tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48429669781913886212024-03-04T22:13:43.237-07:00Elaine's Wonderful WorldElainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-89399564162389880692014-01-21T13:54:00.000-07:002014-01-21T13:54:09.785-07:00Getting older...it's not all booze and crying!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZbIVwhe7ldsebyJj4cFi6rrhLDN0qsYBx7VGb7Qole__4gAPMjOx6mS0zSGFZQMEvYIKNYAt-9G1FKCqy0L7PEijQSe9lKd5Q1EW0EbOYN9XEMBieadhmFWKLZOxLzUsrMiFi83ydM8N/s1600/eww+58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZbIVwhe7ldsebyJj4cFi6rrhLDN0qsYBx7VGb7Qole__4gAPMjOx6mS0zSGFZQMEvYIKNYAt-9G1FKCqy0L7PEijQSe9lKd5Q1EW0EbOYN9XEMBieadhmFWKLZOxLzUsrMiFi83ydM8N/s1600/eww+58.jpg" height="169" width="200" /></a></div>
As another birthday looms in my not so distant future (okay, it's today), I decided to put my Pollyanna hat on and make a list of some good things about getting old. If you get the Pollyanna reference, this list is for you, too.<br />
<br />
Before I was 55 and a cashier would ask if I was eligible for a senior discount, I would immediately go home, make a cashier doll, and stick pins in it. Now, when asked, I simply reply "Hell yeah, how much do I save?!"<br />
<br />
I haven't had a zit since 1998.<br />
<br />
Now when old men flirt with me, it's only <em>slightly</em> creepy.<br />
<br />
I always wished for curves. Hmm, I should have been more specific where I wanted them.<br />
<br />
I don't mind admitting I have three cats. But, their photo is not the wallpaper on my phone (yet).<br />
<br />
I'm now comfortable bringing reading glasses to restaurants. It's a lot less embarrassing than asking for "the fourth thing down, make it medium rare", only to find out it's a chicken entree. Which leads me to the next one...<br />
<br />
I am getting used to quizzical looks.<br />
<br />
Medical personnel have stopped asking if there is a chance I could be pregnant.<br />
<br />
I no longer have a need for belts.<br />
<br />
I'm less likely to get patted down at the airport. It still happens, but not as often. I'm not so old I enjoy the personal contact.<br />
<br />
Taking a nap is completely acceptable.<br />
<br />
I am not a slave to fashion trends. I now have something called "my style" which includes sweatshirts with shoulder pads, baby bunny heels (lower than kitten heels) and lots of vertical stripes.<br />
<br />
When a driver honks at me, I simply mouth the words "That's right, I'm old, now #%?@ off!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And the best thing about getting old? <br />
<br />
It's okay if I can't remember the name of that actor who was in that movie with that other actor, you know, the one married to that blond. I remember the exact time my kids were born, what they weighed, their first words, and what they wore on their first day of school. I remember every detail of when I met my husband, though I couldn't tell you what I had for lunch yesterday. I remember the exact words my mother said to me before she passed away (she called me by my sister's name, just like she had a thousand times before) but I have to set new passwords every day. You discover that what you thought was important, <em>isn't important at all.</em>Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-59103601067755234332013-10-29T16:42:00.000-06:002013-10-30T16:06:04.288-06:00Scary Movies: Rules for staying alive...<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV6FbXNv94gTsD7tQQdT3TbpJW0BCgYXoQ3co8qPRUjZiBwDq8z4Bn-1JlvhRQFex2JVrVzMjgHgfbWTcJPN-hJCsb_P8DJTDP-RDJaFZRyU2XrnBoX4chMJ8CnjNK5FFAvOxJ0LmHytvw/s1600/EWW+pic+78.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV6FbXNv94gTsD7tQQdT3TbpJW0BCgYXoQ3co8qPRUjZiBwDq8z4Bn-1JlvhRQFex2JVrVzMjgHgfbWTcJPN-hJCsb_P8DJTDP-RDJaFZRyU2XrnBoX4chMJ8CnjNK5FFAvOxJ0LmHytvw/s200/EWW+pic+78.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: red; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: white;">I love scary movies. Not gory slasher flicks,
but ghosts, portals to hell, and haunted houses (and a scene where someone has to look through microfilm to find old news articles.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I can’t help but notice that they are
getting a bit cliché. I’ve put together a list of suggestions if you ever find
yourself in a scary movie setting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
could just save your life...<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">When a house tells you to get out, GET OUT.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Do not let your dog dig…anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">If you have lost a loved one, by no means participate in
any kind of ceremony to bring them back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">If you hear a noise in the middle of the night, instead
of grabbing a baseball bat and walking around in the dark, grab your keys and
leave.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Never walk into a cornfield.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">If you and your friends are bored, go bowling. Breaking
into the town’s creepiest abandoned house is the last thing you should do.
