A SIMPLE BURIAL FOR THE OL’ DAISY DUKES

This is not just about my own dainty size six Daisy Dukes; “Cut-Offs”, as they are known to most of us Baby Boomers. I gave mine a very simple burial in the bottom of a Salvation Army donation bag about 16 years ago; only until I saw the Salvation Army truck pull up in front of my house. This left little chance that I would retrieve them once again from the donation bag, only to return them safely back to their cherished spot in my dresser drawer. I had out grown those little jewels years before, but until then, I could not bring myself to part with them … just in case I could squeeze into them once more. Only after the truck pulled away from our curb was I able to even think about some deserving young woman finding such a prize on the rack at the Salvation Army. Could she do them justice, though? I wept bitterly. As most women my age, my shorts are of the Bermuda variety, or I wear Capri’s. And, as I’ve said before, I do look much better in clothes than out of them, and have, ever since I out grew my beloved Daisy Dukes…long before I parted with them.

Enough about my reminiscences, wailings and losses. This is about the Royster’s Daisy Dukes. He was going through a drawer full of shorts, deciding which to keep and which to give away. After all, I’d been bugging him for weeks to clean out that drawer. He tried on each pair before making a decision as to their fate. He picked up these very seasoned cut-offs and waved them at me. “Hey! Remember these?” And, he stepped into them as if he’d just worn them yesterday. Yes, he still looked fabulous in them. Even when he tried them on, just two hours ago, they fit, but somehow, it just wasn’t the same. No, it just wasn’t right. He said that he’d only wear them to work in the yard, certainly not to any social events. Well, I should hope not!


It may just be our age, or maybe it’s the fact that his cut-offs still fit him long after I’d out-grown my own, but it’s just not the same. I was hoping he’d put them straight in the donation bag. As it was, he put them in the stack of shorts to save, and I went about my Saturday chores with my mind still on those damned Daisy Dukes! And, they still fit him! How dare him flaunt that pair of cut-offs in front of me; especially since I had out grown mine so many years ago! And, they fit him!

Soon I was absorbed into my lawn watering, laundry washing, and baking. I forgot all about the cut-offs, and was able to be amicable. We ran a couple of errands, and returned to have lunch and rest up, as some of us must do if we are going out for the evening. As I cleaned up our lunch dishes, and walked back to the bedroom, I saw The Royster’s cut-offs in the waste basket. How heart breaking! What a heartless farewell for something so divine, so cherished, so full of history! Oh, the beaches they saw and the parties they went to! If those cut-offs could talk, what tales they would tell! I went to get my camera, and took one last picture of them.

We will always have fond memories of the summer apparel of the 60’s; cut-offs tee-shirts or halter-tops and flip-flops. PARTY TIME!!!!.

HOUNDED BY A PRO

I’ve thought seriously about calling Cesar Millan about this. The only reason I haven’t contacted him is that I know that he will immediately see what milk toast we both are under Hanks whims and demands. He will also tell us that we need to walk Hank twice a day for 45 minutes each time. If I can remember while it’s cool in the mornings, I will load up my pockets with poo bags and take him for a romp around the neighborhood for a few blocks. Maybe Cesar would tell us that Hank is a work dog, and that he needs a job. Snort! I have tried for almost 7 years to get Hank to carry in the newspaper in the morning. The dog knows what I am asking him to do, and knows how to do it, but he just looks at me as if to say…. “Get it yourself, you lazy, bossy, Alpha Lady!” If the truth be known, he enjoys using his energy to show off with the tricks he can still do, and he will at every opportunity. That’s pretty darn good for being 14 years old.

For the last three nights we have had our sleep interrupted by Hank. He would start pacing and panting at about 10:30 p.m. This is how we knew he was getting ready to hound us….literally. His next move was to come to one side of our bed or the other, preferably The Royster’s side, and sit as close as possible, so that he had his nose right in front of his face. Then he would place his paws on the edge of the bed and start with the panting again. This was intended to wake up The Royster, who would immediately send him packing back to his own bed. Maybe he thought this would get better results going to The Royster, because Roy is really Hanks litter mate, and he might get up to play with him. I was only his choice when he was rejected by the occupant on the other side of the bed. He seems to view me (maybe) as “that Alpha Lady that makes me do stuff”.

The first night of his pacing, panting and pawing gave me concern. I truly thought maybe he was sick, or maybe that he even had fleas again. Mind you, Hank had never had fleas before last summer, when, for some reason he got a healthy dose of them. I never saw them until I’d taken him to the vet to see what was wrong with the pacing, panting and pawing dog. I ended up treating every inch of the house with an expensive version boric acid. Believe me, it’s the same stuff with a fancy (technical) name. That seemed to do the trick. This time, I’ve looked in all the usual places on this dog for the tiny, agony causing bugs. No. He doesn’t have any fleas. The groomer also said Hank doesn’t have fleas.

For the next two nights I got up and down several times to play Dog Whisperer. I would sit up, clap my hands loudly (he’s almost deaf), and point to the bedroom exit. At which time Hank would slink out, dejected. Thirty minutes later, he was back at it. Pace, pant, paw. I can’t sleep! Pleeeeeze get up and play with me! I just can’t stay up all by myself! Roy and I were both becoming dangerously sleep deprived, and very frustrated. I would get up and make the dog lie in a prone, submissive position, and then place a claw-like hand on his throat. This is supposed to be like the mother dog’s mouth on her puppy’s neck….disciplining him. This Cesar Millan technique worked for about 45 minutes. I’m not sure how many times I did that, but, the pace, pant and paw would begin anew each time. I started closing the bedroom door to keep him out, which was just agonizing for Hank. Now, he really was really making a scene. He would sit outside our bedroom mumbling, barking and rattling the door.

Last night was about to break both of us. At exactly 10:30 p.m. I could hear the pacing and panting start. I jumped up, threw open the bedroom door, and ran into the living room. Hank could see me coming, and quickly assumed the prone, submissive position. He would actually beat me to it each time. As I’d start to walk away, his head would pop up, and I’d go over and make the claw-like fingers on his throat again. The last time, he headed for the back door, meaning that he really had to go. What - a - liar! I actually felt a little sorry for him, but that didn’t last long. When I let him out, he just went over to his favorite grassy spot by the patio to lie down. I think he was actually waiting for me to pull up a chair and join him. He thought he had won that round. By then, I was wide awake and more than a little irritated, so, I just closed the door….rather firmly. I glanced back to see him get up and head for the door to protest. I just turned around and headed back to bed. The Royster was still awake.

R. - “Where’s Hank?”

M. - “I threw him out in the back yard! He can just sleep out there tonight!”

R. - “Why did you do that? He’ll just be going from one back door to the other, barking all night long! We still won’t get any sleep.”

M. - “Well, YOU to do something with him!

The Royster got up and took a cigarette with him to smoke and have a man-to-man talk with Hank. I think it really made an impression on Hank by throwing him out. He really didn’t want to spend the night alone in the back yard. He slept all night after that….or, he just didn’t disturb us.

I truly believe that as an old dog, Hank is getting way too much sleep during the day. He’s not standing guard at the windows as much. So, I’ve been nudging him awake when I can catch him starting to nap. This morning, I took him outside with me while it was cool enough to do a little gardening. We’d been out there about 30 minutes when he strutted up to me. “Hey! Look at me! I found some really cool mud to roll in!” I wasn’t amused, but I already had the hose in hand to fill up one of the birdbaths, so I just collared Hank and gave him a really good rinsing off, and continued with my back yard chores. In five minutes, movement caught my eye out in the yard. Sure enough, Hank was drying himself off in a select mound of dirt.

I went in and got my skinny Cesar Millan leash, and hooked Hank up to the gate, gathered up my dog washing stuff and gave him a good scrubbing. He doesn’t give me any resistance when I bathe him, but he doesn’t like it because I leave him hooked on the gate until he’s dry enough to let in the house. Today was no exception I left him there in the shade on the patio with several large towels to roll in and a big bowl of water. I was able to ignore Hank's grumbling while I finished cleaning out a flowerbed to put in a variety of mint plants. At least he wasn’t napping. Maybe tonight he will be exhausted enough from “helping” me out in the yard to actually sleep through the night without hounding us. Hell! Maybe I'll be exhausted enough.

I’m off to the eye-lid movies! Night y’all!

NAP TIME IN THE SUMMER

There were several factors in growing up in such a huge family that made every one of us (11 siblings) love the written word. First of all, Mom had an affinity for reading just about anything that passed within her peripheral vision. If it was blowing across the street and looked like it might have some written word on it, she would stop it with her foot and look to see what it said.

