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?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Hunched Back of Noted Dame
Right up front I want to admit that I am not a girly girl. I do not "shop until I drop", nor do I make it my life's quest to have an "ensemble", much to the fashionista's chagrin I must say, but hey, I am over 21 now and can make up my own mind where my fashion loyalties will be. I don't need to read every magazine about the colors of the season, what's hot and what's not, or when it is acceptable to wear white pants in public. I mean, come on now, we ALL know the rules concerning the proper etiquette where white pants are concerned right? Try, as I may to conform, the little rebel comes out in me and I always find a reason to wear my white pants before Memorial Day. Muhahaha!!!!!
Another thing I have never really taken a shine to, is changing purses to go with that oh so perfect ensemble. I am a woman of many needs. Most of which I carry in my purse. I have my little lipstick bag, just in the off chance I decide to actually wear the stuff. There is the semi small bottle of hand lotion, and coupons, just in case I stop at the store. A butter knife for all those times that I might have to cut a sandwich in pieces for the little ones. Those "little ones" now have little ones of their own. Kleenex, handi-wipes, mints. You name it. If you need it, I probably can find it in the bottom of my purse. I carry the current years calendar booklet as well as last years. You never know when someone might need to know what you did last year. The measuring tape with the itty-bitty flashlight came in really handy when I dropped my cell phone in my purse and I couldn't find it. A good purse, with all of the basics, is what a woman of my stature needs. She also needs a good chiropractor.
I recently saw a photo of myself in a group of smiling friends. We girls had been out to dinner or some other fun thing and someone in the crowd snapped a picture. I looked as though I was trying to walk in the Ghost Town's Haunted Shack at Knott's Berry Farm. Why in the world was I leaning to the left so much? All my friends were standing up straight and tall and I appeared to need a really quick refresher course on good posture. And then I looked a little closer. What in the world were all the little sparkling dots at my waist? It was the bling from the strap of my purse twinkling in the flash of the camera. All of those essentials in my purse were actually causing me to look like a drunken sailor on a Saturday night.
That night when I got home I did the old twist and turn in the bathroom mirror. I turned from side to side over and over again to try and get a view of the enormous muscle in my shoulder from totin' around this suitcase. Hot dang man, I looked like a whiter version of the Incredible Hulk from the left. Believe it or not, I really thought about getting on the scale and weighing myself with the baggage and without. When did my purse become a weight lifting event for the Olympics? I should be getting a gold medal for carrying this thing around everyday.
I decided that it was time to clean out the old purse. So I sat at the dining room table and my husband brought me the kitchen trash can, so that I could do the "toss and go". I figured it would probably take me just a few minutes to clear out some of the necessary things that might be the cause of the chunkiness of the purse. You know, the actual non-essentials. Receipts for things that I couldn't wear again if my life depended on it. Gum wrappers from all those times that there wasn't a trash can close by. Pens that had run out of ink years ago. Little scraps of paper that must have had important notes on them at some point, but were now no more than smudges of ink. There. I had done it. I had cleaned out my purse. All that was left in the wake of this cleaning would be those important things. The must haves. The things that come in handy in a pinch. The things that still weight a ton. I decided that a clean light purse was not in my near future, so yes, you know it, I have learned to carry it on the right side, and soon I will be a balanced woman again.
Another thing I have never really taken a shine to, is changing purses to go with that oh so perfect ensemble. I am a woman of many needs. Most of which I carry in my purse. I have my little lipstick bag, just in the off chance I decide to actually wear the stuff. There is the semi small bottle of hand lotion, and coupons, just in case I stop at the store. A butter knife for all those times that I might have to cut a sandwich in pieces for the little ones. Those "little ones" now have little ones of their own. Kleenex, handi-wipes, mints. You name it. If you need it, I probably can find it in the bottom of my purse. I carry the current years calendar booklet as well as last years. You never know when someone might need to know what you did last year. The measuring tape with the itty-bitty flashlight came in really handy when I dropped my cell phone in my purse and I couldn't find it. A good purse, with all of the basics, is what a woman of my stature needs. She also needs a good chiropractor.
I recently saw a photo of myself in a group of smiling friends. We girls had been out to dinner or some other fun thing and someone in the crowd snapped a picture. I looked as though I was trying to walk in the Ghost Town's Haunted Shack at Knott's Berry Farm. Why in the world was I leaning to the left so much? All my friends were standing up straight and tall and I appeared to need a really quick refresher course on good posture. And then I looked a little closer. What in the world were all the little sparkling dots at my waist? It was the bling from the strap of my purse twinkling in the flash of the camera. All of those essentials in my purse were actually causing me to look like a drunken sailor on a Saturday night.
That night when I got home I did the old twist and turn in the bathroom mirror. I turned from side to side over and over again to try and get a view of the enormous muscle in my shoulder from totin' around this suitcase. Hot dang man, I looked like a whiter version of the Incredible Hulk from the left. Believe it or not, I really thought about getting on the scale and weighing myself with the baggage and without. When did my purse become a weight lifting event for the Olympics? I should be getting a gold medal for carrying this thing around everyday.
I decided that it was time to clean out the old purse. So I sat at the dining room table and my husband brought me the kitchen trash can, so that I could do the "toss and go". I figured it would probably take me just a few minutes to clear out some of the necessary things that might be the cause of the chunkiness of the purse. You know, the actual non-essentials. Receipts for things that I couldn't wear again if my life depended on it. Gum wrappers from all those times that there wasn't a trash can close by. Pens that had run out of ink years ago. Little scraps of paper that must have had important notes on them at some point, but were now no more than smudges of ink. There. I had done it. I had cleaned out my purse. All that was left in the wake of this cleaning would be those important things. The must haves. The things that come in handy in a pinch. The things that still weight a ton. I decided that a clean light purse was not in my near future, so yes, you know it, I have learned to carry it on the right side, and soon I will be a balanced woman again.
Friday, April 23, 2010
What Goes Around Goes to Round
Let's face it. Dieting has been around well.... since Adam and Eve. I have even heard a rumor that the Devil told her that the apple was less fattening than the figs so that might have been why she so readily ate it. Mind you, had he mentioned the part about painful childbirth she might have reconsidered, but you know what they say about hindsight. Having given birth a few times myself, I would have opted for the calories and a longer walk around the garden.
Speaking of round though, why is it that "round" foods are not on most dieters lists? Come on now, follow me here OK? Let's start with a donut. The operative word being "A" donut. Personally, I have never been served a donut that I turned my nose up at and just ate it to be polite. Let's face it. Coffee and donuts have been a staple at most church fellowship events and even have found their way into the Network Marketing gigs. I have often times delivered a dozen of these delectables for the opportunity to meet a new business person and of course just had to sit and enjoy one with them. Haven't you? And why on earth do 2 donuts always taste better than just 1? Or how about the meet and greet cookie brigade? I am the first one signed up to go and bring cookies to a new person in the neighborhood. There is such a sweet reward when you do this. Take a few, eat a few is my motto.
Let's take just a moment and explore some of the 'roundies' that don't get a bad wrap. A head of broccoli or cauliflower for example. They are round when you buy them. But.......when you serve them, they are pulled apart and disguised as "florets". No more round, no more calories. Oranges. Peel 'em, break 'em apart and voila......they become wedges. No more round. Grapes are another example of the injustice. They are round AND they come in bunches but because you have to pull them off the stem to enjoy them, that act would be considered exercise hence.....no calories. Do I detect a pattern here?