Actually, drinking in a cemetery is the last thing you should do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Avoid little girls with braids.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Always, ALWAYS walk forward. If you must walk backward,
at least look behind you first.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Never take the trash out after dark.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Add a priest
to your speed dial.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">11.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">You should
immediately leave town if you experience <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i>
of the following:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">An unusually large amount of crows, bees, or flies<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">A large hole which doesn’t seem to have a bottom (and
whatever you do, don’t drop something in to see how deep it is).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">A doll, ANY doll<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Your new neighbors moving in after dark<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">A chair rocking by itself (not necessarily a rocking
chair)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Your child’s imaginary friend talking back</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">12.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">When
searching for something or some<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i>,
never suggest splitting up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: ""serif""; mso-fareast-font-family: ""serif"";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">13.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">And last,
but not least, if you need to check into a motel in the middle of the night,
look for a brightly lit Holiday Inn in the center of town. Evil has never
checked into a Holiday Inn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Following
my rules won't guarantee you'll <em><span>never</span></em>
see a ghost, or a clown doll come to life, or the walls of your house bleed,
but if I've saved you from at least one scary movie cliché, I've done my part.
That being said, if they ever do come up with something new and original, you’re
on your own (<em><span>insert scary
laughter here</span></em>).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><strong>Happy Halloween!<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-4050778824325241482012-07-10T17:04:00.000-06:002012-07-10T17:04:30.741-06:00Why I Don't Skydive...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkZsudTrk32Yvb1ET7tWEdEjI7tG5boAHmiLGR7vfcUda0Tsyhmvfm5zamHmAQYRVL9UVNbAcoFT_BxxX13fqyVi8llxT5eLy3bPlWmek-zqpElSd4k9XmMLDE3UD6DZwRncjztlCRUcm/s1600/eww+accidents.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkZsudTrk32Yvb1ET7tWEdEjI7tG5boAHmiLGR7vfcUda0Tsyhmvfm5zamHmAQYRVL9UVNbAcoFT_BxxX13fqyVi8llxT5eLy3bPlWmek-zqpElSd4k9XmMLDE3UD6DZwRncjztlCRUcm/s200/eww+accidents.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Before I
get into this post, I have to show you a couple of definitions that are very
important. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Clumsy (adjective) Done awkwardly
or without skill or elegance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>
</strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Accident-prone (adjective) Having
a greater than average number of accidents or mishaps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I feel
certain that after you have finished reading, you will agree that I fall into
the category of the second definition, not the first.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It
started in early childhood. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cracked my
head open sledding down a hill on one of those extremely dangerous metal
saucers. Apparently, you should not lie in them in a fetal position. This was
before safety warnings. Any time I was placed on a stool, I would fall off
backwards. Another hazard no home should have. One Christmas morning, I fell
down an entire flight of stairs. Cause: A deadly combination of pajamas with
feet in them and carpeted stairs. Add Christmas morning exuberance and you have
a cocktail for disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As an
adult, the “accidents” continued. Most of the time I stayed safely indoors, but
every year, we would go on a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vacation</i>
(I can’t even say the word without shuddering). One year, while in Florida, we
decided our second child was old enough to play miniature golf. We gave her
some basic instructions as she stood ready at Hole 1. She swung. The next thing
I knew, the world went black. Apparently, our little girl, who has always been
an overachiever, took a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">full</i> swing,
hitting my sunglasses, which I was wearing on my face at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent the rest of our trip with black and
blue circles around each eye.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A year
