Another Year

On this New Year's Eve day, this last day of another year, as I look out upon a blue sky, a palm tree swaying in the breeze and a couple of lizards running around on the ground, a quote from Oswald Chambers comes to my mind:
"At the basis of Jesus Christ's Kingdom is the unaffected loveliness of the commonplace."

In this coming year, may the Joy of the Lord be your strength.
Happy New Year.

What Happens to Those Missing Socks...

Sad but true. Did you ever wonder what really becomes of those runaway socks that mysteriously disappear from your dryer? Well, I found out today. It's tragic really. Like most runaways, they end up living on the streets. I spotted this lonely sock just this morning as I was leaving Blockbuster video. Huddled next to the pillar for warmth, living in squalor on the dirty sidewalk next to the other trash on the ground. I felt sorry for it, but I guess it's just a sad lesson to be learned. Be sure and show this to all your socks as a warning. This could happen to them too.

Under the Category, "Are You Kidding Me?"

I just read a little article in USA Weekend magazine entitled, "Grandma has no computer? Still send her e-mail." Here's a quote from the article that basically explains it: "There's now a service that sends family news and digital pictures from your e-mail account to someone's snail mailbox for $9.95"

Okay, let me get this straight. Granny has no computer so she doesn't do email. So instead of spending 44 cents on a stamp and hand-writing a letter that the old gal can hold in her hand, and read in your own loving handwriting....instead, you go grab your credit card, and spend $9.95 for someone else to send "family news" to her regular postal mailbox. Does this sound bizarre to anyone else? Okay, I get it that you can also, with a touch of button, include digital photos. But COME ON!

Has it really come to this? With all the ways to print lab quality photos in your own home, you can't send her a nice note with some photos inside? When I read this, all I could think of was my own grandmother, in her 90's, waiting for my dad to bring in her mail every day, and asking every single day, "Anything personal?" Amid all the bills and solicitations, all she hoped for each and every day, was a hand-written letter from someone who loved her.

So let's all take out a piece of notepaper today, spend 44 cents and make someone's day. You don't even need a credit card.

Underneath the Jeans

You know what I just realized? I look a lot younger with my clothes on. In a well-fitting pair of jeans and a hoodie, I feel downright collegiate. Because underneath the jeans it's all a mystery. Underneath the jeans I could have smooth, even-toned skin, or I might even have a tan. (Not to mention that my legs might be shaved.) Underneath the shirt I might have washboard abs and perky boobs. I might have underarm skin that does not swing to and fro. Who's to say? And this is one reason I enjoy a nice cool day like today here in Florida when I can put on those jeans and that hoodie and let the mystique begin.

Most days are too warm for this attire. A good 90% of the time it's shorts and tank tops for me. No choice. Since I'm still enjoying the occasional hot flash, even a short-sleeve t-shirt is too much coverage when I'm hit by the infernal dame flame. With so much skin exposed, there goes the "might be tan" myth. I've modified my fashion statement when it comes to shorts though. I'm wearing much longer ones these days. I threw away all the others after I first noticed what's going on in the vicinity of my knees. Like too-big pantyhose, my skin has become baggy at the knees. Funny how with a couple of fingers you can pull up that skin the tiniest bit and look normal again. It makes me appreciate why people get plastic surgery. Such a tiny little tug makes so much difference. But instead, I'll just cover up the whole mess with longer garments. It's a lot cheaper.

So I'm happy that we have cool weather predicted for the rest of the weekend. Jeans and long sleeve shirts. Yea! Boogie on.

The View

Summer in Florida. Hot. And quiet. Those of us who are year-rounders kind of enjoy this time. Our streets are less congested, our restaurants have no waiting lines, and it feels more like the leisurely Southern lifestyle you see in the movies. Yes, I'm enjoying the summer here in my little air conditioned condo. Most of the units in our complex are vacant right now, but before you know it, we'll be ready for the snowbirds to come in for a landing. And this makes me think of our seasonal next door neighbor.

