Sunday, June 28, 2009

Lightening and Thunder and Rain! Oh My!

We had a bad storm here Saturday night. Not so much rain, but the wind was over 60 mph. I was very, very scared. Boo-hoo for me you say? Remember that I live in a TIN BOX! And you know that tornadoes ALWAYS hit trailer parks!

The wind picked up and our trailer, which weights 18,000 pounds, started rocking back and forth. Our awning acted like a flag waving in the wind, even though it was tied down. Jim ran outside to deal with it, then came back in and told me that I would have to help him with it. Moi? I am absolutely terrified of storms. But I had no choice for fear that the awning would be ripped right out of the trailer. I stepped outside and the wind caught the door, slamming it into the side of the trailer. BAM! Jim was already wrestling with one arm of the awning. He told me to hold it down. Now, I'm certainly not a lightweight, but it took all my might to keep the awning down while Jim loosened the other arm so he could roll up the awning. Winds gusted over 60 mph. We could just watch the front roll in, looking up into the sky and seeing the line of clouds pile up one on top of the other. It looked like a movie. I wanted to take a picture of it, but by this time it started to rain.Here's a picture I took from inside the trailer with the camera pressed up against the window looking out across the farmer's field behind us. It's not the sharpest picture, but it shows the scary sky.

The front moved through fast. It felt like we were inside a ride at DisneyWorld with our trailer shaking back and forth, thunder rumbling in the background, and some lightening thrown in for good visual effects.

When it was all said and done, the whole sky lit up with this eerie red color. I don't know if it was dust in the atmosphere or what, but it had an unearthly like feel to it.

Why am I so afraid of storms? Why - I blame my mother, God rest her soul. SHE was afraid of storms, and instilled that in me, (and some of my siblings). If ever there was bad weather, meaning heavy rain, she would make us all troop down to the basement and sit in the southwest corner which was supposed to be the safest in case of a tornado.

Being the good mother that I am, I have passed this fear of storms down to my kids. They seemed to have outgrown it somewhat, but still are not fond of storms. Me? I'm chicken shit from the first drop of rain. Unless it's a nice gentle rain. That I can handle. But throw in wind, rain, and lightening - I'm a goner.

Most of the campgrounds we stay at do NOT have storm shelters. Once we were in West Memphis, Arkansas. A tornado had just passed through the week before, and the week we were there, a terrible storm came through. There were tornado warnings issued. I was a wreak. When I asked the owner about storm shelters, she replied, "Well, we have a culvert out in the field there..." Oookay, a culvert is something that goes UNDER a road. But they had this big cement thing in the middle of a field that we're supposed to run to for shelter, during a storm.

Jim is not fazed by storms. He always says that we'll be okay. He'll get the radar up on the computer and his famous last words are, "It's going to miss us." The worst storm we were ever in was in Mitchell, SD.It was about 2:00 a.m. and we were in bed sleeping. The heavy rain woke us up, along with the wind shaking our trailer.

In a tremulous voice, I asked Jim, "What do you think we should do?"

He replied, "I think we should get dressed."

OH MY GOD!!! This must REALLY be bad if we're getting dressed! We quickly dressed, Jim got the latest radar up on the computer, I tuned into the local radio station. They clocked the winds at 68 mph. Jim's biggest concern? He peeked out the window to see if our satellite dish was still standing! The radio DJ then said, "You should not be in a trailer during this storm." WHAT? At this point, I grabbed the bottle of holy water I keep just for these purposes, and started "blessing" each room in the trailer, plus Jim and me. Do you feel his pain? He's locked up in a trailer during a storm with a crazy woman. Then the radio DJ said, "Now the wind clocked at 72 mph!" Jim peeked out again and darn! The satellite dish didn't withstand that amount of wind.

We survived that storm and many more after that. I'm just afraid the same thing will happen to me that happened to Dorothy. And I don't have anything to match the ruby slippers.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Do you see what I see?

