Oh yes. It has been another great weekend. Going from here to there. Seeing all of the wonderful sights that any great city has to offer. It is pretty much the same no matter what part of the country you travel to. People and places look about the same. Well, at least in the city that is. Go ahead. I dare you. Take a walk with your beloved on your arm and stroll down the streets of a metropolitan city. You'll see it. You will be standing minding your own business and someone will walk by. Or maybe sitting at a quaint little table outside a coffee house, enjoying a frappe and then you spot it. Colorful underwear riding high, and pants riding low.
What is the fascination of walking around with your britches hangin' out? Do you not know that your mother spent a lot of money on belts for this very reason???? This is not something that girls do mind you. Oh no. This is reserved for the guys. The pants or shorts that they have on hang down to the middle of their knees, and the brightly colored elastic of the underwear sticks out by about 4 inches. I gotta ask.....why???? Is this like some kind of a rite of passage for young men? Showin' your chonies to the world? Is there like some big testosterone rush you get from people staring at you? I admit it. I just don't get it at all.
And then there is the walking. Or the attempting to walk, I should say. Stumbling around trying to look so cool as they try to keep their balance so they won't fall over. And at the same time, they appear to be trying to hold their pants with their free hand. That is what they are trying to do isn't it??? It is just not natural to try to walk like that. It produces almost a limp for heavens' sake. Mark my words, young man, you are going to need a chiropractor one of these days!!! Save yourself while you are still young !!!
Of late, I have seen billboards requesting that you no longer share this fad with the rest of us. There have even been mayoral campaigns that have merged on this very issue. Proclamations of change. Songs sung on television promoting pulling up those pants !!! Oh I know. We should allow you to do your own thing, much like we did in our hay days. But come on now. Show us older more genteel folk some much deserved mercy and grace here. The top of your tiddy whities is not something that I have personally lived this long to see. And yes, I indeed have lived a good long time. And I do know fashion. Well at least I have a fashionista in the family who herself swears that this practice is just well, "not nice".
At least the young fashion minded girls don't do this. Oh no. They are much to respectable to go walking around town with their under garments hanging over the top of their pants. No way. They prefer the more subtle look. You know, like they don't even have any on !!! No unseemly pantie lines for them. They have chosen to wear a piece of elastic for their underwear. Yep. You heard me right. A thin piece of elastic. When they walk by, you don't even notice it. But, here is the catch. It shows, and brother how it shows, when they happen to have to bend over right in front of you to reach for something that they probably didn't need or want in the first place. The shirt rises up......the top of the pants s t r e t c h down and voila, elastic so thin that it has to leave chaffing. This has got to be painful.
I have never really been inclined to wear things of this sort, even in my younger thinner days. Oh they have been around for many years, but they have never intrigued me. Why would a young woman purposely put something on that is going to give 'em a rash?? In my day, we were stepping out of the box when we got bikini underwear. Now there's daring !!! Or, and I probably shouldn't admit this......but I really was quite the rebel and trend setter. Oh yeah !!! Remember those cute little undies that had the days of the week embroidered on them??? Well.....I would wear the red Saturday ones on other days. Like Sunday !!! When we went to church. Yep. I was bold. Yep. I was livin' on the edge. And all the while, it was my little secret. I didn't share my little fashion secret with the whole world. Maybe you all shouldn't either. Some things are better kept under wraps.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
A Little Dab Will Do Ya
There are many beauty products on the market today. We have scientifically come up with a way to solve every known personal hygiene problem known to man. Or animal for that matter. If it smells bad we have a myriad of products just waiting on our store shelves to make those around us let go of their noses. Shampoos, deodorants, toiletries galore. Waiting, just waiting for the right consumer to pluck them off of the shelf and take them home. From the frugal to the more money than they know what to do with crowd, we have it all. Neatly packaged. Conveniently located at a store near you. Progress baby. That's what I call progress.
Now, I really don't want to show my age here, but I swear to you, I remember a time in the not so distant past, when you would apply hair products so you would loose that fly away look. Or the "my gosh, it must be humid outside" frizz. And we had the perfect fix for that youngin' that had a titch of a cowlick. You know the one. When spit wouldn't hold it down, you pulled out the big guns. Hair gel number 8!!
