tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70869374022666138912024-02-07T19:25:11.635-08:00MOTHER'S DAZEMOTHER'S DAZE is hilarious laugh out loud look at the life of a mom.Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-57144581823497984832019-05-16T10:10:00.001-07:002019-05-16T10:10:50.225-07:00Dirty Little Secrets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfFcA2yEhwT7NLDqGRKvgmY_I9UfVMuZkRzWH3NTamqetcc3EXv0v-wFp_mSQMPyVWir4PxSOOrDWKnze8ulIiyu12VbW3msIPpDzKFaO8RnjmXoQ_GLJ4PhbdjkAfOcCwDCZNCvNzee/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="389" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfFcA2yEhwT7NLDqGRKvgmY_I9UfVMuZkRzWH3NTamqetcc3EXv0v-wFp_mSQMPyVWir4PxSOOrDWKnze8ulIiyu12VbW3msIPpDzKFaO8RnjmXoQ_GLJ4PhbdjkAfOcCwDCZNCvNzee/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
I got a package a few days before Mothers Day. The box said Whole Foods. I couldn’t wait to taste whatever was inside. The best part was that no one was home so I didn’t have to share. I ripped the box open and there, nestled inside, was a bag of dirt. I got dirt for Mother’s Day. The package said it was full of nutrients but I certainly wasn’t going to taste it.<br /><br />Someone is really cleaning up in the dirt department. Selling small packages of dirt must be the new trend. I wonder how much my garden dirt would cost by the cup. <br /><br />Target was the first store to dig into the dirt profits. Half a cup of packaged dirt for three dollars. Is Whole Foods is trying to scoop them? When I first saw Target selling dirt I wondered, who on earth would be dumb enough to buy dirt. Now I know—my youngest son.<br /><br />I wasn’t sure how I felt about getting dirt for Mother’s Day. It was embarrassing. It is hard to brag to your friends that you got dirt for Mother’s Day. Normally Mom’s get flowers in their dirt. <br /><br />Believe it or not there was a bright side to this whole story. Two days later the box I opened was full of succulents to plant inside the dirt. However, I was left to wonder. WHY WOULD HE SEND DIRT! Does he not remember that I have seven gardens plots overflowing with dirt. I could actually hike the 30 feet and dig up free dirt for the plants.<br /><br />My son prides himself on his intelligence and his frugality. This is the boy who would not spend a dime on anything, not even new clothes, when he was growing up. He wore his pants until they were shredded and then he would gather up the shreds and tie them up below his knees. Now he’s throwing his money away to send dirt through the mail. <br /><br />I hope you all had a wonderful Mothers Day with no dirty little secrets. <div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-42918943374603701482018-11-19T13:09:00.003-08:002018-11-19T13:13:23.804-08:00HOW DO YOU MICROWAVE A TWENTY FIVE POUND TURKEY?<a href="mailto:jjaneistill@yahoo.com">How To Microwave A 25 Pound Turkey</a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVL3yGsh0B1YNMCThcPOnOcV64X-xbrqAM2y1e2XBNMW3nLBpFRAS6Q3NCZRX6UabtZeYX29GEZpClAc0LMGp1E9WKy-9IDz3FIb8J8zFbC1nIbs7Rb7qOXY6qX5dplolbmAt6HSKfl_i/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="389" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVL3yGsh0B1YNMCThcPOnOcV64X-xbrqAM2y1e2XBNMW3nLBpFRAS6Q3NCZRX6UabtZeYX29GEZpClAc0LMGp1E9WKy-9IDz3FIb8J8zFbC1nIbs7Rb7qOXY6qX5dplolbmAt6HSKfl_i/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_2043617952"></span><span id="goog_2043617953"></span>I received this alarming text from my daughter Briana the other day. " Mom how do you microwave a twenty five pound turkey? "<br />
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"Briana you DO NOT microwave a turkey?"<br />
<br />
"Why not?" <br />
<br />
"What is wrong with your head?"<br />
<br />
"Gerald got a turkey for free and defrosted it and wants me to cook it. We want to eat it right away."<br />
<br />
"Briana, Thanksgiving is only a week away. You will be sick of turkey?"<br />
<br />
"Mom, it’s Gerald, I’m cooking it now."<br />
<br />
"Briana, you are in charge of bringing pickles for dinner. DO NOT microwave them."<br />
<br />
Turns out I was the real turkey here. The butt of a joke my children think is hilarious. Apparently if you don’t already know, innocent, unsuspecting mothers all over America are receiving this alarming text. Allow me give you a little history that made this seem like a perfectly reasonable question from my youngest daughter.<br />
<br />
Briana is a culinary illiterate. She was i6 the first time she made a cake. It was from a cake mix. In less than five minutes she was calling me into the kitchen for help. I could not imagine her problem. The instructions were clearly written and illustrated, on the back of the box. But I am the lucky mother of a truly exceptional child. She put all the ingredients into the box and could not figure out how to fit the egg beater into the box mix it up.<br />
<br />
If Briana has peculiar cooking habits but Gerald's concept of eating is equally strange. They cook one thing and eat it until it is completly gone. He brought home a 45 pound ham for just the two of them. I don’t know how many weeks they ate on that thing but I’m pretty sure it included ham smoothies for breakfast and ham infused hot chocolate for snacks. <br />
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However strange all this may be, I am happy that my sweet grandson will not be dining on a pasty, microwaved turkey for his first Thanksgiving.<div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-31096395595359169382018-05-06T23:06:00.005-07:002018-05-06T23:15:20.590-07:00A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfFcA2yEhwT7NLDqGRKvgmY_I9UfVMuZkRzWH3NTamqetcc3EXv0v-wFp_mSQMPyVWir4PxSOOrDWKnze8ulIiyu12VbW3msIPpDzKFaO8RnjmXoQ_GLJ4PhbdjkAfOcCwDCZNCvNzee/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="389" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfFcA2yEhwT7NLDqGRKvgmY_I9UfVMuZkRzWH3NTamqetcc3EXv0v-wFp_mSQMPyVWir4PxSOOrDWKnze8ulIiyu12VbW3msIPpDzKFaO8RnjmXoQ_GLJ4PhbdjkAfOcCwDCZNCvNzee/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
Tonight I told my daughter Kristjana that I might write a blog from her perspective.<br />
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"How are you going to do that?" She asked. "You don't know my point of view." <br />
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I gave her my half smile and a look that says, "You foolish, foolish foolish girl. I am your mother, after all."<br />
<br />
Kristjana is a standup comedian. She signed with Comedy Central last year but she has not decided how serious she is about this new venture. To her it is something she just likes to do for fun and to meet guys. She is secretive about her performances because she does not want us there, and I know why. She uses our family as fodder. Let's take a perfectly innocent, normal, real life situation and view it now from Kristjana's point of view.<br />
<br />
<b>THE SET UP</b><br />
A few weeks ago I was looking and calling for Kristjana. I walked downstairs, knocked on the bathroom door then walked in. Kristjana had a towel wrapped around her and was just stepping out of the shower.<br />
<br />
"Oh there you are, Kristjana. What are you doing?"<br />
<br />
"Mother, I am having breakfast at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. What do you think I am doing?" I am getting out of the shower. When you walk, uninvited, into the bathroom and you see some one dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, stepping out of the shower, you should not have to ask them what they are doing."<br />
<br />
<i>If someone had waltzed in on me comedy would not be what flowed from my mouth. I knew that comedic material was just oozing out of her. I could just hear her on stage...</i><br />
<br />
....In most families showering is a private affair. It takes place behind closed doors. The person taking the shower generally gets naked. They feel comfortable getting naked because this is the one place they don't expect visitors to come calling. Apparently this is news to my mother. Nothing is sacred to her. After all she saw me naked as a baby. She gave me my first bath. News flash mother. A few things have changed over the last 30 years. My mother walked in the bathroom the other day while I was dripping wet and obviously just stepping out of the shower. Does she apologize? Does she say excuse me, or even pretend that it was a mistake? Nope. She looks me square in the eye and asks, "what are you doing?" Apparently, someone dripping wet and naked is not a big enough hint for her.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-54517632938402853572018-04-25T22:31:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:31:15.877-07:00SOME QUESTIONS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN OTHERS<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfFcA2yEhwT7NLDqGRKvgmY_I9UfVMuZkRzWH3NTamqetcc3EXv0v-wFp_mSQMPyVWir4PxSOOrDWKnze8ulIiyu12VbW3msIPpDzKFaO8RnjmXoQ_GLJ4PhbdjkAfOcCwDCZNCvNzee/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="389" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTfFcA2yEhwT7NLDqGRKvgmY_I9UfVMuZkRzWH3NTamqetcc3EXv0v-wFp_mSQMPyVWir4PxSOOrDWKnze8ulIiyu12VbW3msIPpDzKFaO8RnjmXoQ_GLJ4PhbdjkAfOcCwDCZNCvNzee/s200/signature+picture.JPG" width="193" /></a> <br />
I don't know who's idea it was but someone finally realized that since fathers had a very active part in conception, they should be allowed in the delivery room for the big moment and the agonizing hours leading up to it. Fathers being allowed in the delivery room opened the flood gate for a lot of changes over the years.<br />
<br />
When I had my first baby things were simple and my questions were simple. Where is the nearest
hospital? Is the baby finally going to come out? What will it be? What will I name it if it does finally arrive. Finally, if it's a boy will I
circumcise? <br />
<br />
My two daughters-in law, Kelly and Danae, and my youngest daughter, Briana each recently had their first baby. Their choices were endless. How many doctors should I interview? Which hospital should I go to? How soon can I find out what sex it is? Should I immunize? Danae and Kelly chose to immunize. Briana--no immunization. Danae and Kelly chose a doctor. Briana--a midwife and water birth. Danae and Kelly chose to let the hospital dispose of the placenta. Briana--she had her own ideas on that subject.<br />
<br />
Let's take a moment to discuss placenta disposal. In my day, we did not eagerly ask the nurse if she would keep our placenta on ice so we could take it home and eat it. If my nurse had politely<b> </b>offered it as an option I may have very impolitely asked Rick to pick it up, throw it in her direction and let her wear it home. Today however, it is the new vogue. Briana considered it a rare delicacy that would be yummy and very healthy in a breakfast shake..<br />
<br />
