Dorothy was NOT a hooker!

One of the wonderful things about having a daughter is that she is always available to go shopping with you. Marathon shopping-- the kind that lasts all day with no particular destination or item in mind, just browsing and hunting, gathering bargains and finding deals and searching for steals. It's a bonding ritual that mothers and daughters exclusively enjoy.  Sons---not so much.  Boys are destination shoppers, heading to one store, to buy one particular item, and BOOM! they're done.
My son will say, "Mom, I'm heading to Orvis to pick up a pair of pants."
"Great, " I reply. "I'll ride out with you."
What I really mean is "Great! Orvis is at Short Pump Mall,  right next to Pottery Barn and Crate and Barrel, which I can dash through on my way to pick up a latte at Starbucks before I pop into Nordstroms to check out the shoe sale on my way to Soma and then on to Macy's and maybe we can catch lunch at Tara Thai before we pick up the pants."
But by the time I've gotten the car parked and gone into the first store, he's bagged the pants and is ready to head home.
"O.K., I'm done," he announces, as I'm browsing through shirts (on the first floor, for heavens sake!).
"But I'm not done," I complain.
 "Mom, I told you I just needed pants. Let's get out of here," he'll say, and before I even have a chance to head up the stairs to the second floor-- the fully stocked and fabulously enticing second floor, home of women's wear and home goods-- he's grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door.
So sad, so sad.
But daughters? Now daughters, they can go all day! Oh yes, girls can shop and shop and shop, rambling from store to store, aimlessly searching for some unknown article of clothing, that elusive garment that you will want only when you see it, that dress that you have to have the minute some other woman starts to reach for it, that coat you don't really need but would be so foolish to pass on at such a good price. This ability to marathon shop is usually a good thing, until you get to about 7:00 after a loooong day of strolling through store after store, hours of walking across hard cement floors, eyes tired and burning from the stress of searching for bargains beneath the fluorescent lighting. Things can start to get a little silly, judgement can get a little blurry, and tempers can start to fray.
We had just endured such a day last Friday, a full-blown, 10K marathon of shopping. I was tired; Sissey was tired; but we had just enough get-up-and-go left to wander down one more shoe aisle.  I headed over to the size 9's, my poor old feet, having fallen victim to old-age spread and fallen arches, now relegated to sturdy shoes with lots of cushioning and good support. Sissey rolled over to the cute and petite size 6's, that coveted section of sky-high stilettos and strappy sandals, shoes that just screamed "Young and beautiful!"
After a few minutes of browsing, I heard her yell, "Come look at these cool shoes!"
I rounded the corner, expecting to see her holding up a pair of cute sandals or summer wedges, but was somewhat surprised  (to say the least) to see her sitting there with a big grin on her face holding up a pair of 10 inch high, gaudy, gold, and glitzy hooker shoes. Yes, you heard me. Hooker shoes.
"Please tell me you're joking," I said, as I stared at the most hideous pair of shoes I had ever seen.

"These are great!", she replied, "I'm trying'em on."

"Mary Lapsley," I said, in my "I'm-serious-so-I-am-using-your-given-name" voice. "Those shoes are obnoxious.  They are hooker shoes and you are NOT going to put those on."

"Mom, these are not "hooker" shoes," she said with a grin. "These are Dorothy slippers!"

"Sissey, I don't know what strange wind just blew through here and rattled your brain, but those are definitely NOT Dorothy slippers."

"Oh yes they are. They're sparkly and they're glittery and they're modern day Dorothy slippers."

"Hooker shoes. Period." I wasn't going to budge.

"No, Mom. These are Dorothy shoes." She wasn't budging either. "And I'm trying them on"
"Well," I said, "I just never knew Dorothy was a hooker."

"Dorothy was NOT a hooker, Mother. I can't believe you can't tell the difference between a hooker and someone who just wanted to follow the Yellow Brick Road."

"Maybe so," I said, "But those are hooker shoes."

I laughed as she slipped the golden slippers on, fully expecting her to tap her heels three times and end up in Kansas.

"Sissey, time to go home. Take off those shoes!" I told her. "I don't care how badly Dorothy wanted to go home, but if you plan on going home with me, you had better not walk through the door in those shoes!"

