SPRING CLEANING

                                                      

 I had one simple goal when I woke up Saturday morning; get my eyebrows waxed. To the  average person who gets their grooming done once or twice a month this might seem like a trivial task.  

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.

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?" 

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." 

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

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.

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."   

I HEARD THE BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY

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.
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.
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?

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.
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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

JINXED

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.

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.

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.”

Translated that meant, “I won’t be too humiliated to sit beside you in church looking like that.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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!

MAN'S BEST FRIEND?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

“Why do you let that flea bitten dog into bed with us? Every time she stands up and shakes herself, it wakes me up.”

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?

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.

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.
“Throw the bedspread away.” Rick growled at me.

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.

“Honey, you told me to.”

“Since when do you listen to me? I told you not to have that ugly old dog sleep with you.”

I just smiled. He will think differently once I get a nice new bed ensemble.

NOT YOUR CRAFTING DIVA

I woke up one morning and said to myself, “What can I do today to prove what a complete ditz I am.”

Well not exactly, but if I did start my day that way, then when I did do something ridiculous it would appear to be planned—a success instead of a humiliation. However, if you are going to do something stupid, it’s much more rewarding when you involve others, so I called my friend Connie.

Connie is a talented well grounded homemaker and crafting diva. She also has a vinyl lettering business and I decided I wanted to put up some awe inspiring quotes on my walls.

Most people spend hours, days, or even weeks considering the words of wisdom that will adorn their wall for generations. Not me. Twenty minutes on Google and I’m good.

A few days later, Connie gave me a quick lesson in the art of vinyl letter application. I went home and gathered together a level, a measuring tape and pencil  then set about mounting my first quote, Bon Appetit. Short and to the point. 

I was on the job for exactly thirty five and a half seconds before I had to take a flying leap off the cupboard to make my first phone call to Connie. I had taken the letters off the backing material when I realized I needed to re-measure. I stuck the letters back to the paper except I stuck them to the sticky side instead of the waxed side and now I couldn’t get them off. "Can you please redo the letter?" I asked. "No worries, I know exactly what I'm doing now. I won't need to call again." I reassured her.

Connie was SO nice each of the fifty nine hundred times I called her in the span of one hour. I can’t remember all the problems I had, but when a letter stuck to my kitchen chair instead of the wall I decided that there was a reason no one sat with me at my table when we did crafts at church.

The last time I called Connie it took a long time for her to answer. I am assuming she was afraid to pick up the phone. I think the only reason she did is that she thought there was no possible way I could have done anything dumber than what I had already done. She was so wrong.

                                       

She sounded relieved but a little scared when I asked her to come and help me. Turns out it’s really easy to put up vinyl lettering and before the day was out I was a pro.

I could make the blog longer and go into more detail, but do you really think I want to advertise what a clutz I am?

For Connies side of the story and pictures of quotes visit her blog :) here

WHEN YOU CAN'T GO WHEN YOU GOTTA GO

The blog this week is in response to the Campaign Challenge I entered in. Enjoy this short humorous post :)

The door swung open. A hand reached around the corner of the bathroom at the front of the airplane and slapped up and down the wall. All the passengers watched. Was someone having a breakdown? The hand jerked back in and pulled the door shut. The bathroom door rattled as the pounding began inside.

The door swung open again. A blonde headed woman poked around the corner looking up and down the wall then pulled back in again. A moment later the hand thrust through the door once more and thumped the other side of the wall, this time going higher. The hand paused, and then dropped to strike the wall again, now she was beating the wall all the way to the floor.

The arm disappeared inside—more smacking the wall inside before the door swung open again and the arm and head poked around the corner and the whacking began again.

A stewardess hurried to the front of the plane and whispered something to the lady. The blonde’s face was scarlet. She murmured something to the stewardess.

The stewardess smiled. She showed the blonde how to latch the door to turn on the light. The door swung shut.