So, it would be logical that she would always find a way in her day to read a few pages of her chosen book of the week. And, that she did. There had to be a way to corral all of these children and keep them quiet long enough to get several pages read and digested. Since she was usually pregnant, nap time was a must. There was always a nap time. Nap time was seldom ever missed at our house … every winter, spring, summer and fall. She always started the little ones out with Little Golden Books, Little Black Sambo, The Ugly ducking, Peter and the Wolf, The Three Little Pigs, The Little Train that Could and The Gingerbread Man. In the fall and winter, most of us were in school. The younger kids at home were corralled and put down for naps after lunch, whereby she made a special time to read to these preschoolers until the last one nodded off to sleep. Then she would pick up her big Steinbeck, Hemingway, Zane Grey, Larry McMurtry or Louis L’Amour, just to name a few.

Suffice to say, she always had something to read, and encouraged all of us to do the same. To do this, she read classics to us at nap time. Through the Looking-Glass, Kidnapped, Black Beauty, Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer and The Hobbit were just a few. Mostly I remember naptime in the summer.

In the summer time, from the time I was about six years old, all of us were required to part take in nap time. First, Mom would crank up the old swamp cooler in the window, and then she would situate herself in the middle of her bed with the two youngest; one on either side. Usually the two beside her were of different temperaments, and she held a switch in one hand, mostly to warn them to be still and quiet so that she could read. Everyone else was situated on their pallets on the floor.

With the switch in one hand, and the other holding the current book propped up against her usually very pregnant belly she would begin to read. On occasion, one of the two on the bed would squirm. If it was Georgie, she’d give him a little warning swat with the switch. If it was Danny, then she would tickle his back with the switch. One by one we would all fall asleep. This went on every summer until we were of junior high school age.

Joanie was the first to be excused from nap time. She was allowed to go off to the privacy of her own room and read quietly to herself. And, she was most happy do so. When Anne and I reached that age, we were given the choice of going to lie down in front of the fan in the living room, or some other quiet activity in another part of the house until nap time was over at 3 p.m. We older ones also had the option of walking to the recreation center around 3:30, when the Book Mobile would be there. It was always a really special treat to check out library books in the summer.

I will always remember how much I enjoyed being read to at nap time. Those stories inspired imagination and encouraged us all to be avid readers. Every one of my siblings has a great appreciation for the written word, and the desire write, whether it is a journal, blog or a diary. I think it all goes back to being read to. Just to be read to as a child is probably the greatest inspiration to read that there could be.

NEW-FANGLED ELECTRONICS & STUFF

The electronic computing era started way back in the late 40’s. In about 1956, my third grade science teacher, Miss Philips, predicted to the class that we’d be completely free of paper files by the year 2000. She also predicted that food costs would rise out of sight. She was right about the food, considering that a pack of cigarettes cost about the same as a loaf of bread back then, and that was about 15 to 25 cents. However, we have been reluctant to let go of our beloved paper files. They still exist in every home and business. As I write, I am sitting amid huge filing cabinets, hanging files and upright filing slots, not to mention stacks of files on the floor propped up against the wall with heavy objects.

Why are we so afraid to trust our computers to keep all of this? There are all kinds of computer capabilities. Besides, you can back up files every day if you want to. There are many occasions that require a hard copy, signed and actually in someone’s hands as proof of undying commitment. Why on earth can’t we make our signature once, scan it into the computer and use as it is intended? Some companies and organizations do accept this as a legal signature. I think we’re getting there slowly. Maybe in the future, computers will hold individual finger prints as legal signatures, if it's not already being done.

It took me some time to really get comfortable with computer generated work, but I was way ahead of my boss. In 1993, my boss, Arnie, was still holding his ground that his computer was a #2 pencil, and delete was the eraser on the end of said pencil. I swear he kept a Big Chief Tablet in his brief case. Any computer skills I had were wasted on an IBM Selectric II typewriter. Finally the day came. His boss in the home office in New Orleans (NOLA) required our office to be equipped with computers, and that Arnie would actually have his very own. And, horror of horrors, he would have to use it. Arnie displayed his terror in a fit of temper ... "How DARE they tell me how to run this office!” The man was clearly horrified. He didn’t have a clue as to how to operate a typerwriter keyboard, let alone one with all of those new-fangled buttons and commands. By that time, The Royster had bought our very first computer, and I’d been learning at home for about a year. Actually, I'd had a little computer experience on temporariy job assignments prior to going to work for Arnie at CBC.

The day finally arrived. A couple of computer techs showed up to install two computers; one for my boss and one for me. I was ecstatic, but with their arrival, Arnie disappeared to find a double martini at a near by club. I eagerly watched as the techs installed and instructed me briefly. I finally had a computer, but was still not very computer literate. I guess you could say I was pretty green, actually, but I was still much more computer literate than my boss. This was going to be fun. I knew I’d have to get some guidance from the girls in New Orleans. I’d made friends over there, and met them on monthly commutes to get caught up on barge activity and to get more training.

As soon as the techs left, I called my friend Cheryl, in NOLA to get some guidance. Arnie was missing out on all the fun. She asked for “permission” to view my computer screen and files. I said, “Sure. Go ahead!” She laughed and said that I had to give a command, and then she had to reply to that command. I don’t even remember how we did that, but she was finally able to see what had been installed in my computer, and help me set up files for things I’d be doing.

Finally, she said that we needed to set up my e-mail files so that I could keep in touch with everyone in the New Orleans Office. This was great! I asked her if I’d be required to show Arnie how to use his computer. She said that he would be going over to a little training session over there probably that Thursday and Friday.

Before all was said and done, I thought his training in NOLA wouldn’t arrive soon enough. He kept calling me into his office to show him how to do things as simple as type a letter. I told him to scribble out a letter for me to type, and I’d show him at my computer. He dashed out a letter, and we trotted out to my desk to get the letter typed. I propped up the scribbled letter, and started typing.

“Wait a minute!” he said. “Where did you put the paper?!" "You didn’t put any paper in the ... well, where the hell do you roll the paper in?”

I pointed to the printer, and told him that when I tell the computer to print the letter, it will be printed out there. I typed out the letter quickly, without checking it. This I did on purpose, so that he could red pen all of the mistakes. That had always given him so much pleasure in the past. He reached in his coat for his red pen. He actually kept a red pen in his pocket to mark other people’s mistakes ... not just mine.

“What the hell!?" "This computer is not good!" "Just look at all of these mistakes!” He railed.

“Just mark the mistakes, Arnie, and give it back to me to correct. "This is part of your lesson.” I said.

He did, and handed it back to me. I propped it up on the document holder, and began to correct the letter.

“Wait!” he said. “You’re correcting the wrong one!”

He pointed to the corrected copy on the document holder, and said, “That’s the one you’re supposed to be correcting! "Don’t you just stick it back in the printer?”

I’m sure he imagined that the printer had a little bottle of White Out ready to automatically cover up mistakes so they could be typed over.

“No, Arnie. You correct it here, and re-print it.” I said biting my cheeks to keep from laughing, because I was imagining him with blond hair.

So, until that Thursday, when Arnie would be going to NOLA for his official training, I had jump-started him on some of the basics of the word processing part of using his computer. His training day couldn’t come soon enough for me, because he was running me ragged.

On Thursday morning, I walked into a nice quiet office, and was actually able to get acquainted with my computer all by myself. I made letter templates, created tables to chart barge, movement and information on. Then I called NOLA to learn how to back up all my files. All was good, at least until Monday, when Arnie would be quizzing me again, so I savored this time alone with my very first office computer.

MUSIC THAT MOVES ME

Free-Dancing in the Kitchen

We have always had music in the kitchen along with every other room in the house. The Royster makes sure that there is music everywhere in the house as well as in the garage and back yard. That’s one of his M passions. He seems to be passionate about things that begin with the letter M. There’s Mom, Michael (his son), Melissa, Music, Money, Muscle Cars, and Motorcycles. I’m sure that there are more M’s, but these are the most evident. And of these M’s, the very biggest one for him is music.

For every MP3 he compiles of various artists for himself, he makes one for the kitchen stereo, and one for my stereo in the truck. Among these are The 1812 Overture, Kitaro, Pink Floyd, definitely Susan Boyle for sure, The Indigo Girls, Brenda Lee, Diana Krall, Susan Tedeschi, James Taylor, Eric Clapton, Carly Simon, Elton John, The Boss Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Eric Clapton, The Everly Brothers, and Buckwheat Zydeco. The list could go on forever. I will have to say that he’s never made an MP3 that included The 1812 Overture however, but it does play on in my head on occasion. And then there is Susan Boyle. I don’t think she has anything out yet, but you can be assured I’ll have one of hers as soon as it comes out.

This morning, while free-dancing to Sam Cooke on my kitchen stereo, I was thinking of the importance of music. I have long believed that different music affects different people in different ways, and I’m sure it just depends on the beat going on in your head and the blood coursing through your veins; your temperament, your chemistry and your moods, who you are and where you’ve been. It’s not only important to certain people, but it moves the entire world. Everyone in this world responds to music in one form or another. It moves people to new ideas and feelings and inspires important decisions.