or so later, someone in my family decided it would be fun to go inner-tubing
down a river. We got on a bus which dropped us off, inner-tubes and all,
upriver. My son got in first. Then, it was my turn. My husband volunteered to
be tethered to my daughter, so he could keep an eye on her. We were promised a
relaxing ride. Because my son and I were lighter, we drifted quite ahead of the
group. Just when I started to relax, I saw a two foot drop ahead of us. I watched
my son go over it with ease. As I think back on what happened next, I believe I
panicked at the last second and tried to grab a rock. The river didn’t like
that and swallowed me up. I went head first into the cold mountain stream. The
current was too strong for me to stand, so I bobbed up and down getting
mouthfuls of water each time. I managed to get to one side and climbed the
embankment. My shoes and sunglasses were gone. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I had no choice but to get back
in the inner-tube, my only mode of transportation back to civilization. As our
ride came to an end, my son stood up, big smile on his face, and said “Look,
Mom, I rescued your shoes!” Sure enough, he had scooped them up as they floated
by. When my husband finally arrived, I asked him why he didn’t come to my
rescue. My daughter informed me that when I capsized, my husband told her “Hey,
that lady just flipped over!” and my daughter had to tell him “DAD, that was
MOM!!!” That’s when I realized the man who was keeping an “eye” on our daughter
was completely blind without his glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Over the
years, I was chased by bees on a hike and went over a cliff, I fell off a surfboard and then got smacked with it in the face, I flipped
over on an ATV and got pinned, I rolled off the back of a snowmobile, I was in the
front seat of a small plane, when my door flew open at several thousand feet,
and if you are a regular reader, you know I broke my collarbone walking the
dog.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, I’m
sure you will agree that I am accident-prone. We can rule out clumsy, because I
fall, dive, and trip, with great elegance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Oh yeah,
one more thing…yes, I live in Colorado, but don’t ask me if I ski. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-38574061327827026812012-02-21T19:28:00.000-07:002012-02-21T19:28:39.968-07:00My Dirty Little Secret!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCuw3CmWDSqxI-8kLkptFbKoMM_FKiNLO1K11k_r_uDYvLoJiKtosU6fkzcm4oUoJ5awbcMFyFFymt98_gzQ_3cgDI6eMhBS2R7zlyZYEtv9l4S4PHuOpLNfGyUMGlJqNNPPyOaZ3AKeT/s1600/eww_secret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" lda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCuw3CmWDSqxI-8kLkptFbKoMM_FKiNLO1K11k_r_uDYvLoJiKtosU6fkzcm4oUoJ5awbcMFyFFymt98_gzQ_3cgDI6eMhBS2R7zlyZYEtv9l4S4PHuOpLNfGyUMGlJqNNPPyOaZ3AKeT/s200/eww_secret.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My name is Elaine and I am not a hoarder. I prefer the term <em>curator of my own personal museum</em>. Okay...I may have <em>some</em> hoarding tendencies. In my defense, I do believe it is in my DNA. I had an aunt who was a hoarder, my father is a hoarder, and I believe my mother also had some hoarding tendencies. <br />
<br />
In the case of my mother, it’s not that she had an attachment to things; she just didn’t like to waste anything. Growing up, we had two newspapers delivered every day. They both came wrapped in rubber bands. Those rubber bands got saved. In a year’s time, and we will assume that a rubber band a week got re-used, she would have saved six hundred and seventy six rubber bands. She kept them neatly bundled and wrapped with (you guessed it) rubber bands. She also had a massive collection of twist ties and grocery bags. Does this sound familiar? Maybe it was more generation-related than anything else.<br />
<br />
I don’t have that excuse. Ten years ago, I made a big change in my life, and rid myself of most of my possessions. What was left could fit in a car (not technically, since the treadmill had to be strapped to the roof) and it felt wonderful! During the next two years, the only purchases I made were a computer, a camera, an artificial Christmas tree (I had two ornaments, both gifts from friends), and a kitten.<br />
<br />
Fast forward and I am now drowning in a sea of stuff. Let’s see if I can explain the logic behind my problem. I bought a pair of rustic candleholders made of metal with columns which look like branches. I paid practically nothing for them. I bought them because someday (and the word “someday” is a hoarding mantra) we may have a log cabin and they would be perfect. I also have a quilt, a set of dishes, and a lamp that would be perfect, too. Okay, multiply this example by ten (I also have things for a beach house, a downtown loft, and a farmhouse) and you will understand why I am starting to get frightened.<br />
<br />
