Lessons from The Frumpy Beauty

Hi.

Future Federal Workers

On the way home from church last Sunday, two neighborhood tweens with “CAR WASH!!!” signs accosted me near my house.

Drove past them.  Happily.

Not that I’m all that heartless, but they wanted TEN DOLLARS for a car wash.  And (ready?) FIVE MORE to do the inside.  $15 for two little girls?  How good a job could they do?  And why do they need the money?

No way.

But … they’ve never asked for anything before, so I drove to the top of the hill and told them I’d let them wash the car.  It was worth $10 to see them jump for glee and say nice things to me.  Not a bad bargain, considering how much I’ve paid divorce attorneys.

Parked my car at one of the tween’s houses, where I could see them work from my dining room windows.  They took a lot of time and put a lot of effort into their work.  I was proud of them.  Until they skipped and hopped back to my place.

They told me they were done and blathered about all the special treatment they gave Donna the Honda.  Made me smile.  Then I said, “OK, ten dollars, right?”

The bolder of the two – and wiser, evidently – said, “No, it’s fifteen … we washed the inside too!”

Not that I asked them to. 

If you know me (and you probably don’t), you know I paid the $15.  Drove the car back home and admired how they cleaned the car.  Yes, the windows were all streaky and they missed some spots.  And they didn’t vacuum it.  But they’ll make fine government workers someday.

Only one problem.  I had a fuel filter in a bag – with the receipt – on the floor in back.  Needed to return it and get a refund.  Now, there was only a fuel filter, placed tastefully on the seat next to Beauregard the Moose (a gift from my favorite wife and a comforting companion to The Princess).  Looked like the car wash was gonna hit $30, but one of the girls retrieved the receipt, at my request.

So.  Did I do them a favor?  Was it fun, friendly and harmless of me to submit to being WAY overcharged?  I mean, it’s not like I paid $10 for a cup of lemonade.

Or did I give them a taste for gouging, a la Gordon Gekko?

I dunno.  All I know is I’m just not good at saying no.

Unless I must.

***

The Hungry Bride

Was at Wally World today.  Saw a pretty clerk I’ve met a number of times.  She looked really bummed.

Asked her how she was doing and she gave me the usual crap.

Told her she didn’t look OK.  She gave me that scanning look that women emit when they’re deciding whether to shovel another load of feces or whether they should actually be open and honest.

She opened up. 

Somebody stole her lunch.  She was hungry.  She felt abandoned/violated/ ripped off/hurt/sad that her coworkers would take her lunch.

Told her I hear about that everywhere I go.  Everywhere.

She said how she’s the kind of person who shares her cookies and if someone really NEEDED her food, she’d happily go hungry.

Told her of a place where I worked, a christian ministry that taught financial concepts, where a person bravely placed an honor-system snack box and quickly lost his shirt because approximately zero people ever paid for their candy/gum/crackers.

Offered to buy her a sammich.

She said she shouldn’t eat because she’s getting married in a couple of weeks.  Then she went on this “only a woman would understand” rant about how the dress (she showed me how it zips up the side) JUST fits and she CAN’T eat for ONLY A FEW MORE WEEKS … and on and on and on.

Sheesh.

So wear overalls.  They’re not gonna stay on long anyways. 

Who cares?

Forget the wedding, focus on the honeymoon, silly.

Reminded her that there was a Subway inside the store and how she could get a half a tuna sammich cheap.  Popped her a couple of bucks.

**

I am a selfish man.

I always have an ulterior motive.

I always figure that – somehow, someday – if I’m nice to ladies – someday, somehow – somebody will be nice to my daughters and The Princess.

My girls are beautiful.

This girl today was pretty.

Not that I’m comparing.

It’s just that I kinda think that men are only supposed to offer to help homely women.  Otherwise, the immediate presumption is the guy is being creepy.

For instance, I was at a party one evening with dozens of friends.  One of the married ladies there, imho, was drunk.  Not ‘swinging from the chandeliers and putting carrots in her nose’ drunk, just too ripped to drive.  Her husband wasn’t there.

Nice lady.  Not gorgeous.  Not someone any rational person would risk what people risk to catch an illicit thrill.  (No offense intended.)

Told her she shouldn’t drive herself home.  Offered – several times – to drive her home.  She declined.  I asked our mutual friends to be careful for her.  They did.  Eventually, she drove herself.

