Last year for my birthday, nestled amongst the gifts from my mom, I received a bar of soap. Now, it was not an ordinary bar of Dove or Irish Spring, but a big, round, lemon-scented bar, made in Italy. It was weighty—feeling about the size of a big Russet when you held it in your hand. It was a nice bar. But, it was soap.
I tucked the bar up in my bathroom closet with my other supplies and, to tell you the truth, I kind of forgot about it.
Then, last week, in an attempt to get Morgan into the shower, I told her, “Morgan, look! I have a brand new bar of lemon soap you can use. It’s from Italy.”
This caught her attention. “Oooohhhhhh,” admired Morgan, shimmying out of her school clothes, now eager to jump into the shower.
Then Peyton came bounding into the bathroom and sniffed the box, still heavy with lemon scent. “Yum!” she said, also admiring the soap. “I’m taking a shower next!”
Later, while Morgan was snuggling with her dad, I overheard her ask, “Dad, do I smell like lemons?”
And a wet-haired Peyton made the effort to tell me, “Mom, that soap is pretty awesome.”
Who knew that my family would be so enamored by a bar of soap?
But here’s the best part: Two days later, the girls and I toodled through Cost Plus looking for an inexpensive birthday gift for Peyton’s teacher. And of course, you know what Peyton wanted to get: A bar of soap.
This little bar has reminded me of the value in the simple things.
Each day, remember the BIG joy that little things can bring:
A thoughtful email.
A good bar of dark chocolate.
A latte.
A hug.
A perfect orange.
A funny card.
A phone call from a friend.
A ten minute nap.
The sun on your face.
And, if you’re lucky,
A bar of soap.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
More Retail Therapy...
A few summers ago Pete and I attended a wedding in Holdrege, Nebraska. On the five hour drive to our destination, we passed metallic grain elevators, tractors, trains, farms, and picturesque dilapidated barns, each an American original. There were fields of sweet corn as far as the eye could see. We don’t drive through Nebraska much, so I enjoyed the trip. Pete enjoyed it too, but for an entirely different reason.
The morning after the wedding dawned gray and gloomy, like a post-party hangover. We ate breakfast, said our goodbyes, and packed up the car. Then Pete announced with a cheeky grin: “We’re going to take a detour on the way home…WE’RE GOING TO CABELLAS!!!!!”
I should have guessed. Since we’ve been married, Pete has wanted to make the pilgrimage to the Cabelas World Headquarters. Despite owning every piece of fishing and hunting gear known to man, he felt he had to go—considering it a male rite of passage—and he glowed with anticipation.
“I’m only going to maybe buy floor mats for my truck, some flies, and some convertible pants,” he said, preshopping the superstore in his mind. This made me chuckle; it was akin to my budgeting/prioritizing before a Nordstrom Half-Yearly sale.
But this was not Nordstrom and I did not share his enthusiasm. Let’s just say, for me, ho-hum was a stretch. As we drove, I tried to concoct reasons to not accompany him into the hunting haven, but by the time we turned into the parking lot, it was a non-issue. We’d gotten into a big fight and he didn’t want my company in the store. He huffed off leaving me to read a paperback on a picnic bench.
What joy!
Well, except for the fight…and except for the fact that I couldn’t read. Just like Disneyland, there was too much to see.
Outside the storefront were boats, cabins, four-wheelers, and tents lined up like ducks. A neighboring pond offered the real thing—geese in abundance. A green water tower with the words “Cabela’s World Headquarters” loomed overhead, with a cabin-style steakhouse on the periphery of the compound. Big trucks of every color and model packed the parking lot.
The men and women shopping were as different as flies and lures. Tandem motorcycle riders drove up decked in black leather, scuffed boots, and sleeveless tees. Cowboys and ranchers came in droves—one carrying an infant in a baby carrier and another with so much facial hair he looked like Rip Van Winkle. Another ol’ Joe, wrinkled and leathery, slowly made his way into the store with oxygen strapped to his wheelchair. There were cowboy hats, camouflage baseball caps, mud-stained boots, and belt buckles the size of Wilbur.
As time passed, each person emerged toting a deep-green bag. When Pete finally surfaced, he also clutched the trophy bag like a child with Halloween loot—and he was a different man than the one who entered the store.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, once again amiable and kind.
“Sure,” I replied.
Ahhh, the power of retail therapy. We always hear how men hate to shop—and maybe some do. I found my husband snoozing in a hammock in the department store when “we” were registering for our wedding, but his Cabelas outing proved that shopping endorphins work for men too; it’s just got to be the right store.
After some lunch we were happily back on the road. As we passed the fields of corn, they became a field of daydreams: I can’t help but hope that when we get into our next big fight we are somewhere in the vicinity of Bloomingdales.
The morning after the wedding dawned gray and gloomy, like a post-party hangover. We ate breakfast, said our goodbyes, and packed up the car. Then Pete announced with a cheeky grin: “We’re going to take a detour on the way home…WE’RE GOING TO CABELLAS!!!!!”
I should have guessed. Since we’ve been married, Pete has wanted to make the pilgrimage to the Cabelas World Headquarters. Despite owning every piece of fishing and hunting gear known to man, he felt he had to go—considering it a male rite of passage—and he glowed with anticipation.
“I’m only going to maybe buy floor mats for my truck, some flies, and some convertible pants,” he said, preshopping the superstore in his mind. This made me chuckle; it was akin to my budgeting/prioritizing before a Nordstrom Half-Yearly sale.
But this was not Nordstrom and I did not share his enthusiasm. Let’s just say, for me, ho-hum was a stretch. As we drove, I tried to concoct reasons to not accompany him into the hunting haven, but by the time we turned into the parking lot, it was a non-issue. We’d gotten into a big fight and he didn’t want my company in the store. He huffed off leaving me to read a paperback on a picnic bench.
What joy!
Well, except for the fight…and except for the fact that I couldn’t read. Just like Disneyland, there was too much to see.
Outside the storefront were boats, cabins, four-wheelers, and tents lined up like ducks. A neighboring pond offered the real thing—geese in abundance. A green water tower with the words “Cabela’s World Headquarters” loomed overhead, with a cabin-style steakhouse on the periphery of the compound. Big trucks of every color and model packed the parking lot.
The men and women shopping were as different as flies and lures. Tandem motorcycle riders drove up decked in black leather, scuffed boots, and sleeveless tees. Cowboys and ranchers came in droves—one carrying an infant in a baby carrier and another with so much facial hair he looked like Rip Van Winkle. Another ol’ Joe, wrinkled and leathery, slowly made his way into the store with oxygen strapped to his wheelchair. There were cowboy hats, camouflage baseball caps, mud-stained boots, and belt buckles the size of Wilbur.
As time passed, each person emerged toting a deep-green bag. When Pete finally surfaced, he also clutched the trophy bag like a child with Halloween loot—and he was a different man than the one who entered the store.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, once again amiable and kind.
“Sure,” I replied.
Ahhh, the power of retail therapy. We always hear how men hate to shop—and maybe some do. I found my husband snoozing in a hammock in the department store when “we” were registering for our wedding, but his Cabelas outing proved that shopping endorphins work for men too; it’s just got to be the right store.
After some lunch we were happily back on the road. As we passed the fields of corn, they became a field of daydreams: I can’t help but hope that when we get into our next big fight we are somewhere in the vicinity of Bloomingdales.
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