I'll Have What She's Having

Over the weekend we went to this restaurant called Rip’s that serves fried chicken. Let me change that – that serves the BEST fried chicken. My daughter and her husband had talked about taking us to this place for awhile, and we finally set a date to go there.

As you can see from the photo, Rip’s is in an unassuming building on Main Street in the small town of Ladd in Illinois.



The restaurant, itself, has no parking lot; all parking is on the street. Rip’s competes with a couple of other restaurants which I heard were pretty good, too, so parking is at a premium. Come early or you might have to walk a ways.

Expect to wait in line at least an hour. Grandpa had to feed Lily while we waited.



The dining room is tiny – seats about 50 people.




I get the idea that the people don’t mind waiting – it’s all part of the allure of Rip’s. You can grab a drink from the bar, play some video games while you wait, or just drink and chat with your friends in line, or whoever comes into the restaurant. The line forms from the dining room (with your mouth watering as you watch the people eat) all the way out the bar, out the restaurant, and sometimes even down the block. The chicken is THAT GOOD.

While you’re in line, a waitress comes by and asks you this question:
“Light or dark?”

That’s it. On Friday’s they also offer fish. Oh, yeah, and there’s an appetizer of fried mushrooms. Badda bing, badda boom. That’s the menu.

So you wait. And wait some more. And drink. And talk. And watch the big screen TV’s. FINALLY it’s your turn to be seated. By this time I have to put a bib on because I’m drooling so much I’m so dang hungry and it smells magnificent in there.

The waitress asks if we want “crispies”. “Yes!” My daughter reassures her.
A couple minutes later the waitress sets two small cardboard containers on the table; one between Jim and me; one between my daughter and her husband. Inside these containers is a little piece of heaven. They are drops of batter that are deep fried to a crisp.



They are crunchy, they are tasty, and a little greasy. AND THEY ARE TO DIE FOR. I wanted to lick the container out when we were through. I was actually getting mad at Jim for eating so fast. I felt like a dog being protective over his bone. Mine! This is probably why it’s good that I don’t carry a gun. STEP AWAY FROM THE CRISPIES AND NOBODY GETS HURT.

By now I’ve gone through numerous napkins, have grease dripping off my chin, and grease fingerprints on my glass. I am happier than a pig in doo-doo. I keep my eye on our waitress, willing her to bring our chicken to the table. I can hardly concentrate on what anyone is saying at the table. At one point she had platefuls of chicken, and if I were a dog I’d be sitting up begging with my tail a ‘thumping. But, alas, it was for the table next to us. I almost started growling! And then, and then. Yes! Here it is!



You may notice that the wing is missing from this piece. I was so hungry that I dove right into eating. I ripped the wing off and sunk my teeth into that delicious, hot, juicy, crunchy chicken and it was gone before I realized that I hadn’t taken a picture of it! Oops! I had to force myself to stop eating so I could snap a quick shot. Then back to the business at hand. Can I tell you how good it was? The skin was so crunchy. And the flavor. Mmmm. It was THE best chicken I have ever eaten. It was orgasmic. Truly. It was like this.





Here’s my daughter enjoying her chicken. She acted like a lady.



By the way - the chicken is served on paper plates with no silverware. Yes, folks, they encourage you to eat with your hands. Silverware is given by request only. Do you want to know the best part of Rip's chicken? Besides the taste, of course. The PRICE. $3.00 for dark meat; $3.50 for white meat and that includes fries. Such a deal. And I know that every time I go to visit my daughter? I will stop at Rip's for chicken. You'll know, too, by the grease stain on my shirt.

Canadian/American Dictionary

Each winter we head to Mesa, Arizona, to bask in the warm sunshine and think of our poor relatives "up nort der" in the freezing cold and blowing snow. We usually stay in Arizona for at least four months, and this coming winter will be our 5th year of heading down south. We met a great group of people down there (none of whom are from Arizona), who have become our family during the winter months. The majority of the group hail from the great country north of us - Canada. We are the "token Americans" in the crowd, as a matter of fact! And although our countries touch, and our language is the same (except for Quebec), cultural differences pop up all the time. I especially like when our Canadian friends use a word that I am not familiar with - I clap my hands and exclaim that I will add it to my Canadian/American dictionary.

