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.

In Praise of Lake Niagara (wine that is)

So after my prolonged absence from the blogosphere, and after my last unhappy pre-election entry, suddenly I reappear with a post singing the praises of cheap wine? Well, you gotta just jump back in somewhere. And besides, I'd rather be silly than serious just now.

Anyway, the other day as I was unscrewing the cap of my most recent bottle of Lake Niagara wine, I found myself thinking rather defensively, 'Hey, what's so wrong with liking what I like?' I was thinking of a sign above the bar at a local tavern that says "Life is too short to drink cheap wine." Well what if I like cheap wine? I say life is too short to drink some fancy pants wine I hate just cause some snooty type says it's better. I come from Western New York and grew up savoring the flavor of the sweet Niagara grape in the fall. It brings to mind being at Grandma's house and checking the vines in the back yard to see if any of those big clusters of green grapes had turned yellow enough to be ripe yet. And oh when they were ripe. Nothing like it. A unique sweet flavor that dances on the tongue and stays sweet forever in the memory. (For the uninitiated, Welch's white grape juice is made from these grapes. That's the flavor I'm talking about. Of course, the wine is not nearly that sweet. Well not quite that sweet.) So anyway, Lake Niagara wine is not just a flavor I like. It's a whole experience. But mostly, I just really like it.

Oh sure, after much ribbing and teasing from my more wine-enlightened friends and certain snooty bartenders, I have learned to tolerate and even enjoy some kinds of wine with actual corks. Pinot Grigio is okay and I like saying it. Also Riesling is pretty good. That's kind of fun to say too. When I am out with high society types, the ones who actually understand what buerre blanc means, I can confidently order a Pinot Grigio and feel that I have fulfilled my duty as a dining companion who is likely not to tuck my napkin into my neck. Or slurp my soup from the bowl. I have even purchased whole bottles of wine with corks for my personal home consumption. But then I always go back. And I suppose since I'm baring all here, I should confess that I've discovered another version of the Lake Niagara-type wine (made by Taylor) called Lake Country White that I like even better. AND IT'S EVEN CHEAPER. Now we're talking.

But as with most things, if I wait long enough I'll be right in vogue. Maybe not with wine snooties, but with the population in general who are right now trying to scrimp and save on everything from mortgages to band-aids. Saving money is IN. This makes me kind of happy since I'm already an expert on bargain-hunting. Plus my taste runs on the side of the common rather than the exclusive anyway, so aren't I lucky? I say, if it tastes good, eat it. If it looks good, wear it. If it smells good, spray it on. If it appeals to you, hang it on your wall. Who cares how much anything costs? Trouble is, I guess there are people who do care a great deal, many of whom love to tell you how expensive their stuff is. I on the other hand had to be broken of the habit of blurting out "Oh you like my sweater? I bought it for 75% off clearance at Big Lots. I only paid $2.39!" I have now learned that the proper response when someone compliments something of mine is 'thank you'. It's hard.

So anyway, I guess that's about it for today. I have to go get dinner ready. I'm really anxious to try the new salad dressing I bought at Save-a-Lot. I really think it's going to go great with my Lake Niagara.

Not So Funny

Today my thoughts are not so funny. For one thing, the election is just days away and things are getting nasty. The accusations and personal attacks are flying, the pundits are having a field day, the candidates are scrambling and politics is still a dirty business. Some people are ecstatic that Obama may win, and some people are scared to death that he may win. I've heard more than one person say, "If Obama wins, what are we gonna do?!" Stupid question. We're going to go on being Americans and see what happens. Same as if McCain wins. Anyway, a president is still only one cog in the wheel.