SOWING MY WILD OATS

I am definitely a country girl. I love the smell of straw, barns and fresh manure. It's not likely that Rick will build me a barn anytime in the near future or haul in a horse so I can have that horsy smell I love but Ariana's wedding was the perfect excuse to ask Rick to bring home four bales of hay.

“Jane, I may not be a wedding planner but I do know I have never been to a wedding where straw played predominantly in the decorations.” Rick said.

Maybe not yet, I thought. This could be the beginning of a whole new trend. “Fresh straw is the perfect addition to my raised gardens, Hon. It will hold in the moisture, and keep down the weeds—give the place ambiance. Besides it’s not like I’m hauling in manure like Sypher’s did the day before their garage sale.”

Rick hauled in four large bales. I grabbed my pitchfork and danced the happy farmer dance. You know the one—invented by a farmer who lived in the dell.

Rick was probably right. It’s not exactly what most people would go if for they were hosting a wedding reception at their house. I have never seen the look in Better Homes and Gardens or Brides magazine but the fresh clean smell and the feeling that a horse lingered just below the hill was too irresistible.

Four days after I laid it down, when I went out for my daily breath of country air, I was horrified to see little green grass like shoots poking out of golden straw. It was growing in every garden box and on the ground between. What had happened?

A few days later I discovered that my straw had oat seeds! I was sowing wild oats, and just in time for a wedding. Clean, golden straw was one thing, but decorating with wild oats was a catastrophe.
Of course Rick thought it was great—a bumper crop! “Not everyone has oats growing in their back yard.” He proclaimed. “We can invite them all back in at harvest time. They can help us beat out the grain.”

Yeah. There’s a party I can’t wait to host. He only thought it was great because he didn’t want to weed it. Well, there was only one thing to do. I added it to my list of things to groom. It went on the top of my list, right above plucking my eyebrows. I wonder if anyone has ever waxed oats before—apparently not.

Well a farmer-wannabe’s gotta do what a farmer-wannabe’s gotta do. And that is just what I did. I got down on my hands and knees and plucked out every blade. I would just like to say that it was much quicker to have my eyebrows waxed.

The wedding reception went off without a hitch and no one noticed the few errant stalks of oats popping through straw waiting for the final plucking. In fact someone said it was the most elegant reception they had ever been to. I think it was the straw. Rick thinks it was the string ensemble.

THE PERFECT GIFT

When children get to be a certain age they need to get married. At least boys do because it is extremely difficult to buy gifts for them. When they are married you can at least buy something for their home.

I can’t ever think what to get my boys. It doesn’t get any easier at Christmas. However, I inadvertently got the perfect gift for Garret this year.

At our house, we have a system for birthdays. Someone in the family remembers the date, gets on the phone and calls parents and siblings to remind them to call the birthdayee. It has always been fail proof. However…the other day, I got a call from Garret.

“So, Mom, what did you do yesterday.”

“Well I have been working from eight to faint to get ready for a wedding, plus I had to work. Then I came home and did yard work, helped Ariana move and a litany of other thing. Why?”

“Well I can think of one thing you didn’t do.”

Suddenly I knew exactly what I didn’t do. “I forgot your birthday.”
“Yup NO ONE in the family remembered.”

I felt terrible. First because we all forgot, secondly for how bad we looked to Jenica, his girlfriend.

I felt better when he told me she forgot once too, but felt so badly about it that she started to cry. I tried to summon up some fake tears. It didn’t work. If I was a good mother, the tears would undoubtedly have come in waves like the ocean. The best I could do was an apology.

“Garret I am so sorry we forgot your birthday, but don’t you be forgetting mine!”

He laughed. “Actually it’s the best gift you ever gave me. Now I can give you guff about it for eternity.”

Eternity is a long time, especially when Garret is giving out the guff. I called all the kids and told them to call their brother. Then I reminded them that I was becoming a doddering old woman and they had a responsibility to take better care of my brain--once again my fabulous mothering instincts took over.

