By Rachelle Allen
Any aspiring writer worth her salt has journal upon journal of assessments and musings about the people and situations who grace her life on a daily basis. Each of mine is dated, but I'll be posting them randomly rather than in their chronological order.
ON PERCEPTIONS
October 24, 2016
One of the stand-out scenes from the movie Annie Hall was when the main character is asked, during a one-on-one counseling session, how often she and her husband have sex.
"CONSTANTLY!" she sort-of laments. "Three times a week!" When her husband, during his own individual counseling session, is asked the same question, he laments, "Hardly EVER! Three times a week!"
Life is all about perceptions.
It’s why a policeman, fresh on a scene, says to witnesses, "Tell me what you saw," rather than, "What happened?" The premise for the movie Vantage Point was about how differently one incident was seen by five people who watched it unfold from different locations in an enormous space.
All these examples came to mind this past week when a fifteen-year-old piano student of mine gave me the play-by-play of her Family Camping Weekend birthday present in a gorge-and-waterfall-infused town about three hours away. Two days earlier, her mom, a dear friend of mine, had told me, over coffee, about the trip, too. But had I not known it was the same excursion, never in a million years would I have guessed it as such.
The Fifteen-Year-Old’s Version
"It was a reeeeally nice day out, and I was so looking forward to going because we’d gone camping once this summer, and I loved it!
It was sooooo beautiful there–all these trails and beautiful hills and valleys and so much color with all the leaves changing! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Plus everything smelled so fresh and pine-y! The cabin we stayed in was soo cool–there was even electricity and a refrigerator...though it was pretty cold, so we could’ve probably put any stuff outside that needed to go in there.
There was a trail behind our cabin that someone told us would lead up to a beautiful waterfall, and even though it was only, like, two or three miles long, my parents didn’t want to do that. So I never got to see any waterfalls, really. But that’s okay.
We had a campfire, and it was so fun to be outside and see how it filled up the whole area with this orange-y glow and everything smelled so smokey and woodsy and good! I think it was all that fresh air that made it so easy for me to fall asleep. I can’t remember when I slept THAT well! It was all so perfect.
The Mom’s Version
Omigawd!. It’s six days later, and I’m still trying to get the smell of smoke out of our clothes and sheets and blankets. I’ve done ten loads of laundry since Sunday, and I’m still not anywhere near done.
My husband spent a good two-and-a-half hours packing everything into the car, and then once we finally arrived at the cabin–three hours later–it was the girls’ and my turn to unload it all.
The view was pretty, I guess. Definitely colorful. But you could only see a waterfall if you were willing to walk three miles one way up a steep, narrow trail.
We ate dinner outside, which was alright if you like that kind of thing, but it would've been a lot nicer if it hadn’t been thirty degrees out.
Right before bedtime, our thirteen-year-old saw a spider near her bed, so I spent the next hour shaking out all her linens to find it–with no success. So she ended up crying herself to sleep, and that took at least another hour if not more.
Her falling asleep pretty much coincided with an escalating drunken argument a couple campsites over, so my husband and I took turns making sure it didn’t spill over into our vicinity. Besides, it was so cold, there was no way I could sleep.
The only ones who did were the Birthday Girl and her seven-year-old sister–with peaceful smiles on their faces, no less.
In the morning, it was still unbelievably cold, my husband and I were exhausted, and after re-loading the car for an hour, we had to make the three-hour trek back home and then haul everything back into the house.
I love my girl, of course, but we will NOT be camping again in the foreseeable future.
By Rachelle Allen
June 22, 2015
It is my first day of summer vacation from teaching private voice, flute, and piano lessons to seventy-seven students a week in their homes, and I am using it to "take care of business." But still, it is Day One of The Good Life, and I welcome the change.
I walk into the empty phlebotomy lab waiting room and see what amounts to a life-size model of a 1999 Medical Office Supplies catalog: a vast blue carpet beneath a conjoined row of textured blue chairs perched on black aluminum legs. They flank a low, faux wooden corner table for magazines (Forbes and Sports Illustrated. Do women patronize a different phlebotomist or something?) In the center of the room, a cream-colored floor-to-ceiling acrylic fortress rises up like an iceberg with a wide, plexiglass portal, and behind it sits Will Ferrell’s humorless twin brother.
He looks up from his paperwork, and I say, "Good morning!" with a perky Nursery School Teacher lilt to my voice. With practiced patience that is already wearing thin -–at only 9:14 a.m., mind you–- he says, "You have to take a number." He points to a large, red-bellied ticket dispenser exactly like the one at the kosher deli counter.
"But I’m the only one here," I say with a halting, perplexed tone.
"Yes, I know. But you have to take a number and then wait in one of those chairs to get called."
I take a beat of incredulity to process this then comply with a wan smile. I rip off #382 and sit like a good girl on one of the coarse blue chairs. Less than a moment later, the receptionist to Will Ferrell’s left calls out, as if she’s hawking peanuts at a baseball home opener, "382?"
I look around for the hidden camera or even John Quinones and his crew: What would YOU do if you were the only person in a phlebotomist’s office and yet the staff acted as if it were filled to the rafters?
The receptionist offers her upturned palm for my deli ticket, examines it, then places it in the nearly empty glass bowl on the counter between her and Will Ferrell.
"Is all your insurance information the same?" she asks.
"Yes it is," I respond.
"Alright," she says. "Have a seat, and we’ll call you when we’re ready."
"Very good," I say, now fully aware of my part in this tableau.
I sit and begin to study a framed rendering by a first- or second-year computer graphics student –a sunset of blurry blues, creams, and russets– when a stooped, pot-bellied man with suspenders and a thatch of white hair shuffles in, clutching a sheaf of papers. He yanks off a deli ticket and sits down.
Within a moment, Will Ferrell shouts, "#383?" and the man approaches. He hands Will his ticket, and, after Will examines it, we all watch it waft gracefully to the bottom of the glass bowl.
I am suddenly filled with an urgent longing to return to work because if this routine, though certainly different from the one I’ve known for the past forty weeks, represents The Good Life, then I need to re-assess my idea of torture!
| Author Notes | A phlebotomy lab is where blood is drawn. |
By Rachelle Allen
December 3, 2018
There’s a crossing guard I get to observe every day while I wait at what always seems like an extra-long light. While crossing guards stand out anyway, by virtue of their brimmed hats and neon green safety-wear, this particular guard grabs my attention for an additional reason: She actually does sets of isometric exercises while manning her post.
There are never children crossing during my allotted time with her. But rather than merely standing there, like a sentinel, this woman chooses to get in some exercise. That motorists by the dozens can see her seems to faze her not in the least.