And, buying stuff is not the only problem. I save things just like my mother. I have enough bubble wrap to circle the globe. In the event of an apocalypse, I'm just sure it will come in handy. I have enough cardboard boxes to start a mail order business. If I had a dime for every time the words “Oh wait, I want to save that box” came out of my mouth, I would have enough money for a second storage unit. Yes, I said <em>second storage unit</em>. I have enough candles that if I lit them all at the same time, they would be visible from outer space. <br />
<br />
I moved into the house where my husband already lived. I wasn’t comfortable for a long time because it didn’t feel like my house, too. The other day someone came to visit and commented that it looked like a woman lives here now. I smiled because I thought it was a compliment. My husband mumbled under his breath that the only place left in the house that was his was a corner of one room. It’s true. He has a humidor and a stack of motorcycle magazines. Every other inch of the house has been swallowed up by my tsunami of clutter.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah, and the clothes. My closets are divided by fits now, fit last year, fit five years ago, and brand new clothes, with the tags still on them, that fit my <em>dream</em> body, not the nightmare body I actually have. And jewelry--I have enough necklaces to wear a new one every day for a year. And, of course, every piece of jewelry has a matching pair of shoes.<br />
<br />
They say confession is good for the soul, but writing this has just depressed me. Now, what can I do to feel better? I know! I’ll find another place for the humidor and magazines so I can turn that room into a kid’s room! It will be perfect for when the grandchildren visit! I don’t happen to <em>have</em> any grandchildren, but I know I <em>will</em> have them…someday.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-45210473607717603352012-01-25T19:12:00.000-07:002012-01-25T19:12:21.480-07:00This Is Your Brain On Shopping!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshjW8xyXpU4_uehFQdQu7Y4CBA4OHxQiK57QdZWTO19wytPT_9tyKUUgujM5bSJRzeDr5ZfFCGykRJeuLZphELAok4RFtYVMqPA7Wj5QYVtjqG0RuOC5dztleUVRA8foWIn6UfLXJRl39/s1600/eww+pic+shopping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshjW8xyXpU4_uehFQdQu7Y4CBA4OHxQiK57QdZWTO19wytPT_9tyKUUgujM5bSJRzeDr5ZfFCGykRJeuLZphELAok4RFtYVMqPA7Wj5QYVtjqG0RuOC5dztleUVRA8foWIn6UfLXJRl39/s200/eww+pic+shopping.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Shopping. Is it an activity or a condition? In my family, it’s a condition. I would like to describe a few examples of the brain disconnect my family suffers from.<br />
<br />
My sister will buy a blouse for $25, change her mind, and go back to the store to return it. She will then find a tablecloth and a set of glasses she likes which cost $30. At the register, she only pays the $5 difference. In her mind, the tablecloth and glasses cost $5. So, she feels very good about her purchases.<br />
<br />
I will buy a pair of socks on sale for 40% off. In the same store, I buy a pair of boots for full price. In my mind, the sale item and full price item average each other out, so I feel very good about my purchases.<br />
<br />
When I mentioned to my daughter that I was going to blog about my shopping condition, I expected her to roll her eyes, which is the reaction I get from both of my kids, no matter what I say. She is extremely bright and I knew she wouldn’t get my shopping “logic”. What she said next almost knocked me off my chair. When she buys something online, and then cancels the purchase, she considers the refund "free money". And, she feels good about it. Poor girl. I guess it’s in her DNA.<br />
<br />
I’m sure by now you are wondering if you, too, suffer from the shopping condition. There is a simple test. Go to a store you like and buy a gift card. The next day, go back to the same store and make a purchase using the gift card. If it feels like you are getting the item for free, you could be a long-lost relative of mine. <br />
<br />
Happy shopping!Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-80833134391127224022011-11-27T18:39:00.000-07:002011-11-27T18:39:58.305-07:00P.T. is no F.U.N!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkzCTpQyzsvorxrseoGyCDfwbaUwlPBravtmS8vGm1svjV_2fX2qLsDKG8JvgFaOBaxI8GZDbI4kAhbUq7i2swxML1ooUn0V1Vopa43TyDTMY8Vwxa9a9Ac025lw4uT0Tvuo50lQoO5TC/s1600/PT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkzCTpQyzsvorxrseoGyCDfwbaUwlPBravtmS8vGm1svjV_2fX2qLsDKG8JvgFaOBaxI8GZDbI4kAhbUq7i2swxML1ooUn0V1Vopa43TyDTMY8Vwxa9a9Ac025lw4uT0Tvuo50lQoO5TC/s200/PT.