The Christmas Elephant

When I first started dating I was invited to the home of my boyfriend’s grandparents for an early Christmas dinner. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. No one in attendance that day will forget how I ruined Grandma’s big day; I know I never have.

We were running a little bit late and had to park down the street since so many relatives had already arrived. There were no sidewalks and we cut across a few front yards before entering the house. I was escorted through a large festive living room and into the kitchen to meet some of the family. Shortly after being introduced to the parents of my friend we heard a commotion in the room we had just walked through.

Grandma was having a very non-festive conniption fit and non-festive gagging was erupting from others who had ventured into the living room to inquire about the problem. It turned out that I was the reason for the problem.

My size tens had stepped in a very unpleasant pile of poop that had obviously been dropped by a Christmas elephant. I had tracked it across sixteen feet of plush, new, beige carpeting and into the kitchen. The mortification nearly killed me. The mess, and smell, nearly killed everyone else.

It should not come as a surprise for you to learn that I did not stay for dinner. The carpet, my shoes and my relationship with my boyfriend were ruined. Beige has since been my least favorite color, the shoes were really cute, and the boyfriend was just so-so. I missed the shoes more than the boyfriend.

Granny was so pissed that I bet she changed her will.

To this day I will not cut across yards and I always wipe my feet, twice, before entering a home.

I ALWAYS keep a keen eye out for Christmas elephants.

The Cow with the Purple Butt

It is very difficult to pour paint into a balloon. It is not like making water balloons from a water faucet; there is no pressure to force the paint into the balloon. Also, once you do get the paint into a balloon it does not throw straight; it wobbles.

Several years ago I was very, very, proud of the flower bed in front of my house. It was a mixture of beautiful colors, all sizes of blooms, many different varieties of rampant blossoms. I diligently maintained it. One of my neighbors leased a large area of pasture behind my place. No matter what kind of fence, or how often it was replaced, one particular cow could get through it and would head straight for my flower bed. I would go to bed with a beautiful blooming garden and the next morning wake up to just stalks and mounds of meadow muffins dropped off like a calling card. I hated that cow. The owner did not believe it was his cow. I asked him if I painted its butt purple if he would believe me. He said yes. This is the reason I put purple paint in some balloons (and accidentally up the mini blinds above my kitchen sink. I was preparing for bovine war.

The next step was catching the cow. I put up motion sensor lights in front of my house with one light placed to shine through my bedroom window so that I would know when the cow arrived. The lights worked, but I could not throw the paint balls straight enough to hit the rump roast! It was not unusual to see me, at two a.m., running like a crazy woman, chasing a cow across my pasture and badly throwing paint filled balloons. After a few weeks the cow thought it was a game. She would wait for me – at my front door – then start running as soon as the screen door opened. I swear I saw her grinning. Damn, I hated that cow.

I called the owner daily, sometimes more than once a day, to complain. He quit answering the phone. Finally, one night, I was watching TV with my son and the sensor lights popped on; the cow was waiting for me at my front door. My son had a staring match with her through the screen door while I went out a back way carrying my bucket of purple paint. I walked slowly up behind the cow and poured the paint across her broad back side. She plopped me a steaming caling card in return and then ran. I called the owner. Mission accomplished.

You know how cows tend to bunch up together? Evidently the paint did not dry very fast and this cow visited friends. A few days later the neighbor called to tell me I would no longer have trouble with the cow; he had found the one wearing purple paint and she was residing in his freezer. That night she returned and helped herself to my remaining flowers. As I watched her I called the neighbor and told him I was looking at the ghost of his cow chowing down in my flower bed. He began to sob. Aw, crap!

I planted shrubs in that flower bed. I no longer chase cows or do anything that resembles running. The color purple is permanently banned from my home, although, I do still have a pasture full of purple painted rocks. I eat chicken.