Why should I feel guilty for neglecting things mothers are supposed to have etched into their souls. I would rather pass the guilt on to them. After all, when you don't have wealth you have to leave them something.

WEDDING PLANNER

It is exactly five days before our daughters wedding. I have been working, planning and preparing for weeks. I distinctly remember telling Rick, on several occasions I might add, that we need to talk about where we are going to put the furniture since the reception is going to be at our house.

Ariana wanted to have a dance and we had decided to empty the living room and dining room and have the dance there and set tables outside to eat. I had gone over the plan with Rick several times and everything was settled—at least in my mind. Last night, again, I broached the subject of moving the furniture.
“You know Hon,” Rick said. “I don’t think I want to have people dancing on the hard wood floor. And you know, I don’t think we can move that couch anywhere. Remember, it was so big we had to put it into the house before they put the front doors in?”
“Are you kidding me?” I sat straight up in bed. “I have been telling you for weeks what the plan was and you were in total agreement. Now you are changing your mind? You couldn’t have mentioned this before?”

Rick started to laugh. Apparently my frantic voice amused him.. “Jane, we have the whole week. What are you worried about. Just change your plans. I think we should have the dance outside.”

“Rick, stop it. You are going to make me cry. I have everything set. You liked the idea of moving the furniture and having a dance in the living room.”
“Well,” he said. I did like the idea then. I just don’t like it now. Why can’t you be a little flexible? Why does it have to be your way?”
OK, now I was ready to explode, especially because he was laughing. He has no sensitivity. “Rick, I could have been flexible any time this past two months when I sat you down and told you we needed to think things out. Your eyes glazed over and you told me it all sounded good. You pick NOW to become Mr. Wedding Planner? I am not changing my plans at this late date. We need to discuss moving the couches and the foosball game.”
“We are not going to move the foosball table. It’s too hard to take off the handles. I’m not doing it.
“Honey, we talked about it. I don’t want people playing foosball at the reception. Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way before now?”

“I just didn’t get inspiration until now. I think we should have the dance outside. And no one will play foosball if we put the balls up.”

And so it went. All my plans, and preparations, altered. Rick thought it was funny and that I was over reacting. I actually wanted to have the dance outside but I can’t let him be right. I have invested hours of planning and worrying and he has done nothing. It can’t be that easy.

Besides, I cannot live the rest of my life with him ignoring me then thinking he can jump in and change my plans at the last minute. Wait a minute—that is exactly how we have spent our entire marriage. 

SNEEZING YOUR BRAINS OUT

You would think after more than 30 years of marriage that Rick could do nothing that would surprise me anymore. Think again.

I suppose, considering there are so many bodily functions that could be humiliating when paraded out in public, I should be grateful that the one Rick chose to exhibit the other day was one of the least embarrassing—that would be the sneeze.

To say that Rick is a loud sneezer would be a gross understatement. His sneezes have a power behind them that anything not battened down actually reverberates. In fact the normal human body cannot withstand the battering.

My son Garret is the perfect example. Rick passed his technique on to him. However, the strain on Garrets strong and healthy body is so great that when he sneezes his body actually folds over double. He looks like he is initiating a low bow to royalty. Rick likes to think he is bowing to his father’s sneezing superiority.

The unleashing of this power proved to be dangerous to Garret. One day as the dreaded sneeze tore through his body he happened to be walking towards our granite island and he was in the throws of his bow when his head smacked onto the counter.
That is what I call sneezing your brains out. I cannot afford to sneeze my brains out, so I have developed a normal polite, socially acceptable sneeze.

The other day we were driving down the road in our beater truck. It has no air conditioning so the windows were open. Normally my husband is very proper in public so I am not usually afraid to be seen with him.

However unprepared I am for these eruptions that rip through his body, send chills up my spine and paralyze my heart, the average person, strolling innocently down the street is totally ill-equipped.
We had just pulled into Greg’s Gardens when Rick let loose the sneeze of the century. Even I haven’t experienced on of this magnitude. I am sure it measured on the Richter scale.