It doesn’t matter if you are conscious of what’s on the radio or not; it’s affecting you. Even with the sounds of silence in the yard in the morning or in the night, there is a beat, a tune or a tempo in every breeze, bird singing, frogs chirping, water running, falling rain, the hum of an air conditioner, distant trains and your very own heartbeat. There is music everywhere.

Music, whatever it is attached to, be it dancing, singing, playing a musical instrument, or just hearing a rhythm in one’s head, is moving us at all times. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with physics. Even sports activities and events are subject to these beat and rhythms. Images of our universe are always accompanied with dramatic music. People are inspired by sounds they hear around them to compose music, songs, and dances or even to write stories and poetry. Some people are instantly lifted up to feel joy, while some music will move someone else to tears. Music will take you back to places in your heart of long ago, and awaken old memories. It will make you hum, sing, sway and dance. Smells and aromas are powerful and thought provoking, but not the way music will move a person. Music just moves my feet! I suspect that I might have missed my calling.

Getting back to free-dancing in the kitchen … I’m pretty darned good at this, especially unobserved, and at times like that I could really use a whole basketball court. I’m always delighted when The Royster joins me in dancing in the kitchen. That’s always special to both of us. It says that for the moment we’re both on the same frequency. Not that we’re at odds at any given time, but that we just happen to be more in tune with each other at that time, without any words needed.

Whatever happens to be on my plate, the music in the kitchen is very special to me. It lifts my spirits, boosts my energy, substantiates my life dramas and, in moments of sadness, will join me to make the sadness more bearable. Mostly, music is my friend, and is always there to host my every mood.

I think I’ll keep dancing in the kitchen and listening to compositions made in the silence of night and morning awakenings. It is life in process.

I'LL GET TO THAT LATER

I have touched briefly on Spring Cleaning recently. It’s one thing to clean out one’s own dresser drawers, but I have it on good authority that there is much more to it than that. A dear friend of mine, Jackie, is on a roll and has begged online for friends and family to “Somebody please stop me!” She will have everything spotless before going out to California in a couple of weeks. Sorry I won’t be able to make the same claim before heading out to see my daughter and her brood in Arizona next month. I have not had to beg anyone to stop me, however I am haunted by several cabinets, closets and drawers that I have not gotten to … yet.

Once you have cleaned the attic, there should be no more concern about it unless you are in and out of there on a regular basis. I cleaned ours in preparation for a new A/C and heating system and insulation two years ago. It’s still pristine. Give me a drum roll and a round of applause, please. I'm really proud of the clean attic, and feel inclined to show it off when we have guests.

The garage is The Royster’s domain. The yard is mine. 'Nuf' said about that.

The closet I am considering next is in the kitchen. It’s very large, and I think it was designed to store small kitchen appliances. One could have an entire garage sale based on what’s in that closet alone. I know that there is a Wok in there that has not been used in about 20 years. There are three crock pots, a toaster oven, my mixer, a small vacuum cleaner and a filing cabinet. Oh! … And my nebulizer is right at eye level. That’s very important to know. Beyond that, who knows? There could be a giant Aardvark in there and I probably would not know. By the way, there is a reason that I am not using “we” in this. That would be because I’m the only one that goes in there. Family and friends that come into this house seem to have a natural fear of opening those big double doors. The Royster is just plain terrified. I could hide an entire Christmas in there, if there was room, and it would be safe from prying eyes. The only draw back about that is that all that stuff would be lost … secure and for good. The rest of the stuff in this closet is clutter that was gathered from the kitchen table, counters and desk tops in preparation for guests. Obviously, it cannot be anything that I have needed, or I would know what else is in there.

There are several other areas of community clutter that are in dire need of attention. There are two wet bars in our house. As far as I am concerned, this could not possibly still be considered a selling point for a home. We do not even use one wet bar. We are teetotalers and have absolutely no use of one wet bar. However, that has not stopped us from chunking stuff behind them. The one downstairs has a small TV set that is reserved for when we want to sit out on the deck to watch a ball game or a movie. We even have a TV Converter Box for it. It’s never been hooked up. There are a number of gadgets, candles and small remote control cars; not to mention drawers full of old photographs and memorabilia, like battery operated Cheap Sun Glasses that flash in different colors from a ZZ Top Concert. This rat hole is its own challenge.

The upstairs wet bar harbors all of my sewing notions, supplies, fabrics and craft crap. It started out in some kind of order, but none of it is any particular order now. Don’t get me wrong. I do use this stuff often, and I know where to find whatever I need. It’s a matter of trying to get to the things I need without spilling a huge jar of buttons or a huge bag of tiny beads into the carpet. It just takes a while. I do know where the card table is, and my sewing machine and my glue gun (and I know how to use it). That’s a start. My big plan for these wet bars is to have them torn out and replaced by cabinets, drawers and desks. I keep hearing in the back of my head, “Dream on, dreamer!”

So you see, I have my choice of major community clutters to clean out. My only serious fear is that I could be sucked into the Twilight Zone; not that it would not be interesting. Somebody please stop me!

In the mean time, I will just write a note in the dust on the coffee table to anyone looking for me, “See me in the back yard cleaning out Monster Flower Beds!" … And somehow I feel much safer there among the leaves, weeds, cat briar, bugs and snakes.

So, What Are You Saving It For?

Tradition has always been important in our family. There were always special occasions that we would dress up for and the good dishes, silverware and recipes we would use for these special occasions. Our “good clothes” or “special occasion clothes” were reserved for special events, outings and special company. There were also people that we only saw on these special occasions, which made it that much more special. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins were there.

My grandmother had a collection of amber crystal plates, goblets, wine glasses, salad bowls, luncheon sets, etc. She also had several sets of sterling silver and china that she used for these special occasions. I remember commenting to our grandmother how pretty these amber crystal dishes were. She must have remembered, because she left them to me when she died. How very special that she left to me the very things I had admired as a child. I always remember the amber plates adorned with a piece of homemade pecan pie or pumpkin pie. For years, these cherished dishes remained in their boxes in the attic. By the time I had thought of these wonderful dishes, the occasion to use them was already upon us, and it was too late to fetch them out of the attic. Mostly, any entertaining we did was very casual, so I never got them out of the attic.

In the recent past years, I’ve been privileged to stay with my very dear friend, Ginger, when visiting in Fort Worth. She has always managed to make me feel like royalty while I am there. I can have my choice of guest rooms, and at meal times, she uses sterling silver eating utensils and some really nice pottery place settings. First of all, Ginger collects lots of things. Anything old, used and beat up in an estate sale, antique shop, flea market or garage sale gets snapped up by Ginger. If she doesn’t have at least two of any particular item, she has to have it. One day I commented that it always made me feel special because she used her “good dishes and silverware”. She said:

“My grandmother would say she was ‘laying it back’ when she received something new (a gown, tablecloth, dishes etc) meaning she would keep it for a special occasion. I told her to use it, why save it for Grandpaw's next wife?????”

Excellent observation, and I’d tend to agree with Ginger’s philosophy. I like it, and I must admit that I’ve got several really nice dresses and a number of pairs of shoes that I just won’t part with. Possibly there will be an occasion to wear something besides jeans, cut-off, tee-shirts and flip-flops to. Maybe there will be a wedding, funeral or Christmas party to dress up for. I won’t care if it is out of style. They're classic now!

So, what are we saving this wonderful stuff for? We don’t have much in this household that is “just for looking at”, or just for display in the attic. If it doesn’t have a function, I’m not interested in dusting it. The stuff that we do have that’s just for looking at does collect dust. We actually have some surfaces (tables, sideboards, shelves and counter tops) that are so cluttered with stuff that I put off dusting. You have to move everything, or you’ll knock it over dusting. I’m all for boxing this stuff up for the attic if there happens to be someone in this house that just can’t part with it. There are only two of us.

I want to use the dining room furniture that was my Father’s great aunt’s. It’s pre-civil war. The sideboard still has droplets of milk spilled on it from when I was two. We’ve had the table restored because thirteen people sat around that table every night that I was growing up, and it got really, really, really used. Now it sits in our very small dining room just waiting to have a family around it again. I’ve just made up my mind that it will be used again; maybe the next time we have company. I’ll give it a good dusting, and perhaps it will get enough use that it won’t be collecting dust in the future.

We have started using “the good silver” more on a daily basis. I still can’t bring myself to use it on T.V. tray while we watch television. However, I’m working on it. Hmmmm…..maybe tonight. Look out Honey! I’m using the “good silver” tonight! Who knows what will happen! Maybe there will be some ghostly apparitions!

AT THE NAIL SALON

To me, there is nothing more relaxing than getting your feet pampered after a full winter of neglect. I’d been to several nail salons, each with a promising name:

GOOD NAIL
HAPPY NAIL
NAIL TO GO
BEAUTIFUL NAIL
FINGER FABULOUS

… and the list goes on.