We seem to have evolved into a new socially acceptable era. I must have slept in the day it was announced, but who's idea was it that it is now an acceptable practice to have your hair mussed purposely and that be considered quite the fashion statement. Oh yes, I have contacted the Fashionista on this and she immediately went into the vapors and had to have the smelling salts brought to her. She has never seen anything like this "in her born days". Why it is just shameful I tell you. Have you people ever SEEN my hair in the morning??? My goodness it looks as though I have stuck my finger into a light socket. A really big light socket at that. I have spent countless hours in front of the bathroom mirror trying to get it under control and now it's been decided that the bed head look is in? Are you people crazy???
I have decided that I shall rebel. That's right I said rebel. I am going to march to a different drummer that the rest of the world. I am not, I repeat NOT, going to give in to my peers. I shall continue to take my time each and every morning armed with all of those wonderful products that my fellow man has spent so much time developing for me. I will rub it in, spray it on, comb it through, pat it down, mousse it out, until I have reached the level of "coiffedness" that you all have come to know and love. If you see me in a crowd, I will be the one with the standing tall and proud with hair that neither moves in the wind or is affected by a sudden downpour. Yep that right!! You got it. I am a rebel. Not one single hair out of place. Poised and ready to face the day and it's challenges. And off to work to earn more money for them dad-gum products. Progress baby, progress.
Now, I really don't want to show my age here, but I swear to you, I remember a time in the not so distant past, when you would apply hair products so you would loose that fly away look. Or the "my gosh, it must be humid outside" frizz. And we had the perfect fix for that youngin' that had a titch of a cowlick. You know the one. When spit wouldn't hold it down, you pulled out the big guns. Hair gel number 8!!
We seem to have evolved into a new socially acceptable era. I must have slept in the day it was announced, but who's idea was it that it is now an acceptable practice to have your hair mussed purposely and that be considered quite the fashion statement. Oh yes, I have contacted the Fashionista on this and she immediately went into the vapors and had to have the smelling salts brought to her. She has never seen anything like this "in her born days". Why it is just shameful I tell you. Have you people ever SEEN my hair in the morning??? My goodness it looks as though I have stuck my finger into a light socket. A really big light socket at that. I have spent countless hours in front of the bathroom mirror trying to get it under control and now it's been decided that the bed head look is in? Are you people crazy???
I have decided that I shall rebel. That's right I said rebel. I am going to march to a different drummer that the rest of the world. I am not, I repeat NOT, going to give in to my peers. I shall continue to take my time each and every morning armed with all of those wonderful products that my fellow man has spent so much time developing for me. I will rub it in, spray it on, comb it through, pat it down, mousse it out, until I have reached the level of "coiffedness" that you all have come to know and love. If you see me in a crowd, I will be the one with the standing tall and proud with hair that neither moves in the wind or is affected by a sudden downpour. Yep that right!! You got it. I am a rebel. Not one single hair out of place. Poised and ready to face the day and it's challenges. And off to work to earn more money for them dad-gum products. Progress baby, progress.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Heet is On
I am proud to announce that I am courageously making my way through the 5o's. Oh it has been somewhat of a challenge, but not nearly as bad as I thought. I have many friends who are older than I, so as long as I hang around them, I look and feel great. I remember when I used to kind of snicker at the "blue hairs" who would proudly announce their age and claim that they were "not getting older, they were getting better". Yeah right I thought. But now, I chime in that sentiment louder than anyone. 50 is indeed the new 35!!!!
I had heard and paid close attention to, the prattling of my older friends as they seemed to go on and on about the "changes" that occurred once you crossed over into "never never" land. Things like "You never see as clearly anymore", or "Your hair color will never be that shade of brown again". I dreaded the experience that I was sure that I would face. The shape changing. Things that hang low, where they shouldn't. Creases in areas that seem to be permanent indentations. Crows feet, laugh lines, a 5 o'clock shadow for mercy's sake. These were all subtly coming my way. Sneaking up on this young at heart, perky, bubbly me, with a sadistic desire to bring the "signs of time" to my chin.....and thighs.....and my beautiful brown hair.
Although I haven't really noticed a lot of "changes" in my body recently, I am sure that they are lurking out there somewhere waiting to pounce on me when I least expect it. Changes are good, I have reminded myself. As long as I am in full awareness as to what the changes are and exactly when they might show up. It's not that I can't roll with the punches or anything because I can. I can readily adjust to most new and different things with a smile on my face. It's just, well, I have heard the horror stories of the so called changes we women go through and to be quite honest with you, most of them scare me to death. Things that hang down where they shouldn't hang down, freaky squeaky noises from places a lady wouldn't discuss much less admit that those noises belonged to her and a strange urge to put doilies out. My gosh will this happen to me????
