Why isn't shopping considered a sport?

I don't think shopping gets the respect it deserves. Instead of being considered an errand or chore, I think it should be considered a sport. It sounds more appropriate to say you are going to an iron man cart-a-thon, than to say you are going grocery shopping. Or, for those who are exercise enthusiasts, maybe they would prefer to say they are going to acquisition calisthenics?

Just as football, basketball, soccer, and many other sports activities are very physically demanding, shopping requires the shopper to not only be a quick decision maker and agile, but strong as well. I know, you're probably rolling your eyes and scoffing in disdain at the mere thought of grouping something as simple as shopping together with world class athletes, but hear me out.

Have you ever tried lifting the last 35 pack of 16.9 oz bottles of water from the back of the grocery store rack, without bouncing your head off the store's steel racking, while simultaneously trying to place the giant case pack on the bottom of a grocery store shopping cart?  This is weight lifting and wrestling combined.

The really hard part of this task is trying to set the case pack on the shopping cart without having the cart scoot away from you. It's as though the water has some kind of reverse magnetic field which pushes the cart a few inches away from you every time you get close enough to load it onto the shopping cart.

Ever encountered an elderly person when they are on an electric shopping cart? As soon as a store attendant unplugs the cart from the charging station, you'd better step lively as the elderly person takes off at full throttle. Watching these silver foxes traverse the store aisles is akin to the running of the bulls in Spain as patrons flee in panic or try to climb to higher ground on store shelving to avoid being gored in the Achilles tendon or flattened in the meat department.

How about Black Friday shopping in the electronics department? You had better be able to throw a block as well as a Super Bowl defensive lineman if you want to get your hands on an electronic item at a rock bottom price.

Have you ever been to a 50% off women's shoe sale at a department store? If you haven't, before heading out you might consider donning a helmet and shoulder pads. Shopping at one of these sales is like being in a Roller Derby match, complete with body slams and take downs for that pair of killer Christian Louboutin pumps.

The threat of ice or snow in the South sends people in droves to the grocery store to quickly stock up on milk, bread, and batteries. When the stores' supplies start to run low, customers channel their inner Rocky Balboa and will box 12 rounds for a loaf of Mrs. Baird's bread.

Once the shopping trip is complete and all of the shopping bags have been loaded into the car, the sport of shopping doesn't end. It's now time to drive home. Shoppers revving their car engines in the parking lot sound akin to NASCAR drivers preparing to speed off at the first wave of the starting flags. And, if you've ever been in a parking lot crosswalk when one of these speed racers is bent on breaking the land-speed record, you would probably agree they are ready for their race car driving debut.

As you can see, shopping isn't for the faint of heart. It requires the shopper to be physically and mentally prepared for any obstacle they may incur. It also requires them to have a game plan, so their victory can be celebrated when the shopping list is complete.

The only difference between sports and shopping is in the awards ceremony. In sports, a metal trophy symbolizing the sport is awarded to the top finisher. In shopping, a glass of wine in a crystal goblet and a few bites of chocolate are the coveted award. 

Yes, shopping is indeed a sport.

The Escalator Escapade

One day while shopping at the mall, I observed a very attractive and well dressed woman step onto the grooved platform of the store escalator. She carried herself with a regalness rarely seen outside of Buckingham Palace. As I made my store purchase, I watched as the escalator carried her up to the next floor.

She stood on the conveyor step and surveyed the harried shoppers much as a queen looks down upon the peasants in her kingdom.  As she neared the crest of the escalator mountain, she prepared to disembark. In the process of shifting her position on the steps, one of her expensive high heeled pumps became lodged in the grooves of the people moving contraption. This well coiffed and fashionably dressed woman tried, to no avail, to daintily wiggle her foot in order to dislodge the stuck shoe. 

She was lifted ever closer to the peak when the sound of the stair steps collapsing into the metallic jaws of death caused the fashionista to panic.  Abandoning all sense of propriety, she grabbed her shoe with both hands in an effort to pry it loose from the vise-like grip the escalator had on it.

My jaw fell open as I watched the drama unfold. The words in my mind must have spilled out of my mouth, causing the sales associate I was working with to turn and view the spectacle. Before the sales associate could react, a young male sales associate jumped into action. He quickly pressed a button, stopping the escalator's movement while rushing to assist her.

When the escalator finally stopped, the heel of the costly shoe was wedged into the metal teeth of the landing platform. The young man wiggled the shoe back and forth as he tried to free the stiletto heel. Putting a little more muscle into his efforts, the shoe finally popped free........... minus the stiletto heel. Horrified, he reached down and plucked the heel from between the step's grooves. 

As the young man handed the mangled shoe and heel to the beautiful woman, she looked sadly upon the damage which had been wrought and began to laugh. She thanked the associate profusely for his chivalry. After plopping the detached heel into her handbag, she put the mauled shoe upon her foot and attempted to walk away.

