Just One Dingaling in the Family

My friends are starting to worry about me.  This birthday is hitting hard.

Just today my friend Jincey sent me a reassuring e-mail:  You’re going to be fine, Mary.

I believed her for an hour or so.  After all, I don’t feel decrepit.    Sometimes I even feel pretty spiffy,  like I’ve got some pretty hot years left.  Okay, hot may be  the wrong word there.  Something more along the lines of  “still ticking” perhaps.  

But then, Dearly Beloved opened the pantry this morning to select a cereal  and asked an odd question which threw me back into the shadows. 

“Do you know there is a bag of lettuce in here?”   

Um. . . negative on that one. 

He handed to me and I suppose the good news is that I did it two days ago and not two months ago.   Good news for the lettuce anyway.  I stuck it in  intensive care–the crisper drawer  of the refrigerator–and will decide later whether or not it’s still edible.

The lettuce purchase  was made  the same day  I went to the huge consignment store here in search of  a coffee table.   I don’t want one to scream “I’m new!”   The hunt is on  to find  something to blend in with the rest of the furniture,  since I fell on the old one  and snapped the top off.  Our contractor, who stayed so long on previous projects he thought he should put his name on our mailbox,  had told me he’d repair it, but after waiting  six months for him to remember to pick it up,  we finally moved  it into the garage.  That’s where  I promptly  broke the glass that goes with  it, so things are not looking  promising for the table  to ever make it back into the house.  

I wanted something with just a little pizzazz.  Four buildings later (I did mention the consignment place is large, didn’t I?)  all hope was abandoned, since  I hadn’t found a coffee table that didn’t scream, “My former home was a fraternity house/trailer/day nursery/car dealership waiting room.”  I did stumble upon a clearance on Christmas ornaments though, where a large bowl of   little personalized jingle bell people caught my eye.  I sifted through them looking for familiar names. 

It was full of  Staceys, Carls, Seans. . . which rang no bells for me, thus nixing my initial  thought of using them as clever little  gift tags for the family next year,  but I did find a few friends’ names.   I kept digging and  eventually came up with  John and Mary.   Success!   There is something to be said for having the two blandest names in the world.   I made my purchase and promptly forgot about them.  This morning I retrieved them from the car to show Dearly Beloved. 

Look,  we can hang on the Christmas tree together next year.

Not exactly. 

Look closely. . . more closely than I did.




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