The first time I went to this particular nail salon, Perfect Nail, I was very pleasantly surprised. The woman escorted me back to a chair, turned it on, and started running warm water in the basin for my feet. She sprinkled some blue crystals in and stirred it around and motioned for me to put my feet in. It felt nice.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It Nancy! That my American name.” She replied

“That’s a good one.” I said. “What's your Vietnamese name?”

“Yes, it Thuy. It pronounce Tooeee! I not like it. I like American name.” She said this with much conviction.

“Okay, Nancy! Here’s the nail polish I want to use.” I said as I handed her the bottle of O.P.I. Jewel of India. “Let’s get these feet scraped and painted!”

Nancy scanned my face, and I wondered what she was looking for. We didn’t know each other well enough to read each other’s faces, yet. She must have seen the puzzled look on my face, though, and said, “I look at eyebrows. You want me do eyebrows?”

Aha! She was wanting to wax my eyebrows. Those who know me know how pitifully sparse my eyebrows are anyway. I really have to work on them with everything in my make-up cabinet to make it look like they exist. If there does happen to be any stray growth, it’s nothing one single pluck with the tweezers won’t handle. If the truth were to be known, there's more hair on my chin.

“Uh …Not today, Nancy. They’re just fine right now.” She then started checking out my chin and upper lip. It’s a good thing I’d just used a depilatory cream. She was really hunting for something extra to do.

About that time, a very husky young man plopped down in the chair next to me. He looked a bit like a linebacker all cleaned up. He was very well dressed, and looked as though he’d just gotten out of the barber’s chair. He settled in the chair, shucked off his boots and rolled up his jeans. The girl assigned to take care of his feet (American name, Julie) had the warm, blue water just right for him, and he sunk his hairy feet into the warm swirling water. You could see the pleasure creeping on to his face.

He must have seen me observing him. I was really pleasantly surprised to see a man just sashay in and plop down in a chair to have his feet messed with. He was completely uninhibited.

“My wife got me to doin’ this.” He said as a matter-of-factly. “It took her the better part of three years to talk me into it, but now I look forward to this every month. She buys dinner every time I come sit in the chair and get my feet worked on.”

I wondered if she got to choose the restaurant, or if he chose Mel’s, where you can get all the country cooking you want, and maybe take you chances on the huge killer hamburger to get your name on the wall. Eat it all in record time and it’s F-R-E-E!!!

Julie was happily scrubbing his feet, and his foot jerked uncontrollably when she passed the scrubber down his arch. He laughed and said he’d never get used to that part. I know… me either. Smiling, he said to Julie, “Go ahead and dip ‘em in wax today, honey! It’s our fifth anniversary!”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Angus Brodie!”

“Well, congratulations, Angus!” I offered.

“Thanks! It’s been great! She’s a good woman!”

“You want wax, too?” Nancy asked.

She was so earnest with that query, I told her, “Sure, Nancy! Give me the works!” This put a huge smile on her face, and she worked happily finishing up my feet and preparing to dip them in wax. For those of you men who have never been to have your feet worked on like this, it’s going to be a very pleasant surprise.

Both Julie and Nancy were ready for us. They each had the wax tub at our feet. I’ll warn you, it’s pretty warm, but it feels good. Dip, wait, dip, wait, dip and wait a few minutes for the wax to set up a bit. After a few minutes, the wax is rolled down and off of the toes. My toes were now ready for the nail polish.

Julie asked Angus, “You want same polish today?”

The air was suddenly still and totally silent. Angus cut me a side glance, obviously embarrassed.

“Uh … Err … No, uh, not today!” He said almost in a whisper, as he stared at the mural on the wall straight ahead. That little extra must have been reserved for when there was no one sitting on either side of him. I had to pretend I didn’t hear that, so I just bit my cheeks to keep form smiling, and I changed the subject.

“Umm …where will you and your wife eat tonight?” I asked.

The atmosphere had returned to its former state, and he said, “Mel’s! We’re going to Mel’s tonight! My favorite food in the whole world. You can get real food, cooked any way you want it.”

Wow! It was true! They were actually going to Mel's, and I'd guessed it! He sounded genuinely relieved to have the subject turned to food, and away from the question about his nail polish preference.

Julie was through pampering him, and Angus tipped her generously and got up from the chair.

“Nice talkin’ to ya! Hope you have a great evening! I know I will!”

He had a big smile on his face as he strode gracefully to the door. I couldn’t help thinking that he was leaving with Happy Feet, and I smiled broadly!

Guys, give it a try! A pedicure is not just for sissies any more! Angus loved it, and obviously had a lot to look forward to that night for his anniversary.

Nancy looked at my hands and asked if she could give me a basic manicure with a buffing.

“Sure thing, Nancy. I really need it.” And so went my afternoon at Perfect Nail.

SPRING CLEANING

Guys, this offering is about panties. Continue reading at your own risk and/or discretion.

This is something I make a stab at every year. The important factor here is that I try. I’ve never claimed to be a June Clever. First of all, I only wear a dress on special occasions (and it’s usually denim), and I don’t have a three strand pearl necklace, or a husband named Ward, or sons named The Beaver and Wally.

The scenario every spring is that I vow to clean out a closet, cabinet, drawer, dresser and or some other rat hole at least once a week. The problem with this is that it’s such a traumatic experience, it sort of peters out before I’ve finished top to bottom. Let’s just say that I’ve decided to start a new family tradition, specifically among us women folk. New inspiration is hanging in the air; new meaning to spring cleaning.

I had finally gotten to my dresser drawers last week. The bottom T-shirt and Shorts drawer went smoothly. I knocked it down to stuff I can actually wear and tossed out stuff I had not worn in a year or more. The “Kiss me, I’m Irish” shirt that used to be Mom’s will be proudly worn by someone else who needs a kiss. The next drawer was a little more detailed. Most people close to me know that I love socks. It was definitely harder to part with some of the socks I’d collected over the years. The donation was huge, and I can finally open and close the drawer without having to jam stuff back in and hold it there while I try to close it. A huge burden was lifted when that drawer was done.

Here comes the true inspiration of which I speak. Finally! This top drawer almost never gets sorted. Panties and bras from years before live in there. For some reason, I’ve never been able to just toss them away or give them to the next charity that calls. Instead of just sorting through, I actually pulled the drawer out and dumped it on the bed. Oh-My-Gawd! How could all of that fit into this one drawer? After sitting on the bed staring at this heap, I made a decision right then and there. I’d just throw out the old panties and bras and buy all new! What a concept! And so was inspired to begin the sorting.

As I sorted through the piles and piles of panties and bras, I wondered why I had kept all of them, and what was so compelling about those panties that I just didn’t toss them a long time ago? Did I actually believe that it would be wasteful to get rid of them? Is this a Baby-Boomer thing? They were dingy; the elastic was practically gone; not to mention that I hadn’t even seen most of these items in three years. What special occasion was I saving these for? The ones that were actually in good shape and pretty also happened to be too small, much to my chagrin. They went into the give away bag. By the end of the afternoon I’d gotten it down to absolutely three pairs that I kept. I needed to go shopping immediately! As exhausted as I was from this task, I managed to get my self into my truck and head out to buy more panties and bras.

I was amazed at the mind boggling assortment. As many other things are … there are just too many to choose from. A clerk ambled over and asked if she could help me find something. I must have walked in with a question mark on my face, so I decided to have a little fun with her.

“Uh … Where are the panties with the days of the week on them?” That got me an amused, but shocked look. When she finally found her words, the clerk said: “Well, you’d probably find some in the little girls section, but probably not in … uh … women’s sizes.”

I’m not sure how she meant that, but I assumed there hadn’t been any panties with the days of the week on them in the women’s department recently, if ever. You could hardly classify days of the week panties, lingerie. So, I decided to pretend I was shopping for someone else. This girl wasn’t going to be any fun.

“Well, my granddaughter is coming to visit, and I want to make sure … Uh … I’ll just check that out when I’m through shopping for me.” That prompted,

“What can I help you find for you? Would you be interested in a colorful thong?” Well, no. I’m not in the shoe department, now am I? And, I don’t think it matters if my panties and bras match my flip-flops.

Actually, I was pretty sure that what I wanted was comfortable and ergonomically designed; nothing binding or suffocating. I supposed I mean cotton, to the waist and high cut legs. At this description, the clerk led me to several choices. She actually showed me to the items that I described to her right off the bat. This trip was easier than I thought it would be. I selected several pairs of panties and bras, paid for them and drove home with a very satisfied smug. Smug about what, I don’t know, but that’s how I felt, like I’d outsmarted someone … probably me.

I called one of my sisters to tell her of this new, wonderfully freeing tradition that I was starting. She agreed, and vowed to clean out her drawers the next day.

The next day, I felt that I needed to just get out of the house. I called my dear friend Marilyn to see if she’d have lunch with me. Her husband usually joins us, which is always just fine with me. They work in the same area, and he is very entertaining. We selected a restaurant and time to meet. I dressed and got there in time to pull up at the same time they were pulling up.

