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!

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.