Over the years the good folks that bring you all the delicious round foods, have tried to be shape changers. A donut isn't really a round food if you have it in a bar form. Like a lemon filled or an eclair. These are rectangles. And what about the cheesy gooey pizza that no longer is round but is a deep dish square. This should be OK too right? I once witnessed the guy at the ice cream counter deliver to me a "cube" shaped ice cream cone, because after all round things don't have corners so you guessed it....calories should have disappeared don't you think?
Now, I have never claimed to be a Rocket Scientist or anything but hey, it seems to me that something could be done about this injustice. It is almost politically incorrect to be a round food anymore. Someone should take up the cause and fight for what is right. I am tired of the clandestine RFE Anonymous meetings aren't you? The burying of the round foods in the bottom of the grocery basket so that no one knows what you are buying. It is shameful really. Round foods have feelings too ya know!!! They must come together and fight for the right to be who they are. No longer should they stay hidden in pantries across the world. Tortillas, potato chips, donuts, cookies, bagels it is time to unite. Just not on my waistline OK?
Speaking of round though, why is it that "round" foods are not on most dieters lists? Come on now, follow me here OK? Let's start with a donut. The operative word being "A" donut. Personally, I have never been served a donut that I turned my nose up at and just ate it to be polite. Let's face it. Coffee and donuts have been a staple at most church fellowship events and even have found their way into the Network Marketing gigs. I have often times delivered a dozen of these delectables for the opportunity to meet a new business person and of course just had to sit and enjoy one with them. Haven't you? And why on earth do 2 donuts always taste better than just 1? Or how about the meet and greet cookie brigade? I am the first one signed up to go and bring cookies to a new person in the neighborhood. There is such a sweet reward when you do this. Take a few, eat a few is my motto.
Let's take just a moment and explore some of the 'roundies' that don't get a bad wrap. A head of broccoli or cauliflower for example. They are round when you buy them. But.......when you serve them, they are pulled apart and disguised as "florets". No more round, no more calories. Oranges. Peel 'em, break 'em apart and voila......they become wedges. No more round. Grapes are another example of the injustice. They are round AND they come in bunches but because you have to pull them off the stem to enjoy them, that act would be considered exercise hence.....no calories. Do I detect a pattern here?
Over the years the good folks that bring you all the delicious round foods, have tried to be shape changers. A donut isn't really a round food if you have it in a bar form. Like a lemon filled or an eclair. These are rectangles. And what about the cheesy gooey pizza that no longer is round but is a deep dish square. This should be OK too right? I once witnessed the guy at the ice cream counter deliver to me a "cube" shaped ice cream cone, because after all round things don't have corners so you guessed it....calories should have disappeared don't you think?
Now, I have never claimed to be a Rocket Scientist or anything but hey, it seems to me that something could be done about this injustice. It is almost politically incorrect to be a round food anymore. Someone should take up the cause and fight for what is right. I am tired of the clandestine RFE Anonymous meetings aren't you? The burying of the round foods in the bottom of the grocery basket so that no one knows what you are buying. It is shameful really. Round foods have feelings too ya know!!! They must come together and fight for the right to be who they are. No longer should they stay hidden in pantries across the world. Tortillas, potato chips, donuts, cookies, bagels it is time to unite. Just not on my waistline OK?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Does this Suit Suit Me?
With family reunion lurking in the not to distant future, it is time to once again gather my senses and realize that I must go out and do the unthinkable. You know. The thing that makes women shiver down their timbers. It makes the grown men who have to go with them quake in fear of saying the wrong thing. Yep. You know it. It is time to go and get a new bathing suit.
I am not sure how other states in the union introduce their "seasonal" wear, but here in the great state of Texas, the department stores pack up everything even remotely considered warm, and stocks the aisles with bathing suits while the snow is still on the ground. I am sure that their marketing people feel that we shoppers need this little reminder of brighter sunnier days in our future right? Or could it be that they have taken a very close look at us and realized that we gotta start now if we think for even one moment that we are going to fit into one of the latest and greatest swimsuits.
My philosophy is to pick a time during the day when most other female shoppers are NOT going to be shopping. There is just something about trying on bathing suits in front of lesser women that sets my teeth on edge. A size 4 has absolutely no business being in the same dressing room area as a size 12. They need to respect my space, because trust me I need more than they do in that fitting room area. I am still pulling and tucking while they are out in the center of the fitting room prancing around and twirlin' in front of the full length mirror. I am cowered on the floor of the fitting room with one leg stuck inside the suit that I swear should have fit, and didn't.
Last year, I tried on one that was supposed to give me the look that I wanted. Thin. Vibrant. Sexy. Did I say thin???? I refer to this suit as the Bluffakini. It comes in cute patterns and prints and its claim to fame is that it can hold anything on anyone "in". Think about this girls. A bikini that will HOLD you in. "In" where? was my first thought. I have tried unsuccessfully to hold "this" in, so how in the world can a bikini do it? But, never one to be doubtful, because after all, we all know that advertisers would never make a false claim, I pick one up and head for the dressing room. Once I get over the shock of seeing myself nearly nude, I begin the process of trying on my Bluffakini. It takes a good 15 minutes to tuck everything in and I am bent over trying to catch my breath because I feel like I have just climbed a flight of stairs. Stuffing and shoving and hiding is hard work! With reddened cheeks from all of the exertion, I glance in the mirror. Huh. Not bad. The Bluffakini has successfully trimmed and thinned me. I can't breathe mind you, but it hadn't advertised anything about breathing.
Here is the only flaw that I could see, and trust me I SAW this one. The Bluffakini made my backside UN-teeny. The front view looked all nice and trim while the view from the side resembled a rising dough ball. Like at any moment I was going to have a pressure build up and explode. One big bounce while on the boat could send me skyward like an overfilled balloon that someone released. I must admit, in my naivete I wasn't sure where all of the tucking and shoving stuff was going to end up, but it shouldn't have ended up THERE for heavens sake. Shouldn't the view of me from any given angle been one of a sleek athlete ? Even with my wonder tan, I looked like a freshly baked pretzel.
So here we are. Knowing full well that this year will be no different, that the times and size, they ain't a changin', I am once more in search of the perfect bathing suit for family reunion. Will it be within my grasp this year or as in years past will it leave me just.... gasping for air.
I am not sure how other states in the union introduce their "seasonal" wear, but here in the great state of Texas, the department stores pack up everything even remotely considered warm, and stocks the aisles with bathing suits while the snow is still on the ground. I am sure that their marketing people feel that we shoppers need this little reminder of brighter sunnier days in our future right? Or could it be that they have taken a very close look at us and realized that we gotta start now if we think for even one moment that we are going to fit into one of the latest and greatest swimsuits.
My philosophy is to pick a time during the day when most other female shoppers are NOT going to be shopping. There is just something about trying on bathing suits in front of lesser women that sets my teeth on edge. A size 4 has absolutely no business being in the same dressing room area as a size 12. They need to respect my space, because trust me I need more than they do in that fitting room area. I am still pulling and tucking while they are out in the center of the fitting room prancing around and twirlin' in front of the full length mirror. I am cowered on the floor of the fitting room with one leg stuck inside the suit that I swear should have fit, and didn't.