Back in my younger days, I could get around pretty good. I could exercise, go for a walk, get in and out of my car even, and not break a sweat. Heck, we never even admitted that we sweated. We glistened !!! Little diamond shaped beads of sweat droplets glistening in the mirror as we watched ourselves workout with our gym sisters. Bending, stretching, stair stepping. We did it all. And we did it to the beat of music blasting all around us. We wore matching outfits with little leggin's and looked oh so cute, working out side by side. Nowadays, I need a full sized bath towel at my fingertips before I attempt to tie my own shoes. Slipping into something comfortable has become a quest to find the least amount of buttons, laces and strings to wrestle with. Give me the simple pleasures.
I had heard and paid close attention to, the prattling of my older friends as they seemed to go on and on about the "changes" that occurred once you crossed over into "never never" land. Things like "You never see as clearly anymore", or "Your hair color will never be that shade of brown again". I dreaded the experience that I was sure that I would face. The shape changing. Things that hang low, where they shouldn't. Creases in areas that seem to be permanent indentations. Crows feet, laugh lines, a 5 o'clock shadow for mercy's sake. These were all subtly coming my way. Sneaking up on this young at heart, perky, bubbly me, with a sadistic desire to bring the "signs of time" to my chin.....and thighs.....and my beautiful brown hair.
Although I haven't really noticed a lot of "changes" in my body recently, I am sure that they are lurking out there somewhere waiting to pounce on me when I least expect it. Changes are good, I have reminded myself. As long as I am in full awareness as to what the changes are and exactly when they might show up. It's not that I can't roll with the punches or anything because I can. I can readily adjust to most new and different things with a smile on my face. It's just, well, I have heard the horror stories of the so called changes we women go through and to be quite honest with you, most of them scare me to death. Things that hang down where they shouldn't hang down, freaky squeaky noises from places a lady wouldn't discuss much less admit that those noises belonged to her and a strange urge to put doilies out. My gosh will this happen to me????
Back in my younger days, I could get around pretty good. I could exercise, go for a walk, get in and out of my car even, and not break a sweat. Heck, we never even admitted that we sweated. We glistened !!! Little diamond shaped beads of sweat droplets glistening in the mirror as we watched ourselves workout with our gym sisters. Bending, stretching, stair stepping. We did it all. And we did it to the beat of music blasting all around us. We wore matching outfits with little leggin's and looked oh so cute, working out side by side. Nowadays, I need a full sized bath towel at my fingertips before I attempt to tie my own shoes. Slipping into something comfortable has become a quest to find the least amount of buttons, laces and strings to wrestle with. Give me the simple pleasures.
In all of the many conversations I have had about this growing older thing, no one took the time to tell me that I would eventually need to buy stock in a liniment company. Oh my gosh!!! When in the world did the simple process of rolling out of bed in the morning become the event from hell. A peaceful nights sleep and then WHAM !! Every joint pops, my knees crack and the pain in my back feels like I was joyriding in a car without shocks for the past several hours. Where was this phenom on the list of notes from the "over the hill gang"? Was anyone going to bother to tell me or was this the big surprise that I needed to experience all on my own? Either way, there is just no preparing for this. None, zip, nada !!
My husband and I respect this new avenue in our lives. We have embraced it and learned to cope with it to the best of our ability. What choice do we have. After all, doesn't that license say something about for better or for worse? As in any good relationship you just learn how to adjust. We give each other a little extra space as we move about.....just in case one of us keels over from the pain of walking. We hold hands when we are out in public.....in case one of us loses our balance. And we have efficiently learned how to apply liniment to each others achy-breaky backs.
Whistle Stop
Growing up in Southern California meant beautiful sunny days, warm but not too hot temps, Disneyland fireworks on balmy summer nights and of course....the Helm's man. Just reminiscing about his visits gives me goose bumps. He was a giant among men. He knew how to work a crowd. He was a network marketing genius. He was in a class all his own. And it all started when we heard the toot-toot of his little whistle.
