-dull wardrobe. After perusing the offerings of bobbles and bling, I spotted a rack of “inspirational” jewelry. Rings, necklaces, bracelets, you know the ones, they have lovely “be inspired” themes. Faith, family and friends words of encouragement. A sucker for such things, I spun the racks round and round. A small, sterling silver ring with the words “Nothing is impossible” caught my eye. Between the words “Nothing” and “is impossible” the band twisted upwards giving it a more modern look. In the cart it went.

Hello my avid readers. It’s a lovely Sunday afternoon, sunny but not too hot. So, I decided to bake. Now, I’ve been a kitchen dweller for many-a-year now. Since I was ten. You can stop doing that math.

This much experience is both good and bad. Good in that I can make “educated” guesses on what works and what doesn’t. And bad, when those guesses turn out to be not so educated. Today I had a hankering for a chewy, hearty, full-of-goodness granola bar. I am on the hunt for foods that I can tote along with me to work and the gym. Foods that are not messy, have a shelf life of sorts, are finger-food and low-cal, high nutrition. Given all those requirements, I should have just picked up that 6-pack of V8 and called it good.

But the V8 stayed on the store shelf.

After a bit of Googling (always a dangerous start, gives a false sense of confidence),  I was ready. One recipe I found came from a blog site that was dated 2009. There were impressive photos, and rambling text something about the lady had made some chewy granola bars prior to giving birth to a child and forgot about them in the freezer. When her new-baby fog cleared she remember them and pulled them out. Only to find she needed a hammer to “crumble” them up and plunk serendipitously on top of her yogurt — homemade no doubt. So she created a whole new recipe! You’da thunk I’d have scooted off that web site quick. But the photos were so convincing. You try to find a gluten-free granola recipe! After printing her version, I clicked on to a few other sites finally finding one other recipe that seemed doable.  I marched into my kitchen, visions of sweet, chewy goodness danced in my head.

I started with melting a stick of butter – a common ingredient in both recipes.  One called for some kind of non-peanut, peanut butter but of course you could use the real if you wanted. I wanted. In went the natural, crunchy pb. Honey? ewww…let’s go with real maple syrup. Brown sugar (who uses coconut sugar?), vanilla and mixed up some flax seed and water for an egg. Not that either one called for an egg. I was supposed to put in a mashed up banana but I didn’t have one so in went a half cup of natural apple sauce. With all the “wet” ingredients well combined, I began dumping in the dry. I chopped apricots, dried apples and mixed in some dried blueberries for the required 1-cup of mixed dried fruits. Two cups of oats, or rather what was left in the canister so I could throw it away. In place of flour or wheat germ, the recipes said I could grind up oatmeal in my blender until it was very fine. Too much work. In went two packets of instant cinnamon apple instant oatmeal. A teaspoon of cinnamon and a scant half of allspice smelled fragrant; next some almond slivers and semi-sweet chocolate chips (true story, the one recipe said it was only a little naughty to put in chocolate). Seemed a little too wet, in went a half cup of rice crispies. Into the 8′ x 8′ glass baking pan, liberally sprayed with olive oil and a nice coating of baking cocoa dusted all over the oil (that was ’cause I didn’t have parchment paper).  What I carefully patted into the glass pan was nothing like either of the recipes. I covered the top with flaked coconut and pitched into a 350 degree oven for 35 minutes.

When I took it out, the coconut had a nice slightly browned. Of course, I couldn’t wait to taste-test  so in spite of the fact I was supposed to let it cool completely before cutting, I cut out the corner, flipped out several large globs onto a plate and stuffed a fork-full into my mouth. Mmmmm not bad! Chewy, check. Flavorful, check. Chocolate-y, naughty-check. Fruity, yup. Finger-food…well maybe when “completely cooled” or perhaps frozen to hammer-readiness.

What I ended up with isn’t really a bar, or a cake, or a brownie, or a cookie. I don’t know what to call it. But it is tasty. And that’s what counts most, right?

Right?

