Third Act With Pattie

Tag: travel

  • Sassy Goes to the Cell Phone Store…Almost

    Sassy Goes to the Cell Phone Store…Almost

    Y’all, I do not understand humans.

    The cell phone store convinces them they needed newer phones…

    and then convinces them I wasn’t allowed inside.

    What the wagging tail is that about?

    So here’s what happened.

    A few days ago, we went to the cell phone store. Me, Mama, and my great niece.

    Well.
    They went.

    I was informed — very rudely, I might add — that I was “not allowed inside this location.”

    Interesting.

    Because last time I went to the cell phone store, everyone acted like I was a celebrity.

    There were pets and scratches and at least three people telling me I was “a Very Good Girl,” which, frankly, should have earned me store membership privileges for life.

    But suddenly:
    “No dogs allowed.”

    Excuse me?

    I have been to Home Depot.
    Lowe’s.
    TJ Max – oh I love TJ Max.
    Wally World.
    The bank.
    And once, against my better judgment, Hobby Lobby.

    But apparently the cell phone people have other standards now.

    So I waited in the car.

    Now before anyone gets dramatic:

    Mama leaves the air running.

    Sometimes the windows are cracked too so I can supervise the parking lot and monitor important neighborhood smells.

    And let me tell you something.

    Humans are WEIRD around dogs in cars.

    Every single person walking by looked at me like I was either:

    1. deeply oppressed,
    2. preparing a jailbreak,
      or
    3. about to give an interview about unsafe working conditions.

    Ma’am.

    I am lying on a cooled leather seat covered in soft cozy blankets

     Grooving to smooth jazz

    with climate control and

    unrestricted access to french fry smells,

    Honey, I am fine.

    Meanwhile, inside the store, the Younger Humans were apparently looking at phones.

    Again.

    Apparently the one they already had — the glowing rectangle they’ve been emotionally attached to for eleven straight months — is suddenly unacceptable because this rectangle has “better cameras” and “more storage.”

    Every year humans convince themselves the newest phone will somehow change their lives.

    And every year they still walk into poles while texting.

    I simply do not understand this generation’s emotional attachment to rectangles.

    They stare at them constantly.
    They carry them everywhere.
    They panic if they lose one for eleven seconds.
    And according to Mama, they use them to “leave messages for friends.”

    Which seems unnecessarily complicated.

    Why type paragraphs into glowing rectangles when you could just eave pee mail like civilized creatures?

    And do not even get me started on talking into the thing.

    Every time Daddy calls Mama, he says:
    “Put Sassy on the phone.”

    Dude.

    I do not understand the expectations here.

    I hear him doing the sweet talk:
    “Hiiiiii Sassy girl…”
    “Whatcha doin’?”
    “Are you being good?”

    Meanwhile I am sitting there staring at the phone like:
    …what exactly is my role in this conversation?

    Am I supposed to discuss neighborhood squirrels?
    Give updates on my snack schedule?
    Review the quality of the blankets in the back seat?

    Honestly, the entire system feels very disorganized.

    Finally,  

    and this is the last thing I’m going to say about these phones,

    why is everyone always looking down now?

    Nobody is paying attention anymore.

    A squirrel could launch an entire criminal enterprise in the parking lot, and these people would miss it because they’re busy poking glowing rectangles with their thumbs.

    Meanwhile, from my perfectly climate-controlled observation post, I noticed:
    three spilled drinks,
    a suspicious pigeon,
    a toddler covered in cracker residue,
    two unattended shopping carts,
    and a lady carrying Chick-fil-A.

    I am not saying I was the only responsible adult in that parking lot.

    But honestly, at this point, I feel like I carried the entire surveillance operation by myself.

    🐾 Sassy

    P.S. Today we went to TJ Maxx and Hobby Lobby. They had no concerns about my presence whatsoever.

    Funny how that works. 🐾

  • Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    Packing for Inflammation Instead of Nightlife

    As you know, hubby and I went away for a long weekend a few weeks ago . We had such a wonderful time with great friends.

    So this is not about that.

    What this is about…

    Is slightly alarming.

    Have you ever thought about packing to go on a trip?

    Of course you have.

    If you’ve ever gone anywhere overnight, you’ve thought about what to pack.

    For decades I have filled my suitcase – ok suitcases – with at least two outfits for each day.

