Raising Magnolias

Sarah Cooper from Hooper

A few weeks ago, a man that I thought I knew (of) was leaving the gym. As we bumped into each other, I thought it would be a good opportunity to introduce myself.

I said, “Hi! Are you Jeff?”

“Yes.”

“Yes! Hi! I think you’re neighbors with my friend Sarah.”

He acts as if he has no idea what I’m talking about, but I DO know what I’m talking about.

Awkard silence.

“Sarah Cooper?” He asks.

“Yes! Sarah Cooper.”

“Sarah Cooper from Hooper?”

“I don’t know.” I turn to Mike. “Is Sarah Cooper from Hooper?”

Mike looks at me and laughs.

“I don’t know Sarah Cooper from Hooper.”

Social cues are not Mike’s strength but even he was able to recognize the bad Dr. Seuss book in all of this and he looks at me as if to say, “what are you doing?”

Quit.

Talking.

Now.

And the punch line of this story is that Jeff is not Sarah Cooper from Hooper’s neighbor and I’m pretty sure he has changed his workout schedule.

You know, to avoid—

Me.

And I have no idea if this story makes sense on paper. You also need to know how to pronounce Hooper. For my Arkansas friends, it’s a Dierks (Derks, Der-ricks) kinda thing.

Later that week, a friend is working in the Y parking lot. He’s a police officer, so it makes more sense than it sounds.

I have a HALE YEAH shirt for him, so I stop.

Friendly conversation ensues. There is no mention of Sarah Cooper from Hooper. Probably because this is a different person, but, you know, I’m just pointing out that it wasn’t a totally uncomfortable conversation.

As I pulled away, I heard a thump-up sound.

I know he’s seen me run over something, but I think it best to pretend it never happend and continue with my departure.

That is until I see that the thump-up sound was my shoe.

My shoe from the night we had dinner and there was a band and it may or may not have been a party, but on the way home I got tired of wearing my shoes and yes-

Well—

It was that shoe.

I pull back in.

I pick up the shoe.

I fake a confident wave as if to say, I run over shoes all the time.

———————————————————————————————————

A friend recently commented on one of my blogs that I’m like a baby chick breaking out of her shell and I loved that thought and I loved her sincerity and I love that she knows me only through my blog and through the connection of social media and yet somehow she knows me.

And there are days that I feel like the baby chick breaking free and then there are days that I feel like a duck.

Trying to be a chick. And this doesn’t sound related but it is….

A few weeks ago, several friends got together to celebrate a birthday.

Pizza.

Laughs.

And a movie.

An R-rated movie with a bunch of 40 something Moms.

Except only 2 of us are 40. I try to block it out, but I think the rest of my friends are like 28.

Pluggedin.com warned of like 826 uses of the F-word. But it had Sandra Bullock in it. And I love Sandra Bullock and I thought, good grief! How bad could it be?

Bad.

Just, really, really bad.

And hysterical.

They used the f-word so many times that I barely spoke the next day. I was fearful that something terribly inappropriate was gonna fly right out.

Seriously! Strong Mike. Get back on the f-ing treadmill.

What? Of course I didn’t say that.

I tried to look up my favorite quote. It was about a bobby pin. A f-ing bobby pin.

Sandra Bullock’s character wears a little bobby pin off to one side. Very much like the one I wear when I can’t find a matching headband. I have them everywhere.

I forgot where I was going with that except to say that this awkard, uptight, uncomfortable around men, uncomfortable in her own skin agent wore a bobby pin. And cool, awesome chick, save for the continual use of the f-word, calls her out on it.

And I’m sitting there, in the dark, surrounded with friends, laughing until we’re crying and it dawns on me.

I’m her.

She’s me.

And I want to be the cool chick, you know, the baby chick breaking free, so I reach up and pull it out.

And then I immediately put it back in.

Fly away bangs drive me crazy.

At the end of the movie Sandra’s lying on a gurney in the hospital. Cool chick sees a man coming down the hallway and she quickly fluffs Sandra’s hair and props up her elbow.

What’s that called when designers come in to stage a home before selling?

That’s what I’m going to need. Someone to “stage me”. Prop up my elbows.

Fluff up my hair.

And rid me of the f—

Wait. I don’t use that word. This is why we shouldn’t go to R-rated movies.

And rid me of my cute little bobby pin.

Wait! It is cute, right?!

For more years than I care to admit, I pretended to be happy in my marriage.

And I’m not sure what’s worse. Pretending to be happy.

Or pretending to be a chick.

When you’re really a duck.

Wait. Let’s go with Mother Hen.

Tonight I got to be both, because this mother hen was one cool chick (at least in the eyes of a 4 1/2 year old.)  Emma Claire made a brilliant connection between books and I called her a smarty.

And then I used the other f-word that my children have never heard me say.

“Emma Claire! You are such a smarty!”

We looked at each other and you know we love to rhyme and I could see it in her eyes.

She knew.

“Smarty-McFarty!”

And never in her almost 5 years have I heard such uncontrollable laughter.

Who knew the f- word could be so funny.

#gigglinginbed #blessedmomma #notacoolchick #andthat’sok