To this day I don’t know if she thought I was being creepy.  But I don’t care.  In the same situation, I’d do that again.  Every time.  Some things are more important than being understood.  Y’know?

But it’s all about that formerly secret hope that men will care for the ladies I love when I am not there to care for them myself.

**

Meanwhile, back at Wally World, The Hungry Bride scrunched the dollar bills I gave her.  Must have figured I was safe. 

She proceeded to floor me with this Right From Her Heart sermon about how God will always provide.

How she had closed her heart and always tried to do whatever she needed … all by herself.  No reliance on others.

How God brought this wonderful man into her life after years and years and years.

How God was faithful to her … even when she tithed money she could not POSSIBLY afford to give toward His kingdom.

How God has a plan for our lives … “He REALLY does!”

And … on and on and on.

I got a million dollar sermon for a few spare ones.

She’ll never know what a treasure it was to me.  God used her to speak to me.  To reassure me.  To comfort me.  To let me know He loves me.  To remind me that He really does have a plan for me.

Now, I’m not ready to venture into the “I never thought I’d be this happy again” territory.  I’m still working on September’s mortgage, but here was this real person who went from being bummed and hungry to proclaiming God’s greatness.

And I got to witness it.

Sorry you weren’t there.

Hope this helps make up for it.

***

The Frumpy Beauty

While people-watching (easily done by those of us who are ineffectual salesmen), I was entranced by a young couple who glided through the store holding hands, as if they had always been linked to one another.

She had that reddish/brownish "used to be permed" hair that no woman could get away with but her.  Kind of an Irish hue to it.

She wore a mismatched sweat suit, I think.  Frumpy clothes, whatever they were.

The Beau’s duds were a perfect complement to her careless looks.

This young lady – somehow – had discovered what I fear few females will EVER get: it’s OK to dress/look/be the way you want to be.

I mean this wasn’t a job interview.  She wasn’t getting her eternal driver’s license picture taken.  She was in Wally World with, it seemed to me, someone who appreciated her.

I was SO impressed.

**

There’s a lady I used to work with.  Classy.  Spent more time playing down her beauty than trumping it up.  A woman who made an effort to let others know she had more to offer than what met the eye.  A lovely person.  I liked her.

Ready?  She NEVER – not once – EVER let her husband see her without makeup.  Ever.  She’d get up early enough in the morning to do the painting and spackling she felt was necessary to greet her hubby.

Always felt sorry for her.

**

Ladies, please accept this challenge.

The next time you drive by prisoners who are sentenced to road work as a part of their supposed penance, glance at one.  I dare you.

You will look into the eyes of men who believe they are attractive, charming, desirable, cool, studly dudes.   Posers in prison garb.

Don’t laugh.  See for yourself.

Too scared?   OK. 

Here’s Plan B:

The next time you see a Larry the Cable Guy look-alike, offer him an extra nanosecond before you flick him away from sight.

Take it from me, fat old men can (and do) believe they are hot.

Somehow, that’s a lost art for most women (with the obvious exception of robust women in spandex).

Too bad.

**

Meanwhile, back at Wally World …

The beautifully frumpy 20-ish girl with a contented man on her arm floated out the door.  Oblivious to whatever judgments she certainly suffered from those who don’t allow other women (especially) to Look Like That in Public.

We should be as care-free … and appreciated … for who we are, as compared to what brand-name outfit or coif (men included) we apply to embellish ourselves.

***

I Know a Man …

who was cleverly warned to be more careful about Facebook and blog posts about his job.  Someone told his boss that he “ranted” online.

This man is not wise enough to decide to only post updates that his employer would approve.  He is merely wise enough not to tell them to take a flying leap into hell.

So far, at least.

I’ll keep you posted.

***

Lessons from The Frumpy Beauty

There are other applicable lessons to learn from TFB.

[insert lessons to learn from The Frumpy Beauty here]

**

In my humble opinion, one of the most destructive songs ever written was Take This Job and Shove It. 

Ever wondered how many wives and children (OK, husbands too) said, “You said WHAT to your boss???  You … no, WE needed that job!!!  Oh, God.  Now what???”  My guess is thousands of families were torn asunder in a momentary fit of anger.

We live in a Lady GaGa world (a person who even embarrasses Madonna, probably) where there are no restrictions on what you wear/pierce/say/perform.

I love America and our freedom.