    Because a girl never really knows who she is going to be on vacation.

    Will I feel all frilly and dressy?

    Will I want to give casual but effortlessly put together?

    Will I suddenly become someone who wears linen?

    Who knows?

    And of course there were matching undergarments for each outfit.

    And shoes

    Matching shoes.  Beautiful shoes.

    The kind clearly designed by people who hate women.

    And selfie worthy accessories:

    Jewelry, big colorful matching sunglasses, belts, coordinated lipsticks.

    And one wrinkled hoodie with loose soft lounge pants…

    for emotion support or… hangover recovery.

    And hubby packed the same way.  

    Not with the same precision and purpose,

    obviously.

    But still:

    this shirt goes with those pants,

    that require this coordinated belt,

    those shoes

    one dressy, one casual, because he is, after all, a man —

    And matching socks.

    Repeat for every day.

    Then add backup options.

    Back then we packed for:

    Possibilities,

    Aesthetics,

    Bad decisions,

    And absolutely nothing related to comfort.

    Now that we are both in our sixties and “semi-retired”…

    I’ve noticed a shift…

    A seismic shift.

    No more stylin’ and profilin.’

    No more “who will I be today?”

    No more shoes specifically designed for maximum discomfort.

    These days?

     Comfort is the new cute.

    And honestly…

    I regret nothing.

    At some point in life vacations became less about fearless adventure

    And more about sustainable adventure…

    with adequate support.

    Now we travel with:

    comfortable clothes,

    comfortable shoes,

    and one slightly dressier outfit that still has to work with comfortable shoes.

    Somewhere along the way, our luggage stopped giving vacation night life…

    and started giving disaster preparedness training.

    An entire section of each suitcase is dedicated to supplements:

    Magnesium,

    Vitamin C,

    Vitamins D and K
    (apparently they travel better together),

    this for hair,

    that for joints,

    and multiple items devoted to what can only be described as “digestive negotiations.”

    Mine are sorted into tiny, labeled baggies, because apparently my memory occasionally reboots without warning.

    Hubby’s are organized in one of those giant round pill dispensers that looks less like vacation prep and more like a weeklong hostage situation. 

    And of course, acetaminophen.   Lots of acetaminophen in its own family-sized bottle.

    And somehow…

    despite all of this preparation…

    one of us still forgot their extra emergency underwear.

    Apparently even disaster preparedness has its limits.

    However, we did remember:

    special pillows,

    travel socks,

    comfortable shoes,

    and enough supplements to stabilize a small rural community. 

    At that point, looking at our luggage, I realized we had not packed for a four-day weekend.

    We packed like settlers crossing dangerous territory. 

    Just one digestive issue away from circling the wagons.

    What is the deal with old-er people and their special pillows?

    There was a time in my life when I could sleep anywhere:

    on the floor,

    squeezed two  to a sofa,

    half hanging off a motel bed,

    or sitting upright in a car with one shoe in my lap (don’t ask).  

    Now?

    If my neck angle is wrong for six minutes, I need a massage.

    And the socks.

    Why do we now have travel-specific socks?

    Not cute socks.

    Not fashionable socks.

    Supportive socks.

    Socks engineered by orthopedic scientists and..

    probably Lucifer.

    Honestly, the entire trip could collapse into chaos, but if hubby’s feet and ankles feel supported, the man becomes nearly indestructible.

    I think that’s how you know you’re getting older.

    You stop packing for possibilities…

    and start packing for recovery.

    Not because the adventure is over.

    Just because you’d like to enjoy it when you get there.

    So if you’ve started noticing your own packing evolution…

    If you now pack for inflammation instead of night life…

    If your suitcase contains enough supplements to alarm TSA…

    Welcome to The Third Act.

    Pull up a chair.

    But not one that’s too low to the ground.

    -Pattie

    If you’re enjoying these stories from my Third Act — the adventures, the chaos, the questionable decisions, and apparently now… the orthopedic travel phase 😂 — I’d love for you to subscribe. (You can do that now without registering for WordPress.)

    And if you already travel with your own pillow or a suspicious number of supplements…

    trust me.

    You’re among friends.

  • 🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    I would first like the record to reflect that the parents left me behind.

    Again.

