Back in the day when I worked for my living, I had a boss who told me that she once got so overwhelmed in a Super Target because of its sheer size that she abandoned her cart mid-shopping and left the store. I think she told me that story with the assumption that I would sympathize with her about the evils of commercialism. Instead, I recall wondering if I really wanted someone leading the company for which I worked who couldn’t handle florescent lights and a large inventory.

That was a number of years ago, and I have been to many a Super Target or a Super Walmart without becoming paralyzed with fear. However, I have thought about that conversation on several occasions recently when I visited Bath and Body Works.

When Bill and I were first married, I always had Bath and Body Works products at hand. I would buy coordinating scents of bath wash and body lotion. Every morning I put on a wonderful-smelling lotion, and each night I would use the body wash in the shower, and then apply the matching lotion before getting into bed. I always smelled simply divine, or at least I hope I did. Bill falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, so he couldn’t vouch for my scent.

Sometime after being married for a while, the practice stopped. As I ran out of my lovely-smelling personal products, I didn’t replace them. Pretty soon I was washing myself with Zest (or whatever soap was on sale) and body lotion was a no-go.

Recently when cleaning out one of my bathroom cupboards, I came across a half-used bottle of a Bath and Body Works body wash in a scent called White Cherry Blossom. In the same cupboard there was one of those big – really big – scrubbing sponges that you use along with the body wash. What the heck! Why not give it a try?

So I did, and I found that I really enjoyed it. I liked the fragrance; I liked smelling good; I liked scrubbing my skin with the sponge. But I was sad that I didn’t have a matching body lotion. So I went into a Bath and Body Works store seeking White Cherry Blossom body lotion.

Well, there was Twilight Woods; there was Tokyo Lotus; there was Beautiful Day; there was Peach and Honey Almond; there was Moonlight Path; there was Warm Vanilla Sugar.

But no White Cherry Blossom. The closest I could get was Japanese Cherry Blossom, but it didn’t smell the same. Apparently Japanese cherries aren’t white. Or something.

But so what, I asked myself. I will simply choose another fragrance and buy a matching bath wash and body lotion and start anew.

Piece of cake, no?

Well, Piece of Cake is about the only fragrance BBW doesn’t have. (They do have Frosted Cupcake, however.) Everything ranging alphabetically from Alpine Suede to Wild Madagascar Vanilla, with Banana Nutmeg Bread Pudding, London Tulips and Raspberry Tea, and Sunset By the Pool in between. One hundred and thirty-five fragrances, my friends.

I was stumped. I admit it. I was absolutely unable to choose from so many fragrances. Counter after counter of choices. And the sales clerks are so helpful, what with their little baskets and all. But I’m afraid I had to leave the store because I simply couldn’t make up my mind with so many choices. (Fresh Linen or Fresh Cotton? And do those two textiles really smell that much different?)

But I went back. In fact, I went back on five or six occasions, to probably five or six BBWs, with the same result. I was just like my former boss – absolutely overwhelmed and needing to abandoned my little basket and leave the store.

But last week, I committed to making a choice. Back to BBW. Once again, with my little basket in hand, I forced myself to select a fragrance. I just made myself do it. Pear and Cashmere Woods (what the hell does that mean?). Body wash and body lotion.

So, feeling very proud of myself, I went up to the counter with my two bottles, only to hear these dreaded words….

“When you buy two, you get a third one free.”

Oh crap.

In my perfect world, BBW would offer a spray fragrance for Pear and Cashmere Woods. No such luck. So I spent another 25 minutes trying to decide a) what type of product I should buy; and b) what fragrance I should choose in that product.

I promise you I am not exaggerating.

I finally picked a glittery spray (they call it a diamond shimmer mist) in (wait for it) Japanese Cherry Blossom.

My three little bottles, after pre-purchase angst.

But the sad part? I learned I can’t wear the spray fragrance because it makes me sneeze. So it will sit on my dresser until BBW no longer makes Japanese Cherry Blossom.

Such is the fragrance of life.

Back in the 1950s – when I was a small girl and dinosaurs walked the earth – there was a game show on television called What’s My Line?. A group of celebrity panelists would try to guess the occupation of a contestant through a series of yes-or-no questions. The occupations included such obscure career choices as circus performer and girdle tester.

My link from What’s My Line? to the topic of today’s blog is very weak, I assure you. But What’s My Line? popped into my head and I couldn’t leave it behind. I LOVED that program.

Anyhoo, what got me thinking about What’s My Line? is that I had two things happen to me yesterday that reminded me that sometimes who I am (my “line” so to speak) is not necessarily who I wish I was.(I told you the connection was weak, but it was What’s My Line? What can I say? It wouldn’t leave my head.)

Both realizations took place in the grocery store as I was doing my weekly shopping.