I’ve found life to be like this foody experiment. We set out with plans, visions and goals. Somewhere along the way, we begin substituting and altering. We add a flavor, take away off-limits ingredients, add a little naughty here and there. And when we try to pat the loose ends into place, it looks nothing like what the original design was meant to be.

We suffer consequences for wrong choices, deal with difficult circumstances beyond our influence, struggle with relationships and find it all very overwhelming at times. In the end, it’s not all good, or all bad, nor do we really know what to make of this living, learning and loving process we call life here on planet earth. Except that it counts, right?

Right?

and if that isn’t love, my friends, what else do you call it?

Today was a good day. Worked eight hours. Went to the gym for an hour — the trainer made sure I felt the burn then did 17, yes all of 17, minutes on the treadmill. Slow and steady wins the race. That’s my stick-to-it story for now. 2.2 miles per hour yielded point fifty-two hundredths of a mile walked, and forty-nine calories burned. Something wrong with that math.

Properly jellied and achin’ I limped my way to the door and was stopped by my gym friend, Bob. Now, Bob is a fine fellow that enjoys sharing about visits with his grown kids and going out dancin’ — loves rock-n-roll music! No doubt, Bob busts a pretty mean move on the dance floor.  Prior to my crash-n-burn fall, we often were mounted on treadmills side-by-side. We’d chat a bit, then plug in our ear phones proceed to do our miles, he in his baseball cap and me trying to break the speed record for hardest working slowest moving person ever to trot on the tread. Bob has a big smile and I think, a big heart.

So tonight as I was plodding towards the door, he dismounted from his mill, came over and handed me a gift. It was a folded piece of paper. I opened it and found a photo copy of a 70′s style cartoon with big bubble letters characteristic of the era, “Keep on Truckin’.”  He said I was too young to remember that era. Well, not really. He said, “Keep up the good work, Kiddo!” I said I sure would.

At a time when I see very slow progress in my walking, balance, endurance and the pain is gradually becoming less, or perhaps, more bearable, it’s easy to be frustrated. And just when that frustration gets ugly, someone beautiful comes along and tells me to “Keep on truckin’.”

…if that isn’t love.

Bob, if you found your way to this website, I just want you to know, I’ll keep on truckin’. Thanks for the gift.

It was an event I shall always remember. The Josh Groban “Straight To You Tour” on July 8th at the Target Center, main floor seats. Oh Oh Oh ~ uh huh. Amazing staging, lighting, sound and orchestra/band. All the fave Josh songs from his current Illuminations CD and his previous albums. Curly hair, white t-shirt, jeans and obviously new sneaks — black with white stripes that sorta glowed. The staging was supurb, lighting interesting and images changing on the backdrop throughout the program. He is so spontaneous, funny and engaging. The band/orchestra members shifted around on the stage throughout the concert which kept a fresh and interesting look. Brilliant.

Yet all that fancy-schmancy staging, orchestra and techno-wizardry doesn’t affect Groban’s ability to make the audience feel like he’s just singing some favorite tunes to family and friends in the living room. Well, if your living room holds a couple thousand people. He is a study in musical genius contrasted with youthful whimsy.

As he scampered about on the stage he explained that there are two sets of stairs that his crew affectionately call  ”GAPs” — Grobanite Access Points. In other words, adoring fans could rush the stage and access

Groban, perhaps causing him injury or clinging to him in a til-death-parts hug – you had to be there.  Given the fact that 80% of the audience was 35+ years and female, it was a fairly mannerly crowd, other than the lady who was invited onto the stage momentarily and proceeded to vice-grip poor Josh in a never-ending hug — the body buddies had to peel her off. So the GAPs were nothing more than access points for Groban himself to skitter between main stage and center stage.