The great Dorothy Parker once said, "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses." Thankfully times have changed, and more than just geeks and nerds are wearing their glasses in public.

Recently I went to the eye doctor for a check up and a new pair of glasses. I get a kick out of when they sit me in the chair, remove my glasses, turn down the lights, and light up the eye chart.

Then they ask me what I can see. Are they kidding me? I'm BLIND people! You've got my glasses! I can read the E. That's it! The "E"! Then we go through that whole song and dance routine. Which is better? A or B? 1 or 2? As the doctor flips the little glass circles in front of my eye, making the eye chart blurry or clear. Now, I'm a very indecisive individual. So this takes me a long time to decide which one is better. And sometimes it's just a sliver of a difference. I start to feel anxious as I feel the doctor's frustration with me. Plus, I hate the whole closeness of the situation. He's in my SPACE, you know?

Okay, finally the examine is over and then I have to make another big decision. Which pair of glasses do I choose? Here's the thing - I take off my own glasses to try on the different frames - and of course - everything's a little blurry because, repeat after me, I'm as blind as a bat! Here's what I'm suggesting. I go into Lenscrafters or wherever. They sit me down at a computer station. I remove my glasses, they take my picture. Then my picture appears on the computer monitor, and next to it is a selection of all the different styles of frames. I just click on the frame I like and it magically appears on my picture. Wah-lah! I can see how it looks on me, WHILE I'M WEARING MY GLASSES! How easy would this be? Don't they do this in hair salon's with different hair styles? Why not with glasses? You know, I think I'm on to something here. I'm going to write to Lenscrafters and let them know my brilliant idea.

I switched to wearing glasses full time about 4 years ago. I had been a contact lens wearer for over 30 years. I needed them for seeing things in the distance. But then I started noticing that my contacts were making reading difficult because they were making the words smaller. Sooo, to solve that problem, I would put reading glasses on, while wearing contacts. Then my brain would shout, "HELLO! Make up my mind! Do you want to see FAR or do you want to see NEAR?" This caused headaches and frustration and finally I said, "Enough!" I went straight to glasses with bifocals and haven't looked back. I have the unlined bifocals so no one has to know that I'm old. Or at least my eyes don't give it away. There are many other clues to do that.

It's amazing what you get used to. I didn't get glasses until I was in 7th grade. So I thought everyone saw the same way I saw things. I was a clutz growing up - probably due to the fact that I couldn't see 4 feet in front of me! I always was walking into walls. I'd be talking, not looking where I was going, and my parents would yell, "Watch out for the..!" "Bam!" My father even wanted me to walk around with a football helmet on when I was little. I guess it never occurred to them that I had bad eye sight. Until that infamous day in 7th grade when they tested our eye sight.

I went to a Catholic school a long, long time ago. To test our eye sight they held up a poster of a house with several rooms in it. They asked me what was in one particular room and I replied, "What house?" Aha!

Sitting on my front porch with my new pair of glasses, I starred in wonder at the leaves on the trees. Wow! You mean trees weren't just green blobs on brown long stems? I could read street signs! Heck, I could even see the blackboard in school! I blame my mediocre grades in math on never being able to see the blackboard. It took me many years into adulthood to finally understand fractions!

Monday, June 22, 2009

Rub-a-dub-dub, naked lady in the shower?

One household chore I hate the most is cleaning the shower stall. So I procrastinate and don't clean it as often as I should. Our shower stall is big by trailer standards, but small, I suppose, by regular house standards.

You can see that it has a fancy curved glass door that swings open and shut. It's not that cleaning is so hard; it's being confined into such a small space. Yeah, I know, I shower in it every day, but that's different. I'm in, I'm out, badda bing, badda boom. Scouring the walls takes a while. Luckily when I clean the fiberglass walls I can prop the glass door open to let some air in there. Also, my big butt can fit out the door. Did I mention that I clean the stall in my underwear? I used to wear clothes and found out that

a) it was too hot and
b) I got too wet.

