A few years ago I heard a Nobel Prize winner say that the only downside to winning the prestigious award is that your identity shifts.There is no more "Joe Blow". Forever after you will be known as "Nobel Prize Winner, Joe Blow." It will even be in your obituary and on your tombstone.
I was reminded of this last night when the evening news reported on the sad plight of an Elderly Woman who was kidnapped. She was my age. I've noticed that this is the norm whenever anyone of a certain age---which is probably ten years older than whoever is writing the story---does something newsworthy. Sometimes there are variations, such as "The Sixty-Three Year Old Grandmother" brought food to the Food Bank. Or, the Senior Citizen Bank Thief was caught as he limped away.
What I want to know is, why are we categorizing people this way? Why not report on A Quick-Witted Woman? A Round-faced Robber? A Fu-Manchu Moustache Man? Come on, people. Used your imagination!
(And, while I have your attention, please do not call me Young Lady. It's condescending and demeaning. You wouldn't say "Here's your change, Skinny," to a fat person would you?)
Alas, I know that after today I will be henceforth and forevermore known as an Elderly Lady. I know it's going to happen no matter what my mental age or outlook may be. I guess I'll take the perks that go along with it: senior discount at the restaurant, people holding the door for me when we both reach it at the same time, grandchildren willing to help me with my phone. And should I win the Nobel Prize for Literature some day, I will be known as "Elderly Nobel Prize Winner, Pat Carey". I'm good with that.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Friday, November 18, 2016
Christmas Decorating
It is just the first week of December and I am proud to say that I have my house completely decorated for Christmas. I would also like to say that it is done in an elegant, sophisticated, minimalist style that would draw raves from the interior designers I used to work with. I would LIKE to say that, but the truth is that it looks more like Mrs. Santa threw a wild party with about forty-three rogue elves and they did not clean up after themselves.
I don't know what happens to me at Christmas but I can't seem to stop myself. Every after-Christmas sale for the past forty-five years had me stocking up on bargains I couldn't live without and when we downsized from a large eight-room house to our present five-room bungalow we downsized our Christmas decorations not a whit.
Of our five rooms, three of them have decorated Christmas trees. The one in the living room is tall and glamorous. Okay, tall. And the one in the grandkids' room has all the ornaments my kids made in past years of out of Popsicle sticks, toilet paper cardboard and cotton balls and such with their own little hands. The cotton balls have worn away but we still remember what they were supposed to be. The reindeer whose bodies were made of Lifesavers melted in the attic one year, but the reindeer made of clothes pins still hangs proudly on the tree. My very favorite ornaments for that tree are made of cut-out egg carton foam and adorned with pictures of Josh and Jake by some very clever preschool Sunday School teachers back in the 'seventies. Every year I ooh and aah when I take them gently out of the box. They were so cute back then!
In the same spirit, but classier maybe, the living room tree has ornaments that are tiny picture frames with photos of each of the grandchildren, four for every year since the youngest was born. If we keep this up, by the time the youngest is a senior in high school there will seventy-two picture ornaments. There is a whole set of teeny Thomas Kincaid houses, sixteen, I think. It's a good thing the tree is nine feet tall. Some of the other ornaments may have to go.
There is a tree squeezed into the kitchen with cookies, my kids silver baby spoons, and kitchen-y things on it. When I say squeezed, I mean if you have to get back between it and the table before the meal, you must then wait till your food has worn off before you can get out. No loosening your belt for third helpings back there.
And there are more trees scattered about, ten, with and without ornaments, from eight inches up to the nine foot living room one. We won't talk about the trees outside. And, of course, I've never met a Nativity scene I didn't like. There are about eight of them, but to give a nod to Santa Claus, there are fifteen Santa figurines. I've always worried a little that Santa would overshadow the real meaning of Christmas, so just to combine the two, I collect figures of Santa kneeling at the manger and there are six, not counting the three foot tall wooden cut-out Santa that is kneeling before Baby Jesus and lit up with a spotlight on our front lawn. Plus multiple wreaths, inside and out, snowmen, sleighs with little presents the size of a pack of gum, the thirty-four piece Victorian village...you can see inside the shop windows!...plates and candles and Wise Men and various and sundry flotsam and jetsam of the Christmas persuasion that we have come across over the years. And remember, there have been a lot of years. Oh, and fake poinsettias, the kind with fuzzy leaves.
My mom was the Anti-minimalist when it came to decorating her home.Year round there wasn't a surface in her house, including the spaces between the stairs rails, that wasn't home to some figurine, and the shinier, the more bejeweled, the better. That may be why the eleven months of the year that aren't the Christmas season I favor a less-is-more style, but yesterday, when Dennis spotted (and remember he is nearly legally blind) the Christmas pillows on the couch with the big gold bows tied around them he said "I think your mom would have liked those."
It was code for "gaudy". I didn't even care. It's Christmas.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Sam
I'm not feeling much like blogging today. My heart is too heavy with the loss of our nephew, Sam, who was killed in a car wreck yesterday. Just a few thoughts about his short life.
*********************************************
Sam was a kid that the Lord really wanted to be born.
When I first started "going steady" with Dennis in my senior year of high school people at school would say "You mean OWEN Carey's brother???" My future brother-in-law, was, how shall I say this? A hell-raiser. He was constantly in trouble with some authority or another. Even after he did a tour in Viet Nam and returned, when you thought he might have matured, he finally wound up fleeing to New Hampshire a few steps ahead of the cops.
He got married there, had a couple of kids and then one day we got a phone call from him. "Guess what! I'm a Christian now!"
We turned to each other and said "Sure. Wonder how long that will last."
But we were amazed and thrilled to find that God had done the changing, not Owen, and the guy who never did anything in a small way became an evangelist, a preacher, a church planter and is still, despite our initial doubts, so "Radically Saved" that anyone around him wants what he has.
Along the way there were more kids born, five, in about ten years time. Owen was gone a lot and Esther, his wife, was worn out! In fact, there were difficulties with her fifth pregnancy and she had to be hospitalized for several months. It was time to stop. No more kids. Of course I was very discreet in my suggestions. "Stop!" I said. "You're crazy!" I said. "Owen, you need to take care of this." I said. Not that I ever interfere in anybody's private life.
Owen just smiled and instead of telling me to mind my own business, said "I'm waiting on God." And God wanted Sam to be born.
He was the last, the baby. He had some learning challenges so Esther spent more time with him than she had the others because she both home schooled him and drove him several hours a week to special classes. Owen was able to spend more time with him as Sam's basketball career took off. Did I mention he grew to be six feet, eight inches tall?
Sam was recruited to play basketball for the local college, then he played a season in Uruguay, a season in Germany, and then this year, with the NBA sitting out and Canada still going strong in basketball, Sam was recruited to play there.
In between basketball seasons Sam met Kayte and this summer Brayden was born. I've been following them on Facebook and you've never seen a prouder daddy. Brayden had some severe health problems when he was born, and Sam was constantly with him. When Brayden finally got to go home from the hospital and Kayte went back to work, Sam was a stay-at-home dad. Brayden was no bigger than the palm of Sam's big hand at first, but Sam changed diapers, gave baths, rocked and fed, the whole nine yards. Or is that full-court press?
The basketball season started and Sam left to go play basketball in Canada to support his family. He couldn't be home every day but the communication was constant. They Skyped so Sam could see Brayden and Brayden could see his daddy. Then on Tuesday Sam had a few days available and he was headed home to his family.
We'll never know what happened next. Was he hurrying too much? Probably so. Did he try to make the trip on too little sleep because he was so anxious to see Kayte and Brayden? Maybe. The emergency crew did all they could do. The doctors did all they could do. It wasn't enough. No matter what the cause here on earth, God was ready to take Sam home.
Twenty-six years is such a short time. Sam packed them full of life. Our hearts are breaking here on earth but we are grateful for those twenty-six years. They were exactly the length of time God planned for him.
*********************************************
Sam was a kid that the Lord really wanted to be born.
When I first started "going steady" with Dennis in my senior year of high school people at school would say "You mean OWEN Carey's brother???" My future brother-in-law, was, how shall I say this? A hell-raiser. He was constantly in trouble with some authority or another. Even after he did a tour in Viet Nam and returned, when you thought he might have matured, he finally wound up fleeing to New Hampshire a few steps ahead of the cops.
He got married there, had a couple of kids and then one day we got a phone call from him. "Guess what! I'm a Christian now!"
We turned to each other and said "Sure. Wonder how long that will last."
But we were amazed and thrilled to find that God had done the changing, not Owen, and the guy who never did anything in a small way became an evangelist, a preacher, a church planter and is still, despite our initial doubts, so "Radically Saved" that anyone around him wants what he has.
Along the way there were more kids born, five, in about ten years time. Owen was gone a lot and Esther, his wife, was worn out! In fact, there were difficulties with her fifth pregnancy and she had to be hospitalized for several months. It was time to stop. No more kids. Of course I was very discreet in my suggestions. "Stop!" I said. "You're crazy!" I said. "Owen, you need to take care of this." I said. Not that I ever interfere in anybody's private life.
Owen just smiled and instead of telling me to mind my own business, said "I'm waiting on God." And God wanted Sam to be born.
He was the last, the baby. He had some learning challenges so Esther spent more time with him than she had the others because she both home schooled him and drove him several hours a week to special classes. Owen was able to spend more time with him as Sam's basketball career took off. Did I mention he grew to be six feet, eight inches tall?
Sam was recruited to play basketball for the local college, then he played a season in Uruguay, a season in Germany, and then this year, with the NBA sitting out and Canada still going strong in basketball, Sam was recruited to play there.
In between basketball seasons Sam met Kayte and this summer Brayden was born. I've been following them on Facebook and you've never seen a prouder daddy. Brayden had some severe health problems when he was born, and Sam was constantly with him. When Brayden finally got to go home from the hospital and Kayte went back to work, Sam was a stay-at-home dad. Brayden was no bigger than the palm of Sam's big hand at first, but Sam changed diapers, gave baths, rocked and fed, the whole nine yards. Or is that full-court press?
The basketball season started and Sam left to go play basketball in Canada to support his family. He couldn't be home every day but the communication was constant. They Skyped so Sam could see Brayden and Brayden could see his daddy. Then on Tuesday Sam had a few days available and he was headed home to his family.