Gerald, her husband while happy to be allowed in the delivery room was not so thrilled with the whole placenta parfait. Since he wasn't the one going to eat it however, he reluctantly obliged and toted it to my house where Briana would recuperate. While I was more than willing to let Briana and my darling little grandson into the house I was not at all eager to welcome anything else in that had dropped out of her body.<br />
<br />
Of course, no one had considered who the artful caver of this delicacy would be. After much loud and vigorous discussion that went like, "GROSS... DON'T LOOK AT ME, ...I AM NOT A SURGEON", Briana finally said she would do it. Just as she was about to take the plunge Gerald reluctantly manned up. Briana had manned up and had the baby after all. It was the least he could do.<br />
<br />
He didn't exactly have any labor pains during the chopping process but his nearly digested dinner made several serious attempts at an encore appearance. Finally, the nastiness was over and all the ice cube trays were in the freezer so they could be conveniently popped into Brianas morning smoothies for several weeks to come. <br />
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Now we come to the one question more important than all the others.<br />
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Some time later Kaden, my oldest grandson, asked me if he could use our frozen berries and make a smoothie. Moments later he called with a question a 17 year old should never have to ask. "Grandma, is this frozen raspberries or is this Auntie Bries placenta?" <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-13420905932616107772017-07-24T15:46:00.003-07:002017-07-24T15:46:33.118-07:00MY NAME IS NOBODY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DJFbSc8K5Vr3x6d6DUYT4VDZXwW2IDY14W-2aGDnRVTURAgolDV9Y0vpyj1Es4z1tzWBDw5fDAvP3AtowgsUk6dNsWf9TNKU8BiF2RXxg4Vc0P2x5DfchQCdwlMJQcngaENOs96QKpK9/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DJFbSc8K5Vr3x6d6DUYT4VDZXwW2IDY14W-2aGDnRVTURAgolDV9Y0vpyj1Es4z1tzWBDw5fDAvP3AtowgsUk6dNsWf9TNKU8BiF2RXxg4Vc0P2x5DfchQCdwlMJQcngaENOs96QKpK9/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
<div data-setdir="false" dir="ltr" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24338">
<br class="yui-cursor" />
I don’t know another person on the planet as bad at remembering names
as me. I can’t use my age as an excuse either. My first recollection of my incompetency occurred in college. I was so excited for this particular first date. When I
introduced us to my my roommates date, I gushed. Hi, I’m Mike Moses and
this is my date, Jane Still. Total loss of cool. <br />
<br class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24000" />
Years
later I taught a large Sunday School class which included my son and
his friends. Each week I'd forget some names and would write them on
the board so I could remember them. One Sunday, after teaching this
class for a year, I walked into the classroom and my mind went
completely blank. I couldn’t recall one name—including that of my son.</div>
<div class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24004">
Who
knows where my mind goes when I meet people and why, two seconds after
an introduction, I cannot recall their names. I am so busy smiling, and
thinking of something I like about them, that their name enters some
black hole in my brain and disappears. </div>
<div class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24006">
<br class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24008" />
Some people practice
techniques that are supposed to help. Like this. Think of the name of the person you just met. Assign that name to something you can relate it to and put it in a silly sentence. Now, does it seem rational to tell someone who can't remember a single name, to change the name you can't remember anyway and then make up and memorize an entire sentence about it? </div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="" data-setdir="false" dir="ltr" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24018">
What if I met someone named Liz and associated her as, Liz the lizard likes leopard leotards. I would probably
forget lizard and think, salamander. They both soak in the sun. Sammy salamander soaks in the sun, hence Samantha. Even if I did remember the name Liz I would always picture her in leopard leotards. <br />
<br class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24022" />
If I was required to think all that silly stuff when
I met someone for the first time, I would stand there stupidly trying
to think of something to think about instead of smiling and saying
hello. </div>
<div class="" data-setdir="false" dir="ltr" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24196">
<br /></div>
<div class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24024">
One method I do find effective, when I can't remember a name and don't want to say,
"hey you," I come up with a substitute nickname. </div>
<div class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24210">
<br /></div>
<div class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24211">
"Hey Babe,
Cutie, Darlin', or Sweetie. Hey Stud, or hey Guy are a little more
awkward but still better than, hey Whatcherename." </div>
<div class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24026">
<br /></div>
When
I became an author, calling people Babe, Stud, or Cutie just wouldn't cut it when friends asked me to sign their book. I
was forced to memorize a different strategy. One that would not make me
look like a socially inept freak. <br />
<br class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24030" />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24279">
One day my husband's cousin,
I can’t remember his name, approached me with a book that he wanted me
to sign. He gave me a
big hug and asked me to sign his book. I smiled and went for my strategy. </div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24280">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24281">
“Who do you want me to write it too?”</div>
He gave me an odd look and said. “My wife.”<br />
<br class="" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24040" />
<div data-setdir="false" dir="ltr" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24063">
I gave him a radiant smile. “How do you spell that? I want to be sure
to get it right." </div>
<div data-setdir="false" dir="ltr" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24299">
<br /></div>
<div data-setdir="false" dir="ltr" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1446610200303_24300">
He looked at me like my head had turned into a turnip
and sprouted horns, and slowly spelled. S…A…M…</div>
It was one of those, oh where is a 9 point 0 earthquake when you need it. <div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-70308817469811147972014-05-04T18:19:00.000-07:002015-10-21T14:14:45.859-07:00SPRING CLEANING<div style="font-size: 16px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAvN6oEA_Mp5DvuCClCNuoWEuoXh4ASqu-Puyp0HStOKKAWfgW076tEwXTM-KfeLXInB_LjFDuFfw6zhtCnPkBuG4vUTaiV2acu8U41410Wpo0HxUuyQzyf4_P-8uwTq6Pd0Cjk135kzB/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAvN6oEA_Mp5DvuCClCNuoWEuoXh4ASqu-Puyp0HStOKKAWfgW076tEwXTM-KfeLXInB_LjFDuFfw6zhtCnPkBuG4vUTaiV2acu8U41410Wpo0HxUuyQzyf4_P-8uwTq6Pd0Cjk135kzB/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" width="308" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I had one simple goal when I woke up Saturday morning; get my eyebrows waxed. To the average person</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> who gets their grooming done once or twice a month this might seem like a trivial task. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Personally, however, I don't seem to think about grooming until my annual spring cleaning. Clean your house, wax your face. Prune those grasses, shrubs and bushy brows. My problem is that I can never go the same place twice because my neighborhood shops go out of business. Perhaps the yearly de-forestation of my face is a deal breaker.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Saturday, I was working so I thought about asking some friends where, and if, they get their brows done. "How often to you get your eyebrows waxed?" “Are you going to get your eyebrows waxed soon?" "Do you wax your eyebrows yourself or have it done?" </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Maybe I was just sensitive because of my own unibrow, but it didn't matter how I worded it, it sounded bad. I may as well come out and say. “Hey, you should really think about cleaning up all that scraggly stuff growing where your eyebrows used to be." </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I had an hour before I figured shops would be closing so I decided to drive down the strip on my way home and see if I could find a hair salon. Apparently, the new trend is to ditch the waxing and hone in on the fingernails because every other shop was touting manicures. Then I remembered the little shop that had just opened up a few blocks from home, Miranda's</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I pulled into the parking lot. They were still open. I hurried, hoping they would have time to clean me up. I read the sign on the door. That's unusual. Why would they need my ID? I opened my purse to pull out my wallet, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Little boxes of green leafy plants covered the counters. I didn't ask about eyebrows. I didn't give them a chance to say what I knew they would say. I simply gave a sick little smile, backed out the door and asked myself. "What was I smoking." </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-49617075450832471322012-11-21T12:25:00.001-08:002015-10-21T15:01:34.362-07:00THE LIST<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIr-wzsE7EUO90vtCaQSq0imnXFb-bq1RBiVyCF95uzRgdRBRTySitS9xsltNd2awPOibb1wydSmQ3eV3RRDtGWCA2LlE9K_uj5zUMNpo0cICtEHFyKhWaPiMwtp6EiUmUQ5RtMOYJzwH/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQIr-wzsE7EUO90vtCaQSq0imnXFb-bq1RBiVyCF95uzRgdRBRTySitS9xsltNd2awPOibb1wydSmQ3eV3RRDtGWCA2LlE9K_uj5zUMNpo0cICtEHFyKhWaPiMwtp6EiUmUQ5RtMOYJzwH/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
I don’t know if my husband starts to feel neglected when I haven’t written anything about him for awhile or if he just gives me good material unintentionally. Thanksgiving is almost here so asked him to pick up a few groceries for me. My list was short and I went over it with him carefully before I sent him out the door, list in hand.<br />
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It wasn’t long until I got the expected call. “Jane, you had the list last. You forgot to give it to me. You need to go over it again to make sure I have everything.” <br />
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I am certain he left it in the car but until he goes back and finds it, it’s obviously my fault. I rummaged through the garbage where I had thrown my scratch copy—the long list that I had to pare down so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. <br />
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“Parchment paper.” I read.<br />
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“I got that.”<br />
