So, today, I took a good long look at myself in the mirror. I have long been a sufferer of seasonal allergies, and the trees are budding. My eyes are crimson and sore and not really working as they should. I removed my contacts and stepped closer to the mirror to inspect the carnage. And that's when I saw them....Two vertical lines in my forehead, on both sides of the center. I stepped back....still there.....I scowled......still there?...I relaxed my face.....still there! They won't come out!
I decided that I should try something else. Look surprised....still there.....smile broadly.....still there! Oh no! They are still there! Ok, a more drastic measure, grab the temples and spread the skin--oh good, they're gone....let go of the skin......still there! Crap! How did this happen?
I then started thinking about why this could have happened. Okay, relax the face....still there, only not as bad......smile.....still there, only not as bad.....scowl....oh, really bad, really still there......could it be that I spend the majority of my day with a scowl on my face? Is this what could have caused the permanent creases? Oh, Good Lord, these are permanent.
My mind was racing through every magazine I have ever read, was there something, something I could buy to magically make the lines disappear? Oh, it's going to take a lot of Oil of Olay to make these bad boys fade. I remember looking through the Sephora website and cruelly laughing at the fact that they had a product called "spackle"--I need some filling in.
I spend the majority of my day at work, and for some reason, I scowl when I am there....hmmm, and this scowl, held for 9 hours each day could be the reason my skin is permanently creased or irrepairably damaged...hmmm, there has to be a way to file some type of worker's comp claim....hmmm. Botox is out of the question, I don't do needles.....or could I? hmmmm. Oh, they're still there!
Barrettes...I could pull my hair back with barrettes and that will tighten my forehead and the lines will disappear....oh, that would be stupid....thinking, thinking....bangs, mall bangs, bangs over the forehead...that's something to work with, at least until I get this figured out. I could wear a sweatband across my forehead, like that lady from the Quacker Factory on the Home Shopping Network....no, silly, that won't work, you'll never find enough colors to coordinate with all your outfits...Quacker, that's a funny name, and I do like ducks...Oh, ducks, they're yellow, well at least the kind that go in the bathtub...speaking of that, isn't my son supposed to be taking a shower?...Yeah, it's supposed to rain tomorrow, better wear something warm to work.....I wonder if my gray slacks are clean?....well, they might be clean, but are they pressed?....Iron, that's a dumb name for that appliance....Iron is made of steel....my husband is a steelworker...Crap, I forgot to make his lunch for tomorrow....What was I talking about?
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The Missing Pages
I grew up reading fairy tales. Wonderful stories about "happy ever afters" that warmed your heart and made you dream of your Prince Charming. I loved them all--Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White. These stories raised the bar on life expectations. And by design, these stories set in motion a little girl's quest to find that perfect prince. But that was then, and this is now. I am afraid to report that in this day and age, we may be giving young princesses a false idea of the way things really are. And while the essence of the fairy tale should remain the same, I think there are a few missing pages to the story. Here is my rendition....
My revised story begins shortly after the glass slipper fit but before "and they lived happily ever after".
Cinderella was in foul mood today. She had woke up at 4 am and found that Prince Charming was not home. Last night was his bowling night, and she was accustomed to him coming home late on Thursdays, but this was unacceptable. She checked her cell phone for messages. Not even a text! "That darn Prince!" she stomped.
She thought about calling her BFF Sleeping Beauty, but it was 7am after all, and everybody knows that waking the Princess early would not be in anybody's best interest. She called Snow White, who was just too busy to talk. Snow had bathrooms to clean and with 7 men in the house, it was a full time job. Too busy. She then called Goldilocks. "I just can't come over today," said Goldi, "I have to go furniture shopping. Our stuff is either too soft or too hard, I have to find something that is just right. I'm guessing this will take all day. Sorry Cindy, but maybe we could meet for Happy Hour downtown." Cindy thought about this for a while and decided that wouldn't work. Goldilocks was nice enough, but get a few margaritas in her and she was intolerable.
Cinderella's Fairy Godmother wasn't much help. She moved into the castle the day after the wedding. Fairy Godmother was old and she had used up the last remaining bits of her power to get Cinderella married off. And, unfortunately, she did not belong to the Fairy Godmother Union. She was an independent fairy, no pension. Cinderella just couldn't allow her to be homeless, so she took her in.
The Prince finally came home. He was drunk and Cinderella was amazed that he was able to ride his horse through the forest in his current state. She pressed him for an explanation. As it turned out, the Prince was hiding a terrible secret. He had lost his job. Yes, all Royalty and Highness positions were being out-sourced to India. His family fortune had been squandered on the huge balls and events that he had staged to capture Cinderella's heart. The sad truth was that they were penniless. It would only be a matter of time before the castle was foreclosed on and they would be homeless. Cinderella would have to get a job.