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I know exercise is good for us. But, I find it to be a little bit dangerous. For example, a few months ago I was doing some exercises with ankle weights on. I guess I was daydreaming, which to me is the only real benefit of exercise time, and I felt a pull in my knee. Long story short, I strained my meniscus, a part of the body I had never heard of until I injured it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I managed to hobble around for three weeks before deciding I needed to go to the doctor. His recommendation? Three weeks of physical therapy, and if there is no improvement, an MRI. I was really looking forward to my first appointment. I had physical therapy after I broke my collar bone and I still remember the heating and icing treatments, and the deep tissue massages administered by a young attractive pro cyclist named Matt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I arrived and was introduced to Denise, one of the many all female physical therapists I would work with. She looked me up and down. “Next time, wear athletic shoes” she said after her gaze lingered on my black sparkly flip flops. I couldn’t imagine why I needed athletic shoes. I started to take in my surroundings. Holy crap, I was in a gym. My dreams of a green tea body wrap and pedicure flew right out the window. Well, there was one positive—I was on the young side of the other patients I saw. Good, I thought. If we are forced to compete against each other, I have an excellent chance of winning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After measuring how much movement I had in my knee, I was led to an exercise bike. Ten minutes, she said. This didn’t seem like a good idea to me, but no one asked what I thought. I survived bicycling, and waited for my next instruction. That’s when I met my first of many elastic bands. She tied a length of elastic around my ankles and told me to walk sideways for forty feet and back again. I felt ridiculous—like I was walking the ledge of a building with pantyhose around my ankles. There was a man throwing a ball against a slanted trampoline and catching it. That looked like fun. Why couldn’t I do that? The next <strike>circus trick</strike> exercise she had me do was stand on a board with a ball underneath. Talk about being set up to fail, this was an impossible feat. I guess she took pity on me and told me to follow Jason and he would set me up for a something something treatment. I really wish I had heard what she said, but asking someone to repeat something is like shouting I AM OLD AND CAN’T HEAR A WORD YOU ARE SAYING. I find it more agreeable to go through life completely clueless. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Anyway, I was really encouraged when he told me to lie down on the table and he would get some pillows for me. I was still in denial, so I thought I was finally going to get my spa treatment. Next thing I knew, he had rolled a machine over to my table and started attaching wires to my knee. “This is going to stimulate your muscles with an electric current” is all he said. He turned on the machine and there was a fun little tickle going from one electrode to another. He continued turning up the current until the tickle had turned into a jolt. He said that the highest current I could tolerate would do me the most good. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now, I have no explanation for what happened next. I didn’t know this kid, would probably never see him again after I was done my therapy, but I did not want him to think I was a baby, so I allowed him to turn it up until my leg was literally jumping off the table. He said he’d be back in ten minutes. I looked around for something to put between my teeth so I wouldn’t bite my tongue. When I wasn’t wincing, I watched the big clock on the wall. When I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, I looked pleadingly at the man on the table next to me. His leg was being iced and he was fast asleep. I wanted to sit up and yell WHO is this man’s therapist? How do you expect him to heal just lying there being comfortable? He needs the jumper cable treatment!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">By my last appointment, I had gotten smarter. I would say the current was high enough, even before they turned on the machine. I no longer cared what they thought of me. When a young man asked if he could get me something, instead of saying “No thanks, I’m fine”, I asked for cucumber slices for my eyes. As I was leaving, my therapist smiled and said “Now keep up your exercises. You don’t want to come back here.” I smiled back. Ah, truer words were never spoken.</span>Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-63963219388084500332011-11-23T23:19:00.000-07:002011-11-23T23:19:28.128-07:00To Stir With Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukytnRmu_rP-ah7RoVKVHN8-AolgK5VPRXQq-o_VY7sjON2XfY-kZnBEWCqMJCKzJoDAmu9rzA62wMUxaVlIZJZzXziDC4afubkjd2tkp0cwpOkJI-0E1O6rsliIB2Dvtav4AKMTWwNZF/s1600/eww+pic+cooking.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukytnRmu_rP-ah7RoVKVHN8-AolgK5VPRXQq-o_VY7sjON2XfY-kZnBEWCqMJCKzJoDAmu9rzA62wMUxaVlIZJZzXziDC4afubkjd2tkp0cwpOkJI-0E1O6rsliIB2Dvtav4AKMTWwNZF/s200/eww+pic+cooking.gif" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As we enter the holiday season, I can't help but think of all the cooking and baking that will go on all over the country. I consider myself very lucky, because my husband is an excellent cook. And, he is really wonderful about stepping in and helping prepare holiday meals. But, I can't help but notice that we have very different cooking "styles."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To me, preparing a meal begins with opening the freezer and deciding what I can thaw in fifteen minutes.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To my husband, preparing a meal begins with sharpening the knives.