Last year, my friend Pat said that she wanted to make some "bunwiches" for the drive down.

"Bunwiches?" I asked. "What are those?"

"Why, they're sandwiches made on a bun," she replied with a tone like, DUH!

I LOVE IT! BUNWICHES!! Isn't that cute? And guess what? When you surf the net with the word "bunwhich" typed in google, a whole plethora of sites pop up. Who knew??

I found this on kaboose.com. I haven't tried the recipe, but it sounds good:

Bunwiches

Toasted sandwiches of melted Swiss cheese and ham with a sweet onion and mustard spread make for tasty lunches to go. They can be made ahead and frozen, then tossed into a backpack or brown bag to thaw for lunch.

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened
• 2 tablespoons mayonnaise
• 2 tablespoons prepared mustard
• 1/4 cup chopped onion
• 2 tablespoons poppy seeds
• salt and pepper to taste
• 16 hamburger buns, split
• 16 slices Swiss cheese1 (2 pound)
• 2 lbs. fully cooked ham, sliced thinly

Cooking Instructions

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2. In a small bowl, mix together the butter or margarine, mayonnaise, mustard, onion, and poppy seeds (if using). Season with salt and pepper. Spread a thin layer of the mixture over the cut sides of the buns. Place one slice of cheese on the bottom half of each bun, and top with a few slices of ham. Wrap each sandwich individually with aluminum foil. At this point, the sandwiches could be refrigerated or frozen in a plastic bag.
3. Bake for about 8 minutes in the preheated oven, or until warm all the way through. If sandwiches are frozen, bake for 12 to 15 minutes.





The next word I learned was "bunny hug" meaning a hoodie. Dennis told me this little gem. He comes from Saskatchewan. When I searched for information on this, it said,

"Bunny Hug"

n. A hooded sweatshirt. Some bunny hugs have zippers, but most do not.

A regional variance on Hoodie, specifically Saskatchewan, Canada.
It was cold outside, so before putting on my jacket I slipped into my bunny hug.

You have to be careful, because searching for bunny hug and bunny hugger also means naughty things. Oh the things I find out by surfing the web! It's amazing!




It was a beautiful sunny day and a group of us women were gathered around the pool. The conversation somehow turned to Lorena Bobbit.



That name should be familiar to you. You know, she's the woman who cut off her husband's penis with a carving knife, then got in her car, drove along a dark highway, and flung the organ out the window. And thankfully, it was NOT like a boomerang, folks.



Anyhoo, I digress. One of the women said that if she cut off her husband's penis, she'd throw it down the "garborator".

I said, "The carburetor?"

"No", she said, "the garborator."

"What's that?" I asked.

"You know, it's in the sink."

"A garbage disposal?"

"Yeah, like an in-sink-erator."

Ah. Clear as mud now. No matter what you call it, it would not make a pretty picture! I keep flashing to that scene in the movie Fargo. Watch it here if you dare. It's pretty gross.




The last word(s) in your Canadian vocabulary lesson is "ginch/gonch". I was sitting around with the women one afternoon, and one woman talked about the things she bought on sale, one of them being "gonches" that she picked up for her husband.

"Huh?" I said.

My Canadian friends all laughed.

"You know," my friend said, "underwear. We also call them "ginches".

Again, surfing the net, I was amazed what I found. Interesting stuff..... hmmmm... Anyhoo, there's a company out there called Ginch Gonch Boxers that sells underwear designed like "underoos" for kids. Their ad says, "Re-live the fun of wearing these
fantastic fundies!"



Here's the link to their web site, if you are interested:

"http://www.topdrawers.com/underwear/ginch-gonch/ginch-gonch-underwear.html"

So I'm really looking forward to seeing my friends this winter and adding a new word to my vocabulary, eh?

