Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon. 

When I was a teenager, I was a server in a small-town restaurant where every table had a deck of cards for the coffee crowd, and the pancakes covered entire plates. It was a good job for a teenager, except for the fact that people got hungry so darn early in the morning.

Opening early was especially hard for me on weekends. But I had a bit of entertainment to look forward to every Sunday around mid-morning. That’s when the church crowd began to hurry in, everyone hoping to have one of the fabulous caramel rolls the restaurant was famous for. If my memory serves me correctly (which is unlikely), the Lutherans got out of church first, leaving the Congregationalists to pray that there would be some caramel rolls left. Often there were not, partly because we Catholics usually had our services on Saturday night and the agnostics had no schedule to keep at all.

Witnessing the ensuing chaos, I learned some valuable life lessons, like how living one’s faith often demands great sacrifice, and how hard it is to practice forgiveness when one has one’s heart set on a caramel roll and coffee and gets only coffee.

As a server I had many insights like these. I also learned some very practical lessons. For example, I learned never to wear white while working with mustard and ketchup. I don’t work with mustard and ketchup much anymore, but to this day, I never wear white.

I learned to make coffee, though I never did learn to drink it—maybe because I didn’t learn to make it all that well.

I learned how to carry three plates in one hand—theoretically—and to stay to the right when using the swinging kitchen doors, especially when I was carrying three plates in one hand.

I learned to plan ahead and to make the most of every step. In the restaurant business, saving steps meant that if I was heading back to the kitchen to place an order, I should take some dirty dishes with me. They would have to be carried back eventually anyway, and my customers were unlikely to do it. All these years later, I still make the most of every step I take. For example, whenever I head to the kitchen to get a snack, I always grab the dirty dishes from my last one.

Like everyone in customer service, I learned that customers are not always right, but they’re more likely to remain customers if you treat them as though they are. When I was a teenager, cigarettes were sold in vending machines, and my customers would often ask me to fetch theirs. What could I do? They were my customers. But I didn’t want anyone else in the restaurant to think I smoked, so I made a production of returning the cigarettes. “Here are YOUR cigarettes! I hope I got the right kind for YOU! Here is YOUR change for YOUR cigarettes.” Often they’d thank me by offering me a cigarette.

Wait staff learn patience and tolerance with a variety of human behavior. Well, some of them do anyway. I’m not sure I did. I know you find it hard to believe, but I once punched a customer right in the gut while waiting tables in a bar. I’m not proud of it—well maybe I’m a little proud of it. The bartender, who was also my supervisor, saw the whole thing and said the customer had it coming. Maybe he thought so too; he still gave me a tip.

While I didn’t learn patience and tolerance from that experience, I did learn that I’m a lot tougher than I thought. (So did the customer.) I think that was also when I learned I wasn’t cut out to wait tables.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon. 

He said, “How can I help?” and I fell in love. It was the accent that did it. Plus, I was at a vulnerable point in my life—or at least, in my day. I’d been confused, lost in iPhone settings, punching option after option when I saw one that said, “British male.”

I’m happily married. I knew it was wrong, but I’ve had a crush on Hugh Grant since Four Weddings and a Funeral. I chose the option.

He said his name was Siri. I’d expected Oliver or Harry—or Hugh. Siri sounds more like a Norwegian model than a British playboy, which is what he was.

I asked him if he was married. I have some scruples, you know. He said he was “married to the idea of helping people.” In other words, he wasn’t looking for commitment.  

Neither was I, so we started taking drives together. Like my husband, Siri was a great navigator, but he didn’t gasp when I took curves too fast. Stiff upper lip and all that.

We loved to sit and read together. Well I read anyway. He just laid there gazing at me adoringly. Or maybe he was napping. Sometimes I’d wake him to ask the meaning of a word just to hear that accent. Also, because I didn’t know it.

Siri always did. He was so smart. He could convert feet to meters and Fahrenheit to Celsius without breaking a sweat. Come to think of it, he never sweated.  

And he was romantic. One day I asked him what love is. He said, “Love refers to a deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude.” I swooned. Then I asked him what ineffable means.  