GAPs. This silly acronym  got me to thinking. How about Growth Access Points. What trials and challenges have come along in life to cause growth and learning? The first GAP in life would be birth. One day, we plop into this cold, harsh world and are expected to breath, eat and make sure our momma knows when something is amiss. We grow, get used to life as a baby and bam, we’re a toddler. Not only are breathing, eating and keeping mom on task important but so is going to the potty, playing with toys and learning about friends. Very quickly we became a pre-schooler, a grade school kid, a middle schooler, a high school student and then? Bam. An adult. Let the real GAPs begin.

Perhaps you went to post-secondary schooling of one sort or another. College or not, there is a lot of learning that doesn’t come from a classroom or text book. More than likely you’ve had jobs, responsibilities and friends all of which were GAPs. Some move into full-time careers, others marriage and family and still others move back home and cause mom and dad more GAPs.

Before long you look back at all the GAPs life has allowed you. And that’s cool. Until the GAPs begin to take twisted turns. Illness. Injury. Job loss. Relationship discord. Death of loved ones. These kind of GAPs are inevitable. They are hard. Harsh. Horrendous even. They leave one feeling hopeless and helpless.

But it’s those GAPs that lead to learning the truth of love and the goodness of life.  Shattering my ankle on a patch of ice has been a GAP. Not one I’ve enjoyed. Not one I’d repeat or recommend. But this last six months have definitely been a long, hard-fought series of growth access points. I’ve experienced an enormous amount of love in action as I depended upon family and friends and at times, strangers, to help me when I couldn’t do for myself.  I’ve received numerous cards, phone calls, flowers, books and all manner of thoughtful bits of encouragement which brought love and laughter to my heart. I’ve come to appreciate the little things in life — cooking for my family, going for a walk on a hot summer’s night with the dog, stand-up showers, driving my SasCee PT Cruiser, returning to my job full-time.

While I’ll never travel the country sporting jeans and white t-shirt singing beautiful pop-classical tunes, and no one will clamor to my stage for a bear-hug, I have been awarded the opportunity to learn from my GAPs and pay it forward to those experiencing their GAPs.

…if that isn’t love.

One of my fave new selections:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39TUCMPmVVM

It’s midnight. The house is quiet. The fan whirring overhead is causing the now sinking graduation balloons to dance playfully against the wall. The crickets are singing outside the window (may they stay outside!). I think, this is the time of day all good ponderings come to being.

I ponder the meaning of pain. Sure there are many good and noble and virtuous books written on the reasons, causes and benefits of pain. But what is the meaning of pain. Physical pain. Emotional pain. Why must gain come from pain? Why is there so much pain that never makes for gain? I dunno.

I ponder the meaning of family. Sure, family is biological, adoptive, chosen friends become like family. A team is a family. Work colleagues become family. Or perhaps you have a church or social group that are like family. Just who are your “homies?” Again, no end to books and resources on this subject but I prefer keeping things simple. Family means those that know your faults, see who you will be and love who you were, are.  Family should be validating, comforting and inspiring. Well, at least learning those virtues anyway. I have much to learn.

I ponder the juxtaposition of teenagers emerging into young adults, parents in mid-life, grandparents in golden years (just what does “golden” mean?). I have wondered for years why three generations all are in transition at the same time. Why not? Then we all hit coasting at the same time too. I’ll admit, being in the middle group, it does test one’s mettle.

I ponder technology. Whoosh. I better reboot pondering because it just all changed again. Most of us have love/hate relationships with the ever-evolving technological advances. When I was five, I could use a telephone (connected to the wall ya know), change the channel on the television and had mastered a dimmer light switch and the crayon sharpener on the Box of 64 Crayola crayons. Ball point pens had been joined by markers, those were fun.  The average five year old today effectively uses a computer, cell phone, electronic games, iPod, a variety of audio and visual devices and a two-wheeled bicycle. They help gramps with his GPS too.

I’m now pondering sleep. The day has been long. But I’d love to hear what ponderings are close to your heart. Do write and let me know. Oh, and what do you think of the site’s new “skin?” Thought it was time for a redesign and hopefully it’s for the better.

Tootles.