The three inch height disparity between the two shoes made walking with any semblance of dignity utterly impossible. With unmatched confidence and majesty, she kicked off both shoes, flung them over her shoulder like a pair of flip flops, and walked through the store barefoot, as though she were a queen walking on a private beach.

As the sales associate and I watched the woman disappear into the racks of clothing, the sales associate leaned over and said "I would much rather walk up ten flights of stairs than trust my good shoes to a contraption that is similar to what the recycling plant uses to crush beer cans.". And with that comment, I realized all of the grace and majesty had left the building and just us commoners remained.

Who is the Better Driver?

Why is it every time we get in the car to drive anywhere, my husband and son start talking smack about how men are better drivers than women.  "You know, most NASCAR drivers are men.  In the movies, they use male stunt drivers..... even for scenes when females are driving.  Evel Knievel was a man and there has not been a She-vel Knievel", and on they go to ad nauseam.

I listen to this nonsense even though national statistics prove women are the safer drivers.  As proof of that data, I have only had one car wrecked since I have been driving.  Who totaled it?  My husband. And yet he is still convinced he is the better driver.

A number of years ago, I made the executive decision that I would do all of the driving in our household. Why?
A) Because my husband does not like to drive;
B) When he looks around while he is driving, his hands turn the steering wheel in whichever direction his eyes move.  Being in the car while he is driving is like being in a lifeboat in the middle of an apocalyptic, your-life-is-flashing-before-your-eyes hurricane.

The last time he drove on a long car trip was in 1999.  He had taken over driving after we stopped for a leg-stretching break at a rest stop.  We were about 20 minutes down the road, when he started looking around at the scenery. 

The car began to sway back and forth. First we went left, then we went right. Within a few minutes of this rollercoaster ride, I got motion sick.  After I made him pull off the highway (so I could get sick on the side of the road), I took over the driving......... and have not given him the opportunity to drive me anywhere since.  He contends it was not his driving but that I got ahold of some bad chocolate.  There is no such thing as "bad" chocolate.

Recently while we were in the grocery store, I discovered my husband drives the shopping cart the same way he drives a car.  This discovery was a rather rude eye-opener when he took out an endcap of potted meat while he was perusing the macaroni and cheese on the other side of the aisle.

After we put all of the cans back on the shelf and I was muttering under my breath about what "fantastic" drivers men are, we turned the corner onto the cereal aisle.  We hadn't taken 5 steps down the aisle when we encountered a husband pushing a shopping cart behind his wife.  As the man pointed to a box of Pop-Tarts to his right, he pushed the shopping cart left.  He took out an entire shelf of Fruit Loops.

In a show of solidarity, my husband called out to the man and told him it was a combination of the uneven floor and the shopping cart's propensity to make a hard left turn which caused the destruction.  I looked at my husband and asked if he had used his Spidey-vision to get the level of the floor.

This Spring, my dad began been teaching our son to play golf.  Because we have hit the dog days of summer, my parents decided to take our son to a golf superstore and let him practice putting in an air-conditioned environment.

After he and my dad were finished putting, my son took over pushing the shopping cart from my mom.  As my dad was showing him another teenager putting, my son ran the shopping cart into a bank of 50+ putters.  Much to their horror, the putters fell down one after another like a bunch of lined up dominoes.  He apparently got the driving gene from his father.

But men are better drivers than women..........

Christie Bielss

A Blast from the Past

I grew up in a time of bell-bottom pants, the peasant blouse, and the super-short hot pants. Wedge heels and gaucho pants were all the rage for the ladies. Men tottered around in platform shoes while wearing double knit polyester leisure suits. Yes, I grew up in the groovy 70s.

Photo courtesy of memecrunch.com

If a person wanted to look really hip and cool, he/she would carry a boombox on his/her shoulder while he/she strutted down the street to the beat of music from artists like The Village People, The Bee Gees, or Donna Summer.

Little did I know that shopping for a cell phone would take me back to those formative years.  Over the course of the past six months or so, the battery life on my cell phone has continued a downward spiral headed toward self-destruction.

In addition, my phone had been cutting out in the middle of conversations or other tasks that I was trying to perform (like playing on social media).  I didn't have enough storage space left to update to the newest operating system, which also started to cause major issues running apps on the phone.

Cutting a redhead off mid-sentence or crashing and losing everything in the middle of writing a blog post is dangerous to both man and machine.  The likelihood of this machine being smashed to bits with a hammer or run over by my car was becoming a very real possibility.

Even though the problems with my cell phone were driving me to the brink of insanity, I dreaded the idea of changing phones.  Even worse than the change of phones is the idea of having to go shopping for new technology.  Shopping for a cell phone ranks just below scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush on my list of enjoyable activities.  