I have to admit, though, that I really, really, really wanted to try them on before I placed them back on the shelf.

Smashing into Angels

Let me begin by stating that Tuesday started off badly from the git-go.  I overslept by ten minutes, which put me an hour behind for the rest of the day. From the moment my feet touched the floor, it was a race to make up time as I  threw on jeans, gobbled down a dry breakfast bar with a java to-go, threw books and keys into the car, then pushed as much as I dared over the 55 MPH limit while keeping a close eye in the mirror for those dreaded blue lights.  

By the time we reached Lancaster, I was feeling the stress of the morning rush and had become a bit frazzled.  Before we could dash to class, however, Sissey had to make a customer delivery for her newest financial venture. She had recently joined the cottage-industry route to fortune and fame and was slowly making her way up the corporate ladder of success, one pocketbook sale at a time, as a serious and dedicated personal consultant and sales representative for a purse company. She was adamant that "the customer comes first," even if it meant pushing it close to getting to class on time. The purse delivery added fifteen minutes to an already-rushed schedule, but the package was safely delivered, and she had her commission in hand.  

For some insane reason, I figured I had just enough time to run to the bank to deposit the check the customer had given her and still make it back to campus in time for class.  I flew to the Wells Fargo across town, pulled up to the ATM, scrambled through the car for a pen, found one that was out of ink, accidently dropped the check between the car seat and the console, yelled "Dadgummit" as I dug around for a second  pen, retrieved the check from between the seats, inserted the debit card,  punched the PIN into the machine, and got an "Error Message" that stated "This machine is unable to accept deposits at this time."

"Darn it!"I hollered as I retreived the debit card. "Now I've got to go to the drive-through window. We're going to be late for class!" 

Thinking I could just back up, then pull through the adjacent line, I threw the car into reverse, mashed the gas pedal, and ..."BAM!"

The jolt jerked us both forward as we screamed.

"What happened?" Sissey cried.

I looked into the rearview mirror and saw nothing, so I opened the door and jumped out of the car.

A squat brown car hovered behind my oversized SUV like a small brown beetle hiding behind an elephant.  A woman about my age was standing in front of a little Chevy HHR, looking at her fender as I approached.

"I-I-I, I'm just, I'm just so, so sorry," I stammered, embarrassed and mad at myself for the stupidity of smashing into a car while exiting the drive-through in reverse. "I honestly didn't see you. I didn't see anything. Are you O.K.?"

"Oh honey, don't you worry about anything. It's nothing," she said with a smile, as I nervously leaned over to examine the damage to her car. 
"But I hit you! And it was completely my fault!" I said in a shaky voice, tears filling my eyes. "Let me go get my insurance information, and I'll write down my name and address," I continued, as I turned to head back to my car.
"There's no need for that," the woman said, "There's not any damage done."
 I looked at the obvious dent in her fender, a perfect impression of the trailer hitch protruding from the back of my car, then looked back at her. I pointed to the hole in her car and stated the obvious.
"There's a dent in your fender."
"Oh, that's nothing," she said. "I hardly see anything at all. You just go on now and don't worry about it."
I knelt down and ran my hands over the fender, feeling the circular indentation in the panel of the bumper.  I stared at the dent, not quite sure what to do.
"Well, let me give you my name and number in case you change your mind," I told her as I stood back up.
"No, I don't want it," she insisted.
"Then at least give me your name so I'll know who I hit."
She laughed and said, "Nope! I'm not even going to give you that.  You just go on now and don't worry about a thing."
I walked back to my car, shaking, confused, not fully understanding what had taken place. I sat in the driver's seat, grabbed onto the steering wheel, and looked over at Sissey.
"I'm not quite sure what just happened," I said, as I slowly put the car into drive and nervously inched forward, this time driving around the bank parking lot instead of backing up through the ATM line. As I entered the drive-through window from the proper direction,  I glanced over at the car that I had smashed just as it was exiting the teller line. 
The car had new tags on it!  New! It was a brand new car!
I had just put a dent into the front fender of a new car, and the driver didn't even want to know my name!
Yes, I was definitely confused.
What had just happened? Why hadn't she called the police, dialed 9-1-1, reported the accident, filed for insurance, called an ambulance, screamed "Whip lash!"? There were plenty of witnesses; in fact, the entire teller line at the bank as well as several customers had been in full view of the crash and it was obviously my fault.