As soon as she arrives from points North, the subject of "the view" inevitably pops up. She means the view from her lanai (Florida-speak for 'screened in patio'). Her lanai is right next to ours, so we share the same view. See here's the problem; there are two buildings that make up our condo complex. One of them backs up to the golf course, providing the coveted "golf course view" whereas our building backs up to the condo complex next door, providing the dreaded "view of the parking lot". She is bothered by this a lot. A little way down from us there is more foliage camouflaging the offending view, but behind our portion of the building there is only a sparse smattering of plants and shrubbery in the divide between us and the aforementioned parking lot. Every year she begs the board members to plant more trees behind our part of the building, and she always tries to convince us to join her in the crusade. She assumes we're just as bothered as she is. But we're not.

My husband and I spend every morning on the lanai drinking our coffee, saying our prayers, reading our Bible and devotional books, listening to music and talking about stuff. Then my husband reads the daily paper and points out the highlights to me. Since we don't have day jobs, we are able to spend as much time as we want out there before beginning the rest of our day. It's really nice. While we're out there we watch the lizards running around outside, or occasionally we're treated to a parade of sandhill cranes walking right by us. Sometimes an armadillo shows up and roots around for whatever armadillos root around for. We observe the progress (or lack thereof) of various plants we've put in back there. Sometimes we laugh at the stupid woodpecker that likes to drill into the drain pipe next door. Makes an awful racket, but it's hysterical. And besides all that, we can't help but observe the comings and goings of the people in our neighboring complex. Let me clarify a little about the "parking lot" thing. Behind us there is grass, then the plants, then on the other side there is more grass and then the buildings next door, including car ports and a small parking lot. From our vantage point on the lanai, we see people leaving and returning to their homes. We've gotten to "know" several of these folks although we've never met them. There's the lady with the dog for instance. She takes the dog in her car every morning and returns a little later. We think she might take him to walk on the beach, because sometimes she hoses off his feet after they return. And he must be getting old because he used to just jump into the back seat, but now she keeps a wooden box in her trunk and places it for him to step up into the car. There's the couple who are both quite short, and we call them the little people. They go to church every Sunday. We can tell because of the way they're dressed. It's the only time he doesn't wear a ball cap. Then there's the lady who rides her bike around the parking lot for exercise, making passes every few minutes. There are the two older ladies, possibly sisters, who for some reason always bring their little bag of trash to the dumpster together. Always. If we're still out there when the mailman comes, we know he'll be coming to our place next and we better skeedaddle to get any mail in the box before he gets here. Then there's 'Mrs. Pickles'. We call her that because her puffy white hair and glasses make her look just like the wife in the comic strip 'Pickles'. She's quite old, but always coming and going. Then one day she decided to wash their SUV herself and climbed up onto a stepstool to reach the top. We couldn't really see much because she was kind of behind a bush but pretty soon a crowd gathered and next thing you know an ambulance came. They put her on a gurney and took her away and we didn't see her for a long time. We prayed for her every day. But no sign of her. Time passed. Weeks, months. We kept praying for her. Was she in a nursing home? Or worse? We actually missed her. Then finally one morning we spotted her. Mrs. Pickles was back! Hobbling around with a walker, but she was back! We praised God and shed a tear. And all this time she had no idea that two strangers were praying for her.

So no, we're not bothered by the view. In fact, we're blessed by it. I expect that when our neighbor arrives again this year, the crusade will begin anew. That's okay. I pray for her too.

Dad vs The Birds: Season Four

For most people, after a long hard winter, the sight of that first robin in the yard is a hopeful sign that spring is finally here. Oh joy!

Not for my father. For him it's "Oh crap!" It's a depressing sign that soon the little "s.o.b.'s" will once again be all over his cherry tree, doing their best to make certain Dad never gets to taste even one delicious ripe cherry. It's the same every year.

And thus begins Season Four of "DAD AND THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS". (Previously seen on June 27, 2006 and June 15, 2008. Apparently I neglected to report in June 2007.) I talked to him a few days ago and when I asked what he'd been up to lately, he told me he's right in the middle of his annual battle with the robins. He's made quite a few improvements to his defensive maneuvers since Season One, when he first tried the conventional fake owl and dangling aluminum pans, then progressed to a boom box in the branches playing offensive rock music. Among other innovations. None of which made a twit of difference. In Season Two and Three he stepped up his measures considerably by "tenting" the tree with netting. Apparently this was flawed because he could not quite get full coverage and the "damn birds" easily found their way in.

