Today I was out driving and I saw something that just made me shake my head and think, "Leona Hutchinson would roll over in her grave if she saw this." Leona Hutchinson was an older lady I knew when I lived in Marshall, MO. We moved to Jefferson City when I was 12 so that tells you that this memory is very old and, quite possibly, not entirely accurate. For example, her last name might have been Hutcherson, I don't really know for sure. For the sake of this story, it's really immaterial whether her name was Hutchinson or Hutcherson.
I remember three things about Mrs. Hutchinson/Hutcherson:
First, she had clear plastic slipcovers on her furniture. The kind with raised bumps on them that left indentations on the back of your legs when you got up. I now find it odd that she had these slipcovers because she was a widow and had no children (that I know of). So from whom was she protecting her furniture? Probably dirty little kids like my brother and me. For all I know, she put them on five minutes before we got there and took them off as soon as our car left the driveway.
Second, she always had a candy jar filled with these round sticks of individually wrapped candy. The candy had stripes on them and I'm pretty sure my brother and I never took our eyes off that jar the whole time we were there. Mrs. Hutchinson/Hutcherson and my parents would be having a conversation and Jeff and I would sit stock still, as if in a trance. I'm sure my parents told us we could only have the candy if we were well behaved children. So we were. Anything for a stick of that candy. Once we got it, we'd suck on it until we'd formed razor sharp points and the proceed to stab each other to near death on the way home.
Third (and this is what made me shake my head), every year she bought a new Cadillac. It might have been every two years, but one sounds so much more decadent. And back then, Cadillacs were The Bomb. Huge, huge cars that were so long they actually bent in the middle when they turned corners. Only people who "came from money" had Caddy's and you could almost bet that any woman who stepped out of one would be wearing a long fur coat and elbow-length gloves. Ladies like Cruella DeVille.
So today, when I saw a Cadillac that looked more like a Ford Taurus, I was dismayed. It was tiny, tiny, tiny and was nowhere close to being a Bomb. Maybe a bomb (little b), but for sure not a Bomb (capital B). And, to make the situation even more pathetic, it had a spoiler. You know, to me, that's almost a heresy. I'm guessing Mr. Cadillac is rolling over in his grave as well. Sigh.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Black Lab. The Kong Addict.
(Disclaimer . . . The following is not intended in any way to minimize the devastation of addiction. It's simply meant to make you smile.)
Her name is Zooey. Z-O-O-E-Y. She's six and a half years old. And she's a Kong addict. For those of you unschooled in the dark underbelly of dog toys, a Kong is a red rubber "ball" that could quite possibly survive a nuclear holocaust. Some people cram peanut butter inside to give their dogs a more frenzied experience, but Zooey takes it straight up.
The signs of Zooey in need of a fix are unmistakable. She pants/huffs around the house, saliva slowly dripping from her jaws (ok, that doesn't happen, but it makes for good TV/blogging). She goes from room to room in search of her stash. Usually when she gets this way, her Kong has been left in a room that now has a closed door, making it impossible for her to get to her "sugar." When we, a family who has consistently enabled her by opening those closed doors, finally can take her agony no more, we grudgingly respond, saying, "Zooey, this is the last time. I mean it."
Sometimes, the Kong has rolled under a table or chair, making Zooey's drug of choice even more of a forbidden pleasure. She sees it. We see it. She knows we see it. We know she knows we see it. And what do we do? Again, we cave in, not being able to bear seeing her in such a deplorable state. Oh, sure, she makes the empty promises that she'll give it up. Cold turkey, if she has to. But we know, come tomorrow morning, she'll come padding up the stairs with that Kong in her mouth. She needs help. She needs . . . an intervention.
Her name is Zooey. Z-O-O-E-Y. She's six and a half years old. And she's a Kong addict. For those of you unschooled in the dark underbelly of dog toys, a Kong is a red rubber "ball" that could quite possibly survive a nuclear holocaust. Some people cram peanut butter inside to give their dogs a more frenzied experience, but Zooey takes it straight up.
The signs of Zooey in need of a fix are unmistakable. She pants/huffs around the house, saliva slowly dripping from her jaws (ok, that doesn't happen, but it makes for good TV/blogging). She goes from room to room in search of her stash. Usually when she gets this way, her Kong has been left in a room that now has a closed door, making it impossible for her to get to her "sugar." When we, a family who has consistently enabled her by opening those closed doors, finally can take her agony no more, we grudgingly respond, saying, "Zooey, this is the last time. I mean it."