Marilyn and I mostly just chatter on as though Raymond wasn’t even there. Not that we ignore him. He’s usually just in awe of our conversations, and plain speechless. We’re that comfortable in his presence. I told Marilyn about my new tradition of throwing out old undies and buying new every year. I could tell that she was really enchanted by this whole idea. As we chattered back and forth, we got interrupted by Raymond.

“Hey! I totally approve of this! Aaannnd, you have my permission to take my wife shopping for new lingerie, because all of her panties are…!” At that point Marilyn stopped her husband from saying any more. “We won’t discuss my underwear, Raymond!”

I jumped in with, “Marilyn! You and I will go shopping next week! Isn’t there a Fredericks of Hollywood at Willowbrook Mall?” Raymond’s eyes started to water and bug-out, as I knew they would, so Marilyn piped in, “OKAY! We’ll go shopping!” And she changed the subject. Now, did you hear anything from Sylvia? She was asking about you. Clever exit, Marilyn.

All I’m saying is that this new tradition is extremely elating and spirit freeing, if only to liberate a woman from the old dingy, stretched and worn undergarments. Really! It was all I needed to get back into the spirit of spring. Who knows, you guys just might want to try it. You know you could probably read the Sunday funnies through those old boxers, and I’m not mending the crotches one more time.

PEEK-A-POSSUM

It was just a routine Wednesday night, and we were settling in for our usual 9:00 p.m. Night at The Eye-Lid Movies at the Anderson-Brown Arms. It always feels so nice to snuggle down with one’s pillows arranged just so and the T.V. turned down and set to turn off within a short time, err…well, just long enough for the Royster to start snoring. Hank has been out and has had his treats. He’s circling around for the best spot on his bed. It’s always such a peaceful time.

But Hark! I hear a sound emanating from the kitchen. Let’s see …. The dog is in here with us, and the dishwasher isn’t running. Could it have been the back door? I got up and crept in the dark into the living room. At this point, I heard Hank’s food dish suddenly scoot across the kitchen floor. All was quiet until,

“…crunch, crunch, crunch.”

At that, I turned on the kitchen light in time to see a blur leap from Hank’s food dish and disappear behind the writing desk in the kitchen. I ran back to the bedroom to tell the Royster.

“Honey! Come in here quick! There’s something in the kitchen!”

He started reaching for the drawer where he keeps his Dirty Harry Special pistol.

“No, No! It’s a critter!” I said. His face fell with disappointment, and he followed me to the kitchen. “It’s under the desk.” I said.

We got in there just in time to see some movement under the desk. The Royster said he saw it, and it was a huge giant fanged monster of a rat!

“It was this big!” And, he held his hand about three feet apart, like he was telling a fish story. He went to the pantry to get the broom with which to smash the big ugly thing and save the day.

Right about then is when I saw it too! “Uh … Honey, I think it’s a baby possum. I’ll bet it came in while Hank and I were in the back yard on the patio. I left the door open for a little while.”

The Royster started poking the broom handle under the desk. I got a coat hanger and stretched it out so that I could poke at it too. We moved the desk away from the wall (what a mess), and continued to poke at the poor frightened thing. Finally it broke loose and fled to the other side of the kitchen. And, it was indeed a baby possum. It was so scared that it couldn’t even hiss. He just sat there quivering and held his little mouth open and showed us his little milk teeth.

Roy headed over with the broom to corral it and shoo it out the back door, but the critter wouldn’t have any of it. He was shooing and I was blocking. The critter darted to the left towards the dining room, and right under my feet. I almost crushed it, and lifted my foot and caught myself on the door, which opened. The little possum ran into the dining room, and tried to hide, but got shooed towards the front door. Roy then opened the front door so that he could use the broom like a hockey stick and knock him out to the front yard, but he little possum outsmarted that maneuver and hid behind the umbrella stand and finally got out a couple of baby hisses at The Royster. Roy swears that the little thing was hissing in Spanish or French.

“Get a paper sack! Quick! Hurry!” He said.

I went to the pantry and got a paper sack and held it open in the corner so that the little possum would have nowhere else to go. After a few pokes with the broom, the possum went into the sack, but ran back out again and back to the safety of the corner behind the umbrella stand. The Royster administered a two more pokes with the broom, and the critter went again into the paper sack. I crumpled the sack closed and lifted it up triumphantly.

“Go get the camera! We’ll take a picture!” Said Roy.

I went to get the camera, leaving The Royster holding the bag, so to speak. We took some pictures for our Critter Album, and Roy took the possum out to release him back into the wild.

You’d think that would be the end of that story. However, after what seemed like 30 minutes The Royster finally came in to tell me about his further adventures with the baby possum. It seems that before he actually freed the little thing, they tried to stare each other down with the possum continuing his threatening hissing and backing up; each time with a little harassing from Roy, poking, pulling its tail or tickling its little pink nose with a twig. He never did figure out what language the little critter was hissing in, and poor ol’ Hank never knew what was going on. He only knew that there was a funny smell in the kitchen.

PULL YOUR PANTS UP!

Recently, while standing in line at the check out at the grocery store; there was a young man standing in front of me with his pants well below his hips, showing off his boxers below the butt. He was actually clutching the pants in front to keep them from coming off completely, but not to pull them up. I was very tempted, (and I almost did this) to take the cord used to cordon off the check out lane and very casually and gently snap it to one of his back belt-loops. Then, I’d leave that line and go to a different check out line. Thankfully, I thought it through, but not without laughing out loud. The kid actually turned around to see what was so funny. I had to bite my cheeks to stop myself from laughing hysterically. Finally, I realized that there were cameras everywhere, and that I could have been arrested for pulling such a stunt.

In the 60’s girls wore skirts or dresses to school, and the guys were made to follow a dress code as well. Away from school, I wore hip-slung bell bottoms, or hip-slung cut-offs. They were indeed slung on my hips, but no lower. Granted, you could probably house a Hippy commune under each bell-bottomed leg. I also wore a T-shirt, or halter top, and that’s as far as it went. I never burned my bra, either; mostly because I'd waited so long just to be able to say I could wear one. Fortunately, I outgrew that Hippy fashion mode, and managed to get a job after graduation.

Now days, fashion has been taken beyond the edge of the envelope, beyond fashion and straight to offensive attire. Wearing ones’ pants (or not) below the hip should get you warned, if not arrested. It should be considered Indecent Exposure, if not that, then just Indignant Composure! Get those pants pulled up and belted! It’s certainly one thing to make a fashion statement, but quite another to dress so that it’s offensive to other people. Wearing one’s pants below the hip line is absolutely crossing the line. It doesn’t matter if it only shows your underwear or if it shows your butt crack. In my mind, I see that wearing your pants that way, and your cap backwards or even cocked to one side, lowers a persons’ I.Q. considerably, or it was already low in the first place or they would not be dressing that way.

This also goes for women/girls showing their thong underwear and/or tramp stamp, which is a tattoo just over the butt crack; which is also known as butt cleavage. Pray, tell me, just what is the point in that? Is that an advertisement or a billboard of sorts? Listen up, little missy! There is no "tasteful way to show off your tramp stamp"!


Like many other fads, making a fashion statement, or just wanting to be different, the message is that you want to attract attention. Wearing ones’ pants that way tends to make people wonder just what is holding up those pants. Are you bragging about something else that no one can quite see yet? When are you going to show that? If you are doing this to be different, then you’ve failed miserably.

I see this mode of dress everywhere I look these days. I once thought it was only among younger gang members. However, I’ve noticed that many kids dress this way at school here in Texas. And, I have recently seen people over 30 years old showing up in public this way. Do they work? If so, how in the world did that interview go? At any rate, I cannot believe that nothing has been done about this, or how society has simply turned their heads, rather than to actually do something about it. Okay, I’ll say it. “There ought to be a law!”

The Royster likes to watch Cops every now and then on T.V. We saw an episode whereby there was a young man wearing his pants well below his hip line, and his cap backwards. He had just held up a convenience store for a case of beer, cigarettes and other items. The police had been called, and had arrived immediately to see the young man trying to run away with all of these items while at the same time, trying to keep his pants from falling. Of course, his pants fell down, he tripped and one of the police casually walked over and cuffed him. In other episodes, you see these guys being arrested and handcuffed, and begging, “Lemme jes pull up my pants?” Sorry guy. You should have thought of that earlier.

And then there are the extreme body piercings and out of control tattoos, but don’t get me started on those. Maybe another day.

HOW TO FIX A ROCKING TOILET

I know we are not the only household that’s has had something as unique as a rocking toilet. It does not have rockers on it, it doesn’t get up and rock around the clock … err … bathroom, and we don’t live near a railroad track. Sooooo, there’s only one reason this pot should rock. A screw is loose.

