GPS- If I Could Give Directions Part 2

The following is the second installment of a GPS system that I have designed. I really, really want to be the new voice of GPS systems. If you know of how/where to apply for this job please email me. This one is for the married male driver.

Thank you for using GBSPS for your driving experience.

This navigation system has been pre-programmed by your wife; not that you will listen.

Please enter the address of your destination. Please, just do it for me.

Thank you.

Please enter the freeway in exactly one mile. You will proceed north for exactly 15 miles before exiting.

You are following that car too close.

Slow down.

You are making me nervous.

Just go around him if you think he is too slow.

You know I don’t like it when you drive so fast.

This is not funny.

Watch where you are going!

You are making me nervous.

I should have listened to my mother.

Slow down!

The radio is too loud.

Use your blinker when you pass – that’s what it’s for.

I can see the mole on that man’s neck – you are following too close!

If you love me you will slow down.

You are driving too fast!!!

I’m going to drive us home.

Mother never liked you, you know.

Look out – that car in front of us is using their brakes!

Will you please pay attention to the road?

You never listen to me anymore.

Please take the next exit and turn right at the next intersection.

Slow down!

Now you’ve done it! You missed our exit!   

Please take the next exit and make a u-turn under the bridge and re-enter the freeway.

We are going to be late.

Please take the next exit and turn left under the bridge and then right at the next intersection.

Do NOT drive faster!

We’re late. We are always late!

I hate being the last to arrive.

It’s so embarrassing.

If you plan to arrive for the early church service, you need to start praying now because you just missed your exit, again.

You never listen.

You are now entering the silent treatment of your driving experience. Any further directions will be given telepathically; as if you would listen.

Over 50 and Dating Again

It is not easy being a single woman over fifty.   

Do you have any idea how hard it is to suck it in, push it up, lift and separate, smooth, tuck, hide, and hope that nothing slips out, falls out, droops, leaks or blows, just to survive a couple of hours with the opposite sex?

During the first year of dating, the excitement of being out there, again, was not so bad. When my eyelids began to droop I reduced the light bulbs, in my house, to a soft 60 watt. When the under eye wrinkles began to appear the light bulbs were reduced to 40 watts. I was having fun but, damn it, when the boobs suddenly became knee pads I began to panic! I tried using a push up bra, but, it only pushed up for a short period of time and then suddenly, without warning, I would have a boob avalanche. Can you imagine starting a dinner date with your chest above the table and ending dinner relieved that a waiter had not stepped on a nipple? The push up bra was tossed away.

Support hose can flatten stomachs, reduce hip sizes, and smooth the hail damage on a butt. This hosiery was wonderful, for fifteen minutes, and then just tight enough, from the pressure around the waistline, to make me gassy. I was afraid to cough, or laugh robustly; there was a huge possibility of major leakage that would either create a wet spot or make my ankles look like they were suddenly swelling. The support hose, like high wattage light bulbs, became another discard of my dating life.

I reached a point where I told my dates that I preferred to stay home and cook, or watch a movie. Truthfully, my makeup bag had reached a size that it required wheels; I did not want to leave it behind when leaving the house. Because we were staying in, once again, I was forced to reduce the bulb wattage in my home. Did you know that 25 watt bulbs greatly reduce the electric bill?

Wrinkle cream, especially for the eyes, costs more for two ounces than a whole barrel of crude oil. Considering what I was spending to keep my eyelids above my lower lashes, the rising cost of gasoline didn't seem so bad. As the gas prices rose I reduced the volume of wrinkle cream - for financial reasons. When gasoline hit three bucks a gallon it was goodbye wrinkle cream. I was now using 5 watt bulbs in the house.

On a recent morning, I got out of bed and found my butt cheeks behind my knees, and shortly thereafter, a hair on my chin.

There are no more light bulbs in my house.

I look pretty good in the dark. 

Locked Out of the House

I locked myself out of my house at 5:15 one morning, wearing only my gown, no drawers, and house shoes. I had gone out to toss a bag of trash into the truck bed; it was trash day. I locked the door and pulled it shut behind me, automatically, as I did every morning when I left the house. It took me a few minutes, duh, to figure out why the front door would not open. Fortunately, I had left my kitchen window open the night before; I could climb in.

