On Being Invisible

A lot of my readers always ask me the age old question, "Dearest Ms. Daisy, have you figured out the secret of being invisible?"  Well, kind readers, you're in luck, because I'm here today to tell you that I just figured it out.

In order for this to work, you're going to need to have two things going on.  First, you need to be female.  Second, you need to have (or borrow) some children.  You may think this bizarre, but let me explain it by anecdotal evidence in at least three different scenarios.

Scenario 1: The bike store

Not invisible:  Walk into the independently owned bike store being female and having no children present, and you will receive quick attention and help.  Several people will offer to show you around to different bikes, can I help you, what are you looking for, would you like to go on a ride with me later because I can teach you how to bike faster (not kidding).  When you do make a purchase, you get random discounts (20% off?!  For me?!  Thanks!).  

Invisible:  Walk into the bike store with children.  Tell your children not to touch anything or run around.  Wait five minutes for help.  Sweat profusely because you are sure any minute your little darlings might tip over a $3,000 bike and break it.  You might get a discount if you come back alone when you pick up your freshly tuned-up bike.  Good luck.

Scenario 2:  The grocery store

He wasn't this old. He was 40ish. Just in case you wondered.

Not invisible:  Walk into the grocery store being female and having no children present, the greeter tells you, "I know you've told me before (um, not really), but what is your name again?  I promise to remember it this time."  You tell them your name, then they go get you a cart and ask if you need help finding anything.  You do your shopping then attempt to exit the store quickly, avoiding eye contact with said greeter, but as you walk through the exit, the greeter yells out while waving bye to you, "Have a nice day, and remember to drive safely, (your name)!"  (Uh, thanks.  You too?)

Invisible:  Walk into the grocery store with children.  Tell your children not to touch anything or each other.  Walk much faster than they can so that they don't have time to stop and fight with each other in the aisles.  Wish you could stand there and read the labels longer.  Use the U-scan, exit the store, unnoticed.

Scenario 3:  The gas station

Not invisible:  Pull up to the pump, no children in vehicle.  Get out, swipe card.  Be interrupted.
Man on other side of pump:  Hey, how are you doing, do you want some free gas?  I have $6 left over, you can have it, just here, put it in your tank.
Me: (On phone: Hey, honey, I'll call you back.) What?  Really?  What do you mean?  How is it free?  Can't you use it?
Man: Well, I mean, I'd have to walk all the way (ten steps?) into the gas station and get my $6 and I'd rather just give it to you.
Me:  Umm, really?  Are you sure?
Man:  Yes, here!  So...
Me:  Awesome!  You're so nice!
Man:  (Clears throat.)  I, uh, helped that lady over there, you know.  She needed a few bucks to get home and I gave it to her, yeah, I mean, I do that kind of thing now and again.
Me:  Oh!  Wow.  That's very nice of you.  (Getting free gas.)  Thanks for the gas!
Man:  (Big inhale, chest sticking out.)  Yeah, no problem, you have a nice day!
Me:  Thanks!  You too!
Call honey back: Dude, I just got $6 in free gas by some random guy.
Hubby:  WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW?!
Me: (oh emm gee, just my saran wrap dress, why does it matter?) Black leggings and a striped shirt.
Hubby:  Oh.  Okay.
Me:  You think my face isn't cute enough to get free gas or what?
Hubby:  Not what I meant.
(Me:  I could really make him dig himself into a hole here and that might be fun, but I am too excited about getting free gas to pursue this at the moment.)

Invisible:  Pull up to gas station with children in car.  Pump gas.  Drive away.   Oh, wait, what?  You were at the gas station?  Huh, didn't see you.

There you have it.  Basically, if you want to fly under the radar, you grab some grubby little tykes and have them follow you around wherever you go and you can instantly disappear.  It's like the cloak of invisibility you never knew really existed.

If you are male, you will probably never be invisible, and if you bring your children with you, every woman in a ten mile radius will look at you with kindness and awe, because you must be a really good Dad, and that will make women stare at you and smile.  It's better than walking around with a puppy.

Another riddle solved.

Peace, love, and random discounts,
Ms. Daisy

Don't touch my locker.

If you've been hanging out here for any amount of time, you may have picked up on the fact that I swim at a gym several times a week.  It is great exercise, a good stress release, and it comes with plenty of entertainment.  What could be better, really?  I have been doing this regularly for the last four years (minus a few stints from being pregnant or sick, of course) and I have developed what you may call certain patterns (ruts? routines?).  If any of these patterns are disrupted, it is somewhat bewildering.  

I know.  I have issues.  I'm not particular about where I park (although Barb is) or what lane I swim in - within reason - I am not going to swim in lane 8 or something, I mean, that would be totally ridiculous (get real here, dudes).  I'm not going to change how I warm up  (backstroke starts at 5:40, give or take 30 seconds).  But most of all, what is most normalizing in a day is "my" locker.  