We’d both been aware of the rocking that occurred upon planting our fannies on the toilet seat. Fine, so it rocks a little. The Royster discovered that there was something going on when the rug in front of the toilet in the library was getting soaked. Now, it was a problem. It soon became apparent that the plumbers we had to call a couple of years ago, to take care of a sewer line that was being strangled by tree roots, did not seat the pot back on the floor properly. That’s why it rocked, and that’s why the seal was giving up, and that’s why it was leaking.

Neither of us are plumbers, but we try to fix things before having to call a professional to empty our bank accounts. The Royster was getting dressed to go get some parts at Bob’s. Bob has any and everything you need. I dressed while he was gone, and fretted because I knew this would be a very demanding all day project. Seating a toilet on the seal on the floor is not an easy thing to do for a layman. Everything has to line up perfectly before you put the nuts on the bolts. You’ve just got to hold your mouth just so. Then while you are screwing the nuts on, you have to make sure the rectangular washer underneath does not move one tenth of an iota, or the toilet will not be seated correctly. In the small areas allowed for toilets, that are no bigger than tiny coat closets (water closets), this is nearly an impossible task.

The Royster gets what he thinks he’ll need to start this project, and then assumes the position of a plumber fixing a toilet. Part of my job is to fetch the things he did not anticipate needing.

“Get me some towels, rags and the blue shop towels … and a screw driver”

The other part of my job to stand there and hold a flashlight at impossible angles, at which I fail miserably because there is no room to wedge my arm around to the angle that is required. I braced my legs against the walls on either side of the toilet and lean down, bracing my upper body on the wall in front of me with one arm and with the other arm tried to hold the flashlight just right.

“Now, hold this right here and don’t move it.”

Good job. The first part of this went with out a hitch. He unbolted the toilet from the floor. The next step is to empty the tank out, and then empty as much of the water out of the bowl as possible.

“I need a cup to dip with and a bowl or pan to dip it into.”

I occasionally offer advice (coming from a journeyperson apprentice).

“Why don’t I get that siphon with the pump to get all the water out?”

Royster’s face registered a look of disbelief.

“I absolutely do not want to use the siphon we use for gasoline to siphon out the toilet bowl.”

‘Nuf said. Far be it from me to argue with that logic. It must be logical to him. So, I went to get a cup and a bowl for dipping purposes. In the back of my mind, I knew we’d end up with a flood of toilet bowl water on the carpet, and I swung by the rag cabinet for extra big towels for sopping.

Having returned with these simple but necessary accoutrements, I assumed my post by the door, waiting to be of help. I could see we would need something to sit the toilet on, so I fetched the newspapers from that morning, spread them out and readied a place for the pot. The Royster suggested that we needed much more paper than that, so I retrieved more newspaper, and at last had a landing spot for the toilet.

As Royster straddled the pot, and picked up the heavy &%! #&$#@^^%$, and waddled it out of the water closet, I danced in place wondering if he would hit the papers. He sloshed it over to the paper and sat it down. After looking at what was left of the wax seal in the hole in the floor, he announced that he would have to go back to Bob’s or Sears to get a new wax seal. I was invited to accompany him on this trip. We ended up going to Sears and finding our wax seal and some caulk. This should do the trick.

Seeing the gaping hole in the floor made me think about some cultures that only have a hole in the floor with foot holds on either side of the hole to stand in. You just stand, squat or hover over the hole, do your business and presto chango! All done! Why not? Then I guess we could waddle the toilet out to the back yard to use it as a planter somewhere. We already have a shower out there. It might be easier than the day we had ahead of us.

He did say that we'd have to turn the toilet upside down to fit the wax seal on the bottom. So, we did, and all those huge towels came in right handy. The seal would not stay on the upside down toilet, so we ended up putting it over the hole where the old seal had been. We wrestled for the better part of the morning, trying to lock that sucker down without loosing it's hold on the bolts. That was the hardest part.

As I mentioned before, getting that washer, bolt and nut aligned and screwed in place is pretty tricky. I will not describe each effort the Royster made, other than it was both a painful and valiant effort each time. It wasn’t easy on either of us. At one point, we both just went to our separate corners and sulked.

The fifth time was the charm. At last, he got it seated correctly. He gleefully sat down and wiggled his fanny back and forth to see if he could get it to rock. It seemed stable. Dang! We’d done it!

“Be careful!” I said. “You might dislodge the bolts!”

Still not believing that it could possibly be fixed, he jumped up and offered me the revered spot in the library.

“See if you can make it rock!”

I sat gingerly on the seat and wiggled back and forth, forwards and backwards. Not even a little! No leaks either. The Royster is stubborn that way. Once he starts on a fix-it project, he just won’t let it go, nor will he call some one to do it. That’s to be admired … to a point.

This was something to celebrate, and we did this by having lunch and a nap, as babyboomers do these days. And, as soon as I woke, I went in to check to see if the little rug was dry (it was), and tested to see if it rocked. Nope! It was perfect.

THE CHEESE HAS FALLEN OFF OF HER CRACKER!

There is a command by God, in the Bible (King James version), that goes something like this: “And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.” There was a reason for that. The world needed populating back then, and it did not take long. Later, here on this continent, new settlers were having very large families. There was also logic in this. They needed all the hands they could get to help with the farming and ranching. A family of twelve children was not uncommon.

I know what some of you must be thinking….. “Well, you, yourself are second oldest of eleven siblings. Where’s the logic in that?” My answer would be, “Well, I don’t really know right off hand, but I’d guess it had something to do with a.) Dad having been a devout Catholic, and b.) I suspect that Mom really loved being pregnant from beginning to end. She must have gotten some kind euphoria from it.” To me there is no logic in having a bunch of kids just because the Catholic Church said to. However, I would not trade anything for any one of my siblings. They are all special. I really believe that Mom and Dad both truly loved children. It just did not turn out the way they had romanticized it would be.

Here’s what I’m getting at. The 33 year old woman in Los Angeles who has added octuplets to her brood of 6 (ages 2 to 7), is off her bean. This whole thing has become a sideshow attraction. There are or should be limits. It is of my opinion that The cheese has slipped off her cracker! (For nostalgia buffs, I first heard Andy Taylor say that to Barney Fife ... I think.) Her own mother thinks it’s because Nadya Suleman grew up an only child.

What? Is she then punishing her parents? It certainly appears she is doing just that. She has thrust total responsibility on them, financially and as caretakers. A neighbor has said that she (Ms. Suleman) is a good mother, and that she loves children, and has always wanted a large family. And, where is the husband/father/provider in all of this? Oh … there isn’t one. And, what’s more, the 6 older children (includes one set of twins) were also a product of invetro fertilization. It appears here, that her desire for children over-rode any logic and/or common sense.

The doctor that implanted her because of her, “clogged fallopian tubes” has no cheese left on her cracker either. There are some huge medical and ethical questions looming here, not to mention questioning the sanity of an unemployed, unwed woman who thinks she needs invetro fertilization to have more and more babies on her own, at her parent's expense. Are there any ethics in that? Will tax payers have to foot any part of this bill for hospitalization and medicine for these eight babies?

It appears that there are many sides to this. One of these sides could be that this woman (Ms. Suleman), saw that there were families on television that were being paid to have their unusually large family lives televised. She has hired a firm to handle T.V. shows, book offers and other media deals. It’s too early to discuss how much money she might get for this, but she is asking two million to tell her story. Hmmmmmm..... There seems to be a motive here.

There is the Duggar family of 18 children. I’m not absolutely certain if Mrs. Duggar is through having babies, but they’re now focusing on her oldest who has just gotten married, and experienced his very first kiss on national television at his own wedding. My oldest daughter says that she thinks they are their very own cult.

Then there is Jon and Kate Plus 8. Bless them. Here, I don’t see much intention as far as trying to set a record. I don’t think they were trying for another multiple birth as much as they just wanted to have another baby. They did, however, go for fertility treatments when they were not getting pregnant right away. When they were found to have multiples hatching, I believe there must have been a real moral dilemma about terminating any one of them. I do believe their intentions were good, and the media stepped in with a way for them to take care of these babies. This show focuses on parents of multiples and every day trials and tribulations therein. I won’t be doing this myself (all those babies) in my next life.

As I said, there are many sides to all of this. The world and the economy are in a very angry, volatile state, and over population is literally pushing us off continents. All of these children are innocent. Now what?

From the Domino Effect to the Shrine in the Back Yard

Sometimes things just start happening in my life that could only be described as The Domino Effect. This particular chain reaction started about three weeks ago.

Our 27 year old electric stove top had begun to flat-line, and the burners were very close to letting go to fall through to the abyss beneath, and I had vowed not to spend another penny on drip pans or beauty rings. I should have remembered the rule of things happening in threes, but my excitement over getting a new cook-top over-rode the negative thought.