The kitchen window is ten feet above ground; I had to wait until almost daylight, to find my ladder, in order to climb in. I had a microwave oven sitting on a buffet table, in front of the window, that I had to remove, through the window, to make room to fall into the house. Do you have any idea how hard it is to unplug a microwave oven from inside a house, while standing on a ladder, outside of the house, with the actual microwave oven in your arms?

I did not get into the house until almost 7 o'clock and was very, very, cold.  I was shaking so badly that I put mascara in my hairline when trying to hit my eyes. You should have seen my lip liner; it connected to one eyebrow, which was drawn a tad too close to an earlobe. 

I arrived at work, over an hour late, and my feet were still frozen. Fifteen minutes after arriving, I took my coffee cup to the lunch room and filled it.  Why does a spilled cup, of anything, seems to be more like a gallon, or two, when it spills on a counter, your feet, and the floor?  I should have just stayed home. I was afraid to go to lunch, so, I didn’t. The rest of the day was not perfect; just the usual dumb stuff I get myself into. I could have done without sticking a boob in the ink pad, though.

I learned several things from this 'locked out' experience. Did you know that the trash people pick up a dumpster, to empty it, even though it is already empty?  I watched them when they came by; right before I figured out that my eight foot ladder was not quite tall enough to wrestle with mini blinds, which are tools of Satan. I also learned that I need a fake rock for a house key and somewhere to stash a flashlight so that I can tell a fake rock from a real one. My orange extension cord could reach the microwave, which is still sitting in the backyard, and, finally, I really do need to, or, at least try to, start wearing underwear.

The neighbors thought there was a full moon hanging over Songbird Lane.
.

The Snake

A couple of years ago, on a humid, windy, Easter Sunday, the Texas temperature reached close to one hundred degrees. I spent the day at my sisters' house, for an egg hunt, with our grandkids. The kids hunted eggs, and played, until they had rosy cheeks and were too tired to function. I was glad when it was time to climb into my truck and head for home; I wanted a long, refreshing, bath.

I was wearing shorts and, immediately, the back of my legs stuck to the truck seat as I pulled out of my sisters' driveway. When the back of your legs are stuck to a fake leather truck seat it really hurts to use the brakes, so, I didn’t until I stopped, fifty miles later, in my driveway.  I noticed, as I peeled myself out of the truck, that my new neighbors were having a big barbecue in their backyard. My house sits farther back from the road and their backyard is adjacent to my front yard. A lot of folks were roaming around and they were all looking in my direction. They must have heard me scream when I had to put on the brakes. It seemed appropriate to gave them a little wave, so I did.

With a hot bath, and a nap, on my mind, I stripped as I walked through the house; I was naked by time I reached the bathroom. As I leaned, toward the tub faucets, I discovered a giant snake, coiled, and looking back at me! I ran into the bedroom, stepping high enough that my knees were knocking my double chins, and grabbed my comfortable, ugly, cotton gown. I shook it out, to make sure no snakes were in it, and put it on. I high stepped to the kitchen and grabbed a 55 gallon trash bag and a pair of kitchen tongs; I had a mission and it involved a hot bath, preferably alone.

Now, snakes are odd creatures. They do not like plastic bags and really do not like kitchen tongs. This snake was, in reality, only three feet long and about as big around as my index finger, but, to me, it was a boa constrictor! I wrestled with it for ten of the longest minutes of my life. It would coil around the tongs and I kept missing the trash bag when I let go of the tongs. I actually tried yelling at it to get into the bag, but, it must have been a male snake because it was not listening. When I finally got it into the bag, I shook it to the bottom of the bag. Once again, I high stepped, still shaking the bag, to the front door and threw it as far as I could. Unfortunately, that turned out to be about a foot from the front door since the wind was against me.