But, the situation with my phone had become dire, so with an open mind and a pocketful of chocolate, I hit the stores.  I did decide to take my daughter with me so she could explain the latest technology at my level..... which is somewhere between the IBM Selectric typewriter and pencil/paper.

I told the salesman I would like a phone I could read without having to wear glasses.  Before I had time to blink, the salesman held up a Samsung Galaxy Note.  I smiled at him and told him it was very easy to read and it looked pretty, but I was really looking for a cell phone, not a tablet computer.

He looked at me as though I were daft and explained it is a cell phone "and so much more".  I pondered, apparently out loud, whether it would even fit in my handbag or if I'd have to switch to using a piece of rolling luggage just to carry it around.  The salesman rolled his eyes at this crazy middle-aged, unhip woman who was obviously over exaggerating.

Just as the salesman put the metal slab of a phone up to his ear, my daughter started to get a little wiggle as the store's intercom music started playing "Hot Stuff" by Donna Summer .  With that 70's inspired ghetto blaster of a phone pressed to the salesman's ear, the only thing missing in this scene was John Travolta dressed in a white double-knit polyester leisure suit striking a pose.  Whoop-whoop!

I tried but fell far short of containing my snort of laughter.  Smiling, he said "I'm guessing you prefer something a little smaller."

"Why yes, I do believe something smaller would be nice.", I said. "Something I don't have to wear hip-huggers and a halter top with would be marvelous.  I don't really want to be the next viral social media meme captioned 'Granny's got groove'....."

Written by Christie Bielss

Frozen Food Aisle Capers

Before I was married, the frozen dinner aisle at my local grocery store was a pretty happening place to hang out.  I know many people find the produce section of the grocery store to be a much bigger draw, but I found the selection of fruits and vegetables to be a bit........ awkward.....when socializing.  In the frozen food aisle, single women stood in solidarity as we discussed whether a particular meal met our calorie limitations and was (hopefully) filling and tasted like something other than glue. 

Standing there among the hungry single women, I'd make a good show of trying to decide between the Weight Watcher's grilled chicken with vegetables and the Lean Cuisine chicken piccata, while secretly eyeballing the mouthwatering photos on the boxes of Marie Callender's fried chicken or Stouffer's lasagna with meat sauce.  As we all stood before the freezers' insulated glass doors, many hours were spent discussing the merits of fewer calories versus flavor, while we cast longing, surreptitious glances at the "full flavor" (aka meals with 1,000 calories and 40 grams of fat) meals.

I would chat and wait patiently as everyone made their meal selections and slowly departed the frozen food aisle.  Looking up and down the aisle to make sure the coast was clear, I would quickly pounce on my favorite meal.  With speed reminiscent of Jackie Joyner-Kersee, I'd sprint to those luscious looking fat and calorie-laden frozen meals and quickly stuff one in my cart.

After leaving the aisle, I took great care to make sure the contraband was hidden under something large enough that no part of it was visible.  Knowing that when I reached the cash register to check out, there would inevitably be another female in line who would scrutinize my purchases.

Having been questioned by the cart police on a previous calorie-laden purchase, I made sure to hide my meal well.  Being subjected to the raised eyebrow of shame from the cart police once was enough to make most females never step foot near that part of the freezer section again.

Oh, but not this redhead.  Whether I ate the divine ooey-gooeyness of a chicken pot pie, or let it sit in my freezer so long it built up a frost so thick it could have been mistaken for the iceberg that sunk the Titanic, it did not matter.  It became a challenge to see whether I could make it all the way through the store and through the check-out lane without getting caught.

I started going through the same cashier's line every week after she saw the meal's location on the conveyor belt (hidden between the toilet paper and the multi-pack of facial tissues) and, with a sly grin, distracted shoppers in her lane.  She quickly scanned the meal and shoved it to the bottom of the grocery bag before anyone was the wiser.

She wasn't a redhead, but she was feisty enough that I'm pretty sure it must have been in her bloodline.  Together, we foiled the calorie-counting cart police for a good year before I met my husband and we started dating and got married. 

With having a significant other, I was no longer subjected to the cart police's scrutiny.............. until I had children.........

Written by Christie Bielss

Kimmie the Krusher!

Recently while shopping for a new wallet at a department store, I overheard a conversation two women were having regarding their philosophy on child-rearing.  The women were quite obviously not on the same page and I became transfixed by their exchange of facial expressions and defiant body language.

"There's so much negativity in the world, we decided to avoid the use of negative words with our children.", the shorter woman said to the taller.  The look of utter disbelief on the taller friend's face almost made me burst out laughing.  Having always been the kind of person who likes to people-watch, and this was obviously going to be an entertaining exchange, I decided to see what transpired between these two women.

"I'm sorry, what?" was the taller woman's reply to the other woman's child-rearing philosophy.

"We only want to encourage good feelings, so we never use any language which creates a negative environment." the shorter woman said.