Last year, I tried on one that was supposed to give me the look that I wanted. Thin. Vibrant. Sexy. Did I say thin???? I refer to this suit as the Bluffakini. It comes in cute patterns and prints and its claim to fame is that it can hold anything on anyone "in". Think about this girls. A bikini that will HOLD you in. "In" where? was my first thought. I have tried unsuccessfully to hold "this" in, so how in the world can a bikini do it? But, never one to be doubtful, because after all, we all know that advertisers would never make a false claim, I pick one up and head for the dressing room. Once I get over the shock of seeing myself nearly nude, I begin the process of trying on my Bluffakini. It takes a good 15 minutes to tuck everything in and I am bent over trying to catch my breath because I feel like I have just climbed a flight of stairs. Stuffing and shoving and hiding is hard work! With reddened cheeks from all of the exertion, I glance in the mirror. Huh. Not bad. The Bluffakini has successfully trimmed and thinned me. I can't breathe mind you, but it hadn't advertised anything about breathing.
Here is the only flaw that I could see, and trust me I SAW this one. The Bluffakini made my backside UN-teeny. The front view looked all nice and trim while the view from the side resembled a rising dough ball. Like at any moment I was going to have a pressure build up and explode. One big bounce while on the boat could send me skyward like an overfilled balloon that someone released. I must admit, in my naivete I wasn't sure where all of the tucking and shoving stuff was going to end up, but it shouldn't have ended up THERE for heavens sake. Shouldn't the view of me from any given angle been one of a sleek athlete ? Even with my wonder tan, I looked like a freshly baked pretzel.
So here we are. Knowing full well that this year will be no different, that the times and size, they ain't a changin', I am once more in search of the perfect bathing suit for family reunion. Will it be within my grasp this year or as in years past will it leave me just.... gasping for air.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
I am sure everyone has had a bad hair day from time to time. Some days there is simply not enough conditioner on the planet to tame this mop of mine. It is extremely curly and as unruly as a two year old having a fit at the candy counter. I am thinking, if I traced my family tree back a few hundred years or so, my hair DNA must have had a curse put on it. There is no other reason that I can think of. After all, you know me.....I am nice.
In my younger years, and of course youth gives me no excuse for bad behavior, I could hardly hide my disdain for people who grew hair, in my opinion, where hair really shouldn't be. Standing in line patiently at the grocery store, making idle conversation with the person behind me, when all of a sudden my eyes would be riveted on these little wisps of hair. I'm not talking about a hair or two being out of place here either. Oh, no, no, no, my friends. I am referring to the moment when they turn their head and the light catches these 4 inch hairs growing from their earlobes or chins. I have to cover my child's eyes for fear that they will be terrified at the sight of this. I am almost speechless, and the conversation ends with me mumbling something about them having a good day and vowing that this will never happen to me.
My "moment in the sun" came on a beautiful spring day while at the ball park with the family. We were all kicking back enjoying the game, while feasting on nachos and soda. The grandkids were having a great time and my daughter and I, sitting side by side, were busy catching up on the news of work and family. All of a sudden, mid bite mind you, she stares at me with her mouth gaping open and says "Mother!!! My gosh, what is on your chin?" My first constructive thought was that I must have a smidgen of melted cheese on my chin from the nachos. Makes sense right????? I gently dab at my chin with the napkin and then turn to her and say "There. Did I get it?"
Before I can finish wiping my face she has turned and is frantically going through her purse desperately seeking something and all the while mumbling to herself about this shameful situation. The next thing I know she has whipped out a pair of tweezers and has grabbed ahold of my chin and as she "tsk, tsk,tsks" me, she begins to pluck, pluck,pluck me !!!! Now, it is not that I am an overly private kind of person, but hey, plucking my chin at the ballpark is not something that I would consider as a day at the spa. She even calls my husband and son-in-law over to a gander at the atrocity of the situation. Well, let me tell you, I made a firm decision to never let this happen again. How, or better yet, when, did I become the person from the grocery store line. How does a nice person like me, turn into hairy monstrosity overnight? I must get a handle on this whole thing and NOW.
Wearing glasses and trying to see myself in a mirror has become quite a challenge these last few years. As I stood at the bathroom sink, poised and ready with tweezers in hand, I realized that with the bifocals in my lenses, my chin area became just a blur of flesh colored material. I couldn't see the hair much less try to grab them with the tip of these itsy bitsy tweezers. So I called in my husband for reinforcement. He put on his reading glasses thinking that it would give him just the right view and clarity. Nope. He couldn't see what he was doing either. Being an Internet surfer from way back, he decides that we can get all the direction we needed from the web and proceeds to look up "hair removal". Lots of wonderful products pop up and we read all about them. We make our decision and off we go to the store to buy wax strips. "This should get the job done" he says and smiles.
Sitting in a chair with my head tilted back, I watch with amazement, as my loving husband rubs the wax strips in his palms to get them good and soft and ready to do their job. He gently peels the paper off and then applies them to my chin massaging them so they will get "all of the hair". No stragglers left on my pretty face. He straightens up, rubs his hands together, gives his knuckles a good crack and says "Ready"? Before I can suck in a breath he yanks as hard as he can, practically ripping me out of the chair. Good night Agnes. Are these things made of crazy glue? I feel like the bottom portion of my face has been permanently removed. I am waiting for the blood flow to start. Do people really do this all the time?
My husband, bless his heart, has now made it his mission to keep all those nasty hairs from building up on my pretty little face. At the drop of a hat, or a stray ray of sunshine, he will lovingly offer to groom me. My my, I am one lucky gal huh? He doesn't even complain about doing it. Nope, not at all. He sets to his work almost joyfully. What's that? Maybe too joyfully? You don't really think do you......he is enjoying this far too much????? Well I never....ever.....would have thought of that. You don't think that is why I just happened to notice a little stray ear hair that I will need to take care of for him do you? Hell hath no fury like a woman with a spare wax strip.
In my younger years, and of course youth gives me no excuse for bad behavior, I could hardly hide my disdain for people who grew hair, in my opinion, where hair really shouldn't be. Standing in line patiently at the grocery store, making idle conversation with the person behind me, when all of a sudden my eyes would be riveted on these little wisps of hair. I'm not talking about a hair or two being out of place here either. Oh, no, no, no, my friends. I am referring to the moment when they turn their head and the light catches these 4 inch hairs growing from their earlobes or chins. I have to cover my child's eyes for fear that they will be terrified at the sight of this. I am almost speechless, and the conversation ends with me mumbling something about them having a good day and vowing that this will never happen to me.
My "moment in the sun" came on a beautiful spring day while at the ball park with the family. We were all kicking back enjoying the game, while feasting on nachos and soda. The grandkids were having a great time and my daughter and I, sitting side by side, were busy catching up on the news of work and family. All of a sudden, mid bite mind you, she stares at me with her mouth gaping open and says "Mother!!! My gosh, what is on your chin?" My first constructive thought was that I must have a smidgen of melted cheese on my chin from the nachos. Makes sense right????? I gently dab at my chin with the napkin and then turn to her and say "There. Did I get it?"
Before I can finish wiping my face she has turned and is frantically going through her purse desperately seeking something and all the while mumbling to herself about this shameful situation. The next thing I know she has whipped out a pair of tweezers and has grabbed ahold of my chin and as she "tsk, tsk,tsks" me, she begins to pluck, pluck,pluck me !!!! Now, it is not that I am an overly private kind of person, but hey, plucking my chin at the ballpark is not something that I would consider as a day at the spa. She even calls my husband and son-in-law over to a gander at the atrocity of the situation. Well, let me tell you, I made a firm decision to never let this happen again. How, or better yet, when, did I become the person from the grocery store line. How does a nice person like me, turn into hairy monstrosity overnight? I must get a handle on this whole thing and NOW.
