By Sharon Randall

You know that old saying, “You are what you eat”? Maybe we’re also what we watch.

I grew up watching “I Love Lucy.” I loved Lucy but could not fathom how any grown woman could make so many harebrained decisions.

Then I grew up. And some days, just like Lucy, I’ve got a lot of ‘splainin’ to do.

Last week, my husband had hip replacement surgery. What that means is, they cut him open, took out his hip and put in a new one. I don’t even like to think about that. But lately I’ve found it hard to think about much of anything else.

His surgery happened to coincide with our decision to sell our home in Las Vegas so we can move back to California to be closer to our family.

If that’s not a Lucy decision (having hip surgery while selling a house, not the part about being closer to family) I don’t know what is. We won’t actually list the house until my husband is off his walker. He’ll need that contraption (it’s like a grocery cart without a cart) for at least a few weeks. Or months.

In the meantime, I’ll start clearing out and cleaning up this place to show it to strangers who we hope will buy it and not make fun of us on Facebook.

Our Realtor suggested that, before we show the house, we need to pack up personal effects such as medications and my husband’s musical instruments and several thousand framed photos of our grandkids.

The photos alone will need their own moving truck.

Between meeting with the Realtor and my husband having surgery, I broke a crown while flossing my teeth. (Yes, a totally Lucy move.) To repair it, I needed a dental implant.

But, as my kids like to say, “It’s all good.” The house, the tooth, the hip, they’re all doable and fixable. Thank you, Lord.

I just need to show up. Step by step. Day by day. Showing up is often the best we can do. Lucy made some dumb moves, but sooner or later, she showed up.

We agreed to list the house next month. I got started on my implant. And my husband’s surgery went beautifully.
I left him and his new hip in good hands at the hospital, promised to be back early the next day to take him home, then I left to get some sleep. I tossed until 3 a.m. and woke at 7 when the phone rang. A telemarketer.

Half an hour and two cups of coffee later, I was dressed, had done my makeup, defrizzed my hair and was ready to fetch my husband from the hospital.

But first, for some Lucy reason, I decided to refill the fountain in our front yard. I turned the hose on full blast, dropped it in the basin, then bent down to pull a few weeds.

Imagine my surprise when suddenly without warning, the hose went ballistic, reared up from the fountain like a cobra and fired a torrent of cold water at my unsuspecting backside.

When I whipped around to grab it, it shot me in the face, soaking my makeup, my hair and every stitch of my clothing, including my best shoes.

I wish you could’ve seen me.

Sometimes my brain takes a mini-vacation to some tropical island where it promptly falls asleep on a beach. An imaginary beach with no mosquitoes. Or jet skis. Or Komodo dragons. Or anything bad at all.

While my brain high-tailed it to that island, I shut off the hose and stood in a puddle, staring up to heaven and dripping like a flea-dipped cat.

Pretty soon I began to laugh. Long and hard and loud. Then I went inside to call my husband.

“I’m running a bit late,” I said.

“No hurry,” he said. “I can’t go home until tomorrow.”

So I changed my clothes, dried my hair and redid my makeup.

And, finally, I showed up.

Sometimes, showing up is the best that we can do.

Lucy would be proud.

Sharon Randall can be reached at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson, NV 89077 or www.sharonrandall.com.