I've thought about just being naked and cleaning it (there's the Naked Chef, right? Why not the Naked House Cleaner?) but

a) the thought of cleaning chemicals and my privates don't mix and
b) I'd hate to leave butt cheek kisses on the glass.

I don't mind so much cleaning our bathroom. As you can see, it's pretty teeny tiny.

It's like stepping into a confessional. In the Catholic religion, you'd go into the confessional, kneel on the kneeler, and a little red light would go on outside of the door to indicate someone was in the confessional. I always said that when my kids were little, my toilet at home had the same kind of light hooked up to it because as soon as I sat down on it, my front porch light would switch on, and the kids would come running in from outside yelling for me, or wanting me to do something.

At least we have a window and a skylight in our little bathroom or I'd really feel claustrophobic. Anyhoo, you know how the opposite sex is supposed to be attracted to the smell of pheromones? My husband is attracted to the smell of a clean toilet. Yes, folks, Clorox turns him on. Or at least gets him "going". I swear that I can NOT have a clean toilet for more than 5 minutes without my husband coming in there and putting his mark on it. It NEVER fails. It's actually become a joke between us. Somehow, someway, my husband knows I've just cleaned the toilet. He can be working outside, but I'll just pop the little end of my toilet wand:

finishing wiping off the seat and here comes my hubby, unbuckling his belt and holding his pants up in anticipation.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day to all you Dad's out there! This is my 14th Father's Day without my Dad. But it doesn't take a national holiday to remind me of him. I just have to look at marigolds, peonies or roses and think of him. Or fresh tomatoes off the vine. Or hear a Dean Martin song playing - now that can bring tears to my eyes. My Dad looked like Dean Martin in his younger years.

As he got older, he loved to swing on the glider on the back porch singing in Italian.

Dad was a carpenter for 40 years. He could make or fix anything. The basement was his domain. All of us thought it was a total mess, yet he knew exactly where everything was, and could find it immediately. Let's say, for instance, you broke the buckle off your belt? He'd go downstairs and within a few minutes, come up with a dilapidated old belt, but by golly, that buckle would nicely replace the broken one. Whenever he worked on one of his wooden projects, and turn on his saws,

it would create such a loud noise, we couldn't watch TV because of the lines of interference running across the screen, and the lights all over the house would dim until he turned the saw off. It would drive my mother crazy, but us kids thought it was funny.

On Saturday mornings we'd have fried eggs for breakfast. Dad was such a slow eater, and his eggs always looked so good. Even though I had already eaten, I'd stand there next to the table and he'd break off a little piece of bread, dip it in the yummy yellow yolk, and hand it to me. I loved when Dad made "white" gravy. It's made from bacon grease, flour, and milk. It's similar to the sausage and gray mixture you see in restaurants, but it has the bacon flavor. It was a special treat when Dad made his gravy for breakfast.

One thing I miss most about my Dad is his hands. He had large hands for a man of his stature - he only stood about 5'8" - but his fingers were long and thick. If I (or any of my five sibling) was sick and had stayed home from school, he'd come home from work, set his lunch box on the counter, walk into the living room where I was lying on the couch, and put his cool hand on my face. Dad wasn't one to verbally express his love, but that touch meant the world to me.

Dad was one of the smartest people I knew. He only attended school up to 6th grade; yet he was so good in math and could figure anything out. Being a carpenter was hard work - he'd travel from job to job. Living in the suburbs of Chicago, the winters were often brutal; so many times my Dad was unemployed during the winter months. How we survived - a family of 8 - is amazing. Yet I don't remember going "without" - we were just like everyone else in the neighborhood.