Forgetting that the neighbors were having a party, I high stepped across the front yard, biting my tongue a couple of times, and grabbed a pitchfork from a flower bed. I proceeded to attack the trash bag while the wind whipped my gown up around my waist. The bag stuck to the pitchfork tines. The Pope, and Brad Pitt, could not have talked me into reaching down and removing it! I grabbed the pitchfork, by the handle, and twirled, and twirled, and twirled, and then let it fly, bag attached, while letting loose with a mighty roar! It landed near the neighbor’s back yard. The party guests, once again, were all looking in my direction.

It was Easter Sunday, I was dizzy from twirling, almost naked, and had just mooned my new neighbors and their closest, and dearest, friends and family.

It seemed appropriate to gave them a little wave, so I did.

GPS - If I Could Give the Directions

I really, really, really want to be the updated voice on automobile GPS systems. I think I can do a better job of helping a driver than the robotics being used today. Please see one of my examples below:

For The Blonde, Woman Driver: GduhPS

Please enter the address of your destination and if you need a new pair of shoes.

Thank you. Your destination has been programmed. That means I know where you want to go because you just told me.

Please turn left at the cute house on the next corner after double checking your lipstick, your hair and your nails.  

Thank you. You are kind. You are smart. You are important.

OOPS!

Please turn around and go back to the corner where the cute house will now be on the other side of the street.

Thank you.

OOPS!

Please turn around and go back to the corner where the cute house will now magically appear on the other side of the street and then turn left.

Thank you.

STOP! You passed a garage sale. Please put the car in ‘R’ and back up past approximately 21 houses.

Thank you.

LOOK! Isn’t his butt cute?  

Thank you. Check your lipstick.

Please proceed slowly forward and look for an ATM sign; there 22 more garage sales within the next 3 blocks.

OOPS!

Oh, honey, we are going the wrong way on this street! In 10 minutes, at the current speed of 55 miles per hour, you should see a JC Penney store; they are having a purse sale. Pull safely into there.

Thank you.    

Please turn on your left turn signal…no sweetie, not that one...your other left.

Thank you. You are kind. You are important. You are too pretty to be smart.

You are 10 feet from your destination.

OOPS!

Proceed forward and make a left turn at each street until you are back on this street.

You are 10 feet from your destination

OOPS!

Proceed forward and make a left turn at each street until you are back on this street.

You are 10 feet from your destination

OOPS!

Proceed forward and make a left turn at each street until you are back on this street.

You are 10 feet from your destination.

STOP! STOP! STOP!  Check your lipstick

You have now reached your destination of the neighbor’s house. If you do not want to use this system for the return trip home, please look across the street, from where you are now, and you will see your house. Please remember to look both ways before crossing the street. No, not happy and then sad! Look to the left and then to the right.  No! Not in your mirror!  Look for cars, traveling from the left and then the right, on the street. No, it does not matter which left you should look first. Yes, trucks count. Yes, so do motorcycles, bicycles and skateboards.

Thank you. Do not forget the cup of sugar you want to borrow from the neighbor. Good bye.

Other versions, GMOMPS for teenage drivers, GBSPS for male drivers and GPMS for Soccor Ball Mom drivers are available upon request. I really want to do this! You can contact me by visiting my home, via phone or by email, (I do not drive).

Claude and Curtis ~ A True Love Story

In 1979 I married Claude; I was not his first wife. Shortly after we married I found out why he had been married before; Curtis.  Claude loved Curtis as if he was a child of his own loins and Curtis, in his own strange way, loved Claude, too. They had an unusual connection that was as strong, yet as delicate, as life itself. Curtis was a television; a Curtis Mathis in a Spanish style console, one of the first made that had a remote control. Yes, we always referred to him as ‘Curtis’ and, yes, I hated him and his stupid remote control.

When I married and moved into Claude’s home, there were flat, brown wires strung throughout the interior that eventually connected to Curtis.  I was told that I was not to touch the wires since they were the life support to Curtis. Of course, being a woman, a wife, it was my job to change my man and that included the love between him and Curtis. I was not jealous, just deeply concerned that my husband would consider a television set as a prominent part of the family! Curtis did not like me, either. No matter how many times I punched the Off button on the remote, or on the set, Curtis would not turn off. Claude would just laugh and tell me that Curtis would turn off when he was ready. Sure enough, as soon as we would go to bed and Claude would start snoring. Curtis would turn off.  I am not ashamed to admit that this scared me a little bit.