It didn't really matter to any of us what time of the day he showed up. It seemed as though entire neighborhoods stopped what they were doing at the earliest detection of that whistle. It could be early in the morning or late in the afternoon. It mattered not. As long as he made his way to our street. Please, please, please, let this be the day when it was our turn for him to drive through our neighborhood. Every single mother from every single home seemed to appear almost magically, looking like June Cleaver in her pearls and apron, walking briskly out of her house to make her way to his truck. It was poetry in motion.
He would cruise ever so slowly down the street and find just the right mid way point and then ever soooo slowly apply his brakes and roll to a gentle stop. The driver side door would open and out he would step. He was radiant in his white pants and white shirt. He seemed to almost glow. To all of us he was angelic. He would smile and welcome us and then....and then....and then? He would open the back doors of his truck and the most heavenly smell would waft through the air and the anticipation would begin.
The inside of the truck consisted of many wooden drawers. Each one was pulled out with great love and care to reveal the most delicious donuts and breads you could imagine. Jelly filled, chocolate covered sprinkles, eclairs filled to the max with scrumptious vanilla custard. The drawers seemed to go on forever as he would pull them out one at a time. Rows and rows and rows of warm, gooey, sugar coated, jelly filled circles of heaven, all just waiting to be bought and wrapped in that little special sized piece of waxed paper, and handed over to a ready recipient.
As our good mothers carefully picked out their loaves of bread, we kids would sit on the curb and savor our donuts. We didn't think about the calories or the quantity of sugar as it made a little mustache on our lips. We didn't even know where this guy came from or if his product followed the FDA guidelines. We just knew that every once in a while we would hear the toot-toot of a whistle off in the distance, grab our Moms and make a mad dash for that old beige truck. Life was simple. Life was good. Life was made sweeter because of the Helm's man.
It didn't really matter to any of us what time of the day he showed up. It seemed as though entire neighborhoods stopped what they were doing at the earliest detection of that whistle. It could be early in the morning or late in the afternoon. It mattered not. As long as he made his way to our street. Please, please, please, let this be the day when it was our turn for him to drive through our neighborhood. Every single mother from every single home seemed to appear almost magically, looking like June Cleaver in her pearls and apron, walking briskly out of her house to make her way to his truck. It was poetry in motion.
He would cruise ever so slowly down the street and find just the right mid way point and then ever soooo slowly apply his brakes and roll to a gentle stop. The driver side door would open and out he would step. He was radiant in his white pants and white shirt. He seemed to almost glow. To all of us he was angelic. He would smile and welcome us and then....and then....and then? He would open the back doors of his truck and the most heavenly smell would waft through the air and the anticipation would begin.
The inside of the truck consisted of many wooden drawers. Each one was pulled out with great love and care to reveal the most delicious donuts and breads you could imagine. Jelly filled, chocolate covered sprinkles, eclairs filled to the max with scrumptious vanilla custard. The drawers seemed to go on forever as he would pull them out one at a time. Rows and rows and rows of warm, gooey, sugar coated, jelly filled circles of heaven, all just waiting to be bought and wrapped in that little special sized piece of waxed paper, and handed over to a ready recipient.
As our good mothers carefully picked out their loaves of bread, we kids would sit on the curb and savor our donuts. We didn't think about the calories or the quantity of sugar as it made a little mustache on our lips. We didn't even know where this guy came from or if his product followed the FDA guidelines. We just knew that every once in a while we would hear the toot-toot of a whistle off in the distance, grab our Moms and make a mad dash for that old beige truck. Life was simple. Life was good. Life was made sweeter because of the Helm's man.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Shedding
After a long day at work it is always a joy to come home. My husband and I start dinner and mull over our day. What we did, where we went. Normal conversations between normal people. Sometimes we even take a cup of coffee and go and sit on the porch for awhile. We watch the kids play in the yard across the street. Lazy conversations. Idle chit-chat. Safe. Secretive. Afraid.....very afraid. Neither of us wants to bring up the subject of the evil that lurks within our home.
It happens almost every morning. In normal homes. In quiet neighborhoods around the world. Folks starting their day, getting ready for work. Taking a nice hot shower. Picture it. You turn on the faucet, wait for the water to get just the right temperature and step in drawing the shower curtain closed. You look up at the shower head as the water gently cascades over your face and then it starts, the haunting screeching violin music from "Psycho"....REE REE REE REE. You feel it before you actually see it. But it's there. In the water. Coiling and snaking its way around your toes. Pulling you towards the drain where it will surely drag you to your death. At my house.......we call this "The Shedding". Strands of long natural curly hair hiding in the deepest recesses of the drain. Waiting, waiting, waiting for their next victim to step into the shower.