There was a slight pause as the two women stepped out of the way of an elderly woman who was looking at handbags.

As the elderly woman moved on, the taller woman asked "Soooooo, if Kimmie grabs the butcher knife from you while you are slicing food, you don't tell her to stop because it's dangerous and she could hurt herself?".

"Oh heavens no!  There are much better ways of instructing her than using negative words and emotions.", she said.

The two women continued their conversation as I picked up a wallet every now and again so I at least appeared to be shopping instead of eavesdropping.  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the child, Kimmie, who was the center of their conversation.

Little Kimmie caught my glance and a mischievous grin came across her face.  Having children myself, I recognized that look and knew that nothing good could come from it and I braced myself for what was bound to come next.

I overheard the taller woman ask "How exactly is she supposed to learn how to handle being told "no" in school, or even the real world, if she's not introduced to it at home first?".

The shorter woman replied "We don't tell her no, we just redirect her to something she can play with.  We figure Kimmie can figure out how to deal with the ugliness of the world later on in life when that time comes.  We think children should be allowed to be care-free and not bound by society's rules............".

As Kimmie's mother spoke, little Kimmie spun on her heel and ran like a linebacker at a bank of tall rounders full of jewelry.  

The crashing noise of the destruction she wrought upon those plastic and wood rounders was deafening. Earrings flew everywhere.  Necklaces were a tangled mess on the floor and looked very much like a commercial fishing net.  Bracelets rolled across the highly glossed marble floors, causing store personnel to dodge them as they came at a run to see who might have been injured in the "accident".

As store personnel quickly arrived, they saw Kimmie tossing jewelry everywhere.  A manager quickly got past their shock and asked loudly who the child's parent or guardian was.  I saw the taller woman quickly back away from her acquaintance while pointing to the woman stating "That's her mother".

Store security quickly helped Kimmie to her feet from where she was trying to swim in the pile of jewelry.  They started assessing the damage and directing the department personnel to add up the cost of all the damaged items.  The taller woman said to Kimmie's mother "Hmmm, I do believe your daughter is about to get a lesson in the real world's version of the word "no".  I hope you've got deep pockets.".

I'm pretty sure that despite the destruction Kimmie wrought on the store that day, she still has a bright future in front of her.  She should do great as either an MMA fighter or maybe even with the Roller Derby.  Heck, she has already created a great stage name for herself:  Kimmie the Krusher.

Written by Christie Bielss

A Humdinger of a Sale

My first real part-time job was at the age of 16 as a cashier at a national discount store way back in the early 80's.  Back in that day, you had to key in all of the code numbers on a price tag in order to ring up the price.  Because the store didn't want customers waiting in long lines at the cash register, they required you to undergo 10-key-by-touch training, shoplifter security training, and pass a test before they'd allow you to work for them.  

Public Domain image courtesy of WPclipart.com

In addition to the training , we also had to learn the preset phrases for greeting customers, taking their money, and closing their purchase.  "Hi! How are you today?  Will this be cash, check, or charge today?", "Your total purchase today is.....", and that ever popular "Thank you and have a nice day!" still stick with me 30+ years later.  Those phrases became so ingrained in me, I could spout them without even having to think about it. 

Being a cashier, I got to meet all sorts of people.  I had customers who were friendly, unfriendly and some who were grossly over-friendly.  Ones who questioned every price on every item, and others who would add one of everything from the point-of-purchase display in the checkout line.  Even had some who only put one item at a time on the conveyor belt so they could watch you ring up every part of their purchase.

Some jobs are mundane and boring, but this job definitely had its funny moments.  When store security would be hot on the trail of a shoplifter and the person in question would come through my lane, I'd invariably get a phone call from security.

I'd answer the phone and hear "We are following a white female in your line who has shoved clothes down her pants to make a fake fat butt.  She has on a very large pair of carpenter pants that are bulging at every pocket and a purple top that has items stuffed under it to make her look like she's pregnant.".

With a comical description like that I had to glance at the people standing in my line to see if I could pick the thief out of the line-up.  Security on the phone would yell "Don't look!".  I'd reply with a "Sooooo what?  You're just calling to say I shouldn't ask what her due-date is?". 

I even had funny family moments.  Like when a husband and wife with 8 daughters in tow decided to take advantage of that week's sale.  Each daughter had a grocery cart, as did each parent.  Each one of those carts was fully loaded with maxi pads....... and not a single price sticker on any of the boxes.

That poor father of 8 not only had to be in a train of carts pushing feminine hygiene products through the entire store, but then had to stand there while I paged on the store intercom for a price check on maxi pads for Lane 8.  I apologized to the man.  He smiled and said "It's not a problem, I just keep thinking of how much money I'm saving.  With 8 girls, plus my wife, there's always someone with a raging case of PMS, so a price check is really no big deal in comparison.".