She’s anything but graceful as she stands on one leg and makes circles with the opposing foot, slowly, deliberately mouthing the number of revolutions. Next, she ambles, toes out, twenty steps forward, twenty steps back (I’ve counted these, myself) then does a like number forward and backward toeing in. Finally, before my light changes to green, she extends both arms out in front of herself, hands balled into fists, and windmills each separately, with gusto, ten times.
She fascinates everyone in our queue; I see them all watching her. Yet she is not seeing us. She is engrossed in her workout and cares not one iota what she looks like, who’s watching, or what we must be thinking.
It would be easy to dismiss such a level of insouciance with either (a) She’s old and doesn’t care about things like that anymore or (b) She’s deranged. But I think there’s way more to it. I know plenty of older people who would no more exercise on a street corner while in a crossing guard uniform than they would throw a child into oncoming traffic.
I believe that this is about being uninhibited.
Children seem to come out of the womb possessing this wonderful trait. Then, about the time they start linking words together and coordinating stripes and plaids with tulle from the Dress-Up Box, their various choices begin being frowned upon. Some acquiesce at once. Others rebel awhile but relent eventually to What’s Expected. It is only the rare few who have the gumption and fortitude to buck tradition and go for the freedom of perpetual and unapologetic personal expression.
This elite group is watched with rapt fascination, like laboratory rats who’ve been given a limitless supply of food and space. What will they do next? Where will they go? When will they eat? And how much? Will they travel all around constantly or gravitate to one small area? Why? How will their choices affect them down the road?
Conjecture abounds about them. Discussions ensue. Conclusions are drawn.
Meanwhile, my own conclusion is this: The Uninhibited carry on, deliciously unabated. They choose Actual Play over play-by-play and are rewarded every day with the joy that comes from unlimited freedom.
| Author Notes | Special thanks to Michele Harber, my FS BFF and editor extraordinaire. xo |
By Rachelle Allen
10/12/16
I have finally reached the point in life I always dreaded: I no longer understand commonplace things. No doubt it's because "in my day" (oh, someone please shoot me now for even uttering that phrase!) they weren't commonplace.
Worse, I'm suddenly hearing --and (gasp) acknowledging the accuracy of-- my parents' words on those frequent occasions when I would question their inability to recognize commonplace things. "Someday," they said --and I remember smirking at the ominous tone they used-- "you'll understand." Oh please, I thought. Don't make me laugh.
For them, it was hippies: young men and women who wore revealing psychedelic tops, peace sign necklaces, bell bottom jeans, and reveled in how long and unwashed their hair was.
"I don't get it," my mother would say. "How is that a good thing?"
"Don't ask me," my father would answer, and then, eyebrows furrowed and faces strained, they'd silently dunk cookies into their coffee for the next twenty minutes.
These meditations would usually end with, "Yeah, I still don't get it."
"Me, either."
They were such a source of embarrassment to my up-and-coming coolness, these two. I just could not fathom what was so hard to understand.
But now it is five decades later, and I am in my car in the parking lot of the grocery store I've patronized since the 80's. And at least ten times in the last two minutes I've heard my own voice murmur, "I don't get it." Because I'm pretty positive my cashier, whose name tag read 'LaShondra,' was a guy.
It's true she was uncommonly tall and had broad shoulders and substantial forearms, but her shirt was flimsy enough for me to register a well-satisfied B-cup bra. She was also sporting make-up, a fluffy, bona fide Girly-Girl hairstyle, and bright purple Lee press-on nails. She even had metallic ballet flats on her (okay, rather oversized) feet. It wasn't until she handed me my bagged purchases and noticed my orangey-red stilettos that I no longer felt among the cogent.
In a voice only slightly higher than Darth Vader's, she exclaimed, "Oooh! I loooooove your shoes!!"
Through my parents' furrowed eyebrows and pained facial expression, I offered her a trembling and, I'm sure, mostly inaudible, "Thank you."
I have no cookies in this bag next to me on the seat, and there is no coffee to dunk them in anyway. So I fear it may be hours before I can be resigned enough to say, "I still don't get it" and move on toward finding my way back home.
By Rachelle Allen
October 27, 2016
A friend I've loved since we were seven and in the same Brownie troop may be receiving some horrible news tomorrow about tumors discovered behind her nose and down her throat.
My first impulse, when she relayed the news, was to become maudlin and fatalistic about every facet of life, not merely the precarious nature of hers: What is the point of it all? Everything is finite anyway, so there's no sense in even trying.
Next was to spew the Why's of Unfairness: Why her, when she's so caring and decent and productive and kind? Why not the subversives I encounter so frequently? Why now when she's still so young? Why ever?
Finally came Despondency: How in the world can I possibly be happy without her?
But then --mercifully-- the Teacher in me kicked in: We are all here to learn. And here's what this incredible friend has taught me throughout the past fifty-three years by the examples she sets every day:
1) To choose decency. She is always fair and considerate with her words. She's not a lay-down, but neither does she take out her disappointments or frustrations on people --even the ones who provoked them. She is a consummate diplomat.
2) To be fearless. She's gone overseas on her own, just for the joy of a new experience. She's also sustained many personal losses and worked through them on her own then quietly reported back after she'd conquered her demons.
3) To never be frivolous. No matter how large or small a decision, she gives it serious weight and consideration. She is well-informed and wise.
4) To be extremely compassionate. She doesn't merely donate money to "good causes," she gives her time and talents to countless organizations constantly.
5) To be a wonderful, active listener. She doesn't interrupt or focus on anyone else when someone is talking to her. And she remembers everything people tell her and never shares their information.
6) To think globally. She has been to so many countries that she can offer great insights into how situations can be viewed differently as a result.
7) To be deep. Nothing is one-dimensional in this life.
8) To not resist change. Rather, trust your coping skills.
9) To recognize and appreciate the "simple things" every single day that make life better.
10) To give people the benefit of the doubt and not accumulate conflicts. Life is too short to dwell on negatives. Delete and move on.
Not surprisingly, this list represents only the merest tip of her mountain of stellar attributes. But still, even this is enough to enable me to carry on her goodness should she be unable to do so herself. I could dwell on this possible impending loss --because it would, indeed, be a substantial one-- but she taught me far, far better than that.
