While the rest of us were getting ready for the new school year, it occurred to my daughter, Dimples, that Wonderbutt might do better in his lessons with improved vision. He hasn’t asked for a locker chandelier, yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
My first day of my Harvard conference, I woke up early to shower and make my legs smooth with my brand new razor purchased during a risky nighttime trek to the local CVS in Harvard Square.
Everything was going well until I attempted to insert my brand new, 24 hour old contact lenses.
The right one was ripped.
I am always prepare for this problem. Every time I travel, I bring an extra pair of contacts. For 20 years, I’ve never needed to use them.
So, for this trip, I decided to shed the .111 ounces that they might weigh, considering my luggage had a weight limit, and I did not bring them.
I have been known to make dumber decisions, unfortunately.
I did however, bring my glasses. Which I never, ever wear in public. Great. My first day to make an impression on the people of Harvard, and I get to walk around looking Mr. Magoo.
Our conference was scheduled to take place at Harvard’s Department of Education. But the group for this session was too big. So, they moved our meeting place.
To the Law School. Harvard Law School.
Our room looks like a set from Legally Blonde.
Just walking into our auditorium made me feel like my I.Q. had risen 25 points.
Until I had to go to the restroom.
I think that there should be a course added to all high schools called, “Toilets of the World.” Because every time I think that I have seen it all in the world of flushing, something else sets me back. And bathroom stalls are not my favorite place to have to learn new things. As far as I am concerned, potty breaks should not require any type of thought.
I am expecting the Harvard Campus Police to escort me from the building any moment for forgetting which way to jiggle the handle.
I just hope they will let me take off my glasses before they take my mugshot.
I’ve decided that my daughter, Dimples, elderly friend, MILlie, and Donald Trump are all conspiring to drive me bonkers. The three of them seem to enjoy having the same darn conversation over and over again…
Dimples: Can I get this hair band for my hair?
Dimples: Why not?
Me: Because you won’t wear it.
Dimples: Yes, I will.
Me: That’s what you said the last three times.
Dimples: No, I didn’t.
Me: Yes, you did. And then I fell for it, and you didn’t wear it.
Dimples: So-o-o, can I get it?
Me: Yeah. No.
Me (to MILlie, our elderly friend): I notice you are wearing your old glasses. As soon as I get out of school, I’ll take you to get the scratch on your new ones fixed.
MILlie: It won’t make a difference. They’re no good.
Me: What do you mean? That was the 5th pair we’ve gotten this year! You said they were good!
MILlie: They don’t work. He didn’t fit them to my eyes.
Me: Of course he fit them to your eyes. He used the prescription you gave him – remember, the one that you went to get on your own because you didn’t like the one that my doctor gave you?
MILlie: They give me a headache.
Me: You said the old ones, the ones you are wearing now, the ones you keep going back to every time we get you a new pair, give you a headache.
MILlie: But I can take these off when I read.
Me: Now, I’m getting a headache.
As for Trump, I’m sending him a box of Dimples’ headbands, since I think he needs them way more than she does. Or, maybe he would like to borrow one of MILlie’s pairs of glasses, so he can take them off when he examines President Obama’s birth certificate for the 798th time. Geez, dude, give it a rest.
Two weeks ago, I took our elderly friend, MILlie, to an optical store. To get new glasses. MILlie did not like the new glasses that we got 6 months ago. So, since the day after we picked up those glasses the second time (because they did not suit her the first time) she has been wearing the ones she vehemently opposed before we ever began this adventure last year.
Despite the fact that I had taken MILlie to an eye doctor in town, she chose to go back to her former eye doctor 2 hours away – the one who had been responsible for the first pair of glasses she hated – to get another prescription. Then, she proceeded to hint to me, not so tactfully, that she needed to get that prescription filled with new glasses.
I polled friends to find out the name of a local place that would meet MILlie’s expectations – something better than the l0w-cost chain store I had taken her to the first time. Finally, one friend gave me a reference. It turned out to be right next door to the eye doctor to which I had taken her. I had initially spurned this place because it looked quite pricey. MILlie used to get her eyeglasses at Sears, and I was pretty sure she could not handle the sticker shock.
When I explained to MILlie that this was the only other place I had heard of in town that had pleased 100% of the customers I had polled (not mentioning that I only knew one customer), but that it was definitely going to cost more for one pair than the two pairs we got 6 months ago, she pondered it for a couple of weeks. Finally, she started to hint that I should take her there.
The new shop is a small “boutique” store with one person, the owner, working. MILlie chose the biggest coke-bottle lenses she could find from the display wall, and told the owner that was what she wanted. He told her that they were too big. She looked at me.
“Uhuh,” I said. “I am not saying anything this time. I gave you my opinion last time, and you ended up hating them.”
The owner persuaded her to try another pair that was slightly smaller. She turned to get my opinion. I shook my head, and pursed my lips stubbornly.
She finally ordered a pair with absolutely no input from me – despite at least three more attempts.
Today, I took her to pick them up. When we arrived, there was another pair of ladies already waiting. The eldest one, when called to the chair where fittings took place, set her glasses down on the table, looked the owner square in the face, and said, “I do NOT like these glasses. I don’t want bifocals. I want one pair of dark ones for driving, and I want another pair for reading.”
Her friend, who looked about 60, turned to me smiling. “Bertie has never been one to mince words.”
I grinned, but inwardly I groaned. I admired Bertie’s honesty, but I was afraid MILlie would, too. If MILlie suddenly decided she wanted two different pairs of glasses instead of the multitasking pair we had originally ordered, I was going to have to give this job to someone else and/or feed her glasses to Wonderbutt.
Bertie tried a new pair of frames, and turned to her friend, who said nothing. Bertie turned back around, and her friend looked at me, smiling with closed mouth as she moved her fingers across her lips. I sensed a bosom buddy.
Finally, Bertie was pleased. Her friend quickly got her own business taken care of, and it was MILlie’s turn. I held my breath for the announcement that she would like to change her glasses.
But the announcement never came. MILlie tried on her new pair, and declared herself satisfied. The entire trip home, she exclaimed about the crispness of the leaves on the trees.
I tried to be hopeful, but that was what she did six months ago…