Dad loved to work in his garden and flowerbeds. He planted marigolds in the flowerbeds in the front yard, and along the side fence in the backyard. Then, when the flowers died, he'd pull the seeds out of the dead blooms and save them in a brown paper bag to plant for next season. I'd sit next to Dad, side-by-side, quietly pulling the seeds out. His roses were another source of pride. The one bush grew over 5 feet tall and had so many flowers on them. Our peonies ran along our back fence and would bloom every year around Memorial Day weekend.

One time, after I was married, my sister and I went over to our parents house. We loved to sit on the back porch with Mom and talk and swing on the glider. My sister's baby was under a year old at the time. My Dad had made a wooden baby swing and hung it from a "T" shaped pipe with hooks on it for the clothes line.

We put Ryan in the swing, but we got tired of pushing him. One of us (I honestly can't remember who - but I'm leaning towards ME) thought of tying a rope to the baby swing, leading it up to the back porch (about 20 feet away) and while we rocked on the glider, we'd also be rocking Ryan at the same time. Well, you know how women are - we got to talking, laughing, etc., and forgot all about the baby! We kept pulling the rope, mind you. All of a sudden Dad came outside, looked at Ryan and yelled, "Jesus Christ! Look at the baby!" and ran down the stairs. Ryan had fallen forward (he was very big for his age - really) and was dragging his hands in the dirt - back and forth, back and forth as we pulled the rope. He was sound asleep! OMG - we were mortified! Of course we laughed our butts off, too! Dad comes in and saves the day!

Dad lost his life to cancer 6 months shy of his 80th birthday. He lived a long, happy life. He loved my mom and us kids. Although he is gone, I have such rich memories to keep him close to my heart. And I hope that he and Dean are singing a duet together up in heaven, serenading Mom.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

"Just a little off the top"

I got my head shaved hair cut yesterday. What is it about the words, "Just a trim" do the majority of beauticians not understand? And this is the case all over the U.S. Because we're on the road so much, I don't frequent the same stylist. But I've run into this problem everywhere.

So when the stylist asks, "How do you want it cut", do they stick their fingers in their ears and say, "nah, nah, nah", while I say, "JUST A TRIM"? Or do they HEAR:

a) Shave the head; or

b) Cut it so short that I look like a guy; or

c) Do whatever the hell you want.

Because, frankly, they aren't listening to me! I know I'm partly to blame. When I take my glasses off, I can hardly see anything. When I look in the mirror, all's I see is a beige blob, so therein lies the problem. I can't actually SEE how much they are cutting off. Also, when someone touches my hair, I almost go into a trance because it feels so good and the sound of the scissors snipping away is hypnotizing.If I sat there any longer I'd be snoring. Another problem is that I always seem to get the talkative stylist. She goes on and on with her story telling, and keeps cutting and cutting. I begin to wonder if my hair will last long enough for her story to end.

Here's another thing. I'm a real WUSS when it comes to telling the stylist to STOP cutting, or if one side is shorter than the other, or basically any kind of complaint or critique. When all is said and done, and I reach for my glasses, I try not to gasp out loud. Do they think I strive to look like I'm a recent recruit into the armed forces? At one butcher shop salon, this one stylist cut my hair so short, I'm surprised I had any color left.

She asked me, "Is it short enough or do you want me to take some more off the top?"

What? Are you kidding me? You might as well just sharpen up that tomahawk and scalp me because there was no more hair to cut!

I just as soon have my hair cut by Edward Scissorhand. He seems like he'd do a good job.

Now, it certainly doesn't help that I drive around in a humongous one and a half ton truck (needed to pull our trailer - really!).

What kind of image am I projecting, getting out of Big Blue, my hair cut up to THERE? Thank GOD I have two very obvious things that lets everyone know I'm a WOMAN.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Signs, signs, everywhere are signs

We are bombarded by signs in our everyday life. No left turn. No turn on red. One Way. STOP. Merging Traffic. You get the idea. These signs are straightforward. But some signs are downright puzzling. For instance, while driving in Minnesota, I saw a tall billboard with huge multi-colored letters that read, "WEDOCOWS.COM". First I read that as "wedo" like "little" with a lisp, "little cows" and I thought aww.. Then I realized it said WE (space) DO (space) Cows! Huh? I don't think they should advertise bestiality right there for all the world to see for gosh sakes! Luckily we passed another WEDOCOWS.COM sign and I was able to read more of the smaller print. It's a veterinary company that takes care of cows. Okay, thanks for clearing THAT up.