Also, the stock market is tanking. I personally don't have any money in the stock market, so I'm not on the lookout for high places from which to jump, but I imagine there are people who are. And of course the economy in general is in peril. People are losing their homes and unable to pay their bills. I'm positive there are good and earnest Christians right now who are sure this is all more evidence of the end times. Yeah, maybe. But there have been so many other critical moments in all of history that pointed to the 'end times' that I'm a little jaded on that point. I believe that Christ is coming again, but I'm a little sick of the constant Armageddon -watch that seems to be going on. I may turn some people off by saying this, but instead of running out into our yards with arms raised watching the sky for Jesus to return on a cloud any moment, how about we get down on our knees right where we are and pray to God for this country and its people who worship Wall Street more than they worship God? Let's pray that this economic shake-out gives everyone a reality check about what's really important. The stock market is crumbling, just as all false gods eventually do. See it for what it is. A wake-up call to depend on God for our needs, not credit cards, banks or stock portfolios. The stock market is only one channel by which prosperity flows. God is the source, and He has hundreds, thousands, millions of channels to use to send us everything we need. But people always want MORE than they need. Let's try to remember the difference now. Let's use this time to pray more and get ourselves right with God. His hand is outstretched and in it is everything we need. Ask and you shall receive.

My New Favorite Word

Yes ladies and gentlemen, as I make my way through post-menopause and my mind grows ever feebler, I seem to have a new favorite word. The word is....THING. That's right, this generic all-purpose word finds its way into my conversations several times each day. It seems I have trouble remembering simple words these days, simple names of everyday objects so I find myself saying stuff like "The scotch tape? It's right over there right next to the...the..THING." Or, "Honey, would you hand me that...that...oh you know, that THING." Fortunately, after being with me oh these many years, my husband seems to know what I'm talking about most of the time so it has not been a major obstacle in our marriage. We tend to read each other's minds a lot anyhow, so things could be worse.

Oddly enough, this very habit of calling things "THINGS" is something that used to irritate the heck out of me when my mother or mother-in-law used to do it. I would think "Come on, surely you know the name of that thing. Just say it. This is so irritating." I am SO glad that I never gave voice to these thoughts because I'd be feeling terrible about it right now. Here I am perpetrating the very same offense, and now I understand completely what they were going through. They didn't enjoy being THING-speaking women any more than I do, but it couldn't be helped.

I'm noticing other traits I've developed that also used to irritate me about other people. Older people. I wham my shoulder into doorways and stub my toe on large obvious objects, and whack my knuckles on drawers. How clumsy! Why don't I watch what I'm doing? The thing is, I used to have grace, I used to be nimble, I used to NOT have to watch my hands every second while performing mundane tasks to make sure they didn't suddenly fly helter skelter into a sharp-edged object. And to add insult to injury, when I do get scrapes, bruises and scabs from these little moments of uncontrollable clumsiness, my skin doesn't heal as quickly as it used to. In fact, it sometimes takes WEEKS for a bruise to go away, and I STILL have a red spot on my shin from three months ago when I banged it on the shower door track simply stepping over the edge of the tub to get into the shower. That scar is there to stay I know it. I even put Aloe on it and everything. Nothing helps. I was thinking of getting some of that stuff they advertise that's supposed to get rid of scars. You know that stuff. What the heck is it called?

So I'm bruised and battered and stupid. So what? Who cares? What's the difference? What was I talking about?

Scary News

Proving once again that journalists give good headlines, I just ran across a good one. In the local section of my paper where they list the various goings-on and things to do, I was startled to see this header:

Give Blood.

Get Gas Card

Yikes! Gas already costs an arm and a leg. Now they want BLOOD.

How I Spent My Summer Staycation

With the high cost of gasoline and thus the high cost of every other thing in the universe, there is apparently a new trend in vacationing. Instead of taking a costly traditional vacation. we are now being urged to take a "staycation", which means you pretend to be on vacation without actually leaving your home. So I thought I'd try it.

I'm still waiting for room service and the maid hasn't shown up yet either. This is a sucky vacation.