Sometimes, the Kong has rolled under a table or chair, making Zooey's drug of choice even more of a forbidden pleasure. She sees it. We see it. She knows we see it. We know she knows we see it. And what do we do? Again, we cave in, not being able to bear seeing her in such a deplorable state. Oh, sure, she makes the empty promises that she'll give it up. Cold turkey, if she has to. But we know, come tomorrow morning, she'll come padding up the stairs with that Kong in her mouth. She needs help. She needs . . . an intervention.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Life in Reverse
Every once in awhile, I see something that warrants a second look. Most of the time, this happens while I'm watching TV. For instance, tonight Ron and I were watching "Living With Ed," a show about Ed Begley, Jr. and his over-the-top green life. I didn't quite catch his daughter's name, so I hit rewind to find out what it was (Hayden). To be quite honest, I'm not sure how I managed to live 48 years without DVR or the ability to rewind live TV. It's rare when we watch a WHOLE TV program, commercials included. And I'm getting quite good at hitting that play button at just the right second. Actually, I rule at that task
Tonight, Ron and I encountered another "rewind" moment while driving around the block (literally: he got a rental car for his trip to Iowa and I made him take me for a spin). We were approaching the stop sign at the intersection of Craig and 61st Street and we passed a signpost with two yellow signs on it. We go through that intersection probably fifteen times a week (maybe more) and tonight was the first time I saw the two signs clearly. As we passed it and came to a stop, I said to Ron, "Did you see that sign back there?" We sat there at the stop sign for probably 15 seconds and then he put the car in reverse and backed up. And there it was.
The top one was the one warning us of a school crossing. And the one below it had a large stag (as in a male deer) raised up on its hind legs, its front legs pawing the air.
We drove the half block home with our eyes peeled for prancing deer, deer that would suddenly bolt across the street, causing us to swerve recklessly and perhaps take out a headlight or two. I wonder: does your insurance go up if you have a prancing deer warning sign in your neighborhood? Because that would REALLY tick me off.
Tonight, Ron and I encountered another "rewind" moment while driving around the block (literally: he got a rental car for his trip to Iowa and I made him take me for a spin). We were approaching the stop sign at the intersection of Craig and 61st Street and we passed a signpost with two yellow signs on it. We go through that intersection probably fifteen times a week (maybe more) and tonight was the first time I saw the two signs clearly. As we passed it and came to a stop, I said to Ron, "Did you see that sign back there?" We sat there at the stop sign for probably 15 seconds and then he put the car in reverse and backed up. And there it was.
The top one was the one warning us of a school crossing. And the one below it had a large stag (as in a male deer) raised up on its hind legs, its front legs pawing the air.
We drove the half block home with our eyes peeled for prancing deer, deer that would suddenly bolt across the street, causing us to swerve recklessly and perhaps take out a headlight or two. I wonder: does your insurance go up if you have a prancing deer warning sign in your neighborhood? Because that would REALLY tick me off.
Friday, June 6, 2008
How I Spent My Friday Night
I wish I could say I had a romantic evening with my husband. But, I can't. Oh, I was with my husband, all right. But it was anything but romantic.
We spent the evening with our heads in the toilet. And I mean that literally, not figuratively.
For the last few months, our downstairs loo has been on strike, refusing to cross the flush line. It was like that little engine that thought it could. It would swirl around, make a lot of noise and then just slowly, slowly, slooooooowwwwwlllllyyyy . . . not flush. It was really giving our otherwise fabulous water closet a bad name. And a tiny bit of a bad smell.
Ron diligently replaced every part that he thought he could replace short of buying a whole new toilet and it still wouldn't cooperate. So tonight, he asked for me to help him sort it out. We shortly deduced that the problem was in the tiny hole toward the bottom front of the bowl. We could feel stuff floating around in it so we alternately flushed the toilet and stuck our fingers in that little hole, trying to free the offending bits. (I am tempted to make a very rude remark, but I know it's not necessary . . . ) That didn't work so well so we started using a roach clip (that's not really what it's used for - it's some sort of fly fishing implement that Ron has. At least that's what he told me it is), and tried to grab the loose pieces (which turned out to be cork and plastic. And no, Ron hasn't been tossing his wine corks in there). Anyway, that's when it got funny. It was like trying to catch a really shy sea urchin. We could see just a fraction of the suckers and as soon as we would put our hands in the water it would float out of sight. So, I just started leaving my hand in the bowl when Ron flushed it. It was actually quite invigorating.
About an hour and a half later, we had dislodged one hard plastic disc and about six pieces of cork. There's still one elusive piece of plastic floating around, but it can wait until tomorrow. My hands are shriveled and I cut my finger on that dang hole. I know, paybacks are hell.
We spent the evening with our heads in the toilet. And I mean that literally, not figuratively.
For the last few months, our downstairs loo has been on strike, refusing to cross the flush line. It was like that little engine that thought it could. It would swirl around, make a lot of noise and then just slowly, slowly, slooooooowwwwwlllllyyyy . . . not flush. It was really giving our otherwise fabulous water closet a bad name. And a tiny bit of a bad smell.