Wearing glasses and trying to see myself in a mirror has become quite a challenge these last few years. As I stood at the bathroom sink, poised and ready with tweezers in hand, I realized that with the bifocals in my lenses, my chin area became just a blur of flesh colored material. I couldn't see the hair much less try to grab them with the tip of these itsy bitsy tweezers. So I called in my husband for reinforcement. He put on his reading glasses thinking that it would give him just the right view and clarity. Nope. He couldn't see what he was doing either. Being an Internet surfer from way back, he decides that we can get all the direction we needed from the web and proceeds to look up "hair removal". Lots of wonderful products pop up and we read all about them. We make our decision and off we go to the store to buy wax strips. "This should get the job done" he says and smiles.
Sitting in a chair with my head tilted back, I watch with amazement, as my loving husband rubs the wax strips in his palms to get them good and soft and ready to do their job. He gently peels the paper off and then applies them to my chin massaging them so they will get "all of the hair". No stragglers left on my pretty face. He straightens up, rubs his hands together, gives his knuckles a good crack and says "Ready"? Before I can suck in a breath he yanks as hard as he can, practically ripping me out of the chair. Good night Agnes. Are these things made of crazy glue? I feel like the bottom portion of my face has been permanently removed. I am waiting for the blood flow to start. Do people really do this all the time?
My husband, bless his heart, has now made it his mission to keep all those nasty hairs from building up on my pretty little face. At the drop of a hat, or a stray ray of sunshine, he will lovingly offer to groom me. My my, I am one lucky gal huh? He doesn't even complain about doing it. Nope, not at all. He sets to his work almost joyfully. What's that? Maybe too joyfully? You don't really think do you......he is enjoying this far too much????? Well I never....ever.....would have thought of that. You don't think that is why I just happened to notice a little stray ear hair that I will need to take care of for him do you? Hell hath no fury like a woman with a spare wax strip.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Spring is in the Air
With warmer weather finally arriving in North Texas it is time to open up the windows and breathe in the wonderful blooming flowers. The Carolina jasmine that is hanging across our fence down the driveway mingles with the Star jasmine to create the most amazing sweet smell. The roses in my neighbors garden smell and look gorgeous. For me, there is nothing that quite compares to a freshly mowed lawn either. Life is good.
Growing up in a real family friendly neighborhood, brings back the memories of Easter egg hunts, baskets brimming with jelly beans, Peeps and of course a Helen Grace Chocolate Easter Egg. I get goose pimply just thinking about those eggs. They were huge. Rich, creamy, melt in your mouth chocolate with an even creamier dreamier walnut chocolate filling. These eggs were so big you had to slice pieces off with a butter knife. mounds and mounds of chocolate covered this and sugar filled that. Life was soooo tastey.
Our neighborhood also gathered together to have the annual Easter Egg Hunt. We kids would wait for what seemed like hours as the parents hid all of those marvelously colored eggs around the bushes and trees on the street. Then, with our empty baskets ready, we would launch out on the wildest race to see who could find and claim the most eggs. Dashing here and there, grabbing eggs and shrieking with pure joy. Life was breathless.
Once I started my own family, I declare that I too, would keep these wonderful traditions alive. Each year, I would scour the candy aisles to get the best most dazzling candies to surprise and amaze my children. I would spend hours in the kitchen, late at night, when the little darlings were asleep, hard boiling the eggs and then preparing them to be gently dipped in the vinegar and dye, watching, watching, watching as they magically changed into the colors of the rainbow. To this day I love that smell. It triggers such wonderful memories of time gone by. Once the eggs dried I would place them ever so lovingly around the house and the yard knowing that my kids too, would dance with glee on this wonderful adventure of the hunt. Life was exciting.
Just like any of our other holidays, Easter only lasts so long. Within a couple of days, the "good" candy that was so lovingly placed in those adorable baskets is gone, and most of the green basket grass has been cut off the beater bars of the vacuum. We have consumed more egg salad sandwiches than the FDA recommends and are beginning to look ahead to the next celebratory time. But then something odd catches my attention. I can't quite place it. I follow the scent throughout the living room certain that something must have died somewhere within the walls of my home. There must be a dead animal up in the attic. Life gets smelly.
As with any adventure in life, or learning experience, it is important that we look to these moments and decide that we will become better smarter people because of them. What is the sense of not taking every opportunity we are given and sharing those moments with the ones we love. Little life lessons I call them. The "something to write home about" stuff that makes us stronger and wiser. We can administer our wealth of knowledge to those younger ones, struggling to bring to their families the best holiday memories that money can buy. Sage advice from those who have been there, done that. Count the dang eggs BEFORE you hide them.
Life.....just gets.
Growing up in a real family friendly neighborhood, brings back the memories of Easter egg hunts, baskets brimming with jelly beans, Peeps and of course a Helen Grace Chocolate Easter Egg. I get goose pimply just thinking about those eggs. They were huge. Rich, creamy, melt in your mouth chocolate with an even creamier dreamier walnut chocolate filling. These eggs were so big you had to slice pieces off with a butter knife. mounds and mounds of chocolate covered this and sugar filled that. Life was soooo tastey.
Our neighborhood also gathered together to have the annual Easter Egg Hunt. We kids would wait for what seemed like hours as the parents hid all of those marvelously colored eggs around the bushes and trees on the street. Then, with our empty baskets ready, we would launch out on the wildest race to see who could find and claim the most eggs. Dashing here and there, grabbing eggs and shrieking with pure joy. Life was breathless.
Once I started my own family, I declare that I too, would keep these wonderful traditions alive. Each year, I would scour the candy aisles to get the best most dazzling candies to surprise and amaze my children. I would spend hours in the kitchen, late at night, when the little darlings were asleep, hard boiling the eggs and then preparing them to be gently dipped in the vinegar and dye, watching, watching, watching as they magically changed into the colors of the rainbow. To this day I love that smell. It triggers such wonderful memories of time gone by. Once the eggs dried I would place them ever so lovingly around the house and the yard knowing that my kids too, would dance with glee on this wonderful adventure of the hunt. Life was exciting.
Just like any of our other holidays, Easter only lasts so long. Within a couple of days, the "good" candy that was so lovingly placed in those adorable baskets is gone, and most of the green basket grass has been cut off the beater bars of the vacuum. We have consumed more egg salad sandwiches than the FDA recommends and are beginning to look ahead to the next celebratory time. But then something odd catches my attention. I can't quite place it. I follow the scent throughout the living room certain that something must have died somewhere within the walls of my home. There must be a dead animal up in the attic. Life gets smelly.
As with any adventure in life, or learning experience, it is important that we look to these moments and decide that we will become better smarter people because of them. What is the sense of not taking every opportunity we are given and sharing those moments with the ones we love. Little life lessons I call them. The "something to write home about" stuff that makes us stronger and wiser. We can administer our wealth of knowledge to those younger ones, struggling to bring to their families the best holiday memories that money can buy. Sage advice from those who have been there, done that. Count the dang eggs BEFORE you hide them.
Life.....just gets.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Beware the Eyes of March
The first day of spring packed a wallop here in Texas. We had snow. A lot of it in some places. Now mind you, compared to many other places in our wonderful country, our winter was baby sized. What's a few inches of snow when other parts of the northeast got a few feet of the fluffy white stuff. In my opinion, we had just enough to entertain the kids, and many adults for that matter. But, it will be nice to store the mittens and scarves away and bring out the sandals and tee shirts. Yeah baby. I can feel the spring in my step already.