I was in the deli department looking for some fresh mozzarella to serve along with the delicious grape tomatoes I need to use before they spoil and the basil that is starting to go to seed in my herb garden. After a brief search, I found what I was seeking, and – best of all – it was on manager’s special for $2.39, down from the original price of $3.99. I turned it over to see the expiration date, and saw that it expired Sept. 16 – today. Yay! A bargain.

But then I got to thinking….there were probably four or five containers of this fresh mozzarella cheese, all with Sept. 16 expiration dates. Few people actually buy fresh mozzarella, so I surmised that no one would be buying all five containers before the pull date. Why not, I said to myself, ask them to sell me the container for a buck?

Almost undoubtedly they would have. But here’s the thing. As much as I wanted to be that great bargain shopper, I simply couldn’t do it. I tried. I walked up to the counter three or four times with the express intention of asking them to knock down the price. But each time I walked away, too embarrassed to ask. I’m lucky they didn’t call security because of someone acting suspiciously. You’ll only save a buck thirty-nine, I justified it to myself.

Bill has a friend who negotiates the price of everything. He actually has gotten grocery meat departments to knock down the price of a perfectly good roast simply by asking them to do so. He once negotiated a price on a refrigerator so low that the salesman had to seek manager’s approval. Once the manager approved the price, Bill’s friend then said, “Ok, I will take it at that price if you’ll throw in a freezer.” They did. I want to be that person. The only time I ever successfully negotiated a discount was in Egypt, where if you pay full price, they will throw you in prison for insanity.

The second instance of “me” versus “wannabe me” took place in the cookie department, where I found Oreos on sale. I bought two bags because I can’t keep up with my husband and my grandkids. Every time I look, the cookie jar is empty.

When I was younger, I had a friend who lived near my school. Almost every day, several of us would stop by her house as we walked home from school. We liked our friend, but more importantly, we liked that there was a cookie jar in her kitchen that was ALWAYS FULL OF HOMEMADE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. Every day, fresh cookies. Did I mention they were homemade?

So, from the time I was young, I always knew that when I was a grown up and had kids and grandkids, I would be that person. I would be the mom/nana who always had freshly made chocolate chip cookies in my cookie jar.

Sigh.

But, in my defense, my grandkids like Oreo cookies. In fact, when they open the cookie jar and find homemade chocolate chip cookies, they will take one, but will then ask if I have any Oreos. I swear this to be true. They prefer Oreos to my homemade cookies.

My husband, not so much. He loves my homemade chocolate chip cookies, but accepts Oreos as his consolation prize.

But back to What’s My Line? because that is, of course, what I really want to talk about. Don’t you yearn for the days when game shows looked like this…..

…..instead of this……

A picture is worth a thousand words……

Papa coloring Sleeping Beauty. Who would have ever thought?

By the way, Mylee was quite put out that Papa was coloring Sleeping Beauty’s dress green. I tried to explain that as an artist, one could use one’s imagination and choose any colors you want. It was a no-go. Sleeping Beauty’s dress is blue. So I finally convinced her that Sleeping Beauty’s blue dress was in the laundry and she had to wear her green dress in the meantime.

Have a good weekend.

Nana’s Whimsies is introducing a new occasional feature focused on traveling. Because I don’t travel much (at the end of the day, I’m a stay-at-home), many of the posts in this section will be from my sister Bec who loves to travel. While it will be called Reluctant Traveler, she definitely ISN’T (reluctant that is).

By Rebecca Borman

I’m a city girl at heart.  I grew up in a small farming town, and although I appreciate that lifestyle, it wasn’t (as my sister Jen would say) my cup of tea.  From the time I was pretty small, I thought I would like to live in a big city.  That dream never exactly came true, but I did live in a close suburb of Washington, DC, for over a quarter of a century.  And, I certainly got to visit some great cities:  Rome, Venice, Florence, Paris, Amsterdam, Munich, London, Tokyo, Chicago, New Orleans, and…New York.

In my humble opinion, New York is one of the great cities of the world.  There’s a fabulous energy there, and so many beautiful things to see and do.  But, to be honest, what I enjoy most about New York is its inhabitants.  Having visited all the cities named above, I believe the nicest and most interesting people in the world live in the Big Apple.  On a recent visit there, that opinion was verified for me once again.

There was the very nice and funny cab driver who crawled in heavy traffic from Terminal D, where I arrived, to Terminal A to pick up my sister Jen, who then discovered that she was actually in Terminal B.  When we finally found her, he teased her about getting her terminals straight, but he never was impatient with either of us two obvious out-of-towners.