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“Turkey.”<br />
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“How big of a turkey?”<br />
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“Big.”<br />
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“How big?”<br />
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We have only been buying turkey for about 35 years. We never buy one less than 18 -20 pounds. “Big, hon.”<br />
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“I got an 18 pounder. Is that big enough?”<br />
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“Yes hon. Now, did you get vanilla ice cream?”<br />
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“Oh yeah. The gallon or the good kind?”<br />
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I had already told him what kind at least three times when I made the list. “The good kind, hon.” <br />
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“Well, I’m not in that aisle yet.”<br />
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“Carrots, potatoes, lettuce, apples.” I sighed.<br />
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Wait, I got all that except the apples. What kind of apples?”<br />
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”The cheapest.”<br />
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“I’m in the baking aisle. What did you want there?”<br />
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He couldn’t have told me that in the first place! “Icing sugar.”<br />
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“Oh, that’s right. You wanted a lot. How much again?”<br />
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Hello, we had that conversation too. The man couldn’t remember anything. "Twenty bags. It’s going to go up in price and I want some for storage. Make sure you get the two pound size.”<br />
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“They don’t come in two pounds. Lets see…Hytop, oh, here’s the two pound.”<br />
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“While you’re in that aisle get five boxes of devil’s food cake mix.” <br />
<br />
“There is no devil food. There’s angel food.”<br />
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“There is devil’s food. If not, any chocolate cake will do. Just make sure it’s not brownies.”<br />
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“Jane, I don’t like chocolate cake. Do you want yellow cake mix?”<br />
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NO! I don’t want yellow. I want chocolate!”<br />
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“But I don’t like chocolate. Here’s some more angel food.”<br />
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“I don’t care if you don’t like chocolate. I have yellow and white and angel. I want chocolate.”<br />
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“Oh here it is. Devils food. How many do you want?”<br />
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I am now gritting my teeth trying to be patient. “Five.”<br />
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“OK, now what do you want?”<br />
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“Apples, potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberries and walnuts.”<br />
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“I have the potatoes. How many sweet potatoes do you want?”<br />
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“Just one, medium size.”<br />
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“How come you want sweet potatoes? I can’t find them. Oh, here’s yam’s. Do you want yams or sweet potatoes.”<br />
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“Yams will be fine. Get yams.”<br />
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“Do you want two? Oh this ones’ broken I’ll get another one. So two yams?"<br />
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I grunt. “Yes.” Then shove a pencil in my mouth and bite down hard.<br />
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“Now, what kind of apples did you want? What do you want them for, to eat or to cook?”<br />
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I pry the pencil out of my teeth. “We are going to eat them. Get an assortment.”<br />
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“What kind?”<br />
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“Whatever is cheapest! Did you get the cranberries?”<br />
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“Where are the cranberries?”<br />
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“Walk to where the lettuce is. They are to the right of the lettuce.”<br />
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“What kind? There’s three kinds.”<br />
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“The one’s in the bag, Rick.”<br />
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“How many do you want? One bag?”<br />
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“Yes dear, one bag. Don’t forget the walnuts. Get them in the bulk food section.”<br />
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“Do you have any idea how annoying you are to shop for?” Rick said.<br />
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It was a good thing I had taken the pencil out of my mouth or I would have choked to death. <br />
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“What kind of walnuts do you want—spiced, salted, canned?”<br />
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Canned! Canned! Who buys canned walnuts. There are no canned walnuts in the bulk foods. It’s bulk! I’m annoying! I was biting huge chunks of flesh out of my cheeks. “Raw walnuts, about one pound.! Don’t forget the ice cream.”<br />
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“The gallon or the good stuff? Oh yeah, the good stuff. Anything else? Janie, are you there?"<br />
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“That’s all.” I manage to choke out. I was stuffing Kleenex into my mouth to staunch the flow of blood.<br />
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The next day Rick and I had another little conversation. Turns out the list was on the seat of the car, just like I knew it would be. I decided to read my blog to him before I posted it, to see if he could redeem himself in some small way. It was not to be. <br />
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“So, now do you see how annoying you were?” I asked after reading my story. <br />
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“Jane, you are not specific, you just tell me to pick up a few things.”<br />
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Hmmm, perhaps I could have included a map of each aisle in relationship to all the exits. <br />
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“Rick, how much more specific can I get than telling you to buy five boxes devils food cake mix.”<br />
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“Well, is devils food always chocolate? Can’t it be white like angel food?”<br />
No! Devils food is always chocolate.<br />
“Ridiculous.”<br />
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I suppose he means me. I am the ridiculous one for not explaining to him that devils food cake mix is chocolate not white. One would think he just got off the boat from China and this was his first trip to an American grocery store.<br />
Happy Thanksgiving everyone and don’t forget--do your own shopping. <br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-30751038782459917582012-09-20T15:57:00.000-07:002016-02-02T15:36:19.244-08:00QUESTIONABLE ENDOWMENTS<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31Sf8OO-_Ami2thcSmMDr_rcJzg4XyB_yYJqEOnshkW5XNziuJH4JGB4M4gCKPE8ZIv-a7HngYBhQnzKnaxtxI4QBBnGyR82wz9V_TJ1TLOkD7JbVbPna1ATE9lzKhtCFEPGZzBQ4GuMM/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh31Sf8OO-_Ami2thcSmMDr_rcJzg4XyB_yYJqEOnshkW5XNziuJH4JGB4M4gCKPE8ZIv-a7HngYBhQnzKnaxtxI4QBBnGyR82wz9V_TJ1TLOkD7JbVbPna1ATE9lzKhtCFEPGZzBQ4GuMM/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
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Everyone born into this world has at least one talent. The question is—do eccentric accomplishments fall in the same category as talents? In other words, are some gifts better appreciated when you don’t share?<br />
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I have one of those, what I consider, ‘better appreciated when not shared,’ talents. My husband feels differently. He thinks the sheer magnitude of my gift is extraordinary. I, on the other hand, felt that my talent was best concealed until after I had a big shiny diamond on the fourth finger of my left hand. <br />
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The first time I exposed this rare gift Rick was so flabbergasted that when he could finally speak it was with whispered reverence.<br />
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“I was wrong. My cousin Lonny is not the person in the world most worthy of being recorded in the Guinness Book of World Records. He would bow to you.” I assume I was supposed to feel flattered.<br />
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My talent isn’t something I can command. It imply explodes from me. Last week when it burst forth, Rick was once again astounded “Honey, do you practice when no one is home?”<br />
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“Of course, every time I wash a dish or clean the toilet I reward myself by rushing to the mirror so I can watch myself perform. Some days I practice so much it’s hard to get anything else done” Rick can be so ridiculous! A few days later, however, I even amazed myself. <br />
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Rick is a cherry addict and one night I joined him in eating enough cherries to keep a small, third world village in fruit for the entire winter. All of a sudden a monumental bubble started in my big toe, rolled through my body like an avalanche, over all my organs, and exploded through my mouth. <br />
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The titanic explosion lasted a full sixty seconds. The windows rattled. The bed swayed. Rick choked and spewed half chewed cherries and pits across the room. When the bed finally stopped rocking and rolling he swallowed the few remaining cherries in his mouth and said, “Don’t tell me you’re not practicing.”<br />
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The moral of the story is—it’s better to burp and bask in fame than hold it in and explode in pain.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-86111030740220822452012-07-18T21:15:00.001-07:002016-02-02T15:50:05.540-08:00A LESSON IN ANATOMY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" hda="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAFtSK5f5wc977mSsbw4Lo0DCHtCFqOc-xS3_QrydXqrlF7uQSlC-4wvdSPKmXJ-tFj-3p9Gnv7kh3Rgtv7j8q3FbZAzt1A85DOg4aLk9N49wDnRFIEPkelByNZWVh9SJjhKku53IeWpcH/s200/signature+picture.JPG" width="193" />‘It’s like riding a bike, you never forget.’ That’s what people say when you do something like drive a stick shift for the first time in twenty eight years. It’s meant to encourage you. However, while you might not forget how to ride a bike, there are some things that have changed. The why. </div>