    Discarded while they wandered off on what I assume was a completely unnecessary vacation involving restaurants that don’t allow dogs and beds that probably weren’t even properly covered in fur.

    I think it’s important to report the facts.

    The parents insist on calling the place they leave me “the farm.”

    First of all…

    it is NOT a farm.

    The way the parents say it, you’d think we were out there being free-range harvested.

    Frankly, their branding is terrible.

    This place is so much better than a farm.

    We call it:
    being on campus.

    Because this place was very clearly designed specifically for dogs.

    Finally.

    Someone with vision.

    We have our own house.

    Not a kennel.
    Not a shed.
    Not one of those sad little concrete situations where everyone slowly loses the will to live.

    There are fields and meadows, and woodsy areas, and…

    A HOUSE.

    A big house.
    Like two-legged people houses.

    Except cleaner and emotionally better regulated.

    There are leather couches.
    A fireplace.
    A kitchen.

    Of course, we have staff to prepare the meals because none of us have thumbs…               and frankly that feels like a design flaw we should address as a species.

    There are also outdoor recreation areas, structured activities, enrichment programs, leadership development, and ongoing educational opportunities.

    Mama calls it “training.”

    That is adorable.

    This is higher education.

    I arrived fully prepared to carry the burden of abandonment with dignity, restraint, and just enough sadness to make everyone uncomfortable.

    Emotional discipline is important.

    Instead…

    The Boxer was there.

    Tiny White Floof had already positioned herself on the couch like a tiny retired queen judging the entire campus.

    Mr. Golden Retriever Class President was once again running around greeting everyone like an unpaid cruise director fueled entirely by optimism.

    Then there was the doodle.

    There is always a doodle.

    This one looked like he had consumed three energy drinks and half a motivational podcast before breakfast.

    Honestly, things escalated quickly.

    There was running.
    There was training.
    There were organized social activities.

    At one point, I became so involved in campus life that I briefly forgot I had parents.

    In my defense, there was a lot going on.

    The faculty did not help matters.

    Apparently I was “a very good girl.”

    Repeatedly.

    Frankly, I found the entire thing manipulative.

    Effective.
    But manipulative.

    Time moves differently on campus.  

    One minute you’re being abandoned by your family.

    The next minute you’re supervising outdoor activities and helping maintain doodle stability.

    Then suddenly it was time to go home.

    Apparently, Mama expected some sort of emotional reunion scene when she returned.

    Probably tears.

    Possibly dramatic whining.

    Maybe me launching myself into her arms while soft music played in the background.

    Honestly, she may have built the whole thing up in her head.

    Instead, I was outside managing a rapidly escalating doodle situation.

    Frankly, the campus was one poorly timed squirrel away from complete disorder.

    It was not an appropriate moment for emotional reunions.

    Plus, I have my pride.

    Now to be clear…

    I DID miss them.

    Usually during brief quiet moments between activities.

    Or when nobody was actively throwing something.

    But overall, I adjusted extremely well to campus life.

    Mama always tells people:
    “Sassy LOVES going to the farm!”

    This is an outrageous oversimplification.

    What I love is:
    structure,
    leadership opportunities,
    my friends,
    and whatever magical system they have in place that results in twenty dogs behaving better than one Daddy trying to grill hamburgers.

    Also naps in the sun.

    I love those too.

    By the time they got me home, I was exhausted in the deeply satisfying way one becomes exhausted after a successful semester away.

    I slept the entire evening.

    At one point Mama checked to make sure I was still breathing..

    which honestly felt over-dramatic.

    Then the next morning, Mama casually used the word “campus” in conversation, and I would like it officially noted that I was standing at the front door with one toy, two emotional support tennis balls, and complete emotional readiness before she finished the sentence.

    Purely precautionary.

    Leadership is a responsibility, not a hobby

    — Sassy 🐾

    Off the record…

    Hey girl…

    I know your parents left you while they went somewhere with my parents.

    I wish you’d been at my campus this weekend. We could’ve used another very good girl.

    Did your weekend get this wild too?

  • I Owe That Stick an Apology

    I Owe That Stick an Apology

    A few days ago, I told you all about the snake…
    OK – the stick.

    Apparently that was just the rehearsal.

    So yes. It was not a snake.
    I overreacted.
    I do that sometimes.