With the lack of Royalty positions, there was not much available for the Princess to apply for. She had no education, she never thought she would need one. She had no skills, or at least anything that could be considered marketable. But, luckily, she still had her glass slippers. She took them to the local pawn shop. They negotiated a deal. She was given some cash and 6 months rental on a trailer home on the edge of the Kingdom. Sure, it was small, but they would manage.
She moved the Prince and her Fairy Godmother into the trailer house. She took what little money was left and bought groceries, paid a few bills, and found a job waiting on tables in a local restaurant. At night, she started taking college classes through the extended learning program at their local community college.
Before she knew it, Cinderella was graduating. She had found a way to set aside some money to attend graduate school. She graduated with a degree in law, divorced the Prince and found a great independent living center for her Fairy Godmother. She invested wisely in high yield secured bonds. She met a plastic surgeon, fell in love, and they married and were able to retire at a young age....and they lived happily ever after.
My revised story begins shortly after the glass slipper fit but before "and they lived happily ever after".
Cinderella was in foul mood today. She had woke up at 4 am and found that Prince Charming was not home. Last night was his bowling night, and she was accustomed to him coming home late on Thursdays, but this was unacceptable. She checked her cell phone for messages. Not even a text! "That darn Prince!" she stomped.
She thought about calling her BFF Sleeping Beauty, but it was 7am after all, and everybody knows that waking the Princess early would not be in anybody's best interest. She called Snow White, who was just too busy to talk. Snow had bathrooms to clean and with 7 men in the house, it was a full time job. Too busy. She then called Goldilocks. "I just can't come over today," said Goldi, "I have to go furniture shopping. Our stuff is either too soft or too hard, I have to find something that is just right. I'm guessing this will take all day. Sorry Cindy, but maybe we could meet for Happy Hour downtown." Cindy thought about this for a while and decided that wouldn't work. Goldilocks was nice enough, but get a few margaritas in her and she was intolerable.
Cinderella's Fairy Godmother wasn't much help. She moved into the castle the day after the wedding. Fairy Godmother was old and she had used up the last remaining bits of her power to get Cinderella married off. And, unfortunately, she did not belong to the Fairy Godmother Union. She was an independent fairy, no pension. Cinderella just couldn't allow her to be homeless, so she took her in.
The Prince finally came home. He was drunk and Cinderella was amazed that he was able to ride his horse through the forest in his current state. She pressed him for an explanation. As it turned out, the Prince was hiding a terrible secret. He had lost his job. Yes, all Royalty and Highness positions were being out-sourced to India. His family fortune had been squandered on the huge balls and events that he had staged to capture Cinderella's heart. The sad truth was that they were penniless. It would only be a matter of time before the castle was foreclosed on and they would be homeless. Cinderella would have to get a job.
With the lack of Royalty positions, there was not much available for the Princess to apply for. She had no education, she never thought she would need one. She had no skills, or at least anything that could be considered marketable. But, luckily, she still had her glass slippers. She took them to the local pawn shop. They negotiated a deal. She was given some cash and 6 months rental on a trailer home on the edge of the Kingdom. Sure, it was small, but they would manage.
She moved the Prince and her Fairy Godmother into the trailer house. She took what little money was left and bought groceries, paid a few bills, and found a job waiting on tables in a local restaurant. At night, she started taking college classes through the extended learning program at their local community college.
Before she knew it, Cinderella was graduating. She had found a way to set aside some money to attend graduate school. She graduated with a degree in law, divorced the Prince and found a great independent living center for her Fairy Godmother. She invested wisely in high yield secured bonds. She met a plastic surgeon, fell in love, and they married and were able to retire at a young age....and they lived happily ever after.
Cupcakes and the UN
Cupcakes are the perfect treat. They are available in all different kinds of flavors, styles and decorations for any theme. They are portable, eco-friendly (no plate required) and fun. Just looking at a cupcake makes me happy. I love them. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't like cupcakes. They are tiny edible ambassadors of good will.
Why the superpowers of this world have not considered the power of the cupcake a viable negotiating tool escapes me. Think about this for a moment. Say 10 years ago, someone sat down and had a heart-to-heart talk with Osama. Something like, "Yeah, I know you have been working real hard on this whole world domination thing, but you know, nobody likes a bully. It's not nice. You should really think about finding something else to do. Here, have a cupcake."