We'll never know what happened next. Was he hurrying too much? Probably so. Did he try to make the trip on too little sleep because he was so anxious to see Kayte and Brayden? Maybe. The emergency crew did all they could do. The doctors did all they could do. It wasn't enough. No matter what the cause here on earth, God was ready to take Sam home.
Twenty-six years is such a short time. Sam packed them full of life. Our hearts are breaking here on earth but we are grateful for those twenty-six years. They were exactly the length of time God planned for him.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Admission of Guilt
My name is Pat and I'm a Wordaholic.
(Here's where you say: "Hi, Pat", all in unison.)
It has been fourteen hours since my last Words With Friends. I have tried to quit many times before but this time I'm going to do it. I am! Or at least cut down.
Like a lot of people, I guess, I got sucked into the life by a well-meaning relative. I mean, he can handle it, I guess, and in the beginning I could too. I only played with a few people and only occasionally. I was a social Worder. I was able to control it for quite awhile but then it began to demand more and more of my time. I went from playing just with a few more friends and only in the evening to checking my phone every few minutes to see if those friends were playing. They didn't seem to be there as often as I wanted to play. But I could quit any time I wanted.
Then, I got into the hard stuff. I found a partner on the site called "Solo" (related to Han, I believe.) And he was there all the time. Anytime I wanted I could just look up my old friend, Solo, and he was ready. He matches me word for word and I only have to wait two minutes between moves. Looking back I can see that he was working to pull me in further and further. He plays ridiculous words, ones that don't even have a definition, but are "accepted Words With Friends words", according to the game dictionary, for huge points. And he knows the monetary units of the lost Ottoman empire and uses them. And he's always blocking my plays, the ones I planned ahead of time and thought about in the night. But, and here's where I got suspicious, he still mostly loses by just a few points, so I keep coming back. Granted, my inner competitive nature, which I didn't even think I had, has come out and I have played some words worth points in the high nineties, once I got a word that was worth 120 points! And I keep searching for those kinds of words. I need more and more! And so, I come back. Over and over and over.
I can hide it well. I multi-task while we are watching television. I started out just playing during the baseball games I watch with my husband. Then I played during the news, that's something I can listen to with half an ear. Now, God help me, I catch myself playing Words With Friends during a drama that I really want to see and my husband will make a comment about a character and I'll say, "Uh-huh. What did she say?" At church, even though I manage to keep my phone off during the sermon, the minute I get to the car I turn it on to see what Solo has played and figure out how I can beat him. I rarely blog anymore. I stopped working on my novel even though its almost done. I don't have time for those things! I'm Wording!
So Sunday, what did the young pastor preach about? Doing nothing. Wasting time. Doing meaningless things when we should be doing important things. How did he find that stuff out about me??
It got my attention. Now I'm going to make an effort again. I've done it before, but was never able to stay on the wagon, but this time I mean it. No more Words With Friends. At least not with Solo. Maybe just a little bit with a few real friends. And only at night. I can do this. One day at a time.
Just think, if I manage this, maybe I'll start working on my Facebook addiction.
(Here's where you say: "Hi, Pat", all in unison.)
It has been fourteen hours since my last Words With Friends. I have tried to quit many times before but this time I'm going to do it. I am! Or at least cut down.
Like a lot of people, I guess, I got sucked into the life by a well-meaning relative. I mean, he can handle it, I guess, and in the beginning I could too. I only played with a few people and only occasionally. I was a social Worder. I was able to control it for quite awhile but then it began to demand more and more of my time. I went from playing just with a few more friends and only in the evening to checking my phone every few minutes to see if those friends were playing. They didn't seem to be there as often as I wanted to play. But I could quit any time I wanted.
Then, I got into the hard stuff. I found a partner on the site called "Solo" (related to Han, I believe.) And he was there all the time. Anytime I wanted I could just look up my old friend, Solo, and he was ready. He matches me word for word and I only have to wait two minutes between moves. Looking back I can see that he was working to pull me in further and further. He plays ridiculous words, ones that don't even have a definition, but are "accepted Words With Friends words", according to the game dictionary, for huge points. And he knows the monetary units of the lost Ottoman empire and uses them. And he's always blocking my plays, the ones I planned ahead of time and thought about in the night. But, and here's where I got suspicious, he still mostly loses by just a few points, so I keep coming back. Granted, my inner competitive nature, which I didn't even think I had, has come out and I have played some words worth points in the high nineties, once I got a word that was worth 120 points! And I keep searching for those kinds of words. I need more and more! And so, I come back. Over and over and over.
I can hide it well. I multi-task while we are watching television. I started out just playing during the baseball games I watch with my husband. Then I played during the news, that's something I can listen to with half an ear. Now, God help me, I catch myself playing Words With Friends during a drama that I really want to see and my husband will make a comment about a character and I'll say, "Uh-huh. What did she say?" At church, even though I manage to keep my phone off during the sermon, the minute I get to the car I turn it on to see what Solo has played and figure out how I can beat him. I rarely blog anymore. I stopped working on my novel even though its almost done. I don't have time for those things! I'm Wording!
So Sunday, what did the young pastor preach about? Doing nothing. Wasting time. Doing meaningless things when we should be doing important things. How did he find that stuff out about me??
It got my attention. Now I'm going to make an effort again. I've done it before, but was never able to stay on the wagon, but this time I mean it. No more Words With Friends. At least not with Solo. Maybe just a little bit with a few real friends. And only at night. I can do this. One day at a time.
Just think, if I manage this, maybe I'll start working on my Facebook addiction.
Friday, August 26, 2016
A Close Shave
There was a post on Facebook the other day about a little girl who noticed the lady in front of her in the checkout line had unshaved armpits and she asked her mother, in a whisper as loud as only little kids in public places can do, "Why does that lady have armpits like Daddy does?"
The mother, of course, was totally embarrassed but the free-spirited lady turned around and sweetly explained to the little girl that some people want to live naturally and that she had chosen to do away with shaving hair and other unnatural things foisted upon society by men. She was so nice about it and the mother was so impressed with her forward thinking that she took a picture of the unshorn lady with the little girl and posted it. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, I thought, and everybody should get to choose to live as they desire. Then I noticed something else about the picture. The lady was wearing lovely make-up. And she had perfectly tweezed eyebrows.
Oh, well, I guess you choose what you want to spend time on in the morning. It did remind me of a trip we took to Italy once when our guide was a beautiful young girl wearing a thin cotton dress that was light and airy for the summer day. Even I was impressed with how very well-endowed she was and every man on the tour bus gave her his full attention. Then she pointed out the Trevi Fountain. I mean, really pointed it out, her arm fully extended toward it. The hair that hung down from her armpits rivaled the locks on Rapunzel's head! The fountain never looked so beautiful. We couldn't take our eyes off it because nobody wanted to look back at the tour guide. I know, I know. It's the European way. Even so, although I don't remember anything else about that bus trip, I still remember her.
I like to think that I'm a fully liberated woman and the older I get the less I'm constrained by society's opinions, but I don't think I'll give up my disposable Bic razor just yet. Okay, sometimes I'm lazy but since I don't have Michelle-Obama-arms, I never wear sleeveless blouses, anyway. And I don't want to scare any little girls in the check-out line.
The mother, of course, was totally embarrassed but the free-spirited lady turned around and sweetly explained to the little girl that some people want to live naturally and that she had chosen to do away with shaving hair and other unnatural things foisted upon society by men. She was so nice about it and the mother was so impressed with her forward thinking that she took a picture of the unshorn lady with the little girl and posted it. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, I thought, and everybody should get to choose to live as they desire. Then I noticed something else about the picture. The lady was wearing lovely make-up. And she had perfectly tweezed eyebrows.
Oh, well, I guess you choose what you want to spend time on in the morning. It did remind me of a trip we took to Italy once when our guide was a beautiful young girl wearing a thin cotton dress that was light and airy for the summer day. Even I was impressed with how very well-endowed she was and every man on the tour bus gave her his full attention. Then she pointed out the Trevi Fountain. I mean, really pointed it out, her arm fully extended toward it. The hair that hung down from her armpits rivaled the locks on Rapunzel's head! The fountain never looked so beautiful. We couldn't take our eyes off it because nobody wanted to look back at the tour guide. I know, I know. It's the European way. Even so, although I don't remember anything else about that bus trip, I still remember her.
I like to think that I'm a fully liberated woman and the older I get the less I'm constrained by society's opinions, but I don't think I'll give up my disposable Bic razor just yet. Okay, sometimes I'm lazy but since I don't have Michelle-Obama-arms, I never wear sleeveless blouses, anyway. And I don't want to scare any little girls in the check-out line.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Now That School Has Started
My friend, Valerie, an elementary school music teacher, was explaining to me Sunday that she was getting behind on things at home "...now that school has started." The funny thing was that this was the second time I had heard the same phrase within an hour from another school teacher.
I think I'm going to steal it! My yard is a terrible mess, weeds everywhere, veggies and flowers dead due to the heat and needing to be pulled up but I just don't have time to get out there and work in it "Now That School Has Started". And, oh, my gosh, I intended to get the linen closet cleaned out. I know we have more than two towels to our names but heaven help me if I can find them in there.
And my desk was my first priority. Jimmy Hoffa may be buried in there, you'd never know. I can't imagine when I am going to get to either of them "Now That School Has Started."
Here I've gone all these years without a good excuse for the mess around this place. Oh, I know enough to leave the vacuum cleaner sitting out so that if someone comes to the door unexpectedly it looks like they have caught me in mid-cleaning instead of "Oh, my word! Are they about to condemn this place?" And if I have any warning someone is coming I just spray a little Pledge behind my ears and stick a dust cloth in my back pocket. They can draw their own conclusions.
I had a friend when my boys were little who, twice a day---I am not making this up!---went around and wet-dusted her furniture. She said it was because her kids had allergies but I think they had never had time to build up a resistance to dirt because she was always so clean. Yeah, I don't dust because I am thinking of the kids.That's it. Besides, dust is a protective finish for furniture. Two birds with one stone.
Since I didn't know about "Now That School Has Started" back then I had to be a little creative. When we moved into a new house I picked the color of Oklahoma red dirt for the carpet. (It was the seventies! What can I say?) You could look through the living room, out the window and to a little bare hill of dirt behind our yard and the color never changed. The front hall tile that was already there when we moved in was a mottled, really ugly mix of rust and off (way off) white that was such a busy pattern that---I'm not making this up---I don't think I mopped it five times in all the years we lived there. Nothing showed.