And then there's the bathroom sink. You wash your hands there, brush your teeth there. What could be safer? But every so often the water starts draining a little slower so you take the stopper out and pear down into the pipe thinking that maybe the kids have lost a Lego in there or something. Finally, you get a wire hanger and stick it down there digging around to get a grip on the culprit. And what do you pull out? This giant ball of tangled hair that resembles a very small rodent. It's "The Mouse"! There isn't a plumber in the world that doesn't quake in his boots when he gets a call from a frantic homeowner asking for help to unclog a drain. I have seen with my very own eyes what comes out of there. These guys earn every penny.
At times it seems like I am a character actor from the Star Trek series. You remember the one I am talking about don't you? The story of the Tribbles? The cute little balls of hair that suddenly started multiplying and eventually filing the entire ship? Or, it could be a scene from Gremlins. They were never supposed to get wet either. Maybe I have Gremlin DNA or something. I have not quite figured it out, but it certainly seems that no matter where I go or what I am doing I leave my signature shedding in my wake.
I was so depressed about this. Would I pass this terrible trait on to my unsuspecting children? Would they too, have people come up behind then and gently pluck the stray hairs off the back of their shirt. Would they carry the dreaded label of a shedder and become an outcast in society? Would they be taken off of the "A" list and not be invited to the company parties because....well you know....it could be catching. This was horrible. How was I ever going to survive this terrible fate that had been dealt to me.
And then it happened. A friend came out of the "shedding" closet and confessed that she too, was a shedder. I was stunned. Shocked. Speechless. But secretly, quite frankly, I was overjoyed. If there was 2 of us, then maybe there were 3 of us. Could there be another shedder who needed a friend? A confidant? Someone who would understand that shedders should not be the scourge of the drainpipes? We could have meetings. Write books. Share our shedding stories. We could go worldwide with this. I could see it in my mind. Shedders from every walk of life, banding together and walking arm in arm demanding the respect that we deserved, never more to be taunted and humiliated by those who seemed to be able to keep their hair on their scalp. Or, we could just simply pluck the hair off of each others back when no one else was looking, nod at each other and just know, that we belonged to a secret elite group. Yeah. Maybe keeping it to ourselves is the best idea yet.
It happens almost every morning. In normal homes. In quiet neighborhoods around the world. Folks starting their day, getting ready for work. Taking a nice hot shower. Picture it. You turn on the faucet, wait for the water to get just the right temperature and step in drawing the shower curtain closed. You look up at the shower head as the water gently cascades over your face and then it starts, the haunting screeching violin music from "Psycho"....REE REE REE REE. You feel it before you actually see it. But it's there. In the water. Coiling and snaking its way around your toes. Pulling you towards the drain where it will surely drag you to your death. At my house.......we call this "The Shedding". Strands of long natural curly hair hiding in the deepest recesses of the drain. Waiting, waiting, waiting for their next victim to step into the shower.
And then there's the bathroom sink. You wash your hands there, brush your teeth there. What could be safer? But every so often the water starts draining a little slower so you take the stopper out and pear down into the pipe thinking that maybe the kids have lost a Lego in there or something. Finally, you get a wire hanger and stick it down there digging around to get a grip on the culprit. And what do you pull out? This giant ball of tangled hair that resembles a very small rodent. It's "The Mouse"! There isn't a plumber in the world that doesn't quake in his boots when he gets a call from a frantic homeowner asking for help to unclog a drain. I have seen with my very own eyes what comes out of there. These guys earn every penny.
At times it seems like I am a character actor from the Star Trek series. You remember the one I am talking about don't you? The story of the Tribbles? The cute little balls of hair that suddenly started multiplying and eventually filing the entire ship? Or, it could be a scene from Gremlins. They were never supposed to get wet either. Maybe I have Gremlin DNA or something. I have not quite figured it out, but it certainly seems that no matter where I go or what I am doing I leave my signature shedding in my wake.
I was so depressed about this. Would I pass this terrible trait on to my unsuspecting children? Would they too, have people come up behind then and gently pluck the stray hairs off the back of their shirt. Would they carry the dreaded label of a shedder and become an outcast in society? Would they be taken off of the "A" list and not be invited to the company parties because....well you know....it could be catching. This was horrible. How was I ever going to survive this terrible fate that had been dealt to me.