To make matters worse he had a mouth full of cherry pits. This sneeze was so loud it actually came in two parts. The first eruption came just as I had stepped from the truck and had my hand on the door to shut it. People froze. It’s hard to do anything else when your heart stops. Just when we all thought it was safe to breathe again the second explosion came in a rain of cherry pits. Everyone looked up to the roof to see if the shingles had been shaken loose and were falling on them.

No one but me knew where it came from. Rick was laughing, people were fleeing and I had to restart my heart by beating on my chest and walk into the store as though nothing happened. I am a rock.

PHONE FIASCO

I cannot believe I had another incident with my cell phone. Most people have an incident or maybe two with their phones and get the hang of it. Not me, I have to do the same things other people do and then create my own unique disasters. This is why I am able to write humor.

Fiasco number one, the complete story is in my first book ‘Mother’s Daze’, happened when I took my cell phone out the first time and didn’t know the ring tone. I was looking through a bin of diet drinks in the grocery store and almost destroyed the display to find out where the music was coming from.
Then, when I got a new phone I didn’t know how to turn it off when I took it on the airplane. When I asked the man on the seat next to me gave me a look that made me feel like I was the H1N1 disease.
I am on my third phone now and had no problems with it until the day I dropped it into the toilet and there were no rubber gloves in the house. Complete story in ‘The Crazy Daze of Motherhood’. But just like one of those old Timex watches, ‘it takes a licken and keeps on ticken.’

I knew for sure my phone was indestructible when I put it on the roof on my car a few days ago and drove off. My neighbor found it on the side of the road. It now it bears the scars of dog teeth but it still worked.

Then yesterday it wouldn’t work. This is a catastrophe. I finally mastered those critical skills of knowing how to turn it on and off plus voice mail, taking photos, and keeping it out of the toilet. It was my plan to be buried with it.

I can’t handle the learning curve of getting a new phone so I turn to the electronic expert is our house. Actually Rick knows little about the subject but he has never dropped a phone into the toilet.
“Honey, my cell phone doesn’t work. Maybe it needs a new battery. I just charged it and it didn’t hold. Can you pick one up for me today?”

“You don’t think it might have anything to do with the fact it was mauled by the bear our neighbor likes to call a dog?”
“It was working fine after that. Besides, now my phone is an original and nobody will want to steal it.
“Janie, no-one wanted to steal it before. You couldn’t give that thing away it’s so ancient.”
“Ha, ha.”

I was going out so I took Ricks phone with me. About an hour later I got a call. “Hello.”

“Jane, I fixed your phone."

“Already? Was it the battery?”

“Nope. I just turned it on."

“Are you kidding me? I never turned it off.”

Then came the words I hate to hear. Every time something isn’t working I hear them. “Jane, all you have to do is plug it in and turn it on.”

One time out of ten thousand and eleven times he is right and I am wrong. I will never hear the end of it! Is there a name for people like me?

YOU WANT ME TO WHAT!

Rick phoned several evenings ago while I was sitting on my bed, knee deep in editing my book and with my hair in foam rollers. Now you know two things about me. I curl my hair the old fashioned way and there is nothing romantic about where I write.

I’d rather you think I write in more glamorous surrounding so could you just pretend that I am sitting in a sunny breakfast nook overlooking a country garden like the ones that appear on the cover of your favorite magazine?

Rick had called to inform me that someone was coming to our house to pick up a package.“Are you kidding me? My hair is in curlers.”

“So! What’s the problem? He’s not coming to look at you.” Rick said. “He’s coming to pick up an important package.”

“Well unless he’s blind he’s going notice my pink, black, and lime green rollers. If the package is so important why didn’t you remember to take it with you? Who’s coming anyway?”
Well it just didn’t get any better than this; it was the husband of my hairdresser. I’m sure he has seen women in worse repair but not me.