I had gotten the idea to leave that tile there from the rental house we had moved from. It had kitchen carpet (too gross, even for me) that was rust and brown and some other color unknown to man and---you won't believe this, but it happened---when my friend Fran used to cut my red hair in that kitchen we actually lost the hair on the carpet and couldn't see where to sweep it up. Ask Fran, she's on Facebook!
These days my kids are grown, we've moved from that house and I'm not even a school teacher, but I still can find better things to do than housework until it is forced upon me. (Oh, please! Like you don't do the very same thing.) Here I sit at the computer instead of doing the dishes. I can't do everything, you know. Not... Now That School Has Started.
I think I'm going to steal it! My yard is a terrible mess, weeds everywhere, veggies and flowers dead due to the heat and needing to be pulled up but I just don't have time to get out there and work in it "Now That School Has Started". And, oh, my gosh, I intended to get the linen closet cleaned out. I know we have more than two towels to our names but heaven help me if I can find them in there.
And my desk was my first priority. Jimmy Hoffa may be buried in there, you'd never know. I can't imagine when I am going to get to either of them "Now That School Has Started."
Here I've gone all these years without a good excuse for the mess around this place. Oh, I know enough to leave the vacuum cleaner sitting out so that if someone comes to the door unexpectedly it looks like they have caught me in mid-cleaning instead of "Oh, my word! Are they about to condemn this place?" And if I have any warning someone is coming I just spray a little Pledge behind my ears and stick a dust cloth in my back pocket. They can draw their own conclusions.
I had a friend when my boys were little who, twice a day---I am not making this up!---went around and wet-dusted her furniture. She said it was because her kids had allergies but I think they had never had time to build up a resistance to dirt because she was always so clean. Yeah, I don't dust because I am thinking of the kids.That's it. Besides, dust is a protective finish for furniture. Two birds with one stone.
Since I didn't know about "Now That School Has Started" back then I had to be a little creative. When we moved into a new house I picked the color of Oklahoma red dirt for the carpet. (It was the seventies! What can I say?) You could look through the living room, out the window and to a little bare hill of dirt behind our yard and the color never changed. The front hall tile that was already there when we moved in was a mottled, really ugly mix of rust and off (way off) white that was such a busy pattern that---I'm not making this up---I don't think I mopped it five times in all the years we lived there. Nothing showed.
I had gotten the idea to leave that tile there from the rental house we had moved from. It had kitchen carpet (too gross, even for me) that was rust and brown and some other color unknown to man and---you won't believe this, but it happened---when my friend Fran used to cut my red hair in that kitchen we actually lost the hair on the carpet and couldn't see where to sweep it up. Ask Fran, she's on Facebook!
These days my kids are grown, we've moved from that house and I'm not even a school teacher, but I still can find better things to do than housework until it is forced upon me. (Oh, please! Like you don't do the very same thing.) Here I sit at the computer instead of doing the dishes. I can't do everything, you know. Not... Now That School Has Started.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Alarmimg System
They keep calling us wanting to sell us an alarm system for our house. I guess they don't know that if somebody broke into our house they would probably be so amazed by the lack of stuff and the age of what we do have that they would back out slowly and maybe even leave a few things of their own to bring us into the 21st Century.
I guess what they are trying to sell are those things that make loud shrieking noises if there is an illicit entrance. I have a little experience with those. Our out-of-town kids have one. Most of the time when we visit them there is somebody to greet us at the door so we don't have to worry about the alarm, but, just in case, one time that we went and got there a little earlier than we expected, we stopped at the school, got our granddaughter out of class and got her to tell me the code for the alarm.
She told me all the numbers I would need. I memorized them...I thought. It could be that numbers are not my forte. And there was one small detail that she forgot to mention. It's likely that she had never had to use it. You have to push "Stop" after the numbers when you set it off. I mean if you set it off.
We were going to meet the family for dinner but needed to put our dog, Gus inside their house. It was going to be a quick turn around. I had managed the neighborhood gate code. I had managed the garage door code. Surely I could manage the alarm code. Surely I had fooled myself. "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" It went on forever. I punched in every number I could remember. "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" I started again. I yelled out the door to my husband who was waiting in the car. "Call Josh!" The phone in the house rang. It was not Josh.
"This is the alarm company. Is everything okay?" "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" Does it sound like everything is okay? I didn't say it, but I wanted to.
"I'm Josh's mom! It's okay. I'm supposed to be here." "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" I'm still punching numbers. The alarm company lady sounds like she's about my age. Maybe she will be sympathetic. And she tries. "Did you punch stop?" she says. The whooping stops.
"Oh, thank you!" I hung up the phone and ran for the bathroom. (What? It was a two-hour trip with a Diet Coke involved.) I guess I was not supposed to hang up the phone. I did not get to it in time. Perhaps it seemed suspicious.
The alarm lady did not give up. She called again. This time she wanted to know the Secret Code. And sympathetic as she was, she wouldn't tell me the question. I needed to know both question & answer! Did I know a secret code? Nobody ever told me a secret code. I went through every possibility. Mother's maiden name? (I knew that one). Name of your first dog? (I knew that one, too) High School? Fourth grade teacher's name? I went on & on. And then I hit on it. If anybody knows enough history to guess a secret code, it's your mom! "Okay, I'll try to stop the police," said the semi-sympathetic alarm lady.
So I tossed Gus a dogbone & ran out to the car. And this is why I don't think I want an alarm system. Please stop calling.
I guess what they are trying to sell are those things that make loud shrieking noises if there is an illicit entrance. I have a little experience with those. Our out-of-town kids have one. Most of the time when we visit them there is somebody to greet us at the door so we don't have to worry about the alarm, but, just in case, one time that we went and got there a little earlier than we expected, we stopped at the school, got our granddaughter out of class and got her to tell me the code for the alarm.
She told me all the numbers I would need. I memorized them...I thought. It could be that numbers are not my forte. And there was one small detail that she forgot to mention. It's likely that she had never had to use it. You have to push "Stop" after the numbers when you set it off. I mean if you set it off.
We were going to meet the family for dinner but needed to put our dog, Gus inside their house. It was going to be a quick turn around. I had managed the neighborhood gate code. I had managed the garage door code. Surely I could manage the alarm code. Surely I had fooled myself. "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" It went on forever. I punched in every number I could remember. "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" I started again. I yelled out the door to my husband who was waiting in the car. "Call Josh!" The phone in the house rang. It was not Josh.
"This is the alarm company. Is everything okay?" "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" Does it sound like everything is okay? I didn't say it, but I wanted to.
"I'm Josh's mom! It's okay. I'm supposed to be here." "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" I'm still punching numbers. The alarm company lady sounds like she's about my age. Maybe she will be sympathetic. And she tries. "Did you punch stop?" she says. The whooping stops.
"Oh, thank you!" I hung up the phone and ran for the bathroom. (What? It was a two-hour trip with a Diet Coke involved.) I guess I was not supposed to hang up the phone. I did not get to it in time. Perhaps it seemed suspicious.
The alarm lady did not give up. She called again. This time she wanted to know the Secret Code. And sympathetic as she was, she wouldn't tell me the question. I needed to know both question & answer! Did I know a secret code? Nobody ever told me a secret code. I went through every possibility. Mother's maiden name? (I knew that one). Name of your first dog? (I knew that one, too) High School? Fourth grade teacher's name? I went on & on. And then I hit on it. If anybody knows enough history to guess a secret code, it's your mom! "Okay, I'll try to stop the police," said the semi-sympathetic alarm lady.
So I tossed Gus a dogbone & ran out to the car. And this is why I don't think I want an alarm system. Please stop calling.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
My Wedding Dress
I read that at the Republican convention Ivanka Trump wore a white dress from her own line that cost $158.00. (and Hilary Clinton wore a potato sack, excuse me, tweed jacket by Armani that cost $12,000.00 Now, I'm not making a political statement here, but, does Hilary Clinton not have a mirror? Or people to tell her?)
Of course, $158.00 is probably more than the sum total of the worth of all the clothes in my whole closet, but when your father is a billionaire, that is probably the equivalent to her of, say, $2.49, which is what I usually pay for anything that I buy from Goodwill, my personal couturier. The tag says $4.99 but I only buy things when I have a half-off coupon.
I do, however, have one dress that I did not buy at Goodwill. It may have cost $15.00. There was a close-out store called NBC ("1/2 Off of 1/2 Off!!!) that was near the furniture store where I worked in Oklahoma City about twenty-five years ago and sometimes, if you looked long and hard, you could find both pieces of a two piece outfit on the same day. And that is what I did when we were invited to the symphony in Kansas City when our son, Josh and his wife, Jerilyn lived there. (The fact that Josh was willing to go to the symphony with me again is probably a testament to Jerilyn's persuasive powers. But that's another blog. If you are curious, you can go to
http://patcareyanoldwifestales.blogspot.com/2011/07/practice-makes-perfect.html
I knew that you don't wear pants and a jacket, my work outfit, to the symphony, or even your clean khakis, so I bit the bullet, searched every rack in the whole store, and, voila!...there it was: a yellow, loosely pleated skirt and a matching top, sort of tunic length, in a fabric that kind of looks like the woven chain mail that a knight wore under his armor. With shoulder pads. And they were both rather flow-y.
At any rate, I actually pulled off the symphony thing without incident, and now I had a real dress that was not going to go to waste. It was that time in our lives when it seemed that all of our friends' kids and all of our kids' friends were getting married and a symphony dress is perfect for a wedding so I wore it often for a few years. Then it was my Easter dress a few times, okay, every Easter since then, and after the last two of my nephews were married it has been in my closet except for Easter and the occasional wedding every since.
So, naturally, when Dennis's client was getting married at a fancy hotel a couple of years ago, I didn't have to worry about what to wear. My wedding dress was waiting. Okay, the flow-y thing isn't going on any more, but I did cut out the shoulder pads somewhere along the way and I cut out that pesky tag that is beyond scratchy, always sticking up above your neckline for everybody to see when they are sitting behind you at a wedding.
It took me quite awhile to struggle into pantyhose, a piece of lingerie invented by the Marquis de Sade, I believe. And I did have a thing where my glasses fell apart at the last minute and I had to fasten them together with a straight pin that I stuck through the two holes where the ear piece is supposed to fasten onto the glass part (It's usually better to have the pins with the colorful bead at the top that make them easier to grasp when you are sewing but maybe this time the plain kind would have been better) but once I found a pair of shoes that were not flip-flops in the back of the closet we were good to go.