And now for Season Four. Once again we find the Dad-man tenting the tree. But this year he added even more netting, carefully sewing it all together nice and tight with nary a hole for entrance. He even climbed a ladder to the very top of the tree to make sure it was COMPLETELY sewn up. (And oh by the way, we just celebrated his 90th birthday May 1st. He doesn't seem to be slowing down with the ladder climbing thing.) BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Someone gave him a few rolls of chicken wire. This is crucial, because the netting itself is not long enough to reach the ground, and he has previously had to try and gather it up around the trunk of the tree, leaving too much room for error. But THIS year, he has surrounded the tree with a fence of fine chicken wire, and attached the netting painstakingly to the chicken wire. A veritable fortress! He has gone over every square inch of this structure and found absolutely NO WAY for a bird to get in there. THIS year, CHERRIES!

He told me how proud and satisfied he was when he finally got this thing finished, and then went inside the house for dinner. (In Dad-speak, dinner is mid-day. "Supper" is what many of us would call dinner. It's an old-school rural thing. But I digress.) So after his dinner and subsequent nap, he went outside to inspect his handiwork. And there inside the fortress was the biggest robin of the bunch. Fluttering around, half out of his mind with frustration over being stuck in there. And there's Dad, hopping mad, half out of his mind with frustration over how in blazes he got in there. Impossible! And yet, there he was. So now Dad has to try and get him back out. But of course he's done such a great job of sewing the thing up tight, he has to spend a whole lot of time and effort, undoing his work to make a space for the damn bird to escape. So he makes a breach for the robin to get out. But of course, the damn robin doesn't get it. Flutter flutter. So Dad (by now saying many bad words) has to make the escape hole even bigger. Bird still doesn't get it. Dad tells me, "Somehow the little son-of-a-gun found a way to get in when there wasn't even a hole big enough for a cockroach to get in. Then I make a hole big enough for a cow to walk through and he can't find it!" Well, after much to-do and very strong temptations to execute the damn bird while he's still in there, he finally makes his way out.

So Dad closes the hole back up, goes through his rigorous inspection of every square inch once again, and feels pretty satisfied that bird won't be back. And he was right. A different bird got in.

Well you may be thinking what any sane person would be thinking; for all the time, effort and money it has cost him to thwart the efforts of the damn robins, he could have bought and enjoyed several bushels of cherries from someone else by now. But that's not the point. As he says, he just can't stand to let the little s.o.b.'s get the better of him.

So rock on, Dad. May the Force be with you. This just might be the year. And if it is, I hope those cherries are worth it. What am I saying? If Dad wins, those will be the sweetest cherries he ever ate.

Happy Birthday to Me

I am 57 years old today! Yippee. I've been practicing saying "57" recently so it wouldn't be so much of a shock when the day came. It doesn't actually seem so bad. You know, now that 50 is the new 40 and all that hoopla. I keep reading about how we 'boomers' refuse to be old, so hey, I'll join that movement. For all the good it will do me. (Hint people: WE ALL GET OLD.)

Fortunately aging is a fairly gradual thing. Assuming we actually look at ourselves in the mirror every day, it should not come as a shock that things are changing in that reflection. (It is odd though how once in awhile a specific wrinkle can actually dig in overnight, like one of those flowers that suddenly blooms in one day.) But the physical changes are only part of the story. Like someone who eventually loses ALL their hair, I have finally lost ALL my hip-ness. I have lost ALL vestiges of my knowledge of current pop culture, technology trends, and cool jargon. Ya see, there's an example right there. Hardly anyone under 40 says "cool". Or "jargon" for that matter. The word "cool" has been replaced with any number of other adjectives. The last one I am aware of is "sweet". But since I am at least ten years behind in modern youth-speak, "sweet" is probably out the door by now.
I think the word "hip" is gone too. I followed that word just long enough to be able to use it in a sentence like "Yeah, I'm hip to that." Then I think it changed to "I'm so down with that." It took me awhile to realize that 'down' was not a bad thing. Like Alice's Wonderland, a lot of stuff is upside down. For example, "Phat" is good. And that's right about where I left off.

I remember lots of fun ways to say things when I was young. "Hang a Louie" meant 'turn left' and "bang a Ralph" meant 'turn right.' Of course Louie also meant lunger and that's about as far as I want to go with that train of thought. Ralph also took on other meanings, including 'barf'. Then it became 'spew', 'spew chunks' and 'hurl'. There are probably new ones now. Ah, there can never be enough words for puking.