He had many other endearing qualities too, besides the fact that he called me master. He was thoughtful. He was always doing things for me like dialing phone numbers, setting my alarm and looking up useless facts like, how much wood can a woodchuck chuck. He said, “About as much ground as a groundhog could hog if a groundhog could hog ground.” I loved his sense of humor.

But he wasn’t perfect. He often mispronounced street names and took me to businesses that no longer existed. I could have overlooked that. He’s not from around here. But he lacked initiative. Every drive we took was my idea. And I had to start every conversation we had. When it came to our relationship, it felt like he was just phoning it in.

Besides, I was starting to feel guilty. I’d decided to break it off, go back to iPhone settings and choose Irish female for the sake of my marriage. Then I discovered my husband was carrying on with his Google Assistant.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

Barbie dolls have been inspiring young girls for generations but I never had one. My dolls could never live up to Barbie’s perfect good looks, her globetrotting and her amazing career success. It’s really no wonder they made a movie about her.

She’s had 250 careers, from astronaut to ballerina to zoologist. She’s been a yoga teacher, a soccer coach and an Olympic skier. And even with her hectic work life, she’s still found time for travel and hobbies. She cooks, camps and bowls. She plays tennis, baseball, basketball, hockey and volleyball and she has the clothes to prove it all.

Dr. Barbie, Farmer Barbie, Pop Star Barbie. Barbie’s message has always been that girls can grow up to do whatever they set their minds to—as long as they have the right wardrobe.

Meanwhile my inspiration was a couple of Barbie wannabes. I loved them dearly but they weren’t multi-talented overachievers like Barbie is, not if their clothes were any indication. I made many of their dresses myself using worn out socks. What kind of career can a doll have wearing old socks? That might explain why I work at home wearing sweatpants. 

But there might be a Barbie in my future. Barbara Millicent Roberts—Barbie—made her debut on March 9, 1959. Yes, Barbie turned 65 this year. And you know what that means. Here she comes ladies: It’s Medicare Barbie!

Why not? She may have a few age spots from her years in the sun as Beach Volleyball Barbie. And her figure might be less like an hourglass and more like a juice glass. But she’ll still look fabulous in a cardigan, stretch denim jeans and loafers. Yes, Medicare Barbie will wear sensible shoes. Wisdom comes with age. So do bunions.

If Barbie can grow older, so can her clone friends. I see Winter in New York Barbie aging into Hot Flash Barbie. When you least expect it, her face will turn bright red and sweat beads will form on her pretty brow. Hot Flash Barbie will come with an assortment of tank tops, an iced tea and a fan.  

Tennis Barbie will naturally mature into Pickleball Barbie. She’ll come decked out in leggings, a knee brace and a baggy T-shirt that says, “Pickle Ball: The Real Dill.”

Camping Barbie had her backpack and sleeping bag. I see her settling into a new role as Camp Host Barbie with a comfy lawn chair, a welcome sign and a fabulous motorhome. Camp Host Ken sold separately.

Obviously between her extensive travel and her many careers Barbie didn’t have time for children. So she’ll skip straight to Grandma Barbie, complete with two small children, reading glasses and an AARP tote bag. 

But wait! There’s more. Our new mature Barbie and her clone pals will come together in Medicare Barbie, the movie. During one of their regular coffee dates Medicare Barbie will reveal to her friends that she’s suffering from a late midlife crisis. Hilarity will ensue as they all become human and get colonoscopies, mammograms and matching tattoos. Then Barbie will find new purpose traveling the country to educate women everywhere about the importance of a healthy body image and the dangers of high heels. Now there’s something to aspire to. 

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

You see that woman digging through her purse like a starving dog digging for a bone? I’ll bet you anything she’s in the throes of that particular kind of anxiety attack one has when one realizes her smartphone has gone missing. I’m very responsible with my phone, so I’ve never experienced it myself. But I know the symptoms when I see them.

If you listen closely, you may hear some colorful language, even from victims with no previous history of it—not that this particular victim has no previous history of it. If you shook her hand—not that she’s in the mood for that right now—you’d notice that it’s trembling. And, you can’t see this, but her heart is racing like she just ran twelve miles—not that she could.