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There are many reasons people decide to take up bike riding in their later years. Insanity isn’t necessarily one of them. Personally, I was drawn to the exercise. When you get to be my age, exercise isn’t just for fun, it’s for survival--and insurance that your body will still work right when you need it thirty years from now. <br />
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The price of gas is also a motivator. Have you noticed more people bicycling these days? It was a big decision to buy a bike but a friend tipped the scales for me. She mentioned that she had been riding her bike twelve miles a day to work and back. In two months she lost twenty pounds and saved sixty dollars in gas. I dragged my husband bike shopping the very next day.<br />
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The most embarrassing part of buying a bike was trying to find the right seat. When I was young I never gave a second thought to comfort. That was back when that area of my anatomy was firm, tight and shapely. I can’t pin point when it happened, but wham, one day it went from being a compact little shock absorber to being just plain shocking. <br />
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I was alarmed when Rick tested the biggest seat in the store and still wasn’t happy. I think he wanted something as big as the saucers that you sit on to slide downhill in the snow. I could picture him whacking people on the sidewalk with it as he drove by. Fortunately, they talked him into a comfortable, more aerodynamic seat. <br />
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My biggest concern was buying a bike with enough speeds—one that would gear down enough to ride up a simple incline without humiliating myself by having to get off and push. I should have been concerned about simply making it out of the parking lot without fainting from exhaustion. <br />
It wasn’t until after we bought our bikes that I had my vanity attack. There is absolutely nothing attractive about having a chunk of plastic wrapped around your head. And the havoc it plays with your hair! The question was, did I want to face my grandchildren as a vain hypocrite? There is one redeeming thing in owning a helmet. If I do have to walk my bike up a hill nobody will recognize me.<br />
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Despite the humiliation of a helmet, and the fact that each bike cost more than our first car, our bike purchases were a great investment. It didn’t take very long to graduate from an exhausting ride around the parking lot, to riding 18 miles to Castle Rock and back. While we haven’t saved much money in gas yet, we have enjoyed another miracle. My husband actually likes waking up early and riding together every morning. And I always thought it would take an earthquake. <a href="http://www.crreader.com/">As published in CRR July 15, 2012</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_u1fXTDCxEZn2vZzXjt032ciMwFFdvjoBlxo9uwkSyhOq7nq512iYfmK0i0fWs_E9MzQA6BjQHwXA6khQLh_us5WfHGYl8kS4RlDqWCogWJPNvRNCGmwGm6vgX45b0wYu3r46nbpmdlf/s1600/BIKE+PICTURE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_u1fXTDCxEZn2vZzXjt032ciMwFFdvjoBlxo9uwkSyhOq7nq512iYfmK0i0fWs_E9MzQA6BjQHwXA6khQLh_us5WfHGYl8kS4RlDqWCogWJPNvRNCGmwGm6vgX45b0wYu3r46nbpmdlf/s320/BIKE+PICTURE.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-80224247174108912132012-06-10T16:48:00.000-07:002016-02-02T16:17:38.473-08:00RIGHT BACK AT CHA<br />
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The first few years of marriage, my husband and I were wonderful gift givers. Neither of us would have considered gifting appliances, tools or anything that smacked of chores. Maybe it was because we finally reached a stage where we could purchase what we wanted,when we wanted it, that the creativity had been sucked right out of us. <br />
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It seems we now entered a new stage of giving. Actually, Rick was the first to enter this bastion of insensibility. Several years ago, when he gave me ear wax candles for my birthday. Perhaps they were something he dreamed about for himself—some kind of warped male dream spa come true. <br />
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I didn’t even know ear wax candles existed. Even if I had, they would have been on the list of things I hope never to see attached to my body—like varicose veins, warts or blood sucking leeches. <br />
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Father's day was coming up and I coveted my friend's deluxe garden wagon with retractable sides that could dump, and carry 1,200 pounds. Our wheelbarrow was rusty, had holes and was awkward to push up hill. The wagon would be the perfect gift. Rick would love it. <br />
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The problem was, we were doing a lot of yard work right now. We had 12 yards of bark dust to move. If Rick was going to get any real enjoyment out of the wagon this year, I needed to give it to him early—real early. <br />
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“Honey,” I called upstairs one beautiful April day. “I have your Father’s day gift. Can you to come to the garage to open it. It’s in the trunk and it’s too heavy for me to move.”<br />
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Moments later, Rick tromped downstairs. “Is this something I have to put together?” <br />
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If given a choice between assembling anything or trimming the hairs in his nose with a chainsaw he'd pick tirimming everytime.<br />
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“It will be easy. You’re going to love it.”<br />
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Rick hefted the package out of the trunk and squinted his eyes to examine the contents. He started to laugh and shake his head. “This is not Happy Father' Day, dear. It's Happy Mother’s Day!” Obviously, I had just leaped over the threshold of insensibility to join him. <br />
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Five hours of knuckle breaking, back pounding work later, Rick huffed upstairs. “You know those earwax candles? I’d like to stick them in your ears and light them now.”<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-19357244908341279562012-05-07T11:05:00.002-07:002016-02-02T16:25:35.618-08:00DREAMS DO COME TRUE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIoLeD8IoYJuOj-O40dMOMf8nrtUs8JRxtDRVw1ZNGnq-jQnhmdkrlEDlEdLA-3Yv3awuiDqd9gxqvFi_P0RyZJjZ9LukwuXzEyzBr3eBVCwgRKtjKrlb0ZzFX0q9jfxOGJYnG-e0bbdu3/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIoLeD8IoYJuOj-O40dMOMf8nrtUs8JRxtDRVw1ZNGnq-jQnhmdkrlEDlEdLA-3Yv3awuiDqd9gxqvFi_P0RyZJjZ9LukwuXzEyzBr3eBVCwgRKtjKrlb0ZzFX0q9jfxOGJYnG-e0bbdu3/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a>I just did the humanly impossible. I walked into the grocery store to pick up a prescription for my granddaughter and never bought another single item. This has been my dream for years. It was so easy! And to achieve this dream? I simply walked down the kitty litter aisle. NO temptation there. I am allergic to cats. <br />
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I wish I could say I did it on purpose, but it was totally accidental. I realize now that, to save a small fortune on groceries, all I need is a plan of attack. When I shop, all I have to do is to stop wandering down the candy and chip aisle on my way to the milk and eggs. <br />
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When I purchase bread I should go via the kitchen gadget and picnic items aisle. Then, in the summer when I can’t resist the temptation to buy picnic items, I can stroll past the greeting card and wrapping paper. That will work if there are no birthdays, weddings, or holidays coming up. There are only so many aisles that don’t provide temptation. It would be much easier if they had a farm machinery aisle or an aisle or two of hanging fish eyeballs. </div>
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I am both thrilled and depressed with my shopping feat. Thrilled because I finally did it—depressed because of the low quality of my dreams.<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-21828203699715889242012-04-27T19:35:00.000-07:002016-02-02T16:23:41.448-08:00THINGS THAT MAKE YOU SCREAMChocolate makes me scream. More accurately, when someone steals the chocolate I hide in my cache for emergency cravings. It is an open throated scream that causes every shingle in the neighborhood to stand on end and salute. <br />
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It’s the things that don’t make you scream, but send you into shock, that you have to worry about. A week ago, my six year old grandson impaled himself in the neck with a large pair of scissors—then pulled them back out, and proceeded to bleed—on everything. Fortunately, after an exciting ambulance ride, he came home a few days later perfectly fine, and showing off toys that had his older brothers balancing the thought of profitability with the pain.<br />
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I however, have new wrinkles, some new scar tissue on my heart and a video that randomly replays the accident scene in my mind. I was the lucky one who got to clean up. <br />
On the serious side however, please reinforce to your children and grandchildren. ‘If you must carry something sharp, ALWAYS carry it with the point down.’ It is NOT something parents say just to use up their word allotment for the day. Some things are just not worth all the cool toys. <br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-58569787260746785942012-04-13T02:00:00.000-07:002016-02-02T16:30:58.003-08:00ANOTHER IDEA GONE SOUTH<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_TzmP6lxasXJD6JRvuD_yI2-XPj_YMTJnXss4D4O9hc-aMCPX6u9RWnnWF7AaSEWLJ0A4_p4TG5IRF3-7v_xzQuivmylYocEjTLpzp4PI_EHs-HB2gmlNwkyghRK2QcyIRxq9ckwhLeS/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" qda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-_TzmP6lxasXJD6JRvuD_yI2-XPj_YMTJnXss4D4O9hc-aMCPX6u9RWnnWF7AaSEWLJ0A4_p4TG5IRF3-7v_xzQuivmylYocEjTLpzp4PI_EHs-HB2gmlNwkyghRK2QcyIRxq9ckwhLeS/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a>For months now, I have been hinting to Rick that we should get bikes. I was very subtle. “Honey I want a bike.” He didn’t take me seriously, so several times a week I would throw out some more delicate hints. </div>
“If we had a bike we could lose weight and get in shape.” Apparently that wasn’t highly motivating so I tried the pocket book. Everyday I drive nine miles to help home school my grandchildren while my daughter takes online classes. Rick drives about six miles to work. <br />