The all-time funniest experience in that job, and yet most embarrassing for a young naive 16 year old girl, was when a single man came through my line.  I greeted him with the well ingrained company line of "Good Evening! How are you today?", and proceeded to begin ringing up his small number of items. 

To this day I still remember that transaction.  A 2 liter bottle of Coca-Cola, a bag of Doritos, a big bag Hershey's Kisses and under the bag of chocolate was a box of condoms.  I tried to hide my mirth and remain professional throughout the transaction. Quite proud that I'd held myself in check, and without thinking, I concluded the sale with the company line "Thank you and have a nice evening!".

With a grin on his face and a wink of his eye, he replied "Thank you!  I'm planning on it........".  This young redhead blushed bright red from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.  And that's when I learned that sometimes a simple "Thank you" is more than enough.

Parking Lot Escapades

Because of my Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease (CMT) and how quickly I can tire, I park in the disabled parking.  CMT is generally not one of those diseases that is readily noticable and, as a result, I have had some interesting encounters in parking lots.  There's always someone who feels entitled to a detailed accounting of my entire medical record.  They are what I affectionately call the parking lot nazis.

I've been yelled at by a shopping cart attendant at Target who thought that only people with missing legs qualified to park in disabled parking.  People who have walked past the car and told me I'm not allowed to park there because I don't have a disabled placard hanging from my rearview mirror....... uh, I have a disabled license plate.  And even some who've had the gall to say "you don't look disabled".  While I find some of these remarks rude, I do appreciate that these people are actually being protective of the disabled parking against those who are able-bodied but too lazy to park in regular parking spaces.

But then there are those few gifted souls who bring out that little redheaded devil in me that I sometimes have a hard time keeping under control.  One such instance happened just after we'd moved back to Texas.  I had just walked up to my car in the Walmart parking lot with an entire grocery cart full of groceries when I encountered one such parking lot nazi.  

I noticed him as he was exiting his car because of the sheer number of religious bumper stickers plastered all over the trunk and rear bumper of his car.  There wasn't a speck of paint or chrome visible.  Bumper sticker on top of bumper sticker and turned every which way.  The driver of that car walked straight over to me as I was trying to lift a case pack of water into the back of my car.  I thought maybe he was coming to help.  Apparently my thought pattern and his were off just a touch as he launched into a rant wanting to know why I was parked in disabled parking.  He used the reasoning that since he was going to make a purchase at Walmart, he will be paying for that space and thus, as the "owner", was entitled to my entire medical history.  Well, as you can probably guess, that didn't sit well with a fiery tempered redhead.  With a deep breath to calm my temper, I used his logic and asked him to please provide his medical information first since my purchase was, in fact, already complete.  In an ironic twist of fate, he didn't care to divulge when his last prostate exam was and what his PSA numbers were.  I also don't think he appreciated my redheaded humor when I asked if he'd had a colonoscopy and if they had been successful in locating his head.

Right then, out of nowhere, a woman of considerable height and muscular build appeared and with her index finger in his chest, gave him quite the tongue lashing.  Like a scalded dog, he jumped back in his car, backed out of his parking space, rolled down his windows and told us we were number 1.  Being the typical redhead who always has to have the last word - and seeing the 500 Jesus bumper stickers plastered to his bumper - I yelled "Jesus saw that!".  With a squeal of his tires, he was gone.  The woman chuckled and said "I think he was in a hurry to get to church and repent.".

One of the funniest experiences though was my encounter with a woman in her mid to late 80's at the Meijer grocery store in Champaign, IL.  She carried one of those great big black patent leather purses which was large enough to hold the entire contents of a kitchen pantry, as well as a shotgun.  I had just walked out of the grocery store with my groceries and was unlocking my tailgate when the elderly woman walked up to me and stopped.  She asked "What right do you have to park here?!".  I flipped around and was about to give a hot retort when I realized that she had that lethal weapon of a purse poised to bash me upside the head if she didn't like my answer!  I immediately threw my hands up in the air and said "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!  Take it easy there!".  She apparently did not appreciate that response and cocked her arm back a little further and reset her aim to align perfectly with my skull.  "Why-are-you-parked-here?!" she asked quite angrily.  Being that she reminded me so much of my feisty late Grandmother and my choices were either to answer honestly or wake up in the E.R., I chose to give this total stranger my medical diagnosis.

She instantly lowered her purse and apologized profusely.  And then if nearly being clobbered with a 50 pound purse wasn't bad enough, she literally elbowed me in the ribs to move me out of the way and started loading all of my groceries into my van.  When I told her I was quite capable of handling my own groceries, she gave me the grandma "don't  back talk me" look.  I threw my hands up in the air and rubbing my bruised ribs, backed off.  I knew better than to mess with this granny!  When she was almost done, a friend of hers walked up and grabbed her by the arm "Are you harassing another young person about parking here?!  Don't you see there are 15 other spaces available?  And look at yourself!  Acting like some kind of parking police!  You should be ashamed of yourself!  And you have obviously embarrassed yourself enough AGAIN that you are putting all this woman's groceries in her car as some form of penance when you should be going to confession!".  The friend while keeping hold of the woman's elbow, smiled at me and apologized for her friend's behavior, and marched her into the store griping at her every step of the way about how it might be time to take her car keys away and call her children.

