60 is the New 50 - Only MUCH Worse!

·           If a mustache on a woman is a joy of aging I guess the fact that my age and my hips being the same number should make me exuberant!

·           The joy of aging defines an ‘afternoon delight’ as a nap.

·           The joy of aging keeps me from driving after dark, or on the freeway, or with my left blinker being on.

·           It’s a good thing I am a natural blonde or the joy of my aging would make me look like the missing link.

·           With the joy of aging ‘doing it '3 times last night’ now refers to peeing.

·           With the joy of aging you do not have to count sheep to fall asleep… you can count the Presidents that have been elected in your lifetime.

·           The joy of aging is discovering you can’t dye the gray hair ‘there’ because it burns!

·           The joy of aging means understanding the value of titanium.

·           The joy of being happy when you get older requires only a minor adjustment to your medication.

·           You actually start looking like the Troll dolls you used to collect.

·           The joy of aging can keep you busy for hours trying to figure out the meaning of the abbreviations the youngsters use in their Facebook posts.

·           With the joy of aging I can read a best selling novel four of five times a year because I cannot remember how it ends… or that I ever read it.

·           The joy of aging is first believing in Santa Claus and then having his figure...and maybe a few of his chin hairs.

·           The joy of aging makes looking for your car in the Wal-Mart parking lot the old folk's version of Looking for Waldo....Looking For Volvo.

·           With the joy of aging you get to remember when your belly button was not in the middle of your cleavage.

·           The ‘Golden Years’ is a crock. It’s more like the ‘Stiff, Leaky and Smells Funny Years’.

·           To me, my joy of aging is not just saying what the hell I want and getting away with it.  It is not remembering that I said it and getting to say it again.

·           To me, my joy of aging is not just saying what the hell I want and getting away with it. It is not remembering that I said it and getting to say it again.

Clothes Shopping As An Adorable Large Old Lady

I was once told to broaden my horizons. I misunderstood and bought an eight pack of Hershey Bars. My horizons are so broad now that I no longer like to shop for clothing.

While wandering through stores over the past few months (in search of a stylish tent) I really became aware of the clothing and layout of the stores selling fashions. Have you seen the stuff they are selling young women, teenagers, now? OMG! The department signs should be changed from Juniors to Tarts.  The stuff they sell in Misses, for the 20-30 somethings, should be called Wannabes or Tarts Plus. You do not see much in selection for Maternity wear since wearing clothing too small and stretching the Tartwear so tight you know the sex of the unborn child is popular. Then there is Womens clothing. This department is for the woman that cannot be a Tart or even a Wannabe.  Plus Sizes (heavy sigh) is for fat girls that will settle for anything that fits. I think young, skinny, women (or straight men) walk though fashion warehouses and pick out the ugliest stuff there and order it to sell to overweight women. Since there is nothing fashionable out there for us we wear the ugly stuff and get a bad rap for having no fashion sense. Just because we like Hershey Bars is no reason to punish us with ugly clothing! We are doing our part to keep people making candy and candy wrappers working! It’s a better jobs plan than we’ve seen over the past decade! I’ve said before that the signs saying Plus Size is demeaning – might as well say Wide Load. I had a friend (keyword here is ‘had’) that told me the brand name of the jeans of fat girls should be Gravy Boat Jeans. He went on to mention a back up beeper should be installed in a rear pocket. Since he is now an old guy, and probably wears jeans with a ‘scootch’ more room in the crotch, I suggest his jeans should be called Limp Dick Jeans, or possibly All Balls No Action Jeans.  (Sorry, I got side tracked for a minute there.)  But speaking of the ‘scootch’ more room jeans…the older ladies could use a little help with a ‘scootch’ more bra strap length. When we were younger it was a pain to keep adjusting the straps to keep the girls lined up properly. As we get older the good news is that the straps are let out all the way and need no adjusting. The bad news is that if we raise our arms we ooze out the bottom of the bra! I do understand that an extra yard of bra straps could be difficult for the younger set. We need our own age related garment. Bali brands should make bras for the gravity pull on older women and call them Baliho. The possibilities are endless…just as the bra straps should be.

The fashion industry is behind the times We keep hearing on television that this is the fattest generation of Americans, ever.  Large ladies pants have the waist size of a thirteen year old anorexic. Large ladies do not need front pockets in their slacks…the slack settles in the pockets. Why do they put Disney characters, or Tweety Bird, on t-shirts for older women?  We do not need breast darts in our blouses for where our boobs used to be – they need to point down now. There should be a Federal law against size 10 thong panties. We know we are large – there is no reason to add an ‘X’ to our clothing sizes. An ‘O’ would be more of an incentive to lose weight ... as in “Oh, crap I’m bigger” instead of the nasty X which usually indicates multiplying - we do not like doing math while shopping! Give us some flattering styles without the stupid ribbon under the former boob location. Quit pushing sleeveless tops on us, we have upside down muscles! 

Great. I have pissed myself off.  I now vow, in writing, to quit shopping at Wal-Mart. They obviously do not hire gay men fashion buyers that adore large, older ladies.  

Static Cling & Chubby Girls

Well ladies, the weather is getting cooler and that can only mean one thing: static cling!  This seasonal horror is twice as nasty for chubby girls; big girls just seem to produce more static than skinny girls. We must carry the economy size Static Guard in our purses to battle this demon.

Chubby girls do not like to show their curves and static cling enhances the bumps and rolls that we try so hard to hide. There is nothing more embarrassing than getting out of your car and walking into a building with your skirt clinging above your granny panties, especially if you only shave to just above the knees.  The damned skirt will not pull down because the static lifts it again with each move of the arms and legs. This phenomenon only occurs in crowds, which leads me to believe that skinny women throw off some sort of static energy that attaches itself to the largest warm female in a room.

Static turns a nice hair cut into zombie mode. Large girls usually have nice hair because it is easier to manage than losing weight. I like to rub my hair with a lavender scented dryer sheet before styling. I believe there is just something more loveable about a chubby girl with nice hair and the sweet aroma of lavender!

Although it can produce moments of personal pleasure, it is not planned for the thighs of a large woman to throw sparks as she walks across a room.

I recently read an article of helpful hints that said that a safety pin in the hem of clothing will keep static cling away. This is soooo bogus!  You will never find a hefty gal without half a dozen safety pins on her, somewhere, holding elastic together or giving an extra inch where the button and the button hole refuse to meet. These gals still have the static cling problems! I bet a skinny woman wrote that helpless hint. 