    But never—never—in my wildest, most dramatic, slightly exaggerated imagination
    did I expect to be corrected that quickly.

    Today, hubby and I had just made it back to the lake after a highly glamorous “load random stuff into the truck at the city house” excursion.

    We pull in.
    Park the truck.
    I hop out to throw away our mobile lunch trash like the productive, responsible adult I occasionally pretend to be.

    I round the corner to the back of the house…

    …and there it is.

    Coiled.
    Right by the garbage can.
    Just sitting there… waiting… for me.

    A snake.
    A real snake.
    A big, fat, long, brown snake.

    And I did what any calm, measured, rational woman would do.

    I froze completely…
    and screamed at the exact same time:

    SNAKE! SNAKE! SNAKE!

    Hubby?
    Near the truck. No response.

    Middle S’kiddle and friend?
    On the deck. No response.

    Neighbors?
    On their porch. Watching the lake. Living their best lives.
    Also no response.

    Excuse me.

    Still frozen in place—because apparently my body chose statue mode over survival mode—
    I tried again, hissing out:

    S—N—A—K—E!

    Nothing.
    Not a twitch.
    Not a “what’s wrong?”
    Not even a courtesy head turn.

    At this point, it became painfully clear…

    I was now the woman who cried wolf.
    Except the wolf was now very clearly a REAL SNAKE.
    And I had no credibility left.

    So I yelled again, something along the lines of:

    “Everybody in this cove can hear me screaming SNAKE and y’all are just going to ignore me?!”

    Which felt fair.
    And accurate.
    And possibly a little loud.

    Eventually, hubby wandered over—casually—like I had called him to admire a sunset.

    Middle S’kiddle came closer too.

    And when I said, with urgency and dignity,
    “It’s a SNAKE,”

    they both did that little backward step.

    Oh NOW we’re listening.

    Good.

    Now that I had their attention I explained- very clearly— that this was not a stick situation.

    This was a real, actual, confirmed snake,
    and it had slithered itself right behind the Herbie-Kerbie on wheels… like it lived there.

    Still… skepticism.

    Because apparently once you misidentify a stick one time, your word is forever suspect.

    So now their doing a full investigation.
    Everyone has to come see it with their own eyes.
    Like a jury viewing evidence.

    Meanwhile, I have not moved.
    Not an inch.
    Still yelling some version of “snake” on a loop.

    And then…

    Hubby sees it.

    Pauses.

    And says the words that restored my dignity:

    “Yeah… that is a snake.”

    WELL.
    I’LL.
    BE.

    From there, hubby did what all good hubbies do.

    He handled the situation.

    Efficiently.
    Heroically.
    Without me having to participate in any way whatsoever.

    Which is exactly how I like my wildlife encounters resolved.

    So yes.

    I confused a stick for a snake.

    And then I spotted an actual snake…

    and was ignored by everyone within shouting distance.

    I would like the record to reflect:

    I was right the second time.

    Which is the one that mattered.

    Pull up a chair… just not near the trash can.

    -Pattie

  • Not Today Gravity

    Not Today Gravity

    Hubby and I are on a weekend trip with friends.

    Yes, I know.

    We are in the middle of managing two houses, packing one, moving into another, and generally living in a state best described as “controlled chaos.”

    So naturally…
    we ran away for the weekend to make life easier.

    Solid plan. No notes.

    It’s day one, and I’ve already gathered material.

    Because if there is one thing I bring to any trip—besides snacks and mild sarcasm—it’s my lifelong commitment to falling.

    Not metaphorically.

    Physically.
    Spectacularly.
    With range.

    I am what you might call… an expert faller.

    Trip-over-air, fall-on-my-face, recover-like-nothing-happened kind of faller.

    I have fallen a lot. In some truly bizarre ways.
    And somehow? The worst of it has been scratches, bruises… and my pride.

    Olympic-level.

    Gold medal. No question.

    Now, let’s talk about the equipment I’m working with.

    I am under five feet tall.
    A grandiose height that I reached… in seventh grade.

    Short arms.
    Tiny hands.
    Little bitty feet.

    Song in your head? Welcome to my daily life.

    And then Mother Nature said, “You know what would really tie this together?”

    And added… hips, thighs, and a center of gravity that… gets involved.

    So essentially…

    I am built like a Tyrannosaurus rex – better hair, worse balance.