A few years after we married we planned a move to the country. Claude was very concerned about Curtis and the reception he would receive.  I was concerned about having brown wires strung all over my new home.  We made the move, only one short wire was attached to Curtis and it was not a hideous one.  Claude was extremely happy and Curtis was vibrant with color and clarity, yet, he would still not turn off until Claude began to snore.  I often wondered how the next wife would react to Curtis.

In 1989 Curtis was still a part of my family (much to my chagrin). It seemed he was there to stay, or so I thought. Toward the end of that year Claude became ill and Curtis began to lose his color and clarity. I would mention to Claude that we needed a new set and he would look at me like I was crazy; he thought I was losing my eyesight because he looked at Curtis and saw perfection. As the weeks went on Claude’s health continued to decline and Curtis became a grainy black and white picture.  I had the local television repair man out to the house and he could not believe we had such an ancient set; the world had moved into some pretty high tech stuff and Curtis was mostly tubes. He checked the set out thoroughly - one tube at a time – but could not explain the problem other than the set was just too old.  As the months moved on Claude continued to decline and so did Curtis; they weakened together. On a Saturday morning Claude went into the hospital and passed away the following Monday...so did Curtis; I lost them both on the same day.

Claude, per his wishes, was cremated and shortly thereafter I decided to cremate Curtis, too. I moved him way out into the pasture along with some dead tree limbs and other discarded, burnable items that tend to gather in the country. The children and I planned a bonfire and invited a couple of the neighborhood kids over to watch and roast a few marshmallows.

As God is my witness, I did not know that you are not supposed to burn television sets or that tubes should not have excessive heat applied to them.  When Curtis blew, one adult and four kids simultaneously wet their pants and dropped their marshmallows! Tiny chards of Curtis’ picture tube were lofted into the air; propelled by the heat of the fire, sparkling and showering us with the most brilliant light show anyone could possibly imagine. Time seemed to stand still as the lights danced upward into heaven.  Curtis had been set free and gave us the best picture show of his life  Small shards of him remain scattered throughout the pasture and, sometimes, when I mow, if the light is just right, he winks at me.

My life with Claude had its ups and downs and my life with Curtis existed mostly out of frustration; but I did learn two very important things from our lives together. One is that it is possible for a man and an object, such as a television set, to form a very strong bond. The other is that no matter what anyone may tell you; if you love something enough, when you die it IS possible to take it with you. 

Hot Flash Horror

After watching a commercial on TV, about a Hot Flash clinical study, I recalled when my own hot flashes created so much trouble for me.

To relieve some of the hot flash discomfort I began wearing a minimum of clothing. In fact, I mostly wore a short cotton gown…just a short cotton gown. The first time the hot flashes were arriving, one right after the other, was when I was updating my kitchen floor. I was putting down a new color of tile; a nice peel and stick Armstrong.

I was flashing, constantly, on the day I was putting down the tile. It was not long before I was in ‘just’ the cotton gown while sitting flat and placing the super sticky squares. Every now and then I would peel the paper from a tile and one corner would break off. I carelessly sat one of these aside and used another tile. I had one tile to place before I would be finished and, unfortunately, the last discarded broken tile was on the wrong side of me, sticky side up. I scooted over and plopped my chubby, bare, bottom right smack in the middle of that high quality, nothing-will-make-this-sucker-come-unstuck, Armstrong tile.

You can imagine just how much was exposed when I, sans underwear, suddenly plopped flat on top of a sticky floor tile. When I tried to stand up, everything that had been spread in the sit down position wanted to naturally move into the stand up position. This is totally impossible when one square foot of a sticky floor tile is preventing the transition! Down I went, again, capturing even more than I had the first time. I stood up, sort of, which created the pull of things that would normally only be pulled while wearing a two sided, duct tape thong. I could not stand up straight; my elbows rested against my knees.