But seriously, I guess people are actually doing this. I recently read two different articles about this new concept, the stay-home vacation, actually dubbed the "staycation". I wasn't kidding about that. Some people are taking advantage of their local attractions and seeing the sights in their own hometown, being pretend tourists. Others (and I actually read this) are setting up tents in their livingrooms and having camp-ins with their kids. Why not at least use the yard, you ask. Apparently this one family didn't have a yard. So they pitched a tent right in the livingroom, placed a floor lamp outside the tent to look like moonlight, and roasted marshmallows over a candle. Could I make this up?

I guess the staycation idea is okay. A lot of people have never taken full advantage of all the good things their hometown has to offer. I come from a town that's about an hour away from Niagara Falls and I bet half the population has never been there. However, for people in certain geographic locations, which shall remain nameless, it's probably a lot harder to pull off the staycation concept. "Hey Beufort, you been in the sun long enough. Better git yourself back under the car port."

I, on the other hand, live on the west coast of Florida and this staycation idea should work pretty well for me. The beach is less than five miles away, there are concerts and plays galore, enough festivals to clutter the entire landscape of the moon with arts and crafts, and marvelous fine dining restaurants all within the distance of a gallon of gas, which by the time I post this should be about $12.95.

But I have a confession to make. I don't like the beach. (Eeww, all that sand) I don't do well sitting through concerts and plays; arts and crafts festivals make me barf, and my idea of fine dining is any restaurant that doesn't use a roll of paper towels for napkins.

The truth is, I don't need to pack a pretend suitcase, and put a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door of my condo to feel like I'm on vacation. Trust me, I know how lucky I am. Every morning when we put on the coffee, put on our morning music, and take our stack of inspirational books out onto the lanai for our morning reading time, I thank God for the life we have. It already is the perfect staycation.

What Not To Wear

I like that show "What Not To Wear" on TLC. You know the one, where the two fashion experts help someone learn how to dress. That's an oversimplification of course. Here's how it works; well-meaning friends and family of someone who is a walking fashion disaster secretly blow her in to the show, then secretly videotape her going about her business dressed badly. Then Stacy and Clinton (the aforementioned fashion experts) surprise the victim and confront her with all the incriminating videotape and offer her a $5000 credit card to buy all new clothes in New York City under the condition that she give up her old clothes and follow their "rules". Although the first quarter of the show is pure gratuitous humiliation, it's all in good fun (tell that to her) and the rest is actually pretty uplifting. In the end, the slovenly "before" morphs into a dazzling "after" and gains tons of self esteem and grace. Seriously, by the time you get to the big "reveal" at the end, you're really rooting for her.

I'm fascinated with this show because they actually give great advice. I always learn something. But there's a predictable side effect to watching this show. Every time I watch it I get the urge to purge. No, not throw up. Purge my closet. I watch Stacy and Clinton hold up some article of the victim's old clothing like a decaying carcass and I think, "I have that in my closet." Now I don't think the contents of my closet are embarrassing really, but there are always a few things that just stay in there a little too long. I have a time-frame deficiency that prevents me from remembering when I bought something. When I think "that's probably a couple of years old", in reality it's apt to be more like six or seven. I confess, I have found a few choice articles in there that are twenty years old. I started taking advantage of a visual cue to help me out recently. If it has shoulder pads the size of throw pillows, it might not be as new as I thought.

So the other day after watching Stacy and Clinton humiliate - I mean educate -yet another victim, I got that urge to purge and made a nice big pile of clothes to give to Goodwill. Then I got right into it and dug a little deeper, and made another pile of perfectly good and rarely worn clothes to take to a consignment shop for resale. You know, these are the things I hate to just give away because they're really nice, I just haven't worn them much for some reason. Probably because I didn't know the "rules" when I bought them. Like if you're 5'6" you don't buy "petite" pants. Sorry, I mean trousers. (See how much I've learned?) A permanent wedgie is no fun. So I asked around to find out which local consignment store was a good one, since I've never done this before, and got an enthusiastic endorsement for one in particular. I called.