“Rick, have him come when you get home.”

“Honey I can’t. Just give him the package on the counter. He’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Love you, thanks.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful!” I said into the dead phone.

RIAGMRRRGRRR… Rick was always doing things like this to me. We could be lying in bed when the doorbell rings and will he get the door? No! And why you ask? Because I am the only one wearing pajamas. It’s that or freeze my kaboobies off. He likes to keep the room as cold as an outdoor hockey rink. Of course the door is always for him. I ought to be nominated for sainthood.
Someone pulled into the driveway. Crap, what was I going to do now? If I hurried maybe I could get to the door before he got up the front steps. I ran into the bathroom and picked up the only towel I could see.

I wrapped the fifteen hundred yards of thick terrycloth around my head, grabbed the package and staggered to the door under the weight of the towel. I happened to glance at myself in the mirror in the entry way. It looked like I was wearing a feather mattress on my head.
I opened the door just as he stepped on the first stair. I knew those fourteen steps to the front door were going to come in handy some day. “Here’s the package.” I said as I set it on the top step.The weight of my towel almost threw me onto my face as I knelt to put the package down.

“Love to chat but I have something on the stove.”

I slammed the door shut. I had just lied. Did I care? No! I don’t care if I am seen without makeup, mascara, or in my pajama’s but no one sees me in rollers. That is just too 60’s. I actually remember going downtown in rollers with a scarf on my head way back then.

UGH…. Now you know I am old enough to be a throw back from the 60’s, that I curl my hair with the same rollers I used on my daughter’s. Oops I never told you that… I really need to just shut up before I give up the location of the crown jewels I stole when I went to visit the Queen.

Help! I can’t stop…I am so outta here.

PANTYHOSE HELL

My grandmother was born the year after the tea bag was invented,1905. She lived into the next century and saw the invention of the TV remote, Prozac and waffle soled running shoes.

When I asked her what her favorite invention was, with no hesitation she answered—pantyhose.

PANTYHOSE! Grandma obviously never heard of the GPS and she definitely knew nothing of pantyhose hell.

When I shop the pantyhose aisle my breathing constricts, my mouth goes dry and my deodorant runs. I have to pull the emergency paper sack from my purse and breathe into it.

It is impossible to find the right size, color, toe and support all rolled up into one pair.

If you decide on taupe which is not be confused with beige, tan, or just the other side of mud, you must decide what kind of toe; open, reinforced, or the half way up your foot toe. Or did you prefer tights?

Do you need a pair that sucks your tummy into your backbone or the ones that lift your bottom to your shoulder blades? If you decide breathing is optional you can choose a pair that does both.

Choose incorrectly between ribbed, ultra, shapely or the five hundred other names they have to describe their level of support, you may end up with a pair of pantyhose around your ankles in the middle of the dance floor. Yes, it happens.

Once you decide the size, toe and support level you must find a pair that offers all those options in the color you want.

It would take less time to write an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica and sell them door to door than it would be to delineate all the colors, styles, textures, sizes and brands of today’s pantyhose.

Finally, I found a mail order catalogue to order from. The only problem is they come six in a box for each style and ask you to order every month. However, you can order in the privacy of your own home.

I have my personnal fashion sense to cater to. I need different styles for different looks and moods. I require a good gut busting design for those days when I can’t fit my clothes but polite society still requires them to be zipped.

I need a variety of colors in each style: taupe, tan, beige, nude, black, off black, sheer black, powder black, cream, and gray mist.

When the UPS truck backed the Semi to the garage and buried Rick’s car in pantyhose I was forced to explain my expenditure.

#1. This was a life saving tool. I would not have to shoot myself in the pantyhose aisle.
#2. I had panty hose for the next 700 years at today’s easy prices.
#3. We had a lifetime supply of boxes.

One look at Rick and I knew he was in his own little pantyhose hell and the idea of my death in the panty hose aisle seemed to appeal to him.

