I Bet Even Pollyanna Was A Grouch, Sometimes!

I Bet Even Pollyanna Was A Grouch, Sometimes!

I want to bitch, vent, let off steam, grouch, whine and complain for a while! Just thought I’d warn you. 

But first, I have to tell you I have just been watching a special segment of Diane Sawyer visiting the new girl’s school in South Africa funded by Oprah Winfrey, and it is absolutely inspiring. The sight of the bright smiles and intelligent, sparkling eyes of the girls who live and go to school there, makes me so happy; I’ll have to postpone this article. See you later.

It is after dark at night, and I’m back after a busy day at home. I’m not really in a bad enough mood to write this article, but I’m going to make a stab at anyway. 

I had to go to town with my daughter again yesterday, and I was annoyed with all the people and traffic and the furniture I had to sit on. Even the sun made me mad for shining on the wrong side of the truck so I couldn’t do my word puzzle. I moved the truck but was still in the sun.

 Next we went to my granddaughter, Penny’s house, so Jane could use their high-speed power to download twenty hospitals on her new computer. It took an hour after they got things hooked up. Out in our neck of the woods, where power is uncertain, it would have probably taken six hours, time that Jane wouldn’t be working and earning money. Jane had said the technician told her it would take only 15 minutes, and we were there over two hours.

All the while at Penny’s house, I was sitting on their very soft sofa. It was one of those sofas made for midgets, where you sit so low and far back that your knees get in the way of your view. I wear trousers, but I always hate to see ladies in short dresses sit like that for they are a sight to see. I remember when Madeline Albright was Secretary of State; she would wear short dresses and cross her legs. At middle age, her figure had passed its prime and her crossed legs allowed for a very unstatesmanlike view. Professional woman should wear longer skirts and higher bodices. If they mean to be serious about something, they should not dress to distract their male counterparts – or at least that is what I think. 

By the time we left Penny’s house, traffic was heavy. When I am driving, and I know I am going to make a turn down the road, I get in the lane I am going to want, even if it is a mile away. Jane doesn’t, and then she gets mad at the drivers who won’t let her move over a lane when she is almost at the turn. I hang on and keep quiet!

I wanted to get a professional haircut as I have been cutting it myself for too long. The hairdressers I have tried don’t listen to me. Ears keep growing all your life, and I want mine covered up at least half way. Over and over I would tell the girl, “Don’t cut the hair around my ears, I want them covered.” But the first move she would make was to use the clippers cutting up and around my big ears. So I have been saving my $20 and cutting it myself mostly by feel. I don’t have a hand mirror so can’t see how bad it looks in back. I don’t care. The hairstyles now often look like rats were chewing on the hair. I fit right in. When I was young, we wouldn’t be caught dead looking like what is the style to look today. So, I might as well take advantage of it and save money. 

Not only that, when I was getting my hair cut professionally, the operator usually ignored me and talked to the operator working next to her. Because my daughter is always working, I don’t have human beings to talk to very often, and I enjoy the little conversations with people I meet. It is like a slap in the face to be ignored. That happens especially to old people when one gets judged by a wrinkly face. I tell people not to believe what they think I am thinking because of the expression on my face. I stayed a conservative too long, and didn’t join the liberals until my face was frozen in that disapproving expression. We didn’t have time that day to look up the salon my daughter says caters to cantankerous old women, so I will go on doing it myself.

While I’m at it, I also hate younger women who treat old people as if they are little children. When I was having a knee replaced, there was a therapy technician, a rather stout woman, who always greeted me in a tiny little high-pitched voice calling me by my first name. I didn’t mind the name part, but I hated to be talked to as if I were three years old. Surely you rate some respect and dignity when you reach your three score and ten. One day she continued, “And how are we today?” I replied that I was fine until she showed up. I was sorry after, because I really did hurt her feelings. I was annoyed at her, because she wouldn’t allow me to use a crocheted line I had made to put around my ankle to lower my sore leg to the floor by myself. We had a five-minute standoff before she gave in.

My mother was in a nursing home for years after she had osteoporosis and kept breaking bones. She always hated her first name, Bertha, and encouraged the use of her nickname, Billie. Those nurses would come with the high-pitched voice calling her Bertha, and she would just groan. Her husband was an architectural engineer who had been president of his professional society in Florida. She was proud to be Mrs. Nathan Grout, and she wanted to be called that, but no one did at the nursing hospital.

I also had some positive experiences as a decrepit old woman yesterday. People were so nice to me everywhere I went, that at last I wondered aloud to Jane why that was. She said, "It’s because you look so frail, Mom." Me frail!! It couldn’t be true! I don’t feel frail, I just have a bad knee, and I get dizzy when I stand still too long. I’ve got pills for that and everything else that is wrong with me. All I have to do is keep living and enjoying life, and I will live forever. I have got to live at least until I get Sears paid off! I am very grateful that I have all you friendly people helping to make me live longer. Thank you all!