Anniversary #31
November 4, 2009
Today was our wedding anniversary — thirty-one wonderful, adventurous, romantic years together. Paul provides the wonderful and I provide the adventurous. The romantic just is. I thought I’d give a report on our day, so that all of you who don’t have the first idea how to have a great anniversary together will get a few pointers.
Gifts — For weeks I pleaded with Paul to give me some ideas of what he wanted. My eyes glazed over when he mentioned the technology items. I don’t do technology. It mortally confuses me.
Finally he announced the need for a new set of dress trousers. I had just about simultaneously gotten the same brilliant idea, having noticed a huge white wear spot on the pocket of his navy blue slacks just that morning as he stood at the front of the church. The entire church family saw the need at the same moment I did. Humility is not something I have to strive over-hard for. Opportunities abound.
So I thought the problem of an anniversary gift was solved. Not. Finding Paul trousers is a monumental challenge. He is long and thin. The trousers available have the dimensions switched around. 32 x 34 will work; 34 x 32 will not. I was still looking today without success. Fortunately, I had a book stashed away for his birthday, which had to do anniversary duty.
When he hauled out several presents for me, I felt like a heel — until I opened them.
Gift #1 — A homemade Fernando Ortega CD case — without the CD. “Thank you, Paul. I have always loved Fernando Ortega’s CD cases. Usually they come with a CD inside.”
“Oh, did I forget the CD? Duh.” He ambled off to his man-den in the basement to retrieve the music portion of the Fernando gift. He had downloaded the music (legally) from the Internet and made a lovely case and all — just forgot to put the CD in it.
Gift #2 – A Hershey Milk Chocolate-flavored lip balm — with instructions to smear it, but not to eat it. I normally do not use lip balms. Petroleum jelly out of a jar serves the same purpose quite effectively. Beebee asked if I knew how to use lip balm, or if she needed to demonstrate for me. She probably just wanted the first lick.
Gift #3 – A bag of Lemonheads. Yes, exactly. The same candy they sell at swimming pool concession stands.
I now understood why, whenever I had pleaded for gift ideas, Paul had consistently stated he only wanted a bag of circus peanuts and a tube of braunschweiger to make him blissfully happy. He had hoped to put our gifts on an equal plane.
(The man gave me roses and truffles, too, but Lemonheads and CD-less CD cases are more fun to talk about.)
Other festivities – We spent a romantic afternoon together at ShopKo Optical. I have needed new glasses for a while, not being able to see overmuch out of the old ones. They had a huge 25% off sale, and Paul generously offered to buy me any $49.95 frame in the place. (Actually, I was the one who opted for the $49.95 pair. The $99.95 frames looked a little nicer, but the price tag hanging from them wasn’t near as elegant as the one on the $49.95 pair. I know cool when I see it.)
We dined on petite sirloin at Applebee’s. It was a weird experience having the cook bring our steaks to the table and stand over us, demanding that we cut it and make sure it was done to our taste. He refused to leave until we had done so. It must be a custom peculiar to Applebee’s. A few minutes later, the waitress came by and asked in a whisper if we had “cut our steak for anyone yet.” I’ll bet it has nothing to do with whether the steak is done to perfection. They probably don’t trust the customers to handle knives without supervision until the management is sure they are mature enough to manipulate sharp objects alone. We were being tested. I got so nervous I tried to cut with the serrated edge up, but they let me keep my knife anyway.
While I demonstrated my knife-wielding prowess for the cook, precious seconds were lost, and the butter ran off my baked potato and into the zucchini. I was disappointed. If they had wrapped that potato in traditional foil, the butter would have stayed put. Sigh!