I guess it had been a few years since I wore the dress because I didn't remember it being that uncomfortable. I had rolled the skirt up into the elastic waist to get it the right length, but I always do that.The top was just kind of binding my neck. Ok, the flow-y thing is sort of a fitted thing now but it was more than that. During the whole ceremony it felt like I was wearing a straight jacket. Finally, between the wedding and the reception, I found a ladies' room and took a good look in the well-lighted mirror. I was wearing the top backwards. Do you know how hard it is to change a dress in a little stall in a public restroom? There may have been some gasping and groaning and another wedding guest sort of looked at me strangely when I came out.
Well, now I know to look for the darts in the front of the dress before I put it on. I'm sure you'll get to see it come Easter, unless we are invited to the symphony before then. I'm thinking of starting my own line of wedding/Easter/symphony dresses. I heard that the one Ivanka wore sold out in days.
Of course, $158.00 is probably more than the sum total of the worth of all the clothes in my whole closet, but when your father is a billionaire, that is probably the equivalent to her of, say, $2.49, which is what I usually pay for anything that I buy from Goodwill, my personal couturier. The tag says $4.99 but I only buy things when I have a half-off coupon.
I do, however, have one dress that I did not buy at Goodwill. It may have cost $15.00. There was a close-out store called NBC ("1/2 Off of 1/2 Off!!!) that was near the furniture store where I worked in Oklahoma City about twenty-five years ago and sometimes, if you looked long and hard, you could find both pieces of a two piece outfit on the same day. And that is what I did when we were invited to the symphony in Kansas City when our son, Josh and his wife, Jerilyn lived there. (The fact that Josh was willing to go to the symphony with me again is probably a testament to Jerilyn's persuasive powers. But that's another blog. If you are curious, you can go to
http://patcareyanoldwifestales.blogspot.com/2011/07/practice-makes-perfect.html
I knew that you don't wear pants and a jacket, my work outfit, to the symphony, or even your clean khakis, so I bit the bullet, searched every rack in the whole store, and, voila!...there it was: a yellow, loosely pleated skirt and a matching top, sort of tunic length, in a fabric that kind of looks like the woven chain mail that a knight wore under his armor. With shoulder pads. And they were both rather flow-y.
At any rate, I actually pulled off the symphony thing without incident, and now I had a real dress that was not going to go to waste. It was that time in our lives when it seemed that all of our friends' kids and all of our kids' friends were getting married and a symphony dress is perfect for a wedding so I wore it often for a few years. Then it was my Easter dress a few times, okay, every Easter since then, and after the last two of my nephews were married it has been in my closet except for Easter and the occasional wedding every since.
So, naturally, when Dennis's client was getting married at a fancy hotel a couple of years ago, I didn't have to worry about what to wear. My wedding dress was waiting. Okay, the flow-y thing isn't going on any more, but I did cut out the shoulder pads somewhere along the way and I cut out that pesky tag that is beyond scratchy, always sticking up above your neckline for everybody to see when they are sitting behind you at a wedding.
It took me quite awhile to struggle into pantyhose, a piece of lingerie invented by the Marquis de Sade, I believe. And I did have a thing where my glasses fell apart at the last minute and I had to fasten them together with a straight pin that I stuck through the two holes where the ear piece is supposed to fasten onto the glass part (It's usually better to have the pins with the colorful bead at the top that make them easier to grasp when you are sewing but maybe this time the plain kind would have been better) but once I found a pair of shoes that were not flip-flops in the back of the closet we were good to go.
I guess it had been a few years since I wore the dress because I didn't remember it being that uncomfortable. I had rolled the skirt up into the elastic waist to get it the right length, but I always do that.The top was just kind of binding my neck. Ok, the flow-y thing is sort of a fitted thing now but it was more than that. During the whole ceremony it felt like I was wearing a straight jacket. Finally, between the wedding and the reception, I found a ladies' room and took a good look in the well-lighted mirror. I was wearing the top backwards. Do you know how hard it is to change a dress in a little stall in a public restroom? There may have been some gasping and groaning and another wedding guest sort of looked at me strangely when I came out.
Well, now I know to look for the darts in the front of the dress before I put it on. I'm sure you'll get to see it come Easter, unless we are invited to the symphony before then. I'm thinking of starting my own line of wedding/Easter/symphony dresses. I heard that the one Ivanka wore sold out in days.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
The Personal Touch
I've been thinking we are using too much technology to communicate, like Dennis texts me from the bedroom when I'm in the kitchen and wants me to bring him something. And even though our kids live right in our neighborhood we rarely go into each other's houses, like if Miranda has texted me that she wishes she had some Goldfish crackers and there is not a thing to eat at her house and she hasn't had breakfast and nobody is home. I will put some Goldfish crackers into a baggie and take them to her, five streets over. (What? That's what Grandma's do!) But when I get to their driveway I text her to come out to the car and get them instead of taking them in.
So, today when I wanted to take a newspaper article to our son and his wife, I decided I would not text from the driveway, even though Jake usually texts Miranda to come out when he is here to pick her up instead of coming in. I pulled up in front of the house, the driveway being full of both their vehicles, and actually got out of the car to go up to the door. Well, I started to. I may have forgotten how to really do that. Because when I opened the car door and stepped out there was a curb and muddy water running in front of it from the rain we had this morning. And I may have gotten my feet mixed up trying to decide whether to jump across the water to the curb or get my purple flip flops wet on the way. And suddenly the decision was taken from me and not only were my purple flip flops muddy but one knee of my pants was in the mud and the rest of me was kind of in the grass, only not really because my rear was in the air and my face was about five inches from the ground. And then I decided to just give in and laid my forehead on the grass while I evaluated if anything was damaged and tried to figure out how to turn over from my front to my back. Okay, I know you fitness freaks, excuse me, nimble young people, can't even comprehend that this would be difficult but, trust me, it is something I've tried before and it doesn't come easy and I already knew that without something to climb up on there was no way I was getting up from that position.
Now, during this time Dennis was sitting in the car waiting to see what I was going to do. He knows from past experience it is best not to make suggestions. He does, however, yell, "Are you okay? Are you okay?" And here is where that technology thing did come in handy. Sort of. "Call Jake," I said, Jake being in the house in front of us, maybe fifty feet away. So Dennis grabs his cell phone, runs through his contact list--No, no one knows anybody's real phone number any more. It's the technological age!--pushes a button and calls our friend, Jack, who lives in Shawnee, Oklahoma.
I hear him saying, "Oh, hi Jack. I guess I called you accidently. I was trying to call my son, Jake. Ya doing okay? Say, listen, let me call you back after I talk to Jake." while I am thrashing around on the ground giving the appearance of having a "Grandma Seizure". (I SAID I was sorry for making fun of the person who mixed up that word! Jeez!) And finally, he gets Jake on the cell phone which makes me happy because sometimes Jake prefers to only respond to texts and if you have ever waited for Dennis to text somebody you know you could write a three page letter, stamp it and send it by snail mail by the time he gets the text written.
But, anyway, Jake came rushing out the door, followed by Robyn, so I got to see them both at once and Jake grabbed onto my hands since I had managed to roll into a semi-sitting position, and pulled me up. And we all had a nice chat about the fact that he seems to have to pull either Dennis or me up a lot and I gave them the newspaper article I had brought and we went back home so I could change out of my muddy pants and purple flip flops while Dennis called Jack back and talked for twenty minutes. And now I am telling you all about it on Social Media. So much for limiting technology,
So, today when I wanted to take a newspaper article to our son and his wife, I decided I would not text from the driveway, even though Jake usually texts Miranda to come out when he is here to pick her up instead of coming in. I pulled up in front of the house, the driveway being full of both their vehicles, and actually got out of the car to go up to the door. Well, I started to. I may have forgotten how to really do that. Because when I opened the car door and stepped out there was a curb and muddy water running in front of it from the rain we had this morning. And I may have gotten my feet mixed up trying to decide whether to jump across the water to the curb or get my purple flip flops wet on the way. And suddenly the decision was taken from me and not only were my purple flip flops muddy but one knee of my pants was in the mud and the rest of me was kind of in the grass, only not really because my rear was in the air and my face was about five inches from the ground. And then I decided to just give in and laid my forehead on the grass while I evaluated if anything was damaged and tried to figure out how to turn over from my front to my back. Okay, I know you fitness freaks, excuse me, nimble young people, can't even comprehend that this would be difficult but, trust me, it is something I've tried before and it doesn't come easy and I already knew that without something to climb up on there was no way I was getting up from that position.
Now, during this time Dennis was sitting in the car waiting to see what I was going to do. He knows from past experience it is best not to make suggestions. He does, however, yell, "Are you okay? Are you okay?" And here is where that technology thing did come in handy. Sort of. "Call Jake," I said, Jake being in the house in front of us, maybe fifty feet away. So Dennis grabs his cell phone, runs through his contact list--No, no one knows anybody's real phone number any more. It's the technological age!--pushes a button and calls our friend, Jack, who lives in Shawnee, Oklahoma.
I hear him saying, "Oh, hi Jack. I guess I called you accidently. I was trying to call my son, Jake. Ya doing okay? Say, listen, let me call you back after I talk to Jake." while I am thrashing around on the ground giving the appearance of having a "Grandma Seizure". (I SAID I was sorry for making fun of the person who mixed up that word! Jeez!) And finally, he gets Jake on the cell phone which makes me happy because sometimes Jake prefers to only respond to texts and if you have ever waited for Dennis to text somebody you know you could write a three page letter, stamp it and send it by snail mail by the time he gets the text written.
But, anyway, Jake came rushing out the door, followed by Robyn, so I got to see them both at once and Jake grabbed onto my hands since I had managed to roll into a semi-sitting position, and pulled me up. And we all had a nice chat about the fact that he seems to have to pull either Dennis or me up a lot and I gave them the newspaper article I had brought and we went back home so I could change out of my muddy pants and purple flip flops while Dennis called Jack back and talked for twenty minutes. And now I am telling you all about it on Social Media. So much for limiting technology,
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Why I Live in Tornado Alley
Whenever there is a tornado outbreak in our state, many of our friends and relatives from around the country begin asking me on Facebook and on the phone, "How can you live there?" "Don't you think you need to move back here?" and to that I must say...
There are natural disasters almost everywhere you might live. California has earthquakes, Arizona and many states around it have wildfires, the East Coast and Gulf Coast have hurricanes, there are blizzards in the north and floods in the Midwest.