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“You could ride to work and I could ride to Ariana’s.” Think how exhilarating that would be, and all the gas we will save.” I was rewarded with a blank stare laced with a tinge of horror. Definitely the wrong tactic.<br />
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A few days later I came up with the ultimate argument. “Honey we need to do more fun things together. If we got bikes we could ride. We could even go on bike holidays. How fun! Packing tents and food. Camping—just the two of us.”<br />
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OK, I got carried away with that one. Ricks idea of camping is a five star hotel. Pairing sleeping in a tent, with sweat, pain, and work was not an alluring argument. It was time for the direct approach. <br />
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“Rick, we are going to buy bikes today.”<br />
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We chose comfort bikes. Rick wanted the bike with the biggest seat in the store. “Don’t you have any bigger ones than this?” he asked. <br />
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“Honey, do you want to look like you are sitting on a flying saucer? Any bigger and you’d scratch the paint off of cars as they drove by.”<br />
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A basket was a must have for my bike. I planned on riding it everywhere—grocery shopping, garage sales, hauling plants, and anything else I could dream up. “Don’t you have any bigger baskets?” Rick asked as he gave me the ‘why don’t you just hook up a grocery cart to the front tire’ look. I settled on a small basket on the front and a bigger one on the back. <br />
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The next day we took our first ride. We decided on a little six mile jaunt, three miles each way. At the end of the first three miles was a moderate hill. It would help us get in shape for all the riding we planned on doing.<br />
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Rick led the way. I followed. So much for camaraderie. We tried to talk, but even screaming we couldn’t hear each other. The first time I tried to make a hand signal for a turn I almost fell off my bike. Rick was so far ahead that I could have died for all he would have known. <br />
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I had another brush with death trying to ride up that hill. My heart was pounding out of my chest so hard that I had to ignore the fact that my legs felt like telephone poles stuffed with lead.<br />
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The worst part ride was the last eighth of a mile. We live on a gravel road. It is all up hill, and after we conquer that, our driveway is even steeper. Not only did we have to drag ourselves up the slope, but we had to push our bikes. I wanted to pitch a tent, spend the night and make the rest of the trip next week. <br />
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Honey,” I panted. “Next time let’s load our bikes in the truck, drive down the hill, park the truck, then unload the bikes and go for a ride. Then we can load them back into the truck when we are done and drive up this stupid hill.”<br />
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My husband picked this moment to suddenly become little Mary Sunshine. “Oh Honey, we’ll be riding up this hill in no time.”<br />
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Our bikes are parked in our sun room. I spend most of the time I am home in the kitchen, looking out at that bike. Rick has ridden his to work and for exercise—almost every day. I stare at mine and curse my big mouth. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-12023719492274638002012-03-23T12:00:00.000-07:002016-02-02T16:41:22.896-08:00GIVE MY REGARDS TO BROADWAY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love to sing. The problem is I can’t sing. That point was brought home clearly by my son Adam recently.</div>
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He called for my birthday. When he asked me what I was doing for fun. I told him I was in a musical. </div>
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"Good thing I don't live there anymore." he laughed.</div>
“You’ll be happy to know that you can still show your face in town. I don’t have a singing part. But don’t get too comfortable. I may just try out for a singing part someday soon. It could happen. They are letting me sing in the church choir.”<br />
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He snorted in laughter again and said. “The church choir doesn’t say no to anyone.” <br />
“Who died and made you a comedian? Not only that, but when you call someone on their birthday it’s just not polite to throw around insults! Especially when the birthdayee is a hair away from senility and could write you out of her will. Besides, it’s not true. My friend Terry told me the choir asked him not to come back.”<br />
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Adam was really laughing now. Apparently, he thought I would better serve my talents in stand up comedy.<br />
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My singing disability is not because I don’t practice. The problem is I think that if you practice wrong for so many years you just get better at being really bad. I love singing show tunes in the shower. One day, when I walked out of the bathroom after one especially rousing vocal concerto, I almost tripped over my kids and their friends, who were rolling on the floor of my bedroom, wiping away tears of laughter.<br />
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One of my all time favorite songs is, ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ My dream has always been to walk down the street like they do in my favorite musicals and sing at the top of my lungs. I am happy to say that dream came true for me several years ago.<br />
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We were in the New York subway. When the train thundered down the track and I felt secure that no one could hear me, I threw my head back and belted out my full throated tribute to Broadway. It was amazing. Part of my jubilant feeling came from the shock on the faces of my children as they tired to get as far as they could from me and still catch the same car on the subway. <br />
No one threw money my direction, but on the upside, they didn’t throw rocks either.<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-87088400144005477842012-03-08T09:49:00.001-08:002015-10-21T15:45:30.378-07:00BARE NECESSITIES<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDK7j_4O3So3NGloLLbAPGy62aO-beML_xjjkhN1eIZ9sIXGmEnmdwpSp9c1Wx_9cEMyQi0Pz4HNlegxB0xBdSlGi9tpJLigZUX8Vz4FmGkO7VK5oOxUTcyX3PNvI1am6DqONtflQb68R/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 319px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 312px;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDK7j_4O3So3NGloLLbAPGy62aO-beML_xjjkhN1eIZ9sIXGmEnmdwpSp9c1Wx_9cEMyQi0Pz4HNlegxB0xBdSlGi9tpJLigZUX8Vz4FmGkO7VK5oOxUTcyX3PNvI1am6DqONtflQb68R/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="308" yda="true" /></a>Iran has nukes! Wall Street occupiers are on the rampage, and EMP’s, which may be in our future, could take us back to the early 1800’s. The television was blazing with the import of world events one morning as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror preparing my face for the day. </div>
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What if we had to evacuate? No problem. Rick and I had essentials crammed into two back packs with a list of things to grab at the last second—sleeping bags, food, headlamps, plus batteries, a small stove with fuel, and a bucket for a potty. However, no where on that list had I even considered my personal needs. That is where my mind went now.</div>
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A mass evacuation would mean being surrounded by other people. This was a problem. I wanted to look like I didn’t care what I looked like. I wanted to be one of those people who look good without makeup, but in order to achieve that look, I needed some makeup. What could I take to achieve the ro makeup look, and where would I find room for the extra baggage?<br />
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My moisturizer was definitely a necessity. Just because I hit the road running, didn’t mean my face had to look like a road map. No one would hold a little moisturizer against me. I could squeeze that into my back pack. I picked up my bottle of foundation. It was a little jar. People who looked good naturally didn’t look as white as a jar of paste. It would fit easily into a pocket of my jeans.<br />
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My blush is also tiny, and would slip into my pocket. It would give me that natural healthy glow. Even though my eye shadow containers are small, I could not bring them or my mascara. They were too obvious. But, to make sure my eyes didn’t disappear, I played around with a couple of eyeliner pencils. I found a light brown one that looked totally natural. Not only did it fit in my pocket, but it would darken my eyebrows, subtly line my eyes and, on the practical side, would double as a pencil in an emergency. That took care of makeup, but what about my hair? I needed a couple of rollers but where would I hide them. Of course! My bra—plenty of room. Who knows what other goodies I could store there?<br />
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Back to my hair. I have to admit that I have a genius for this emergency preparedness stuff. I could slide bobby pins all around the hem of my shirt. They wouldn’t take any room and I could curl my hair with them. I could also wear elastic bands on my arms and put a comb in my back pocket. This was almost too easy.<br />
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Now, about my bangs? I look terrible without bangs and when they get long they make me crazy. I picked up a pair of toe nail clippers—no! I found a tiny pair of scissors. After all, it’s not like I want to slice my bangs off with a knife, and the only other alternative I could picture was to lay face down, with my hair on a rock, while someone took another rock and slammed my bangs until the hair fell off.<br />