"Have you ever consigned with us before?"
"No, I haven't. How does it work?"
"Well, we only accept the better labels, and only things that are in season. What do you have?"
I took the phone into my closet and started reading off some labels, which didn't actually mean anything to me, but I remember buying them in a good store so thought they might mean something to her.
She said "Mmm hmm. Well the main thing is that they are less than three years old. Are they?"

Uh oh. The old deficiency. I had no idea. They could be. Or they could be twelve years old. A quick glance told me they all passed the shoulder pad test. That was encouraging. So I hemmed and hawed and said well maybe I'd just bring them in and have her take a look. NOT LIKELY. I don't think I could take the beat-down that would surely ensue. The pitying look, the decaying carcass two-finger pick up, the inevitable thanks-for-stopping-by rejection. So guess what....my Goodwill pile just got bigger.

Name These Plants

These little guys appeared in my potted palm yesterday. I'm conducting a "Name That Plant" contest. Anybody care to submit an entry? (Oh hush up, it's funny and you know it.)

Billboards I'd Like To See Part 1

My Mom, the Original Recycler

First of all, HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! I don't really have a big theme thing going on for my 4th of July entry. I just felt like writing today and it happens to be the 4th of July. So I guess I'm happy for the freedom to not write about the 4th of July. Okee dokee then.

What's on my mind today is the idea of "recycle, re-use". Everything's all about being green these days, and that's a good thing. Don't want to leave a great big old carbon footprint behind. I've got a pretty big foot and this idea of the carbon footprint freaks me out a little. There are reams of newspaper and magazine articles all extolling the virtues of going green. Hmmm. That's ironic, isn't it? Anyway, this is wonderful fodder for journalists, freelance writers, and editors of every ilk who desperately need to fill their publications or news casts with meaningful and relevant content. "Come on everyone, let's all think of some great ways to conserve our natural resources! Put on those thinking caps and fill those pages!"


Well, if they had known my mother, they'd have enough material for the next fiscal year. Before recycling was hip, or even thought of, my mother was way ahead of the curve. She was brilliant at conserving and re-using. Back then it was more a matter of "a penny saved is a penny earned", or as I used to like to call it, "being cheap". Of course I realize now that the "cheap" label was a cheap shot. My parents lived through the great Depression and never quite came out the other side, mentally. Besides, while not dirt poor, we weren't exactly rich either, and saving pennies here and there was not really a matter of choice. So my mother became quite expert at conserving, recycling, and re-using, having learned many of her skills from her own mother. Okay, here's a for instance; I learned at the age of two how to open a Christmas gift without making a single tiny tear in the wrapping paper. Every home movie of Christmas past has at least one shot of my mother sitting in a chair, carefully smoothing and re-folding the wrapping paper for use at a later date while we kids meticulously opened our gifts like we were defusing a bomb. The art of this careful gift opening was made easier by the fact that the attached bow was only loosely stuck on there with a small loop of scotch tape, since it too had been preserved from years past, possibly including the scotch tape and was not likely to do much damage to the aforementioned wrapping paper. I was 15 years old before I realized that bows were actually three dimensional, and not in fact supposed to be flat. (By the way, this careful unwrapping is a skill I have had to unlearn in my adulthood. It makes most people crazy when they watch you do it.)

Oh, and here's another thing. When I finally outgrew the lunchbox stage of my childhood and started brown-bagging it to school, that bag had to last a week or two. Or until my banana finally dropped out the bottom.