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I can measure out ten different ingredients using the same measuring cup. I will measure all the dry ingredients first, and then the liquid ones, just so I don't have to rinse and dry the measuring cup.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He will use every measuring cup and measuring spoon we have, and even some I didn't know we had. </span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">If a recipe calls for two bowls, I will use the measuring cup as one of the bowls.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He will dirty half a dozen bowls in his attempt to find two the right size.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">To add extra flavor, I will grab black pepper and the first jar I see containing something green.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He will get out a mortar and pestle, mix together a dozen different herbs and spices, resulting in a magical fragrance and taste.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I take full advantage of the microwave oven.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>He believes the microwave oven is for cooking instant oatmeal, and nothing else</em>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I clean up as I go.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After he is done cooking, the kitchen needs to be hosed down, including the ceiling.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And, last but not least...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My meal is rubbery and bland.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">His meal is robust, savory, and delectable.</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Happy eating, everyone!</strong></span>Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-50041559141642399412011-10-20T11:46:00.000-06:002011-10-20T11:46:41.519-06:00That Which Is Lost...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICcH-9YBcZ0zGsRGirfyugPIip8d0Cp8b4MUAlyenMkAMFTHt7YDnWp3Uir5BREXIE7AbP1YXCw6EtrPFSF2m3f-IGhno23v1DZGzKYSXGQFI-4qJ8iTeZvME79fZbVQ2XYX0C4t1uXTh/s1600/pic+for+lost+and+found.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICcH-9YBcZ0zGsRGirfyugPIip8d0Cp8b4MUAlyenMkAMFTHt7YDnWp3Uir5BREXIE7AbP1YXCw6EtrPFSF2m3f-IGhno23v1DZGzKYSXGQFI-4qJ8iTeZvME79fZbVQ2XYX0C4t1uXTh/s200/pic+for+lost+and+found.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Last week my boss asked me where the certified mail forms were. I told him they were in the bottom drawer of the desk where the postage meter sits. He said he already looked there. I was so positive that's where I put them, I had to open the drawer and see for myself. Sitting in the drawer were the forms. I asked him how he could possibly have missed them considering they were the only items in the drawer. His reply was "They used to be in a folder, so I was looking for a folder." Hmm.<br />
<br />
My ex told me one day we were out of milk. I told him that wasn't possible because I had just bought some. I went to the refrigerator, and sitting right in front, at eye level, was a full gallon of milk. "Oh" he said, "I was looking for the half gallon size." Huh?<br />
<br />
I once lost my son at a major league baseball game. I know, that doesn't sound good. It was Little League Day, and all the kids were wearing their uniforms. My son spotted a boy he knew from another team, and asked if he could go say hi. It sounded okay to me so I said yes. Two innings later, he hadn't returned. I stood up and scanned the crowd. No sign of him. I reported him missing, and three employees of the ballpark showed up wanting a description. The two men and one woman took off on their search. What happened next put this whole experience in my top five scariest moments of my life. The game <em>ended.</em> Now, everyone was standing and filling the aisles. Just as the most horrifying thoughts were going through my mind, I saw the female employee coming my way, big smile on her face, and my son in tow. I never saw the two men again. For all I know, they are still looking for him.<br />
<br />
Perhaps their acuity for focusing makes men unable to find things as well as women. If you asked Waldo to find himself, there is a good chance he couldn't. He might have the excuse "I thought I was taller than that." If male US soldiers were told to infiltrate a home because there was a chance Saddam Hussein was hiding there, they might have walked right by Osama bin Laden sitting on the couch watching Dancing with the Stars.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, there are times when complete focus is necessary, and most women would fail at this. An example would be....uh...um...I don't know...<em>what</em> was I saying?Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-84111652279505493112011-10-07T22:38:00.000-06:002011-10-07T22:38:49.480-06:00The Eyes Have Hills<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVE-kCwR8B3yHbY0kiun_rN2ofM_kmy7sX_tc_hPl6amuQq3G7ay2jJ_vRdbAoqCGn2zLRjwwy9mTS_M7W6yWiLpogTBIJKJ2t2uleGP-11ESjNPtrDmXNyu7KKGcZUiz2DD1khAeoU8J/s1600/eyeChart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVE-kCwR8B3yHbY0kiun_rN2ofM_kmy7sX_tc_hPl6amuQq3G7ay2jJ_vRdbAoqCGn2zLRjwwy9mTS_M7W6yWiLpogTBIJKJ2t2uleGP-11ESjNPtrDmXNyu7KKGcZUiz2DD1khAeoU8J/s200/eyeChart.