These 2 ladies could've been straight off a skit from Saturday Night Live.  Instead of "The Church Ladies", they could be "The Purse Ladies".  I laughed the whole way home from that escapade not only because of the way these 2 friends interacted with each other, but because I can see me and my best friend doing this in 30 years or so.

And I bet you thought the only excitement to be had in a parking lot was purse snatchers, door dings, and the occasional rear-end collision........

by: Christie Bielss

Where's Waldo.....uhh... the Redhead?

Have you been wondering where this crazy redhead went?   Maybe you figured I was off to a tropical locale?   I wish, but since I'm one of those redheads that can get a sunburn by laying out at night during a full moon phase, a tropical locale is unlikely.

Maybe you thought I'd run out of topics to discuss?  I'm a redhead.  It's a rare day indeed when I run out of topics to blather about.

Maybe I've gone shopping........ with my Mother? This idea is much more plausible as my Mother can shop for days on end and walk the legs off a billy goat when shopping for the perfect outfit or pair of shoes........... or, heaven forbid, both.  But no, I haven't been shopping.

The reality:  It's nothing that exciting.  I've just been under the weather.

Being born a stubborn redhead, I refused to acknowledge that my body was not functioning normally.  I put off my symptoms as being several things such as:  peri-menopausal with body temperatures fluctuating between being hot enough to produce molten lava, to being so cold I donned my goose-down puffer coat with a warm fuzzy scarf, mittens, and ski hat in 90+ degree weather......... and both within 20 minutes of each other.  If it wasn't peri-menopausal symptoms, then I told myself I was just not eating right, wasn't getting enough sleep, or maybe eating something that may have been just a touch "off".  And, being a Mom whose kids were in the final weeks of school before summer break, I really did not have the time, or luxury, to be sick.  There were class functions, grade promotion ceremonies, award ceremonies, parent/teacher conferences, field trips, and on, and on.

My symptoms had been going on for quite some time but I chose to ignore them.  At the nagging of my best friend, I called the doctor and made an appointment to see what the problem was.  While my BFF is not a redhead, I'm pretty sure she carries the redheaded gene for persistence.  Our phone conversations started with "Hi! ........ Have you made a doctor's appointment yet?", or "How are you feeling?..........When is your doctor's appointment?".  We'd be talking about food, exercise, and losing weight, and she'd use it as an opening to ask "Yeah, when's your doctor's appointment again?".  She was getting just feisty enough that I knew she was about to pull out the big guns. Rather than having her call and sick my Mother on me, or get the "you're a mother to young children who need you to be around to raise them" lecture (for the 10,000th time), I gave in and made the appointment.

At my physician's office, the nurse called me back and with "the look", promptly handed me a clear Dixie cup and pointed me to the restroom.  My doctor's nurse is kind of like a Chihuahua - she's small but mighty.  You do not fuss with her.  I obediantly entered the restroom.  "Oh!  You have got to be kidding me!", I said as soon as she flicked on the light.  The toilet was so tiny and low to the ground it looked like a toddler's potty training chair.  With a firm "Go", the nurse closed the restroom door. 

The doctor diagnosed me with a kidney infection, prescribed an antibiotic and firmly instructed me to drink lots of water and sent me on my way.  Off to the pharmacy I went and picked up my prescription, happily thinking I'd be good to go in a day or so.

Within 2 days things were getting worse, so off to the Urologist I went.  He did some labs and determined I did not have a kidney infection.  The Urologist immediately started going over an action plan as to what tests he felt were needed.  I sat in the room as he told me I needed a CT scan because I could have a kidney stone or a tumor.  The horror stories of friends passing kidney stones immediately flashed through my mind with lightning speed.  As I was mulling this information over, the doctor went on to say that he felt a bladder scope would also be necessary if the CT scan came back negative.  As he got out his diagram of the human body and started to describe what was involved, I wasn't sure whether to pass out or hit the door at a full run.  He must've noticed how I was sizing him up to see whether I could run over him like a defensive tackle to get out the door, because he quickly switched gears and said that we'd just take it one test at a time.

I scheduled the CT scan, little realizing that it would be conducted at a urology CT scan center whose clientele base consisted almost entirely of elderly men.  When I walked up to the receptionist, she asked "Name?" and I gave her mine.  She smiled and said "No, I need the patient's name.".  With a deep sigh, an uncontrolled eye roll, and a great deal of embarrassment, I said that I was the patient.  With quickly diverted eyes, and an "Oh!" she quickly checked me in.