To sum it up…the scourge of the season is upon us. Static Guard will sell well because the big girls of the world have budgeted for the extra weekly expense. What a shame it does not come in a nice lavender scent.

The Highways of My Life

When I was a kid it took forever to make a trip from Fort Worth to my maternal Grandmother’s house in Garland.  I guess I was about eight years old when the Dallas / Fort Worth Turnpike, now Highway 30, opened and the trip was much easier. There was not much traffic. On one of our first trips we had a flat and a courtesy truck quickly arrived to help us out. I have not seen a courtesy truck in years.

I was also very young when Highway 35 North opened. It made the trip to Gainesville, to my Granny Lemons house, much quicker. There was no traffic and the scenery was basically trees and pastures between north Fort Worth and Gainesville. On the way back I watched the horizon for the Saginaw feed mills; it was an indicator that I was almost home.

When I was still in elementary school Loop 820 opened. There was not much traffic. The loop around Fort Worth was a great idea until too much was squeezed inside the loop.

When I was in high school the Airport Freeway began to open. It was still under construction as they built the DFW Airport, and yet, there was not much traffic.  Highway 183 changed to Highway 10, in places, and Airport Freeway. I am still confused.

At the end of my senior high school year Highway 635 opened. So many lanes and no traffic!

All of these highways are like my life. There were many new roads with a flat or two along the way, but the new roads made life travel more quickly. Traffic began to build as the years passed. I developed some potholes, could use a little resurfacing, and my shoulders slope a little bit.  Every now and then I suddenly dip when I do not expect it and I need some bridge work.  Detours taken have gotten me lost and I’ve had to turn around and start over several times. I am reluctant to enter the on ramps and often miss the off ramps. Too much is squeezed inside my loop. I still look for the Saginaw feed mills to know that I am almost home. My median is wider and new lanes have been added.  I pass with caution.

Time, like a highway, changes, stalls, backs up, detours, stops, speeds up, and then slows down again. When…Oh, crap! I just noticed that I have had my turn signal on for the past ten years! Damn.

The Scary Blind Date

Have you ever been on a blind date? No, not the kind with a seeing eye dog, but a date that a friend (who usually ends up as a former friend) has set up for you because they think they have found the perfect mate for you? (Pam, if you are reading this it is not about the many that you set me up with. Those were not dates. I consider them practical jokes.)

This is a true story without embellishment – does not need any.  The names were not changed to protect the innocent. I do not remember who set up this date. It is said that when you have a traumatic experience you tend to forget much of it.  All I remember about the name of the date is that his last name was Lynn. He was a former neighbor and I vaguely remember his younger sister who was a few years ahead of me in school. Our planned date was for dinner out and a Casa Manana play.

He arrived about half an hour late and looked frazzled. He said he had lost his car keys and was driving his old farm truck. I told him I knew about farm trucks and did not mind riding in one.  I was wrong.

The year of this date was somewhere around 1975. The truck was about 25 years old at that time, white in places, and had demolition derby characteristics. Not so bad, huh? Oh…but wait! The passenger side door panel had been removed in order for a rope to be looped through part of the door frame. The other end of the rope was tied to the steering wheel. This rigging was to hold the door closed, and I assumed, attached to the rest of the truck. I reluctantly climbed in the driver side door. Dinner was involved. I was hungry.  Farm Truck Lynn instructed me to hold the rope, tightly, as he removed one end of it from the steering wheel, so that he could drive. I asked him what he did when he was driving alone and he said he tied it to his seat belt. At this point I should have just said, “Let’s do this some other time,” but I did not, I was determined to enjoy dinner and a play. I was optimistic, or just stupid.

Do you remember the Bonanza Steak Houses? They were the blue collar cafeteria style steak houses that catered mainly to the lunch crowds, older folks, young families, and were inexpensive. Farm Truck Lynn had a 2-for-1 coupon. 

At Casa Manana we were informed there was a delay due to a stage malfunction. The stage at Casa Manana was rotund and rotated during plays.  I do not remember the play we were there to see (trauma forgetfulness). The delay was long enough that I had to go pee twice, so it must have been about an hour wait.  The play started and about forty-five minutes into it the stage blew a fuse, or a hundred thousand, and the show was cancelled.  Farm Truck Lynn was disappointed but I was not; the theme from the TV show Bonanza had begun galloping through my stomach and I was ready to go home. 

It was about eleven o’clock when we pulled into my apartment parking lot and the rope burn on my right hand was beginning to sting. Farm Truck Lynn turned off the truck engine, placed both hands on the steering wheel, bowed his head and said, “Lord, please forgive me for what I am about to do.”

This was probably the first time, maybe the only time, that I was not a typical dumb blonde.  I dropped the rope, kicked open the door and ran for the hills. I did not look back to see if the truck door stayed attached. I made it inside my apartment and bolted the door. He banged on my door for awhile and said he just needed a drink. I hollered to go home to get it. After a few minutes the elderly man living next door opened his door and said, “Son, I think it’s time you go on home. Now.”  Farm Truck Lynn left.  I never heard from him again but always kept a close watch out for his truck while I lived in that apartment.

I had one more blind date that was a bad one where I was not able to get home as quickly as I wanted. (Pam, this one was the last one of your practical jokes.)  To this day, I will meet a first time date at our destination so that I know I have safe transportation home when I am ready to go home. I do not worry about them following me home because I cannot see to drive at night and I get lost a lot. A twenty minute drive can take two hours to complete. It is also probably why I very seldom have a second date. Damn.

Undesirable Husband Prospects

Sometimes us old, single, women will think about looking for a husband. Tonight, I thought about it after reading a book about a group of older women who finally found the men of their dreams. They knew what they wanted and set out to find their guys.  I began to wonder what kind of man I would want to pursue if I were to start looking around. I could not come up with anything other than someone who would mow the yard.  As it often does, my mind wandered (okay, guttered) and I began thinking of the professions, or hobbies, of men and how this could relate to the time in the bedroom. Here are some professions I find undesirable as husband prospects:

Pro Bowler.  A thumb placement that was not expected, and highly unappreciated, could lead to jail time if you beat the living crap out of him afterwards. 

Pro Golfer.  There are moments prior to sexual coupling that a woman enjoys. Yelling FORE and then swinging for a hole in one are not the moments we are looking for.

Shoe Salesman.  This is sad. After fooling around once, the pillow talk involved the words, “You have nice feet for a woman your age.”  These are not the pillow talk words an older woman wants, or expects, to hear immediately after having sex. There are times when a whopper of a lie is preferable and acceptable!

