The past few years my son and daughter have given me an outdoor hanging flower basket for Mother’s Day. It’s something I look forward to, along with the personal messages they include with my card.

This May the basket was filled with bright fuchsia and yellow petunias spilling over the sides. I love when my baskets become completely covered and the flowers resemble a big ball.

I can see it from my home office window, where I spend most of my time.

As I was deadheading the flowers one day, a little bird flew out and startled me. I also started to find evidence of materials that could be used to build a nest. Then came the bird droppings, which were all over my patio furniture. I grumbled as I cleaned up my favorite chair, the one I like to sit on while sipping a glass of wine.

This bird and I were fighting over possession of this plant. Me wanting to keep it gorgeous and full on the outside while she was trying to make it comfortable and safe for her impending brood on the inside.

Another mother was wanting this hanging basket as much as I did.

Then one day I looked inside and spied two little white eggs.

My heart fluttered. Just like I have two kids, I thought.

In all there would be six babies. And after they hatched, they welcomed each morning with their tiny, constant peeping.

I immediately went into grandma mode. Did they have enough to eat? One day I broke up some old bread into small pieces and set them near the basket. But all that did was attract a large black bird who promptly ate them in two gulps.

The flowers are not as full as I like them. My deadheading system has been modified and when watering I make sure only to do so on the opposite side of the nest so as not to drown the little ones.

But my frustration is no longer there as I look forward to the mama bird’s visits. She sits atop the plant hanger and tweets loudly before disappearing into the color.

I smile as I see the flowers rustling, the mom tending to wide open, hungry mouths. I think of my kids when they were young.

All too quickly, as I know, the babies will soon be gone. I’ll miss them, but mostly I’ll miss their mom.

Afterwards I’ll try to resurrect my plant. But if it doesn’t reach it’s crowning glory I’ll be OK, knowing that its inner beauty was so much more fun this year than its outward one.

Working retail isn’t glamorous. Stinky, belligerent, entitled customers are a pain. I remember from my days working as a Target cashier in my teens and early 20’s.

I remember being in a sulky mood one day and a customer complained to my supervisor that I was rude. Though I had made sure to say hi and thank you their beef was that I didn’t engage in conversation with them. (My RBF – resting bitch face – probably didn’t help.) I was sufficiently scolded by my superior and returned to my register ready to eat crow.

Fast forward to today and I wonder how most teenage “associates,” as they’re now called, would fare getting a similar verbal beating by their manager/team lead/head of customer relations.

Because nowadays, I’m lucky if I get a hi or a thank you. It’s as if cashiers are doing me a favor.

I’m not looking for us to exchange life stories nor do I expect to be escorted to my vehicle as they carry out my purchases.

But something more than “here ya go,” would be nice.

“Here ya go” is not a thank you.

When this happens while shopping with my 16-year-old daughter, she rolls her eyes as we walk out, knowing the inevitable Karen-ish tirade I’ll go on about the importance of customer service.

The other day I was in Ulta, where I get my signature perfume. Instead of a hello I get “What’s your phone number?” No thank you, I said. The look of incredulousness on the cashier’s face combined with a snotty reply of “You don’t want to earn points?” was enough to make my blood boil. I replied no. The deal is, I am here, right now, at this moment, with money to spend. And, points or no points, I will most likely be back in a few months to spend more money.

She sniffed and proceeded with the transaction and, need I even say it – limply handed me my bag with a “here ya go.”

I realize young people are probably more comfortable communicating behind a phone but I’m not wrong in expecting some courtesy.

All I’m asking is to be acknowledged that I am a human being standing in front of them with my wallet open and I’d very much like a hello and, more importantly, a thank you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Target for more righteous indignation.

Addendum:

Went to Jimmy John’s the other day (this time so NOT freaky fast). Sat forever in the drive-thru. The window guy handed me my sandwich (a mere BLT, but whatevs) and blinked at me. “Thanks?” I questioned. His response? “Yep.”

I threw the sandwich back at him.

Kidding. I bitched to myself about it while savoring every bite on the way home.

For some it’s Coach handbags. Others, it’s cheesecake. For my friend Rachel, it’s anything purple.

What really turns me on (besides my husband wearing my underwear)?

Pens.

I always carry a pen with me in my purse or jacket pocket, as it is usually accompanied by a notebook of some sort. As an old lady, if I don’t write something down, whether it’s a story idea or to-do-list task, it’s pretty much forgotten.

Those I carry with me are no ordinary pens. I turn up my nose to skinny hotel pens or ones offered for free at businesses. Equally, they must not be kitschy or whimsical. My pens must have some heft to them.