Greetings once again from the recliner. I apologize to my readers (all five of you) that I’ve not written for a long while. Life had ramped up full-speed again and sadly, I neglected my blogging.

Never fear! I’m here yet again — hanging with my foot in the air. Yes, the inevitable has come to pass. The hardware so carefully inserted last Dec. 31st  had to be extracted on June 30th. It would seem that it has done its task and was now hindering progress. Durned ankle just wouldn’t walk properly. So nine screws, two washers (yes washers) and one 7-hole plate were yanked out, cleaned and sanitized then handed to me in a sealed package. Quite an impressive array of bone bling. And for the record, I no longer have a LOOSE screw!

It struck me as odd that the first surgery was done sort of “emergency.” No pre-op doc visit, no “nurse” (aka how ya gonna pay for this?) visit, no pre-blood work, no elaborate check-in process. Just slice ‘er open and screw all those pieces back together. Install the pain med pump, bring the gal something to eat and get outta town before her spinal wears off.

But this time, for a relatively easy procedure, it took on the trappings of an “event.”  May have well sent out invitations. “You’re invited to review Jayne’s entire health history back four generations and ask her a dra-zillion times her name, birth date and which ankle again?”

o bother…

I am a person of perseverance and amazing inner fortitude so I jumped the hoops and slid into the home-gurney on operation day.

Now, I gotta tell you about the most amazing invention ever. I mean, sliced bread doesn’t even rank at this level of awesomeness. When I arrived, a nurse, who I think may have  been around when they invented the band-aid, escorted me to my private out-patient room. There it was. The Bair Paw gown. Oh! The GOWN! First off, it’s purple — comes with matching purple Bair Paw slipper socks. The gown has a little tiny trap door where the hose inserts. The WARM AIR hose. Yes! I ripped off all my clothes and slipped into this beautiful (albeit as ill-fitting as ever a hospital gown could be) garment. When she returned, the old but obviously well-versed on new technology, nice nurse hooked me up. There is a heaven on earth. Warm air poured over my A/C induced goose flesh. I’d pay good money just to sit here. Oh wait…I am paying good money for this.

Peaked your curiosity? Click here: http://www.arizant.com/us/bairpawssystem Don’t ever consent to surgery again unless your facility has the Bair Paw! End of commercial — music fade…………..

After the usual parade of health care folks, er, professionals, they were ready to roll me in to the OR. A very, very wonderful nurse anesthetist welcomed me. What a blessing. She guided me through every little detail and stayed with me the whole time. She held my hand, kept me posted on progress, got me through the final ten minutes when the spinal wasn’t quite masking everything, and gave me a little “cheek to cheek” hug when I was done. May that woman be blessed a thousand times over for obviously she has found her calling.

Recovery was slow. The beauty of a spinal is the overall lower risk compared to a general. The down side is it takes hours to wear off. I dozed, the nurses kept tabs on my vitals. Before long, they unhooked my warm air hose lifeline and I knew they were kicking me to the curb.

We picked up lupper (to late for lunch, too early for supper) on the way home and I parked in my recliner. Foot up, computer, cell phone and TV remotes at hand, bring on the healing. While it’s not the most pleasant way to spend a 40-something birthday and holiday weekend, I’m grateful, so deeply appreciative, for the many people who kept me sane and healthy all at the same time.

My family has as always, been supportive, helpful and bring coffee and chocolate in copious, mood-altering amounts.  Beautiful cards have come in the mail and kind words shared via e-mail. A vase of flowers showed up at the door!

At the urging (arm-twisting?) of many I took the narcotic pain meds, for one day. Less pain, less brain. ‘Nuf of those. The pain is dramatically less this time.  Summer has come cruisin’ in. the days are longer, I won’t be down long.

And so I am now, foot-loose and screw-free.

…if that isn’t love.

When I was a kid, my mother used to call me “an accident waiting to happen.” She, of course, meant this in an ever-so-loving way. But truthfully, I was not meant to live peacefully with gravitational pull. I think I was originally meant to be a lovely mermaid, swimming effortlessly through tropical waters, long golden tresses…tressing in the waves, winding gracefully around my female loveliness…….ERRRRRT! Stop this fantasy while it’s still G-rated.