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What else would I need? Toothbrushes. I needed at least one. I would take two and carry the extra in my bra too so I people didn’t know I had another one. Is it my problem if they didn’t think ahead and their teeth fell out? Let the end of the world come. I was going out in style. <br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-19920739612088679312012-02-18T15:11:00.000-08:002015-10-21T15:53:32.700-07:00IT COULD ONLY BE A MAN<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 3.25in;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HZIHB3nfY-HsCT8ZxeJK6j2glWPGthqHIGmTDvp_kBffzC3wSSRYVLVuyJweWaX3NmkQMFeVk5sXEvBaLtcDCMt-u7dJOCJg6AR81TTW0FgcnWWNaRnnC5cF9KJ18X_so3VunUXXIlr5/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HZIHB3nfY-HsCT8ZxeJK6j2glWPGthqHIGmTDvp_kBffzC3wSSRYVLVuyJweWaX3NmkQMFeVk5sXEvBaLtcDCMt-u7dJOCJg6AR81TTW0FgcnWWNaRnnC5cF9KJ18X_so3VunUXXIlr5/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" yda="true" /></a>This year I forayed into a different creative arena—community theater. My husband often thinks I am in the full throws of Alzheimer’s. He constantly accuses me of forgetting things that I happen to know he never told me. I decided that memorizing lines would prove to him that I was not the mentally deficient one in the family. In truth, I learned once again, that my husband is only one of many men out there who have lost their minds.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I</span> found my evidence in the bathroom on the set. There is no delicate way to say this, so brace yourself. When I went to the bathroom, tucked away behind the stage, I sat down and almost screamed. I was staring into a double sized full length mirror. It was definitely not my best side. Now who would do something so stupid? It had to be a man. </div>
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After the first jarring moments however, I could see possibilities for such a decision. You could take the time sitting there to fix your makeup, hair, or maybe even pluck your eyebrows and still make curtain call. Genius or stupidity—hmmm.</div>
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The bathroom has always been a tacky subject. When I was growing up and dating, I would rather endure horrific pain than to have to excuse myself for a potty break. Only the very real threat of wetting myself and everything else in the near vicinity made me give in to my shyness. Apparently, my timidity lingers on.</div>
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In our huge church building, some genius—it could only be a man--designed the building to have only one bathroom for men and one for women. Not only that, but they are tucked away in the same corner, right beside a drinking fountain.</div>
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It wasn’t a problem when my children were little. I could take one of them by the hand and pretend they were the ones who had to go. Now I have to brave it by myself. After all, it’s not like I can randomly grab the hand of some child wandering down the hallway. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here is the typical church bathroom experience. First, you greet the group of women standing against the wall chatting. That’s not so bad. It’s greeting the man who inevitably walks up beside you, then peels off to the right into the men’s room while you peel left into the women’s. It's <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">like a great bathroom choreography. </span><br />
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I once overheard a man say that nothing was worse than shaking someone’s wet hand because you knew they had just come out of the bath room. That man has led a sheltered life. I can think of a whole lot of things worse than that. However, our church is famous for it’s handshaking. </div>
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Since hearing that comment, I make sure to completely dry every speck of water off my hands before I leave so I can shake hands with the man or men who will inevitably be outside the door. Not that it is any great mystery as to where I was when they see me walk out the door that has WOMEN boldly emblazoned on the outside. After all these years, I still haven’t come up with the perfect ice breaker for moments like that one. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-4645357875658092072012-02-11T10:30:00.000-08:002015-10-21T15:56:42.763-07:00SOCK LINT<br />
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You can tell you're getting old when you have to sit down to put on your pantyhose. That's what my friend Kris told me several years ago, when she complained that now she had to sit down to put her pantyhose on. <br />
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Kris is about the same age as me. Until then, I never gave any thought to how I put on my hose. I hate them, and wear them on an only as needed basis. However, I am proud to say I can still put them on standing up. <br />
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My husband however, is a different story. And no, he is not in the habit of wearing pantyhose. He only wore them a couple of times for scuba diving. Let me just say that seeing a 6 foot 225 pound man try to squeeze into a pair of queen size pantie hose still makes me laugh. But, that is a story for another time.<br />
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Men show they are getting older when they can no longer reach down to take off their socks. Rick has the annoying habit of standing on the toe of his sock and pulling his foot out of it. He wears black socks and we have a light carpet. Hence, sock lint. <br />
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Studies have shown that when you are first married things like, where you squeeze the toothpaste tube, can be marriage breakers. I am pleased to say we breezed through that phase, so I am sure we will make it through this one too.<br />
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Not only does Rick leave lint all over the floor, but when he yanks his socks off he leaves them wherever they happen to land. Our laundry basket is only a couple of feet away in the next room. Sometimes I challenge him. “Honey, why can’t you pick up your socks?”<br />
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He looks at me like I’m daft and laughs. “Janie, I am going to wear them again.” <br />
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“Really? I know you’re going to wear them again. When they are clean. It’s highly unlikely you are going to continue wearing them until they are so dirty they stand up and walk to the laundry basket on their own.”<br />
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I pick up his socks and step around the corner to the dirty clothes basket. Before I can throw his socks in, I have to take his shirt off the top of the lid. Let me mention here that the lid is a light weight wicker that simply sits on top of the basket. No prying, tugging or heavy lifting involved. Apparently the biceps are the next thing to go. I bite my tongue and think back to the good of days of toothpaste.<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-14117424160481304722012-01-28T12:09:00.000-08:002015-10-21T15:59:47.597-07:00THE GREAT GRETZKY<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdJh4OaZycjNMTKnyJu6Z4IGBn2bu1oRlmpAyE5-CtIl1Qw2c8natUTSTdTNJ8P-P9BzId-KV6VZINn6nwObdv9pIiie5GWStWu0NvRLPopUGomXSF7mFStSKDpucaN0sQxYoFRB5LCqq/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdJh4OaZycjNMTKnyJu6Z4IGBn2bu1oRlmpAyE5-CtIl1Qw2c8natUTSTdTNJ8P-P9BzId-KV6VZINn6nwObdv9pIiie5GWStWu0NvRLPopUGomXSF7mFStSKDpucaN0sQxYoFRB5LCqq/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
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Every once in awhile I remember an incident from my younger, more foolish or frivolous days, and I have to ask myself, “what were you thinking!”</div>
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I hate hockey. Because I'm from Canada, that borders on being unpatriotic. It’s similar to hating the Rose Bowl in the US, (which I do). When I was growing up hockey was always on TV, hour after boring hour. Back in the day, we had only one or two channels, so it was catastrophic. When I was desperate, I actually enjoyed watching watch bowling, but <i><b>never</b></i> hockey. <br />
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One day I learned that Wayne Gretzky asked my husband's cousin out for a date. At the last minute something came up and he had to break the date but that didn’t matter to me. Suddenly hockey dripped like blood from my veins. At least, if Wayne Gretzky was playing. After all, there was a once in a ten million chance that he might have been family. <br />
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From that point on, I watched every single one of his hockey games. I even cheered. Not only that, I paid big bucks to go and see him. Rick came too so it was double the shell out. My butt was sucked to the chair like a vacuum packed rump roast. <br />
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We were living in California at the time and went to the game with friends. They kept nudging me to look at the different movie stars who were there, but I only had eyes for Wayne. I am so shallow. Eventually, the phase passed and I am back to my normal hockey hating self, and wondering—whatever possessed me.<br />
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<i>OK, I don't know if this has ever been done when writing, but I have to share my bloopers about this article.</i><br />
<i>I am SO NOT into sports that it took me several times reading back through my article before I remembered that it was Rose Bowel not Rose Ball. Then I realized that it wasn't Rose Bowel(although that somewhat indicates my feelings about the whole thing), but Rose Bowl. SHEESH!</i><br />
<i>I am probably unpatriotic in two countries now. :)</i><br />
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<i></i><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-7293107961511067282012-01-19T12:08:00.000-08:002015-10-21T16:02:25.822-07:00IT TAKES PAINS TO BE BEAUTIFUL<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It takes pains to be beautiful. That’s what my grandmother always told me when she was combing my hair. I passed those sage words on to my daughters. It wasn’t long before they ran screaming from the room when they saw me with a brush in my hand. <br />
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Not only does it take pains to be beautiful, but sometimes you have to get downright ugly first. I’m not sure whether you are more beautiful after you get your hair done or if you just look so much better once you get all the appliances off your head.<br />
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I am convinced that is the strategy at the beauty parlor. They sit you down in front of a huge mirror. Admit it, you watch with a little feeling of horror while they put in perm rods, tinfoil, or my favorite torture, a cap that makes you look like a bald old man. Then they pull tiny amounts of hair through holes all over the cap while you try not to scream too loudly.<br />
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Not only is it painful but you look like you stepped right onto the set of a horror movie. I think someone should inform the CIA. Can you imagine all the military secrets they could get from prisoners if they tried this torture technique? It’s amazing that we actually pay money, plus a tip, for this abuse. <br />