The pen I carry in my bag should be a statement piece, if you will. It should look like I stole it off a large mahogany desk in an old lawyer’s office. (Said office, of course, would have been bathed in dark leather and two-inch thick carpeting.)

For times I am required to sign in ink for a purchase, and the clerk inevitably pushes a more mortal’s pen towards me, I proudly and snobbishly remove the magic wand from my bag and proclaim:

 “I am a pen person,” and write my name with a flourish.

Ah, Minnesota spring days. The trees are starting to come back to life. The sound of tractors puttering and sputtering can be heard in the distance, preparing the earth for seed. A glass of Pinot Grigio in my hand as I relax on my deck, surrounded by the pretty flower pots my daughter and I planted.

Such a pleasant evening, I think, until brrrrrRRRRRR!!!

Motorcycles.

I get the whole joy of the open road and the wind in your hair (providing you’re not wearing a helmet).

Yes, I know, you have a bike and I know you like to ride it. I know you spent your hard-earned money on buying the thing and your hard-earned time on cleaning and maintaining it. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave, as I feel you must be thinking as you cruise down the freeway Easy Rider-style.

However, not everyone is impressed.

Must you crank on the accelerator (or whatever it is) in neighborhoods where middle-aged women like to enjoy a glass of wine on their decks?

Hey, I’m the first person to say buy what you want. There could be worse hobbies, right? And as far as helmets go, I say you do you. It doesn’t bother me one bit to see someone riding without one. Heck, I occasionally drive the two blocks to the school I work at without a seatbelt on.

But just tone it down a bit, buddy. I live in the ‘burbs, not Sturgis.

It’s 8:35 p.m.

I’m sitting outside with a cold beer, a good book, and my phone.

No mosquitoes, no wind.

This is why I live in Minnesota.

No, you want to help and you want attention.

“I just want to help,” you hear people say.  Or, “I just want a little attention.”

It just sounds much more powerful. Or, should I say – it sounds more powerful.

The sheepish, eyes downcast, body swaying language the word “just” projects is one of a person who is unsure, insecure, not confident.

I’ve found myself over the years deleting the word “just” from my vocabulary, most especially in my work correspondences.

Before, I would start an email with “I just wanted to check in and see if you need any parts from us.” It’s good to touch base with customers, of course. However, a much better, more direct and impactful way is “I hope you are doing well. Are there any parts you are currently looking for?”

Using “just” makes your question or request seem like a small thing, a trifle. It also, if you really think about it, can be implied as you, the sender, feels obliged to ask but are not that interested in the answer.

My texts with family and friends have changed, as well. Instead of “Just checking to see how you are…”, I try for “How are you doing?” It lets my loved ones know I care about them and want a straight reply.

Saying the word “just” smacks of self-sacrifice, as if you are saying “I just want to do this but if you don’t want me to or are offended by it, well then, OK..” (The thought process me and my fellow Minnesotans are guilty of on a daily basis, mind you.)

So*, in conclusion, take my advice – say no to just, instead of just saying no.

*Usage lesson for another day – the word “so.”

No, you want to help and you want attention.

“I just want to help,” you hear people say.  Or, “I just want a little attention.”

It just sounds much more powerful. Or, should I say – it sounds more powerful.

The sheepish, eyes downcast, body swaying language the word “just” projects is one of a person who is unsure, insecure, not confident.

I’ve found myself over the years deleting the word “just” from my vocabulary, most especially in my work correspondences.

Before, I would start an email with “I just wanted to check in and see if you need any parts from us.” It’s good to touch base with customers, of course. However, a much better, more direct and impactful way is “I hope you are doing well. Are there any parts you are currently looking for?”

Using “just” makes your question or request seem like a small thing, a trifle. It also, if you really think about it, can be implied as you, the sender, feels obliged to ask but are not that interested in the answer.

My texts with family and friends have changed, as well. Instead of “Just checking to see how you are…”, I try for “How are you doing?” It lets my loved ones know I care about them and want a straight reply.

Saying the word “just” smacks of self-sacrifice, as if you are saying “I just want to do this but if you don’t want me to or are offended by it, well then, OK..” (The thought process me and my fellow Minnesotans are guilty of on a daily basis, mind you.)

So*, in conclusion, take my advice – say no to just, instead of just saying no.

*Usage lesson for another day – the word “so.”

The possible “death of the handshake” was the subject of an article I saw today. I haven’t read it yet, but it made me consider the notion.