Race Car Enthusiast.  These guys probably arrive fast, make a pit stop and leave in a hurry. Be wary of skid marks.

Football Coach.  The whistle blowing would probably get on your nerves eventually.

Used Car Salesman.  A swift quick kick in your spare tire to check you for stability might create a blow out, or a leak, that would definitely kill the mood.

Oil Change Franchise owner.  I made myself laugh out loud thinking about this one, but I can’t make myself type what I thought was so funny.

Computer programmer.   These guys expect unrestricted access and when they talk in their sleep you will never understand what they are talking about. Ctrl Alt Delete.

Political Advisor.  Oh, HELL NO! You should never date a political advisor. Immediately shoot him. If he happens to be a Democrat shoot yourself, too, because your mama has already changed her will and you needed the money.

Damn. This list could go on forever. I think I will just get another cat. 

Cleavage: Surprise!

Women who are blessed with ample bosoms are also blessed with cleavage. Having cleavage

is comparable to having a second purse, only without zippers, snaps or Velcro. The last time I

went to a casino I did not want to worry about someone stealing my purse and I was able to place

my wallet, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a tube of lipstick, a small mirror, and my phone in my

cleavage. Although I lost my shirt at the slot machines I did not lose a purse containing any of the

aforementioned items.  Losing a $40 tube of lipstick when a purse is stolen can be very painful. 

Having cleavage also enables a person to have a surprise every evening when removing the torture

device known as ‘the bra’. Today, I found a cricket in mine. It was no longer among the living,

I do not know how it got there or how long it had been there, but I was surprised to find it.  I have

found popcorn, supposedly lost earrings, Cheerios, peanuts, pencils and pens, leaves, a pacifier

(this one is kind of ironic), and among various other items, a couple of acorns. The acorns were

from walking along a sidewalk near someone mowing under an oak tree. Surprise!

My little dog, Sophie, likes to hover at my feet while I undress. She is always on the look out for a

sudden snack. She was not impressed with the cricket.

My most memorable surprise was when reaching for something and accidentally boob-friction-

flicked my Bic lighter while it was nestled. Whoa! THAT was a huge surprise! Fortunately, I no

longer have to worry about chin hair. The most expensive surprise was when I forgot I had stashed

my phone, removed my bra, and when everything sprang forth the phone jumped into the toilet. I no

 longer undress anywhere near water.

The most disappointing surprise of having cleavage is how far everything falls when freed from the

bra. It does pull out a few wrinkles from the neck up, though.  I cannot, however, prove the wrinkle

removing comment without getting fired, or arrested, since the only people I am ever around are at

the office, the gas station, or the Dollar Store. (I really need to widen my social circle. Maybe I

should go to Wal-Mart tomorrow.)

Yep, women with cleavage are blessed with a true treasure chest.

I Wish I Could Still........

As I get older I miss being able to do what I took for granted in my youth.  Not a day goes by without my missing out on some of the simpler things, such as:

·         Being able to bite my toenails. Not that I ever did….I just wish I was able to do so if the urge was there. Today I have to wait for a ‘good’ day just to touch them and that’s when I am sitting down.

·         Hopping on my unicycle and just riding for miles. The little kids just loved to see me ride by. Today they would ask their Mama why that old lady has a bicycle wheel sticking out of her butt.

·         Dancing. When I do that now parts of me don’t stop when the music does.

·         Wearing pretty shoes. Dr. Scholl’s fashion sense sucks.

·         Climbing a ladder. Just the thought of moving a ladder today requires a nap.

·         Jumping rope. Can you picture double chins and boobs slapping each other silly?

·         Going braless and wearing a tank top. To do that today the tank top would have to be knee length. A windy day could be very revealing.

·         Joining the neighbors in an impromptu game of baseball. I could still do that if the other players are my age and the bases have wheelchair ramps. Nine innings could take three weeks to complete because we might have to call the game every now and then for a funeral.

·         Being able to see a yo-yo on its way back up. WHACK!

·         Belly laughing without having to change my drawers.

·         Remembering if the person talking to me in the grocery store is a neighbor, someone I used to work or went to school with, or a cousin. Or even remembering why I am in the store in the first place!

·         Being able to go anywhere willy-nilly, without waiting for a laxative to work.

·         Sitting on the floor…on purpose.

There are so many more ‘wish I could still do’ items to be listed here. I just don’t remember them all. Tell me some of yours…and you should probably add if you are a neighbor, someone I used to work or went to school with, or a cousin.

I Paid for Hypnosis

Approximately twenty years ago, an advertisement appeared in the newspaper for a hypnotist that could assist people with losing weight. He was going to hold a session at the Holiday Inn and for fifty dollars the weight would drop off after the miracle of his hypnotic rendering. 

I have had a weight problem my entire life. In that particular decade, and several subsequent decades come to think of it, I was highly addicted to Blue Bell chocolate ice cream, particularly Rocky Road. Honestly, any variation of chocolate ice cream would do. I could not seem to eat enough of it, but I really needed to be cured of my chocolate addiction.

I signed up for the class and eagerly awaited the big night.  When it arrived I entered the conference room along with two hundred of the biggest women in Fort Worth. The hypnotist began to speak of how great we would soon feel after he changed our lives forever. He told us that some people would not go under his hypnotic spell, but that the majority of the room would. He asked us to look at our watches, remember the time, and then close our eyes. I was a little bit suspicious so I placed my purse on the floor and put my feet in it. It was 7:15 p.m.

He asked us to think of the comfort food that we felt was our downfall.  That was easy…chocolate ice cream.  He asked us to consider the color of it…okay…brown. He asked us to think of something else the same color, in a similar container, or on a favorite plate, and it had to be something gross. Hmmm.  Pint. Similar container. Brown. Gross. OH!  Worm dirt! I chose worm dirt as my gross substitute.

All I remember after that is the hypnotist telling us to look at our watches again.  It was almost 9:00 p.m.!  He told us that the next time we took a bite of our comfort food it would trigger the thought of the substitute and we would no longer have the desire to eat it. Ever.

Lucky me. What are the odds? It turned out that I actually LIKE the taste of worm dirt!  Damn.

For When I Croak

There are two things that bother me that I want to be perfectly clear on before my demise, not that I predict this happening in the near future; I just prefer to plan ahead.