Being in the path of storms is the price we pay for living in the friendliest, most generous, kindest place in the world.Yes, we have disasters, but within minutes there are neighbors, and friends, and strangers who become friends lining up to help.They give money, the clothes off their backs, and their labor.They open up their homes.They pass out food.They travel across the state to go to the aid of hurting people.
We don't have to have a tornado or a building blown up by terrorists to bring out the love in our state.When you stand in line at the market, people chat.When you stop to admire someone's garden she is likely to invite you to the back yard to see more and you leave with some cuttings to plant in your own garden.The people on your street have a block party and everyone brings food and sits around talking and laughing. If you are out to dinner and there are storm warnings, you can call a neighbor who will brave the weather to go check on your dog.
There are churches practically on every corner here and the people who attend them live their faith. More than one church in our community offers free breakfast and lunch to kids all summer long because they know that when school is out many will be hungry without the free lunch program at their schools. Many churches partner with a school and weed their lawns, paint the playground equipment, monitor tests, donate school supplies, send encouraging notes and little treats to the teachers, and help out any way they can.
Oklahoma probably doesn't need me, but I need it. I need to feel that wind "come rushing down the plain" and mess my hair. I need to get my fingers in the red dirt that is impossible to wash out of a kid's clothes. I need to wake up the morning after a storm and see the sky, that unique Oklahoma blue, with white, big-bellied clouds that look like you could bounce on them.
I need to see the different cultures living together yet maintaining their own heritage. I need to hear the town names, like Gotebo and Bug Tussle and Hooker, and know that when I drive there, it could be that a dog will be taking its nap out on the highway because it sleeps there everyday and I can darn well drive around it! I need to know that when the school has a pet show in the parking lot someone is likely to trailer in a horse for her entry.
I need to know when the State Fair is in town and to hear the stories of friends from our church who go there to minister to the carnies, taking them blankets and bottles of shampoo. I need to hear the drawl of someone who asks me if I want to take the "buggy" he is finished with at the grocery store and tell me they are "fixin'" to move a "humongous" load of hay.
I have lived here more than forty years and raised my sons here. They don't remember anyplace else, although they were born in California. We left here once but Oklahoma red dirt is in our blood now, I guess, and we couldn't stand it. When we crossed the state line as we were moving back I let out the breath I must have been holding all along and knew I was home.
I wasn't born in Oklahoma, but I hope to stay here till God takes me to His heavenly home. Psalms 139:16 says "All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be," so no matter if there are tornadoes or illness or however God chooses to take me, I know I don't need to worry or be afraid. It is in His hands and His timing. I just want the trip to be from Oklahoma. It's pretty close to Heaven already.
There are natural disasters almost everywhere you might live. California has earthquakes, Arizona and many states around it have wildfires, the East Coast and Gulf Coast have hurricanes, there are blizzards in the north and floods in the Midwest.
Being in the path of storms is the price we pay for living in the friendliest, most generous, kindest place in the world.Yes, we have disasters, but within minutes there are neighbors, and friends, and strangers who become friends lining up to help.They give money, the clothes off their backs, and their labor.They open up their homes.They pass out food.They travel across the state to go to the aid of hurting people.
We don't have to have a tornado or a building blown up by terrorists to bring out the love in our state.When you stand in line at the market, people chat.When you stop to admire someone's garden she is likely to invite you to the back yard to see more and you leave with some cuttings to plant in your own garden.The people on your street have a block party and everyone brings food and sits around talking and laughing. If you are out to dinner and there are storm warnings, you can call a neighbor who will brave the weather to go check on your dog.
There are churches practically on every corner here and the people who attend them live their faith. More than one church in our community offers free breakfast and lunch to kids all summer long because they know that when school is out many will be hungry without the free lunch program at their schools. Many churches partner with a school and weed their lawns, paint the playground equipment, monitor tests, donate school supplies, send encouraging notes and little treats to the teachers, and help out any way they can.
Oklahoma probably doesn't need me, but I need it. I need to feel that wind "come rushing down the plain" and mess my hair. I need to get my fingers in the red dirt that is impossible to wash out of a kid's clothes. I need to wake up the morning after a storm and see the sky, that unique Oklahoma blue, with white, big-bellied clouds that look like you could bounce on them.
I need to see the different cultures living together yet maintaining their own heritage. I need to hear the town names, like Gotebo and Bug Tussle and Hooker, and know that when I drive there, it could be that a dog will be taking its nap out on the highway because it sleeps there everyday and I can darn well drive around it! I need to know that when the school has a pet show in the parking lot someone is likely to trailer in a horse for her entry.
I need to know when the State Fair is in town and to hear the stories of friends from our church who go there to minister to the carnies, taking them blankets and bottles of shampoo. I need to hear the drawl of someone who asks me if I want to take the "buggy" he is finished with at the grocery store and tell me they are "fixin'" to move a "humongous" load of hay.
I have lived here more than forty years and raised my sons here. They don't remember anyplace else, although they were born in California. We left here once but Oklahoma red dirt is in our blood now, I guess, and we couldn't stand it. When we crossed the state line as we were moving back I let out the breath I must have been holding all along and knew I was home.
I wasn't born in Oklahoma, but I hope to stay here till God takes me to His heavenly home. Psalms 139:16 says "All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be," so no matter if there are tornadoes or illness or however God chooses to take me, I know I don't need to worry or be afraid. It is in His hands and His timing. I just want the trip to be from Oklahoma. It's pretty close to Heaven already.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
A Quick Run Into The Grocery Store
My husband is waiting in the car with the dog when I decide I need to run into the grocery store for just a minute. I know it won't be long because I'm only getting a few things at the deli. "I'll be back in five minutes, tops." I tell him.
So I go to the line with a checker and a bagger at Reasor's so that I won't screw up in the self-check line and it will be faster. There is only one lady in front of me and she is almost finished. The checker begins to check my three items when I notice there is still a ham in the bottom of the lady's cart. I let them know.They send it through.
That's when I notice that the checker has put my things in the other lady's bag and charged her for them. I let them know. The checker backs everything out and starts again, the first lady pays with a check and leaves, they start again checking my items.
"Ten seventy-six" the checker says. I hand her eleven dollars and a penny. She gives me back a dollar. I say, "No, I think I only get a quarter." She calls over a supervisor to open her drawer, takes back the dollar and gives me a quarter.
The bagger hands me my bags and says "Only two bags today." I think that is kind of strange for only three items, but hey, I need bags for the kitty litter. Then I realize one of the bags is warm. I look inside and there is a big chicken leg. I did not get a chicken leg. Neither my husband nor I like chicken legs. I look at my receipt and they have charged me $1.99 for the chicken leg. I mention this to the bagger.
"Oh, sorry. Just go over to the Service Desk and tell them what happened. They'll take care of you." I do, and they do, giving me back $2.16 which included tax, but the lady who planned on the hot chicken leg for her dinner is going to be pretty disappointed when she gets home.
Maybe I'll try that self-check thing again next time.
So I go to the line with a checker and a bagger at Reasor's so that I won't screw up in the self-check line and it will be faster. There is only one lady in front of me and she is almost finished. The checker begins to check my three items when I notice there is still a ham in the bottom of the lady's cart. I let them know.They send it through.
That's when I notice that the checker has put my things in the other lady's bag and charged her for them. I let them know. The checker backs everything out and starts again, the first lady pays with a check and leaves, they start again checking my items.
"Ten seventy-six" the checker says. I hand her eleven dollars and a penny. She gives me back a dollar. I say, "No, I think I only get a quarter." She calls over a supervisor to open her drawer, takes back the dollar and gives me a quarter.
The bagger hands me my bags and says "Only two bags today." I think that is kind of strange for only three items, but hey, I need bags for the kitty litter. Then I realize one of the bags is warm. I look inside and there is a big chicken leg. I did not get a chicken leg. Neither my husband nor I like chicken legs. I look at my receipt and they have charged me $1.99 for the chicken leg. I mention this to the bagger.
"Oh, sorry. Just go over to the Service Desk and tell them what happened. They'll take care of you." I do, and they do, giving me back $2.16 which included tax, but the lady who planned on the hot chicken leg for her dinner is going to be pretty disappointed when she gets home.
Maybe I'll try that self-check thing again next time.
Friday, April 19, 2013
April Memories.
Eighteen years ago today I heard a loud bang that shook the house (we lived 12 miles from downtown) but I told the dog who was looking at me quizzically, "It's just a sonic boom." Then I turned on the TV.
I can never forget the images of people, blood streaming down their faces, being helped out of that mangled mess of a building. Babies were being carried out in people's arms too, but it was too late for some. Almost all of the babies and children you saw on the news were from the YMCA day-care across the street. The babies inside the Murrah Building did not come out.
The memory that still breaks my heart...I can hardly bear to recall it...is the story of two boys who were latch-key kids. I think they were about ten and twelve, maybe younger. They went home to an empty apartment after school and waited for their single mom to come home. On that April 19, they waited through the afternoon, till dinner time, till bedtime, but she still she didn't come. They were scared, but not because they had heard of the bombing; they hadn't. They just wanted their mom because she was always there for them and this night she wasn't. And she was never there again.
But the other images I see in my mind are of nurses and doctors running toward the building, their white coats flying behind them, pushing gurneys down the street from the St. Anthony's Hospital a few blocks away. I remember hearing on TV that people were calling and asking what needs can we meet? Construction companies donated cranes, helicopters were sent from far away, one man fashioned leather booties for the feet of the dogs who were climbing over and through the rubble searching for bodies.
The lines of cars waiting to drop off any supplies they could think of stretched miles down the highway. One family came and waited for hours in line, because their little girl wanted to bring Band-Aids. Oklahoma City is a small enough city that everybody either knew someone in the bombing or knew somebody that knew someone.
Since then we've had many more terrorist acts; 9/11 and now the Boston Marathon bombing. I guess it will never go away this side of Jesus coming again, but here is what I take away from it all: Terrorists have a goal to kill and disrupt and wreak havoc and on one level they do that. But if their goal is to divide us and turn Americans against each other and to destroy us, and it is, they are stupid. They fail every time.
What they do does not destroy our country, it brings us together
I can never forget the images of people, blood streaming down their faces, being helped out of that mangled mess of a building. Babies were being carried out in people's arms too, but it was too late for some. Almost all of the babies and children you saw on the news were from the YMCA day-care across the street. The babies inside the Murrah Building did not come out.