I mean, I say "my" in sort of a relative way since they don't permit you to keep your own locker (which they TOTALLY should then mine would be safe always and forever), but come on - it's the same locker I've used for four years.  Sometimes, when the Resolutionists come, I have to be on guard because they don't know how things go around the gym and they think they can just bust in and take my shower, dry their hair with my hairdryer (that would be the short one that probably is supposed to be used for drying your hands) and stand at the sink next to Susan.  Give me a break.  Puh-leeze.  I can tolerate them because (apparently NOT from my deep patience for such things) I know that they will only be there from January 1-February 14.  That is how long most Resolutionists last, of course.  

totally not my locker room, but you get the idea

This last week was none of that, which is why it was so concerning to me.  Out of the blue, some lady had the audacity to show up however many minutes before me and take MY locker.  She had all this crap just barfing out of it in every direction in some sort of hot mess.  

I stopped.  What do I do?  Where will I go now?  Try to look nonchalant, Ms. Daisy.  Hold it together.  Do not tap her on the shoulder and tell her she took your locker.  She will not understand (and plus that might be a little teensy bit nuts).  Do not loudly proclaim that you are discombobulated from some new person taking your locker and laughing in a way that sounds forced or maniacal.  Just smile and go get a different locker.  It's just one day.  

I have a spot on the end near the mirrors (and hair/hand dryers) so I just took the one opposite her in the same cove.  This was not optimal nor was it cutting it for me.  The locker door was going the wrong way and totally not how it is supposed to be and was also limiting my ablity to do my highly specialized routine.  Very disturbing, very disturbing.  

I swim with a psychologist, who I felt I needed to immediately confess my deep issue to in order to see if I needed to be seriously reprimanded, drugged, or given the "really?!" face.  She told me I was fine, and that we are creatures of habit, unless I punched the lady in the face, then at that point it would not be fine.  Okay, cool.  So far, so good.  I can handle this.  I am bigger than this.  No bigs!  Ha ha!  I can be flexible!  It is only one day.

Until it wasn't.  

I came back the next time and Locker Taker Lady was back and IN MY SPOT again.  I repressed my shock as best as I could (which might not have been so repressed).  I remarked to the girl who is usually a few lockers down from me that, "Sorry, I'm not sure if I am using your locker, I had to slide down a few since, um, yeah, well...you can see why."  as I glanced in a forlorn manner at my locker, taken over by Locker Taker Lady (who, for the record, was not standing there when I said that, in case you were getting too horrified at me).  

Last night, I decided that this kind of crap was not going to happen again.  No way, babe.  This crap was going to get fixed once and for all.  I was going to get my locker back, dang it.  So, how to do it?  Wait to see if she is there and ask her to move?  No.  Just give it up and roll with it, be flexible?  No.  Find another locker?  HECK no!

Obviously, do the crazy thing.  Do what must be done.  Wake up ten minutes earlier to secure the position, of course!  My alarm went off this morning and I was so deep in dreamland I was instructing a multi-age classroom of children how to do push-ups and shaking hands with the ones who were doing it successfully while discountenancing and frowning upon the others.  (Drill sergeant?  Whatever do you mean?)  

This only jarred me momentarily as the locker came to mind and I flew up out of bed and nearly ran to the bathroom to get ready.  I was in the car at least ten minutes earlier than usual and off to the races.  I practically jogged to the entrance and around the corner to get to that locker room to check to see if I was going to be successful.  

GLORY!  Mine, all mine!  VICTORY!  (Try to contain yourself.  Remember, be poised.  Smile.  No, not like a crazed clown.)  

The rest of the workout was splendid.  On top of gaining locker victory, it was like the wishes I had for doing IM had fallen down out of the sky and into the pool and my reality.  A perfect way to start a Friday.  

Now for a nap because after doing push-ups and teaching in my sleep and waking up ten minutes earlier, I am pretty tired.  

Peace, love, and guard the fort, 
Ms. Daisy

Letter to the rich guy

Dear rich guy,  

I was over on realtor.com looking through some houses in desirable locations when I came across yours.  At $2.4M you were slightly out of my price range, but I had to have a look to see what that looked like on your 6 acres, so through the pictures I went.  I have to admit, my heart did a flip-flop when I saw your indoor pool and sauna.  It was a real pool, too, 25 yards and all, with several lanes.  I looked at your marble fireplace, and your seven bathrooms, with a separate tub and shower and heated floor tiles in the master bath.  

I started to imagine what it would be like to live in your house, all 11,000 square feet of it.  Your all mahogany library was quite a doozy.  I guess my Target bookshelves wouldn't have to make the move and I could really keep all of the books I read, instead of sending them out on paperbackswap.com or giving them away to Friends of the Library.  Your kitchen could house five of my kitchens and then some.  And then I looked at your bedroom.  It seemed the size of a gym, enhanced by those totally stupid cameras that make houses look all weird (realtors: for crying out loud, those are the DUMBEST things ever).  I thought, "How empty!"  