Granted, we would have to do a little shuffling at the Pentagon. We're going to need a LOT of cupcakes, so we may even need a whole new building for this project. Commitees, coalitions and staffs will have to be created. In the long run, I feel it would be worth the extra tax dollars.
I, myself, would have no problem helping out in that regard. As a matter of fact, I have compiled a list of suggested cupcake varieties for our world leaders.
Condoleezza Rice/US-This lady's got her hands full, Vanilla cake with pink frosting and sprinkles--a definate crowd pleaser.
George Bush/US-He is the President after all, Banana cake with white frosting, nuts on top--no comment.
Dick Cheney/US-Second in Command, Carrot cake with powdered sugar topping (let's face, we've got some health issues here and while carrot cake isn't everybody's favorite, he's not pressed into duty too much).
Gordon Brown/UK, Great Britain-Butterbrickle cake with a fudge candy treat sunk inside, carmel frosting.
Koehler/Germany--This one's too easy-German chocolate cake and frosting.
Sarkosky/France-Red velvet cupcakes, cream cheese frosting with cinnamon hearts on top.
Emporer Akihito/Japan--White cake with Hello Kitty decorations, one of my all-time favorites.
Vladimer Putin/Russia--Okay, he's kind of a muffin sort of fellow--Chocolate/chocolate chip.
Huge Idea.....and remember, you heard it here first.
Why the superpowers of this world have not considered the power of the cupcake a viable negotiating tool escapes me. Think about this for a moment. Say 10 years ago, someone sat down and had a heart-to-heart talk with Osama. Something like, "Yeah, I know you have been working real hard on this whole world domination thing, but you know, nobody likes a bully. It's not nice. You should really think about finding something else to do. Here, have a cupcake."
Granted, we would have to do a little shuffling at the Pentagon. We're going to need a LOT of cupcakes, so we may even need a whole new building for this project. Commitees, coalitions and staffs will have to be created. In the long run, I feel it would be worth the extra tax dollars.
I, myself, would have no problem helping out in that regard. As a matter of fact, I have compiled a list of suggested cupcake varieties for our world leaders.
Condoleezza Rice/US-This lady's got her hands full, Vanilla cake with pink frosting and sprinkles--a definate crowd pleaser.
George Bush/US-He is the President after all, Banana cake with white frosting, nuts on top--no comment.
Dick Cheney/US-Second in Command, Carrot cake with powdered sugar topping (let's face, we've got some health issues here and while carrot cake isn't everybody's favorite, he's not pressed into duty too much).
Gordon Brown/UK, Great Britain-Butterbrickle cake with a fudge candy treat sunk inside, carmel frosting.
Koehler/Germany--This one's too easy-German chocolate cake and frosting.
Sarkosky/France-Red velvet cupcakes, cream cheese frosting with cinnamon hearts on top.
Emporer Akihito/Japan--White cake with Hello Kitty decorations, one of my all-time favorites.
Vladimer Putin/Russia--Okay, he's kind of a muffin sort of fellow--Chocolate/chocolate chip.
Huge Idea.....and remember, you heard it here first.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Seven Deadly Sins
Wikipedia defines the Seven Deadly Sins as a means developed to instruct followers concerning fallen man's tendancy to sin. They are the capital vices or cardinal sins in life. Indulging in any of the Seven Deadly Sins brings on the threat of eternal damnation. The Seven Deadly Sins are as follows-Lust, Sloth, Pride, Greed, Wrath, Envy, and the ever popular Pride.
Let me say, first and foremost, I don't believe in hell. I was raised Catholic and I don't believe that God would ever let eternal damnation happen to me. Also, let us not diminish the fact that if I believe that I have a 50/50 chance of entering heaven or having my soul taken by Satan, I would have to give Satan equal weight with God in considering my life choices. Umm, God has no equal, duh.
With this in mind, I have developed my own list of Seven Deadly Sins. It is not to be taken at face value, just pondered. Breaking these rules will not be fatal to spiritual progression, it will just make life here on Earth, or as I like to call it, "Hell with Fluorescent Lights" a bit, well, difficult.
1) Tequila. Awful stuff. Songs have been written about the mystical powers of this popular beverage choice, none of which exude a virtuous homage to its creation. It takes on many forms, is available in all classes and price ranges and it makes you do whacky things. (ie, would you EVER eat a worm that you found in the bottom of your wine cooler? or any other worm for that matter) I rest my case.
