My abnormal life

Almost every time I leave the safety of my home, something strange happens to me. For example, last Thanksgiving I bought a large turkey at the local grocery, and because I was planning to stop at my Wal-Mart super center, I placed it in a cooler I had brought from home. I put the cooler in the back of the truck, drove to Wal-Mart, and went into the store. Imagine my surprise when I returned and found the turkey—cooler and all—had been stolen. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t mad, but since the kids were with me, I had to censor my language.

Another time, before Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul was released, my family and I were dining a favorite eatery when John saw a couple of ladies he grew up with. Greetings were exchanged, they sat at a table near us, and pleasant conversation ensued.

“Debbie has a story in Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul,” John said, glancing at me proudly.

“Omigosh! You’re a writer?!,” Friend #1 screeched. I was flattered, but her outburst brought unwanted attention. I felt myself blushing as diners around us stared at me curiously.

“Can we get your autograph?” Friend #2 chimed in.

“Um, I’m not famous,” I muttered, glancing around nervously. The same diners were still staring at me. I contemplated going to the restroom and sneaking out the small window.

“That’s okay, you might be someday. I just want your signature now.” I admit I was touched by this woman’s faith in me. Fame and fortune is not what I seek though.

Given my experiences, you’d think I would have known SOMETHING was going to happen when I went to get my hair cut the other day.

It started normal; a hunky guy washed my hair, and then started to cut it. We chitchatted as he snipped, as soon he asked, “So, what do you do for a living.” I hesitated before I answered; I get mixed reactions when people ask. Some are enthusiastic, like the women I mentioned earlier, and others are scornful.

“I’m a freelance writer.”

“Neat. Writers are a tad eccentric, aren’t they?”

“No, not really,” I replied. “We’re pretty normal.” I thought about the time I poured coffee over my head. “Depending on what you define as normal,” I said quickly. A few minutes later, the cut was completed, and I borrowed their restroom facilities. When I walked out of the restroom, there was an extremely tall woman standing at the counter, smiling, and waving frantically at me. At 5’6 and ¾ inches, I’m not what you consider short, but this woman towered over me.
She looks familiar. I thought. The next few seconds were a blur. “Debbie!” the woman screamed, running towards me. She engulfed me in a huge bear hug, pinning my arms to my side, and began to cry. “I love you!” she screeched. “How the hell are have you been? It’s me, Rosemary!” I felt relieved. This was not some maniac who had randomly selected me to be her next murder victim. It was instead a dear old friend I had lost contact with through the years.

As Rosemary and I left the hair salon, I couldn’t help but think about what was considered normal. For some, an uneventful trip to the store is normal; for me, the abnormal is normal.