The first item is what I want written on my headstone when I pass, assuming that I am laid to rest and not cremated. There are so many choices to use that could sum up my life. In an effort to assist any bereaved family members I have narrowed it down to the three choices, listed below, that I think will aptly apply:

If I am here with underwear on I WILL NOT cross over.

Yes, I am STILL mooning you.

Damn.

  

As previously mentioned, I am not planning on passing soon, but I do not like surprises and would, most assuredly, haunt those responsible for 'Here lies, Marta, AKA K-Marta and Wal-Marta.'

The second item that bothers me is the use of spell corrector on some cell phones. Under no circumstances do I want my headstone ordered via cell phone!  I would be most unhappy to be buried under the words ‘Rest in Peach’ or a variation of the above mentioned choices that might read as:

If I am herpe with underwater on I WILL NOW croon oven.

Yes, I am STILT mooing you.

Dump.

My sister has it in her Will that I am not to do her makeup if she goes first. Yes, I probably would put purple eye shadow on her if given the chance.

So, this is going public on my blog, in my Will, and may be published in the newspaper every time I get a cramp, heartburn, or a good haircut (which would be a sure sign that something BIG is about to happen).

Not that I do not trust you….

Me and Horses

When I was younger my grandparents had a dairy farm. I had never noticed, and did not know, that the cows would start walking toward the milking barn at a certain time in the afternoon.

When I was about six, my Uncle Robert, affectionately known as Doc, sat me behind him, on his horse, for a ride into the pasture; it was late in the afternoon. Doc was about ten years older than me and I clung to him as if my life depended on it; I had never been on a horse before. He told me to stop bouncing my legs up and down. I tried. He told me again to stop bouncing my legs. Again I tried. He said I was spooking the horse and he set me down and told me to go back to the farm house (which to this six year old appeared to be about two hundred miles away).  The cows were slowly walking toward the milking barn. I took one look at them and immediately decided they were chasing me. I wet my pants the entire eight hundred foot run back to the house. I have not been on a horse since and cows have invaded my life, more than once, and have caused me great moments of anxiety. I’m still fond of Doc, though.

I work for a horse registry. Years ago, when visitors to the office would ask me if I had horses I would say that I have chickens, they don’t eat as much.  Recently, a large group of Australians visited the office and one of them asked me if I rode horses. Since I am older, and amply built, I answered that I only ride the ones found at the grocery store that require a quarter for the ride. He looked me up and down and smiled.

He was right. There is no way I could ride a grocery store horse. Actually, I could, but you would not be able to see the horse. I would probably get arrested for public display of excessive jiggle.

I need to think of a new retort.

John Had Surgery and I Don't Feel So Good Myself

In a casual conversation with my Mom, during lunch today, she mentioned that John was walking again and doing well. I asked, “John, who?”  She had forgotten to tell me that my childhood friend, John, was recovering from heart surgery. I was shocked! I am a few months older than John, but since we only see each other every other decade, he remains much younger in my mind. As soon as I arrived home from work, stripped, ate dinner, fed the dog and cats, watched two Big Bang reruns, and watered a plant, I rushed to the phone and called his Mom. She told me that John has had several surgeries over the years that I did not know about; gall bladder, knee replacement, and prostate cancer are just a few of them. She did not know if he had also had a vasectomy (I asked), and I told her there did not seem to be much else left to have done. After we disconnected our call I began to ponder my own aches and pains and soon needed to take a few ibuprofen just to continue the ponder process.

I have reached an age where getting ice cubes out of an ice tray is harder than learning to speak Mandarin Chinese. I could fix the ice maker in my fridge myself, but the part that needs changing is at the bottom of the fridge. I would have ice again, but would not be able to get to it because I would still be on the floor trying to stand up. I could ask someone to come over and fix it for me, but I do not have house cleaning scheduled until the week before Thanksgiving.

Ziplock sandwich bags are wonderful. Remember how we used to fold over a flap down into the plastic bag and our sandwiches were only half as stale as they would have been if wrapped in wax paper? As great as they are I cannot open one once it is closed. The kind with zippers cost more. It is much easier to carry around a pair of scissors. Remembering why I am carrying around a pair of scissors is also an issue!

There is no such thing as taking a quick bath. Showers are out because older folks cannot close their eyes while standing and remain standing.

When gray hair arrives it changes not only the color of your hair, but also the texture. I have had limp, fine, blonde hair all of my life and was ready for some gray hair with hopes of ‘oomph’. My gray hair is only on the sides of my head along the hairline just above, and in front, of my ears. The gray hair wants to stick straight out and the blonde hair stays limp. I spend a good portion of my day doing a spit and slick maneuver to keep the sides from sticking out like horns. An older person can only spit so much a day without dehydrating.

My left leg aches but it is the right leg that is swelling. I don’t think the left and right leg holes of my underwear are the same size. I wonder if I wore them backwards if the leg issue would change.

Stairs are easy to go up. Coming down a set of stairs really hurts since it is usually head over heels.

For the past few years I have feared coughing, or sneezing, when I need to pee. Last week I came down with a bad chest cold and was dismayed to discover that I had developed an additional leak. I am afraid to drink anything, or eat beans or onions. This fear is the real reason old people have the shakes.

This list could go on and on, but I am still thinking about John and do not have his phone number. I’m pretty sure his Mom will not ask him about a vasectomy. Most people have cell phones now and are not listed in the phone book. Damn.

Me and Damn Yankees

I was born and raised in Texas. I am afraid of scary movies, do not read horror books and believe the only good to be found in celebrating Halloween is candy that I did not have to buy. Being such a scaredy cat was instilled in me when I was very young. I didn’t know what a Yankee was but I was always hearing family and neighbors talk about damning them. Damn was a serious word that little kids learned, very quickly, not to repeat.  I tried using it once, and I have to tell you, one little chaw on Lifebouy soap will burn your tongue and gums for a week and cause you to poot bubbles if you should eat red beans for dinner. In Texas we eat a lot of red beans.

I once heard an older cousin say that the scariest sight in Texas is a Yankee pulling a U-Haul trailer. I was almost thirty years old before I found out that Texas has a law forbidding this practice. Punishment is doled out to Yankee women by teasing their hair and spraying it with so much hair spray they cannot comb it out – they have to wait for it to fall out.  We punish Yankee men by taking away the black socks they wear with their sandals. To make sure they understand how serious we are about having Yankees in Texas, we force a lot of red beans on them and make them eat calf fries. We don’t tell what calf fries are until they are through eating. We also offer them home grown pickles, known more commonly around here as jalapenos. Don’t mess with Texas is more than just a catchy phrase; it’s a serious learning experience.