2)Wearing Thong Underwear. Now, who designed this instrument of torture? It couldn't have been a woman. I suppose the purpose of this garment is to show the buttocks in their full moon shaped glory. As a woman, I object. One of the great distractions of all time is keeping a fold of fabric out of that "area". You know what I am talking about. A snuggy can make you walk funny, act totally inappropriate in any and all social settings and dissolve you into a puddle of babbling craziness. The fact that a person would pay money to buy a garment that would place them in these circumstances escapes me.
3) Financial Planning. Oh, I just don't see the point of it all. You work all your life to invest in a nest egg. What if you die young? 20 years of hard work down the drain. I have my own investment strategy. It doesn't involve 401(k) or IRA. My plan is L-O-T-T-O. Go ahead and laugh. I've read The Secret and watched the dvd. I'll be claiming my prize soon.
4)Watching Reality TV. Okay, who are the Kardashians and why do we need to keep up with them? The REAL Housewives of New York City--are there really housewives all over the country pretending to be housewives from New York City? And who knew that Americans were so obscessed with dancing, Dancing with the Stars, So You Think You Can Dance, or Your Mama Don't Dance, who cares? And don't get me started on American Idol. If I want a dose of reality, I can just look out my window. My neighbors should be on Springer.
5) Watching the News. Don't do it, it will only make you mad. It's a half hour expose' on how we have screwed up our lives. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Cause and effect, chain of events, all of the chaos makes perfect sense.When your spinning round, things come undone, welcome to earth, third rock from the sun. And the presidential election? I think they all should get a crack at it. You have 12 months to straighten it out, if you don't, game over. Next.
6) Volunteering. This is the broadest of all my catagories, to include volunteering to help, volunteering to lead, volunteering information. Don't do it. If you are thinking about it, think about this. It is called volunteering because it is a) Thankless-nobody wants to do it, and they certainly don't want to get caught bringing it up. It's kind of like the "stop, drop and roll" process when you are on fire. b) Non-compensated--or free, non paying, no money. If it was that great of a position, they'd be paying someone to do it. The only benefit of doing a great job is that it puts you uppermost in the minds of the "powers that be" for the next job. It's all a matter of strategy my friend.
7) Gardening. Okay, this one is selfish of me. Before you point that flowered gloved finger at me or throw your brightly colored clog in my direction, hear me out. I don't like OUTSIDE. I am fair skinned--can't be out in the sun. And, I don't like bugs. In fact, they terrify me. I have been known to jump from a moving vehicle to avoid a bee. And, since I have a well documented lotion/body spray addiction, I smell like flowers. Bugs LOVE me.
So, there you have it. In a nutshell, my version of avoiding the major pitfalls of life.
Let me say, first and foremost, I don't believe in hell. I was raised Catholic and I don't believe that God would ever let eternal damnation happen to me. Also, let us not diminish the fact that if I believe that I have a 50/50 chance of entering heaven or having my soul taken by Satan, I would have to give Satan equal weight with God in considering my life choices. Umm, God has no equal, duh.
With this in mind, I have developed my own list of Seven Deadly Sins. It is not to be taken at face value, just pondered. Breaking these rules will not be fatal to spiritual progression, it will just make life here on Earth, or as I like to call it, "Hell with Fluorescent Lights" a bit, well, difficult.
1) Tequila. Awful stuff. Songs have been written about the mystical powers of this popular beverage choice, none of which exude a virtuous homage to its creation. It takes on many forms, is available in all classes and price ranges and it makes you do whacky things. (ie, would you EVER eat a worm that you found in the bottom of your wine cooler? or any other worm for that matter) I rest my case.
2)Wearing Thong Underwear. Now, who designed this instrument of torture? It couldn't have been a woman. I suppose the purpose of this garment is to show the buttocks in their full moon shaped glory. As a woman, I object. One of the great distractions of all time is keeping a fold of fabric out of that "area". You know what I am talking about. A snuggy can make you walk funny, act totally inappropriate in any and all social settings and dissolve you into a puddle of babbling craziness. The fact that a person would pay money to buy a garment that would place them in these circumstances escapes me.
3) Financial Planning. Oh, I just don't see the point of it all. You work all your life to invest in a nest egg. What if you die young? 20 years of hard work down the drain. I have my own investment strategy. It doesn't involve 401(k) or IRA. My plan is L-O-T-T-O. Go ahead and laugh. I've read The Secret and watched the dvd. I'll be claiming my prize soon.
4)Watching Reality TV. Okay, who are the Kardashians and why do we need to keep up with them? The REAL Housewives of New York City--are there really housewives all over the country pretending to be housewives from New York City? And who knew that Americans were so obscessed with dancing, Dancing with the Stars, So You Think You Can Dance, or Your Mama Don't Dance, who cares? And don't get me started on American Idol. If I want a dose of reality, I can just look out my window. My neighbors should be on Springer.
