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.

After a week of busyness, nothing made me happier than sitting down in my recliner Sunday, putting my feet up, and watching football ALL DAY LONG.

Sometimes a tiara can help get you in the football spirit.

In our family, football is serious business. We are introduced to the sport sometime between taking our first breath and our initial bilirubin test. The first outfit depends on whether you are on the Arizona side of the family or the Colorado side of the family. Cardinals or Broncos?

Our love for football isn’t shocking since the Gloors grew up in Nebraska Cornhusker Country, where cars and trucks are red and your dresser holds statues of Jesus, Mary, and Bob Devaney. You grow up watching football. It’s as simple as that. And you teach your children well. This fact can be evidenced by this photo of my great nephew Noah as he carefully sets up his football helmets Sunday morning by game matchups. We won’t even talk about my great nephew Carter who can recite all of the teams’ stats by Sunday night.

My sister Jen says she feels her blood pressure go down upon hearing Carrie Underwood sing, “Hey Jack it’s a fact, the show’s back in town. Stadium’s rockin’, time to crank up the sound…. .”

I recall watching the movie Hoosiers the first time. Remember the scene with the long line of cars, all driving to watch the small high school basketball games? That’s the way it was in Columbus for the fans of the Scotus Central Catholic Shamrocks football team. Our high school almost always had a reasonably good football team – some years better than reasonably good. One of Scotus’ own, Joe Blahak, played for the undefeated national championship Husker teams in 1970 and 1971, and even played a few years in the NFL. The cars used to line up, waiting to park at Memorial Stadium in Columbus. There was often a line of cars making their way to a neighboring town for an “away” game.

With that as a foundation, imagine what it was like rooting for the Cornhuskers, especially back in the early 70s when the Big 8 ruled the college football world, and the national championship nearly always came down to either Oklahoma or Nebraska. Go Big Red.

When it came to the NFL, our dad was a Packers fan. I never really knew why, and I never asked him. (Kids, ask your parents questions now!) But I recently saw a map of NFL fans – what states root for what teams – and noticed that, while a large section of Nebraska roots for the Broncos, there is a little section – right smack where Columbus is located – that roots for the Packers. Interesting if somewhat puzzling.

My family – at least my Colorado family – are Bronco fans through and through. We all sat at the edge of our seats Sunday night as we watched our beloved team with our revered-second-only-to-John-Elway quarterback Peyton Manning almost let a 24 point lead slip through their fingers. Thankfully the clock ran out before the Colts got another chance at the ball. Final score, 31-24. I like blow-outs, thank you very much.

Don’t get me wrong. I am happy with any victory. The reality is, if I KNEW FOR A FACT that the Broncos would win by a meagre score of 2-0, that would be just fine with me. They key is, I have to know that in advance. I simply cannot take the pressure! Blowouts please Men!

But win or lose, here’s to the sounds of shoulder pad against shoulder pad, referees’ whistles, and John Gruden’s inane commentary. I just close my eyes when they dance in the end zone. And Bill and I concluded we don’t do nearly enough chest bumping (and don’t make that something x-rated).

I am ready for some football.

I would love to go back and travel the road not taken, if I knew at the end of it I’d find the same set of grandkids. – Robert Brault

I’ve spent a lot of time on this blog talking about how much I loved my grandparents – particularly my grandmother. My love for her has really inspired me to play a significant role in the lives of my grandkids because I want them to feel about me like I felt about Grammie.

These past couple of weeks when I have been lucky enough to spend so much time with my grandkids has caused me to think about why I believe grandparents are so important in a person’s – and particularly a child’s – life.

Perfect love does not come until the first grandchild. – Welsh proverb

My sister Bec recently told me her theory. She believes one of the most important gifts that a grandparent can give a grandchild is the gift of listening. Parents of young kids are so, so busy these days. They work, they volunteer, they grocery shop, they exercise, they worship, they haul their kids back and forth to soccer practice and basketball practice and ballet and gymnastics. They attend games and meets and recitals. They help with homework and practice spelling words. In between, they try to have a little time to spend with each other. So they listen the best that they can, but oftentimes it’s at the same time that they’re concentrating on cooking dinner or trying to finish an email that has to go to one of their coworkers by 8 o’clock the next morning.

So, theorizes my sister, we can listen – really listen – to what our grandkids tell us. It’s generally not going to be earth shattering or life changing. But oftentimes it’s going to be really, really funny, and terribly sweet.

“My friend is cray-cray,” Kaiya recently told me from the back seat of my car. Cray-cray. She’s 6.

“Where did you hear that word?” I asked her, figuring it was unlikely that she watches the Kardashians.

“From Barbie,” referring to a program that I think she watches on You Tube. Well, it’s better than

Dagny with a monster-sized donut (which she ate!).

the Kardashians, I guess. I have to confess that I laughed out loud.

But I also heard Dagny tell me she STINKS at spelling and she STINKS at math. “I stink at

everything,” she said disgustedly.

I told her that spelling and math might be difficult subjects for her but that is the reason she is going to school, and that both will get easier for her.

“And look how much you like science,” I said. “And you sang me a song that you wrote today, and it was very pretty. We all have different strengths and weaknesses.”