We dressed up for our big occasion. Paul wore a sweater and white jeans (because I could not find dress slacks for his anniversary present, no doubt). I wore my beautiful hunter-green tunic with the Nehru collar. I fell in love with it and its $3.00 tag at Goodwill three years ago. I look ever so chic in it, but have not had the courage to wear it in public, since I don’t see other ladies flaunting football player-size padding in their jacket shoulders right now. I keep hoping such fashion will come back into style eventually. (Beebee tells me it is coming back, but only young ladies who have never yet had opportunity to do huge shoulder pads are allowed to wear such things. Old ladies who had their chance back in the 80’s do not get a second shot at it. I will never understand the rules of fashion.) Anyway, I figured nobody at Applebee’s would know me or care, so I wore it and enjoyed myself. I sashayed around Target after dinner in it, too — again looking for the elusive 32 x 34 trousers necessary to restore my man to respectability.
Recommending a Blog
August 20, 2009
I don’t read a lot of other blogs, mainly because I don’t have time. But there is one that has captured me in recent days, thanks to a featured post at WordPress about it.
The blog is by Nancy Bailey, who has a couple of Morgan horses and a few other critters, along with some super animal artwork.
I’ve always loved Morgans, and always would have liked to have had one. I ended up with a 1/2 Saddlebred instead, and that was over thirty years ago.
Anyway, the photos of Cliffy, a beautiful Morgan, and the artwork of the lady who owns him caught my interest. And then I got involved in their story as well.
Do yourself a pleasure and visit Cliffy’s Mom’s Blog. If you love horses, I guarantee you are going to like this one.
Elevator Dialogs
July 11, 2009
Hospital elevators are interesting places. You are stuck with a bunch of other people who might have the next epidemic exuding through their pores and who wouldn’t mind sharing the wealth. We didn’t get the contagious crowd this last time, however: we got the nutcases.
I have no idea if they got on at the psychiatric floor, but I know they did not get off there. As soon as Beebee and I entered and the doors closed behind us, the fun began.
“I eat a whole banana cream pie every night before I go to bed.” I glanced at the elderly man who announced this randomly to anyone who wanted to know. He did not weigh 500 pounds. Either he had the metabolism of a hummingbird or he was at the hospital to have his brain waves tested. Perhaps he wanted to let us all know what the secret of his longevity was.
One of the elevator riders decided to be nice. She giggled and replied, “I like banana cream pie, too.” But she didn’t chirp a peep about eating a whole one every night for bedtime snack.
I restrained myself from commenting that I loathe banana cream pie. It would not have been sympathetic, and may have made someone angry, which is not a good situation in an enclosed box that cannot be immediately evacuated. I also restrained myself from asking, “Oh, banana cream pie syndrome. Is that why you are here?”
The elevator opened at the third floor, and when no one got off, a young man among us asked, “We’re at ground level. Why aren’t we all getting off?”
The woman next to him explained, “This is the floor where they have babies, not ground level.”
He thought about that a couple of seconds and then decided the thirst for knowledge must be satisfied. “Don’t they have babies on all the floors? I thought they did.”
I’m not sure what was bouncing through his mind, but I was personally glad that baby-bearing was confined to one floor, and that it was not allowed in the elevator, even if nutcases were.
Mrs. Banana Cream Pie then announced, “In our hospital back home, people can’t have babies at all.” Before I could wonder if they were missionaries temporarily on leave from the African jungles or if they had a huge infertility problem in their area, she volunteered the name of the rural city they came from. It was the same place that hit the national news twenty years before because all its grocery stores ran entirely out of ice cream for a day. (It was a kinder, gentler world back then, when we all cared immensely if some town in Wisconsin didn’t have ice cream for a whole day.)
She went on to explain that people in their town had to drive sixty miles to get to a hospital where they could have babies. This brought vivid images of certain intolerable scenarios to mind. I have an idea that no one of child-bearing age lives there anymore. It is probably entirely inhabited by older people who eat whole banana cream pies before bed each night.
Let’s just hope what happened with the ice cream twenty years ago never repeats itself with banana cream pies, or there could be a violent uprising.
Facebook — It’s Addictive
June 12, 2009
I have revised my opinion about Facebook. My initial impression was that it was a complete waste of time and about as delightful as eating brussel sprouts. But I have since discovered that some of my friends do have more interesting things happen to them than, “Nicole is brushing her teeth.”