5) Watching the News. Don't do it, it will only make you mad. It's a half hour expose' on how we have screwed up our lives. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Cause and effect, chain of events, all of the chaos makes perfect sense.When your spinning round, things come undone, welcome to earth, third rock from the sun. And the presidential election? I think they all should get a crack at it. You have 12 months to straighten it out, if you don't, game over. Next.
6) Volunteering. This is the broadest of all my catagories, to include volunteering to help, volunteering to lead, volunteering information. Don't do it. If you are thinking about it, think about this. It is called volunteering because it is a) Thankless-nobody wants to do it, and they certainly don't want to get caught bringing it up. It's kind of like the "stop, drop and roll" process when you are on fire. b) Non-compensated--or free, non paying, no money. If it was that great of a position, they'd be paying someone to do it. The only benefit of doing a great job is that it puts you uppermost in the minds of the "powers that be" for the next job. It's all a matter of strategy my friend.
7) Gardening. Okay, this one is selfish of me. Before you point that flowered gloved finger at me or throw your brightly colored clog in my direction, hear me out. I don't like OUTSIDE. I am fair skinned--can't be out in the sun. And, I don't like bugs. In fact, they terrify me. I have been known to jump from a moving vehicle to avoid a bee. And, since I have a well documented lotion/body spray addiction, I smell like flowers. Bugs LOVE me.
So, there you have it. In a nutshell, my version of avoiding the major pitfalls of life.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Frog and The Dog
To a kid, medical knowledge is quantified only by life experience. Couple limited knowledge with animal husbandry and you have a recipe for disaster.
Such was the case with my sister and I. Renee was 9 years old, I was 8. Oh, we did the usual kid things like burning ants with a magnifying glass and pulling the legs off of long legged spiders. More than a few worms lost their lives with our science experiments. It was rumored that you could cut a worm in half and it would grow into two worms. We didn't have much sucess in that regard.
One afternoon, my sister suggested that we check out Mr. Neimi's window wells for frogs. It had rained the night before--perfect conditions for Window Well Frog Hunting.
We found a great big toad in the first window well. Unfortunately for the toad, we mistook his sluggish demeanor for profound illness. We found a shoe box in the garage. We lined it with Kleenex and gently laid our "patient" in the center of the box. What to do, oh what to do?
It was agreed that the magical cure for any ailment was Vic's VapoRub.
Applied liberally to the chest, this toad could be cured by tomorrow. It wasn't easy sneaking the Vic's out of the house. We already had to distract my mother when we stole the Kleenex, and Renee and I found it best not to involve my mother in our ideas, at least not until they had succeeded. Renee was able to slip past detection and out of the house with the Vic's in the pocket of her shorts.
I proudly read the instructions. "Apply liberally to chest and under each nostril to relieve congestion". Easy enough. Who was going to apply the Vic's was cause for great debate, as everyone knows that handling a toad too much will result in warts growing on your hands. It was decided that Renee would spread it on the chest, and I would apply it under the nostrils of the toad.
After the application was complete, we revelled in the fact that we had just saved the life of one of God's creatures. Coincidently, it was at this point that our patient had taken a turn for the worse. He no longer hopped, or moved, or really breathed all that well. It was determined that maybe some rest would be best, and we wrapped him in a Kleenex, put the cover on the box and left him on the work bench of the garage, vowing to check on him after a bit.
It wasn't long before we had another medical crisis that needed our attention. After leaving the garage, we happened upon our dog Rags. He was in a terrible state. The night before, my mother had cooked a Porketta for supper. For those who aren't aware of this regional delicacy, it is pieces of pork tenderloin, heavily seasoned with fennel and other secret spices and tightly tied with string to hold all the pieces together. Rags was not above rummaging through the garbage looking for scraps to eat and he found the string, irresistably saturated with the juices of the pork tenderloin. He had eaten it late lastnight and well, was "passing" the string. The first few feet of string had exited his body. By our calculations, there were still a few more feet to go. What to do, oh what to do?
The first idea was to get the hedge clipper and cut the string off. We quickly realized this idea would not work. Rags had a tail and he was not willing to stand still while we pulled open the long blades of the clipper. And, neither one of us had any desire to touch the string. Too much room for error.
The second idea was fabulous. It was determined that Renee would make the dog run. Once he got to maximum speed, I would step on the string, causing the rest of it to exit his body. S-M-A-R-T.