Stupid Is as Stupid Does

You may recall in an earlier blog, I shared my stupidity with you. Read it HERE.

http://pat-aviewfromtheedge.blogspot.com/2009/06/wiser-with-age.html

Here's a stupid story I'd like to share with you all. Back about 20+ years ago when we lived in Virginia, I did my grocery shopping at a food store that didn't allow you to take your grocery cart to your car. I KNOW!! To prevent the customer from doing this, they had a wrought iron fence surrounding the front of the store, with a wide enough area to fit a person to walk through, but not a cart. The carts had small metal license plates attached to the front of them with numbers on the plates. When the cashier handed you the receipt, she wrote down your "license plate number" on the back. Then you pushed your cart outside, left it filled with all your purchases in the cart corral, and went to get the car. Once you pulled up to the front of the store, you'd show your receipt with your plate number to the bagger and then he'd load your groceries into the back of your car. It took some getting used to, but it was nice to have your groceries loaded into the car. One day I did a full load of food shopping. My cart was filled to the brim and then some. I pushed the heavily laden cart as far as the fence, and clutching the receipt with my "plate" number in my hand, I walked all the way to the end of the parking lot to get into my car. I threw the receipt on the seat of the car, put the car in reverse, and for whatever reason, DROVE ALL THE WAY HOME! YEP! I pulled in the driveway, popped the trunk and said, "What the heck?!" Yikes! I forgot the groceries! Try explaining that to the husband! I dashed back into the car and drove like a madwoman back to the store. There stood my lonely cart, still filled to the brim with all my goodies. The bagger didn't have to know that I took the long route - he was just happy to load the groceries and be done with it.

One time, when my kids were probably 10 & 12, we were on a vacation in Colorado. We stopped at a little cafe and I read the menu that was posted up on the wall. It read, "Hot Dogs $1.00, Burgers $2.50, lett-tom .25 cents. I have to tell you, for a second, ONLY a second, I wondered, "What the heck are Lett-toms?" Then I realized it meant lettuce and tomato. I laughed to myself and then was STUPID enough to share this little nugget with my family. To this day, it is a family joke. "What is a lett-tom, Mom?"

Back in April, Jim and I drove up the Natchez Trace. One of the spots we stopped was where Meriwether Lewis is buried. Did you know he killed himself? On my birthday, no less. Anyhoo, there is a large stone memorial marking his grave site. I took a picture of it from a distance, than began walking towards it. I was trying to read it, but I couldn't exactly make out the words. It said, "Born near Charlottesville, VA in August 18, 1774, died October 11, 1809, and here's the part where it gets fuzzy. From here I thought it said, "A good 35 years." As I got closer I noticed it didn't say "a good" but "a ged". Now I'm thinking....A ged? I EVEN ask my husband. What is an a ged? He turned around and looked at me incredulously and answered dryly, "AGED?" I started laughing so hard! Now folks - look at the picture. Click on it to make it bigger. You will see that the letter "A" is separated from the "GED" so you can see how I was led astray. Can't you?






For the past 10 years or so, I've noticed that I've been having problems coming up with the right word when I'm trying to talk. If I'm lucky I'll say a word that BEGINS with the SAME LETTER as the word I wanted to use. For instance, if I wanted my husband to hand me a pillow, I might say, "Please hand me the pickle." It's almost as if I have a dictionary in my head and I'm flipping the pages looking for the right word, but I've skipped over too many or too few of pages. Sooo, maybe you all remember the movie "10" with Bo Derek?



There was a scene in the movie with Dudley Moore,



where they make love to the music of Bolero playing in the background. Everybody was running out and buying that music after that. One day Jim and I were driving home after just buying our Christmas tree. We had on a classical radio station and "Bolero" came on the radio. I said to Jim, "Quick! Hurry home! Let's make love! Let's pretend you're Dudley Moore and I'll be BEAU BRIDGES!!" (I got the Bo right at least!) I looked at the odd look on Jim's face. "What? This doesn't turn you on?" In an instant I realized my mistake and we both roared. Yep, life around me sure is exciting.

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.

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!

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.

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.

"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.

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:
HANDICAP
TRIBAL
BINGO

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.

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 www.roadsideamerica.com 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?