Baggies

I thought all my grocery shopping woes were over. No longer did I have to slink down the Kotex aisle and try to blend a month supply of feminine hygiene product in with the milk. Nor did I spend hours in a comatose stupor to select the perfect pair of pantyhose.
Then came the day I needed to freeze 120 pounds of chicken breasts. I needed baggies—lots of baggies.
Rick’s part of this little project was to simply pick up the chicken. He always gets the easy job.
All he had to do was drive 45 miles during rush hour traffic, in the pouring rain, then wait in line for 2 hours then load the chicken into the car and drive back home.
I on the other hand had to drive to the store and purchase the perfect plastic bags.
It was one of those jobs that disguises itself as something simple but before you know it, you are sucked into the bowels of the pit where plastic burns forever but is never completely consumed.
Ordinarily purchasing a box of baggies was a simple matter but today it was a combination of math and science, my two hatingest subjects in school.
How many bags does it take to house 120 pounds of chicken? And if I was going to buy some, I should buy twice as many because I would probably need them next year too. My grandmother instilled in me all my life that a depression was impending. If I didn’t buy extra maybe they would cost too much next year or worse yet be rationed.
As I stood in front of the baggy shelf my jaw went slack. There were so many choices. Which should I buy Ziploc or Glad? How thick did the plastic need to be? What was the best buy? The ones with the regular zip seal, or the extra wide zip that guaranteed to seal? I pulled out my calculator.
Did I need 40 quart or 100 quart packages? How many chickens would each one hold? Maybe I should get gallon or two gallon size.
After spending more time there than I had at my last four hair appointments I decided to buy two packages of 40 quarts, one each of wide and narrow seal; one 100 count box and two boxes of gallon size to put the quarts into after we had filled them. I wasn’t taking any chances on the seal guarantee or not.
I am pleased to announce that we now have enough baggies to get us through any major gas hike, two depressions 14 years of severe rationing.

FANCY FOOTWEAR

I love shoes. I love high heels, the higher the better. OK, maybe I’d max out at 5 inches. After all it’s not like I’m the Statue of Liberty.

Rick thinks I have enough shoes. I tried to tell him I owe it to my public to wear cute shoes. OK, so maybe I don’t exactly have a public but I have a person and I only see her in public. She is a cute lady from church who actually gets up off of her chair and walks to where I am standing just to look at my shoes. Besides, she is older than me by about 20 years so it’s harder for her to get around. Don’t I owe her a pair of shoes that make her trip worth her while?

When I go to the bathroom people can tell it’s me just by looking under the stalls at my shoes.
Footwear is an important part of accessorizing. I am here to tell you if you don’t already know it, one pair of black shoes does not go with everything. I have @*&$&#** pairs of black shoes and I still have some outfits that require a different shoe.

There is a difference as to what clothes go with a chunky heel, a high heel, open toe, a strappy shoe, one with buckles on it or ruffles on the heel, the pair of black shoes that has some white on it, or flats. There is also a difference if the shoe is shiny, matte or suede. I could go on and on. I think I just did.

The long and short is; a woman must have more than one or two pairs of black shoes. And that is just the black shoes. How about the brown, ecru, white, red, blue, striped, polk-a-dot, green, the sandals and then there is a whole ‘nother array for casual shoes.

I wear all my shoes. It’s hard to explain to a man.  Rick has four pairs. Well, if all I wore was pants and flat heels I might not have an eye for creativity either.

Men don’t wear high heels and my man would not be caught dead in a pair of red or bright green shoes. Nope brown is it, boring to the bone brown or black for him.

I figure wiith all the money we save not buying him shoes we can afford to buy more for me. After all, when in the course of history of human events has a man’s shoes ever decided his destiny?

The story of Cinderella tells it all. A girl went from rags to riches all on account of a unique pair of shoes. I think I’ll approach him with the fact that a new pair of shoes is an investment in our future.