Now, let me just say that I will never forget the sound old Rags made when I stepped on the string and he ran out of slack. It was an unholy sound. It was a sound that made our skin crawl. It was a sound that made my mother come out of the house. "What in the hell are you doing to that dog!" she screamed. And, unfortunately for us, my dad had just come home from work and found the toad in the shoebox in the garage. "What the hell is this!" he screamed, shaking the box at us.
Grounded again.
Rags was never quite the same after his surgery. And the garage smelled funny for quite some time after that as well. And for a time, two weeks actually, all God's creatures would be safe.
Such was the case with my sister and I. Renee was 9 years old, I was 8. Oh, we did the usual kid things like burning ants with a magnifying glass and pulling the legs off of long legged spiders. More than a few worms lost their lives with our science experiments. It was rumored that you could cut a worm in half and it would grow into two worms. We didn't have much sucess in that regard.
One afternoon, my sister suggested that we check out Mr. Neimi's window wells for frogs. It had rained the night before--perfect conditions for Window Well Frog Hunting.
We found a great big toad in the first window well. Unfortunately for the toad, we mistook his sluggish demeanor for profound illness. We found a shoe box in the garage. We lined it with Kleenex and gently laid our "patient" in the center of the box. What to do, oh what to do?
It was agreed that the magical cure for any ailment was Vic's VapoRub.
Applied liberally to the chest, this toad could be cured by tomorrow. It wasn't easy sneaking the Vic's out of the house. We already had to distract my mother when we stole the Kleenex, and Renee and I found it best not to involve my mother in our ideas, at least not until they had succeeded. Renee was able to slip past detection and out of the house with the Vic's in the pocket of her shorts.
I proudly read the instructions. "Apply liberally to chest and under each nostril to relieve congestion". Easy enough. Who was going to apply the Vic's was cause for great debate, as everyone knows that handling a toad too much will result in warts growing on your hands. It was decided that Renee would spread it on the chest, and I would apply it under the nostrils of the toad.
After the application was complete, we revelled in the fact that we had just saved the life of one of God's creatures. Coincidently, it was at this point that our patient had taken a turn for the worse. He no longer hopped, or moved, or really breathed all that well. It was determined that maybe some rest would be best, and we wrapped him in a Kleenex, put the cover on the box and left him on the work bench of the garage, vowing to check on him after a bit.
It wasn't long before we had another medical crisis that needed our attention. After leaving the garage, we happened upon our dog Rags. He was in a terrible state. The night before, my mother had cooked a Porketta for supper. For those who aren't aware of this regional delicacy, it is pieces of pork tenderloin, heavily seasoned with fennel and other secret spices and tightly tied with string to hold all the pieces together. Rags was not above rummaging through the garbage looking for scraps to eat and he found the string, irresistably saturated with the juices of the pork tenderloin. He had eaten it late lastnight and well, was "passing" the string. The first few feet of string had exited his body. By our calculations, there were still a few more feet to go. What to do, oh what to do?
The first idea was to get the hedge clipper and cut the string off. We quickly realized this idea would not work. Rags had a tail and he was not willing to stand still while we pulled open the long blades of the clipper. And, neither one of us had any desire to touch the string. Too much room for error.
The second idea was fabulous. It was determined that Renee would make the dog run. Once he got to maximum speed, I would step on the string, causing the rest of it to exit his body. S-M-A-R-T.
Now, let me just say that I will never forget the sound old Rags made when I stepped on the string and he ran out of slack. It was an unholy sound. It was a sound that made our skin crawl. It was a sound that made my mother come out of the house. "What in the hell are you doing to that dog!" she screamed. And, unfortunately for us, my dad had just come home from work and found the toad in the shoebox in the garage. "What the hell is this!" he screamed, shaking the box at us.
Grounded again.
Rags was never quite the same after his surgery. And the garage smelled funny for quite some time after that as well. And for a time, two weeks actually, all God's creatures would be safe.
The Old Neighborhood
When I was growing up, I knew everybody in my neighborhood. That was just the way things were. It was a great training ground for life. Each neighbor had role in the development of the young minds that lived on our street. Fables of the more livelier characters were passed on from generation to generation in secret circles held in twilight hours on dew filled lawns. All of us poised for the moment the street lights would come on and we would have to go home.
For instance, Mrs. Lake was mean. She never gave out candy on Halloween and if you dared step on her manicured lawn there was going to be trouble. My sister Renee was elevated to legendary status the summer she imprinted her hand in the wet cement of their new sidewalk. It remains, to this day, some 37 years later.
Mrs. Pryor lived in the middle house on our block. Her front lawn was flanked with over grown lilac bushes that had "picker" bushes growing in them. They were like a magnet for Huffy bikes and inexplicably you couldn't pass her house without getting yourself tangled in the mess.
