It's Anonymous Confession Wednesday!

I wish I had known about this little gadget many, many, (many) rolls of blue masking tape ago. Bless you, dear paint edger.


I wish there was milk in my fridge right now.

I wish I had hair that could air-dry and look fantastic without any effort on my part. (When I wished this to the last person that cut my hair, her exact words were, "Um . . . you know wigs have come a long way . . .")

But what I wish THE MOST is going to remain a secret. (Until I MAYBE confess anonymously in the comments. Maybe.)

What do you wish for the most? (The health, safety, and happiness of your loved ones is implied. Besides that. And just for the record, this is a PG blog. Not that there have been any anonymous problems with that . . . just making sure the word is out there.)

Ready . . . set . . . WISH!

Donating Blood!

I must preface this post by stating I don't like blood or needles. Or throw up. But that really isn't realated. Donating blood is something I've never done because of my fear of blood and needles and who knows, maybe I'll throw up. So on a Monday in February I was scheduled to donate blood with my friend Mrs. B (co-author of this blog). I called in the morning to make an appointment and was told they weren't open until 1. We had to go in the morning so we wouldn't have all our kids with us. So I made an appointment for the next day at 10am. I was able to get a babysitter so I wouldn't have any of my kids with me. When I arrived I was a few minutes late and Mrs. B. hadn't arrived yet, I knew if I didn't go in immediately I might try to talk myself out of it. So in I went! The people at Red Cross are very kind and very helpful, so helpful in fact that instead of giving me a sticker that said, "First Time Blood Donator" a sweet woman put it on for me making me very uncomfortable, I also have a problem with personal space. I waited some more for Mrs. B. and read through the list of people that can and cannot donate, hoping I somehow fell into one of the categories. I looked just beyond my chair and saw the waiting room. It made me very nervous. They quickly got me into the waiting room and Mrs. B. showed up. Thank goodness, or I think I would have marched right on out. After a lot of waiting and answering questions and pricking my left ring finger to test me for anemia, I waited some more to donate blood. The prick really hurt, way more painful than I expected and then they wrap it in gauze and tape so it really looks done up. Finally I went and sat up at a chair to have my pint taken. I wanted someone to take my blood that had some sympathy for me, maybe cared a little bit that I hated needles and was very nervous about this part. However, I got a guy who was joking around and didn't really care that I hated needles, in fact I think he enjoyed it. Mrs. B. came over after being pricked and said that since she thinks she is getting a sinus infection so she shouldn't donate. Unfortunetly for her she had to go through the most painful part and get her finger pricked. I was just glad to have her support. The needle going in really hurt, the guy said I had tough skin. Then I sat there for 7 minutes and 21 seconds reading Reader's Digest, talking to Mrs. B., and having my wonderful blood taken. When the guy said I was done Mrs. B. said the worst part was when they take out the needle. So I turned away and the guy said okay I'll count to three and then I'll pull it, he took his time counting real slow and having me get really nervous and then he laughs and says, "it's been out for a long time." I really was wanting to deck him at that point. After that they bandaged my arm and offerred me a treat and some juice and I got a sticker saying, "Be Nice to Me, I donated blood today." I also got a pin in the shape of a drop of blood. They asked if I wanted to sign up to donate again in 56 days, I said I would have to think about it.

Anonymous Confession Wednesday

It's our first ever Anonymous Confession Wednesday! Yippee! Here's how this works:

You know how you think you're the only person you know that doesn't change your sheets every week? Or that has eaten an entire Ben & Jerry's in one sitting? Or that wears a baseball cap on the days your hair really wants washing?

You're not.

And you know how it makes you feel just a little better when you find out you're not the only one?

That's what Anonymous Confession Wednesday is for. Go ahead, post an anonymous confession (make sure you check the "anonymous" box) and see who else is just as normal as you are.

(Remember to be nice. Even anonymous people have feelings.)

Ready . . . set . . . CONFESS!

Over the Conveyor Belt and Through the Scanner . . .