The memory that still breaks my heart...I can hardly bear to recall it...is the story of two boys who were latch-key kids. I think they were about ten and twelve, maybe younger. They went home to an empty apartment after school and waited for their single mom to come home. On that April 19, they waited through the afternoon, till dinner time, till bedtime, but she still she didn't come. They were scared, but not because they had heard of the bombing; they hadn't. They just wanted their mom because she was always there for them and this night she wasn't. And she was never there again.
But the other images I see in my mind are of nurses and doctors running toward the building, their white coats flying behind them, pushing gurneys down the street from the St. Anthony's Hospital a few blocks away. I remember hearing on TV that people were calling and asking what needs can we meet? Construction companies donated cranes, helicopters were sent from far away, one man fashioned leather booties for the feet of the dogs who were climbing over and through the rubble searching for bodies.
The lines of cars waiting to drop off any supplies they could think of stretched miles down the highway. One family came and waited for hours in line, because their little girl wanted to bring Band-Aids. Oklahoma City is a small enough city that everybody either knew someone in the bombing or knew somebody that knew someone.
Since then we've had many more terrorist acts; 9/11 and now the Boston Marathon bombing. I guess it will never go away this side of Jesus coming again, but here is what I take away from it all: Terrorists have a goal to kill and disrupt and wreak havoc and on one level they do that. But if their goal is to divide us and turn Americans against each other and to destroy us, and it is, they are stupid. They fail every time.
What they do does not destroy our country, it brings us together
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Saving the Planet
We try to do our part to save the planet, so we just dropped off three bags of newspapers for recycling and now I have to start a new bag.
It doesn't take long to fill a bag. Years ago I got the newspaper every day. I always read the obituaries, of course, to make sure I'm not in there, and because people have led such interesting lives that nobody even finds out about till they're dead. And the Funnies. I guess most people call them the Comics. I think they are essential to a good education and since our grandkids in Edmond don't get the paper at their house, I mail them the Sunday Funnies every week.
Then I read the headlines to my husband, at least the interesting ones, and I cut out important articles for all the other members of my family because I am the Keeper of The News, the last one in our immediate family who actually reads black and white words from real paper you hold in your hands.
I used to get the paper delivered every day but since I feel the need to read the whole thing if it shows up in my yard, no matter how old, it sometimes became a problem, like when it built up to a pile the size of a bumpy beached whale when we went out of town or something, and my neighbor very sweetly brought the paper in with the mail she was getting for us. (You can't call and have it stopped because I saw on TV that sometimes burglers have a part-time job in the circulation department and then they know you are aren't home!) I kept trying to catch up, starting with the first day we were gone and then the next day, but there was another one out there each morning and it was like a bad dream where you are running in place but never getting anywhere. I thought I caught Dennis on the internet looking up how you can get someone on that "Hoarders, Buried Alive" show on TV, but, of course, he denied it. I mean, please! He could still walk down the hallway if he turned sideways.
So I took a deep breath, called the Circulation Department and asked to get just the Sunday paper. It is full of coupons as well as all the interesting ads...I always call and tell my daughter-in-law when something good is on sale...so I have to get the Sunday paper. But they had this "Week-end Special": if you took the Sunday paper, you got Saturday, which has the real estate ads. I'm not planning to move but I like to see what million dollar houses are really going for these days. And Friday's paper came along with it. It is full of all the entertainment places you might want to go on the week-end if you aren't busy reading the newspaper. And the package cost almost the same as just the Sunday. "Okay," I said. "I'll take the Week-end Special."
And then a few months later they added Thursdays. For free! You can't turn down free. But that is all! Of course, the neighborhood paper that they throw in your yard whether you ask for it or not comes on Wednesday mornings, and the food ads, which are almost like a small newspaper, come in the mail on Tuesdays. So now, Mondays are the only days we don't get some papers that are going to need to be recycled. I won't even start about the magazines we get.
I like to use paper grocery bags to store them because they are just the right size and they are recycleable too. You just dump the whole thing in the bin. They are a little hard to find anymore, though. I used to get them from Reasor's but they have changed over to plastic and the only place who still uses paper that I know of is Braum's, the ice cream place.
So, I guess I don't have a choice. If I want to be keep on saving the planet, I'm going to have to start eating more ice cream.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Things To Be Thankful For While Waiting...And Waiting
As you know, I am very careful about checking to make sure my keys are in my purse before I lock the car, and actually have to touch them again when I get out of the car and close the door. Except when I don't.
I don't know! I was at a store. I saw that I had been overcharged. I grabbed the item. I grabbed the receipt. I grabbed my purse. I did not grab my keys. I clicked the button to lock the car. I went back in the store.
They were very nice and refunded the difference that I had paid, but when I left the store and reached into my purse for the keys, no keys. Of course, they were not in my purse, they were in the ignition of the car. So, as it turned out, I had plenty of time to reflect on my blessings while I waited for the locksmith. Here are some of the things I am thankful for:
I'm thankful that the store I was at had a sofa display in their entry and I had a comfortable seat to wait where I could see the car, even though the manager did come out and look at me a couple of times but I explained the situation and he said "Don't worry about it, people do it all the time," but then a homeless-looking guy came and sat down and read the paper but he didn't stay as long as I did.
I'm thankful I had my purse with me, which had my phone in it, and that my purse has a long handle which I could wrap around my arm three times and then kind of sit on it, even though the area I was in is very nice and no purse snatchers seemed to be lurking. Of course they wouldn't look like they were lurking, would they? They would make themselves look like regular people, then at the last second...SWOOSH!...they've got your purse.
I'm thankful it wasn't freezing outside like it was the day before because that entry way wasn't heated and even though they had some blankets on sale they had not displayed them in the entry way.
I'm thankful my daughter-in-law and sister were home so I could have somebody to talk to on the phone while I waited because the people coming in and out of the store didn't seem to want to chat.
I'm thankful Big Lots has a bathroom right in front of their entryway, even though the person who cleans it probably had not gotten to it yet because he was busy restocking shelves and changing price signs on the shelves because the reason that I got the good deal on the phone charger I bought was that the sign was still up from Black Friday, apparently, but the computer had changed the price although they honored it anyway when I went back inside to tell them I was overcharged. Without taking my keys with me.
I'm thankful I didn't have a doctor's appointment to go to that I was going to be late for since I was spending my time lounging on the couch in the entryway of Big Lots, and that I had already dropped Dennis off at work instead of stopping at the store on the way because if I had, he would have been wa-a-y late for work and he gets a little testy when we are running late to get him to work. Sheesh! It's not like he punches a time clock or anything!
I'm thankful there were no bears loping around the parking lot looking in the windows or walking in front of the invisible beam that lets people in the doors because I have seen some on TV that do that.
I'm thankful we have roadside assistance even if they were very busy and couldn't get to me for an hour and when the guy got there he had to spend more time on the paperwork than he it took him to unlock the car and it was kind of disturbing that someone who knows what they were doing could get into the car that fast. But he didn't look like he spent his off-time stealing cars. He looked very nice. Really. But he may have gotten my address when he was doing the paperwork.
I am NOT thankful for the greedy executives at automobile manufacturers who had the bright idea to make their car keys so that they may not be reproduced under penalty of your car shutting down if you try to insert a made-from-Ace Hardware-key in the key slot so if you want an extra key you have to buy it from them and pay half a month's mortgage payment for it. I just want one to keep in my wallet to open the door so I can get my real keys from the ignition if I ever lock them in the car. Which I never do.
I don't know! I was at a store. I saw that I had been overcharged. I grabbed the item. I grabbed the receipt. I grabbed my purse. I did not grab my keys. I clicked the button to lock the car. I went back in the store.
They were very nice and refunded the difference that I had paid, but when I left the store and reached into my purse for the keys, no keys. Of course, they were not in my purse, they were in the ignition of the car. So, as it turned out, I had plenty of time to reflect on my blessings while I waited for the locksmith. Here are some of the things I am thankful for:
I'm thankful that the store I was at had a sofa display in their entry and I had a comfortable seat to wait where I could see the car, even though the manager did come out and look at me a couple of times but I explained the situation and he said "Don't worry about it, people do it all the time," but then a homeless-looking guy came and sat down and read the paper but he didn't stay as long as I did.
I'm thankful I had my purse with me, which had my phone in it, and that my purse has a long handle which I could wrap around my arm three times and then kind of sit on it, even though the area I was in is very nice and no purse snatchers seemed to be lurking. Of course they wouldn't look like they were lurking, would they? They would make themselves look like regular people, then at the last second...SWOOSH!...they've got your purse.
I'm thankful it wasn't freezing outside like it was the day before because that entry way wasn't heated and even though they had some blankets on sale they had not displayed them in the entry way.
I'm thankful my daughter-in-law and sister were home so I could have somebody to talk to on the phone while I waited because the people coming in and out of the store didn't seem to want to chat.
I'm thankful Big Lots has a bathroom right in front of their entryway, even though the person who cleans it probably had not gotten to it yet because he was busy restocking shelves and changing price signs on the shelves because the reason that I got the good deal on the phone charger I bought was that the sign was still up from Black Friday, apparently, but the computer had changed the price although they honored it anyway when I went back inside to tell them I was overcharged. Without taking my keys with me.
I'm thankful I didn't have a doctor's appointment to go to that I was going to be late for since I was spending my time lounging on the couch in the entryway of Big Lots, and that I had already dropped Dennis off at work instead of stopping at the store on the way because if I had, he would have been wa-a-y late for work and he gets a little testy when we are running late to get him to work. Sheesh! It's not like he punches a time clock or anything!
I'm thankful there were no bears loping around the parking lot looking in the windows or walking in front of the invisible beam that lets people in the doors because I have seen some on TV that do that.
I'm thankful we have roadside assistance even if they were very busy and couldn't get to me for an hour and when the guy got there he had to spend more time on the paperwork than he it took him to unlock the car and it was kind of disturbing that someone who knows what they were doing could get into the car that fast. But he didn't look like he spent his off-time stealing cars. He looked very nice. Really. But he may have gotten my address when he was doing the paperwork.
I am NOT thankful for the greedy executives at automobile manufacturers who had the bright idea to make their car keys so that they may not be reproduced under penalty of your car shutting down if you try to insert a made-from-Ace Hardware-key in the key slot so if you want an extra key you have to buy it from them and pay half a month's mortgage payment for it. I just want one to keep in my wallet to open the door so I can get my real keys from the ignition if I ever lock them in the car. Which I never do.