I discovered that those friends who only leave comments behind about brushing their teeth and backing out of their driveways can be conveniently blocked from appearing on my home page. By thus editing out the nonessential material, I make it easier to tune in to the soap opera lives of my remaining friends. This can be most entertaining.
Sometimes it is downright embarrassing, though, as I involuntarily become witness to family spats carried on for all the world to see. I do wish those who quarrel would do it through their private mailboxes, but I guess the idea is, if you’re mad, defacing the offender’s wall with snide remarks is more fun. Perhaps by defacing cyber walls, people restrain themselves from taking a can of spray paint to the offender’s real-life siding.
But on to happier thoughts – the entertaining side of Facebook. I learn the most interesting things there, that no one would otherwise bother to tell me. I am now aware that my son-in-law carries six-foot-long black snakes around the church parking lot on the end of a stick when he has nothing better to do with his time. And, that my daughter was tempted to save the state of Pennsylvania years of penal institution costs by personally administering a lethal injection to a defendant there. She figured he deserved it, and besides, she didn’t want to have to sit on the jury listening to the rest of the gross details of what he had done to deserve life in prison (or lethal injection). I learned that several people I thought were gentle souls harbor secret desires to murder bunnies in their backyard — all for the sake of saving a few petunias. (This, however, is probably not as serious as desiring to give the arrested personage a lethal injection.) I now know the intimate details of certain people’s surgeries, and can only hope they will not upload photos to further enlighten us all on their “procedures.”
I have discovered which of my friends sit down to Facebook at 6:00 a.m. and do not unglue from it until 11:00 p.m. I also know from the nonstop quizzes they take about themselves
1.) Which of Jesus’ disciples they are like (so far, no Judases)
2.) Which celebrities they look like (so far, no Phyllis Dillers or Jimmy Durantes)
3.) Which cartoon character best fits their personalities (“You are Piglet — a faithful friend to the Pooh Bears in your life, but your voice is rather squeaky, and you have cotton batting where your brains belong. However, cheer up! Your congeniality makes up for your intelligence deficiencies, so everyone loves you just the way you are.”)
I know who joined the “Save the Brazilian three-footed pygmy toad from extinction” group, who sprinkles Skittles on her oatmeal, who consults her horoscope and ought to know better, and who slathers ketchup on his shredded wheat.
It’s a strange world. Thank you, Facebook, for widening my horizons.
The Cure for Swine Flu
June 1, 2009
I know, I know. Nobody is freaking out about swine flu anymore. But, the experts are direly predicting a comeback of this hysteria-producing disease, come autumn. Consequently, just in case they are right, we should all protect ourselves with a little common-sense preparation.
I’m not sure if everyone knows this, but the surefire antidote to swine flu is bratwurst. Yes, bratwurst – not the turkey or the beef kind, mind you. It’s gotta be the pork variety. It’s a very simple concept: fight swine with swine.
Before you roll your eyeballs right out of their sockets, think about it. What did they do to stop the polio epidemic? They injected everybody with a weakened polio virus. How did they devastate measles, mumps, and chickenpox? Same story.
I’m not suggesting that we inject bratwurst into anyone’s veins. Swine flu is a most virulent disease, and a weakened dose of pork will not do the job. The bratwurst must be applied full strength via the digestive system, in large doses. Besides, immunologists are just beginning to realize that the more fun a vaccine is to take, the more effective it is. Modern science is wonderful, isn’t it?
This is why in Wisconsin, where we are progressive and savvy about most things, every man, woman, and child will be porking up on bratwurst all summer long. Cumulative dosage is key to jump-starting the immune system. Here in the Badger State, we are anticipating eating an average of 39.35 pounds of brats per capita between now and Labor Day.