So, off to Home Depot we trotted to have a look at new stove-tops. I had never seen such an array of new-fangled appliances. There were ranges that you only had to touch to give a command. I asked if there was one that took voice commands, and the kindly salesman looked over the top of his glasses at me as if to say, Oh, you poor woman! We chose a glass flat-top model, in white, with five burners. The two burners on the left share a bridge between them that provides a place to put a griddle. We were both a little uncomfortable with the touch model, and chose one with the old fashioned knobs. The only real draw back with this kind of range top is that you can only use stainless steel. Fortunately, we have that, but needed to get rid of the other pots and pans with copper bottoms and the few aluminum ones. No coated cookware or cast iron, either. Our amicable salesman said that our new appliance could be delivered by Friday afternoon or early Saturday. This would be in time to show it off to our Friday Night Dinner Club over the week-end.

On the day before we were to receive our new stove-top, I received a call from a woman at G.E. She sounded totally bored with her job, and that’s very dangerous in these times. She informed me that the stove-top would not be delivered on the date previously promised. I bravely asked why. She actually yawned, “I don’t know. That’s just what they told me. It won’t be delivered until Monday. Someone will give you a call. Thank you for your patience.” What was I to say? I’d already told my girlfriends about my new stove-top. They wanted to see. This was going to be a big let down.

The delivery came on Monday, and a few minutes later, the installer showed up to install it in the ceramic tile counter. Some extra cutting was required, as the stove-top was a bit larger than the old one. The guy started cutting and gently dropped it in to the space. I was ready to be impressed and awed with my new glass stove-top, but the installer kept trying to maneuver it this way and that, and finally he said that the range-top was an odd shape and didn’t fit precisely enough in the hole he had cut. It was horrible! There were big gaps all the way around. He tried to stall my mounting panic by saying, “Well, it can be calked. I’ll see if I have some in my truck.” I could not imagine calking it, as there was a special seal already furnished. It wouldn’t work with the gaps around it. The installer came back from his truck with, “I don’t have any calk, but you can get some and fill it in.” I told him that it wasn’t satisfactory,and further more, that we should not have to do that anyway. The guy as much as shrugged, and left. Like, it was now out of his hands. I was livid!

I called our salesman right away and told him that the whole thing was just one horrible nightmare. He said he’d come after work and see what he could do. As it turned out, he didn’t make it that night, but came the next day at lunch and started fixing it. He really was good, and caulked expertly around the entire thing. He said it would take about two more caulkings after that, and that he’d come back the next day for the next application. I was calming down a little. Within the next couple of days the caulking job was finished, and the new stove-top looks and works just fine. I could start cooking on it.

Here’s where it gets interesting. After the man left, I got on the computer to write. I was doing some research online for a story I was going to submit to Helium. As I clicked and rejected one item and then another, I clicked on one item that looked like it might be the just the information I was looking for. My heart stopped when a window popped up saying that there was a virus lurking. It jumped into my throat when a window that looked like our virus scan program popped up asking if I wanted to scan. My first reaction was Of course I want to scan for this thing! As I clicked “Yes”, it occurred to me that our virus scan would automatically scan without prompting. It was one of those moments, like when you’ve left your keys in the ignition with the motor running; you’ve locked the doors and you step out of the car. You can’t catch the door before it slams shut…..Shit! Shit! Shit! (Go ahead and ask me how I know this. I dare you.) I had downloaded a virus! Yes….I did it! It was me! I called the Royster immediately to tell him what I had done. I was right next to tears, but damned if I’d let this machine see me cry.

The Royster asked me what I had done, and then asked me point blank, “You clicked ‘Yes’, didn’t you? Please tell me you didn’t click ‘Yes’.” I started stammering, hoping that this was one horrible dream. “Um…well…err…Yes, I guess I did.” He was just as distraught as I knew he’d be. He simply does not take news like this gracefully at all. This was not a pretty scene. Anyone who knows The Royster knows what he’s like at a time like this. A person could suffocate in his panicked frenzy.

The Royster knows an IT guy that lives close by. John came over to have a look and to start work on it. I was just sweating bullets, but tried to remember that most of the things we think are lost in a computer are retrievable. Also, that Roy backs up everything pretty regularly. Without going into much detail here, John was able to fix it, but not without much ado. I tried to stay busy downstairs, while Roy plied him with beer and humor. The two of them labored long and hard over it, until it was finally fixed. I could breathe again, and The Royster was calm again. For the next few days, it was smooth sailing.

Then there was the matter of the 30 year old dryer. With the week-end at hand, I had been doing laundry. As the buzzer on the dryer sounded, I hurried to take the clothes out of the dryer before they wrinkled. As I did this, The Royster drove into the driveway. The clothes were still wet! Quickly, I tried to think of something cheerful to tell The Royster as he walked in the door, but absolutely nothing came to mind. As he approached the back door with a very pleased grin on his face, all I could come up with was, “It didn’t work! The damn dryer didn’t dry the clothes!” His smile disappeared, and I sensed that there would be an explosion. Oh! God!

He didn’t look happy about it, but surprisingly, he did not explode with his usual flare. He went to the bedroom and changed clothes, and came out to have a look. “Well …” he said. "This dryer has just died. It’s about 30 years old, and I guess it was time. Let’s go to Home Depot and look for a dryer.” I was very pleasantly surprised. So we went to H.D. to pick out a no-frills clothes dryer. It would be delivered on Tuesday. I could wait that long. After all, I still had a clothes line strung up behind the garage. It came in handy during Ike, and I would do for now as well.

I’ve almost forgotten entirely what this was leading to ….Oh! Yes! The Shrine! On the way home from H.D., The Royster said he’d been thinking all day about getting a really cool smoker and building a pad and a tin roof to cover it with. That was what that smile had been about when he’d arrived home, before the news about the dryer. He went on to describe how he would build the shed.

The next morning, we went to Academy just to look, and he bought his smoker. He certainly deserved it. We dropped it off at the house and then went to get the lumber and corrugated tin that we would need for this shed / smokehouse. While he measured and cut lumber, I went to get the stones we’d need for the pad to sit it on.


The Royster worked in the cold, grinning and thinking about future culinary delights with his new smoker, and the shrine he was building to house it in. It was almost complete on the first day, and it stands waiting for Super Bowl Sunday and its first task of smoking brisket and hang down. What a finale to the dreaded Domino Effect.

UP-DATE ON WORKING OUT AT THE "Y"

Before the age of 55, I had maintained a fairly youthful appearance, body and spirit … almost buff, actually, if I may brag a little. Keeping a full time job, and keeping up home and yard seemed to be enough to keep me that way, and still let me eat like a man. Since then, the spirit has remained youthful, but, I just don’t feel the same on the inside as I have started looking on the outside. After a particularly dibilitating illness everything started to go south. My muscles atrophied, and my strength waned. I took an early retirement and didn’t do much but write and keep house, and until a few months ago, I hadn't done anything seriously about shaping up. No diet worked by itself.

By the time I was 58, my entire body (according to magazine articles) had become a veritable deli / pastry shop. I first started noticing this one day while talking to my brother, GIII, on the phone while I sat at my computer. As I glanced down to my lap to see where I’d dropped cookie crumbs on my lap (wearing cut-offs);the conversation went like this:

“Oh, my God!” I screeched,

“What’s wrong, Sis!!?” Said GIII.

“I have Mom’s legs!!!” I whailed.

“Oh, no! Not YOU!” “What the hell happened?” He said.

Let me tell you this right now. Our mother had eleven children, and I never ever knew her to exercise a day in her life. Her weight was up and down all of her adult life, not including pregnancies. Her legs looked as though they were filled with lumpy oatmeal. This is not to say she was unattractive otherwise … just when she wore shorts.

I had noticed that I had what is referred to as a muffin top above my to-the-waist jeans. My butt was becoming a large loaf of dimpled Focaccia bread. My thighs were definitely lumpy curds and whey, and my upper arms were large elongated lobes of raw dough, draped from elbow to armpit, and swinging freely. BINGO!

I will say here, that women over 50 should not read magazines, or pay any attention to online ads for diets. It’s very intimidating and disheartening because they only use models’ bodies to show the after shots of people who have allegedly lost a lot of weight. They just glue a lay-person’s head on the model's body, and even the face is airbrushed and narrowed. Anyone can do that in Photo-Shop.

You just don’t see that your honey is aging and putting on the pounds right along with you. I whined and mewled that I’d started getting flabby (at least), and he smiled and hugged me and told me that I was just fine with him. In actuality, I heard, Well, I love you any way. I know this is true, because when he whined and mewled that he was aging and gaining weight, I told him, that as far as I was concerned, he was the sexiest man on earth. At which he said, “Yeah, but you’re prejudice!” Humph! True enough, even though he is to me the man that hung the moon and stars.

That doesn’t make up for the way I feel about what was happening to my body! So, I joined a gym and was evaluated by a trainer. That must have been what I needed. This trainer was not quite my age, but she looked really great, and I felt like a real lump next to her. I was to begin my training immediately.