And then it happened. A friend came out of the "shedding" closet and confessed that she too, was a shedder. I was stunned. Shocked. Speechless. But secretly, quite frankly, I was overjoyed. If there was 2 of us, then maybe there were 3 of us. Could there be another shedder who needed a friend? A confidant? Someone who would understand that shedders should not be the scourge of the drainpipes? We could have meetings. Write books. Share our shedding stories. We could go worldwide with this. I could see it in my mind. Shedders from every walk of life, banding together and walking arm in arm demanding the respect that we deserved, never more to be taunted and humiliated by those who seemed to be able to keep their hair on their scalp. Or, we could just simply pluck the hair off of each others back when no one else was looking, nod at each other and just know, that we belonged to a secret elite group. Yeah. Maybe keeping it to ourselves is the best idea yet.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Cutting Off my Knows to Spite My Weight
Looking at labels on food products has become my reading of choice lately. It seems that there is just no getting around it. Calories, fat grams, sodium. Who would have ever guessed that a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich would need a calculator and a note pad laying nearby? Journal entries, adding this and replacing with that. The thrill of victory when the numbers balance at the end of the day. The groans of agony when they don't. I don't get this riled up when the checkbook doesn't balance. But let my intake be greater than my recommended allotment and well....it can wear a girl out.
Watching my weight has almost become a new pastime for my husband and I. It is almost like a hobby that we share together. Who knew something so seemingly mundane as a diet, could bring us even closer together? We share intimate conversations daily now. You know.....like " Wow honey, did ya notice the fat grams in that thing?" Or, "how can anything as light and fluffy as popcorn possibly have that many calories!" We spend lazy afternoon together, slowly strolling down the aisles of the grocery store, side by side, gazing lovingly at the ingredient labels. Who would have guessed that the prime of our lives would have come to this.
You see, I am married to the informer. If you need to know anything about anything, he either knows it, or by gosh he can find out. He has the memory of an elephant in full regalia when it comes to my calorie and water intake for the day. He knows exactly how many glasses I should consume and he's not afraid to share that information. It's almost like he has this little calculator inside his head and pushes the memory button whenever I am in the kitchen. "You gettin' some water while you're there girlfriend?" he will joyfully holler from another room. In fact, just to spite him, I will pour myself a full glass of water and drink it down. So there. Take that mister. You're not gonna tell ME what to do. After all, I do know what's best.
Since math has never been my strong suit, I guess it is pretty convenient to have a mobile calculator at my fingertips. He can tally the score in his head for anything on the menu at a fast food restaurant long before I have made up my mind as to what I am even going to have. Now mind you, he never ever makes a recommendation of one "delicious" verses more "nutritious". While I am deciding, he just wants to have the information on hand in the off chance that I might inquire. Like I didn't know that un-sweet tea is better for me than sweet tea. Come on, I am a Texan now. We drink sweet tea by gum. Or that a chocolate milkshake probably will count for ALL of my intake for the day. Well duhhhh!!! BUT......that milkshake would taste so good on a hot Texas day right? I can make up for the extra intake numbers later right? Like tomorrow? Or maybe next week?
It's a shame the ole diet thing doesn't really work that way. Eat it today, wear it tomorrow. Cookies at night, bring bigger shadows by day. I am not quite sure what a good metabolism is, but I didn't inherit one from my family. I don't know if I can buy a good metabolism but I am willing to have a garage sale to finance it. Hey, wait a minute. What really goes well with a garage sale?????? Donuts and coffee in the morning while you set everything up and of course pizza at night since you are too tired to cook. Anybody with me????
Watching my weight has almost become a new pastime for my husband and I. It is almost like a hobby that we share together. Who knew something so seemingly mundane as a diet, could bring us even closer together? We share intimate conversations daily now. You know.....like " Wow honey, did ya notice the fat grams in that thing?" Or, "how can anything as light and fluffy as popcorn possibly have that many calories!" We spend lazy afternoon together, slowly strolling down the aisles of the grocery store, side by side, gazing lovingly at the ingredient labels. Who would have guessed that the prime of our lives would have come to this.