In my early working years I worked for a manufacturing plant. I started out in accounting and, by accident, ended up in the sales department as a customer service rep. My job was to keep the customer happy by making sure their parts delivered on time and by being a ‘buffer’ between them and the sales people. I always refused to work the East Coast; it was full of the damn Yankees I grew up fearing. I was given a choice one year of taking the East Coast or else. I, very reluctantly, took the East Coast. I was a nervous wreck waiting for that first call. "Wherethehellaremyparts whichhadbetterbeonmydockfirstthingtomorrowmorning,orelse!” I replied, “What? I think we have a bad connection,” and hung up. A person really can sweat bullets. How was I going to do my job if I could not even understand what a Yankee was saying? Damn. My only way out was to be perfectly honest with a Yankee caller. The next time the phone rang I answered and heard the same question, which I interrupted, slowly, with, “Whoa, I am sooo sorry, but I cannot listen this fast. Please slow down.”   There was silence on the other end of the line. It worked. It seems that Yankees have difficulty speaking slowly and listening slow is even harder. Spin some Texan on them and you can put one in a coma. ‘Ah reckon that.ya’ll’s parts were on that UPS truck that tumped over just this side of Macon. Or was it Altanta? Nooo, I am recollecting that it might have been Greensboro, buuuut, if you will kindly give me a few minutes to mosey over to our shipping department, which is waaay at the back of our building, to get the tracking number, I will sashay right back to let ya’ll know if the truck caught fire, too.’ Phone silence. I had unlocked the secret of talking to a Yankee!

Believe it or not, I became fast friends with most of my Yankee contacts. One of them was a no nonsense woman who wore high heels and mink to the office; she was well into her sixties. She invited me to visit New York and to go to the theater. I was not sure if I was ready for New York, yet, or ever. She asked me if I had a fur coat. I told her that I had a brown corduroy car coat with a squirrel collar and she never asked me to visit again. I loved her, though, and eventually did get to meet her when I finally did make it to New York. On my visit I was taken to a genuine NY deli for lunch by our sales rep and one of my favorite customers. They ordered for me. What arrived at the table was about two pounds of the most unappetizing mound of mess that I had ever laid eyes upon. To wash it down was celery soda. Celery soda actually tastes like celery with a fizz kick. I did not understand a reason for celery soda and I did not want to touch the two pound mound of what I was told was chicken liver pate. I honestly told them that I had scraped something off of my shoes before I got on the plane that looked more delectable. I ate a lot of bread and drank my celery soda. When I returned to my office, safely in Texas, my email was overloaded with hundreds of chicken liver pate recipes. Huh, Yankee humor.

I would not trade anything for my experience with real Yankees; it actually perfected my drawl. I never could figure out, though, why they could not pronounce the ‘R’ in the middle of my name, but instead added it at the end; they said Mawtar.

You may not mess with Texas, but the Yankees have a way of coming back and haunting you. It’s a fact…Ted Kennedy was on the news, again, just this morning.

Pickens, South Carolina

I was preparing to make a business trip to Pickens, South Carolina to the Singer plant for my company. I had been working with the purchasing agent there for several years and we had formed a close working relationship. The company I worked for made the trigger controls (the button you pushed) for Craftsman Power Tools. This Singer plant assembled the tools for Craftsman.  This is also the same plant that the Singer Sewing Machine Company opened in the 1920’s to assemble sewing machines in cabinets. Singer even purchased the railway lines after they became the biggest business the railway had in the state.  I was going to visit a place that had history written all over it and I was very excited.

I had my hair permed and bought the perfect dress just for this occasion. I would go by air part of the way, be picked up by a sales rep, and travel by car to Pickens. If you have ever had your hair permed you know how dicey the first week or so can be – especially in humidity. I had never been to South Carolina.

The sales rep picked me up and we stopped for a quick lunch. The car trip would take a little more than an hour for travel to Pickens. Somebody broke into our car, while we ate, by breaking out the entire passenger side window. It was a very humid day. When we arrived at the Singer plant the left side of my hair was still perfectly coiffed, but on the right side I looked like Albert Einstein. I tried to keep the left side of my hair turned toward the purchasing manager during our meeting, but it was very difficult since she was sitting on my right.

Being a history buff, I was ecstatic to be in an old Singer Sewing Machine plant. It was a low, sprawling red brick building. The actual manufacturing side of the building was the most fascinating. The flooring was made of railroad ties that had been placed end on end when the building was built. It was explained to us that the theory was of a cushion feeling to walk upon and that any oil could seep into the wood. The square ends of the ties had been smoothed down over the years, from employee traffic, but you could still make out the squares of the ends. The smell of history oozed from the oil soaked wood.  If I had closed my eyes I am sure I could have envisioned what it had been like during the booming Singer heyday. But I didn’t close my eyes and was very surprised to see robots assembling vacuum cleaners. The arm stretch on these machines was about fifteen feet and they moved from one part to the next as the robotic fingers fitted parts and screwed the vacuums together. The precision of the movements made the left side of me looking awestruck and the Albert Einstein side looking like I had been the one to program the precise robotic measurements.

I will never forget that trip for being able to stand in an American plant that was instrumental in changing the sewing world for millions of women. The robots made it feel exactly like stepping back to the future. I will also never forget that day for looking so chic and highly intelligent at the same time.

My Dad's New Truck

Did you ever do something in your youth that you still feel guilty about? I did.

In the summer of 1969 my Dad would let me drive his new maroon Chevy truck when he needed to drive his boom truck to a job site. I drove his new truck to Midway Park, in Euless, to watch some of the high school boys play baseball. As I attempted to park the truck I caught the squared, steel reinforced, bumper of an old green truck on the right side of where I was pulling in. It left a major seam down the passenger side of Dad’s truck. This was not a scratch, it was MAJOR damage. It did nothing to the bumper of the other truck. I was afraid to go home, but when I finally did it was way after dark and Dad had already gone to bed. I parked the truck in its usual spot which meant that Dad would not see anything but the driver side the next morning when he left for work.

I tossed and turned all night knowing that it was my last night alive. When I woke up and looked out the window I saw that the new truck was the one Dad had driven to work. I was sick with fear. I spent the last day of my life going through my treasures, clothes, shoes, and mementos to pass onto my friends. The agony of the day could not be measured – it was off the chart.. As afternoon moved into time for Dad to come home, I started to throw up.