You may ask, “Why, if bratwurst is such a wonderful cure, was Wisconsin the #2 state in the nation for swine flu cases in the spring of 2009?” Obviously, if you have to ask such a question you do not understand the culture and climate. The swine flu hit before it was warm enough to grill brats outside, and we were caught off-guard. Besides, you didn’t hear of anybody in Wisconsin being seriously harmed by swine flu, did you? This is because, as soon as the cases started appearing in hordes at our hospitals, the medical personnel knew exactly what to do. They started stuffing Nesco roaster-loads of brats down the patients’ gullets. They power-dosed the victims by force-feeding them quarts of sauerkraut (loaded with vitamin C for immune system boost). It worked, and they all went home feeling euphoric about the whole recovery experience. Nary a complaint was heard about the deplorable state of hospital cuisine.
As everyone knows, not all drug brands are alike. Sometimes those generic versions do not work as well. This is why it is important for Americans to understand that not all brats will work equally as effectively in protecting against swine flu. Johnsonville brats are still at the top of the heap, and their priceyness is well worth it, if you want to stay healthy. Klements are a somewhat distant second in efficacy, while the low-income or exceptionally frugal-of-heart individuals will have to muddle along the best they can with the greatly inferior store brands.
A tragic epidemic among people of lower income could be averted if President Obama would merely issue an executive order allowing the federal government to seize ownership of the Johnsonville Sausage Company. He could then declare free brats for everyone to make sure all is fair and square. As a by-product, many jobs would be created, as the company would have to go through enormous expansion to meet the demands for all that free food. The new jobs would mean more income for the IRS to abscond with, thereby creating a bottomless barrel for pork projects dear to the hearts of politicians. More pork in the barrel would mean more swine flu antidote, and the cycle would spiral ever upward into an increasingly healthy economy.
So there you have it, folks. Bratwurst – the answer to all the nation’s problems, from swine flu to the economy. You heard it here first, and I don’t mind at all if you share it with Wall Street and the American Medical Association.
Just Chattin’
May 16, 2009
It has been a long time since I posted, and I thought it might be a good idea to check in, just so friends know I haven’t died or something. Writers aren’t supposed to ramble. We’re supposed to make every word count. I love to ramble, so today I’m going to do it whether anybody else likes it or not.
You might say I have dual personalities — not as in multiple personality disorder, and I am not making fun of people with that tragic problem, so don’t even go there. But I do have a very serious side, which peacefully coexists with my thoroughly wacky side — my extremely innocent version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In real life, most people never guess I have a funny bone until they’ve known me for years, and if I occasionally get a little mischievous and let some of the wacky leak out, their eyes get wide and they run away screaming.
I love humor essaying just for the sheer joy of a laugh, but serious writing on Christian themes provides the bread and butter, so that’s where the majority of my writing time is spent. Income is really only a part of it, though. It’s almost a case of, “You mean, I get to write stuff that helps people, and I actually get paid as a by-product?” I have a passion for communicating the how-to’s of growing in relationship with God.
Sometimes humor leaks into my serious writing, and then I get myself in trouble with religious folks who no doubt chew aspirin tablets for a good time. That type takes issue with everybody just for the sake of feeling good about being eternally mad at the whole world, so I don’t worry about them — much.
That said, I do so hope to get back to humor writing in the near future. My friend Ornesta has been bugging me about it for a while. She is threatening to hack this blog and do the writing herself if I don’t get busy. Ornesta, you are even scarier than I am.
Weird Search Terms #4
March 8, 2009
When you are over fifty, health issues are a leetle higher up in your conscious level than they were when you were twenty. Apparently, a lot of people are looking for info on how to fix this or that body part as painlessly as possible, and they frequently end up at this blog. I can definitely help you forget your owies temporarily by providing a good laugh, but if you REALLY want to know what to do about your clogged arteries or your gall bladder full of rocks, please see your doctor or at least visit drkoop.com. I only practice medicine on my husband and kids, since the highest diploma I own only comes from a two-year technical college.
A lot of people are extremely concerned about bumps growing on their noses or feet. But how about this one? “Pretty people with bumps on their nose.” — Most people with bumps on their noses are realists. They understand only too well that there is nothing pretty about their growths. They either
a.) choose to find their self-esteem in something other than their appearance, or
b.) run to the nearest dermatologist to rectify the unsightly flaw.