Quite frankly, spring is one of those seasons that just kind of happens. It comes in kind of quietly, as though it doesn't want to cause a fuss. The birds seem to sing a little louder in the morning. The sunrise seems to glow with the promise of a warmer gentler day. And then all of a sudden you notice that the people around you seem to have shed about 20 pounds of outer layers. I didn't think it was humanly possible for my husband to wear so many shirts at once and still be able to tuck them in his jeans but every winter he accomplishes this feat.
And of course, as we all know, it is the time when people seem to get magically tanned before your very eyes. Bronzed skin replaces the pasty white winter look. Golden brown hairless legs are proudly displayed everywhere I go. It's amazing really. The sun has been out for maybe a few days, yet the folks around town look like they have been vacationing in the Bahamas for weeks. This happens every year. Everyone's eyes are riveted to all of the tanned legs walking around. How do they do it? I noticed this a few years ago so, being blessed with having my own fashionista in the family, I called her so that I might find out how this is accomplished. It seems that scientists, bless their hearts, have developed ways to instantly tan you so that at the very first moment of crop pant season, you are ready to go. And it all comes, easy as pie, in a bottle or a tube.
I decided that it would be a good idea to try this stuff out, since I didn't want to be the only one out walking around looking so pale and sickly. Fitting in with the crowd is so important you know. So, off I go, to the neighborhood drug store to pick up a bottle of this wonderful potion. Now, like many of the "must have" items on the store shelves, this stuff is not cheap. Always trying to be the good steward, I pick up one that promises me a "glowing natural tan in just a few hours", for quite a bit less than the name brand that the fashionista had suggested. She may know products and fashions, but I know how to save a buck.
After a good shave, remember, it's been winter time so the extra hair on the legs has been hidden by sweat pants, I squirt some of the gel in my hands and proceed to rub it on my legs. It is white, practically the same color as my legs, and it appears to disappear quickly and efficiently. It doesn't even really smell bad. I smile to myself just thinking about how awesome it is going to be in the morning when I put on my crop pants and sandals and no longer blind my neighbor when I walk out to get the mail.
The next morning as I made the coffee, I couldn't help but notice that my palms kind of had a glow in the dark look to them. They had a tinge of orange, like I had been eating Cheetos, and not washed my hands properly. I washed them and dried them again, and then again, and to my utter surprise this dull orangy hue didn't go away. I kept turning them over and over staring in amazement having absolutely no idea why this was happening. Was I sick or something? Should I call the doctor and make an appointment. Was my liver shutting down??????? And then, like a bolt of lightning it hit me. If my hands look like this, what in the world are my LEGS gonna look like.
I dashed for the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror intently staring at my orange legs. Where was the golden bronze tan that everybody else had. The picture on the front of the bottle displayed the most wonderfully evenly tanned person I had ever seen. I wanted to look like HER for heavens sake. Instead, I looked like a kindergartner had attempted to paint me and didn't understand the concept of staying in the lines. I looked like I had been haphazardly dipped in orange gelatin. My legs resembled a heavier version of my orange tabby cat. What was I going to do. The temperate was supposed to be warm and sunny. People were expecting me to be ready for spring. I had had my toes painted with a flower already.
There was no way around the fact that I was going to remain in this condition for a couple of weeks. I just couldn't let anyone see me like this. What would my friends think? Would they pity me for this ghastly mistake or would they think to themselves that I must be really really ill and be polite and not say anything. I was secretly praying that a freak snowstorm would come so that everyone would be back to wearing parkas and mukluks. But no. As luck would have it the weather was beautiful. Everywhere I went, in my blue jeans, people were showing off their tans and crop pants. I was an outcast among my own kind. I had no style, no glam. All I had was orange legs.
This year will be different. I heard about a place where they actually spray the tan right on you. Yeah. It's true. My girlfriend had it done. She came out of the stall, shiny bronze without so much of a stripe on her. Her legs had that even glow of being out in the sun continuously for weeks. I knew instantly that this was for me. No more magic potion from a bottle. I was going to go get the perfect tan. I called her up and she graciously explained the process to me. I was doing great until she reached the part where you are naked in the stall as the person sprays the tan on you. I thought about this scenario and thought about it. Was I willing to go to these lengths for a tan? Naked in a room with a person I didn't know? Naked in a room? Naked? At this stage in my life, nobody sees me naked on purpose. I just couldn't do it. I have no nerve. I have no chutzpah. Thank goodness I have another coupon for the "Tan in a Bottle".
Quite frankly, spring is one of those seasons that just kind of happens. It comes in kind of quietly, as though it doesn't want to cause a fuss. The birds seem to sing a little louder in the morning. The sunrise seems to glow with the promise of a warmer gentler day. And then all of a sudden you notice that the people around you seem to have shed about 20 pounds of outer layers. I didn't think it was humanly possible for my husband to wear so many shirts at once and still be able to tuck them in his jeans but every winter he accomplishes this feat.
And of course, as we all know, it is the time when people seem to get magically tanned before your very eyes. Bronzed skin replaces the pasty white winter look. Golden brown hairless legs are proudly displayed everywhere I go. It's amazing really. The sun has been out for maybe a few days, yet the folks around town look like they have been vacationing in the Bahamas for weeks. This happens every year. Everyone's eyes are riveted to all of the tanned legs walking around. How do they do it? I noticed this a few years ago so, being blessed with having my own fashionista in the family, I called her so that I might find out how this is accomplished. It seems that scientists, bless their hearts, have developed ways to instantly tan you so that at the very first moment of crop pant season, you are ready to go. And it all comes, easy as pie, in a bottle or a tube.
I decided that it would be a good idea to try this stuff out, since I didn't want to be the only one out walking around looking so pale and sickly. Fitting in with the crowd is so important you know. So, off I go, to the neighborhood drug store to pick up a bottle of this wonderful potion. Now, like many of the "must have" items on the store shelves, this stuff is not cheap. Always trying to be the good steward, I pick up one that promises me a "glowing natural tan in just a few hours", for quite a bit less than the name brand that the fashionista had suggested. She may know products and fashions, but I know how to save a buck.
After a good shave, remember, it's been winter time so the extra hair on the legs has been hidden by sweat pants, I squirt some of the gel in my hands and proceed to rub it on my legs. It is white, practically the same color as my legs, and it appears to disappear quickly and efficiently. It doesn't even really smell bad. I smile to myself just thinking about how awesome it is going to be in the morning when I put on my crop pants and sandals and no longer blind my neighbor when I walk out to get the mail.
The next morning as I made the coffee, I couldn't help but notice that my palms kind of had a glow in the dark look to them. They had a tinge of orange, like I had been eating Cheetos, and not washed my hands properly. I washed them and dried them again, and then again, and to my utter surprise this dull orangy hue didn't go away. I kept turning them over and over staring in amazement having absolutely no idea why this was happening. Was I sick or something? Should I call the doctor and make an appointment. Was my liver shutting down??????? And then, like a bolt of lightning it hit me. If my hands look like this, what in the world are my LEGS gonna look like.
I dashed for the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror intently staring at my orange legs. Where was the golden bronze tan that everybody else had. The picture on the front of the bottle displayed the most wonderfully evenly tanned person I had ever seen. I wanted to look like HER for heavens sake. Instead, I looked like a kindergartner had attempted to paint me and didn't understand the concept of staying in the lines. I looked like I had been haphazardly dipped in orange gelatin. My legs resembled a heavier version of my orange tabby cat. What was I going to do. The temperate was supposed to be warm and sunny. People were expecting me to be ready for spring. I had had my toes painted with a flower already.