But besides all that, I have peacefully accepted that I will nevermore keep up with popular technology. I'm cool with computers. (Did you notice how I slipped in "cool"? Sometimes I can't help myself.) But cell phones, iPods, Blackberries, Bluetooth? Uh uh. Yes, I am able to make a phone call with my cell phone and recently learned how to add contacts in it. But this obsession with texting is so beyond me. I do not know how to text. (And when did the word 'text' become a verb anyway? It even has tenses, as in "Jason just texted me. " That just sounds so wrong.) I received a text message just once and I had no idea what was going on. My cell phone made a noise I had never heard before and I thought it was the alert for low battery. I picked it up and discovered I had a text message. What do I do now? I finally figured out how to retrieve the message and felt as if I had arrived in the 21st century. Until I realized I had no idea how to text back to the friend who sent the message. So I just called him and told him never to do that again.

It bugs me that youngsters (how do you like that one?) are continually staring at their cell phones and punching in messages that as far as I can tell amount to "what are you doin?" "Nothing." What a wasted use of God's great idea of the opposable thumb. But I've decided that it serves no purpose to get aggravated. This is just how it is. If I had kids of my own I would teach them simple manners about using their phones at the dinner table, just like our parents had rules about reading a comic book at the dinner table. Same code of courtesy, just different media. However, I understand that generally speaking, things are the way they are, kids have new ways to confound their elders, and although I don't like tattoos, body piercings, or texting, it's here and that's it and that's that. Done deal. Get over it.

So Happy Birthday to me. I am perfectly content to be 57, text-challenged and woefully un-hip.
Yo Dawg, I am so down with that.

Frugal

I've been practicing for this recession. For a long time. I had early training from my parents, of course, as did most children of depression-era parents, but I've learned a few tricks of my own. First of all, let me say that I am not cheap. I am frugal. Being cheap means you hate to spend money. Being frugal means you hate to waste money. This is my own definition and I'm sticking to it.

Now it's all the rage to be good at pinching a penny. There are articles in every magazine and newspaper you pick up. (That's assuming you still "pick up" a magazine or newspaper. Perhaps you are saving money by reading it all online.) Writers are thrilled to have a whole new subject to write about. How to Save Money! Well here's a tip - how about we start with "don't buy it if you can't afford it." Apparently that bit of obvious logic went by the wayside along with the lay-away system in recent years. An acquaintance of ours once said, "Well, I finally just got my credit cards paid off!" To which my husband answered something like "Good, now why don't you cut them up and throw them away?" To which she answered (with a straight face) "WHAT?! Then how would I buy things I can't afford?"
Yuh.

Don't get me wrong. We made our own mistakes with credit cards. Big time mistakes. Bigger than your average bear mistakes. So I am not in a position to judge. But I am here to tell you that learning the debt mistake the hard way has made life much better now. And thank God, we have learned.

Anyway, I get a big kick out of saving money on stuff. For instance, I buy most of my groceries at Save-A-Lot. It's one of those stores where you bring your own bag. Or buy one for three cents. They don't have a lot of brand names but I don't really care. Bran flakes are bran flakes. Two of my other favorite stores are Dollar General and Big Lots.
Greeting cards? Two for a dollar at DG.
Salad mix? Ninety-nine cents at Save-A-Lot.
Place mats? Throw pillows? Kitchen utensils? Cents on the dollar at Big Lots.
And so it goes.

In addition to simply going to bargain stores, I have even invented a few of my own bargain versions of other products. For instance. (This one's for the ladies. Most of my tips are for the ladies actually.) Have you ever bought eye makeup remover in the little plastic bottle? Costs over $4 usually. Well have I got a tip for you! It occurred to me that it can't be much more than a mild soap in a water solution, some kind that doesn't irritate your eyes, right? So then I think, hey, baby shampoo is advertised as "no more tears", won't hurt baby's eyes, right? SO... I think, why not buy baby shampoo (the Dollar General brand for ninety-nine cents of course) and mix it with water in a little bottle and I bet it would work. IT DOES! (About 1/3 shampoo to 2/3 water. Just don't shake it hard. You can imagine.) So that big bottle of baby shampoo is gonna last a long long time. How frugal is that? Oh I'm full of good cheap...I mean frugal ideas.