I will never forget the day my mother had to rescue me from the picker bushes. I had torn my pants, again, and my knee was bleeding. My mother grabbed my bike with one hand, grabbed me with the other, and began apologizing to Mrs. Pryor for the inconvenience of it all. "I am so sorry, it won't happen again, I'll keep her on our side of the block" my mother said as we walked away. "Oh, that's alright, dear, I am glad she is okay," Mrs. Pryor crooned. I turned to look at her and I swear, as God is my witness, horns sprouted from her head and fangs shot out from her mouth as black smoke surrounded her evil head. I didn't ride my bike for week.
Then there was the Smith family. They lived across the street. They had 2 children, Martin and Carol. My sister and I loved going over there. Carol was older than we were. Everything about her was fascinating. She wore eye make up and rolled her long hair in curlers the size of orange juice cans. We were just sure that she had to be dating the captain of the football team because she was so pretty. She had her own car too. She was cool and I wanted to be just like her when I got to high school.
One block away from us was a row of apartment buildings. My parents cautioned us to stay away from the area. "Transient housing" my father called it. However, in the middle building lived a family with children our age. The parents seldom spoke English. Interesting, very interesting. My sister and I spent many hours watching them through the bushes. And, when we couldn't find anything better to do, spying on the Greeks was as good as it got.
Behind our house lived the notorious Maras family. Nobody was quite sure just how many children they had. The Maras kids were feared and revered. Most of the windows were broken in their house, and the kids never had shoes on their feet. Everybody was afraid of them, except for my dad. There were a couple of times I had seen him make them cowar back to their home. This made me very proud, but I never gloated. After all, my dad went to work everyday. Didn't want an incident while he was gone.
We played Tin Can Alley and hide-and-seek with all the neighbor kids. We even tried playing "Capture the Flag" one time, but we spent so much time establishing the rules that we gave up before too long, settling for Kick Ball instead. We dug for fossils in Sabatini's yard. We never found any, but we were sure there had to be some there.
Life was good. The days were long and warm and full of adventures. I wish I would have appreciated it more.
For instance, Mrs. Lake was mean. She never gave out candy on Halloween and if you dared step on her manicured lawn there was going to be trouble. My sister Renee was elevated to legendary status the summer she imprinted her hand in the wet cement of their new sidewalk. It remains, to this day, some 37 years later.
Mrs. Pryor lived in the middle house on our block. Her front lawn was flanked with over grown lilac bushes that had "picker" bushes growing in them. They were like a magnet for Huffy bikes and inexplicably you couldn't pass her house without getting yourself tangled in the mess.
I will never forget the day my mother had to rescue me from the picker bushes. I had torn my pants, again, and my knee was bleeding. My mother grabbed my bike with one hand, grabbed me with the other, and began apologizing to Mrs. Pryor for the inconvenience of it all. "I am so sorry, it won't happen again, I'll keep her on our side of the block" my mother said as we walked away. "Oh, that's alright, dear, I am glad she is okay," Mrs. Pryor crooned. I turned to look at her and I swear, as God is my witness, horns sprouted from her head and fangs shot out from her mouth as black smoke surrounded her evil head. I didn't ride my bike for week.
Then there was the Smith family. They lived across the street. They had 2 children, Martin and Carol. My sister and I loved going over there. Carol was older than we were. Everything about her was fascinating. She wore eye make up and rolled her long hair in curlers the size of orange juice cans. We were just sure that she had to be dating the captain of the football team because she was so pretty. She had her own car too. She was cool and I wanted to be just like her when I got to high school.
One block away from us was a row of apartment buildings. My parents cautioned us to stay away from the area. "Transient housing" my father called it. However, in the middle building lived a family with children our age. The parents seldom spoke English. Interesting, very interesting. My sister and I spent many hours watching them through the bushes. And, when we couldn't find anything better to do, spying on the Greeks was as good as it got.
Behind our house lived the notorious Maras family. Nobody was quite sure just how many children they had. The Maras kids were feared and revered. Most of the windows were broken in their house, and the kids never had shoes on their feet. Everybody was afraid of them, except for my dad. There were a couple of times I had seen him make them cowar back to their home. This made me very proud, but I never gloated. After all, my dad went to work everyday. Didn't want an incident while he was gone.
We played Tin Can Alley and hide-and-seek with all the neighbor kids. We even tried playing "Capture the Flag" one time, but we spent so much time establishing the rules that we gave up before too long, settling for Kick Ball instead. We dug for fossils in Sabatini's yard. We never found any, but we were sure there had to be some there.