Just that a lot of what we call freedom and individuality is nothing more than trading one uniform for another.

Take the boys who wear stocking caps.  They’re part of a herd.  They don’t know why they wear hot hats when it’s hot outside.  It’s part of a uniform.  It’s required of them to appear to be joined with the other rebellious loners.

Bikers?  Same thing.  Black Harley T-shirts, jeans, Harley boots.  Maybe one of those goofy billfolds chained to a Harley belt.  (Shaved head and Foo-Manchu mustache, optional.)  It’s a uniform uniform.

I discovered this truth in a bar back in the 70s.  A friend, Steve Rouse (heard he became a big-shot in Baltimore radio years later), and I stopped in for a beer.  We both had long hair – shoulder length anyway.  We both wore jeans.  Flannel shirts.  I, being uniquer, carried a red bandana (like zillions of other guys).

Looked around the beer garden.  In my best attempt to be wry, told Steve how wonderful it was to be free.  To wear whatever we wanted to wear.  To not have anybody dictate how we should look – because we were cool.

Yup.

Every guy in that bar looked EXACTLY like us.  (OK.  Most were thinner than me.  Back off.)

**

Whether it’s a Muffy/Skippy sweater draped over a preppy’s shoulders; pierced eyeballs and a [insert name of a cool, angst-driven band here] T-shirt; Dockers and (gag me with a spoon) tasseled loafers; Hollister T-shirts and pretend ripped jeans, people prefer the comfort of having a shared identity.

Except The Frumpy Beauty.

Good for her.

In honor of her, I’m gonna wear my duster and hat the next time it rains.

***

These are the Good Old Days

Been in my house for a decade.

Put 30,000+ miles on The Bike.

Haven’t been to the doctor in years.

Pay my bills (miraculously) on time.

Mow my lawn.  (But don’t trim my bushes anywhere near enough.)

Haven’t loved/been loved in many years.

Haven’t been on an airplane since I went out to fetch Dad and drag him back from Paradise … seven years ago?  (No, he hasn’t forgiven me. Would YOU?)

The only constant is change.

That’s what’s on the horizon.

I shall face it as a Sutherland and a Christian: sans peur.

It’s not maudlin to say most of my years are past.

It’s not hubris to say I am looking forward to the future.

I’ve seen my father transition from a penthouse apartment in Honolulu with a perfectly unobstructed view of Diamond Head, etc., to dwelling in a small room at my brother’s house – where Dad is loved and cared for far more than could have been possible in Hawaii.

Dad spent his last years in Honolulu in a condo with blissful views.

Pali out the backdoor.

His lanai displayed the ocean, just beyond his red-neck yacht club at the mouth of the Ala Wai Canal. 

Glorious.

Now his view is trees and the rock garden that Judy has set in stone for ages to view and ponder, in the same way we are awestruck at the pyramids and Stonehenge.  Hmmm.  Think I’ll call it Judyhenge from now on.

Lessons from Dad

Figure I have ten more years to amble and ramble.  The 70s, for those fortunate enough to reach them, restrict more people than not.

Ergo ipso facto, I am not going to burn any daylight in my 60s.

If I lose my job, so be it.  I’ve lost better ones before.

If I move, so be it.  I’ve enjoyed The Dancing Deer Forest.

If I don’t see my girls that much, so be it. 

I always knew they’d grow up and grow away. 

That’s the deal.

I vividly remember the days when gaining or losing thousands of dollars in the stock market in a day were the norm.  Irrational exuberance, indeed.

I remember good-night kisses from family and wives.  Supposedly rational exuberance, I thought.

I remember having back pain I thought would never subside.

It did.

I remember having heartaches I thought would never abate.

They did.

I remember having so much money that I cannot begin to recall where tens of thousands of dollars vanished.  I swear to you, if I opened a drawer tonight and found an uncashed check for $20,000, I wouldn’t be any more surprised than if the keys to my bike turned up.  Less likely, perhaps, but as possible.

My point?  Things change.  As Solomon says, “Riches are not forever, nor does a crown endure to all generations.”

As all fools say, “I am ready for change.”

We never are, of course, no matter how much we think we are.

I can assert, aver and attest that I know God will see me through the days/years ahead and nothing I have – except my family – is worth dying for.

So, onward with life.

As it is and as it shall be.

Wherever God leads and provides.

Blessings.