So, back to the story……..

I am a klutz. Be it a blade of grass, gust of wind or errant bit of black ice, gravitational forces seem all too happy to land me on my female not-so-loveliness sitter-downer. But until today, I’ve not had a title to go with my talent.

I have a graduate, graduation party and family wedding coming up, and work full-time. My spring/summer closet holdings are looking rather bleak. So I ordered six different shirts online from JCP hoping a couple would work out. Turns out after trying on all six items at home this week, none were keepers. Grrrr.

Return trip to the catalog counter today to return six items and reorder three. Now, the catalog counter holds a bit of emotional negative energy for me. That is where I went the day I fell. I never park by that particular mall entrance but that day I did. It is the shady side of the building, probably contributing to the quick freeze. I surmise had I parked in my usual sunny-side of the mall that day, there may never have been a black News Year’s Eve day in my history.

But, regrets don’t buy change. 

Today, the nice catalog counter ladies asked what had happened to me. I fell, on the ice, right outside that there door. On New Year’s Eve day.

“OOOOOooo You’re the ‘Mall Accident.’ You’re still not all better? Did you get surgery or anything? I heard you broke both legs! Wow. That’s a long time….”

That’d be me. The ‘Mall Accident’ Yes I got surgery. No I’m not quite all better. Not both, just one, but all of that one. It’ll be most of the next year. Shopping is still hard. Can I get this re-order shipped to my house this time?

That simple request kept me standing for another 20 minutes while they tried to figure out how to take off the shipping costs for me — a nice courtesy gesture for my trouble don’t you think? Finally a lady that must have been around when they built the place came out of the back room. She out-smarted the computer, set the young sales manager straight and got the job done! Good thing I’d taken Advil before this excursion.

Having completed the catalog business and pain med was in full effect, I stopped off in the junior guys department and found some shirts for my soon-to-graduate son. Something without motor oil and holes, as charming as those can be. I picked out several shirts and shirt-combos (ever notice how fashion trends are marketing opportunities?).

Moving on to the junior gals area, I found a couple cute spring sun dresses for my youngest. While motor oil and holes are not her issue, length, color and style are areas of mother-daughter discord. Dresses and tank tops  selected, last stop would be petites — “petiks” as the catalog lady called them.

I asked to lay my pile of assorted junior articles on the counter while I looked in the petites department. “Sure. Would you like some help?”

“Yes. Shirts for me. No button-downs. No V-necks. Can’t fill ‘em up. I have black and tan pants to match.” The woman was a saint. She said she’d fetch some things for me to look at and not make me walk all over. She nailed what I was looking for pretty quickly. Oh, and I need sweaters to match. Air conditioning is cold. “I know exactly what you mean!” and off she went. I spotted a green sweater on a clearance rack that matched a shirt we’d decided upon and the combo will compliment my new tan pants. OK. I’m tired. Yes that’s my pile at the counter. I’ll flop down my JCP plastic and the deed shall be done.

And the question came again, what happened? I fell….. “OOOooh you’re the “Mall Accident!” Seriously? Did they call from the catalog to the “petiks” and say, “Tag! You’re it! Mall Accident heading your way!”

Yes, I had surgery. No, I’m not quite all healed. My kind sales associate nodded and said she’d broken her ankle once too. She does photography and while shooting a family wedding, “snapped it right off.” Talkin’ my language. Laid up at home, going crazy sitting still so long. She works at a day-job, part-time at Penney’s and does animal foster care. Do you ever sleep? Not much.

She rang up my purchases, clicked in 20 percent off even though I didn’t have the coupon in hand, bagged them up and wished me well. And she meant it.

…and if that isn’t love.

just call me Mall Accident. I’m told, an accident does not your identity make. Wanna bet?

For your encouragement ~http://youtu.be/XpbdK0q-FyY