Few things are more delightful than grandchildren fighting over your lap. – Doug Larson

One of my favorite things about being a nana is that I can let the kids play with Play Doh or bubbles or help me cook and not have to worry about the mess. I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. I can clean my house. I don’t blame the parents a bit for not wanting to clean up such a mess. Let the kids make the mess at my house!

What children need most are the essentials that grandparents provide in abundance. They give unconditional love, kindness, patience, humor, comfort, lessons in life. And, most importantly, cookies. – Rudy Giuliani

Kaiya and Mylee helped me make apple crisp the other day. We picked the apples from my trees, and I showed them how my old-fashioned apple peeler works. They both had a turn at it.

“I didn’t know you had this,” Kaiya said with amazement, as though she knows about every single thing I own. Well, apparently she thinks she does.

There was cinnamon sugar and apple peelings and oatmeal all over my counters and floors when they finished, but they had some kind of fun.

As long as our children are willing to entrust us with their children, I think we can make a difference in all of their lives. God bless all grandparents!

My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was 60. She’s 97 now, and we don’t know where the hell she is. – Ellen DeGeneres

This past week Bill and I were the primary caregivers for Alastair, Dagny, and Magnolia, while their parents enjoyed time away. It went well, but as I’ve said before, parenting really should be left to the young. I, thankfully, managed to keep them all alive, got them to school on time each day with their backpacks and a lunch, picked them up on time, fed them, helped with homework, and got them to bed. Did I do it with ease and grace? Oh. Hell. No. But I had the time of my life!

Here are some photos that remind me that being a grandmother is the best job of my life….

Alastair

Dagny and Nana

Maggie Faith

And a bonus photo….

Cole Jonathan at 4 months.

Have a good weekend.

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me. – Ruth, 1: 16-17

These beautiful words from the Old Testament Book of Ruth are often read at weddings. The thing that is interesting is that Ruth did not utter these words to Boaz, the man who would become her husband; instead, she uttered these words to her mother-in-law Naomi, the mother of her first husband who died. It is one of my favorite bible stories. Having a good mother-in-law is a gift from God.

There’s almost nothing good about divorce. I can tell you this from experience because I went through a divorce and it was the most difficult time of my life.

Having said this, I am compelled to add that I have been blessed to have not just one, but two amazing mothers-in-law. Both accepted me into their lives with open arms and for that, I am very grateful.

Sadly, my first mother-in-law passed away far too young from cancer, not long after David’s and my divorce.

In contrast, I want to tell you a bit about the 97-year-old woman who has been my mother-in-law for the past 22 years.

The first thing you need to know about her is that her goodness comes from her deep faith in God, and she projects her faith every day in her behavior. Here’s an example.

I never knew Bill’s dad without the Alzheimer’s disease that eventually took his life. He passed away a few years after Bill and I married. We were in Chicago, along with all of his family, helping make the arrangements for the funeral service. I remember Wilma giving the minister a rundown on her family.

“I have four children,” she said, “and nine grandchildren.”

I began counting the grandkids silently. His sister had three, Bill had three, and his brother had two.

“Wilma,” I said oh-so-helpfully, “you only have eight grandchildren.” I counted them out for her.

“No, I have nine,” she said. “You forgot to add your son Courtney.”

Seriously, I tear up even as I write those words. That meant so much to me that she included Court, whom she barely knew, as one of her grandkids without a second thought. I have tried – I hope successfully – to emulate her sentiments as I’ve loved all of my grandkids, no matter what the relationship is on paper.

As I’ve listened to her stories over the years, I’ve learned a lot about this exceptional woman. She has always tackled life head on without fear. She grew up in a small town in Indiana, but when her life took her to Chicago, she didn’t flinch; she learned to drive in Chicago. She was accepted at a southern university to study music (Kentucky?), but turned that down to attend Purdue because she couldn’t imagine life that far away from her family.

She met her husband while working as a secretary at U.S. Steel. The handsome man noticed her and wanted to ask her out, but he was too shy. So he had a buddy tell her that Rex McLain wanted to take her out on a date.

“Well if Rex McLain wants to take me out on a date,” she said firmly, “then he can ask me himself.”

He did, and they were married a few months later. The marriage would last 50-some years until his death, and result in four wonderful and very successful children.

As you would expect, when someone lives to be 97, the course isn’t always smooth. Her kids didn’t necessarily take paths she anticipated. Her grandkids provided her their share of worries. But in the end, she accepted everything – and all of them – with typical grace and love.

When I spend time with her, it is easier to understand my own husband. Stubborn. Smart. Kind. Honest. Loyal.

Don’t try to tell her what to do, because the more you push her one way, the more likely she is to go the other. Just like Bill. That’s why it was her idea to sell the family home a few years after Rex passed away and move to a senior retirement community. Everyone gave a great sigh of relief, but it would have been useless to try to talk her into that situation before she was ready. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She is beautiful at 97, just as she has been her whole life.  But what makes her beautiful comes from deep within her. She has a beautiful soul.

And she would have my hide if she knew I wrote this tribute, so please don’t tell her!