But here we have a person who wants to completely lose touch with reality by convincing him- or herself that nose bumps are distinguishing beauty marks. I suspect the searcher got to my blog post because it was the only suggestion Google could come up with for such a bizarre search. All semi-normal people understand that pretty people are pretty because they do NOT have nose bumps. The celebs who develop nose bumps do not sport them for People or Vogue magazines; they have them taken care of by the same plastic surgeon who does their face lifts, liposuctions, and rib removals.
No, there is no way to convince yourself, try as you might, that a brussel sprout-size growth on the end of your nose makes you more attractive — unless, of course, you are Michael Jackson. Michael can convince himself of all sorts of bizarre notions about the end of his nose.
“Milwaukee Mafia families” – What? I write one little blog about a quirky funeral director, and they think I’m an expert on the Mafia? I was just glad said Mafia didn’t come looking for me after I wrote that one! This search term raised a couple of questions in my mind:
Why does someone want to go searching for the Mafia? Is he looking for employment? I know times are tough, but still ….
Is he looking for his long-lost Aunt Ticily from Sicily? Sometimes people carry this genealogy hobby a tad too far! It’s nice to know whether your relatives were feudal barons or the serfs that tilled the soil, but delving too deeply into The Family sometimes nets more than one bargained for.
“Can you eat toster studal on the Daniel Fast?” – I believe the searcher wants to eat toaster strudel. For the uninitiated, the Old Testament prophet Daniel ate “no pleasant bread” for three weeks while seeking the Lord in prayer, and now 1,289 web sites and twenty-four best-selling Christian authors are trying to make a mint by turning Daniel’s fast into the latest diet fad. Such is life with the Internet these days.
For the “toster studal” inquirer, here’s the answer: It says “no pleasant bread.” If you find toaster strudel pleasant, don’t eat it. If you absolutely loathe toaster strudel, eat a ton of the things.
My most popular blog post ever, by the way, was on the Daniel Fast. Read the original here.
Generation Canyon
February 25, 2009
Beebee has old parents, and it is hard on her psyche. Our daughter is the only teenager in her acquaintance whose father retired about the time she hit high school — and it wasn’t because Dad had made his millions, either.
When other people our age were peering over the lip of their empty nest, we discovered, to our great joy, that we were about to be Mama and Daddy again. I was an old mom masquerading as a young grandma. The obstetrician had a geriatric specialist standing by at the delivery.
Beebee frequently pleads, “Please don’t ever get old, Mom.”
I know what she means. She has witnessed her grandparents become window peekers, people who entertain themselves by watching their neighbors through the curtains, much like younger folks watch TV. I can’t even glance out the window momentarily without creating anxiety in her young mind.
She keeps a sharp eye out for telltale old-people symptoms, hoping that with early intervention she can slow down the slide. “Mom, Dad isn’t going to make any wood lawn ornaments, is he? He is revving up the scroll saw.”
“Nope, he’s too busy doing the real woodworking — remodeling the kitchen. And besides, I’m not into lawn ornaments, which is why I sold his pink flamingos to some other elderly couple at the rummage sale last year.”
“Yesterday, when we were at McDonalds, he was carrying on about hamburgers being six for a dollar when he was my age. I nearly gagged on my French fries.”
“It’s a clever old-people ploy, my dear. Slather enough guilt on the children and it chokes the expensive appetite right out of them!”
“Promise you won’t ever get old?”
“Promise. When I’m eighty-five, I will think just as young as I do now.” (This will have to satisfy her. It’s the best I can do. She already views my mid-fifties perspective as beyond ancient.)
“But … you tell stories … over and over … just like Grandpa did.” (My father had favorite anecdotes, all from his World War II days. They were funny, but only the first twenty times or so. I seem to be following in his footsteps. It must be in the genes.)