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I had perfect vision for most of my life. As I approached forty, I suddenly realized I couldn’t read close up. At first, I had to hold menus a foot and a half in front of me, then at arm’s length, just to see them. Pretty soon, I had to have someone else hold the menus. Sadly, I wound up only able to eat at restaurants that have their menus lit up on the wall. So, I went to the eye doctor. Much to my horror (I have a lot of denial in me), he prescribed reading glasses. The first time I wore them, a friend (?) of mine laughed and said I looked like a school teacher. <br />
<br />
For the next five years, my prescription had to be increased. I finally asked the eye doctor “What do I do when my nose can no longer support the weight of my lenses?” He said (and this is why he is no longer my eye doctor) “The good news is that your eyesight will probably never get worse than it is now.” <br />
<br />
Yeah, well it did. I tried to live with it, but while clothes shopping, I realized that the number six and the number eight looked exactly alike and thinking I was trying on an eight (which was really a six) I would become deeply depressed that I couldn't get the zipper up. And, I left a trail of waiters who either got a <em>very </em>generous tip, or a very minimal one, depending on the amount I <em>perceived</em> was on the bill.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I went to a new eye doctor. After saying hello to the coat rack, I was led into the exam room. Pointing to the eye chart, the doctor asked “What is the smallest line you can read?” “The fifth one down” I responded, and smiled. “Okay, could you read it, please?” “Out loud? In that case, the second one down.” He rubbed his forehead. After some discussion, he recommended monovision (at first I thought he said Bonovision, and I wondered if I would look good in big glasses with yellow lenses), which is placing different contacts in each eye—one for close up and one for distance. He said “It will take a couple of weeks for your brain to adjust.” </div><br />
Six months later, my brain had not adjusted yet. I was getting used to the halos around all lights, but I was still having problems with <strike>hallucinations</strike> depth perception. It became obvious one day when my husband and I were driving on the highway. There was a lot of traffic, but it was moving along pretty fast at seventy five miles an hour. I looked up from what I was reading, and saw (four or five vehicles ahead of us) a massive truck, which appeared to be stopped because we were gaining on it so quickly. My husband was not slowing at all, so I let out a scream. “What? What’s wrong?” he asked. I pointed ahead, just as I realized that the “truck” I saw was actually one of those electronic highway signs that stretch over the road. My husband was still staring at me. “Well?” “Sorry, I thought I saw something” was all I could say. He told me <em>please don’t scream in the car ever again.</em> I told him I would try not to. <br />
<br />
In my defense, I read a story about a recent plane crash. After an investigation, they determined that the reason for the crash was: “The inability of the captain, because of his use of monovision contact lenses, to overcome his misperception of the airplane's position relative to the runway during the visual portion of the approach.” I feel for you, Captain.<br />
<br />
It took me two years (I like to think my brain is stubborn, not slow) to adjust and now I can read and see in the distance, just as well as when I was younger. I ran into (not literally) my friend the other day, and <em>she</em> was wearing glasses. Of course, it would be very petty of me to tell her she looked like a school teacher. So, I told her she looked like a librarian.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-50257342980903875732011-09-28T18:40:00.001-06:002011-10-22T08:55:44.823-06:00When the Man Picks the Movie...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnQXz2wYIrP2reHEOl4EVdCd8-OXKyfl6WBXsNpHEoVuccbh4Bxj1eJ3gYo8mAG4SLXr0sTb1xGYsIsuiICv3Is9-QvXsn_s-EzHSM2ZexZalJ_1xU0_oPX-TW3U4ZluatCZrTBAGkH3Y/s1600/eww_man_movies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="120" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnQXz2wYIrP2reHEOl4EVdCd8-OXKyfl6WBXsNpHEoVuccbh4Bxj1eJ3gYo8mAG4SLXr0sTb1xGYsIsuiICv3Is9-QvXsn_s-EzHSM2ZexZalJ_1xU0_oPX-TW3U4ZluatCZrTBAGkH3Y/s200/eww_man_movies.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We all know what a chick flick is, right? Has anyone come up with a term for movies that men like? I didn’t think so. <br />
<br />
Let’s see…last night my husband watched a newly purchased DVD. Within the first thirty seconds of the movie, a man was shot by a weapon that separated the top half of him from the bottom half. I decided to open up my laptop and play a card game. Every time I looked up at the TV, something was blowing up, some kind of weapon was being fired, or someone was having their arm/leg/head shot off. <br />