Life was good. The days were long and warm and full of adventures. I wish I would have appreciated it more.
40 and Fabulous
Let me say, again, that I am in my forties. And, after all, 44 is just a number. In fact, it is twice the number of the actual age I would like to be. At this point, a more literal minded woman may interject a lovely platitude extolling the virtues of maturity. Something like, "I've never felt so free" or "I am finally the person I hoped to become"-blah, blah, blah. Not me, I hate it. But, I have to say, I just hate the chronological order of it. Age is a state of mind, and I will be forever 21. (This is where that "I am a casual observer"and "not getting involved in the act of living" has come in handy for me. That and an oily complexion. Both ward off wrinkles and the signs of aging....but onward.)
I came into this world the third of four girls. I have 3 sisters-Roberta, Renee and Rachel. My name is Mary. In case you missed the glaringly obvious, I am the only child in my family with name beginning with something other than an R. And, I have blonde hair. My sisters are all brunettes. I know what you're thinking, but our postman was Armenian and my parents are devoute Catholics. Nothing to see here people.
And did I mention that I used to be chubby? That's what we used to call it. These days, it is obese, back then, it was chubby. Up until I was 40, I lived by the rules -didn't dare break the rules. I was that nice girl everybody liked. I volunteered, I made costumes for Spring Programs, I worked the concession stands, I baked cakes for the church bazaar, I was a model parent and had supper on the table every night at 6pm for the man I loved. And then I turned 40.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had spent so many years helping others. So many years giving others the "leg up" and over the fence, that I found that I was the only one left on my side of the fence. Everybody else had moved on, and, I am afraid to report, I had no one to help me over the fence. I needed to do something drastic.
I began to re-evaluate my life. My children were, for all intents and purposes, raised with all the morals and values they needed. My husband and I were past that stage where relationships are made or broken on the disclosure of an undesireable character flaw. Yes, it was time for a little focus on me.
I lost 45 pounds. It wasn't easy, but I did it. I worked hard at developing those curves. I also paid $5000 for "two curves on my chest", but that's another story for another time. I got contact lenses and a tatoo. No explanation, just because I wanted to. I started to reconnect with me.
I changed my view of the world and my place it in. I no longer believed that dreams can come true if you wish hard enough. It's every man for himself. Points are not awarded for hard work and your permanent record is just a phrase used to keep adolescents in line. If you like something, buy it, even if it happens to be low-rise jeans, and well, you're not 20 anymore. There is no point in keeping up with the Jones. The Jones are horrible people and nobody likes them anyways.
The only thing that matters in life is this-there is only one person in this world that can make you happy. That person is YOU.
I came into this world the third of four girls. I have 3 sisters-Roberta, Renee and Rachel. My name is Mary. In case you missed the glaringly obvious, I am the only child in my family with name beginning with something other than an R. And, I have blonde hair. My sisters are all brunettes. I know what you're thinking, but our postman was Armenian and my parents are devoute Catholics. Nothing to see here people.
And did I mention that I used to be chubby? That's what we used to call it. These days, it is obese, back then, it was chubby. Up until I was 40, I lived by the rules -didn't dare break the rules. I was that nice girl everybody liked. I volunteered, I made costumes for Spring Programs, I worked the concession stands, I baked cakes for the church bazaar, I was a model parent and had supper on the table every night at 6pm for the man I loved. And then I turned 40.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had spent so many years helping others. So many years giving others the "leg up" and over the fence, that I found that I was the only one left on my side of the fence. Everybody else had moved on, and, I am afraid to report, I had no one to help me over the fence. I needed to do something drastic.
I began to re-evaluate my life. My children were, for all intents and purposes, raised with all the morals and values they needed. My husband and I were past that stage where relationships are made or broken on the disclosure of an undesireable character flaw. Yes, it was time for a little focus on me.
I lost 45 pounds. It wasn't easy, but I did it. I worked hard at developing those curves. I also paid $5000 for "two curves on my chest", but that's another story for another time. I got contact lenses and a tatoo. No explanation, just because I wanted to. I started to reconnect with me.
I changed my view of the world and my place it in. I no longer believed that dreams can come true if you wish hard enough. It's every man for himself. Points are not awarded for hard work and your permanent record is just a phrase used to keep adolescents in line. If you like something, buy it, even if it happens to be low-rise jeans, and well, you're not 20 anymore. There is no point in keeping up with the Jones. The Jones are horrible people and nobody likes them anyways.
The only thing that matters in life is this-there is only one person in this world that can make you happy. That person is YOU.
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