    So the falling?

    Not a phase.
    A lifestyle.

    My first truly memorable public humiliation was at sixteen.

    I was attempting—keyword attempting—to walk into a golf pro shop.

    My tiny foot caught the door ledge. Maybe. And I launched myself headfirst into the building like I’d been fired out of a cannon.

    As I scrambled up, praying no one noticed, an older “gentleman” announced:

    “Some people. You can dress ’em up, but you just can’t carry ’em anywhere.”

    I did what any strong, confident teenage girl would do.

    I went and sat in the car while everyone else played golf…and sat there red-faced sucking back tears.

    Injury report:
    One bruised ego. No physical damage.

    Future me: gravity gets the fall. Not the tears.

    Then there was the pregnancy fall.

    Very pregnant.
    Waddling laps in the mall like that baby and I were in negotiations.

    No slippery floor.
    No misstep.
    No warning.

    Just… boom.

    Flat on my backside.

    A crowd gathered immediately, because nothing draws attention like a pregnant woman hitting the ground in public.

    And without missing a beat, I told them:

    “The baby kicked really hard and startled me.”

    That child stayed put for three more weeks.

    Coincidence?
    I think not.

    And so it went.

    Decades of falls.

    Fast. Slow. Heels. Flats. Paying attention. Not paying attention.

    Didn’t matter.

    Gravity and I have a relationship.

    At some point, I stopped fighting it.

    I started leaning into the fall—literally.

    Roll with it. Break it. Pop back up.

    Smile like I meant to do that.

    By the time I met Hubby, I was already competing at an elite level.

    Now that I’m older, people like to blame my age.

    Or the chemo.

    Or “just being careful.”

    Do I correct them and explain that I am structurally designed like a top-heavy dinosaur with trust issues?

    No.

    I let people believe what makes them comfortable. I’m considerate like that.

    My last official fall was two months ago.

    Senior Walk at prom.

    Sidewalk.
    Crowd of parents.
    Maximum audience.

    One minute I’m walking…
    the next minute I’m not.

    Down.

    Concrete.

    Hands and knees took the hit.

    No injuries.

    Absolute perfection.

    Gold medal performance.

    And then…

    today happened.

    We were walking down a crowded sidewalk in a new town.

    Cute shops.
    People everywhere.
    Hanging baskets of flowers that looked like they had their own Instagram manager.

    I was being careful. Focused. Aware.

    I saw it.

    A bright red fire hydrant. Directly in my path.

    At the exact same moment… I saw the flowers hanging above.

    So I told myself:
    “Stop. Look at the flowers.”

    And my brain said:
    “Great idea.”

    And my feet said:
    “We’re gonna keep going.”

    I walked directly into the fire hydrant.

    Full commitment. No hesitation.

    Sharp hit to the thighs. Momentum forward.

    And then…

    something miraculous happened.

    I teetered. I rocked.

    Time slowed.

    I could feel the fall coming— the familiar, inevitable descent into another gold medal moment.

    And then…

    I DID NOT FALL.

    At least 1,999 absolutely committed falls flashed before my eyes – like a highlight reel… career highlights.

    And somehow…

    I stuck the landing. Nailed it.

    For the first time in sixty-nine years…

    I almost fell—

    and didn’t.

    Now, I could tell you this is about balance.

    Or growth. Or awareness. Or aging gracefully.

    But let’s not get carried away.

    I’m choosing to believe it’s the shoes.

    Barefoot shoes.

    Not wisdom.
    Not evolution.
    Not inner peace.

    Footwear.

    So here’s what I know:

    I have spent a lifetime falling.

    Getting up.
    Laughing it off.
    Pretending I meant to do that.

    But today?

    I didn’t fall.

    Which means one of two things:

    Either I have finally evolved…

    or this is just the setup
    for the most spectacular, career-ending, gold-medal, slow-motion fall
    of my entire life.

    Honestly?

    Based on my track record…

    I’d stay tuned.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    As I was writing this, Hubby – very lovingly, of course -asked if I included:

    The fall in Nashville.
    The fall in Key West.
    The fall in the airport.
    The fall in—well, everywhere.

    I told him I’m writing a blog.

    Not War and Peace.

    Subscribe so you’ll know when it’s a fall… and when it’s not. Apparently, that matters now.