There was no way around the fact that I was going to remain in this condition for a couple of weeks. I just couldn't let anyone see me like this. What would my friends think? Would they pity me for this ghastly mistake or would they think to themselves that I must be really really ill and be polite and not say anything. I was secretly praying that a freak snowstorm would come so that everyone would be back to wearing parkas and mukluks. But no. As luck would have it the weather was beautiful. Everywhere I went, in my blue jeans, people were showing off their tans and crop pants. I was an outcast among my own kind. I had no style, no glam. All I had was orange legs.
This year will be different. I heard about a place where they actually spray the tan right on you. Yeah. It's true. My girlfriend had it done. She came out of the stall, shiny bronze without so much of a stripe on her. Her legs had that even glow of being out in the sun continuously for weeks. I knew instantly that this was for me. No more magic potion from a bottle. I was going to go get the perfect tan. I called her up and she graciously explained the process to me. I was doing great until she reached the part where you are naked in the stall as the person sprays the tan on you. I thought about this scenario and thought about it. Was I willing to go to these lengths for a tan? Naked in a room with a person I didn't know? Naked in a room? Naked? At this stage in my life, nobody sees me naked on purpose. I just couldn't do it. I have no nerve. I have no chutzpah. Thank goodness I have another coupon for the "Tan in a Bottle".
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Slip Slidin' Away
I have recently discovered that the rules of "I just have to have that" do not just apply to those precious little knee huggers at Christmastime. Oh no. There seem to be plenty of folks over the age of "You should know better than to believe that crud" living around me. Some of them even live at my house. Imagine that.
I would venture to say with the utmost of certainty, that most of us seek to get a good nights sleep. I know I do. My husband is a tosser and turner. You know the kind. By the end of the day his back is sore and something about laying still for several hours doesn't work well. It takes him about a minute to fall into this deep deep sleep then he spends the next several hours tossing and turning. He just never seems to get comfortable. Back and forth and back and forth. Grab the pillow, fluff the pillow. Sheet tucked in and sheet tucked out. Even the dogs leave the room to go and find a quiet place to get some rest. It's amazing that I look as good as I do in the morning !!!
On a recent trip to the local membership store, he spotted a huge display of the "World's Best Pillows". "Maybe a new pillow would help" he said as he picked one up. These things weighed about 5 pounds and were so thick you could leave a hand print in them that took several minutes to go away. "Wow" I said. "Once you lay your head down on that thing you will never move again". Not a bad idea I thought to myself. Maybe this will eliminate the night spasms and we will both look great in the morning. Now, these things weren't cheap so we decided to buy just one and we would both test it out and see what we thought. I must admit that first night I was a bit green with pillow envy and he lay ever so quietly breathing in and breathing out with a slight smile on his face. Blissful rest. I just gotta have one of those pillows too.
Then I saw it. Sitting in my own living room watching a Saturday afternoon rerun. The thing that promised me a good nights sleep. A mattress pad made out of the very same miracle material that my husbands pillow was made out of. Oh my gosh! I was so excited I almost forgot to breathe. And the commercial for it was so informative and believable. A simple mattress pad that would guarantee the best nights sleep humanly possible. Morning stiffness and back aches would be a thing of the past. You are cradled to sleep and your body is tenderly wrapped in the firmness of the most incredible mattress pad a person could ever ask for. Brilliant, just brilliant. Who ever discovered this patent had my vote for person of the year. According to the commercial, and we all know that there is only truth in commercials, you could even jump up and down on your side of the bed, in your skimpy negligee. while your mate has a glass of wine balanced precariously by his toes. Wow. I was sold. We were getting one of those. And we did.
Now, I am not one to complain, but there is something amiss with my new mattress pad. Oh it is firm enough, just like the advertisement said. You can press on it, and your hand print will remain for several minutes. But it is having a smidgen of a problem staying "in place" on our pillow top mattress. Remember those???? Oh don't date me now, but yes, we still have a pillow top mattress. It's only about 1/8 of an inch thick but that is just enough to throw the new mattress pad off kilter. I first noticed that I would wake up in the morning gripping the side of the bed with the most peculiar feeling that I was falling off of a cliff. It has come to my attention that the mattress pad shifts to the right every night causing a couple of inches to hang off my side of the bed. I found this out one morning as I sat down and reached into my closet for my shoes. I slid off the bed and into the closet in a split second. This was NOT mentioned in the commercial. I was devastated. Can you imagine my turmoil? What was I to do? Get rid of it?
I don't want to toot my own horn or make you think that I am ingenious. Nor do I want you to get the impression I spend my days watching television. But it was indeed another commercial that saved the day. Oh you've seen it. The stuff that can fix just about anything you break. You can hang by a hard hat suspended from a ceiling joist with it? I figured I could take a little bit of that liquid gold and glue the two mattresses together. The new mattress pad would stay in place and I would no longer feel as though I was falling. Great huh? Sometimes I amaze myself with how smart I am. It's almost scary to realize that all that intelligence is securely wrapped up inside my little ole head. Now I just need to go and watch one more commercial. You know, the one that tells you what product to use to get the dang sheets unstuck.
I would venture to say with the utmost of certainty, that most of us seek to get a good nights sleep. I know I do. My husband is a tosser and turner. You know the kind. By the end of the day his back is sore and something about laying still for several hours doesn't work well. It takes him about a minute to fall into this deep deep sleep then he spends the next several hours tossing and turning. He just never seems to get comfortable. Back and forth and back and forth. Grab the pillow, fluff the pillow. Sheet tucked in and sheet tucked out. Even the dogs leave the room to go and find a quiet place to get some rest. It's amazing that I look as good as I do in the morning !!!
On a recent trip to the local membership store, he spotted a huge display of the "World's Best Pillows". "Maybe a new pillow would help" he said as he picked one up. These things weighed about 5 pounds and were so thick you could leave a hand print in them that took several minutes to go away. "Wow" I said. "Once you lay your head down on that thing you will never move again". Not a bad idea I thought to myself. Maybe this will eliminate the night spasms and we will both look great in the morning. Now, these things weren't cheap so we decided to buy just one and we would both test it out and see what we thought. I must admit that first night I was a bit green with pillow envy and he lay ever so quietly breathing in and breathing out with a slight smile on his face. Blissful rest. I just gotta have one of those pillows too.
Then I saw it. Sitting in my own living room watching a Saturday afternoon rerun. The thing that promised me a good nights sleep. A mattress pad made out of the very same miracle material that my husbands pillow was made out of. Oh my gosh! I was so excited I almost forgot to breathe. And the commercial for it was so informative and believable. A simple mattress pad that would guarantee the best nights sleep humanly possible. Morning stiffness and back aches would be a thing of the past. You are cradled to sleep and your body is tenderly wrapped in the firmness of the most incredible mattress pad a person could ever ask for. Brilliant, just brilliant. Who ever discovered this patent had my vote for person of the year. According to the commercial, and we all know that there is only truth in commercials, you could even jump up and down on your side of the bed, in your skimpy negligee. while your mate has a glass of wine balanced precariously by his toes. Wow. I was sold. We were getting one of those. And we did.