Monday, November 26, 2012
The Perfect Guest
Okay, I know Thanksgiving is over and everyone but me has the house cleaned, all their Christmas decorations up and is sitting by the fireplace drinking hot chocolate, but just so you will be ready for next year, I'm going to tell you how to have a relaxing Thanksgiving dinner.
Go to someone else's house and be a guest. You have to be a semi-stranger guest, so that when you say "Is there anything I can do to help?" They say, "Oh, no. Things are almost ready. Just stay seated." Then eat everything till your pants are ready to split and your hostess will feel complimented. The only flaw in this plan is that there are no leftovers for lunch the next day.
The other way is almost as good. Have the dinner at your house but invite someone like my daughter-in-law, Jerilyn, to come early, and let her help. She will wind up doing almost all the work. You just say, "The turkey is always so good at your house. How is it you fix it?" and she will prepare the turkey. Then you say, "Everybody loves your dressing so much. Why don't you just make it here?" and she will.
Then, since she is already in the kitchen, she will probably stir things on the stove, mix up casseroles, make the gravy, (especially when you say "I absolutely love your gravy and you know I can never make it as good as you do!" ) and get things on the table. You can get the dishes down because you know where they are and she is busy. Except the ones that are up too high. She will stop what she's doing and reach the top shelf for you.
If the kids are big enough, you can get them to clear the table when dinner is over, but then when everybody has scattered to watch football or play video games, your special guest will stay in the kitchen with you and help with the dishes. She will scrape the plates and hand them to you to load into the dishwasher since no one else can load your dishwasher the right way and you always move things around anyway if someone else put them in. But she will probably put soap and water in the sink and hand wash the things that are too big for the dishwasher and scrub the really tough ones till she breaks a fingernail. And she'll wipe down the counters.
And then, if you are really lucky, she will whip the cream, get everybody their desserts, cut a piece of pie and hand it to you and say, "Go sit down and put your feet up. You've been working all day."
You've got eleven months to decide who you are going to invite next year, so get planning. And, no, you can't have Jerilyn. She's mine!
Go to someone else's house and be a guest. You have to be a semi-stranger guest, so that when you say "Is there anything I can do to help?" They say, "Oh, no. Things are almost ready. Just stay seated." Then eat everything till your pants are ready to split and your hostess will feel complimented. The only flaw in this plan is that there are no leftovers for lunch the next day.
The other way is almost as good. Have the dinner at your house but invite someone like my daughter-in-law, Jerilyn, to come early, and let her help. She will wind up doing almost all the work. You just say, "The turkey is always so good at your house. How is it you fix it?" and she will prepare the turkey. Then you say, "Everybody loves your dressing so much. Why don't you just make it here?" and she will.
Then, since she is already in the kitchen, she will probably stir things on the stove, mix up casseroles, make the gravy, (especially when you say "I absolutely love your gravy and you know I can never make it as good as you do!" ) and get things on the table. You can get the dishes down because you know where they are and she is busy. Except the ones that are up too high. She will stop what she's doing and reach the top shelf for you.
If the kids are big enough, you can get them to clear the table when dinner is over, but then when everybody has scattered to watch football or play video games, your special guest will stay in the kitchen with you and help with the dishes. She will scrape the plates and hand them to you to load into the dishwasher since no one else can load your dishwasher the right way and you always move things around anyway if someone else put them in. But she will probably put soap and water in the sink and hand wash the things that are too big for the dishwasher and scrub the really tough ones till she breaks a fingernail. And she'll wipe down the counters.
And then, if you are really lucky, she will whip the cream, get everybody their desserts, cut a piece of pie and hand it to you and say, "Go sit down and put your feet up. You've been working all day."
You've got eleven months to decide who you are going to invite next year, so get planning. And, no, you can't have Jerilyn. She's mine!
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Mutiny on the...(I was going to say Brownty, but that's too cheesy even for me.)
Just as I was settling down into this calm, empty nest and feeling pretty smug about surviving the Terrible Twos and the Angst-ridden Adolescents, just when I thought I was finished dealing with my share of the rebellion in this world, suddenly, in my twilight years, when things are supposed to be smooth, with no more foot-stomping "I do it by self!", with no more eye-rolling "Whatever!", I am now faced with the most insidious battle of all: The Belligerent Brows.
What happened? I look in the mirror and apparently Andy Rooney left me his eyebrows in his will! His white ones! There are some that are three inches long. The ones that are not making little corkscrews are reaching for my earlobes.
There are black ones too. I've never had black eyebrows before in my life! To think I wasted all those years trying to perfect little strokes with eyebrow pencils and brush-on eyebrow powder in an attempt to transform my pale blond eyebrows into visible ones. But are they the nice, silky smooth dark eyebrows I longed for as a girl? No-o-o. These are the consistency of a broom straw and just as straight. They poke horizontally out at the world.
No problem, you say. Grab those eyebrow tweezers. But here is another irony of middle, okay past-middle, age. To see up close enough to pluck my eyebrows I need reading glasses. If I am wearing reading glasses, I can't reach my eyebrows to pluck them.
I try a magnifying mirror. OH MY GOSH! That is way more than I wanted to see!
So now I'm faced with a dillema: Do I pluck out all these rebellious eyebrows that will not lie down or smooth out? Every one? Because if I do, I will be bald there. There is nothing left but bristle brows. The eyebrows of my youth have disappeared. Well, maybe they have not totally disappeared. I think they flew south.
I might have I spotted them on my upper lip the other day.
What happened? I look in the mirror and apparently Andy Rooney left me his eyebrows in his will! His white ones! There are some that are three inches long. The ones that are not making little corkscrews are reaching for my earlobes.
There are black ones too. I've never had black eyebrows before in my life! To think I wasted all those years trying to perfect little strokes with eyebrow pencils and brush-on eyebrow powder in an attempt to transform my pale blond eyebrows into visible ones. But are they the nice, silky smooth dark eyebrows I longed for as a girl? No-o-o. These are the consistency of a broom straw and just as straight. They poke horizontally out at the world.
No problem, you say. Grab those eyebrow tweezers. But here is another irony of middle, okay past-middle, age. To see up close enough to pluck my eyebrows I need reading glasses. If I am wearing reading glasses, I can't reach my eyebrows to pluck them.
I try a magnifying mirror. OH MY GOSH! That is way more than I wanted to see!
So now I'm faced with a dillema: Do I pluck out all these rebellious eyebrows that will not lie down or smooth out? Every one? Because if I do, I will be bald there. There is nothing left but bristle brows. The eyebrows of my youth have disappeared. Well, maybe they have not totally disappeared. I think they flew south.
I might have I spotted them on my upper lip the other day.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Meet Gus
Gus, the Wonder Yorkie has come to believe that I am the source of all that is good, or at least the source of his food and water, and the daily home-made treat, and occasional chew toy. He loves me. If I am sitting, he is in my lap. He wants to be with me wherever I am, will follow me from room to room, and will dash ahead of me so that he can reach the bathroom before the door is closed, then lie patiently on the bath mat and wait, unless he can talk me into holding him.
He always helps me in the kitchen by hanging around under the cutting board to catch whatever I drop, then runs to the rug (being the aristocratic dog that he is, he prefers to eat in the dining area) where he sometimes eats it, sometimes leaves it till later. He has even been known to gobble down broccoli or peppers or lettuce. His favorite place in the kitchen is in front of the open dishwasher door when I am loading it. If there is a spatula or a spoon still holding remnants of dinner, he does his best to lick it clean. (Stop making that face. The water in the dishwasher is way hot enough to sterilize anything he licks.)
When I leave the house, he makes a big show of sitting obediently on the carpet where I tell him to wait, then, when he hears the car pulling into the gararge, runs back to that same spot, pretending he has been there all along. But he only stays there for the moment it takes for him to think he has fooled me. In a nano-second, he is running and jumping and turning in circles till I pick him up, as glad to see me as if I were the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes crew bringing a giant check with a promise of five-thousand dog bones a week for life.
Come bedtime he snuggles into the "nest" I make him by folding our comforter into a big pile, and gently snores for an hour or two, but soon he decides to move and tiptoes across the bed to a better spot: against the back of my legs, where my lap would be if I would just stop that silly sleeping thing and sit up so he could curl into in his usual spot. He makes up for the difference by pushing against me as tightly as he can, like a night time hug.
Who couldn't adore such a dog?
He does, however, have just one tiny flaw. When he is confronted with a beautiful woman, er, female dog, he forgets that he was neutered years ago and attempts to impress her by hiking his leg on the nearest wall or piece of furniture, or perhaps any purses he spots on the floor nearby. It does not impress the humans who own the wall or the furniture or the purse.
And so, when Gus goes visiting, he must suffer the humiliation of wearing a diaper. Not those tiny dog diapers that cost fifty dollars apiece, or thereabouts, and slide off at the slightest wiggle. No, Gus wears a a real baby diaper that wraps around his middle, covering any offending parts, and then on top of that, to make sure the diaper doesn't come off, because he is a very resourceful Yorkie, a onesie. Not a silly doggie dress, a real baby onesie, size nine months. The three tiny snaps at the bottom are perfect for holding it on him and still leaving room for his stump of a tail to hang out.
Here is Gus's picture in his onesie. If you are ever lucky enough to meet him, don't tell him I showed it to you. As you can see, he is embarrassed enough when he wears it.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
If The Shoe Fits...
Okay, who among you wears those crazy shoes that are as tall as the Eiffel Tower and cost about as much?
My curiosity got the better of me the other day at Marshall's and I pulled out my tape measure right there in the shoe department and checked to see how tall the heels were on a pair of....umm, lets call them...amazing, blue shoes I saw. The heels were five inches tall and then there was an inch of platform under the toe box. I guess they had to add that part in front or you would fall forward onto your face every time you tried to take a step.
I know I'm an old lady and I wear old lady shoes, so maybe I just don't get it, but....Why? Not only are shoes like that impossible to walk in but they are ruining your feet in the long run, killing them in the short....walk. Or, make that stumble. And here's a newsflash: some of them make the wearer look like a hooker. Sorry, but that's my humble, okay, not so humble, opinion.
So I went home and looked online. I found some so tall that you would have to wear them like ballet point-shoes. Can you imagine walking around on the tips of your big toes all day? Do these look attractive to you? Am I that out of it?