Then there were the note pads. This is the one I know she got from Grandma, because Grandma's house was full of these things. Okay, try to follow me now. In the old days greeting cards were large pieces of paper folded twice so that when you opened the card, it was double thick on both sides. If you own a computer and make your own greeting cards, you probably know what I'm talking about. Anyway, if you unfolded these greeting cards back into a large piece of paper, there would be all white space inside. You with me so far? Okay. Now all this pristine white space was naturally divided into four rectangles or squares because of the fold lines. So you took your big old shears (pinking shears if you wanted to be really artistic) and cut that paper into its four pieces. Voila. Four beautiful pieces of note paper. Now it gets better. Grandma used to dissect all her Christmas and birthday cards, then stack them into little piles, punch a hole in the top of each pile, and tie a ribbon through the hole to hold the pile together. (The ribbon was, of course, left over from what? That's right class, from a previously opened gift!) Nothing was wasted. My mother learned this craft from her mother and I myself would probably still be carrying on the tradition if modern greeting cards had not changed to their current configuation. Also because my husband would divorce me.

Well, I can tell that I could write a book about this. There's just so much more. I mean so far I've only touched on paper products. But that's enough for now. You know, what I thought was cheap and embarrassing back then is now the subject of high level discussions and suggestions for all of us. She would have liked that, being on the cutting edge, ahead of her time. Way to go Mom.

My Birthday

It's my birthday. I cannot think of any greater gift than that which I already have: the love of God, the love of my husband, the love of family and friends, and the knowledge that each day holds a thousand gifts hidden within it. The trick is to seek them out like treasure. Thank you God for my life. Thank you for Life.

Dad's Day

It's Father's Day again. Last year I wrote a lot of really good stuff about my dad. Not hard to do. Every day is Father's Day when it comes to how I feel about my dad.

I called him today and as usual, enjoyed catching up on what's going on with him. At 89 you'd think it might be boring to hear about his life. But somehow I continue to be fascinated by him. He's been "awful busy" this week. He had cleared some land just east of the house that has been nothing but tall weeds for years. This spring he cut it all down, disked it, and put in part of his garden there. I guess he's been planting grass seed on the rest. Now you have to understand that in order to do a lot of this work, he had to remove the giant snow blower attachment and the cab from his garden tractor, and attach God-knows-what else in order to work on the garden. This is not child's play. Attaching and detaching a snowblower from your garden tractor, and then attaching a set of disks is pretty strenuous work. (He is quick to remind me that my brother and his son helped him get the snowblower on at the beginning of the winter. But I'm pretty sure he took it off himself.)

He was very happy to report that his strawberries are coming on real good. I asked him if the robins were bothering them. "Oh no, I put a net over them." Now these robins, (known by their scientific name, "damn robins") as you may remember are the arch nemesis of my father. Year after year they've been eating every last cherry on his one and only cherry tree before they're ripe enough for Dad to even taste one. And sure enough, the "damn robins" are already feasting on the few barely pink fruit on that tree. But he did buy a whole bunch more netting at Wal Mart and this week he's really going to do the tee-pee thing over that tree. This should be good. I'm really rooting for him. If he wins the battle of the birds this year it will be a victory long in coming.

THIS JUST IN!!
I just did a little research to find out more about the robin and cherry thing, and found this bit of information in a web article called, "Little Friends In Feathers":

"Thus, from March to June, the robin lives on ground beetles, larva, angle worms, spiders, snails and dry berries left over on winter on bushes He helps himself to orchard cherries in June. Late cherries he does not touch, ...... "

I have to let Dad know about this right away! If he can just get past June, he might have a fighting chance. I'll tell you one thing, he refuses to take this lying down. He's only just begun to fight. I really think the tee-pee is going to work. Go Dad!!

I don't think I'll share this next bit of the article with Dad. He might not agree with it:

"Birds are our little brothers of the air who help us keep the earth green and fruitful. They alone are able to keep the unseen armies of insect enemies in check. We need their help, and how willingly they work for us. Of all our little animal brothers they alone can sing and fly. They take up no useful room, and they earn their own living." (HA) "At the same time they make the world a more beautiful place to live in."

Yeah right. Tell that to Dad after the damn robins have eaten all his cherries, then deposited the after-effects in little polka dots all over his nice black driveway.

Hang In There!

I caught this little lizard fella hanging on the plant outside our front door. Not sure what he was up to, but he sure was tenacious!