I may not love the awfulness that could potentially lie in her future, but I love her, so I am not about to burden her further with my own sorrow. Rather, we'll be flying through it together, giving strength and courage to anyone paying attention.
| Author Notes | As you can see, this journal entry was from October of 2016. It did, indeed, turn out to be the worst possible news (Lymphoma), and my beloved friend succumbed to the disease this past November 8th. She was unbelievably fierce to the end, though, and even spent the last two months -while on daily doses of morphine!- traveling! She took her brothers and their families on a ten-day cruise in September, then came home for two days and left again for a trip to France, then, after that a BUS TRIP in Ireland! She was absolutely remarkable and gave all of us who knew her the gift of courage. She never lost her courage or love of adventure. |
By Rachelle Allen
March 15, 2016
It's been said that all of history would have been different if G-d had told Abraham to sacrifice his grandson instead of Isaac, who was merely his son.
It seems there's something just this side of magical about the level of devotion between the two generations. They do share a lot: sparse hair, a slower pace, the appreciation of life's simple things, and, most of all, their loyalty to each other. In a grandparent's eyes, their grandchildren can do no wrong, and for grandchildren, the sun rises and sets around Nana and Papa
Today, though, I saw how that could present a problem. The five-year-old brother of one of my piano students is all but conjoined with his grandfather. He worships the man and treats all of his words like gospel.
As the boy was getting on the bus, his grandfather, in the throes of Alzheimer's Disease, shouted to him, "And remember: it's 1928, Owen!" Then he added, "And you need to stop writing the W that's in your name upside down." I saw the proof of Owen's devotion the next week: "Omen, March 15, 1928" read several papers in his big Kindergarten scrawl.
By Rachelle Allen
March 15, 2017
If you looked at her life as if it were a movie with the sound turned off, you'd think that the girl who does my nails was granted the role of Fairy Tale Princess.
Her house is a mansion in our city's best zip code, her diamond is the size of a baseball, and she has a killer body, compliments of daily workouts with a personal trainer in her home gym (and an obviously gifted plastic surgeon). She owns the bustling salon-and-day-spa where I get a bi-weekly manicure, plays tennis three times a week at the country club, had a photo spread of her cavernous gourmet kitchen featured in an upscale architectural magazine, and, most impressive of all, owns a shameless number of the most fabulous over-the-knee stiletto boots in existence.
But turn the volume up, and you hear that she drools for men who are actually not men so much as human monoliths, with shoulder-length hair, tattoos, and bulging calf and bicep muscles. Not one of them even vaguely resembles her stout, workaholic husband, twenty years her senior, who allegedly stopped courting her once she said, "I do."
She talks about financial security as a trade-off for True Happiness and wonders if she's suffering from the Seven-Year Itch or an affliction far more deadly. As if there's a doubt in her mind or anyone else's.
"This isn't your first marriage, right?" she asks me with the boldness of a talk show host.
"No," I confess because Salon Code requires complete disclosure at all times, no exceptions.
"Well, do you think my marriage is salvageable?" she asks as if my marital track record has somehow imbued me with Divining Rights.
I'm old enough to know better than to answer the question directly, but I'm also compassionate enough not to be cavalier to her or tap dance around what she's asked. She genuinely wants feedback. So I proceed to share with her these diamonds that I unearthed during my Tumultuous Years, jewels so priceless that, when strung together, produced an amulet that enabled me to recognize my own worth. They are why, in fact, I'm still, thirteen years later, living happily (and gratefully) ever after with a husband who is my perfect fit.
By Rachelle Allen
June 1, 2019
It wasn't until I was dating Bobby, my now-husband, that I understood the importance of attending wakes. His uncle had died, and in keeping with Old-School Catholic ways, there was going to be a wake with an open casket.
As a Jewess, this was an unthinkable concept to me, and I had no intention in the world of attending, no matter how much I loved Bobby.
"What?" he asked, stunned, when I told him that news. "You have to attend the wake. You always have to attend wakes. It's part of being in a relationship of any kind."
It was? This was a bona fide newsflash to me.
The last wake I'd attended was of a high school friend who'd died in a car accident our Junior year, and it was so awful an experience, I'd sworn off them forever.
But I was a teenager then, and maybe it was incumbent upon me to re-visit and adapt my thinking. Etiquette, after all, is a powerful force in life.
So I attended the wake --though I did keep my back to the casket at all times-- and, by evening's end, after having watched the deceased's sons and widow receive visitors all afternoon, I understood how right Bobby had been.
Having their loved ones --some whom they hadn't seen in decades-- come to the calling hours mattered deeply. Showing up was very, very important.
It's not exclusive to wakes, though. It matters in all kinds of other ways. The deal is, when you're in any kind of relationship --parent/child, sibling, husband/wife, boyfriend/girlfriend, boss/employee, friendship only-- showing up is the quintessential act of sustenance. It says, "You matter to me. You count the most."
And today, Recital Day, I got to witness that in abundance for sixty of my students who chose to participate. It was a Saturday, the quarters were snug and too warm, and although each guest was there to hear only his or her own participant's song, they sat through fourteen others, as well.
They showed up. And, in so doing, they made their little musicians glow with pride and delight.
I experienced it, too. My sweet Bobby was there from start to finish. He took students to their chairs while I handed out programs, straightened the room after each of the four shows, and schmoozed with parents --something that is so foreign to his nature as a shy guy-- as everyone milled around.
Because he loves me, he showed up and gave it his all. I couldn't have loved him more.
My mentor and True Mom, Ann, did, as well. She's going to be leaving for her lake house in two days, so she has many items on her To-do list. She is eighty-five, has arthritis in her knees, and she knows none of my students. Yet, there she was for the two o'clock performance.
She showed up because I matter to her more than all those other mitigating factors. Seeing her walk in was the highlight of the day.
Life's important moments --whether they're joyous or tragic-- are so much more meaningful and memorable when the people you love show up to share them with you.
| Author Notes | This is my True Mom, Ann, and me at the 2019 Voice, Flute and Piano Recital of my beloved students. |
By Rachelle Allen
June 19, 2017
My husband feels the incident I'm about to describe happened because it was predicated on a snafu with an impending wedding --the knee-jerk catalyst for hysteria.
Myself, I am equally certain that, regardless of the event, the scene in question would have escalated to the same unconscionable proportion it did, because the party in question was rife with spoiled brats: i.e. The Uber-Entitled.
The Setting: A lovely chapel on a college campus where, between the hours of 3:00 and 8:00 p.m., seventy-seven piano students were scheduled to practice on the glossy concert grand in preparation for their Recital on it four days later.
The Conflict: At 4:30, a frantic Mother-of-the-Bride approaches the lip of the stage to say that, although she sees my reservation on the schedule, there's been a mistake. Her daughter's wedding rehearsal is supposed to be scheduled here from 5:30 to 6:30.