One time my sister and I, along with her in-laws, went to a casino. I had her mother in law's handicap parking pass, but opted to drop them off at the front door, then hunt for a parking space.

I thought it would be a piece of cake to find a handicap parking space but you wouldn't believe the number of handicapped people who gamble. Did you know that there is discrimination even amongst the handicap? I KNOW! I zoomed up and down several aisles looking for a "regular" handicap parking spot.

There were specially marked spots, NOT ONE, but SEVERAL, mind you for:

That's right. You had to have all THREE qualifications to park there. Apparently there are that many handicapped bingo-playing Native Americans in the area to warrant ten parking spaces. Who knew? What I want to know is, what happens to the handicapped Native American that only plays the slot machines? Is he/she banned to the "regular" old handicap spaces (which, by the way, were way the hell over towards the middle of the parking lot.)

On a road I once traveled quite frequently was a sign that read, "Turtle Crossing." Now, I'm not quite sure how to handle this. When I see a sign for "deer crossing", I am on the alert for a large animal to come darting across the road. But turtle crossing? Should I be looking for a huge, slow-moving tortoise? Or a teeny, tiny turtle like the ones I used to have as a kid in the stinky turtle bowl? Or is it a turtle the size somewhere in-between the two? So what am I supposed to do if I see one crossing the road? I admit, I love turtles just as much as the next person, but I'm not going to swerve out of the way of hitting one if it's going to cause an accident. I think these turtles might be some kind of an endangered species (which is ironic living so close to the road, don't you think?) Suppose I do smoosh one of these little guys? How would the police catch me, unless they witnessed the murder? Get CSI involved? Cast tire tracks off of the turtle's back?

Here's another puzzler. I passed a local car wash that had a sign out front that read, "A clean car gets better gas mileage." You mean to tell me that a gleaming car with sparkling windows versus the same make and model car with the words, "Wash Me" written on the side of it and bird crap on the windshield would get better gas mileage? What was I, born yesterday?

Here are some crazy signs you might enjoy.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Flying planes and flying shoes

Jim and I like to explore wherever we go, many times off the beaten path. One of my favorite websites is There you can find the coolest, weirdest, and oddest things to be found in the United States. If we are stopping somewhere overnight, a few days, or just passing through, I visit the website to see if there is anything interesting to see.

I searched the website to see if there was anything interesting to see around this neck of the woods. Sure enough, there were a few things. Jim plotted them out on the map, I loaded up my camera, he took his GPS, and off we went.

It was a nice warm sunny day, and it felt good to be out driving around. Our first stop was the Charles Lindbergh Crash Site #1, located in Sulphur Springs, IL. In a farm field, next to an old barn is a granite memorial commemorating the crash site of "Lucky Lindy" as Charles Lindbergh was called. Lindy was an air mail pilot, and was on his way to Chicago on the night of September 16, 1926. There was thick fog and he decided to turn around and head back to St. Louis. Unbeknown to Lindbergh, his mechanic had replaced his plane's 110-gallon gas tank with one that held only 80 gallons. He ran out of gas midway and had to bail out, barely being cut into pieces by the spinning propeller. He survived the crash (one of four). On the 75th anniversary of the crash, the La Salle County Historical Society unveiled a granite slab at the site. This joined a marker already in place at Lindbergh's other Illinois crash site, near the town of Covell.

Next stop was this crazy looking site. This is the "Agricultural Crash" site. The sign reads,"Dedicated to all farmers and ag-related business folks that have lived thru the agricultural crash of the 1980's." It is sponsored by a couple who own the local implement company. This sure grabs your attention while driving down the road!