Now, I am not one to complain, but there is something amiss with my new mattress pad. Oh it is firm enough, just like the advertisement said. You can press on it, and your hand print will remain for several minutes. But it is having a smidgen of a problem staying "in place" on our pillow top mattress. Remember those???? Oh don't date me now, but yes, we still have a pillow top mattress. It's only about 1/8 of an inch thick but that is just enough to throw the new mattress pad off kilter. I first noticed that I would wake up in the morning gripping the side of the bed with the most peculiar feeling that I was falling off of a cliff. It has come to my attention that the mattress pad shifts to the right every night causing a couple of inches to hang off my side of the bed. I found this out one morning as I sat down and reached into my closet for my shoes. I slid off the bed and into the closet in a split second. This was NOT mentioned in the commercial. I was devastated. Can you imagine my turmoil? What was I to do? Get rid of it?
I don't want to toot my own horn or make you think that I am ingenious. Nor do I want you to get the impression I spend my days watching television. But it was indeed another commercial that saved the day. Oh you've seen it. The stuff that can fix just about anything you break. You can hang by a hard hat suspended from a ceiling joist with it? I figured I could take a little bit of that liquid gold and glue the two mattresses together. The new mattress pad would stay in place and I would no longer feel as though I was falling. Great huh? Sometimes I amaze myself with how smart I am. It's almost scary to realize that all that intelligence is securely wrapped up inside my little ole head. Now I just need to go and watch one more commercial. You know, the one that tells you what product to use to get the dang sheets unstuck.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Getting Jiggly with my Bad Self
This past year I incorporated working out with my morning routine. Let's be very clear here though. My morning routine would not likely have been considered healthy by most. After several cups of coffee, you know, the strong, put hair on your chest stuff, my exercise consisted of opening the back door to let my dogs out. If I was really feeling energetic, I might even stroll out to the back porch and gently toss the ball around for my dog. So when I got this wild idea that a little exercise might do me some good, it was a real ground shaker in my house. It's not like they doubted that I would do it, but hey, they know me. Sitting quietly is more my speed.
I must admit, it took quite a bit of time to create poetry in motion but I do believe that I have a handle on it now. My Wii Mii and I can change it up with the best of them. Kick boxing? Yeah, we do it. Yoga? Oh my. Look at that perfect posture. Step dancing? Ha! We could be on "So you think you can Dance". We are good I tell ya. Dang good. Once that music starts playing wii are one with it. That balance board has nothing on us. Floating like a butterfly. Yep that's us. I was feeling so confident that I decided to add a little spice to the workout. You know. Keep it fresh. Keep it alive. I was an old hand at this now. There was nothing I couldn't do.
Until I decided to try the Hula Hoops. Who's idea was it to put that in the program. This was supposed to be a fun way to get in shape. What's a little sweat between friends right? This should have been a easy thing for my Wii Mii and I. But NOOOOOO !!!! I am saddened and ashamed to report that we are sorely missing the mark in this little exercise of wit. And it is all my shii mii's fault. She has no rhythm.
Once the music starts you twirl your hips while keeping the Hula Hoop spinning. Oh it sounds easy enough doesn't it. Once you get them babies twirling some other Mii in the corner of the screen ( and I think I know who it is) tosses another hoop to you. Now you must catch it while still twirling the other hoop. Not bad? Try another.......and another. The tossers never miss a beat while I frantically try and remember which way to twirl so I don't lose any points. I AM all about winning you know. This is usually about the time that I am making some incredible growling type sounds so both dogs come in the room to see what is happening and start to bark at me, thinking that I must be growling at the bad guy. Next in comes my husband. He just stands there staring. What can he say after all. I am frantically twirling invisible hoops and cursing under my breath, regarding the DNA that my father must have passed me that is causing me to have to exercise in the first place. I have sweat running down my cheeks and my Wii Mii looks fresh as a daisy. Is there no justice? This just doesn't seem fair.
We all know that I am all about the fair so after I caught my breath from the invigorating workout I grabbed another cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and thought about how I might even things up a bit. Shii doesn't sweat. Shii never even looks ruffled after a 30 minute workout. Shii eats what shii wants when shii wants and only changes weight when I do. Huh. Something is just not right here. I leer at her over the lip of my coffee cup. Thinking, thinking. I've got it!!!! I'll show her a thing or two. I will beat her at her own game.
I must have had a really scary look on my face because my husband walked by and stopped and just kind of looked at me. And then he quietly walked away shaking his head wondering what in the world I could be up to. I rose from the table and walked back to the remote. I knew what I had to do. It just was not working having her look better than me. So I took off her eye makeup. That showed her a thing or two.
I must admit, it took quite a bit of time to create poetry in motion but I do believe that I have a handle on it now. My Wii Mii and I can change it up with the best of them. Kick boxing? Yeah, we do it. Yoga? Oh my. Look at that perfect posture. Step dancing? Ha! We could be on "So you think you can Dance". We are good I tell ya. Dang good. Once that music starts playing wii are one with it. That balance board has nothing on us. Floating like a butterfly. Yep that's us. I was feeling so confident that I decided to add a little spice to the workout. You know. Keep it fresh. Keep it alive. I was an old hand at this now. There was nothing I couldn't do.
Until I decided to try the Hula Hoops. Who's idea was it to put that in the program. This was supposed to be a fun way to get in shape. What's a little sweat between friends right? This should have been a easy thing for my Wii Mii and I. But NOOOOOO !!!! I am saddened and ashamed to report that we are sorely missing the mark in this little exercise of wit. And it is all my shii mii's fault. She has no rhythm.
Once the music starts you twirl your hips while keeping the Hula Hoop spinning. Oh it sounds easy enough doesn't it. Once you get them babies twirling some other Mii in the corner of the screen ( and I think I know who it is) tosses another hoop to you. Now you must catch it while still twirling the other hoop. Not bad? Try another.......and another. The tossers never miss a beat while I frantically try and remember which way to twirl so I don't lose any points. I AM all about winning you know. This is usually about the time that I am making some incredible growling type sounds so both dogs come in the room to see what is happening and start to bark at me, thinking that I must be growling at the bad guy. Next in comes my husband. He just stands there staring. What can he say after all. I am frantically twirling invisible hoops and cursing under my breath, regarding the DNA that my father must have passed me that is causing me to have to exercise in the first place. I have sweat running down my cheeks and my Wii Mii looks fresh as a daisy. Is there no justice? This just doesn't seem fair.
We all know that I am all about the fair so after I caught my breath from the invigorating workout I grabbed another cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and thought about how I might even things up a bit. Shii doesn't sweat. Shii never even looks ruffled after a 30 minute workout. Shii eats what shii wants when shii wants and only changes weight when I do. Huh. Something is just not right here. I leer at her over the lip of my coffee cup. Thinking, thinking. I've got it!!!! I'll show her a thing or two. I will beat her at her own game.
I must have had a really scary look on my face because my husband walked by and stopped and just kind of looked at me. And then he quietly walked away shaking his head wondering what in the world I could be up to. I rose from the table and walked back to the remote. I knew what I had to do. It just was not working having her look better than me. So I took off her eye makeup. That showed her a thing or two.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Red Red Whine
I have often wondered, who is it that makes the decisions on what we should and shouldn't wear. Haven't you? Is it some high class diamond dripping vamp sitting at her desk on the 50th floor of a downtown New York city office? Could it be the never a hair out of place Donald type guy who marries only the best dressed women in the world? Is the cheesy looking guy that stops at the coffee house each morning and sits and pours over the latest magazines????? Come on.....aren't you the least bit curious to know who it is that sets these fashion trends in place? Well search no more. I have the answer and I am willing to share this timely secret with you. It's my Mom and her best friend.