Phase One: "Is there some way we can work this out?" she asks with class and kindness and the utmost diplomacy. I assure her there probably is and ask if she could check back at 5:10. In the meantime, I tell her, I'll hurry things along as best I can. She smiles warmly and offers a genuine "thank you."
Phase Two: Five minutes later, the groom and his mother barrel down the aisle to the lip of the stage and suggest that, surely, there is another piano "somewhere on this campus" we can use for our rehearsal so the bridal party can use the chapel, unimpeded.
I explain that the purpose of our rehearsal is to become familiar with the piano that's going to be used for the upcoming recital. This causes the Mother-of-the-Groom to roll her eyes in utter contempt and exasperation. Her son tells me, "This. Is. UNACCEPTABLE!" He goes on to explain that recitals occur all the time, whereas this wedding is a once-in-a-lifetime event.
I smirk and call the next student to the stage, turning my back on Groomzilla and his mommy.
Phase Three: After a fifteen-minute reprieve, the groom's mother and two of her cronies storm the stage, standing just inches behind my student who is playing her extremely difficult piece masterfully. Their arms are folded, and they are tapping their feet to show their well-earned impatience.
I pseudo-ignore them, my eyes lasered on my student's sheet music, until the moment that one of the interlopers actually juts her cell phone into my line of vision and informs me, "This is THE DEAN on the line, and she would like to speak with you."
Conclusion: Some people --and there seem to be more and more of them with each passing day (or are they just more shameless than ever because they have an audience on Social Media?)-- have absolutely no concept of not getting what they want. "Compromise" does not even whisper at the edges of their soul.
To them, a compromise means they get what they want and too bad for anyone standing in their way.
Diplomacy is as obsolete as snail mail. And gentility is found --with the exception of the bride's lovely mother-- only in the dictionary.
Vindication: They did get to use the chapel for a bit in order to insure that they could master the challenge of walking in a line behind each other on The Big Day.
But I'm the one who will live happily ever after because I got to watch the lucky girl who was marrying that catch of a lifetime come down the aisle. And I also got to hear what she had chosen as her entrance song: The Theme to Jurassic Park. I kid you not.
As I stood at the back of that glorious chapel, incredulous, basking in the irony of it all, I heard a voice from above whisper to me, "You're welcome."
By Rachelle Allen
JANUARY 20, 1990
One of my father's favorite phrases was "You make your luck in this world." Easy for him to say! He and all of us who share his blood are known for having Saxman (our family name) Luck.
My father won the football pool so many times at work that one day, an exasperated co-worker groused, "Why don't we cut out the charade of placing our bets, Bill, and just hand our money over to you?"
Grandma Saxman was the same. She won at Bingo so many weeks (months) in a row that she actually began losing friends! Before long, she was ostracized, like a leper, to a tiny table far in the back of the Bingo hall. She had to yell, "BINGO!!" a lot louder, but the woman wasn't exactly a shrinking violet, so no inconvenience there.
Today, Saxman Luck reared its head in a big way in my life.
I'm anti-Lottery. It's described as "a game for people who aren't good at math." And that's exactly right! If you're seventy and never bought a Lottery ticket, you saved a dollar a week for fifty-two years: $2,704. Even Saxman Luck can't be pushed THAT far!
So, my new husband's birthday was last week, and when I asked what he wanted, his answer made me blanche: "I want you and your Saxman Luck to go down to the Lottery office and buy me a ticket. The jackpot is forty-seven million dollars."
"Aw, come on," I whined. "You know I'm philosophically opposed to the Lottery."
"You asked what I want; that's what I want. All it'll cost you is a buck."
We're newlyweds. How could I deny him such a simple request? How could I put my principles above my husband's birthday desires? Unthinkable!
So, in my hyper-organized way, I wrote down a bunch of numbers as they popped into my head. I even put the slip of paper into the front flap of my purse so I'd remember to play them when I went grocery shopping.
But it's not part of my shopping routine, so I didn't remember.
Anyone care to guess what numbers hit? Ohhhhhh yeah. Every. Single. One. AND the "alternate numbers," too --the ones they go to in the event of a tie. They were equally correct in their entirety.
I do believe the bud is now off our marital rose. My husband claims there was never a crueler birthday "gift." (He used air quotes for emphasis.) It didn't even help that I offered up Murphy's Law: If I'd played them, they probably would not have hit.
It's a week later now, and he continues to sulk. Who says you have to be wealthy to be a spoiled brat?
| Author Notes | This marriage didn't stand the test of time. But I can guarantee you that even forty-seven million dollars would not have saved it. |
By Rachelle Allen
January 18, 2015
Mr. Rogers, the host of the PBS children's show Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, and I have a very different idea of what comprises "a beautiful day in the neighborhood."
For me, the perfect neighbor is one who's pleasant, greets me nicely when our paths cross, and keeps his or her property neat. I'm not looking to "be friends" with my neighbors as much as I'm looking "not to be enemies."
But some neighbors just cannot seem to follow that precept. The guy on the other side of our hedgerow, for example. He's actually the same guy who's responsible for our having needed a hedgerow in the first place. Not that it ever deterred him once we put it in.
Whenever my husband and I are outside doing chores, this neighbor feels what we're really doing is signaling that we want him to come over and pontificate about the evils of Satan. Or termites. In his peculiar world, they seem to be equally atrocious commodities.
When we were new to the neighborhood, we politely stood there and listened. Later, as time (and his sermons) went on, we began to get clever. I'd excuse myself to 'check on dinner' (at 10 a.m.), then come out a moment later, holding the handset from our land line. "Bobby, Sweetie!" I'd call out in a sing-song voice, "Phone!" [For the record, this was not a lie; that WAS the phone.]
The problem was that we were not getting our outside work done, and it was starting to make us surly.
So our next tack was to continue working despite his blathering on. While we toiled the lengths and widths of our perimeter, he'd follow close on our heels, preaching and gesticulating. We grew to absolutely despise yard work, something that, before this man, we'd always loved.
After today, though, we're thinking we may have solved the problem once and for all.
It snowed five inches overnight, so we were out at 5:30 a.m., shoveling. We could hire a service, but we actually love both the camaraderie and physical exercise of shoveling. In fact, the first married argument we had was because my new husband had chivalrously shoveled the driveway without me. We battled a good ten minutes over that one until my teenage daughter, on her way out the door, gave us a contemptuous look and said, "You people have ISSUES!"
So, at 6:15 a.m., we were almost done, and I said to Bobby, "I know you have an early appointment today. Why don't you go in and get ready for work. I'll finish this up and then walk the dog."
