the dressing room

Lest you think my dad a tyrant or scoundrel (previous description of driving habits), I must clarify that he really is quite a generous, loving, good man. One of the best I know. Just don't catch him overly hungry, tired, or behind the wheel and you will find a giant among men. And my husband would be happy to tell you that I am the same in many ways. I daresay he is right.

Now, on to the next installment. dress-ing n: the act or process of one who dresses. room n: a divided part of the inside of a building (or in this case, department store).

Way back in the "olden days" (as my children would call it), when I was thirteen, one of my best friends and I liked to frequent the one-and-only mall in our town. Note the word town. Not city. I did indeed, grow up in a relatively small town filled with apple orchards, farmland, occasional tumbleweeds and whirlwinds. So when one of the largest department stores, in the only mall for miles in every direction had a sale, EVERYONE went. And a sale was coming. Not just a sale in one or two departments, but a store-wide sale.

Suzanne's mom dropped us off for this sale of Biblical proportions. The mother of all sales. We immediately rode the clear elevator that smelled funny up to the third floor. For some unknown reason, everything throughout the store that was on sale ended up on the third floor--a giant room with a white tiled floor, filled with long, brown banquet tables piled high with every item imaginable. We stepped out of the elevator and the sight before us took our breath away. We beheld a wonderland of shopping. Unending tables just waiting...only one obstacle stood between us and fulfilling our shopping dreams. People. The scene only compared to life-threatening "Black Friday" sales that currently go on, where the threat of being trampled is very real. Bravely, tentatively, we wove our way through a maze of shoppers.

Our first conquest: a table labeled, "girls clothing." One thing you need to know about Suzanne is, she was a size zero. Truth be told, I still don't quite understand how that is a legitimate size. If there is zero ice cream, for example, according to my understanding, there isn't any. Zero. It just so happened that I wore a size 6. In other words, I was HUGE. For a girl that started her growing years in the fourth grade, I always felt huge around Suzanne. She grabbed her usual size zero jeans and there was no way I'd be caught dead carrying around a 6, so I smiled at her and grabbed a 2. As if.

With arms full of clothing, we excitedly carried our stash into the dressing room and began trying on sale items. While attempting to squeeze my ankle into a pair of too-tight jeans, I lost my balance, leaned against the dressing room wall, and knocked it over. Down went the dressing room. port-able adj: possible to carry or move about. As it turns out, it was a very large, very tall, portable dressing room, brought in just for this sale, that folded up like an accordion upon landing. I know this, because I saw it first-hand.

Here was the problem.

When colliding with a tile floor, the dressing room sounded like a bomb exploding (it was pre-unibomber days, but one must be careful). Upon hearing the "explosion," all shoppers looked in my direction with a collective gasp (I tend to have that affect). And there I was, as if on a stage, standing helplessly. Suzanne, who was fully dressed, quickly said, "I didn't do anything," and walked away acting as if she didn't know me (I also tend to have that affect). I stood there pleading, "help," while shoppers gawked. Much like when driving by a car accident, you don't want to look, but you can't help it.

Another definition. un-der-wear n: clothing worn next to the skin and under other clothing (emphasis added). As my luck would have it, that day I'd donned my most lovely pair of undies. A shimmering shade of mauve. My apologies, but for the benefit of readers born after 1989, mauve n: a medium purple, violet, or lilac. Here's the bonus. They were the larger variety, reaching well past my belly button. In circumstances such as this, underwear that big could have been a huge benefit. But no, it was akin to the nightmare where you're half-dressed (or worse) in public. And when I thought It couldn't get worse, I looked down. Until that moment I'd forgotten that the left side-seam of my mauve underwear was completely gone. In other words, there was a large, gaping hole that took up the whole left side of my underwear. It was held together only by its elastic waistband and legband-a made up word.

Time seemed to slow down. Once again, my plea, "Help...help," all the while wishing I could disappear. Something I have wished many times since. A nice saleslady came to my rescue, "Come on dear," was all she said as she hauled me off "the stage" and wrapped me in a discounted blanket.

The rest is a blur.

I have often wondered what was going through my sweet mother's mind every time she washed that pair of underwear...perhaps it was, "Oh, this color is so pretty, I just hate to throw these away." Or maybe, "I forgot! I need to sew these pretty little things up."

And I was the one who put them on.

Maybe it all boils down to the old adage, "Fix it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."

the bee-part two

It worked! For better or worse.

Don't worry, I will not be defining EVERY WORD, but just a few here and there for emphasis. bum-ble-bee n: a large hairy bee that makes a loud humming sound. In other words, my mortal enemy. Just typing the words "loud humming sound" inflicts fear, causing my heart to skip ahead a few beats (that would be "Winkibok," a story for another day).