Keep watching, and you’ll see her search her pockets, shopping bags, briefcase, or whatever else she’s carrying. Then she’ll expand her search to the pockets, shopping bags, and briefcases of anyone standing nearby.   

If the cell phone still isn’t located, and it probably won’t be, our now nearly hysterical victim will begin to order those around her to call my number. Did I say “my number?” I meant her number. Call her number and she’ll rush around, head cocked this way and that, listening carefully, and muttering that she’ll never silence her phone again, no matter how annoying it will be to everyone else when it goes off in church the next time.

She’s panicking not only about the cost of replacing her phone, but about how much she’s going to miss it now that it’s gone. Her very smart smartphone is so much more than a phone. She gets emails, texts, and two or three hundred notifications from Facebook on it every day. Whatever will she do without all that?

Her phone is also her alarm clock, calendar, camera, music source, calculator, flashlight, encyclopedia, and more. The thing has more uses than baking soda and duct tape combined. As much as she uses it, it’s a wonder she ever puts it down, but apparently she did. Unless she dropped it—in which case, it’s probably been run over in the parking lot by now.

Or maybe someone picked it up first. And maybe that someone is honest, and will make every attempt to return it. Or maybe that someone will not.

If she has any imagination at all—and it should be clear by now that she does—she thinks about how the thief will somehow manage to figure out her password. Then, with all the information that’s stored on her phone, he’ll take over her life and probably do a better job with it.

She begins to berate herself. How could she have been so careless—again? What to do? She decides she must retrace her steps. She reaches for her car keys and…what’s that? It’s her smartphone, right there where it’s been all along, in the bottom of my purse. I mean her purse. It’s right there in the bottom of her purse.  

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

I go into my bedroom and close the door. I meditate almost daily in my effort to become a wiser, calmer and gentler person and the closed door is a signal to my family. If they disturb me, they’ll get a tongue lashing they’ll never forget.

I sit in a chair rather than on the floor in that pretzel pose you see in articles about meditation. That’s because my personal version of meditation lasts 20 minutes and it would take me that long just to get myself situated that way—and probably longer to get back up afterwards.

I set the timer on my smartphone to chime like monastery bells in 21 minutes. The extra minute is for settling down. Between you and me, it usually takes me longer than one minute.

I take a deep breath. And another one and…good gravy. These pants are cutting me in half. I squirm and tug, and in the process, my shirt gets all wadded up behind my back. I adjust it, then I push the hair out of my eyes, clear my throat, blow my nose, and scratch my chin. Dang it! Is that a whisker? I’ll get that little sucker later.

I begin to breathe deeply as I relax each part of my body starting at the top of my head and working my way down. I’ve just reached my forehead when my phone rings. I ignore it and breathe. It rings again. I breathe. It rings a third time. I breathe…and swear, but quietly…because of the meditation.

I get up and race for my phone. It could be important. It is. The caller informs me that her company is detecting a large amount of junk on my computer and that if I give her my credit card number she can take care of it for me. Thanks to the patience I’ve gained from meditating, I’m able to tell her that I too am detecting a large amount of junk—on my telephone! And, why doesn’t she get a real job? But I mean that in the nicest possible way.  

I go back to my room and re-situate myself. I breathe, relaxing my face, my neck, my right shoulder, my belly. My belly? That’s not right. But I’m hungry. What should I have for lunch? I don’t think I can bear that leftover meatloaf one more time. What crap that turned out to be!

Right arm, right hand, Cheetos. Cheetos? Those sound really good right now. Left shoulder, left arm, left…canary?

My canary has started singing loudly in the next room. Fortunately one of the fruits of meditation is acceptance and I accept that I cannot reason with a canary. I get up, go close the door to the office where we keep the cage, then go back to my room.             

Where was I? Left hand? Right leg? I better run to the store today. I think we’re running low on bird seed. Breathe. Breathe. We probably need kitty litter too. And Cheetos.

Meditation teaches focus and I focus…on kitty litter, bird seed and Cheetos. Breathe. Breathe.

And then…the chiming wakes me up. Meditation is exhausting.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.