You see, I am married to the informer. If you need to know anything about anything, he either knows it, or by gosh he can find out. He has the memory of an elephant in full regalia when it comes to my calorie and water intake for the day. He knows exactly how many glasses I should consume and he's not afraid to share that information. It's almost like he has this little calculator inside his head and pushes the memory button whenever I am in the kitchen. "You gettin' some water while you're there girlfriend?" he will joyfully holler from another room. In fact, just to spite him, I will pour myself a full glass of water and drink it down. So there. Take that mister. You're not gonna tell ME what to do. After all, I do know what's best.
Since math has never been my strong suit, I guess it is pretty convenient to have a mobile calculator at my fingertips. He can tally the score in his head for anything on the menu at a fast food restaurant long before I have made up my mind as to what I am even going to have. Now mind you, he never ever makes a recommendation of one "delicious" verses more "nutritious". While I am deciding, he just wants to have the information on hand in the off chance that I might inquire. Like I didn't know that un-sweet tea is better for me than sweet tea. Come on, I am a Texan now. We drink sweet tea by gum. Or that a chocolate milkshake probably will count for ALL of my intake for the day. Well duhhhh!!! BUT......that milkshake would taste so good on a hot Texas day right? I can make up for the extra intake numbers later right? Like tomorrow? Or maybe next week?
It's a shame the ole diet thing doesn't really work that way. Eat it today, wear it tomorrow. Cookies at night, bring bigger shadows by day. I am not quite sure what a good metabolism is, but I didn't inherit one from my family. I don't know if I can buy a good metabolism but I am willing to have a garage sale to finance it. Hey, wait a minute. What really goes well with a garage sale?????? Donuts and coffee in the morning while you set everything up and of course pizza at night since you are too tired to cook. Anybody with me????
Monday, May 24, 2010
Come on Baby Light My Fire
Men. Ya gotta love 'em right? Even when they do some of the most hair brained things. Not only do they attempt to DO these things, they then get together and brag to each other about the latest and greatest accomplishments they have done with no earthly idea how the really smart ones, we women, are viewing them.
Case in point. Starting a fire. Oh not just any fire, but one that is in the house, in the fireplace. Or that is at least where it should be. Let me take you back to a cool night of November. We have cooked and eaten the wonderful Thanksgiving feast that I have lovingly slaved over all day. All in about 30 minutes after sitting down, I must add. I am in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. My husband decides that he is going to start a fire. Ok. I know what you are thinking. "What could possibly be wrong with that?". Oh friends !!!! A fire starter he is not. It just doesn't seem to come naturally to him. Some people know exactly how to bunch the paper up nice and tight so that you have good kindling. I don't think marrying a Eagle Scout is a necessity, but where fires are concerned, let's just say being prepared would come in handy.
After several attempts to get the kindling to catch, my husband got a wee bit frustrated. What do husbands do in a case like this? They holler for their wives to come and give them a hand of course. Well, I only made it to Brownies in my scouting life, so my fire starting experience is limited. As a matter of fact, I normally use those logs that just kind of light magically by themselves. Rolling up newspaper is just so dad gummed messy too. Black ink all over your hands.....well that's a different story.
Anyway, after a few lights, relights and words that a lady won't mention, he gives up. I offer to go to the store and buy a "log" but with a gleam in his eye, he says that won't be necessary. He knows exactly how to get it started. On goes the coat, and out to the garage he goes. He returns in a few minutes and begins the process all over again of scrunching up newspaper. Full of new confidence that my wonderful husband will soon have a toasty fire going I wander back to the kitchen to resume my task. In my mind I am thinking how nice it will be to sit down by the fire with our feet on the coffee table relaxing and just having a nice quite evening when "WHOOOOOSH!!!!"
Out of the corner of my eye I see something go shooting into the dining room. I grab the kitchen towel (it's never a good idea to drip water on the clean floor, just ask Martha) and make a dash for the dining room. There on the floor is a singed and smelly version of my husband, smoke still floating around him. He is daintily wiping his now almost gone eyebrows with a sheepish look on his face. His sweater, the new one I had just gotten him, is the most awful pukey brown color. Honest to goodness, I just stood there. I didn't even know what to say. I really didn't even know how he got over there. And then it hit me. I slowly turned and looked towards the fireplace. A huge roaring fire was crackling away. "Pretty cool huh?" is all he said.