I began to pray to God for forgiveness, even though it was not His truck. I also asked Him to give Dad the wisdom of a applying a quick death and not a long, drawn out tortuous one that included a lecture.

Dad arrived home. He slammed the front door. I heard him yelling something to Mom and he sure did sound pissed. Shortly after that Mom called me to dinner. What? They were going to feed me a last meal? With my luck it would be liver and onions, hominy, and cauliflower; I would just as soon get the death scene over without a dinner punishment, too.

I walked slowly into the dining room. Dad looked fiercely at me as I sat down and he growled, “Sis, you won’t be driving my truck for awhile.”

I just nodded my head and looked as sad as possible.

He went on to say, “Some asshole bashed in the right side of it on the job today. It has to go in the shop.”

That was the day that convinced me that praying really does work. Looking back on it I figure it was also a test from God to see if I would confess. I never was any good at tests. I waited another twenty five years to tell Dad about it…over the phone…he lived two hours away. The phone line mysteriously disconnected just as I heard, “Well, son of ……..”

Naked, Sweaty, Heavy Breathing...

It has been a long time since I was laying naked on my back, feet in the air, heart beating rapidly, heavy breathing, sweat gathering on my brow, not knowing what to expect next, and hoping not to be left hanging for too much longer.

Yep, I leaned too far back in the recliner and it turned me upside down. Only a death grip on the arms kept me from rolling ass over ears across the room.  It was the longest 10 minutes of my life as I slowly slid backwards out of the chair and across the carpet. 

I need to find a dress with the back scooped low. When you are my age and have rug burns on your back you want to show them off.  When people ask about it, or raise an eyebrow at me, I’m just gonna smile.

Oh...and I've also changed the name of my Lazy Boy to Rafael...just in case anyone asks who rocked my world.

The Bird

Eighteen years ago, the company that I worked for won a prestigious vendor award from one of our largest customers. The sales manager told me that I would be flying to Chicago, with him, to attend the award ceremony and accept the award; we would be gone for two days.  He also told me that I would have to do ‘carry on’ luggage because he did not check his bags and neither would I. Crap! I did not travel much and two days with only carry on luggage was pretty much out of my ‘style’ and comfort zone. I thought about it for 24 hours and advised him that I would do the carry on luggage but I would be wearing four layers of clothing, which included my gown and robe, and my hair would be in curlers when we boarded the plane. He gave me on of those ‘deer in headlights’ looks, but did not say anything.

Being the color coordinated fashion diva that I was, I had a problem; shoes. We were going to make a few sales calls and to make a good first impression I would need heels that perfectly matched my dress. For later in the day, when my feet began to hurt, I would need a lower stacked heel, color coordinated, for when the first impression reached more of a screw-this-my-feet-hurt-and-you-are-not-worth-this-pain level. In the case of sightseeing I would need a pair of perfectly coordinated flats. Two days would require six pair of shoes, two changes of clothing, nightgown and robe, hair curlers and various beauty paraphernalia. Crap.

I went shopping and bought a hanging suit bag, with a narrow flat bottom, and practiced packing for three days. I discovered that if I carefully put one shoe inside another I could place my hair curlers in the last shoe and stagger the shoes across the bottom of the bag. I could then roll my underwear, pantyhose and breakable beauty paraphernalia in my gown and robe and place this on top of the shoes. On top of the robe and gown I could place my remaining beauty supplies, stored in several gallon zip-lock freezer bags, a book, a few snacks, and have just enough room for my change of clothes if I did not place them on hangers. I could press any wrinkles out in my hotel room. The only problem was that this carry on weighed close to 80 pounds, but it was still a hanging bag, and could be placed in the enclosure for hanging bags, just inside the airplane door, as I boarded.

I dragged that bag, carefully because it did not have wheels, through DFW to my boarding gate. I could not find my sales manager and once the plane took off I assumed he had missed the plane. Dammit! I could have checked a suitcase!  Upon arrival in Chicago, a rep office member met me at the arrival gate and informed me that the sales manager had suddenly changed his flight to the night before. Son of a…! He must have really thought I was serious about the four layers of clothes and wearing my hair curlers. I could have checked a suitcase! I was a little pissed, but on the bright side, I had successfully packed everything I needed in a hanging bag and still had half an inch of room to spare!

We went to the awards dinner on our second evening in Chicago, and accepted the award which was a statue of an eagle, wings extended, mounted on a large wooden base. I was very proud of it until I was told I would have to pack it in my carry on for my return trip the next morning. The sales manager was going to stay another day and make a few additional sales calls. Well, hell! I could have checked TWO suitcases!  I spent that night packing, and repacking, that hanging bag from hell, until I could get that ugly trophy situated in a manner that it would not break a wing. I ended up with one pair of shoes in my purse and I wore my gown under my dress.

When the eagle, and I, landed at DFW, I drove directly to the office to drop it off. When I pulled it out of my bag it was wearing a pair of my underwear over its head with the wings sticking out of the leg holes. I almost left the underwear on it when I placed it on a cabinet where it would immediately be seen as our co-workers arrived to work. Instead, I rubbed that pair of two day old underwear all over that damned eagle so that it would be nice and shiny when the sales manager showed it off. 

I guess you can say, in my own personal way, I gave the bird to the sales manager.

The Great Roundup

Do you remember the joy of summer, running barefoot every day, and not even thinking about the first day of school? Do you remember how your new shoes hurt on the first day of school after spending the summer shoeless? I am facing the same ‘hurt’ after being unemployed for sixty-plus days, except my time off was spent braless. As a youngster it is a fleeting issue of discomfort, your feet conform quickly to change. When age and gravity become involved, there is no going back. Yes, I am talking about boobs.

Preparing to return to work, I decided I would spend my Monday holiday dressed as I would for the office; I begin my new job on Wednesday. Dragging me behind a horse, over cactus, fire ant beds, and miles of sharp boulders and rocks, could not have been more uncomfortable than putting on my bra!  I have heard people say that their muscles scream in pain after a good workout. Well, my boobs not only screamed; they fought back! 

The great boob roundup started innocently enough. I chose the ‘perfect’ bra and began the process of putting it on. Lifting, separating, and corralling, what has been free range for a couple of months, became a wrestling match, comparable only to catching greased pigs on crack. Plan B led to a ‘less than perfect’ bra and the process began all over. After letting the shoulder straps out, as far as they would adjust, I was able to lasso the right boob, and then, after standing on my head, the left one, and turned to look in the bathroom mirror. I am pretty sure, that when your arms are hanging straight to your side, your boobs are not supposed to hang lower than your elbows! I began to adjust the shoulder straps to lift my boobs to at least be even with the bend of my arms. All of the adjusting just hiked the back of the bra to the base of my neck, which would rule out wearing collarless blouses. The front did not budge. I was hot, sweaty, tired, and afraid to take off the garment from hell. I envisioned getting up at 3 a.m., for the morning roundup, in order to be in the office by 8. I slept in the bra.