“I have never told the same story more than twice,” I indignantly reply. “By time number two, you are all rolling your eyes and covering your ears. I WANT to tell my stories more often than that, and you ought to let me! Kids, these days! No respect!”
Beebee goes on, in this heart-to-heart chat about the child-as-caretaker problem she imagines she has. “The worst of it, Mom, is your friends.”
Again, I know exactly what she means. My acquaintances scare me, too. Women within a ten year radius of me all want to discuss their health issues, and Beebee has sometimes listened in with horrified amazement. Fifteen-year-olds should not have to know the ins-and-outs of premenopausal to postmenopausal woes, hemorrhoids, gall bladder attacks, and plumbing surgeries gone awry. For that matter, I don’t want to know, either, but I have to be polite.
I like to tease the child sometimes, just to see what she’ll say. “Beebee, when you were born, you were the answer to all of Mom and Dad’s dreams. We were always afraid that your sister would move away, and she did. But now we have you to take care of us through our twilight years, our very own in-home health care professional. Think of it — you don’t have to obsess like other kids do about who you will marry or what you should do for a career. All your material and emotional needs will be met for decades to come by your wonderful parents — and I plan on being around for at least another forty years.”
Beebee calculates quickly and realizes in forty years she will be a tad older than I am. She stalks off with a good-natured “Humpff! Mom, you’re even scarier than I thought.”
Anybody Not Joined Facebook Yet?
January 27, 2009
I have finally broken down and done what the whole rest of the world had accomplished before me: I have joined Facebook.
My married daughter assured me that it was a must-do. Only people who live in caves and draw bison on the walls are not on Facebook. In fact, Facebook has provided an outlet for people who prefer to stay in caves and draw on walls – or people whose mothers never succeeded in teaching them not to do murals there. They actually encourage folks to scribble on other people’s walls. The polite thing to do is not get mad, but get even. When someone writes on your wall, you just go write on his. It is hard for me to get used to. My mother taught me well. One episode of Mom skillfully applying a stirring spoon to my behind taught me that crayon masterpieces do not belong on walls. But times have changed.
I have noticed that Facebook people are not very literary. They don’t write or read blog posts. If you want to know what’s happening in your friends’ lives you have to look at the latest 1,000 pictures they have uploaded and try to guess from those what is happening. I think it is the modern version of charades. I have come to a conclusion: everyone but me spends 70% of their time taking pictures of themselves. How many pictures of the same face can we all endure every forty-eight hours? But then, that is why we call it Facebook, isn’t it. The other 30% of a Facebooker’s day is spent equally divided between
1.) Commenting on everyone else’s pictures,
2.) Joining this and that fan club or group and trying to get everyone else to do likewise, and
3.) Letting the world know what one is doing moment-by-moment throughout the day.
It is Point #3 which I would like to discuss next. Hardly any of my Facebook friends do interesting things throughout their day. “Sheba is tired and going to bed.” “Rodney is eating toast.” “Dobey is backing his car out of the driveway.” It is enough to make me post, “Lee Ann is dying of ennui, due to the boring lives of her Facebook friends.” However, my life is far more interesting than that, so I will break out of the mold and shock Facebook by letting all my cyber friends into my hitherto private world of adventure. Allow me to give you a preview.
Lee Ann is:
… butchering the hogs right now. Y’all come on over for headcheese.
… bandaging her toes after dropping a world-record-size eggplant on them.
… reading The Adventures of Richard Hannay for the tenth time. Who knew WWI could be so much fun?
… stowing away on a steamer for Antarctica.
… heading up the George Barna research team on how many preterists also belong to the Flat Earth Society.
… out of wind from chasing her pet turtle down the street. Either they move faster than they are given credit for, or Lee Ann needs a date with a treadmill.
… crock pot cooking the penguins she secured in Antarctica. (And the eggs make good omelets.)
… scraping half-cooked Skookie dough off the front of her (once) immaculate white bathrobe.
… wondering why there is an ambulance outside and two men with a stretcher and a straitjacket coming to her front door. (What has the retired mailman done this time?)
You get the idea.