Our next stop was a shoe tree. Although this photo doesn't really do it justice, I wanted to at least try to capture the essence of it. It would have been a lot better if it were winter and there were no leaves on the tree. You can't really see, but this tree had about 40 pairs of shoes hanging in it! My question is, what possess a person to just haul off and throw their shoes in a tree? And someone else comes along and thinks, "Gee, that looks like a good idea!" And then throws their shoes up there, too? And so on and so on? This is a phenomenon that is happening all over the States. What am I missing here? Can someone explain it to me?

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Wiser with age?


Okay, so I heard that the older you get, the wiser you get. Apparently it's not working that way with me. I'm not proud of what I'm disclosing here, but to be fair to my husband, since I've been ripping on him lately, I'm going to let you in on how stupid I've been acting lately. Well, actually, for awhile now:)

Earlier today I was thumbing through my latest issue of People magazine, when something caught my eye in a picture. It was a photo of the famous "Kate" of the "Jon and Kate plus 8" fame. She is sitting on a Vespa, and a gentleman from American Chopper is standing next to her. What caught my attention is what looks like a large penis sitting on this man's shoulder. I kid you not. I study the photo VERY CLOSELY. I remove my glasses and put the magazine up to my eyes THISCLOSE, and yep, that thar's a penis! OMG, what is a penis doing on this guy's shoulder? I'm thinking, with all the controversy about her swirling around, allegedly having an affair with the body guard, yada, yada, yada, that someone was playing a trick and sneaked this little "extra" in the photo without People magazine knowing it. Remember how the kids Disney films each had a little thing in it about sex? Subliminal or not, I searched long and hard to find them. Luckily my nieces showed me where they all were. Whew! (My nieces were older - don't worry.) Anyhoo, I quickly called my daughter and here's how the conversation went:

Ring, ring.

Jess: "Hello, Mother."

Me: "Jess! Quick! Grab your People magazine with Melisa Joan Hart on the cover!"

Jess: "Why?"

Me: "Because! On page 24 there's a picture of Kate on a Vespa, and standing next to her is a guy. He has a penis on his shoulder."

Jess: "What?"

Me: "Yeah, I think it's a joke. You know, like someone sneaked it in there! Quick, look."

Jess is rocking the baby, so she sends her husband on the important errand of looking for the People magazine. He returns in a minute. I hear her flipping the pages.

Jess: "Mother!"

Me: "Well? Isn't it a penis?"

Jess: "That's not a penis! That's somebody's arm who's standing BEHIND the guy."

Me: "What?" I say, a little disappointed.

I glance down at the picture. Then I really look at it and it all comes in clearly. I start to laugh hysterically. The tears roll down my cheeks. I'm talking but my daughter can't understand me. It's like looking at this optical illusion picture. Do you see the old hag or the young girl? For a long time I only see the one, and then all of a sudden, Pow! The other image magically appears and then I can never go back to the original one that I saw.

That's how it was with this photo! All of a sudden I just saw the arm! No penis! What the heck is the matter with me? I'm trying to rein it in, get things under control. I feel my daughter's frustration over the phone. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard, my throat is raw, my face is wet with tears.

And so, my friends, that was my stupid act for today. I'd post the picture from People, but I'd be afraid of the repercussions. But feel free to check it out yourselves. It's the June 8, 2009 edition of People. Let me know what you think.

Goodwill Hunting

It used to be frowned upon to just ENTER a Goodwill Store. But thanks to the declining economy (there's the silver lining!) it's now acceptable and actually trendy to buy things from Goodwill. I just like the thrill of the hunt.