And that's what it is, I think.  

Empty.  

Yes, I admit.  I live in a mid-century house, not even 1/11th the size of yours.  I have the smallest house out of anyone I know.  I live in a city that I would trade in for pretty much any other on the planet (minus two I can think of off the top of my head).  l have to sit on the end of my bed and move my knees to open my dresser drawer to get to my pants.  It would be nice to not have to do that, obviously.  It would be a bonus if my backyard were as big as your living room so I could have chickens without my German Shepherd dog killing them.  It would be nice to have more than 22" of closet space.  It would be really nice if I could choose to use a different bathroom instead of the one the whole family uses since I think they secretly have a love of peeing all over everywhere except inside of the toilet.  

But you know what?  I wake up everyday to a family who loves me and I love them.  We have meals together and I cook all of those meals from scratch every single day, because that is what I love to do.  I garden in the spring and summer and we eat what I grow.  We do the dishes together, go for bike rides together, watch Jeopardy together, and do life together.  I get to raise my children.  My husband is a talented go-getter, with quirky things that make me love him more every day (plus, he's hot).  I don't want to trade my kids in for other ones (most of the time, unless they're peeing on the floor).  I don't have stupid amounts of bills.  I live simply and keep my house clean.  I don't even have cable TV or a smart phone.  I have a ten year old vehicle that I am happy with - because I don't find my identity in my car.  I have best friends who I could literally tell anything to (and have before) and they would still love me no matter what.  I have peace with my Maker (not because of what I've done, but because of what He's done).

Maybe you have all of that, too.  I really hope you do.  But I thought about what I would think if I lived in a house like yours.  I would start thinking that I would have to put on a really good show for people, I'd have to buy a Modigliani painting and put it in my living room, and those things are freakin expensive.  I'd have to have just the right kind of drawer pulls, because if I didn't, I'd have all this house that was supposed to be top-notch and here I was with horrible drawer pulls and that would be a tragedy.  I'd have to have 2,189 channels on my TV because if I didn't, people would wonder what the heck is up with me.  And if I didn't have heated tile floors in my bathroom, well, I'd just be a peasant.  

But, dude.  I now live without any of those things and I am happy and content and even joyful.  For me, I can have my entire day made by simply seeing sunshine through my kitchen window while I sip my organic black tea.  I can see that in every person there is something interesting, and as I walk past them or when I talk to them, I wonder what makes them tick.  They aren't a commodity, they aren't expendable, they aren't there to help me get from A to B, they're something amazing.  I'm not better than them and they're not better than me.  If I lived in your house, would I think to start comparing my awesomeness to their outward pathetic-ness?  I don't know.  I might be tempted.  

So, you know what?  Even though your house really is beautiful, I think I'm just fine where I am, even if I had an extra $2.4 million laying around.  Thanks for the tour, though.  I hope you sell it and find what you're looking for.  

Peace and love, 
Ms. Daisy

Don't Talk to Strangers

Yesterday I asked myself the question, “Is this really my life right now?”


And so begins every story: What you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

It was a dark and stormy night…

No. Wrong story. I got into prefab story mode for a second with all that schpiel at the beginning.

Okay, the real story is as follows. My friend who moved away (they all do, it seems) had a baby girl. Her name is Anna*. I have been thinking about her a lot as she had a c-section and has a pile of boys running around her at home. Recovering from a major abdominal surgery is a good reason to put your whole life on pause, except for when you can’t since you have a pile of boys running around you. So I was thinking of her quite often, praying for a full and quick recovery.

I sent her a text that said something along those lines – “Congrats on your baby girl! I am thinking of you and praying you recover well soon! Hugs!”

I got a text back – “This isn’t Anna*, but if you let me know who this is, I can get her the message.”

Uh…oops. So I look at my contacts and yes, it is under her name, and yes, she has moved, but I knew she had the same number. I figured out that I had saved her cell under the house icon and I must have texted her husband (who I must have assigned the cell phone icon).

So I replied, “Oh, hopefully this is Jacob* and not some random person. Sorry about that! Congrats to you, too! This is Daisy.”

Response – “This isn’t Jacob*, but randomly I have a daughter who is named Anna* who also happens to be pregnant.”

Whaa? Oh no. Weirdsauce fail.

I reply, “Ha ha! Oops. Sorry. Congrats anyway!”

Person responds with a text that says, “[Sent by voice: thanks text anytime anyway] to listen, go to http://blahblahblah.com*”

At first, I think to myself – I am so not going to listen to that because it’s probably a weirdo. Why would any stranger send their voice back unless they were extra weird? Or is it because they’re driving? Um, I dunno.

Curiosity got the better of me and an hour or two later, I check the link.

It’s totally a weird old man.

Hello, my life. Hello, blocked numbers list.

I love my life.

Until next time – peace, love and here’s to NOT talking to strangers,
Ms. Daisy

* totally not the real name