Finally, the bee. I was two. I don't remember much about how we got there, to the ranch, but I am told my dad drove our family in the green '69 Pontiac Bonneville through the canyon per his usual, like it was the Indi--500. Muffler off. Loud and fast. They all knew we were coming, and I guess we all thanked our lucky stars when we got there. That part about dad's driving I don't remember, but I have, myself, experienced it many times since. For some reason my dad likes to be the first one there. Wherever there is. Wherever the other cars on the road are going. So the good news is we made it to the ranch safely.

It was a hot, dusty day. That part, I do remember. At church they told my mom she needed to make her own jam. So there we all were, picking choke cherries (to this day, truth be told, I'm not even sure what they are), and having the time of our lives. Well, I was two and potty training like most two year-old's do. All I remember is the moment my "training pants" mysteriously got wet--and a few moments after that. Out in the dirt, on the hillside, picking choke cherries, was a perfectly logical place to make the change. I clearly remember standing there as my mom started the process. Training pants down. Then came the loud humming sound...a brief landing on my privates, and well, sad to say, "mission accomplished" with a stinger left behind in its landing spot. I will not attempt to describe the pain.

My bee story doesn't end there. Fast forward to 7th grade. Our neighbors up the street decided it would be a good idea to make their own honey. In their back yard. Yes, it's true. They had two big white boxes full of swarming bees. This was a good way to discourage unwanted neighborhood children, an armed robber, or anyone else who might consider coming to the front door or crossing their property.

Until the wedding day.

Our "bee" neighbors decided to have a wedding back there. With the bees. It just so happened that some of us were unaware of their honey-making ventures. The big day came. I remember standing around, talking and laughing with friends, nary a care, when through no fault of my own, a bee stung my eyelid. Flex hairspray must have been a factor, though I have no proof. To this day, I distinctly remember the bee keeper's daughter reaching in, toward my eye, and with two pinching fingers trying to remove the stinger. She and her dad led me inside as to stifle the screams (few things can ruin a wedding like a screaming girl).

While her dad busily concocted a poison-removing-remedy that apparently they were very familiar with, another bee stung me under my arm. I began flailing around the room screaming, "I've gotta get out of here!" And gasping, "They're trying to kill me!" I practically broke down their front door in my attempts to escape and ran home screaming.

This was all good because there was a wedding, too.

Incidentally, I had been in a sledding accident on their driveway a few years before this where I'd slammed my head into their mailbox. And ran home screaming. They were constantly apologizing to my parents, but what they didnt' understand is I am me. There is no prevention or cure.

So a few minutes after running through my front door, our neighborly friend came for a visit with poison-remedy in hand. Presumably the wedding was over. Now I not only had a swollen eye and armpit, but also had white pasty stuff all over the swelled areas. The best part is, my parents sent me to school the next day with my eye swollen shut. I will not attempt to describe the pain.

We all have heard how dogs and bees can sense fear. I cannot tell you how many times I have been told, "When a bee flies around you, don't be scared, you'll only attract it." Now knowing what you know, how can you expect me to do that? The only hope I have found has been through reading, "The Secret Life of Bees." The book tells me to, "Send out love to the bees," and I'm here to tell you, it works. Most of the time.

I will admit, however, that even though I am working on it, there are lapses. I have been known to be on the phone with my mother, standing outside, and occasionally a bee will fly into my personal space. She'll hear a certain frenzied scream and say, "Was that a bee?" And she's always right.

the bee-part one

It all started when I was two. My first memory. A painful one. But before I tell this sad little tale, I first must explain.
laugh vb: to show amusement, joy, or scorn (not sure what that means) by smiling and making sounds (as chuckling) in the throat; laugh n: the act or sound of laughing; laugh-able adj: causing or likely to cause laughter-laugh-able-ness n-laughably adv; laugh-ing-stock n:a person or thing that is made fun of.
splash vb: (only my favorites) to spread or scatter like a splashing liquid; splash v: the sound or action of splashing.
julie moment vb: the act of unintentionally creating a laughsplash; a moment truly rare; few will experience (or wish to) while having the ability to laugh at oneself. After all, what else could I do. Cry? You just might if you choose to read on...
Thank you, Webster.
And thanks to my family and friends, all of whom have laughed for years (at my expense, which I accept joyfully), said repeatedly I need to write a book, and coined the phrase: julie moment. Now. This is my first post EVER. My ability to lose valuable information in cyberspace is legendary. So before diving in with the bee experience, here I go. To post.