"Your day starts earlier than mine," he protested. "YOU go get ready for work and I'LL finish this up and walk the dog." (We truly do have the world's stupidest arguments.)
Begrudgingly, I compromised. I flounced into the house, got the dog and huffed insolently around the block while Bobby got to finish the damn driveway. Ten minutes later, just a few steps before the dog and I reached our driveway, our obnoxious neighbor stepped in front of me and began a diatribe.
My ire had not fully abated by this point, though, so I looked him dead in the eyes, leaned a little forward, and hissed, "Shut. Up." He gaped at me, slumped his shoulders, and to my astonishment, retreated to his house!
I felt so giddy, I dashed inside to tell Bobby what had happened.
It made him laugh a lot harder than I had expected until I heard why. As soon as I'd left to walk the dog, Mr. Obnoxious had come over and begun talking to Bobby. Still rankled from the way we'd left things, my husband's patience was decidedly compromised. So he'd shouted at our neighbor, "Listen, Bud; why don't you just SHUT UP!"
My adorable husband and I exchanged high-fives and smooched.
(Sorry, Mr. Rogers. But Bobby and I are convinced that, at some point, even syrupy, perfect YOU would have told our next-door neighbor to shut up.)
By Rachelle Allen
June 9, 2015
Supposedly, there's all kinds of symbols and deep-rooted meanings behind our dreams. Today that thought walks the fine line for me between being "rather disturbing" and "just plain hilarious."
Here's the dream:
I was carrying my pet fish --a huge, silvery, bug-eyed, big-lipped creature (and p.s. I have no pet fish. My pet cat, Flurry Allen, would disapprove of any such commodity), holding it like a baby, face-to-face, my arms wrapped around it.
It began to give off a fish odor, which, in wakefulness, I realize, is not so unusual, since it is, after all, a fish. But in my dream, it was cause for alarm. My Little Voice was telling me something was not right with my fish-baby.
So I fed it a big mouthful of my tuna fish sandwich, and then it went all limp and pale and died. I put it down on a metal table and walked away.
According to Lauri, an online "dream analyzer,":
Baby = a real-life responsibility. Are you handling something for someone else? Are the people around you childish? Do you need to pay attention to your inner child?
Feeding = this is about your ability to nurture a particular project, idea, or relationship.
Bite, biting = Has someone around you said something hurtful or critical that wounded your feelings? Are you the one saying hurtful things? Biting also suggests that something that is a bad situation.
Gigantic/large = something blown out of proportion. Overwhelming.
Table = hunger for emotional nourishment. Fellowship, family time. Honesty, as in "laying your cards on the table."
Dying fish = something in your life you're struggling to keep alive. Can also symbolize a responsibility you have.
I think it means I'm glad yesterday was the Recital, and I'm finally on vacation. It's right.
By Rachelle Allen
June 26, 2019
On Celebrating Life
We have just returned home from another wake, our fourth since mid-May. We're getting to "that age" now where this will occur ever more frequently. I feel melancholy, and that, in turn, leads me to feel exasperated. It did not have to be this way.
Last October, my friend Gail died after a valiant two-year battle against non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. But instead of a wake, she'd stipulated that she wanted a Celebration of Life ceremony.
Over one hundred people who knew and loved her gathered in her house. Her cousin had songbooks printed up with lyrics for the songs we'd chosen to sing, and I had the delight of leading us in singing them.
We chose the following:
Friends I Will Remember You (John Denver) because it seemed, since it was one of Gail's all-time favorites, like a perfect opening number;
On the Road Again (Willie Nelson) because Gail was a world traveler;
Cast On Baby (to the tune of Carly Rae Jepson's Call Me Maybe) in recognition of Gail's prowess as a 'knit wit';
Imagine (John Lennon) to honor Gail's spiritual views about life;
You'll Be In My Heart (Phil Collins) because these were the words Gail would say to all of us before ending any conversation, whether in person, on the phone, or even online;
All You Need Is Love (The Beatles). This was Gail's "One Truth of Life." She insisted that everything else was just 'background noise.'
We ended with Andrew Gold's Thank You For Being My Friend.
As a special, personal tribute to her, because Gail was someone who could never be 'filled up,' --never enough friends, or adventures, or sewing/knitting/quilting projects, or books, or trips-- I sang Never Enough from The Greatest Showman, a movie we'd seen together.
Between each song, her friends took the microphone and shared vignettes pertinent to the lyrics. Most were funny, a few were tender, and several were eye-opening in a wonderful Oh-That-Sounds-Like-Her way. Not one was sad.
It was a joyous, wonderful farewell to an extraordinary, happy, truly wonderful woman. There were some twinges of sadness, of course, because we missed her. But we were able to see, as one enormous unit, how special she was by virtue of how many lives she'd enriched.
By contrast, at each of these recent wakes my husband and I attended, we stood in line for over an hour to pass a casket or an urn and recite condolences to family members with hollow eyes and tear-stained cheeks. There was no joy to be had for these lives that had been lived, only sorrow in their absences.
Myself, I'm going to follow Gail's lead. I want my friends' final memory of me to be the same as my life has been --filled with joy and music. It will be my parting gift. Literally.
By Rachelle Allen
November 23, 2016
The Fantasy: I am a world-renowned writer and media mogul, and I am on my private yacht, headed to my private island off the coast of Hawaii on this Thanksgiving Day with my husband and one hundred of our closest friends. We are being waited on hand and foot, plied with nothing but the best food and drink. Best of all, no matter what I ingest, I don't gain an ounce. Oh, and even though there's back-spray from the yacht and it's humid, my hair looks perfect.
The Reality: It's Wednesday night, and I am not only sporting a frizzy ponytail, ratty sweats, and a full frontal apron like my grandmother used to wear, but I'm also up to my elbows in turkey cavity, scrubbing it down and dislodging all the tiny little packages of organs left behind by the butcher. These are commodities which --oddly-- my husband likes to fry up and eat as if he's Daniel Boone or something. ("Mmmm! The heart and liver are so full of IRON for me! Very healthy, and they taste really good!") [Had I known this on July 26, 1999, when we met, our history could have been very different, indeed.] He does, at least, have the decency, when devouring these entrails, to (a) Use utensils and (b) Refrain from growling like a feral little beast as they slide down his gullet.
Because my husband's family prefers leftovers to an oven-fresh Thanksgiving Day bird, I roast our turkey the night before and hack it into sandwich-sized slabs. Then I make soup with the carcass and serve both up the next day with sides of sausage-infused stuffing, homemade bread for sandwiches, hand-cut sweet potato fries, and several desserts. Afterward, I'll do dishes for an hour and a half. But the day won't be complete until I hear my husband sigh loudly from the Man Cave and say, "I just love Thanksgiving! It's so RELAXING!"