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I get tired of the same old hairdo and always look for a new way to fix my hair. A few months ago, I decided to try something I have never seen—pin curls with a twist. I pulled a chunk of hair, twisted it tightly, then wound it around my fingers into a curl and secured it with a bobby pin. I slept on it. This was a real act of courage. I had to be somewhere early the next morning and if it didn’t turn out I was in trouble. <br />
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When I took my hair out the next morning it looked like— <br />
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you can come up with your own adjectives. I panicked. This had definitely raised the bar on ugly. I immediately went to work pulling each corkscrew apart. It was magic.<br />
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I just want to say, I should also get points for bravery—or stupidity, for posting these pictures, especially with no makeup and the well known fact that I take lousy pictures. I will accepts any reward involving chocolate.<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-80752871115932826222012-01-06T11:16:00.000-08:002015-10-21T16:08:32.304-07:00IT COULD ONLY HAPPEN TO METhanksgiving day my daughter Briana, the AT&T salesman, told her dad he should buy the new iPhone4S. It would transform his life. Better yet, she would get all the kids to chip in and give it to him for Christmas, along with the Bluetooth, and they would also spring for some special apps. She looked at me enthusiastically and said. “Then mom, you could have Dad’s old iPhone.”<br />
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Lucky, lucky me! Apparently, I am not worthy of cutting edge technology. Every time Rick gets a new phone he passes his old one to me. I think it makes him feel he is being frugal. Who knows how he justifies it, but justify he does.<br />
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Not once did my children ask, or tell me, what I should get for Christmas. I knew Rick couldn’t help them. He would have forgotten every hint I slapped him over the head with all year. Even when I told him to, “write it down.” He simply smiled that, <i>it’s locked up in my computer brain</i>, smile, and promptly forgot it. <br />
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My first hint the children had something roiling around in their brains was when Garret came home for the holiday laden with an odd shaped gift. “Mom, why don’t you open this now? I can’t wait for you to see it.” He laughed his evil laugh and rubbed his hands together. “I haven’t been this excited since I was nine years old.”<br />
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My first instinct was to be suspicious. However, if Rick was getting the new iPhone they must have something really special planned for me. I allowed myself to get a little excited. Then Garret smiled and said, with emphasis. “You’ll know exactly when you will need to use it.” A tremor chased up and down my spine.<br />
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It just so happens that this particular year, Rick and I gave my sons early birthday gifts. They would have been more excited about me picking out their future wives than they were about their MRE’s. Why is it that I am the one who always gets the credit for being the paranoid, lunatic parent? They refused to believe their Dad had anything to do with it.<br />
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On Christmas Eve Adam and Jason would not let Garret give me the gift early. I would have to wait. Waiting was good because it gave me time to think about how I was going to accept this gift. Obviously it was something I would never expect--probably a gag. Was I going to laugh, or be annoyed that Rick got the Cadillac of phones while I, the <i>hippy </i>parent, got something I would probably have to bury in the backyard? <br />
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I decided that even though they wouldn’t appreciate their MRE’s until some huge catastrophe hit, like the apocalypse, at least they had fun coming together and planning. I couldn’t wait to see what it was—maybe.<br />
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I feel pretty confident in saying that no one else on planet earth has every received a gift quite like mine—a Zombie Apocalypse Kit; complete with book, toy gun, real shotgun ammo, and a cleaver with saw blades on one end. It came complete with a duffel bag to stuff dead Zombie parts in. HAH! I was right. It did have to do with burying something in the backyard.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-3290577072579534442011-12-27T12:38:00.000-08:002015-10-21T16:11:31.688-07:00I HEARD THE BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5a6h0HCd9frbnxjFATSSGuBj-uKZmgmWMY5lvJwnRreMqWuhHSFTLwoqOqggtc0yhrlxY79UQERq7uMA7NcZrzatfJ25hkDvmJo2tDq3ZBn-YIyESrvHrayyHcnCkjlN40r5dcDqWao6/s1600/Christmas+Bells+251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5a6h0HCd9frbnxjFATSSGuBj-uKZmgmWMY5lvJwnRreMqWuhHSFTLwoqOqggtc0yhrlxY79UQERq7uMA7NcZrzatfJ25hkDvmJo2tDq3ZBn-YIyESrvHrayyHcnCkjlN40r5dcDqWao6/s320/Christmas+Bells+251.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Our family has a tradition of playing Christmas bells together every Christmas Eve. Every year it is a disaster. Apparently my children never heard a carol in their lives and they can’t count or follow a pointer. When we play it sounds like a thousand alley cats puking up rotten fish. <br />
This year, however, our Choir director asked for volunteers to play the bells for our Sunday Christmas Service. Several women showed up to the first practice and I was excited to have my children hear how beautiful they could sound.<br />
During subsequent practices however, several women did not come but promised to be there for the performance. After all, how hard could it be for someone invested in doing a good job, to hit a bell when it was pointed to? <br />
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Evidently it was more difficult than we thought because it took a lot of practice to get the second,more difficult song played well. When we finally figured it out, our Choir director said that no one would be allowed to play who had not been to our practices.<br />
Attending church was the high point of Christmas Day for my children. Not for any thought of spiritual enlightenment, but for the pure comedy of watching us play those bells. Just before I went up to play, I warned friends sitting in the general vicinity that I could not be responsible for my children’s behavior. <br />
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As I grabbed the two bells I was supposed to play, I noticed a horde of women, who had not been to practice, walk to the front and pick up a bell. One lady picked up four or five or them. Unfortunately, it was too late to grab my children and run screaming for the alley.<br />
The first song was short and beautiful. My hopes began to rise. Even my children seemed impressed. The directors must have sensed that there might be a little trouble with the next song so, before we played it, they sang the round, to let people know what it was supposed to sound like. That was not a good idea. Now, if we played it wrong, instead of the audience thinking it was simply a tune they didn’t recognize, they would know the full extent of our blundering.<br />
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Sure enough, as soon as we started to play the cacophony began. I bit my lips to keep from laughing right out loud as I watched my boys writhe on the bench, doubled over in either laughter or pain. The song was horrible. We had a false start, and after we fumbled our way through once, our director indicated that we should try the whole thing again. Apparently she felt that the audience had not suffered enough.<br />
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When we were finished, the only thing I could take comfort in was the fact that Garret was laughing too hard to take Jason’s $50 offer to shout out, “We want to hear more of them cow bells.”I will never listen to ‘I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day,' with a straight face again.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-79349178312414399902011-12-15T13:22:00.000-08:002015-10-21T16:14:39.299-07:00THE PERFECT GIFT<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_VMHNnfUnAcIGNBIQBZm6D8chhWDbOv-ko2XNcOHKUp6F1Hv9pcqpMkmgLPBqc2LtioyBX21ERrN8H1-qqehoxlhr3uLn70fuN1AP0nUMOblHcUKFu0ECWnnvEr4NKD4wcLjNuOakaVE/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_VMHNnfUnAcIGNBIQBZm6D8chhWDbOv-ko2XNcOHKUp6F1Hv9pcqpMkmgLPBqc2LtioyBX21ERrN8H1-qqehoxlhr3uLn70fuN1AP0nUMOblHcUKFu0ECWnnvEr4NKD4wcLjNuOakaVE/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a>Every year I struggle over what to get my boys for Christmas and their birthdays. Even though he himself is male, Rick is never any help. When I do come up with an idea he wrinkles his nose and scrunches up his face in a way that leaves absolutely no doubt how badly he thinks my idea stinks. So I was excited this year,when I finally came up with what we both thought would be the perfect birthday gifts.</div>
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My boys all live on their own, and given the condition of world affairs, I am concerned that they have no food in their homes. My idea was to have a week’s worth of MRE’s and water sent to them . It was going to be an early birthday present. Adams birthday is a few days before Christmas, and Jason’s in early January so the timing was pretty good. Delivery day came and the expected phone calls came in. Jason was first.</div>
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“Mom, what the heck did you send me this for? Do you have any concept of what I meant when I said I have no room at my apartment? This box is huge! I mean thanks and everything, but you just as well have sent me a rock.”<br />
“A rock,” I laughed. “Jason you can’t eat a rock.”<br />
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“Well I can’t eat this either ‘cause it’s so big I’ll have to have someone else store it for me.”<br />
“Store it under your bed.”<br />
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“Mom, I have no under my bed. The box spring and frame wouldn’t fit. I have one tiny room with one small cupboard that I keep a toaster oven on the rare occasion I might need to cook something.”<br />
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The next call was from Adam. He called laughing. “Thanks mom. That was a huge package. I didn’t think I was going to be able to fit it into the car. At least you won’t have to worry about me now.” <br />
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“That right! If things get really bad you could stretch it out for 21 days by eating one meal a day.” <br />
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“Mom, you’re crazy. You overreact.”<br />
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“Adam, I am not crazy. For your information, your Dad thought this was a good idea too. He’s sitting right beside me if you want to talk to him.”<br />