You see, lighting the fire the old fashioned way was just taking too long. So? Why not speed things up a bit. And what better way to get a fire going than to use the white gas that you have stored in the garage for all of those family camping trips? Duh! Why didn't I think of that??? I'll tell you why. Because SANE people don't use white gas to start a fire in a fireplace that's why !!! It seems that in his rush to get the fire started, he got a heavy handed with the gas. It kept putting the matches out. Sooooooo, when he finally got it to light, the gas fumes formed a ball of flame and shot him across the room, thus making that whooshing sound.
Fast forward to Sunday morning at church. Everyone meeting and greeting each other. Talking about the holiday weekend, football, big turkey dinners. The normal stuff. Then I noticed all the menfolk gathered around my husband listening to him like he was offering up some well meaning advise. All of a sudden, they all start high fiving him and patting him on the back, shaking their heads and making that grunting sound that made television history. He has retold them the story of the white gas!!!! And he is now their hero. They marvel at him. The do a little victory dance in the parking lot. They gather him into their fold. He is now one of them.
Men. Ya gotta love 'em right?
Case in point. Starting a fire. Oh not just any fire, but one that is in the house, in the fireplace. Or that is at least where it should be. Let me take you back to a cool night of November. We have cooked and eaten the wonderful Thanksgiving feast that I have lovingly slaved over all day. All in about 30 minutes after sitting down, I must add. I am in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. My husband decides that he is going to start a fire. Ok. I know what you are thinking. "What could possibly be wrong with that?". Oh friends !!!! A fire starter he is not. It just doesn't seem to come naturally to him. Some people know exactly how to bunch the paper up nice and tight so that you have good kindling. I don't think marrying a Eagle Scout is a necessity, but where fires are concerned, let's just say being prepared would come in handy.
After several attempts to get the kindling to catch, my husband got a wee bit frustrated. What do husbands do in a case like this? They holler for their wives to come and give them a hand of course. Well, I only made it to Brownies in my scouting life, so my fire starting experience is limited. As a matter of fact, I normally use those logs that just kind of light magically by themselves. Rolling up newspaper is just so dad gummed messy too. Black ink all over your hands.....well that's a different story.
Anyway, after a few lights, relights and words that a lady won't mention, he gives up. I offer to go to the store and buy a "log" but with a gleam in his eye, he says that won't be necessary. He knows exactly how to get it started. On goes the coat, and out to the garage he goes. He returns in a few minutes and begins the process all over again of scrunching up newspaper. Full of new confidence that my wonderful husband will soon have a toasty fire going I wander back to the kitchen to resume my task. In my mind I am thinking how nice it will be to sit down by the fire with our feet on the coffee table relaxing and just having a nice quite evening when "WHOOOOOSH!!!!"
Out of the corner of my eye I see something go shooting into the dining room. I grab the kitchen towel (it's never a good idea to drip water on the clean floor, just ask Martha) and make a dash for the dining room. There on the floor is a singed and smelly version of my husband, smoke still floating around him. He is daintily wiping his now almost gone eyebrows with a sheepish look on his face. His sweater, the new one I had just gotten him, is the most awful pukey brown color. Honest to goodness, I just stood there. I didn't even know what to say. I really didn't even know how he got over there. And then it hit me. I slowly turned and looked towards the fireplace. A huge roaring fire was crackling away. "Pretty cool huh?" is all he said.
You see, lighting the fire the old fashioned way was just taking too long. So? Why not speed things up a bit. And what better way to get a fire going than to use the white gas that you have stored in the garage for all of those family camping trips? Duh! Why didn't I think of that??? I'll tell you why. Because SANE people don't use white gas to start a fire in a fireplace that's why !!! It seems that in his rush to get the fire started, he got a heavy handed with the gas. It kept putting the matches out. Sooooooo, when he finally got it to light, the gas fumes formed a ball of flame and shot him across the room, thus making that whooshing sound.
Fast forward to Sunday morning at church. Everyone meeting and greeting each other. Talking about the holiday weekend, football, big turkey dinners. The normal stuff. Then I noticed all the menfolk gathered around my husband listening to him like he was offering up some well meaning advise. All of a sudden, they all start high fiving him and patting him on the back, shaking their heads and making that grunting sound that made television history. He has retold them the story of the white gas!!!! And he is now their hero. They marvel at him. The do a little victory dance in the parking lot. They gather him into their fold. He is now one of them.
Men. Ya gotta love 'em right?
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