Philip-Who-Lives-in-a-Trash-Can-at-the-Beach

It is important to say that I work as a receptionist at an Alzehiemer's home.
On my shift today, a young voice calls. He asks if this is an old folks' home and says that he might need to move here. Thinking that this could be a self-placement inquiry, I am professional and respectful. Some old people still have young voices, right?

He starts to tell me about himself.
"My name is Philip. I live at... the beach... in a trash can --" Click!

What??

As soon as he hangs up, I start cracking up. If there was ever a contest for favorite phone calls at work, this would definitely be at the top of the list.



A few hours go by as I'm going through my day and another call comes through. The same young voice as before begins to ask me if this is an "old folks' home" and tells me that he may need to move in. Being suspicious but not wanting to risk being rude, I ask,

"Is this a prank call?" Not super rude, right? I mean, I have to check.

"No," replies the mischievous voice. I hear laughing in the background.

"Do you happen to know Philip who lives in a trash can at the beach?"
More laughter erupts in the background and I kindly accuse the young caller again.

"I'm just calling cuz you sound hot! --" Click!

...And you sound like you're 12 years old.

And that is the end of Philip-who-lives-in-a-trash-can-at-the-beach.

Vroom! Vroom! Scoot! Scoot!

Driving home Sunday afternoon, I noticed a couple of elderly ladies out for a stroll -- in their scooters! They sat at the edge of the busy road in their motorized, red scooters, hands firmly grasping the handlebars, as though ready to dash across in a game of electric chicken. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why they wouldn't go a little further to get to a crosswalk or streetlight. These two grey-haired ladies brought a little sunshine to my drive home looking so serious - as though they were in a race for their lives.

The sight of the pair of them sent my imagination spinning. Were they an aged verson of Thelma & Louise? Out on the road, running from all kinds of trouble & making their own? Would I be adventurous & daring when I was their age? I sure hoped so. Even if, in reality, these ladies weren't  really all that adventurous, but rather lazy & cranky, the scene they painted that day gave me hopes of an exciting future.

Perhaps, when my husband & I are old and grey, we will embark on scooter adventures all around the world. Perhaps we will travel through so many foreign & exotic places that we'll be able to give tours on scooters, scoot-scootin' our way through museums, see-sites, and streets as a trail of young & old scooter friends followed behind us. Perhaps we will smuggle Bibles into China or some other God-unfriendly country on scooter-back and outrun our opponents in our super speedy wheels.

No matter what we do, I know that old age will be a precious time to share with my beloved husband. By that time, what is unclear & uncertain to us will have occurred and passed, and we will enjoy God's fantastic world in the joy of the seasoned years. But though we may tire & our bones ache and crack, we shall always be vivacious & alive, looking towards the excitement of the unknown!

Can you say, "Procrastination"?

Now, I am not a big shopper kinda gal, but I have had this purse for the last two - almost three - years. It's a fantastic purse. It's real leather and it has the exact amount of pockets I need. It's the perfect shade of grey that goes with almost everything I wear, and it's big enough to shove a quart-sized ice cream container in. (Yes, I snuck one into the movies once.)

A little while ago - and by a little, I mean sometime last year - it started falling apart. It started on the inside. First, the top of the inside pocket started to rip. I had to be careful not to shove my wallet in there too quickly or I might stick it into the liner of the purse. That was a little frustrating, but bearable.

Next, somehow a hole developed inside the afflicted pocket. I noticed this because all of my gift cards and loose change started disappearing. When hunting for them, I had to actually shove my had through the liner and retrieve my swallowed valuables, grabbing a handful of dirt & lint along with them. Now, I realize that shoving my hand through the hole in the liner only made it worse, but it really wasn't logical to dump my purse upside down to reclaim what was lost, because I might lose even more in the dumping process.

After all this, I began to think it would be a good idea to get a new purse. Afterall, who wants to dig stuff out of the liner everytime? I thought about it and audibly told myself I need to do it - I even put it on my shopping list - but I always had more important things to do.

I don't know that there is an actual name for it, but those small, short, pointless, straps - similar to the hammer holder on a pair of overalls - attached to the sides of the purse for decoration were the next to fall to the demise of wear and tear. One brad-like connector fell off at a time. I tried to pin it together, just until I got a new purse, but they kept falling off and tearing the leather along the way. Eventually I just ripped most of them off.

Christmas came around and I got a giftcard. It was one of those visa giftcards where you can use it anywhere. A purse was definitely on the giftcard's agenda. I went shopping with a friend and the purse was at the top of my list. But - you guessed it - no purse. I just couldn't find the right one.

So today, I write this to you -- you poor reader, tortured by hopes of new purses, but given only the sad realization of disappointment -- with my more-than-half-dead purse lying pathetically on the floor beside me. Perhaps, one day it will be allowed to retire. But not yet. Until then, my hole-filled, lint-filled, trusty, little bag remains at my side, ever ready to swallow anything I may put inside it.