The Last Water Ski

One of the dumbest actions in my life was done in front of my Dad and several of my brothers. I was very athletic in my youth; I guess most people would say I was a tomboy. I played softball, volleyball, basketball, ran track, walked fences, climbed trees, etc. I loved to water ski but I had bad eyesight and skiing was the one sport activity that limited my comfort and ability to excel. As I moved into my high school years I became reluctant to ski because the lake seemed to have too many people on it and I just did not see well enough to feel safe. If I did ski I refused to fall out of fear. Dad would keep going until I would leave the wake, swing around to the side of the boat, and signal I was ready to stop. Dad would find a good place for me to let go; I would know the spot by him slowing the boat.

  The last time I skied I was a senior in high school. After school one afternoon Dad came home early, we loaded up the boat, and headed out to Lake Grapevine. My brothers were all very good skiers. My brother, Steve, was a clown on skis and on this particular day I felt a little bravado after he skied and made us laugh. When it was my turn I decided I would goof around and make the guys laugh a little bit, too. I was on two skis and thought it would be funny if I bounced my butt up and down on the water and pretended to be a skiing drunk.

  The second I lowered my butt into the water I knew I had made a mistake. The fact that my arms were nearly yanked off of my body was the first indication – but I held on. The second indication was that my bathing suit bottom rapidly filled with water, and from the drag of it, I had also picked up a bass and maybe a carp, or two. I could not stand up. No matter how hard I tried, I could not stand up again. I did not dare let go of the rope because I could not see where I was, nor the boat, because a plume of water was coming up between my legs and shooting into my face and over my head making visibility a tad bit more difficult. I held on. The bathing suit bottom took all it could and then settled into a place I had spent most of my life keeping undergarments out of. Did you know that you can blister your butt cheeks if traveling bare assed at a high rate of speed across water? I could not move out of the wake to go around to the side of the boat as my signal to Dad that I was ready to stop skiing. I nearly drowned, while still on two skis above water, and being dragged around the lake, at least ten times, before Dad just stopped the boat. My hands had to be pried from the rope handle. Dad told me he was afraid he was going to run out of gas before I got too tired to stop. I think that is what he said; it was hard to tell through his laughter.

I know what you are thinking. I have brothers, and trust me, I heard all of the jokes that crudely relate to a ‘summers eve’.

I never skied again.

The Wrong Cart

I went to the Dollar Store Friday after work. It sure was warm in there because their AC was on the fritz. I pushed my cart through anyway since it was the Dollar Store and you just never know what new dining experiments have been placed on the shelves since the last trip.  I placed cat food, Diet Cokes, strawberry PopTarts and a bunch of other grocery items in my cart before running into a neighbor that I had not seen in several months. I turned my back on my cart and gossiped with her until it became too unbearable in the store to just stand there. We said our goodbyes and I turned and grabbed the cart and went to stand in the check out line FOREVER while one of the two checkout ladies worked at a pace that would put slugs in a coma. The second checkout lady was flirting with the Pepsi delivery guy and was having a wonderful time although he did not appear to speak the English language – he just stared at her and nodded his head and looked more uncomfortable than just too warm because the AC was out. Finally! It was my turn to check out!

The only items I recalled putting in the cart were the dog food, Diet Dr.Pepper and the Wild Berry PopTarts.  Wait a minute… I could not recall getting the fungal toe cream, the Tinactin Fungal spray, the Fixadent, Beanie Weinies, baked beans, Kosher pickles, or white bread. White bread? I have not bought white bread in years! I’m a little bit slow but it did dawn on me that I was pushing the wrong cart. I was just too darned hot and tired to admit it! I could feel Naked Saturday beginning to stir and I had to get out of there quickly.

I bought everything but the Fixadent; it was not on sale and I still have at least eight of my own teeth. I tried the Wild Berry PopTarts this morning and they aren’t bad, however, the Diet Dr. Pepper would probably taste better with some of the fungal cream squirted in it. Speaking of fungal cream… a single gal just never knows when she might meet a guy that needs both it and the Tinactin Fungal spray; they might come in handy some day. (The older we get the less picky we get with our choices.) Tonight I will dine on Beanie Weinies, baked beans, Kosher pickles and will butter a slice of white bread; I just have to remember not to light any candles. The cats will eat the dog food, they are outside cats and will eat anything except the field mice they were placed out there to catch and dine on.