[Additional Fantasy: I immediately duct tape said man to his Barcalounger and make him listen to opera until he agrees to my ransom demand of underwriting all my Black Friday purchases.]
By Rachelle Allen
March 23, 2014
I am in The Dollar Store at the register, facing a wall with letters the size of Asia that read:
EVERYTHING’S!
A!
DOLLAR!
So imagine my surprise when the cashier picks up one of my items, holds it aloft, and shouts to her manager, ‘"BOB! HOW MUCH IS THIS?"
I do a surreptitious check for the Candid Camera crew because, obviously, someone is pranking me here. But no. No hidden cameras. This is my real life.
Out of compassion for this young girl, I lean in and say very quietly, because the line behind me is sizable and I don’t want her to be a laughing stock, "Um, I think it’s a dollar."
She rails on me. "WELL SOME THINGS ARE TWO FOR A DOLLAR!"
"Oh-KAYYYY then!" I retort and feel proud that I have refrained from adding the b-word, though, if I’m honest, I think it may have hung there in parentheses.
Bob shouts back. "IT’S A DOLLAR!" His tone says he considers her Employee of the Month material.
Sometimes I wish G-d did not give me so many opportunities to need this sense of humor He bestowed.
By Rachelle Allen
July 15, 2022
A recent Facebook post asked, "If people came with warning labels, what would yours say?"
I wrote, "My red hair IS my warning label."
Forty-six total strangers responded with the laughing emoji. Another twelve wrote "LOL" in the comments. My niece, though, who's also a redhead, chimed in with an omniscient, "Truer words were never spoken."
What's funny is that, now that I'm in my Golden Years (read: two weeks shy of sixty-six), I've noticed a substantial mellowing in myself. For the most part, my husband, Bobby, agrees. (More on that in a minute.)
When we met twenty-three years ago, I was still a bona fide spitfire. But time (and marriage, because, this go-round, it's to someone I totally like) has softened my edges.
Pull your car out abruptly right in front of me? Today, rather than just my tallest finger, I'll offer you all five digits. In fact, I'll sway them back and forth with my palm facing you. I'll even smile. (You're welcome! I'll see you in your rearview mirror four seconds from now at the next stoplight!)
Say something uncouth to me now, like the guy did who was sitting in his parked vehicle, when I was twenty-five? ("Whoa! Did ya get those from your MOTHER'S side? *haw-haw-haw- haw.*") I'll no longer give you a haughty glare and respond with words that will diminish you in front of your passenger and make him roar with laughter. ("Don't be ridiculous; I got them from my mother's FRONT!") These days, such a comment would inspire me to merely wag my index finger, like a spinster schoolmarm, at such an idiot and maybe even suppress a grin.
Offer up a catty little comment about my fashion-forward accessory on a Saturday in early April of 1986, as we both stand in line at the fabric store? ("Ooooh! Is that your EASTER BONNET?" *highly amused, self-satisfied smirk*) Now, in my seventh decade, I'd simply meet that taunt with a good, hearty chuckle rather than my equally impudent little comment that day, served up with slitted eyes and caustic smile. ("Hardly; I'm Jewish.")
I'm convinced that, now that I'm mellower, if I were given Do-Overs for any previously aggravating social intrusions, I'd be impressively better about sloughing them off with humor and good sportsmanship.
Well, except for that wedding reception incident about eight years ago. There'd be no Do-Over changes for me with that one.
That night, the hussy who was sitting on the other side of my husband (and, easily, deep into her fifth cocktail) ignited my ire by purring to him that his hair was "soooo beautiful." She wasn't wrong, but there are some things you just don't say to other people's spouses, especially when you've just seen them for the first time three minutes earlier. In the next blink, the hussy actually reached out and, splaying her fingers like a sea anemone, proceeded to knead through my husband's salt-and-pepper tresses like a cat on an angora rug.
Red became the color of the moment. My red-hair-as-warning-label sparked into overdrive. I saw a lightning bolt of red before my eyes, and I even believe there were orange-red flames billowing forth from my nostrils.
In fact, so intense was the heat-infused impact of what I'd just witnessed, that it caused me to shoot up from my chair like a launched rocket, laser my glare mere inches from the hussy's raccoonish eyes and offer up a firecracker-like sizzle as I hissed at her. "If. You. EVER touch my husband's hair again, I will *bleeping bleep* you until you *bleep* your *bleep-bleep* and I will not stop until you *bleep, bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep."
This anything-but-mellow-and-good-hearted response on my part inspired said hussy's husband, who was sitting far across the wide expanse of table, to exclaim, "WHOA! The perky-and-charming redhead's got some FIRE in her!" He then laughed appreciatively in my direction and asked, with a little accelerant thrown into his tone, "Hey! Does my wife have her hand on your husband's thigh right now? She usually likes to do that to guys she doesn't know at parties, too!"
"No," I shot back like a blow torch. "And the way you can know that for sure is because she's still alive."
Warning: Mellowing is a very. lengthy. process. Especially, it seems, for redheads. (Well, this one, at least.)
| Author Notes | I've been on a three-year hiatus from FanStory. This book was one I began back then and will be expanding on now. What's nice is that, since this is a "collection" of essays, each chapter is independent of the others. You won't have to have read what preceded it to make sense of what will be posted from here on in. You can just pick it up from anywhere and read. |
By Rachelle Allen
August 4, 2017
My fifth-grade teacher passed away four days ago, and today I was given the honor of singing at her funeral service.
This is a woman who graced my life when I was ten and changed me forever. A great teacher can do that.
I lived in a small town. My parents both worked forty-five minutes away in what everyone I knew referred to as "The City." We'd actually moved to this small town FROM The City for a reason that, to this day, makes me shake my head: because my oldest sister was 'wild,' and our parents feared she'd get pregnant. (Must be girls in our new small town didn't get pregnant!)
But, instead of the move calming my wild sister down, it compelled her to quit school two weeks later --at age sixteen, mind you-- and move back into The City, leaving me, then age two, to have to grow up out there in the boondocks alone, that wench. (NOT that, fifty-eight years later, I'm still bitter about it or anything. No, no; certainly not.)
Just as an aside, want to hear exactly HOW provincial this small town was? The drug store owner's idea of a thoughtful gesture was putting Rosh Hashannah cards out for us, the town's only Jewish family...in JANUARY. When my mother called him out on it, he explained defensively, "Well, it says NEW YEAR!" (He was kind enough not to add, "Duhhhh!" or "What more do you people WANT!" But it was definitely there in the tone.)