A friend of mine once told me that WD-40 would remove the ‘sticky’ from anything; my can of WD-40 was in the trunk of my car. It took an eternity to crab walk down three front steps and twenty five feet to my car. I did not think to take my car keys with me and, of course, the car was locked. Crap! I had to crab walk back to the house, grab the keys, crab crawl back to the car for the WD-40 and slowly, and painfully, return to the house of torture.

When I reached the bathroom, elbows still resting on knees, I began to spray the WD-40. I tried looking to see where I was spraying but the spray residue began coating my glasses; I was blind. Blood began rushing to my head, from bending over, and I began to feel faint. WD-40 was all over the floor and getting very, very, slick. Somehow, I missed hitting my butt with the spray! I decided to run the bathtub full of hot water to see if I could soak off the tile. The minute my WD-40 coated feet hit the bottom of the tub they went out from under me and I nearly drowned trying to get in an upright position. All of the thrashing around in the tub caused some of my skin to peel away, from me - not the tile, and after awhile I was able to remove, little piece by little piece, the Armstrong tile from hell. Vaseline became my new best friend.

I now keep WD-40 under the kitchen sink and park five feet from the front door - all because of hot flashes. This is the hot flash story Armstrong, and I, are sticking with.

Looking for a husband....

I have gotten older and have decided to look for a husband.  I’ve been making a list of potential places to locate a man and have added some tips to help with the search.  I am sharing this list to help out other women, who are also older, and are also looking:

In a grocery store: If he smiles, says hello and seems very interested in you - then look for him again two aisles over. You will probably find him with his wife, or worse, his mother.

At Wal-Mart: If he smiled and greeted you at the door he either works there or expects to see you again, online, for wearing your bra on top of your shirt.

At a bar or club: Time him when he goes into the men’s room. If he’s in there 15 minutes he probably has prostate issues. If he’s in there longer than 15 minutes you don’t want to know why.

In a bowling alley: Get real! Nobody wants to see your wrinkled and dented old butt bending over in front of them. Never go to a bowling alley!

In a nice car: Men that do not drive trucks are sissies. Keep looking.

In a truck: Look in it. If it is cleaner than your house a sissy is trying to fool you.  

Look in a man’s garage: If you have more tools than he does he’s gay. If he does not have a mower and a 5 gallon gas can he is also lazy.

In a bank lobby: If he has a nicer pair of pantyhose on his head than you have on your legs he is after your money.

Bungee jumping: Get real! Think of the elastic in your comfortable underwear. Do not go anywhere that requires relying on something that has repeatedly been stretched.

At a NASCAR race: Good grief! How desperate are you?

At a picnic: Look very closely around you. Make SURE you are not at a family reunion.

In church: Pray for all of us. I think we are going to need it.

Assisting Ed

When I was in my mid twenties I worked in the accounting department of an electronic firm located about halfway between Fort Worth and Dallas. We also had an assembly plant in Mexico and I had a new boss, a nervous little man, Ed.

Ed had only been on the job for a few weeks when an urgent accounting issue required that he fly to the Mexico plant to review material receipts and product movement. Ed did not know the products, the material handling procedures or Ramon, whom he needed to meet with.  I was asked to assist him on the trip. I had no idea how much assistance Ed was going to need. He had never been to Mexico.

On the morning of our early flight we met in a Kmart parking lot and he drove us, in his little sports car, to Love Field. On the flight he told me over, and over again, to drink only bottled water or American soda and to absolutely leave the fruit alone.  He was terrified of eating or drinking something and getting sick.

Upon our arrival we were escorted into a meeting room where everyone was just beginning to celebrate Ramon’s birthday. The only refreshments were fruit pastries and chocolate milk. Ed ate the pastries and drank the milk. He told me later he did so because he was afraid of creating an international incident if he did not. At lunch we ate mystery meat, potatoes and some more fruit. We drank iced tea. Ed twitched all afternoon.