The best memory of a handshake I have isn’t mine. It isn’t even one I witnessed. Somewhere, decades ago actually, in the depth of my brain, I recalled reading about a handshake between Clint Eastwood and the head of Warner Bros. It was over this unwritten union of clasped hands that Eastwood agreed to make Warner his home studio. I found it incredible and thought it sounded more like how Charles Ingalls would have done things back in the “olden” days instead of a larger-than-life movie star in the mid-’70’s.

It spoke of loyalty and absolute trust.

I learned early on a handshake got you noticed. The first time I shook a man’s hand firmly I got enough of a reaction to make sure I always do it that way. I don’t have an intimidating demeanor, however a direct look in their eye and a solid shake lets people know I acknowledge them and I’m present.

Once the handshake goes, what will follow? Hugs? Some people – several I know personally – don’t have parents, spouses, or kids. A hug from a friend, or a handshake at the least, may be the only human touch they occasionally receive.

I suppose an elbow nudge may have to now do the trick. However, I put my foot down – quite literally – to the toe tap.

Why would I invite someone to step on my Ralph Lauren suede ankle boots?

I love the everyday-ness of life – opening the blinds in the morning, smelling the hot coffee brewing, chaining up and letting the dog outside. I love changing into jams in the evening. Saying goodnight and I love you and Jesus loves you to my kids. Locking up all the doors, knowing I’m going to be comfy in my bed with my fluffy pillows and thick blankets and reading for a few quiet, blessed minutes, all the while knowing my husband, kids, and pups are safe.

I’ve taken advantage of my kids getting older – sleeping in til 8:30 a.m., day drinking, and sleeping without a shirt on.

Now that the evenings of endless, albeit fun, sports and activities have waned and the kids want to spend more time with their friends, my husband’s and my schedules have opened up. One benefit is I’ve found I want to connect with my extended family more.

I come from good Catholic Minnesota farmer stock. My father has eight siblings on his side and my mother has seven. I had 23 cousins on my dad’s side (me the oldest and a good two decades between me and the youngest) and we in turn spawned another two dozen chitlins.

Us older cousins ran around our grandparents’ playing games and forming “clubs,” ones that would only convene three times a year at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. As I got older and more children were added to the clan I always joked that if any of the younger ones walked by me on the street (and let’s face it about that line – who really is ever walking down a street, especially since 90-percent of us Minnesotans drive everywhere) but because of the huge difference in age I wouldn’t recognize any of them let alone remember their names.

A year ago I thought it all should change.

Dreaming up a reunion of sorts, I took to organizing an all-cousin happy hour. What could be better than mixing young and old with a wine, craft beers, and shared flatbread?

Last night was our third gathering. And it was amazing.

Spouses and SO’s are invited, as well, and one cousin – 30-something Johnny, brought his 7-month-old. I got to hold a second cousin (or is it first cousin once removed?? I NEVER understand that shit) but I had to fight my (first) cousin Mark for him. Happiness, anyone??

Oh, and we do invite our Aunt Lana, the only girl of my dad’s siblings to our events and the only one of the above generation allowed to attend. In her former lives Lana was a nun and later a nanny for a high-profile race car driver out east. Since our own grandmother and matriarch of the family passed awday several years ago, Lana has taken to be the pseudo-Nana, sending out birthday, Valentine, and Halloween cards to us, the cousins, and now, the grand-cousins, with the requisite crisp $1 bill tucked inside.

Next step: What’s even better than one generation coming together? Getting the next – my kids and cousins’ kids – in on the mix(ed drinks).

Aunt Arlene. Great aunt, actually, and in every sense – my mother’s aunt as well as an exceptional person.

She was the quintessential mid-century Midwestern homemaker. A devout Catholic and stay-at-home mother of seven children, she took pride in her sewing, cooking, baking, and church volunteerism.

Married to the same man, great uncle Jim, for 57 years, Arlene filled each of their successive homes with comfortable furnishings and endless knickknacks. She hosted family gatherings with a perpetual smile on her face – and meant it.

I visited her days before she passed from cancer almost a decade ago. She was what you’d say “still with it,” right up until the end. Bravely and with few tears, she told me she lived a happy life. She told me about a drive she recently went on with Jim a few weeks prior.

“Boy you sure do notice the trees,” she said.

Cliche? No, just honest. And heart achingly real.

In Minnesota we’re blessed with four distinct seasons. There are huge looming trees in thick green bloom in June and bare brown trees covered in winter white frost in December.

As I stepped outside my door this morning, I looked at the trees. All of them were glistening in a winter white frost, a landscape straight out of Disney’s Frozen.

I looked at them for Arlene. I looked at them for me.