My parents, because they worked, were not able to come on a Thursday at 3:30 pm to watch me perform on Visitors' Day at my ballet school. But, because I adored her --she was so young and beautiful and fashionable, warm, enthusiastic and loving-- I asked my fifth-grade teacher if she'd be my visitor that day, and she told me there was nothing she'd love more. She even brought her dashing and equally fashionable husband, our school's art teacher, along.
I was in absolute heaven. I saw in her eyes how proud she was of me that day and how very much she loved me. To me, she was nothing short of magical.
I never let her go. I wrote her letters of love and appreciation from Junior High on and kept her current with the news of my life. She came to countless shows I was in, to my wedding, and to dozens of my students' dance and piano recitals. At those, I always made her stand up and told the audience, "If you love the way I teach your children, please tell this woman, later on, when this is over, because I learned it all from her."
She was a perfect teacher: firm and no-nonsense, consistent and fair. Plus, she always insisted we do our best. She loved every one of us, though, with a ferocity so strong it was downright palpable. (And if you know the inherent obnoxiousness of ten-year-olds, then you understand how quickly that would qualify this woman for sainthood.)
My ruptured heart has been coursing puddles of sorrow up through my eyes for five days now. I was able to go into Professional Singer Mode for the duration of her church service, but I've more than made up for it since.
She changed me forever, this beloved educator. She left me so much better than she found me. A great teacher will do that. So, it's the least I can do to promise us both that I'll keep passing her magic along to all the students who will be gracing MY life from here on in.
| Author Notes |
Rosh Hashannah: the beginning of the Jewish New Year, which, because it follows the Hebrew calendar, typically occurs during the month of September.
The author is a former dance teacher, choreographer and professional opera singer. Currently, she teaches private voice, flute and piano lessons to seventy students, weekly, in their homes. |
By Rachelle Allen
September 9, 2017
My first experience with hazing, subtle as it was, presented itself in third grade. The memory is so vivid still, it could have happened ten minutes ago.
In our class, I was The Smart Girl. I was standing third-from-the-end of the line in gym class as we readied ourselves to return to our regular classroom. Suddenly, The Popular Pretty Girl appeared in front of me and, tossing her head to one side to indicate the girl now directly behind her, she asked, "Do you like her?" As I said, I was The Smart Girl, so I was acutely aware of the perils that lay in wait should I answer this probe incorrectly.
Truthfully, I had no opinion either way of the girl in question. Her desk was nowhere near mine, we rode different buses, and we never shared a lunch table. I didn't like or dislike her; I simply didn't know her. So, I settled for a shrug and twist of my lips as a response.
"Well, don't like her," the Popular Pretty Girl advised. "She still sucks her thumb." She then walked righteously back to the front of the line to reclaim her spot.
The Thumbsucker turned to me, eyes welling up. I gave her a doleful gaze but didn't go the extra mile of admitting that I, too, still sucked my thumb...every night, in the dark, in my baronial-sized bedroom because it was the only way I could feel brave enough to fall asleep.
Instead, I settled for never sucking my thumb again, lest I be next on the shunning-as-hazing list. No. Thank. You!
My next experience with hazing came --where else?-- in college. I was a pledge in the Popular Pretty Girl sorority and, because we were shackled with the moniker "Chi Psi Babies," on Initiation Night, we had to (a) don big cloth diapers, bibs and bonnets, (b) have pacifiers in our mouths, (c) get on all fours in front of the student union and (d) have our sorority's Greek letters painted onto our diaper bottoms by the pledge trainers. It was less-than-delightful, certainly, because it was a campus-wide spectator sport, but, hey! Being a Popular Pretty sorority girl requires some sacrifices. Who doesn't know that!
I nearly blew it an hour later, though, at the Candlelight Ceremony of Truth because, for an unthinking moment, I reverted to being The Smart Girl.
The pledge trainers, their features contorting eerily as candles flickered on the table below them, asked each pledge, individually, in solemn, sanctimonious tones, "Since you've come to this college, have you ever engaged in social intercourse?"
The Popular Pretty (and, as it turned out, not exactly brilliant) pledges in line before me all gave wide-eyed, innocent stares toward our pledge trainers --the kind of expressions children with pockets full of Oreos give their moms when asked if they stole anything from the cookie jar-- moved their head from side to side and said, "Noooo." What GOOD babies these pledges were! So obviously worthy of this sorority!
"Rachelle?" they asked when it was my turn. "Since you've come to this college, have YOU ever engaged in social intercourse?"
"SOCIAL intercourse?" I repeated, stressing the first word.
They nodded solemnly, like this was Confession, they were the Mother Superiors, and they knew my deepest transgressions.
"SOCIAL intercourse." I repeated the line one more time, first-word emphasis still in place. Again, they nodded solemnly. "Have I ever TALKED? Yeah, I've talked since I've been at this college." Without really wanting them to, my words came out with the tiniest touch of scorn mixed in.
A deathly hush fell over the room. I felt my fellow pledges freeze and begin to pray for me. The flames from the candles around the room cast shadows onto the walls that looked like twitching elfin dancers casting a spell on me.
The pledge trainers glowered at my insubordination.
Finally, they moved on to the dark-eyed beauty to my right, my roommate. "LuAnne," they began with stoic restraint, "since you've come to this college, have YOU ever engaged in social intercourse?"
I could sense her lower lip trembling. Then, instead of following my lead, she must have started having guilt-riddled flashbacks of nightly escapes with her boyfriend because she said, "No," but with an inflection that had a question mark at its end. She had also used a voice that could only be described as baby talk. (The diapers and bib had obviously worked their magic on poor LuAnne.)
Now, just this morning --forty-three years later, mind you-- I experienced my third bout of hazing. I can attest --in, fact, under oath, if need be-- that it becomes substantially worse with age. By this point in women's lives, their cruelty has been honed to an art form.
I entered Aqua Fit class for the first time, all decked out in my beautiful new one-shouldered leopard tankini that I just loved. Like a Kindergartener about to board her bus for the first time, I was so excited for the new adventure and the opportunity to make new friends.
The pool was enormous and quite full-to-capacity with women. It was then that I noticed that all of them were swaddled in sensible black or navy blue, sturdy-looking one-piece garments --some even skirted-- and that every single classmate sported black footwear in the shape of duck's feet. They glowered at me in a way eerily reminiscent of my sorority pledge trainers. Their animosity felt downright palpable. It grew exponentially when I tried to find a little spot for myself among them. Those nasty sea serpents actually spread their arms out so that their fingers were touching! No Admittance was their loud-and-clear collective body language. I was incredulous.
