“Pa Pa,” a little girl holding her grandmother’s hand, turned and pointed, her full moon dark chocolate eyes locked on my daughter Evelyn. Curious, I stopped, trying to decipher the girl’s escalating “Pa Pas.” Leaning down, the grandmother figured it out, “A princess. She thinks she’s a princess.”
With a sheer purple dress, the same one Evelyn wore tossing flower petals on a lawn at my cousin’s wedding a year ago, she got the gist; this 2-year-old was smitten by her. “Why don’t you twirl,” I encouraged, and after taking off her jacket, Evelyn took a step towards the toddler and then circled round and round, the draped dress lifting for takeoff as the young one watched entranced.
What a special mom moment. One I didn’t know I needed, but oh so loved. Evelyn is being looked up to; at not even five, she’s making waves.
I have a cynic. A “they’re going to screw you over” polyester jacket-wearing, pointy-nosed, scrunchy-faced doomsayer. So when today I called Theresa at the Federal Way Performing Art Center to ask for a refund for a mistake I made, I suspected she’d say something about policy but no. Instead, after discussing it with her manager, I received a voicemail. With only five minutes between clients, I called Dave, “My cynic was wrong. I’m so happy I got the money back!”
Greed is yucky.
I’ve been dreading selling our house. The peeling deck needs more than painting, and the deck’s overhang is wet where it should be dry and needs to be replaced. I don’t want to do it and don’t want to pay anyone to do it, so when on a community message board a post said this: “We’re on the hunt for an off-market home. Is it not quite market-ready? Need repairs? Not to worry, we prefer to make it our own anyway.” Even though now that I read it back, it sounds like they’re in pharmaceutical sales, “Bad back? Slow-beating heart? We got you!”
Across from work usually sits a rotating food truck. Pizza, tacos, Thai, and grilled cheese sandwiches always tempt me to stop, but I never do. That is until today. What in the world could get its talony fingers so deep into my psyche that I drove home, picked up my family, and got in a 20-person line?
Dicks! That’s what.
I love Dicks. I loved sitting on a nearby bench with my bag of Dicks and slamming their burger in my mouth. I loved watching passersbys, one shrugging to his friend saying, “Why the heck not?” And that’s how I feel.
Those big red letters boldly that stood on that food truck, almost as proudly as the storefront itself, and I knew it had to be mine.
Dicks saved me a night or two after a late-night concert. And there’s something to say when your feet hurt from heels, your belly is screaming at you from too many IPAs, and the only thing that will make for a good night’s sleep is a belly full of food.
Dicks. It’s what’s for dinner.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 