Good! That’s what was needed. I started working out four times a week in the Women’s Health and Fitness Room, as opposed to the big co-ed equipment room. I did not want to or need to be around a lot of testosterone while working out. I did two miles on a treadmill at 3.5 mph. This takes me almost 45 minutes. I really thought that was great, until some young thing with a pony tail jumped on the treadmill to my right. “Good morning!” She chirped sweetly. And then she turned her treadmill on to a full gallop. Egad! I tried to remember that she must have been only about 20 years old. I noticed too, that she had not started to sweat. Then she cranked up the speed. By that time I’d just reached 2 miles, and was glad to get on with my work-out … elsewhere.

There are ten weight-bearing machines that I am using in my circuit training. With each piece of equipment, I set the seat and the weight according to what I can do with some effort. There are about three of those that just intimidate the hell out of me. One is the Leg Extender. You sit with the tops of you feet under a padded, weighted bar (about 20 lb.). The object is to lift it with your feet twelve times, rest and do twelve more. The burning pain on the tops of my thighs reminded me of the ring of fire referred to in child birth. This is when the head crowns, and it so does feel like a ring of fire!

The other two intimidating ones deal with the arms. The Arm Curl is one I’m still trying to adjust to. I Can’t seem to do more than 15 to 20 lb. A very large woman approached me while I was trying to get three more in, and told me not to bend my wrists. FINE! Add to my struggle! Actually, I just told her thank you. She explained that I could hurt my wrists by letting them pull the weight. Thank you, but that just made it harder … another ring of fire on the back of my arms.

By the time I’m finished, I have a healthy, misty glow going on and am terribly thirsty. I go over to the very nice water cooler provided and drink up what I need. I chat with the trainer on duty for a minute and then head out. As I drive home, I think of the progress I’ve made in the past two months. My bingo arms aren’t hanging as badly, and my jeans are actually fitting better. I am still not weighing for another month or so. The scale in the kitchen still has a post-it over the readout that says 140 lb. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just fine with me. I’m doing what I need to be doing. My trainer said so!

Now, I’ve got to deal with my sweet Royster, who is also my very own diet saboteur. “No, you go ahead and have ice cream. I’ll just have this nice small tub of yogurt.”

Shoes! Shoes! Glorious SHOES!!

Since the beginning of the human race, about 6 million years ago; when humans started finding a way to tie elephant hide to their feet to protect them, woman have had a very special relationship with shoes. I am certainly no exception to that rule, and I was getting self conscious about how many pairs of shoes were actually in my closet. I didn’t even like the Royster to go into my closet. He might start counting.

Cleaning out the closet became paramount to doing something about this … or to make me feel better … less guilty. Of what, I don’t really know. I am retired, and there just aren’t many places I can wear all those shoes. I just don’t want to give them up. Clothes from my working days are still in there. I might be able to wear them some day … somewhere. Who am I kidding? My daily wear consists of jeans and T-shirts with tennis shoes or Crocs. In the summer, its Capri’s and flip-flops. I haven’t worn anything nicer than Dockers and a nice blouse in about 5 years. Maybe I’ll give all of my good work clothes to a women’s charity….except maybe the shoes. Dang!

Since I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions, I won’t resolve to clean up and give away stuff in my closet. Actually, I’ve already started doing things I’ve procrastinated doing for a lifetime. I joined a gym, and have started going four days a week, Monday through Thursday to work out for a couple of hours. This is something I’ve really wanted to do. The more I go to the gym, the more I want to go. It’s sort of addictive, like … uhhhh … shoes. And the gym puts me out and away from the beckoning closet.

There are other things I’ve started bending my daily life around. First things first! Perhaps once a week, I will take six items and put them in a bag by the front door for the next charity that calls. They all call around the same time. I know what their M.O. is. They have snoops to find out when their competition will be picking up, and then they arrange to call and pick up a day earlier. My theory on this is First-Come-First-Serve. My problem with stock-piling items to give away is that if they are there in the bag for too long, I’ll go back and go through them, take things out and put them back in the closet. I just know I’ll be able to wear them again …… particularly the shoes. All women divide their closets in to Big Clothes and Small Clothes. The multi-size jeans system has always worked for me. I’ve always keep the current size up front and the sizes too big or too small way back in the back. Actually, the too small jeans have been in the back of the closet for two years. Maybe I’ll just keep three pair as a goal to work for, and give away the other eight pair. I know I can get in them some day.

A couple of months ago, I started making some headway in the direction of cleaning my closet. As I approached my closet door I began to feel a bit uneasy. When I opened the door, the pit of my stomach lurched. I couldn’t actually walk into the walk-in closet. Over the course of two years, I’ve been reaching over because I could not walk into the closet. Sometimes I’d just shuffle into the closet about a foot through the pile of shoes on the floor. Looking up, I saw shoes in boxes on the shelf the length and width of the closet, and three deep. I suppose that is the reason there is such a pile on the floor. There was just no room on the shelf …… OR maybe I was just too lazy to start a fourth row of shoes.

I bravely forged into the massive pile on the floor, picking through shoes, coat hangers and empty shoe boxes. I managed to part with my penny loafers, saving the 1948 penny and the current penny out of the slots on the top of each shoe. Those pennies are to be glued to my urn upon my passing. Maybe I shouldn’t say that I’ve given my beloved penny loafers away because the loafers are still in the bag by the front door, waiting … waiting. I’d sure love to find another pair of penny loafers … uhh … just for old time sake, and maybe a pair of really good saddle oxfords to wear with jeans. Okay. I’m supposed to be planning on giving away things (shoes) I no longer need / wear, not my next shoe shopping excursion.

I finally had sorted through the mess on the floor, and neatly lined up pairs of shoes that I would keep for the time being. It pleases me that I can actually walk into the closet. There are several pairs of shoes in bags by the front door, awaiting the next charity pick up. Next, I will get to the clothes that are jammed so close together that they require ironing before they can be worn. That will be next.

One of my girl friends friends, Karin, had damage from IKE. A tree had fallen on the part of their house that was their closet. Now, I have always been pea-green with envy of her closet any way. It’s the size of my kitchen, for pity sake! And, it has a bank of dresser drawers in the middle. Here’s the deal with that. They had the closet restored and lined with cedar. The carpenters made special slots for all of her purses and had more shoe shelves made. I really liked the special purse accommodations. She confessed that she actually had three huge storage boxes full of shoes that still would not fit in the closet without spilling out on the floor.

Here’s the deal. I have recently visited dear friends who have actually offered to show me their closets! Imagine that. I have never invited anyone to see my closet. One of these lovely women is a friend that I’ve known for thirty years or so, and had never been to her house before. I will protect her identity, and just call her Mary T. She lives pretty far away from me, so it wasn’t like I’d just popped over to see if she wanted to go shopping. We were going to lunch. I went to the door, and was greeted with, “I’m so glad you made it! Come on in and have some coffee.”

Really pleased to see my friend, I said, "I’d love some coffee! Your house is beautiful!"

As she led me in the house, she chirped, “ Let me show you the house while the coffee makes.

The whole house was really roomy, with an upstairs den in between the bedrooms and baths. It was just beautiful! Mary was really enthusiastic about showing me the house. It was almost like she couldn’t wait to show me her closet. Downstairs was the den, kitchen, dining room, and the master bedroom. Finally we came to the master bedroom. She said:

“Want to see my closet?”

Trying not to appear eager, I said, “Well … ummm, sure!”

No on had ever really invited me to see their closet before. I was wondering if I was going to see something spectacular. She threw open the door, and I was immediately awe-stricken. It was my closet times three … no … four or five. If I squinted, I could see that the closet was roomy enough, but the pile of shoes in the floor was only the beginning. There were rows of shoes, shoes and shoes. I saw that she shared the closet with her husband. Mary occupied three fourths of the closet from top to bottom. He only got the right side, his shoes neatly lined up on the floor.

“I’ve got three more closets just like this one.” she beamed.
I had to ask, “Mary, how many pairs of shoes do you think you might have? Just give me a round figure.”

After a moments’ calculation, she finally said, “I’d guess about 200 pairs, not including the ones I’m putting in the garage sale.”

She must have seen that I was a bit envious, because she said, “I’m going to have a garage sale. Here, I’ll show you what I’ve corralled”.

We went down stairs and threw open the door to a sitting room. I gasped, and then started wishing we were the same size. The room had organized stacks and stacks of beautiful clothes. She doesn’t have any place to wear her work wardrobe, either.

This show of honesty and openness just endeared her to me more. She showed me her vulnerability, and it’s made me braver about my own collection of shoes and clothes … things that, in the past, I just haven’t been able to part with. It will be much easier now, for me to go home and clean out my closet, work wardrobe, shoes and all.

You know, I really was impressed with the special slots for purses that my friend, Karin had built into her closet. Hmmmmmmmm. Perhaps I’ll go shopping for purses soon. Maybe the Royster will make some special purse accommodations in my closet for me. After all, I’m too old to be carrying around a fanny pack for a purse. Anyone want to go shopping?