 I hope I can handle the excitement of my meal tonight and will be able to return to work on Monday. I would hate to have to call in because Sophie, the Chihuahua, refused to sleep with me.

Unicycles & Homemade Skateboards

Thursday, at an office luncheon, some of my table mates were discussing their childhood, the way they were raised, and the toys they had that made them happy. Horses were spoken of and I told them that I rode a unicycle that I dearly loved. They turned and quietly looked at me - so, I added that I was a poor child and could not afford the whole bike. I also mentioned that homemade skateboards were very popular when I was a kid. I explained that they were just scrap wood with old metal skate wheels carefully attached (screwed on by hand – we did not have the new fangled battery operated screwdrivers waaayyy back then). These boards did not have the sophistication of the boards kids buy today; they were not pretty and were very difficult to maneuver. Part of the excitement of riding very fast down a steep hill was not hitting mailboxes, parked cars, or, slow moving pedestrians as our friends watched us. I flew off of my share of homemade skateboards by just hitting curbs…and the occasional mailbox or parked car.

When I went to bed last night my mind wandered; I reviewed the week and remembered the conversation at the luncheon. It then wandered on to my lack of having something to do on a Friday night and it suddenly struck me that my lack of a love life and old unicycles and homemade skateboards have a lot in common. With a unicycle you ride alone – you cannot share a ride unless you hold a circus union card, and I was never quite that talented. With a homemade skate board you look until you find a suitable piece of wood and change it (we women like to change things). When adding the wheels the screwing part is important - the age of the wood is a factor - and you can eventually run into obstacles that knock you down. When you are knocked down too often it gets harder to get back up. Traveling uphill after a fun ride can make your chest hurt. 

If how you play as a kid is going to turn into the life you lead when you are older, I regret that I did not learn to play the banjo. Damn. I could be pickin’ and grinnin’.

Limping Along

I have recently had the misfortune, and difficulty, associated with limping due to an issue with my right leg. When you are an elderly, zaftig, woman with a limp, there are some realities that you absolutely must face:

1)      Hunched over, while pushing a walker really does make your butt look bigger.

2)      It is very important to wear a good bra; swinging to and fro will throw you off balance.

3)      Swinging to and fro will remind you of the song, ‘Do your boobs hang low, are they swinging to and fro?’ As hard as you may try, you will not remember the rest of the words to that stupid ditty, but the tune WILL be stuck in your head. Forever.

4)      It is impossible to hold in your stomach and limp at the same time.

5)      If you really need to pee your leg will hurt worse.

6)      On a bad leg your knee high stocking will drop down and pool around your ankle. You will not give a damn.

7)      With a bad leg, sitting down in a bathtub full of water will remind you of Sea World.

8)      With a bad leg, getting out of a bathtub full of water will explain the phenomenon of beached whales.

9)      With a bad leg you do not have to comb the back of your hair because anyone behind you is just going to be noticing that your butt looks bigger as you slowly push your walker.

10)   And finally, if you have a bad limp, no one really wants to hear your explanation of why, unless you smile and say, ‘during sex’, at the beginning of a huge lie.

Lighter Load

Anyone who walks with a cane, walker, or, steps gingerly for any reason, knows that any object carried can offset the balance and ease of safely moving forward. Last Friday afternoon I could not complete the walk to my car when leaving the office. My rescue involved someone else carrying my purse and opening my car door.  After giving this some thought, I decided to lighten my load; my purse was where I started (I never begin a diet when I do not feel good, or on any week that has a Monday in it).

I have carried this particular purse for one short month, but the weight of it has become a burden.  I sincerely hope the person who carried it for me last Friday does not have any lingering aches and pains, or a hernia. I dumped it out in an effort to lighten the load.