I still have one more day to prepare for returning to work. Today, I am attempting pantyhose.

If I am not already on your prayer list, please add me. I could use all the help I can get.

The Wiglet

In the late 1960’s it was popular to wear hair pieces, 'wiglets', to give your hair oomph and style. These were quarter to half size wigs that you pre-styled and pinned onto the top of your head.  I wore a wiglet.

My first job was at the Luby’s Cafeteria in a shopping strip in Hurst, Texas. I started out as the tea cart pusher, moved on to a food server, and then as the pie cutter and bread baker.  The pie cutter and bread baker was a one girl job that included keeping the cakes, pies, and bread supplied to the serving line. The bread items were freshly baked and served hot.  Friday nights, or after church on Sunday, were so busy that it was a struggle to keep up. All of these jobs were hot and being able to pin my hair up, and slap a wiglet into place, was a blessing.

I did not mix the dough for the rolls or the batter for the cornbread, but I did have to set the rolls out to rise before baking. The Mexican cornbread was very popular and the batter was stored in a 30 gallon container. The container sat on a low table beside the oven, for quick dipping, to fill the proper baking pans. The rolls were set upon huge sheet pans and placed on top of the tall oven to rise. In order to see if the rolls were ready to bake I had to jump up and down to see the top of the oven. I was making $1.15 an hour and earned every penny of it.   

One hot, August, Sunday afternoon, after jumping up and down about two hundred times, my wiglet came loose and fell into the cornbread batter container. It sank faster than the Titanic. I was mortified! There was no way I could, or would, bake the cornbread batter containing my drowned wiglet!

The cafeteria kitchen had terra cotta floor tile and the floors sloped toward large drains so that the kitchen could be easily hosed down for cleaning. My corner of the kitchen had such a drain. I lifted the drain cover and proceeded to pour about twenty-five gallons of Mexican corn bread batter, and a wiglet, down the drain.  I really was surprised when the batter rose and stopped up the sewer lines of the strip mall and a portion of the city of Hurst. I did not even have to confess to what I had done; we were the only place in town that baked Mexican cornbread by a wiglet-less blonde.

The cafeteria manager told me he would deduct a little each week from my pay to cover the cost of the plumber. I only cleared about $37 a week and his deduction plan struck me as the funniest thing I had ever heard. I think that was the first time I ever laughed so hard that I farted and blew a snot bubble out of my nose at the same time.

I escaped from having to pay for the plumber. Another cafeteria chain bought out the Luby’s chain, shortly after the cornbread fiasco, and they brought in their own management team. The outgoing Luby’s manager did not squeal on me.

I never did find a replacement wiglet as good as the one that drowned. I still miss it, and think fondly of it, whenever I butter a slice of Mexican cornbread.

Chasing Cows

Several years ago, the neighbors were putting in a new pipe fence and some cows escaped; deciding they liked my front lawn. I had a garden, close to the house, and my tomato plants were just beginning to produce. If you have ever grown tomatoes you know how protective you get about them!  These were large cows, huge cows, big, black cows and, I admit, I was a little apprehensive about approaching them.

A riding lawn mower does move a wayward bunch of cows however, after five laps around my house I saw one of my neighbors, laughing his ass off, as he watched me herd cows in a circle. Since I did not want him to win any money on Americas Funniest Videos, with me as the butt of the joke, I parked the mower near the plants and guarded them. To prove to the cows, that I was serious, I would occasionally rev the engine. When the school bus dropped off some teenage boys, they shooed the cows back into the proper pasture. I thought the situation was resolved.

A few hours later I heard a horn repeatedly honking. I walked outside to see a truck full of Hispanics driving, in front of some cows, down the street. They had a feed sack hanging over the tailgate and were shaking it to entice the cows to follow them. It seemed to me that they should be honking behind the cows, but all I know about cows is from what I have read in old west romance novels. Only a couple of cows were interested in the feed sack; there were five more that were in my pasture heading toward my tomato garden. Before I could fire up the lawn mower, four guys on horses suddenly rode up, yahooing, and waving their hats. They wore bandanas tied around their necks, boots, belts with large buckles, and had me believing they were the real deal… until I saw their dog. This dog was barking and nipping at the cows’ legs and moving them quickly along, and through, the downed part of the fence. Soon all of the cows were back where they belonged, the fencing replaced, and my plants were safe. The cowboys looked impressive, but it was the dog that caught my attention.

It’s not often that you see yahooing cowboys, on horses, waving their hats, chasing cows, and being led by a little white, shaved poodle.

Now that I think back upon it… the cowboys may have been yoohooing.

My Childhood Treasure

Do you remember the treasured item of your youth, the one that you did not want to let out of your sight? For many kids it might have been a doll, a blanket, teddy bear, or a baseball card. My treasure was more important to me than anything else in my possession. I was a tomboy, so if you guessed a doll as my treasure, you are very, very, wrong.

Remember how we were often devastated if our treasure was lost, or in the case of having brothers or sisters, swiped?  I was the oldest of five and learned early about sibling sticky fingers; I kept my treasure around my neck. By wearing it, I would always know exactly where it was and have it ready for me, or my best friend, Janet, to use.

Janet, and I, lived in a neighborhood that had wonderful sidewalks and we made daily use of them. We rode our bikes, drew hopscotch squares, and played hours of jacks, but, our favorite use of the sidewalk was for roller skating. We were, without a doubt, little roller derby queens!

In those days, the roller skates were metal, even the wheels. An adjustment bar, in the center of a skate, adjusted for foot length; one set of skates could be used by the whole family. The skates were made to wear with hard sole shoes, such as saddle oxfords, loafers, or boots. The front of the skates had an adjustable bar, curved on the end of each side, which would slide into the groove between the sole and the top of the shoe. To adjust this bar, for a good tight fit, you needed a skate key. The back of the skate had a ridge that rested against the heel of your shoe. A leather strap threaded through the back of the skate and buckled around the ankle to hold the skate in place. These skates were a much loved, very important, part of our young lives, but they were useless without a skate key. My treasure was a skate key. I was a very important kid to know; I kept up with the needed key. Janet, and I, put so many miles on our skates it is a wonder that the sidewalks did not have wheel grooves.