The Radiologist's report came back with lightning speed and it was determined I do indeed have a pretty nasty infection.  Well, thank goodness for that because that meant there was no need for that bladder scope and I didn't have to "pass" the greatly feared kidney stone.

I thought this would be the lesser of the evils and it would be a breeze when I was put on a liquid diet for 2 days.  Famous last words. By the end of those first 2 days, I was so hungry I could?
a) gnaw the bark off a tree
b) eat the tail end out of a skunk
c) think road kill looked like a gourmet feast
d) all of the above

The answer was "d) all of the above".

I am doing much better now and while I have graduated to a soft food diet and am getting enough food to satisfy my hunger, the physical urge to sink my teeth into something firm and chew has become quite strong.  Our dog must have noticed me staring at her chew bones because she has started hiding them from me.  On the bright side, I've lost 13 pounds with the dietary changes........ just in time for swimsuit season........... 

So, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and hold on tight because the The Redhead Sez is back!

by: Christie Bielss

Swimming Malfunctions

Recently I decided to take my doctor's advice and try swimming to get some low-impact exercise.  To be honest, I resisted the idea of swimming because it required the purchase of one major stumbling block - a swimsuit.

I loathe shopping for swimsuits.  To me, all store fitting rooms have trick mirrors which make me look like the fat lady from the circus.  I look 2 feet shorter, 6 feet wider, 30 years older, and with the horrid lighting in the fitting rooms, I can almost see a beard.  

And then I remembered I had an old swimsuit which might still fit.  It wasn't the prettiest thing, and it was a 2 piece, but it had a little skirt that went down to my thighs and it covered all the same areas as a 1 piece swimsuit does.  I thought "Sweet!  No circus mirrors!".  I could almost hear the department store mirrors taunting me "You haven't seen the last of us!  Just wait and see!". 

The next day I headed out to our local swim center and discovered they were having a water aerobics class populated with elderly women.  Yay!, I thought.  I'm not the only overweight, grey-headed, out-of-shape person in the entire swim center and, with the median age in here, I'm the youngster. 

I had set a goal of trying to swim 5-6 laps.  It seemed achievable at the time, especially since I'd been a very good, strong swimmer in my younger days.  So what if that was nearly 30 years ago.  I was certain I couldn't be that out of shape. 

I stuck one foot in the water and gasped.  That water was downright cold but, determined not to be swayed from my goal, I sucked it up and jumped in.  I quickly found an open lane to swim in, which just so happened to be between two elderly gentlemen.  After saying hello and watching these old birds steadily swim laps as I warmed up, I decided to show them how good of a swimmer I was.  

Remembering  all of my swim team training from years ago, I pushed off the wall with great gusto .......... and proceeded to spend the next few minutes retrieving my swimsuit bottom from around my ankles.  With a lot of struggling I got my bottoms pulled up, which wasn't the easiest thing to do since the pool is 10+ feet deep and I had to tread water while trying to pull the darn thing up.   Definitely not my most shining moment.  

I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the incident.  The old guys were still swimming, the ladies were still aerobicising and, much to my relief, no one was laughing so hard they were drowning.  It appeared they all had missed my fiasco.

I started swimming as though nothing had happened and made it three-quarters of the way across the pool when all of a sudden I came across the most dreaded thing a person can encounter in a public swimming pool.......... a warm spot.  Oh dear heavens!  Considering the average age in the pool that day, I was a bit freaked out.  I pondered the possibilities of Depends making swim diapers while I made it the few remaining strokes to the pool wall.  As I was gasping for air, one of the gentleman next to me spoke and said "sure is nice to hit those heated water spots when you're getting close to the end, isn't it?".  Oh thank you Lord! Greatly relieved, I hadn't thought about the fact the pool could have a heater.  

After catching my breath, I pushed away from the wall, this time with one hand holding onto my swimsuit bottom.  Never thought about the fact that if one arm is against your side it will allows air bubbles into the top of the swimsuit.... giant air bubbles.

I was forced to surface from my glide due to the buoyancy of the top of my swimsuit.  This darned suit now had enough air in it to fill the Goodyear blimp and was  exposing enough skin that I may as well have just gone skinny-dipping.  I could almost hear those department store circus mirrors snickering at me for not having purchased a new swimsuit.  After releasing the air from my swimsuit top with a giant "swoosh" and putting the appropriate body parts back into the appropriate part of the suit, I finished the lap and decided not to push off the wall on the next lap.  

What I discovered as I started to try and swim was even more startling than the previous 2 swimsuit malfunctions.  The innocuous little skirt which hid my rather unsightly thighs, had taken on enough water at this point that the bottom half of me was sinking ever lower into the water.  This was causing enough pull and drag that I was now swimming at a steep angle and my head was sinking below the water line.  That little swatch of fabric around my thighs was like an anchor and quickly becoming the last step in my complete and total humiliation by possibly requiring me to be rescued by the 80 year old men swimming in the lanes next to me.  