Items dumped:

A three pound piece of petrified wood I promised to give to my great nephew, Gabe.

A large Leatherman in a genuine leather case.

A huge wallet, which carries every coupon I ever clipped and forgot about, gift cards (all empty), watch batteries, car key fob batteries, earring repair kit, old driver licenses, expired insurance cards, receipts, grocery store discount cards, pictures of hair styles I have desired (and never received) and thirty seven cents.

Seven peppermints (also petrified).

Makeup bag, approximately five pounds.

105 loose nickels.

110 loose dimes.

127 loose pennies.

16 loose quarters.

Two weeks of mail; Spring catalogs for Home Depot, Finger Hut, and Catherines included.

I dark chocolate Hershey bar.

4” X 4” square flashlight.

1 Bottle of muscle relaxer and two bottles of ibuprofen (100 count).

Two sets of car key rings which also have a house key, and 8 unknown for what keys attached.

Four sets of earrings.

3 french fries (also petrified)

I began to carefully reload my purse. When I was satisfied that I had lightened the load I had two french fries, four unknown for what keys, one week of mail (catalogs included), two tubes of lipstick I no longer wear, one piece of petrified wood, four sets of earrings, two peppermint and one Hershey bar wrappers, and sixteen expired coupons sitting in front of me. I was hesitant to leave out the petrified wood.

I realize that I need to make some more adjustments. I am going to use the loose change ($19.67) to buy a bigger wallet. That should do it.

Cat-astrophe

The morning started out rather normal. I hit the snooze alarm more times than I should have and was running behind by about fifteen minutes. I usually leave the house one and a half hours before I need to make the seventeen mile trip to work - just in case of bad traffic or a long line at the donut shop.

About two thousand feet into the drive down my street I heard a cat meowing. It appeared to be coming from under the hood of my car – so I stopped and popped the trunk (don’t ask). Since a neighbor saw me stop and pop the trunk I had to open the trunk and look in it. I did not find a kitty and was no longer hearing one, either.  I got back into the car, started it up and began to drive. The kitty began to holler again.  I went another five hundred feet or so and stopped again. This time I popped the hood and got out and looked. Nothing…and no meowing.  There are about four miles of country road from my house to town and I stopped every half mile. There was no sound when I stopped, but as soon as the car would start moving the cat would begin making pitiful sounds. I called a friend who laughed his ass off and gave me no support but provided a multitude of innuendoes about ‘kitties’, although he did not use the word kitty, and told me I had no choice but to drive on.   When I arrived in the metropolis of Haslet I stopped at a new home construction site and three Latinos were working on the foundation. They walked over and gave me a, “Que paso’, and I replied, ‘El Tigre de nada vamoose.” For those of you who do not speak Spanish they asked, “What’s up, good looking?” and I replied, with much gesturing, “There is a damned cat under the hood, it has been with me for ten miles, and it will not get the hell out of my engine compartment!”  They were of no help, but smiled a lot (obviously impressed with my Spanish) so the cat and I drove on to the 7-11 about another mile away.  People pumping gas heard the cat when I pulled up but everybody was in a hurry and no one even looked under the hood, except me. No noise erupted while the engine was off. That damned cat was playing games with me. I called my boss and told her the cat, and I, were having so much fun that I was thinking about taking it to the zoo next. I pulled out and, sure enough, the yowling began. I even changed the radio station in case it was objecting to talk radio. Nope. I spotted the fire department ahead and pulled in.  They like to rescue cats, right? And they would not even have to climb a tree!  I noticed as I pulled up that there were a lot of vehicles behind the station so I know there were firemen in there just ready to rescue me..uh..the cat.  I opened the hood and walked around the car, patting the sides of it and talking sweetly to the kitty. Evidently, firemen can look out a window and if they see a chubby old lady hunched over and patting her car and talking to it they do not find it reason enough leave the building. I waited about twenty minutes and started to dial 911; I figured that would get somebody’s attention! Just as I hit the last 1 a Constable drove slowly by and I waved him down. He pulled up, rolled down the window, and asked, “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” I told him there was a kitty in the engine, I could see it but could not get to it and no firefighters were in the mood to help. He rolled the window up, called his dispatcher and then laughed robustly. I rapped my knuckles on the window, he rolled it back down, grinning. I told him I knew what they were saying and had already heard all of the innuendos and did not find it funny the first time!  He was still smiling as he got out of the car. Being as he looked like he enjoys doughnuts as much as I do, he could not get down and look under the car either. It would have to be jacked up for him to crawl under it. I take that back…it would have to be on a lift. We could now see a small gray kitty sitting on the frame under the engine near the left front tire. It was just sitting there and blinking at us. The Constable took a stick and poked it and it jumped to the ground and just sat there. The officer told me to start the car and slowly drive backwards; he KNEW neither one of us could reach under and grab the kitty.  I told him that if I ran over the cat after all we had been through for fifteen miles (okay, I exaggerated a little about the distance) and stopping every half mile, I would hold him responsible. He said not to worry. He could tell I was agitated because my hair was standing straight up and my eyes were beginning to roll wildly. I’m hoping he did not notice the drool. As soon as the car was no longer over that sweet, baby, gray, kitty it ran into the bushes by the front door of the fire department. The Constable and I looked at each other, smiled, and quickly agreed that it was now the responsibility of the fine Haslet Fire Department. He told me he would call them and let them know about it and we drove off. I was late getting to work, and fretted over my wild hair issues; nobody messed with me. I was also exhausted. I cannot remember the last time I got in and out of my car twenty times on a single morning, unless it was that neighborhood garage sale I found in Saginaw a couple of years ago.