Ron diligently replaced every part that he thought he could replace short of buying a whole new toilet and it still wouldn't cooperate. So tonight, he asked for me to help him sort it out. We shortly deduced that the problem was in the tiny hole toward the bottom front of the bowl. We could feel stuff floating around in it so we alternately flushed the toilet and stuck our fingers in that little hole, trying to free the offending bits. (I am tempted to make a very rude remark, but I know it's not necessary . . . ) That didn't work so well so we started using a roach clip (that's not really what it's used for - it's some sort of fly fishing implement that Ron has. At least that's what he told me it is), and tried to grab the loose pieces (which turned out to be cork and plastic. And no, Ron hasn't been tossing his wine corks in there). Anyway, that's when it got funny. It was like trying to catch a really shy sea urchin. We could see just a fraction of the suckers and as soon as we would put our hands in the water it would float out of sight. So, I just started leaving my hand in the bowl when Ron flushed it. It was actually quite invigorating.
About an hour and a half later, we had dislodged one hard plastic disc and about six pieces of cork. There's still one elusive piece of plastic floating around, but it can wait until tomorrow. My hands are shriveled and I cut my finger on that dang hole. I know, paybacks are hell.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
You'll Reap What You Sow
Attention! Everyone who is within eyeshot of this blog! I'm conducting a "Sunscreen Now or Cancer Later" drive. The target? My usually intelligent and reasonable son. From the look of things, he's ignoring my advice to use sunscreen on a regular basis and, as a result, his body matches his hair (except for two nickel-sized white spots where he dabs sunscreen once a day at the beginning of his eight-hour lifeguard shift and calls it good). I guess it's not enough that I, myself a former tanning bed addict, was diagnosed with malignant melanoma about five years ago and had a tiny, tiny skin cancer removed. (Which, I might add, Tyler was present for and offered the excited observation, "Dang, mom, that hole is REALLY big, which caused me to momentarily consider a full-on dead away faint.)
So, no, he doesn't seem to think that this could be a problem for him later on in life. Never mind that when he was little there was this older woman who came to the Marty pool for three hours every day and her skin looked like leather. Not new, soft, supple, rich Corinthian leather. She had more of a beef jerky leather look going. SO attractive.
So . . . I'm begging everyone who knows Tyler to bombard him with the dire statistics of what UV rays can do to one's skin. You can totally make up stuff. The more catastrophic the better. His email is whompthis12@hotmail.com or jmartin5@emporia.edu (or jmartin5@esu.edu, I can't remember which) or whompthis@tmail.com. I'm hoping that perhaps he'll listen to someone other than the woman who labored for sixty-five hours to give birth to him (it was really only about five hours and he knows it) and heed some good advice. I was yelling at him tonight, saying I hadn't spent hours and hours slathering sunscreen on him when he was little for him to end up with skin cancer. It reminded me of the scene in "Gone With the Wind" when mammy was telling Miss Scarlett that she couldn't wear her dress off her shoulders to the barbecue at Twelve Oaks . . . "I didn't spend hours and hours slathering you with buttermilk your whole life so you wouldn't freckle."
I don't know which is more disturbing . . . My instantaneous and complete recollection of that scene or the fact that I'm now thinking about going out to buy gallons and gallons of buttermilk.
Oh. One more thing. During our discussion tonight about this subject (we were sitting outside on the patio), a large grackle deposited a large splat of poo on Tyler's lifeguard shirt. Karma perhaps? Tyler, maybe you should ask Sharon Stone about that.
So, no, he doesn't seem to think that this could be a problem for him later on in life. Never mind that when he was little there was this older woman who came to the Marty pool for three hours every day and her skin looked like leather. Not new, soft, supple, rich Corinthian leather. She had more of a beef jerky leather look going. SO attractive.
So . . . I'm begging everyone who knows Tyler to bombard him with the dire statistics of what UV rays can do to one's skin. You can totally make up stuff. The more catastrophic the better. His email is whompthis12@hotmail.com or jmartin5@emporia.edu (or jmartin5@esu.edu, I can't remember which) or whompthis@tmail.com. I'm hoping that perhaps he'll listen to someone other than the woman who labored for sixty-five hours to give birth to him (it was really only about five hours and he knows it) and heed some good advice. I was yelling at him tonight, saying I hadn't spent hours and hours slathering sunscreen on him when he was little for him to end up with skin cancer. It reminded me of the scene in "Gone With the Wind" when mammy was telling Miss Scarlett that she couldn't wear her dress off her shoulders to the barbecue at Twelve Oaks . . . "I didn't spend hours and hours slathering you with buttermilk your whole life so you wouldn't freckle."
I don't know which is more disturbing . . . My instantaneous and complete recollection of that scene or the fact that I'm now thinking about going out to buy gallons and gallons of buttermilk.
Oh. One more thing. During our discussion tonight about this subject (we were sitting outside on the patio), a large grackle deposited a large splat of poo on Tyler's lifeguard shirt. Karma perhaps? Tyler, maybe you should ask Sharon Stone about that.
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