Somehow I had to find the strength to out-swim the skirt's drag.  Out of pure self-preservation and redheaded determination, I made it to the end of the pool.  After spending 1.5 laps fighting swimsuit malfunctions, I decided that was enough exercise to equate to swimming 10 laps and left the swim center.

I returned to swim 2 days later with a new women's Speedo swimsuit.  Before returning, I had braved the darned old department store fitting room mirrors and even went so far as to cover their circus-like reflections with my clothes. After that swimming experience all I needed was a swimsuit that fit and was functional - no mirror required.

As I walked up to the pool, I was greeted by the same 2 older gentlemen who were there on my first swim.  One of the gentlemen teased "Looks like you've got a new swimsuit.  Does this mean you're going to actually swim a full 2 laps today?".  Oh, so you're a feisty old bird, eh?, I thought.  "Oh definitely!" I replied, "and this swimsuit should stay on while I'm swimming.".  Both men's jaws dropped and one of them muttered "Darn!  I knew I should've gotten the prescription swim goggles........".


by: Christie Bielss

Old Men and Walmart

Grocery shopping at Walmart is a different experience every time I shop there.  From oddly clothed people, to people doing things they wouldn't do in any other store, to experiences you won't get at Central Market, Walmart really delivers on a vast assortment of experiences which would make Miss Manners faint. 

There weren't many people at this particular Walmart location except for a contingent of older folks from the local assisted living center.  When I walked through the doors, most had already completed their shopping and were waiting on their bus to return to pick them up.

I was happily shopping in the peace and quiet while enjoying seeing next to no one in the store.  As I started to head down the breakfast foods aisle an older man was at the far end making his way quickly toward me.  He was moving at a pretty quick pace and was obviously in quite a hurry.

He passed by me right as I was about halfway down the aisle........and then, it hit me. The smell.............. oh dear Lord, the smell. He'd either poo'd in his pants or he was so old he was rotting. 

The oxygen was quickly being sucked out of my lungs as I looked for the quickest exit.  Unfortunately, I was smack dab in the middle of the aisle with no quick escape. With the remaining oxygen I had left, I pushed my cart as hard as I could and sprinted down the aisle for safety.

Just as I made it to the end of the aisle, I nearly plowed into a couple with a small child who had just turned the corner. With tears running down my face and my lungs ready to burst, I only had enough breath to say these 4 words "old man passed gas! Save yourselves!". 

My self-preservation instinct had kicked into high gear and prevented me from stopping to see if they understood me.  As I rounded the corner and started sucking in sweet air free of horrific and toxic fumes, I could hear coughing, gagging and a small child's pitiful cries....... 

I returned a little while later to that aisle to check and see if the Walmart personnel had removed their bodies.......

by: Christie Bielss

Shopping Smart

This year I have been reading so much about "shopping smart" and "shopping with a plan/list" on the internet, in the paper, and hearing about it on tv, etc., that we made the choice to try to create, and stick with, a budget. 

Being a redhead, shopping "smart" or with a "plan" is generally outside my area of expertise, but always game to try something new I decided to give it a go.  Mind you, I LOVE organizing, and shopping like this is really just about being organized, but the thought of not straying off the "plan" for a bag of chocolate or a cute pair of shoes - well, the thought gave me the cold shivers. 

Recently though, both kids' child-sized clothing hangers have either been hanging up on the closet rod so long they've learned to pole-dance or their clothes have gotten too big for the hangers. If you so much as open the closet door, half of the shirts either drop a shoulder and hang there half on and half off the hanger, or the clothes hit the floor faster than a stripper's. 

Well today I finally decided to tackle the problem. K and I, armed with our "plan", went to Target and "shopped smart". We entered the "Home Organization" section (which, by the way, I've discovered is just a way of saying that everything is over-priced) and immediately saw the hangers sitting on the aisle endcap in a wide array of deliciously delightful colors - and then I noticed the price: $2.99 for an 18 pack. What?! It's PLASTIC! Are they made of some special non-breakable plastic or reinforced with steel?! What happened to a 12-pack for $1? 

After looking around a bit and having to search several aisles, we discovered the good old white plastic hangers tucked away so as not to readily draw attention. A 10-pack for $1.17 or 2 packs of 10 for $2.34 - a $.75 discount over the delightfully colored 18-pack. That seemed much more reasonable considering the thinness of the plastic and inflation over the past 30 years. So yes, much to K's misery, my childrens' closets are now full of new, plain white plastic hangers and not the delightfully colored ones. But now when I open their closet doors, the clothes have given up their partying ways and are hanging there with all the modesty of royalty......... and, I stayed within my budgeted allowance for this project..... maybe I'll celebrate this victory by looking at some shoe sales.....

by: Christie Bielss