They are without a doubt the fashionistas of their town. The women in Wichita Falls would be running around stark naked if it wasn't for their keen eye to the latest fashion "Ins" and "Outs". It is amazing to watch them in action. The sales clerks tremble when they see them walk into their shops. These women are known around town I tell you. They can "make" or "break" a shop. I am sure that they must be inundated daily with emails and calls from around the world seeking their advise on fabric trends, skirt lengths and of course color. If you want to know what is hot or what is not, these two fine ladies are there for the asking. Even if you really don't want to hear the answer.
Winter is a special time for me. I enjoy the sights and sounds. The baking and gift wrapping. The holiday sweaters that just seem to scream to be worn joyfully. As mom would always say "Red is such a bold wonderful color. Use it to your advantage. It commands respect". Since a good dose of respect is something I always like my fellow man to give me, I set my sights, and heart on something new.....something bold.....something that I have ever owned before......red pants. Yep. I tell her that I am going to buy a pair of red jeans or red dress pants. It was a lovely day. Both of us enjoying a fresh cup of her delicious coffee. Mother and daughter sharing quality time together at her dining room table, with Christmas music playing softly in the background. It just doesn't get much better than that. Until I mentioned the red pants.
With every ounce of finesse she has, she gingerly sets her cup on the table, looks at me lovingly and says "Really ?????" I don't know about any of you but when my Mom says "really" like that, it usually means something more like "Have you totally lost your mind????!!!!" I slowly set my cup down and wait. And wait. Eventually she will spill it. They always do. Even when you have given birth to their grandchildren, they will ALWAYS be Mom. Good sound solid advise is never more than a phone call away right? Just ask me. I am a mother too. I know how this works.
Ever so gently she clears her throat and begins. "Dear" she begins, "There are certain things that women of our, (cough cough), size should not wear. One of those items is red pants. Trust me. You don't want to do this. Red should only be worn above the waist. When you are leaving a room, in red pants, you will look like a Christmas ornament. A very BIG Christmas ornament". I blinked twice to cover my amazement. An ornament????? A big ornament at that. She must be wrong on this one. Her fashion sense must have had a momentary lapse. I wanted red pants....by gosh I HAD to have red pants. All of a sudden the thought of not having red pants was almost too much to bare. But, the good daughter that I am, I sighed and thanked her for her wonderful forethought on this issue and let the subject drop.
We arrived home on Sunday afternoon and the next day I had my husband promptly take me to the mall. I was going to show her alright. I was going to go to every store that was in that mall until I found them and owned them. Red pants. I was on a mission. The holidays were still upon us so they shouldn't be too hard to find. In my mind, every store in the mall should be stocked to the rafters with red pants. I would visit every store if that is what it took. Time stood still as we made our way around the mall.
Finally, we came to a shop that caters to petite sized women. Remember???? That's what I am....petite. So in I go, shoulders squared, head held high straight to the first sales lady I see. Of course they have red pants she assures me. We travel to the rack and what do my eyes behold but pair after pair of red pants. And believe it or not, all of the skinny girls had already been there but left plenty of "my" sizes. From 12 up to 18 there were dozens of them. It was a bounty. I grabbed a pair, told my husband to have a seat and dashed into the dressing room. There is no way to express the bliss of knowing that in a few short minutes I was going to be floating out of the store with my new red pants. I pulled them on, and twirled around to get a mirrored view. I pranced out of the room and practically danced in front of my husband anxiously waiting for him to tell me how great they looked. But then I noticed it. The raised eyebrow. The one that speaks volumes without saying a word. "Turn around" he whispered. I do so. And I wait.....and wait. I turn back around and see that he is standing up ready to go. He says one word and one word only "Ornament".
I called my Mom a few days later and in passing mentioned my little shopping excursion. I could see her smiling though the phone, but she never uttered the words "I told you so". She didn't have to. After all, I'm a Mom too. I just shoulda known.
They are without a doubt the fashionistas of their town. The women in Wichita Falls would be running around stark naked if it wasn't for their keen eye to the latest fashion "Ins" and "Outs". It is amazing to watch them in action. The sales clerks tremble when they see them walk into their shops. These women are known around town I tell you. They can "make" or "break" a shop. I am sure that they must be inundated daily with emails and calls from around the world seeking their advise on fabric trends, skirt lengths and of course color. If you want to know what is hot or what is not, these two fine ladies are there for the asking. Even if you really don't want to hear the answer.
Winter is a special time for me. I enjoy the sights and sounds. The baking and gift wrapping. The holiday sweaters that just seem to scream to be worn joyfully. As mom would always say "Red is such a bold wonderful color. Use it to your advantage. It commands respect". Since a good dose of respect is something I always like my fellow man to give me, I set my sights, and heart on something new.....something bold.....something that I have ever owned before......red pants. Yep. I tell her that I am going to buy a pair of red jeans or red dress pants. It was a lovely day. Both of us enjoying a fresh cup of her delicious coffee. Mother and daughter sharing quality time together at her dining room table, with Christmas music playing softly in the background. It just doesn't get much better than that. Until I mentioned the red pants.
With every ounce of finesse she has, she gingerly sets her cup on the table, looks at me lovingly and says "Really ?????" I don't know about any of you but when my Mom says "really" like that, it usually means something more like "Have you totally lost your mind????!!!!" I slowly set my cup down and wait. And wait. Eventually she will spill it. They always do. Even when you have given birth to their grandchildren, they will ALWAYS be Mom. Good sound solid advise is never more than a phone call away right? Just ask me. I am a mother too. I know how this works.
Ever so gently she clears her throat and begins. "Dear" she begins, "There are certain things that women of our, (cough cough), size should not wear. One of those items is red pants. Trust me. You don't want to do this. Red should only be worn above the waist. When you are leaving a room, in red pants, you will look like a Christmas ornament. A very BIG Christmas ornament". I blinked twice to cover my amazement. An ornament????? A big ornament at that. She must be wrong on this one. Her fashion sense must have had a momentary lapse. I wanted red pants....by gosh I HAD to have red pants. All of a sudden the thought of not having red pants was almost too much to bare. But, the good daughter that I am, I sighed and thanked her for her wonderful forethought on this issue and let the subject drop.
We arrived home on Sunday afternoon and the next day I had my husband promptly take me to the mall. I was going to show her alright. I was going to go to every store that was in that mall until I found them and owned them. Red pants. I was on a mission. The holidays were still upon us so they shouldn't be too hard to find. In my mind, every store in the mall should be stocked to the rafters with red pants. I would visit every store if that is what it took. Time stood still as we made our way around the mall.
Finally, we came to a shop that caters to petite sized women. Remember???? That's what I am....petite. So in I go, shoulders squared, head held high straight to the first sales lady I see. Of course they have red pants she assures me. We travel to the rack and what do my eyes behold but pair after pair of red pants. And believe it or not, all of the skinny girls had already been there but left plenty of "my" sizes. From 12 up to 18 there were dozens of them. It was a bounty. I grabbed a pair, told my husband to have a seat and dashed into the dressing room. There is no way to express the bliss of knowing that in a few short minutes I was going to be floating out of the store with my new red pants. I pulled them on, and twirled around to get a mirrored view. I pranced out of the room and practically danced in front of my husband anxiously waiting for him to tell me how great they looked. But then I noticed it. The raised eyebrow. The one that speaks volumes without saying a word. "Turn around" he whispered. I do so. And I wait.....and wait. I turn back around and see that he is standing up ready to go. He says one word and one word only "Ornament".
I called my Mom a few days later and in passing mentioned my little shopping excursion. I could see her smiling though the phone, but she never uttered the words "I told you so". She didn't have to. After all, I'm a Mom too. I just shoulda known.
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