What could have possessed her to let me put the first dent into a brand new car and get off scot-free?

Was it a new car and she didn't want her husband to know she had secretly driven it?

Was it a loaner car while her car was being serviced?
Was she driving without a license, with a suspended license, with a revoked license?
Was she returning from a three martini lunch and thought maybe she had smashed into me?
Was she an escaped convict in a stolen car, planning a bank heist until I smashed into her?
Or was she a kind, forgiving soul who knew ordinary people did stupid things and who didn't think a little dent was a very big deal?
I couldn't decide if my day had gotten worse, or if it had just gotten a whole lot better, but as I drove back to campus, I thought that possibly, just possibly, I had run into an angel.

Blockage

     For the past 6 weeks, I've had a serious blockage. A writer's block, that intangible web that wraps around your brain and squeezes your mind so tightly that you can't think outside of the moment.  A huge blank page stares at me each time I open my computer to write, and as I begin to type...nothing. I can't get started, can't focus enough to complete a sentence, much less a paragraph.  I look at the keys, stare at the luminescent screen, glance back down to the keys, type a few random letters, switch to Solitaire, play a few hands of Spider, check Facebook, read my email, check the weather, check the local forecast, the hourly forecast, the extended 10-day forecast,  click  back to Solitaire, read a few online newspapers, scan the photos on People magazine, surf through eBay, play Words with Friends, flip back to the blog and.... nothing. 
     "Have you written anything lately?" my mother asks, as she flips through the weekly paper.
     "No," I reply, "I've got a blockage."
     "Oh look!" she continues, "Miralax is on sale at CVS! Do you need some Miralax?"
     "I don't take Miralax, Mom."
     "But maybe you should, it's on sale."
     "It's not that kind of blockage," I mutter, all the while thinking I might give it a try anyway and see if it helps.
     I'm not sure why I have a blockage. It started the night of the accident, the night the french professor got hit by a hemi-truck while leaving the library. Somehow, by some centrifugal force, all the thoughts and words and ideas that had previously meandered through my wandering mind got smacked right out of my head at the same time as Dr. Davaut collided with that truck; and  while watching and waiting as she underwent six operations and thirty days in intensive care, I just didn't have anything else to say at the end of the day.  My meager words seemed worthless and uninteresting when in the midst of the reality of watching someone fight for life, fight through unbelievable pain, fight back to a life of normal.

     And so, I have had a blockage. 

     But this weekend, something extraordinary happened.  We drove to Charlotte with a vase of  white  virburnum, pink camellias, and blush hellebores, hoping to bring a breath of spring air into the fourth floor room of the rehab facility where Dr. Davaut had been transferred. With a gentle knock, we opened the door to her room, expecting to find her lying quietly in the bed. To our great surprise, she was sitting upright in a wheelchair, hair washed and brushed, playing Scrabble with her mother in French. She had real food on her lunch tray-- a pork chop, petite green peas, broccoli.  She was dressed in real people clothes- a coral colored T-shirt instead of a drab and shapeless hospital gown. She had a windowsill full of flowers and cards and balloons. 

       Her parents had wheeled her outside for her first glimpse of blue sky and fresh air in over a month. She had seen the brilliant  blooms of spring in the garden by the parking lot and had felt the warm March sun shining on her face.

       She displayed a stack of photos from her most recent doctor's visit: x-rays that showed all her new hardware-- plates and pins and screws and rods, enough titanium to build a rocket ship, an impressive collection of metal. She told us she was learning to transfer from bed to wheelchair almost by herself and had started to regain movement in her left leg.  It had been almost two months since the accident, but it all seemed to happen overnight--she was slowly, slowly, slowly starting to make progress on the long road to recovery.

     And best of all, she had a huge smile on her face!

      It was a healing moment to see her that way,  and I think my blockage is starting to move.