The photo I am using, as my blog photo, is of me in the roller skates I have described. If you will look closely, you will find my treasure hanging around my neck. I no longer have the skate key, but I do have the photo, which I now consider the treasure. I wish Janet were in the photo, too. If she were, it would be a priceless treasure.

A few years ago, my sister gave me a pair of these skates; she found them at an antique store. She later took back the skate key. I should have hung it around my neck.

My Aromatic Feet

I have aromatic feet. It is a curse.

I have learned over the years how to control the odor, to some extent; I always wear open toed shoes. The winter months are agonizing; my toes usually do not thaw until around the fourth of July.

Now that you know this much about me, please, allow me to throw in that I used to drive an old Ford pick up truck. The heater on that truck was a really good one and would get very hot about seven miles into the drive to work in the mornings.  One winter, at just about mile seven, with the heater revved up, I would begin to smell my feet. You have no idea how much I fretted that the people who visited my office cubicle would ask, “What stinks?"  I personally could not smell them in the office, but that was possibly because I had received such a strong whiff during my drive in. Heading toward home in the afternoons, at about seven miles into the trip, I would, once again, feel the heater blowing full blast on my feet and would soon need to roll a window down.

I tried creams, powders, deodorants, perfumes, vitamin E capsules and shots of Jim Beam.  I wasted my time and money because at mile seven, every day, to work and home again, I would know that I had failed.  I lost sleep, hair, finances, humor and some motor skills; the odor would not go away.

One afternoon, while just tooling down the road, I dropped an earring and when I arrived home I had to rummage around the floor board searching for it.  

I admit to finding many things under a car seat; melted lipsticks, pacifiers, over due library books, straws, mail, cans of green beans or corn, stray socks, even money, but never, ever, in my wildest dreams did I expect to find what I found that day.  Under the driver seat, under where I sat, where all of that wonderful Ford heat pointed to keep my feet warm, was a single serving beef, bean and cheese burrito that had escaped from a grocery sack. That rotten burrito would get cold when the truck was not running and as soon as the heater kicked in it would heat up enough to get real nasty.

I could not tell the difference between my own smelly feet and a stupid, rotten, beef, bean and cheese burrito!

That’s just not right.

Eyebrow Disaster

I had a bad head cold, was heavily medicated, sleep deprived, and decided to dye my eyebrows.

I am a natural blonde with invisible eyebrows. I do not care for the drawn-on look, so I boost their color with Just For Men / Mustache and Sideburn Dye. I always buy the medium blonde dye which gives the brows just the right natural shade of  light brown. I use an old mascara wand to apply the dye, and although I am a blonde, to fairly bushy eyebrows. When applying the dye, I usually catch some fuzz, above the brows, that is not visible when I am not wearing my glasses. I then, delicately, ‘shape’ the brows after the dying is complete.

I had a bad head cold, was heavily medicated, sleep deprived and applied eyebrow dye at midnight.

Never trust that the contents of a box of dye are what the outside of the box declares. I applied the dye and read a novel, which had me captivated, while waiting for the dye to set. I lost track of time. When I washed the dye off and looked in the mirror…well…let’s just say that crazed wailing began and snot was soon slinging!

The box did not contain the light brown shade I wanted. I now sported a dark brown, almost black, caterpillar, a forehead mustache, a unibrow! Some moron must have thought it would be cute to switch the dye in the boxes. I used hydrogen peroxide, Clorox, 409 and Mean Green to lighten the color. All that did for me was to give me a shiny red forehead. I had to start the shaping process.

In my drugged, sleep deprived, state, I had managed to catch every wild hair and forehead fuzz along with, what I considered, the actual eyebrows. I started plucking at the bottom side of the unibrow and worked my way up. I plucked to the forehead fuzz and through, what I thought, was the center of the unibrow. When I finished I had a shiny red forehead and an off centered look of surprise on my face. The ‘new’ eyebrows sat much higher than the old set and the right brow sat too far to the right. I wailed all night.

The next day at work I kept my head down, as much as possible, and did not fraternize with my co-workers. I attended a meeting and sat in the back of the room, hoping I was invisible. But noooooo, I was called to the podium, to be presented with an award, and had to give an acceptance speech; I don’t even remember what I said. All I can be sure of is that whatever I said, it was with a total look of surprise on my face!

As I left the podium I kept my head down. I noticed, as I walked back to my seat, that my left big toe was sticking, prominently, through the toe of my pantyhose. On the toenail was a large, dark brown splat, of eyebrow dye. I could not have looked more surprised than I already did.  

It’s not easy being me.

Gasp!

A couple of years ago; I had the television turned to the morning news while trying to calculate out how many strawberry Pop Tarts I would have to eat to get my daily recommended amount of fruit. A news story came on about the exorbitant cost of going to a high school prom and how much money parents were shelling out. This brought back the memory of my own prom, where I paid for everything needed, without my parents shelling out a dime. I also paid for the ticket of my date (for which he still owes me – I figure that with interest it’s up to about five grand now).  As one memory rolled into another, I realized that I would soon be out of school for forty years!  My mouth fell open, causing all three chins to quiver, I dropped three jumbo boxes of Pop Tarts, and spilled my coffee. Forty years!  I needed to get into a shape that was not round. I had a year to prepare; I did not want to look like a Weeble at my class reunion! I needed to, gasp, start exercising. 

I grew up with Jack LaLanne, the exercise guru of the fifties and sixties. I think he came on TV right after Romper Room and before Felix the Cat. I remember him doing a lot of jumping jacks so that’s where I would start. I thought it would be easy. I was optimistic, even though, I had not done any jumping jacks since 1967.

I did not own any tennis shoes, but I thought I should put on white socks to look serious. I found one anklet and one crew sock; at least they were both white. Some serious calorie burning took place while trying to put them on. I located my fat sweat pants, and a T shirt, and donned them. It is hard to be optimistic when your fat pants are too tight, but I was ready to jump. I chose a room where the picture frames would not tilt and jumped…well…parts of me jumped. Some of me went up quick and some of me followed at a much slower pace. Parts passed each other. With my feet back on the ground some of me was still in the air. When everything slammed back to the ground I jiggled for a full five minutes. My glasses fogged. Woohoo! I was exercising!!  Exhausted, hot and a little light headed I collapsed in my recliner and took a swill of my Coke.

That one jump made me so sore that a whole week went by before I could do another one.