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Finally Garret’s call came in. “Uh, mom, thanks. I got my package…my birthday isn’t until July you know.”<br />
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“I know but if I waited until then, I would miss the sale. Besides, what if you needed it before then?”<br />
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“Yeah mom, Armageddon is right around the corner.”<br />
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“Garret, have you ever heard of earthquakes and hurricanes? Don’t you dare eat it now? You put it away ‘til you need it. It’s good for 25 years and the water is good for four years.”<br />
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“Mom, you do realize there are more economical ways to send water than in little tiny packages don’t you—like gallon jugs.”<br />
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This is why Garret is rich and we aren’t.<br />
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And so it went. They all accepted their gifts with the same grace they did when I gave them a back pack filled with a 72-hour kit several years ago. They are still sitting in my basement—which is why I sent this to their addresses. <br />
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I just found out that MRE’s can cause constipation if you are not used to eating them. I wonder what they are going to say to the week supply of X-lax I am going to put in their stockings. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-11842110597903078432011-12-08T16:51:00.001-08:002015-10-21T16:17:08.970-07:00JINXED<br />
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I hate being late. When my kids lived at home, no matter how hard I tried to gather all their things together on Saturday, someone always lost their shoes, socks or coat. Rick was no help either. His idea of helping me get the kids ready on time was to sit in the car and honk the horn.<br />
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A few weeks ago, I was late for church. Rick and I are the only ones living at home now and we were taking two cars to the same place because he had to leave early. He was on time. I was late. To the casual observer, it would obviously appear that it had to be my fault.<br />
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NOT SO! It all started when I asked Rick if my hair looked alright. He quirked his mouth to one side and answered slowly. “Yeah.”<br />
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Translated that meant, “I won’t be too humiliated to sit beside you in church looking like that.”<br />
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I pulled the pins out and started again, for the fortieth time that morning. Why is it that when I throw my hair up to wash my face at night it looks fabulous, but when I have to go somewhere that matters, it looks like three rats had a brawl in it.<br />
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I heard Rick leave. Great! Now I was going to be late and everyone would take one look at my hair and know the reason why. I threw it up one more time and made it work. I was just walking out the door when Rick called and asked me to find something for him.<br />
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I rushed back up the stairs, in my five inch heels, and threw my keys on the counter. His envelopes were not where he said. Because I am an amazing wife, that he better appreciate, I ran around looking for them. By the time I found them and ran back downstairs into the car I couldn’t find my keys. ARRGG! They were upstairs. I rushed back upstairs and just as I grabbed them my pantyhose fell down to my knees.<br />
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“Really!” I stripped down and pulled on a new pair, grabbed the keys and took off. I was a block away when a lock of hair slipped out of my ‘do’. I pulled to the side of the road. My life is a circus. I did not have time to go tear my hair out and start all over.<br />
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What would MacGyver do? I found a chewed toothpick, wound it around the errant hair, stuck it in place, and hurried to church. I walked in late, all by myself, no apparent excuses!<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-51497667363319416172011-11-19T10:56:00.001-08:002015-10-21T16:20:40.860-07:00MAN'S BEST FRIEND?<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TuKZANCwUJj_cbmOxf6MeUyoer_y9UdbyjLpbHBuDkcW53_9hvPdUCZzlFNETiw6BNrP8e6C-wgcj5AlypyGVeC0cWOFsUGTDkAxEHHPmwUbJQDaaWLsPVdU2RFhy8v9LVatN2JeWWaN/s1600/signature+picture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TuKZANCwUJj_cbmOxf6MeUyoer_y9UdbyjLpbHBuDkcW53_9hvPdUCZzlFNETiw6BNrP8e6C-wgcj5AlypyGVeC0cWOFsUGTDkAxEHHPmwUbJQDaaWLsPVdU2RFhy8v9LVatN2JeWWaN/s320/signature+picture.JPG" width="310" /></a></div>
They say dog is man’s best friend but I’m here to say that’s not true, at least not in our household. In our home, mom is dog’s best friend. <br />
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My mother-in-law will sneak leftovers from dinner into the garbage rather than let my dog Chika eat them. She would also cheerfully kick her in the chops when she barks her lungs out at everyone who comes to visit. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGh8slM5Fvdd_tL4GFycYFomISQjB8Aboe7fsojXodUg4Iadpit9_gA5b_P0BlXkhDR7Uk2Ndr3oJMUg87eJeIHZFN7ZUx9YhJfKUoPMakLjlfyTgn9VmcFPGh0Oe4ovqa4MaIACfbiajr/s1600/CHIKA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGh8slM5Fvdd_tL4GFycYFomISQjB8Aboe7fsojXodUg4Iadpit9_gA5b_P0BlXkhDR7Uk2Ndr3oJMUg87eJeIHZFN7ZUx9YhJfKUoPMakLjlfyTgn9VmcFPGh0Oe4ovqa4MaIACfbiajr/s320/CHIKA.JPG" width="320" /></a>My grandchildren think their dad’s dog is cuter. Ariana thinks Chika is ugly and stupid. Garret, who had a dog but refused to take care of him, is annoyed that we gave his Scruffy away and kept a clearly inferior brand. Even Rick, if he could give anything we own away, would get rid of her. That says a lot, considering some of the ratty, nerdy, sweat pants he has in his closet. </div>
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Luckily, as a mom, I am used to looking for the good in my family even when their outsides are screaming. “Ugly.” Chika is as beautiful as a little Wiener/ Chihuahua/Rat Terrier mix can be. Is it her fault she is enthusiastic, loves life and can’t control her licker?</div>
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Every chance I get, I like to sneak her into bed. I try to keep her curled up in front of me but she insists on snuggling behind the crook in my knees which happens to be on Rick’s side. of th bed. Rick will sometimes yank the covers off the bed and frisk me to make sure Chika isn’t hiding in the folds of my pajamas. I tried hiding her in the pillowcase once, but the barking gave her away.<br />
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“Why do you let that flea bitten dog into bed with us? Every time she stands up and shakes herself, it wakes me up.”<br />
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Rick is such a picky sleeper. “I’ll tell you what’s noisy, and it isn’t Chika. She doesn’t sound like a 500 HP chainsaw every night, and since when did a big boy like you get afraid of a little flea or two. What’s a flea among friends?<br />
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No one loves me like Chika does. She follows me everywhere I go and anticipates my every need. She is the best dishwasher in the family. In fact, I never have to ask her to wash the dishes. I simply put them on the floor. She rushes over and does such a good job I never have to rewash them. Even Garret, the resident germ freak, never complains. Of course, I’ve never told him the dog does the dishes every morning.<br />
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Chika is also considerate. She never tips the garbage over on the days that I come home first and has never once gone potty on the floor on my side of the bed. The piece d’ resistance however was when I decided I didn’t like the comforter set on my bed any longer. I couldn’t figure out how to tell Rick that we needed to replace the perfectly good set. Chika, sensitive as she is, must have sensed my dissatisfaction because one night she soaked the bed. <br />
“Throw the bedspread away.” Rick growled at me. <br />
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He didn’t have to ask twice. I threw it into the back of the truck with the garbage to go to the dump and tossed a bunch of gooey stuff on top of it. “Why did you throw the bedspread away?” asked Rick when he came back from dump delivery.<br />
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“Honey, you told me to.” <br />
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“Since when do you listen to me? I told you not to have that ugly old dog sleep with you.”<br />
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I just smiled. He will think differently once I get a nice new bed ensemble. <br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7086937402266613891.post-16979385783414678862011-11-11T02:00:00.000-08:002015-10-21T16:22:21.856-07:00TOILETS, ROMANCE OR BOTH<br />
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Before marriage I guarantee that at any given moment you can think of five thousand fun activities to do with your boyfriend. Just being together is entertaining enough. Never, not for the infiticimal part of a second, did it occur to me to choose to spend time on a date cleaning my house. I am just that sharp when it comes to some things. <br />
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Before Rick and I got married, conversations about dusting and scrubbing toilets never came up. There was simply no smooth way to slip it into the conversation. It’s not like when you are holding hands you can say, “Could you give me a moment. I have an overpowering urge to clean the toilet.” Frankly, if you are thinking dust bunnies and bowel cleaner on a date perhaps you need to look for a new guy.<br />
Rick and I rarely have a Saturday, or any day when we are both home together. A few weeks ago we had a beautiful day, to do anything we wanted. I suggested we clean the garage. Proof positive that the romance is gone from our marriage—or is it? <br />
Have you ever considered how unromantic it would be to use toilets that are never cleaned, walk on floors that have several months worth of leftovers on them, or to fight your way through dirty dishes to find one without some kind of fungus growing on it, just so you could get a drink? Let me just say, if you want to see real romance in action, just come to my house. In fact, now that our garage is clean, romance is over the top. :)<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">THE CRAZY DAZE OF MOTHERHOOD...coming soon to a bookstore near you.</div>Jane Isfeld Stillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875546211314356483noreply@blogger.com0