Well, I'm rambling. I just get excited about bargains, I can't help it. In fact, I've been getting itchy to pay a visit to my favorite outlet store where I can wander the aisles and hunt. When I get that itch I tell my husband, "I'm going to Beall's Outlet and poke around." Hey, there are worse things to get an itch for. Oh that reminds me, did you know that if you get an itch, you can take some simple household baking soda....

Glamour revealed

I have come to realize that 'glamour' is something only visible from the front. Behind, it's all safety pins and adhesive tape.

Magic Eraser

Have I ever mentioned how much I am in love with a genius-inspired household cleaning product called the "Magic Eraser"? Now lest you think that this is some Martha Stewart tip from a domestic goddess wifey type, let me set the record straight. I HATE HOUSEKEEPING. And I'm no good at it and therefore I seldom do it. I bang my knuckles, knock into things, break fingernails, and develop dry nasty crocodile hands. This last bit about the hands is partly due to the dry nature of my skin type, but also because I'm a bit compulsive about hand washing. So after I touch something dirty and icky I just have to wash my hands with soap and water. This in addition to any exposure to the soap and water involved in the house cleaning itself. It's endless. Anyway, I digress. About the Magic Eraser. This thing is not just to be added to your arsenal of cleaning products. It is THE cleaning product. For those who have never had the pleasure I'll explain as best I can. This thing looks like a sponge but it's really magic. No I mean really. Actual magic. You just soak it in water, squeeze it out, and without spraying any cleaner, or soaking in suds, you just start rubbing. Not even hard, just kind of casual rubbing does the trick. And Voila! Dirt and stains are GONE. And I mean the stubborn stuff that won't come off with a sandblaster and dynamite. For instance. Our condo was built with kitchen cupboards that have no friggin knobs. These are what I like to call the Marquis de Sade Fractured Fingernail model of cupboard doors, sold widely in the 80's to cheap construction companies. So anyway, we keep the olive oil in the cupboard above the stove. So you scrabble underneath the stupid cupboard door to get a fingerhold on it to open it. Fine. Then you use the oil which of course according to all the laws of physics, mathematics and chaos theory ends up all over your fingers. Now you go to put the oil back in the cupboard, and you close the cupboard how? By pressing your oily fingers against the knobless door of course. Over time this repeated oily finger maneuver leaves an indelible smooge of oil on the stupid door. You may not notice it until you happen to see it in just the right sunlight. This is one of the reasons I do not allow sunlight in my house. (Kidding.) Well I tried Formula 409. No good. Windex. No good. A scrubby sponge. No good. Goo Gone. (I was so sure that would do it. Goo Gone is actually a close second to the Magic Eraser in my book of most genius household cleaning products. But that's for another blog.) No good.

THEN (and this is where the harp sounds and the sunlight breaks through the clouds) I discovered the Magic Eraser. I bought it. I tried it. OIL SMOOGE GONE. I was overcome with joy. I tried it on a nasty berry stain on the counter. GONE. I tried it on the dirty finger print laden area around the front door. GONE. By now I'm hooked and catching a killer buzz from my success. I'm flitting like a hummingbird from one soiled surface to another. Sweating, grinding my teeth, eyes wild. GIVE ME MORE. I know! The bathroom! Those stupid grainy spots on the tub floor that keep you from slipping and breaking your head but are impossible to ever get clean ever......CLEAN! And it wasn't even hard! By now my Magic Eraser is down to the size of an actual eraser because as you use it, it gets smaller and smaller. Now I'm panicking. I'm almost out! Gotta get another one. I'm not done yet!

I did indeed go out and stock up on more Magic Erasers but not before using up the last vestige of the one I had. I gleefully rubbed away the hand smudges on the wall around the thermostat. Of course since some of the "magic" in the eraser involves some sort of abrasive, yes I did rub off a few small spots of paint. But who cares, that's what Wite-Out is for! (Another wifey domestic goddess tip for ya.)

Well, I just felt compelled to share this good news with all of you. If you're not using the Magic Eraser, well you just don't know what you're missing. A caveat is in order, however. It is habit forming, and may I say even addictive. But not to worry. My next project is starting a support group called Magic Eraser-anon. I've been in contact with Proctor & Gamble and Mr. Clean himself has agreed to speak at the first meeting.