Yesterday afternoon, while texting with my recently widowed aunt, it seemed to me, that my aunt seemed to be a good bit cheerier than I did, which prompted some kind of deep-rooted shame in me (plus I had a really bad, tossy-turny sleep, the night before) and it started a big, red flag to wave frantically in my mind. At this moment, it became clear to me that I needed an outing. I showered (much needed) and I actually dressed up. I cleaned up nicely. I put on interesting high-heeled wedges which I have hardly ever worn, which ended up paying off later, with a very nice, sincere compliment, from a cute young lady who had a nice, crisp, confident style about her. So who cares that my feet still hurt today from the shoes I wore yesterday? As the old SNL saying goes, “It’s not how you feel, it’s how you look.” I take great pride in my shoe collection. My husband often says that all that he needs to do in order to keep me happy, is to keep me stock full, with puppies and shoes. I drove my convertible with the top down, despite it being ninety-five degrees out. I kept the air conditioning and the stereo cranked. My hair stylist is frustrated that I don’t wear hats more in the summer because she always ends up with a big, brassy mess/nest to contend with, when I finally roll into the shop, usually two weeks too late. I noticed, in the rearview mirror, that I will be getting another tongue lashing from her, next visit. I headed out to an adorably, quaint beach town not too far from my home and perused a few lovely, little gift shops, usually mostly filled with deeply rested and happy tourists, but yesterday, attendance was sparse. One of my other aunts once told me that she made a point of doing all of her gift shopping in her local beach town shops, after Superstorm Sandy wreaked havoc, as a way to support the local community and to keep the shops afloat. I like that altruistic idea, so I made a point to buy a trinket in every shop that I went into, for a little retail therapy for me, doused with some uplift for my community. In one shop, there was this ruffled looking, fluffy, little hen of a dog, who seemed oblivious to me. That got on my nerves. Dogs usually love me. It turns out that the dog’s name was Olivia and after a full five minutes of completely ignoring my high-toned chirping at her, she finally acknowledged my presence and rolled over on to her back, giving me the high honor and the ultimate privilege, of giving her a belly rub. It dawned on me, how very unconcerned dogs are about exposing their bellies to anyone and I thought to myself, “This is just another reason why dogs are better than us.” After purchasing a few other trinkets in another store, I noticed that the shop owner had written, “Your never alone“, in pretty purple handwriting on the lovely little recycled paper gift bag. I found myself being annoyed with the grammatical error, and than even more annoyed with myself, for being so damn nit-picky, when the sentiment, itself, was lovely and something that probably everyone needs to hear these days. Further, I am always making grammatical errors on my blog, in my speech, in my emails, and particularly in my texts (especially when I am in a group text with a friend who won “English Teacher of the Year”, in her state. I always wonder if my frequent and obvious errors are a subconscious passive-aggressive move on my part, or am I baiting her into correcting me, or am I just trying to help her to stay sharp, or (and this is probably the most likely) am I just really sloppy about texting?!?) Anyway, isn’t the meaning or the feeling of a message or sentiment, far more important than how it is conveyed? Does intention count for anything?? I got back into my car and the song, “Box of Sunshine” started playing and I thought, how perfect! My little car, with the convertible top down, is my own little “box of sunshine.” And as I headed to the grocery store, excited to try out my new ridiculously cute and colorful and silly mask that I had just purchased in the store that contained Olivia, the impervious fluff ball with a cute, chubby belly, I realized that I was eager (yes, believe it or not – “eager” is the right word) to don the mask which depicts three angry looking birds with serious consternation expressed on their beaky, little, piercing faces. And then, as I put my own face up towards the wide blue sky, I forgot about my brassy highlights, and my melancholy about the end of summer, and any grammatical mistakes ever made by anybody, and I remembered that I am never alone.