Hey friends, it’s been a super busy week around here. How’s it been for you? I’m so glad the weekend is finally here. Exhale.

Today I’m re-sharing the first post I ever published on this blog because A – most of you haven’t seen it before. And B – because you’ll laugh. I hope.

I actually planned to write a new piece for today, but there’s still a ton of baking to do for homecoming this weekend.

Bake or write. Bake or write. Baking won out. Cupcakes. And if they come out great, trust me, you’ll see them here!

So read on and enjoy this little blast from the past!

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Everytime A Bell Rings

He had an odd, curious look on his face that hot, muggy day. The fan oscillated on high, the windows were open wide. We should’ve shut them hours earlier and turned on the air. Trying to stay cool during the “dog days” of August.

Everyone had shorts on at the dinner table, and I wore a sleeveless linen blouse, trying to beat the heat.

Salad, grilled steak tips and watermelon. That was the menu. And a mountain of icy cold watermelon triangles. We loaded our plates, and I shook the salad dressing.

His eyes weren’t necessarily on me, but intently focused on something nearby. And I recognized that same curious look, the smirk in his eye. And I returned to a day months earlier.

I’d picked him up after school as usual.

“How was second grade?”

“Fine.”

“So what’d you do at school today?”

“Nothing.”

“Surely you did something.”

“What we do at school every day. Learn,” he said, disinterestedly.

“So what did you play at recess?”

“Tag.”

“Was it fun?”

“Not really.”

(Sigh.) “The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”

Well, I was under no grand illusion here. I’d run out of questions, and he was obviously out of answers. I settled in for the quiet car ride home.

Halfway home, I checked the rearview mirror and noticed an unusual exercise in progress. His right sleeve was rolled up high, his little arm flexed like a muscle man. His fist pumped furiously back and forth. Simultaneously, his left hand batted at his tricep. He watched intently, quiet glee apparent. It was odd.

“What are you doing honey?”

“Just playing a game.”

“What kind of game,” I persisted. “Does it have a name?”

He stayed focused, flexing and batting. “It’s called Bingo Wings, Mommy.”

Bingo Wings. I’d never heard of a game called Bingo Wings, but I’m not exactly the person to ask. I’m not really a game person. Plus I always lose. I doubted I’d be good at this one either. But I tried connecting anyway.

“So what are the rules? How do you play?”

“Well it’s easier to play if you’re really old. Like forty or a hundred.

First, you put your arm up like this…… and SQUEEEEZE. Make a big fist and turn your wrist back and forth…… just like this.” He demonstrated.

“And THEN…. you watch the hanging skin and fat wiggle and jiggle like jello. See?” He vainly attempted jiggling his taut skin.

“Where’d you learn that?” I asked flatly.

“From Tommy at recess.” (When I was in school we played hopscotch and jumped rope.)

“I don’t think that’s a very nice game,” I said. “And I won’t play.”

Fast forward to the dinner table. He bit a watermelon triangle and stared hard. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. It was written all over his face. Because as I shook the dressing at the table that night, I detected the same curious, gleeful Bingo Wings look. And I just knew.

Well I’m not a hundred years old. (Not yet.) And I’m usually rotten at games. But apparently I’m first rate at Bingo Wings. It’s an effortless game you can play with your eyes closed. There are no game pieces to lose. The rules are “loose”. Play on your own or with a crowd.

It’s gratifying to finally be a winner at the ripe old age of forty-one.

“Look Daddy! Teacher says, Everytime A Bell Rings, an angel gets its wings.”.

It’s a Wonderful Life (Wings aside, it truly is.)

You may also enjoy: Nuts About Her

The post Everytime a bell rings… appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

I find I have many friends who are older more mature than me. This has distinct advantages. Their experience and life wisdom shape my journey, help me avoid major pitfalls. The disadvantage: I hear about the aches, pains, reading glasses, hot flashes in advance. In other words…I KNOW WHAT’S COMING!  (And I’m nervous.)

Hot Flash by allie taylor

The summer I turned forty was in many ways the summer of my life. Among other things, Jon and a dear friend threw me an intimate seaside dinner party. I’ll never forget it.

New Castle Beach, New Hampshire

So many tiny details came together gloriously, including the weather.

A twilight to remember…

And while I’d once thought forty might be the beginning of the end, it’s turned out to be exactly the opposite.

Forty, in many ways, was my beginning.

That same summer, I flew to California and met a lifetime friend for a conference. She lives in Hawaii, so California was the perfect halfway meeting point, though we both had significant flights.

Mine was direct, about six hours. It was nearly midnight, just an hour to go before landing. I was in an aisle seat. My seatmates were both asleep, ear-plugged, breathing heavily. Really, the whole plane was asleep.  (Hopefully not the pilot or co-pilot.) And certainly not me.

Because I was beginning to feel funny. Not ha ha, but odd, strange. I felt nauseous, hot, clammy, dizzy. If you’ve ever blacked out, you know that helpless feeling just prior, your vision fades in and out. I was in a fog. I fought it, inhaling long deep breaths, vainly scrambling for the crucial paper bag customarily provided in seat pockets for such inopportune occasions.

I thought: “Here and now I’m going to throw up. And on someone whose name I don’t even know. (Yet.)  And while they’re sleeping, no less.”  Not how to win friends and influence people. The nausea came in waves, as did the cold sweats. Any second now, I’d be out cold.

And that’s when it came to me.

Maybe, this is IT!!!

They’d told me about it, they’d warned me it was coming. Oh how I wished I’d listened more closely.  Because I wasn’t prepared, and I was all alone, hovering somewhere in outer space above the Mojave Desert…as the change of life extended its’ hungry talons to claim me. I resisted.

Stumbling to my feet, I focused, placed one foot in front of the other, desperately waded through the sea of snoring, nodded heads, that unlike the Red Sea, didn’t part. Balancing myself on the seatbacks as I went, I fumbled to the rear of the plane in search of a flight attendant.

I found her standing at the very back, next to the restroom and an empty seat. Explained my symptoms, fear of blacking out with everyone around me asleep.

She asked questions about my last meal, fluids, etc. Woozy, I collapsed in the empty seat. Wrong move. It was hers.

“Stand up,” she snapped. “That’s for flight attendant use only. It’s the law.”

Perhaps I was hoping for a little compassion? She seemed possessive of that seat. Grasping the handrail, I found my legs, staggered up. Another seeming hot flash enveloped me. I knew I was not long for this world.

In my fog, I heard the word “dehydration.” And “drink more.” This was a pleasant, unexpected development. I brightened. Surely a stiff drink could only help. She handed me a tiny Dixie cup, half full. A scant mouthful. A scant mouthful, of orange juice. Disappointed, I swallowed a mousie sip to please her. Then another.

Slowly…very slowly, I began to improve. I didn’t feel great, but better. Maybe I wasn’t going to black out? Perhaps I wouldn’t throw up on my seat mates? Maybe I wasn’t even going through the change of life after all. Excellent news for me, the sleeping passengers, the crabby flight attendant. (And the janitor.)

I’ll never know if it was dehydration or the change of life.

But just in case. Women, if the change of life attempts to snatch you prematurely, especially while airborne at midnight, RESIST!!! And keep a carton of Tropicana Premium fresh squeezed on hand. I speak from experience, it really does the trick. I’ve felt great ever since.

(As always, consult the advice of a medical professional to see if orange juice may be the right treatment for you.)

Can you relate? Gotta funny story? Share it today!

*New Castle Beach photos courtesy of Lauryn Ortlieb

A funny (true) story: Little Experiment

The post Hot Flash appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.