And guess what?? Tonight on the news I saw a report that some women are having surgery, their toes shortened or their pinkie toes REMOVED, to be able to wear their own personal torture chambers. Are you kidding me??? Where is their self-esteem? Where is their common sense?
Here is what I think, girls: The Emperor Has No Clothes! Just because something is in fashion, just because something costs a whole month's pay, just because somebody says something is the latest "must have", does not make it beautiful.
Less than a century ago young Chinese girls were horribly deformed and crippled by foot binding because it was thought to make them beautiful. Does that ring a bell?
Ladies, please! Just walk away....if you can.
My curiosity got the better of me the other day at Marshall's and I pulled out my tape measure right there in the shoe department and checked to see how tall the heels were on a pair of....umm, lets call them...amazing, blue shoes I saw. The heels were five inches tall and then there was an inch of platform under the toe box. I guess they had to add that part in front or you would fall forward onto your face every time you tried to take a step.
I know I'm an old lady and I wear old lady shoes, so maybe I just don't get it, but....Why? Not only are shoes like that impossible to walk in but they are ruining your feet in the long run, killing them in the short....walk. Or, make that stumble. And here's a newsflash: some of them make the wearer look like a hooker. Sorry, but that's my humble, okay, not so humble, opinion.
So I went home and looked online. I found some so tall that you would have to wear them like ballet point-shoes. Can you imagine walking around on the tips of your big toes all day? Do these look attractive to you? Am I that out of it?
And guess what?? Tonight on the news I saw a report that some women are having surgery, their toes shortened or their pinkie toes REMOVED, to be able to wear their own personal torture chambers. Are you kidding me??? Where is their self-esteem? Where is their common sense?
Here is what I think, girls: The Emperor Has No Clothes! Just because something is in fashion, just because something costs a whole month's pay, just because somebody says something is the latest "must have", does not make it beautiful.
Less than a century ago young Chinese girls were horribly deformed and crippled by foot binding because it was thought to make them beautiful. Does that ring a bell?
Ladies, please! Just walk away....if you can.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Just Sittin' There
On Facebook lately there have been several posts from young moms who are celebrating successful potty training, some including pictures. Yay! Cue the balloons! I am so happy for them. But for every one who's genius child finally "gets it", there are five sets of parents out there in dispare, convinced that their kid is going to have to take his diapers to school in his backpack.
I hear that some people will give an M&M for a successful performance on the potty. One M&M! Come on! No wonder it's taking awhile. When I was baby-sitting one of my grandkids every day and her mother decided it was time to work on potty-training, at Grandma's house she got a whole Hershey bar when she did something extraordinary! (The grandkid, not the mom)
Here's my take on it. I think every child has a date embedded in his brain. If the parents start trying to potty-train him or her six months before that day, they will think it takes six months for potty-training and they will believe this is a hard and fast rule for all children. If, by some miracle, the parents happen to start training their child the day before the pre-ordained date, they will think, "Wow! We are great parents. We potty-trained our kid in only one day!"
Sometimes the little darling just isn't ready. I am not naming names, since I want to still have access to my grandchildren after this is posted, but I know a child who was so enamored of his potty chair when he was two, that when it was time for his dad to get home from work, he would carry the chair outside with him and sit on it while he waited by the driveway. And he brought it into the living room when we, I mean, his parents, were having a church Youth Group meeting and sat on it in the middle of the circle.
The other child in that family did not get the message quite as early. While the mom was not too disturbed by this, his grandmother was mortified. She said, "Any child who can tell you he wants his diaper changed....and bring you the diaper!!!...is old enough to do it himself."
But, his pediatrician said, "I guarantee you he will not be taking diapers to kindergarten with him. Leave him alone!"
And the kid said, when pressed by his grandmother, "Jesus doesn't want me to."
Then that special, pre-ordained day came along. His aunt gave him a package of Spider Man underwear for Christmas. He laid down his diapers and never looked back. I'm pretty sure that if they made Spider Man underwear in his size, he'd still be wearing them today.
Take heart. It will happen when it happens.
I hear that some people will give an M&M for a successful performance on the potty. One M&M! Come on! No wonder it's taking awhile. When I was baby-sitting one of my grandkids every day and her mother decided it was time to work on potty-training, at Grandma's house she got a whole Hershey bar when she did something extraordinary! (The grandkid, not the mom)
Here's my take on it. I think every child has a date embedded in his brain. If the parents start trying to potty-train him or her six months before that day, they will think it takes six months for potty-training and they will believe this is a hard and fast rule for all children. If, by some miracle, the parents happen to start training their child the day before the pre-ordained date, they will think, "Wow! We are great parents. We potty-trained our kid in only one day!"
Sometimes the little darling just isn't ready. I am not naming names, since I want to still have access to my grandchildren after this is posted, but I know a child who was so enamored of his potty chair when he was two, that when it was time for his dad to get home from work, he would carry the chair outside with him and sit on it while he waited by the driveway. And he brought it into the living room when we, I mean, his parents, were having a church Youth Group meeting and sat on it in the middle of the circle.
The other child in that family did not get the message quite as early. While the mom was not too disturbed by this, his grandmother was mortified. She said, "Any child who can tell you he wants his diaper changed....and bring you the diaper!!!...is old enough to do it himself."
But, his pediatrician said, "I guarantee you he will not be taking diapers to kindergarten with him. Leave him alone!"
And the kid said, when pressed by his grandmother, "Jesus doesn't want me to."
Then that special, pre-ordained day came along. His aunt gave him a package of Spider Man underwear for Christmas. He laid down his diapers and never looked back. I'm pretty sure that if they made Spider Man underwear in his size, he'd still be wearing them today.
Take heart. It will happen when it happens.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Celebrity Sightings
One time in the St. Louis airport I saw the guy who played Mr. Carlin, one of the people in Bob Newhart's therapy group on the Bob Newhart Show, the old one, when he was married to Emily. I was in a quandary about what to do. On the one hand, I thought it was cool to see him, but on the other, I didn't want to disturb him, but then again, since he wasn't a big star or anything, maybe he would have enjoyed being recognized, but by the time I thought through all that, he was gone. You can see how confusing it is.
I hear celebrities complain about the paparazzi and they have no privacy and the guy who was in those Twilight movies was just on the news saying he had been in a depression for three years because he couldn't go anywhere without being recognized. Excuse me? Three and a half years ago was he not begging anybody who would talk to him to put him in a movie or something so he could be famous?
When we lived in California I thought we ought to be seeing movie stars right and left, walking down the streets or at the beach, but it didn't happen. I guess maybe they didn't hang out at the same places we did, although once I saw some guy that looked really familiar----I am sure he played the bad guy in a bunch of movies, but I never figured out his name----at the KFC. I guess he was a minor player, to be picking up his own bucket of chicken and all. The big stars have people for that.
Here in Oklahoma, seeing somebody famous is even less likely, even though Christen Chenoweth is from Broken Arrow, where we live, and went to high school here and maybe when our grand kids get up there they can see where her locker was or something, but really, what kind of people go around looking for "stars" and stuff? People need to get a life, is all I have to say about that!
Of course, when it is foisted upon you, what can you do? Awhile back Dennis and I were just leaving McDonald's after breakfast when we saw a huge, fancy looking bus filling up at the gas station right across from us. And on the front, where the destination usually is, on that sign above the front windshield, you know? There in big letters it said "DEMI LOVATO". Really!
Of course, I wouldn't know Demi Lovato if she looked right at me, (I thought it was the girl from "iCarly" but our granddaughter, Hayley, said that was somebody else) but I remembered hearing Hayley talk about her. Anyway, of course I had to turn around and go back and take a picture of the front of the bus. For our granddaughter, of course. And then, I thought, "What the heck?" and I went around and up the steps and into the bus!!! Can you believe it? In case I could get an autograph. For the grand kids.
There was somebody sitting in the driver's seat and I said "Pardon me. Is this Demi Lovato's bus?" (like I hadn't just taken a picture of the name on the front) And he said "No, this is her cousin's bus. Her cousin isn't here either, but Miss Lovato supplies her with this bus. You can take pictures if you want." So, I did!
Imagine! Me! I was on Demi Lovato's cousin's bus!!! You can touch my hand next time you see me if you want. I might grace you with an autograph.
I hear celebrities complain about the paparazzi and they have no privacy and the guy who was in those Twilight movies was just on the news saying he had been in a depression for three years because he couldn't go anywhere without being recognized. Excuse me? Three and a half years ago was he not begging anybody who would talk to him to put him in a movie or something so he could be famous?
When we lived in California I thought we ought to be seeing movie stars right and left, walking down the streets or at the beach, but it didn't happen. I guess maybe they didn't hang out at the same places we did, although once I saw some guy that looked really familiar----I am sure he played the bad guy in a bunch of movies, but I never figured out his name----at the KFC. I guess he was a minor player, to be picking up his own bucket of chicken and all. The big stars have people for that.
Here in Oklahoma, seeing somebody famous is even less likely, even though Christen Chenoweth is from Broken Arrow, where we live, and went to high school here and maybe when our grand kids get up there they can see where her locker was or something, but really, what kind of people go around looking for "stars" and stuff? People need to get a life, is all I have to say about that!
Of course, when it is foisted upon you, what can you do? Awhile back Dennis and I were just leaving McDonald's after breakfast when we saw a huge, fancy looking bus filling up at the gas station right across from us. And on the front, where the destination usually is, on that sign above the front windshield, you know? There in big letters it said "DEMI LOVATO". Really!
Of course, I wouldn't know Demi Lovato if she looked right at me, (I thought it was the girl from "iCarly" but our granddaughter, Hayley, said that was somebody else) but I remembered hearing Hayley talk about her. Anyway, of course I had to turn around and go back and take a picture of the front of the bus. For our granddaughter, of course. And then, I thought, "What the heck?" and I went around and up the steps and into the bus!!! Can you believe it? In case I could get an autograph. For the grand kids.
There was somebody sitting in the driver's seat and I said "Pardon me. Is this Demi Lovato's bus?" (like I hadn't just taken a picture of the name on the front) And he said "No, this is her cousin's bus. Her cousin isn't here either, but Miss Lovato supplies her with this bus. You can take pictures if you want." So, I did!
Imagine! Me! I was on Demi Lovato's cousin's bus!!! You can touch my hand next time you see me if you want. I might grace you with an autograph.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)