When we're in Arizona for the winter, my friends and I visit the Goodwill stores quite frequently. There are at least three stores within driving distance from our resort. (The term "resort" is used loosely here.) We like to shop on the 50% off Saturdays. Could you imagine? Everything in the store is half off. It's a shopper's paradise. True, most of the items are not top-notch, but if you hunt around, you can get great bargains. If you're lucky, you can grab one of these to store all your goodies in while you browse the sales.

I'm more the books, kitchen gadgets, picture frames, kinda gal. Although I did break down and buy four purses on my last visit for a total of $14. My one friend, Judy, goes ga-ga over the shoes. She's found some very expensive shoes (I can't remember the brand names - this from someone who buys Crocs), that she's paid as little as 50 cents.

I did buy some clothing one visit. I paid a whopping $2.50 per item and left with two blouses and a sweater, all in great condition.

On another visit I bought this coffee table for $6.99.

Yes it's banged up, but half the fun will be restoring it. That will be my summer project. I'm thinking of tiling the top of it since it has that nice lip around the edges. Stay tuned.

I just stumbled upon a gold mine. Goodwill has an on-line auction! You can go to and see all kinds of goodies. The items are from Goodwill Stores all over the United States. Now, instead of my feet hurting from a day of shopping, I'll just develop carpal tunnel syndrome!

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Three little words.....

There are three little words that would go far in our marriage, if only my husband would say them. They are not what you think - they aren't "I Love You." Don't get me wrong, I like to hear that every once in awhile. Nope, the three little words that my husband just can't seem to utter are, "YOU ARE RIGHT." He absolutely REFUSES to say these three easy words. Repeat after me. YOU - you, ARE - are, RIGHT - right. See? No problemo!

Here's the situation. We may or may not be having an argument. I tell him what I think; he tells me what he thinks. (snicker) When it proves that I'm right, I think he should say it - YOU ARE RIGHT. How hard can that be? Obviously, too hard. Because 9 times out of 10 he refuses to say it. Even when he sees how mad I get that he won't admit that I'm right! When I ask him why he won't say the words I want to hear he replies, "Because it makes you so mad!" Maybe he won't say the words because he has to say them so OFTEN. I, on the other hand, will easily say them to him. Why, the words just roll off my tongue! Granted, this doesn't have to happen too often, but still, I'll say the words.

Now, our good friends Pat and Bob, from Canada, have the right idea. Bob automatically says the mantra, "You are right, I am wrong, I am sorry." See? And they appear to be happily married.

Maybe Jim doesn't like to admit when he's wrong. You see, he's a real brain. An Einstein in the flesh. I still think that when he was born, he came out like Mr. Potato Head, all brain, then his legs and arms popped out.

He knows things that no average human being knows. His greatest asset is that he retains EVERYTHING. Me? I may remember that I READ something on the topic, but that's about it! So how can he be wrong, you ask? Well, frankly, the guy's got no common sense. He'll deny this, but it's true. I mean the man can explain to you what E = Mc2 is, but when I asked him to get the chicken out of the refrigerator he picked up a bag of parsley and said, "Is this it?"

It is wonderful to be married to a computer whiz who can answer any problem you may have with your computer. (Just ask my family who call him up all the time.) And you'd want Jim on your team if you are playing Trivia Pursuit. (My family doesn't fight over ME, I'll tell ya!)

On day it just seemed like Jim and I couldn't agree on anything. Finally I said to him, "You are so argumentive."

He replied, "Argumen-TA-tive."

So I hit him.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

The Ups and Downs of Big Breasted Women

It's that time again that I hate the most - BRA shopping. Hooters, jugs, ta-ta's, call them what you may, but if you have big ones, it's not fun shopping for a bra. First of all, it's so hard trying to find one that actually fits these puppies.

If you ever notice, the nice, small sized bras are hanging on the top racks. The larger, over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders are on the bottom hooks. Do you know what this means people? This means you can watch a grown woman sweat as she crawls around on her hands and knees, muttering to herself, flipping through those dumb plastic hangers, trying to find the correct LARGE size.

