Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal

Doo Happens

Mickie McGee

Did you ever have one of those days that ends up being, as they say, “a total waste of makeup?”

Mine was today.

To start it out, I washed a brand new dress shirt of hubby’s with an equally new Bic ballpoint pen in its pocket. The once pale blue oxford is now a tie-dyed mixture of blue, black, and gray with a hint of violet encircling the top three buttons.

For my next trick, I somehow managed to cut up an entire cantelope, then knock all eight slices into the garbage can, trying to right myself after sliding on an errant ice cube. (I don’t make this stuff up.)

Recovering my composure, I pondered whether or not to scoop the discarded fruit out of the trash and give it a rinse (I opted to let it lie), fixed myself a piece of toast, and proceeded to tidy up the house. Finished inside, I took the broom and headed out the door to sweep the carport.

At the foot of the steps a few scraps of material caught my eye as did our new pup, Pudge, who looked guilty as sin for some reason. The material in question turned out to be my new Vera Bradley eyeglass case ... minus my new prescription glasses ... two pair, in fact.

I threw down the broom, snatched up the tattered case, screamed something I would have never said had we actually lived near civilization, then headed for the dog who by then had taken refuge in the middle of my petunia bed.

In a downpour of rain, clad in my plaid flannel robe, black socks, and white tennis shoes, I ran up and down the drive in search of my glasses, muttering and sobbing all along the way. Had anyone seen me at that point I’m quite certain I would be writing this particular column inside a room with barred windows, Nurse Ratchet at my side trying to coax me into eating a plate full of gruel.

I searched for a good twenty minutes, then gave up hope when I spied, by the fence at the edge of the drive, my mangled sunglasses glistening atop a fresh, though rain-soaked, mound of cow doo. I did not retrieve them. Yes, dear hearts, there are some things even I won’t do.

Drenched and dejected, I came inside and made myself a cup of hot chocolate and tried to regain my composure. I remembered that I had an old pair of glasses and decided to call Dr. McQuaig, my eye doctor, to see if I could have the lens in those updated.

“Of course,” the girl at the office said, “bring them on in as soon as you can and we’ll see if we can fix them today.”

I took a hot bath, laid out my clothes, plugged in my curling iron, and readied myself for the trip to Thomson. Towel dried, I brushed through my tangled hair, picked up the curling iron, portioned off sections at a time, and twisted each one until my entire head was a mass of curls, with only my bangs to go.

Just then the phone rang and as I reached for it, the curling iron slipped and for a second I thought I’d gone blind and that my head was on fire. I looked in the mirror and I had branded a two-inch square into the flesh of my forehead. My skin was still steaming when I dropped the phone and went screaming to the kitchen for some ice.

I sat for half an hour with an ice compress on my head, wondering who had been on the phone and, more importantly, just at what point had I gone wrong that morning. I finally concluded that it was in waking up at all.

Toward noon I was feeling some better and decided to brave the pain, fix my face, and head on to Thomson. Standing at the bathroom mirror, I flipped on the light and was absolutely horrified. There was this huge ugly red mark in the shape of Kentucky right smack in the middle of my forehead!

I looked for all the world like Mikhail Gorbachev.

Trying as best I could to cover the offending mark with make-up, I vowed to make the best of what was left of my day, took a pain pill, and left the house. Things could be worse, I told myself riding down the road. I could have been without glasses at all. I could have tie-dyed hubby’s skivvies. I could have slipped on the ice and broken an arm or a leg. I could have caught my hair on fire. I could have been committed.

Looking back on my wild morning I’m thankful just to be alive. The red mark on my forehead will heal. It’s not as if it were permanent like Gorby’s. It’s not as if I had 666 tattooed there for goodness sake.

But then again, the day’s not over yet.
And with my luck….


Mickie McGee is a Southern born and bred female, raised in a small town forty miles north of Augusta, Georgia. She has been married to a John Deere "veteran" for thirty-eight years and has two grown sons. Her childhood was chocked full of exciting, sometimes traumatic, events and thus, her penchant for writing about them. She writes a personal column,"Dear Hearts," in her weekly hometown paper and, at last count, had written some 340 of them. As far as she's concerned, one can only write (that is, with any passion) of what one has experienced, and she has experienced quite a lot in her half a century of living, and she gets a thrill each and every time a reader gushes, "I've been there, done that!"

© Mickie McGee

Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal ISSN 1554-8449, Copyright © 2004-2012