Our flight out that afternoon was delayed by bad weather. Ed started hitting the scotch, straight, as soon as he found a bar for us to wait in. Once our plane took to the air he drank all of the scotch the flight attendant had on hand. He was desperately trying to kill any ‘revenge’ bug that he may have consumed.

Our plane landed at 9:00 p.m. and Ed was very, very, drunk. I had to drag him to his car where I propped him up and started going through his pockets for his keys; he thought I was getting friendly. I opened the door and shoved him in. When I reached across him to buckle his seat belt his hands went to roaming. There was a lot of hand slapping, (Three Stooges style), that took place and I finally told him he had to buckle his own seat belt. He did not and I did not care. I got in the car and stared at the stick shift; I had never driven a car with a stick shift.

We left the Love Field parking lot about 10:30 p.m.  Most of the time lapse between the 9:00 landing and leaving the parking lot was from trying to reverse out of our parking space.  The car jerked and died every time I put on the brake, tried to go forward or changed gears.  Whenever I killed the engine Ed hit the dashboard…or the side window…or fell across the stick shift on the console.  The trip from the airport to where I had left my car was about a 15 minute drive. We arrived at my car at midnight. I was exhausted but thrilled to be getting rid of Ed who was, quite possibly, in a coma; he was in no shape to drive home.  Since he was dead to the world I pulled him up out of the floor board, sat him upright in the passenger seat, buckled his seat belt and finger combed his hair (which was standing straight up).  I locked him in his car and left him. I found a phone booth and called his wife to tell her that I had just dropped him off at his car. I did not give her any other details. I do not know how, or when, he got home.

Ed did not come back to work for a week. His wife called in and reported that he must have picked up a flu bug because he had severe aches and pains and was too dizzy to drive. He never went to Mexico again.  I bought a new car a few months later. It had a stick shift. I smiled the whole time I owned it.

Getting to know me

I probably would have listened to my Mom if she had told me when I was twenty five that soon my butt would drop behind my knees, my boobs would become knee pads, my eyelids would make me look like a depressed Basset hound and that my pierced earring holes would sag to look like baby butt cracks.  She didn’t and I was surprised when the first cheek gave way.  When I was ten years old she had kept me up at nap time to read to me about becoming a young woman. I didn’t catch any of what she was trying to tell me; all I could think about was missing my nap and wondering if she would ever stop reading what I assumed to be science fiction. Of course, I eventually found out what Mom was trying to tell but since I had not been paying attention to her I was totally shocked when the moment arrived.  I’m afraid to listen to what else she may try to tell me at this stage of the game and my friends wonder why I absolutely hate surprises.

 I’m much older now and when I lay down I have to move my boobs out of the way and scoot around until my sagging butt gets situated and that my back and knees are not at an angle that aches, my winged arms are laying in a way that will not cut off blood circulation and the double chins are lifted to avoid a heat rash. About the time I am in a position to start sawing the proverbial log I need to pee. I get up, pee, and start the whole process all over again, and again, and again.  Now I don’t sleep at all. What sleep I do get is what I used to call a nap…only it’s shorter and usually during a job interview or foreplay.  My sandman died about ten years ago, bless his heart,  and the tooth fairy now stops by three or four times a day – just in case. 

I’ve been patiently waiting for my golden years to kick in, but, I’m afraid I must have gotten in the wrong line when those years were being dispensed, just as I was for good eyesight, perky boobs, wealth and curly hair.  I do not recall being first in any line but I did stand in several. Since I received bad eyesight early in the ‘’standing in line’ day I did not see that one sign said Continuous Acts of Stupidity and/or Bad Luck. I think I went through it twice.

Several years ago I began to write about the stupid things that happen to me. Somehow, in my mind, by writing it down it seems more like bad luck than stupidity. I’ll let you decide but don’t call to tell me your opinion – there is always the slim chance I’m accidentally asleep. I’m a decade behind on beauty sleep…okay…two decades and do not need another rude awakening; one person can only take so many.  I’ve decided that I might as well let others know how lucky they are for standing in the right line at the right time.