I sent the fire department an email. I told them who I was and thanked them for their help (not!). I suggested they name the cat Smokey.

I probably should not have signed my name.

Fake Parts

When I first got mine I felt so different! How could such phoniness make a woman feel so sexy, so noticeable, so empowered?  I just loved to show them off and was very dramatic in my fashion choices to make them more noticeable. Sure, it was a big expense, but the results were fascinating!  People stared and some folks even commented about them. I loved the attention! Unfortunately, after several years they became a burden, my aging did not help - they pointed in different directions. I eventually had them removed and in doing so I felt a little less feminine and, at first, going out in public made me very self conscious about the lack of flamboyance they had previously inspired in me.

When my sister got hers they were not as flashy as mine, nor as big. When Mom (MOM!) had hers done I was kind of surprised, but like my sister, she went with a smaller, less noticeable, set.

I have been considering doing it again. Not as ‘out there’ as before, but just as a subtle lift to my self esteem.

It is really quite amazing how fake fingernails can change the way a woman feels about herself.

Naked Saturday

My favorite day of the week is Saturday.  On Saturday mornings I begin a ritual of a day of nakedness that I have lovingly named Naked Saturday. It is a wonderful day of freedom from the ‘bindings’ of the work week.  Here are a few rules and tips:

• Socks are allowed in cooler weather – but only on your feet.
• If you order a pizza for delivery you will need to provide a HUGE tip.
• No ironing! Nipple burns do NOT heal quickly.
• Kittens are forbidden pets.
• Do not fry bacon (same reason as in no ironing).
• In the winter time, folding clothes fresh from the dryer may create ...uh…warm feelings.
• Stay away from mirrors!
• If someone asks you to do something on a Saturday that you do not want to do you can honestly reply, “I’m sorry, I have plans on Saturday.”
• No drinking of alcoholic beverages because it is highly possible that you may take the trash out without thinking about it… or move a water sprinkler…or lock yourself out of the house.
• And most importantly; if visitors should unexpectedly arrive you must be prepared to never see them again.

 Easy rules and great tips! Try it out! Let me know how it works for you.

I just LOVE Naked Saturday!