 The next morning, we headed down to the subway, intending to buy passes.  We knew it would take us a few minutes to figure out the system, so we were glad the station wasn’t terribly crowded.  We needed to know how much each ride costs, so I asked a young woman in the line next to us.  She slipped off her headphones (oops, I didn’t notice she was wearing those), and politely answered the question.  She also volunteered that we’d have to pay for the Metro card.   “Rats,” I said to Jen, “I have one of those cards but didn’t bring it.”  Overhearing my comment, the young woman proceeded to dig around in her purse for an extra card she had and carefully took me through the entire process of filling it.  Then, this busy working woman hustled off to catch the next train.

Later the same morning, Jen and I were standing in Chinatown, trying to figure out which was the best way to walk over to Little Italy.  A woman we hadn’t even noticed approached us to see if we needed help, and then gave us excellent directions to Mulberry, which, she reminded us, is the main street in Little Italy. So, in the course of a few hours, two strangers took the time to volunteer information and help.  Not an eye-roll to be seen.

Every day, we experienced similar situations.  Even when we did that tourist thing, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to discuss our next stop or look at an interesting building, people just stepped around us.

Maybe our funniest experience was later in the week, when, near Union Square, we passed by a great-looking bakery.  (Remember, we are a baker’s daughters, and we find bakeries fascinating.)  The window displayed some delicious-looking wares, including chocolate babka.  I said, “Let’s go in and take a closer look.”  We stood inside discussing the fact that we had never seen babkas before, chocolate or otherwise.  A young man who worked there overheard us and expressed shock and dismay that we’d never tasted babka.  “You have to taste chocolate babka!  Feel this…it’s still warm!  Come over here; I’m going to cut you each a piece to taste.”  It was, of course, delicious.  We decided we wanted a picture of ourselves in this cool bakery.  Would Jonathan take one for us?  No, he would not, because he wanted to be in it.  So he called over a colleague, struck a pose, and we had our picture.  He actually followed us out of the store, still filled with enthusiasm for us and for the bakery that employs him.

 I could relate a dozen more such stories, but you get the point.  While New York is huge, New Yorkers live in neighborhoods, and if you pay attention, you can notice an almost small-town feel.  They make the most of every patch of space they can turn into beauty.  The smallest patio can support pots of flowers, and rooftops often look like gardens.  Their parks are pretty and filled with people:  moms with children, office workers on break, senior citizens enjoying the sun.  And, when New Yorkers aren’t late for the subway that will take them to Wall Street to make trades or to Eataly to make pasta, they are warm, friendly, and helpful. 

Which is one of the many reasons….I love New York.

 “It’s snowing still,” said Eeyore gloomily.

“So it is.”

“And freezing.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” said Eeyore. “However,” he said, brightening up a little, “we haven’t had an earthquake lately.”

I had my annual mammogram taken yesterday. Now that’s a lot of fun, isn’t it Ladies? I can’t complain, however, because it is a completely painless procedure for me. In fact, I look forward to the opportunity to put on the heated bathrobe and drink the herbal tea. It’s like a spa visit except for the breast-in-a-vise part. But I will put up with a smooshed mammary gland in exchange for a chance to sit in a lovely waiting room in a pleasantly warm jacket sipping tea and reading a good book. I’m always disappointed when they call my name.

Anyhoo, at the end of the procedure, I said to the extremely nice woman who spoke kindly and patiently to me all the while that she was smashing my breasts between two glass plates, “You must get so tired of saying the same comforting things all day long to so many women, and you must get sick of looking at women’s breasts.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Not really,” she finally said, thoughtfully. “I’m just grateful I don’t have to give barium enemas all day long any more.”

And there you have it, Ladies and Gentlemen. A woman who looks at the bright side of life.

That’s not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a doom-and-gloom person. In fact, I’m quite cheerful almost all of the time. You won’t hear me saying “Oh me, oh my,” in the manner of, say, Eeyore. I don’t necessarily expect the worst. I’m just always prepared for the worst.

I can’t tell you how many times I have said something like “What are we going to do if……? to Bill, to which he has invariably responded by saying something like “That’s probably not going to happen,” or “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

There’s nothing more annoying to a pessimist, er, I mean a realist than an optimist. I know because I have lived with a glass-half-full person for 22 years. Sometimes I want to take that stinking half-full glass and throw it against the wall. But I worry that the kids will walk on the broken glass with bare feet. Sigh.

Bill lives his life knowing with absolute certainty that things are going to work out. All the while, I’m thinking about what we are going to do if they don’t.

Shortly after we were married, Bill got a phone call from his biggest client who told him that because of budget constraints, they were going to have to do without his services. It was a major blow.

I was awake all night. Bill slept like a baby.

“It will work out,” he said.

It, of course, did. Within a few weeks, he got a phone call from another big client and everything worked out for the best.

I will tell you, however, that no matter how often I have witnessed this phenomenon in my life, it is simply not my nature to not worry. I don’t think I will ever be that person.

I’ve had this cartoon on my refrigerator for 20 years or so….

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. (Philippians 4:6)

In other words, worry about nothing; pray about everything.