I HATE going into the dressing room, getting undressed, and thinking that someone is watching me on the security cameras.

The pretty, smaller size bras have oh-so-delicate THIN straps, with one, MAYBE two hooks in the back. For the FULLER FIGURE (isn't that more politically correct than saying fatter?), our straps are thick, and sometimes padded, with three, usually four hooks in the back. Lifting these babies up daily can cause permanent dents in our shoulders if we aren't careful.

In the 1985 album, "Mud Will Be Flung Tonight", Bette Midler confessed that she once consulted a postage scale to determine just how heavy her breasts were, and "I won't tell you how much they weigh, but it cost $87.50 to send 'em to Brazil. Third class."

When I was a young woman, going braless was all the rage. The rule of thumb was, if you could carry a pencil under your breast (naked) without dropping it, then your breasts were too large to go braless. Let's just say that I could have carried enough pencils for the whole class!

A couple of years ago I went to a Macy's store and was measured by a professional "bra specialist". She told me that she had gone to school to learn how to correctly measure breasts for bras to fit property. I thought it was funny when she told me to put the bra on that she had selected for me, that I should lean forward and put my "boobies" in the cups. I asked her if that was the "official" word for them, and she said yes.

If all else fails, you can always contact the Bra Whisperer. Go to: and watch the video of the Bra Whisperer at work.

Men may love big breasted women, women may love to show them off, but they are not all fun and games. Clothes don't fit properly. Large breast can be hazardous to your health - any sport that involves jumping is a no-no unless you want bruises on your face. And sunbathing is down-right embarrassing. Especially when you lie down and your breasts disappear into your armpits.

Monday, June 1, 2009

No Man was ever SHOT while doing the dishes...

I had a magnet that said just that posted on my refrigerator as a warning to my husband. Not that I own a gun or anything. And he does do the dishes. But not to my liking. I know, I know. I shouldn't complain. At least that's what my girlfriends tell me. "As least he DOES the dishes!" Okay, let me set the record straight. He doesn't do them daily, okay? Maybe 2 or 3 times a week.

Here's my complaint(s). Maybe I'm just anal. You be the judge. Remember that we live in a trailer, so space is always an issue. We don't have much counter space; we have a tiny drainer contraption that folds up conveniently for stow away. So it is somewhat of an art to stack the dishes in it properly.

When I wash the dishes, I usually wash all like items together, the flat items first, (dishes, tupperware lids, etc). Cups get lined up along the edges on both sides. Bowels are lined up according to size. Silverware go in the little circles and stand upright. My point is, I strategically place the dishes in the drainer so I do NOT have to dry them. They can air dry and be put away later.

When Jim washes the dishes, he'll put a plate at one end of the drainer, pile a bunch of stuff in the middle, then a plate at the other end to hold everything in.

But he'll wash things in a haphazard order, like a dish, a pot, a bowl, whatever is in the sink. It drives me crazy! Why do I care you ask? Because what usually happens is that I end up DRYING the dishes because there is no more room in the drainer for all the dishes. All because of his lack of expertise in stacking. What's more, he puts the knives standing sharp points up. What if I should trip and accidentally shish kabob my eye? It doesn't matter that I've talked to him about his bad ways. He just laughs them off.

His other no-no is that he just lets the water out of the sink without washing it out and cleaning out the drain.

Many a night I've come into the kitchen to find yucky soap scum at the bottom of the sink, and undefinable crap in the trap. I don't understand why he just doesn't finish the job. It's like going to the toilet and not flushing.

Interestingly enough, there is a man out there who actually enjoys washing dishes. His name is Pete Jordan. He likes washing dishes so much, that he's written a book about it. It's called, "Dishwasher: One Man's Quest to Wash Dishes in All 50 States".

Read more about it here:

I guess the only way I'm going to get through this is either a) leave the kitchen when Jim does the dishes or b) resolve myself to having dishpan hands the rest of my life and shove him out of the kitchen.