šŸ„”Mimi Is a Potato Head

…when sometimes doing my best just isn’t good enough

I’m always excited to find and purchase new toys that will thrill my much-loved grandchildren.

The thing of it is, my grandtwinkies are toddlers; therefore, they’re somewhat fickle in nature. What’s considered fabulous one day might be decidedly unfabulous the next.

Witness the time I thought I was onto a delightful retro toy that would amuse my grandson for many happy hours, if not multiple minutes.

What was that toy? Mr. Potato Head.

I had even planned on being the voice of the aforementioned Mr. Potato Head, which I was convinced he’d really get a kick out of. How wrong I was.

I never even got my hand on the spud because it all went wrong from the get-go.

When my precious little grandboy opened the gift bag he screamed, ā€œNo, no, no! No, potato! No, potato! No, potato! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,ā€ as he ran away.

Okay. No problem. I’m open to the learning.

Next time we hung out together I went with practicality. I purchased a ā€œfunā€ toothpaste the manufacturer promised would ā€œdazzleā€ as much as it would ā€œdelight.ā€

(Note to self: I need to work on what constitutes fun.)

(Note to manufacturer: You need to work on what constitutes dazzling and delighting.)

Why I thought brushing our teeth together with a touted-as-kid-friendly toothpaste would be a good time is anybody’s guess.

What began as a cute photo op with us standing together in front of the bathroom mirror, enjoying our foamy bonding moment, quickly turned ugly.

In the time it took to begin the ā€œone Mississippi, two Mississippiā€ counting sequence for our oral hygiene session he screamed, ā€œNo, no, no! It’s spicy! It’s spicy! It’s spicy! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,ā€ as he ran away.

Will he remember I held him for hours on multiple occasions when he was a baby, crying nonstop?

Huh-uh.

How about that magical moment when I gave him his first look at Christmas lights, and he lit up brighter than they did?

Nah.

Or what about the scores of stories I’ve read to him since birth, acting out the parts for his amusement and mine?

Nope.

I’m pretty danged sure what he’ll remember is that I gifted him with a ā€œkillerā€ potato and had him brush his teeth with hot sauce before his third birthday. That’ll be it.

Mimi of the Year. That’s me. (Sigh!)

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Now “live” on Crow’s Feet: Life As We Age

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We Met at a Bar…an American Love Story

Nothing shows how far I’ve gone down the ā€˜ole timeline than reflecting upon my experiences as a fresh-faced, light-hearted, pre-hyphenated version of myself, landing me firmly in the Decade of Decadence.

Ahhhhh, yes, the 80’s — a time when my confidence was bolstered by youthful exuberance, sturdy shoulder pads, and Aqua Net-stabilized BIG hair.

My gal pals and I were out and about on a weeknight because we needed to cheer up my friend who was smarting from a fresh break-up. I wasn’t too keen on the outing because not only was my stomach hurting from rapid-fire consumption of my beloved peanut M&M’s, but I’d sworn off relationships. Again. I mean, why go to the pond if you don’t even want to fish? However, I wanted to be supportive.

That’s how I found myself cruising on into a bar named C Street North, which was neither on C Street nor was it situated in a northerly direction. What it was, was well-known for its kamikaze cocktails and its weekend warrior, locally grown, rock ’n’ roll Hair Bands. (Not to be confused with hairbands, those strips of cloth or plastic worn in the hair that fit closely over the top of the head and behind the ears.)

Right when I entered the club, I locked eyes with him. The most stunning man I’d seen since I was a tween and now-80-year-old Bobby Sherman had graced multiple Tiger Beat magazine covers.

My excited hazel-hued peepers met his beautiful baby blues. Then he was gone. Poof! Paging one gorgeous hunk. Where’d ya go?

And I thought that was that.

About half an hour went by when the DJ played the most romantic of songs: Do You Come From the Land Down Under? by Men at Work. And there the gorgeous hunk was again, only now he was standing right next to me, asking me to dance. I nodded affirmatively.

Ironically enough, though I was minoring in Dance at the time, I remember my dance moves as being pretty lackluster. I was too busy staring at him and then acting as though I wasn’t staring at him, trying desperately to figure out how to stay on the dance floor for multiple tracks. Time didn’t stand still, but I wanted it to.

However, as songs are prone to do, this one ended, and off went my potential life partner. Truth be told, he ran off. Again. Vanished. Dematerialized. Disappeared. This was one magic man in so many ways.

It wasn’t long after when my besties and I decided to call it a night. We were all feeling our own kind of miserable having to do with missed and unwanted connections.

As I exited, I took one last look around the room, flipped my hair, and walked out in what I thought was a rather fetching way. I needn’t have bothered. Why? Because that fine-looking man wasn’t there. How do I know? Because he was outside, leaning against the side of the building.

Did I mention it was a time of wild abandon when very little critical thinking was going on? My version of wanton behavior meant I sashayed on over to my mystery man, striking up a brief conversation that would fill in all the important blanks, specifically, name, school/work, investment plans, religious beliefs, political leanings, and then we smooched.

Rewind.

We covered number one and two, smooched, and then I had to go.

My friends were more than a little concerned about my uncharacteristic ā€œmaking out with a complete strangerā€ move which triggered our pre-determined code words for just these sorts of occasions. They yelled loudly and simultaneously, ā€œLet’s go!ā€

I told the future father of my children we were headed to a popular late-night coffee shop, inviting him to meet us there, if he wanted to.

He wanted to.

My continued Bad Girl activities that night included playing footsies with him under the table, staring at him as though he was a flask of water available at the end of my desert hike, and then getting his phone number.

I wasn’t going to call him.

But I did.

We’ve been together ever since. (It’s year number 41 and counting.)

One night. One seemingly small decision. One BIG, surprise love story.

#love #valentinesvibes #valentinesday #lovestory #loveatfirstsight

P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!!! xoxo šŸ¹šŸ’˜šŸ’‹