During my high school years, I worked at a photo lab where we had fairly regular customers. One of them was a man who was all business. No greeting, no pleasantries . . . he would complete his transaction with minimal syllables, and beat a business-like retreat.

I decided I wanted to see him smile, so when he would come into the store, I would smile at him and throw out a few of my own pleasantries. He was not impressed. I persisted for several weeks, but had no success.

And then one day, he stooped down by the display, picked up a picture frame, and asked me the price as he handed it to me. I answered his question, and as I handed the frame back, I said, "Wow, that's really dusty."

And Mr. Serious BUSTED A GUT!

I was utterly bewildered and totally proud of myself.

So I thought of that guy when I was in the grocery store last week, waiting in line for my turn with the cranky express lane clerk. Cranky people scare me, by the way. But I figured I was up for the challenge . . . I was going to get Cranky Clerk to smile.

When I saw her name tag, "Grandma Joan*" (*name has been changed, because I am also scared of Cranky Clerks who Google), I figured it was a done deal. She looked surprisingly young to be a Grandma, but she was obviously proud of it. So I opened with, "You're not seriously a Grandma, are you?"

Without breaking her scanning stride, she came back with a monotone-yet-irritable, "YesIAmSeriouslyAGrandma. $12.45."

I looked around frantically for a dusty picture frame, but since there were none to be found, I responded with a feeble, "You look too young to be a Grandma!"

To which she said NOTHING.

So I scooped up my 10 items or less, and skedaddled out of the store.

And that's how I was SHUT DOWN by a Grandma in the grocery express lane.

DQ Something Dangerous

So I was out with my sister, and she asked me if I wanted to go to Dairy Queen. Sure, I had walked 3 miles at 6am every day that week. Sure, I hadn’t had sugar all week. Sure, I wanted to go to Dairy Queen! “My treat,” she said.

I ordered a brownie sundae. Don’t judge. My sister’s dessert was done first, and she went to claim a table. My sundae took longer because the girl behind the counter couldn’t remember how to make it. She checked the laminated chart on the wall over and over again, but appeared to be lost. (Think nice thoughts, I said to myself, she’s trying.) She called over the drive-through girl, who checked the chart herself, and they conferred in hushed tones for several seconds while I tried to casually scan the menu and penny jars, so they wouldn’t feel like I was watching them impatiently.

Finally, a man walked over and took control. (Seriously, three employees to make a sundae? Whoops, I mean KIND THOUGHTS!) He grabbed a bowl of ice cream, added a few toppings, then set it on the counter while he picked up and opened a Rubbermaid container full of brownies, which he set on the counter as well.

And THEN (yes, this is the real THEN), he reached behind himself, hitched up his pants, and then picked up and dropped two brownies ON MY SUNDAE!!!

ON MY SUNDAE!

All I could think was: When do we hitch up our pants? IN THE BATHROOM!!

BEFORE we wash our hands!

BEFORE I tell you!

But I am nothing if not wishy washy and nonconfrontational, so I picked up my sundae and walked back to join my sister. I contemplated how to tell her she had wasted her money. I wondered how to get out of it. But she noticed something was up.

So I explained my ginormous, gut-wrenching dilemma. And she, who is nothing if not assertive and blunt frank, said, “Yeah, so? Go tell them to remake it.”

“No way!” I said, “No way I could do that!”

“Come on,” she shot back, “Year of No Fear, remember? Get up there!”

“Oh, you had to bring that up. Thanks a lot. I’m not going up there.”

“Fine,” she shrugged, “Enjoy your pants-hands brownies.”

Cue the gut-wrench. But a totally different kind.

So I picked up my pants-hands brownie sundae, and walked timidly back to the front. And does anybody want to guess who it was that said, “May I help you?” Anybody? Anybody?

Yep. Pants Man.

And I told him exactly how he could help me and exactly why.

Exactly.

I got a new brownie sundae, and the menu and penny jars didn’t get a single glance from me. Because I was watching very, very closely.

(For spit.)