Undaunted, I made my way to the very back of the pool which was empty except for a tall, pasty bald guy who, down to the ruddy splotches all over his arms and chest, rather resembled an awkward, aging giraffe.
"You can't be here!" he roared at me, scowling.
"Well, but there's no room anywhere else!" I implored him, feeling like I was back in my third-grade gym class.
"I said you can't be back here!" he roared again.
Recouping my senses --and-pluck-- I said, "Well, I'm GOING to be back here, because there's no room anywhere else. But I promise not to encroach on your precious space, okay, Dude?"
With that, I stood a good six feet away.
But sadly, that was nowhere near enough, because it was then that the impact of the women's hazing struck. It hit me hard and with brutal force. I watched in horror as, the minute the music began, my Jurassic neighbor used his thumbs to expand the waistband of his trunks in front of himself to their outermost limits. Then, looking down, lovingly, at his dance partner, he walked in a wide circle over and over and over again for the next fifty minutes. Try getting aqua fit with THAT in your periphery!
But I'll show them! Starting tomorrow, I'll be arriving at that damn pool a good thirty minutes before everyone else. Haze THAT, you Loch Ness monsters!
By Rachelle Allen
August 11, 2022
I met my best friend, SueAnne, forty-six years ago during "Interim" of my sophomore year of college. Our schools were both on the 4-1-4 plan, meaning, four months of first and second semesters, with one month in between called "Interim." During that month, a student could study any course anywhere in the world as long as the participating college was on the 4-1-4 regimen, also.
I wanted to learn to type, but my school wasn't offering that course during Interim. In Albany, New York, though, it was available at a place called The College of Saint Rose. And that's where I met SueAnne, who was a Speech Therapist major there the entire four years. Her regular roommate was taking her Interim course elsewhere, so I was assigned to be the replacement roommate for a month.
Practically on first sight, but definitely by the end of our first week together, SueAnne and I became best friends forever.
She was everything I wasn't: statuesque (5'9" to my mere 5'5-1/2"), willowy (versus my 'hourglass' physique), understated (I'm exuberant), and with a Bohemian fashion flair. (I'm flashy, flashy, flashy.) Her hair was glossy, dark brown and fell in flawless, effortless planks down her back. (Mine is flame red with cascades of unruly curls.) Most amazing of all, she had a serious boyfriend who was a guitarist in a rock band that gigged out every weekend. (I had no boyfriend at all, let alone one cool enough to be in a rock band, and, far worse, I was being "classically trained" in piano and opera. Dullsville with a capital 'D.')
I idolized her on sight, but the minute she opened her mouth, I knew she was the best friend I'd always known was out there just for me. As different as we were in every other way, in the area of our outrageously irreverent sense of humor, we were identical.
We spent so many hours that January laughing, playing cards (Double Solitaire --she was, like me, surprisingly competitive!), cooking together and making memories that still remain vivid in our minds and hearts to this day.
What I love most of all about SueAnne, though, is that we never pull our punches. We say what needs to be said, and the other of us hears the words in the exact spirit in which they were intended. To me, that is the ultimate luxury any relationship can bestow: you tell me the truth in whatever manner you can. We listen between our word choices and hear their real meaning because we know anything we ever tell the other of us is for the purpose of making her better off afterward. Things like:
"You can do so much better than him. I want you to think about leaving."
"You are great at your job. Why are you letting yourself settle for so little money for it?"
"Do you want me to call your daughter and tell her what an ass she's being?"
"You do not have the luxury of tanking over this bump in the road. You have a husband and two children who need you to get back up and plug back into your life and theirs."
Sort of Tough Love, but more like Ferocious Love, because that's how we love each other. We see each other as these Goddess-like creatures so, therefore, we insist we see ourselves that way, too.
Well, except where clothes are concerned. When fashion is on the line, it's an out-and-out free-for-all. No one with an ego gets out alive.
Every summer since we met, we get together halfway between our two houses and spend Friday through Sunday at a great hotel.
One year, we'd just arrived in our room and had begun to unpack. As far as what to bring for our weekends, the rule we always followed was simple: bring comfortable outfits and sensible shoes for shopping sprees and sightseeing, then something fabulous for two nights of fancy dinners.
SueAnne, as I mentioned, is tall and willowy. Her allure is her vibe: it whispers "I'm cool and understated-sexy." She wears long, loose-fitting dresses in unusual batik fabrics and carries them off like a runway model.
Myself, I'm, as I mentioned, flashy. As a former dance teacher and choreographer, my signature feature is my long dancer legs, so I accentuate them with short, sequined dresses and stiletto heels.
As we unpacked, our fancy dinner dresses ended up next to each other in the closet. SueAnne stopped, gave me a droll little look and pointed to mine. "Those better be blouses," she said, knowing full well they weren't. I pointed to hers and said, "And those better be your grandmother's nightgowns." And then we laughed ourselves silly. Only best friends get such a pass.
Another time, we were shopping at a chain store I frequent in my own area, too. SueAnne yanked out a dress -- palest of pinks with a slight shimmer to the frothy fabric and a short, scalloped hemline-- and squawked, "Oh good lord! Just LOOK at this!" She threw her head back and let out a hearty belly laugh.
"Um, I OWN that dress," I said with an indignant glare.
Did she apologize or attempt to show even the tiniest tidbit of embarrassment or remorse? No, she did not. She laughed HARDER. In fact, she doubled over. Only a lifelong friend earns this privilege.
At one summer rendezvous, I brought her a dress I'd found earlier that year in a one-of-a-kind boutique store. When she unwrapped the box, she exclaimed, "Oh my goodness! This is absolutely perfect! How did you ever pick this out?"
I replied, "Well, when I saw it, I said, 'This is the ugliest dress that was ever made in the history of clothes.' So I knew, immediately, that you were going to love it." Did she whip me with its hanger? Nope. She cried and said, "Thank you! I couldn't love it more!"
Only best friends could have this exchange.
And so, as I head out today to meet up for another get-together with my lifelong best friend, I'm eagerly awaiting our card games, heart-to-heart talks, shopping sprees, pool time and, most of all, the rude comments she'll make about my fancy-dinner black glitter mini dress with the matching stiletto heels.
It's my favorite by-product of forty-six years of ferocious love.
By Rachelle Allen
By Rachelle Allen
By Rachelle Allen
By Rachelle Allen
By Rachelle Allen
By Rachelle Allen
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