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Let’s see what we know about the typical “guy film”: <br />
<br />
The main character never follows the rules. <br />
<br />
They never drive station wagons or minivans.<br />
<br />
The only women they know are hookers and strippers.<br />
<br />
Instead of good versus evil, the plots are more about bad (but in a cool way) versus evil.<br />
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They never wear cardigan sweaters.<br />
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They have names like Gunner and Snake, never Todd or Wesley.<br />
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The dialogue is typically “Hey, %$#@&*!” “What the #@%^ do you want?” “Go ^#$% yourself!”<br />
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If a character from a chick flick showed up in a man movie, and asked the question “How does all this killing make you feel?” they would be shot in the head.<br />
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If you are to make a comment like “Which Die Hard is this? I can’t tell them apart” they will look at you like you are as dumb as a rock.<br />
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Whatever you want to call them, these man movies will always be around and they are just going to get louder and more intense. But, I have two pieces of advice. The first one, and I can’t stress this enough—is if he says “Wow! Did you see that?” you must say <strong>YES</strong>, or he will back up the movie so you can see what effect a cannon has when it is shot at a man standing four feet away. The second one is in case Spike TV is running yet another Bond marathon. Pack yourself a lunch and leave the house. Maybe you can pick up that new chick flick on DVD, play it when you get home and count the amount of seconds it takes for your man to leave the room. Hey, and while he’s up, maybe he’ll start dinner. Ha ha, we women <em>do</em> like our fantasies, don’t we?Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-74181382003009735482011-09-20T19:47:00.000-06:002011-09-20T19:47:45.723-06:00Can You PLAN to be Spontaneous?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijm3h7FOIBlwy6oTctxlqu3lyt-SjkP0iS-faC7sgFVISEqs5ma8hxw3DkgZ7cOlrq_jQtvaoZNGNFxBxSJYCUus6agiq5esIp757MORanpTiPVDt_c4HPXF0lLi8zBHlWjQcoPrRLabvd/s1600/eww+pic+PLAN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijm3h7FOIBlwy6oTctxlqu3lyt-SjkP0iS-faC7sgFVISEqs5ma8hxw3DkgZ7cOlrq_jQtvaoZNGNFxBxSJYCUus6agiq5esIp757MORanpTiPVDt_c4HPXF0lLi8zBHlWjQcoPrRLabvd/s200/eww+pic+PLAN.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I have a confession. I don’t have a spontaneous bone in my body. I’ve always envied those who do. And, you can’t fake it…like being blonde. But, that’s not to say I haven’t tried.<br />
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<br />
I remember when I was young and single, I was sitting in a bar waiting for a friend, and a guy approached me and offered to buy me a drink. “What would you like?” he asked. I looked at him slyly and said “Surprise me.” Whoa, I had no idea where that came from. Maybe, I needed to cut back on the hair dye. But, darned if his face didn’t light up when I said that. It was plain to see—men <em>like</em> spontaneous women.<br />
<br />
I was feeling almost giddy…until the bartender placed before me…a White Russian. <em>I immediately had a flashback</em> (yes, this is a flashback in a flashback)<em> to when I was a child, and my father would not allow me to leave the dinner table until I finished my milk. I spent hours at that table.</em> I forced a smile and took a sip. Yup, there was that disgusting milk moustache. I tried not to shudder. A promise was born at that exact moment. I would never try to be something I’m not. A promise that I have broken too many times to count. But even today, I don’t drink milk. It turns out I am extremely lactose intolerant. No apologies necessary, Dad.<br />
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A few weeks ago, on a Sunday morning, my husband asked me what I wanted to do that day. I tried to think of something, but I was drawing a blank. “Why don’t you decide?” I suggested, and then it came out of my mouth again. “Surprise me.” <br />
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Now, I don’t know what the opposite of spontaneous is, but whatever it is, that’s what I am. And, my friends know it and my family knows it, and my husband figured it out within five minutes of meeting me. During our first year together, he would say “I have an idea. Why don’t you put your hair in a ponytail and throw on a baseball cap and we can go out for breakfast!” Our eyes would meet… and we would burst out laughing! <em>That</em> was as likely as me traveling with just one bag. <br />
<br />
So, we got in the car and headed west. I tried to sound all carefree (oops, broke that promise again) and asked “Okay, what are we doing?” With a playful look in his eye, he said “We’re going hiking!” I managed a weak smile and turned to stare out the car window. Hiking? I had no backpack containing a rain jacket, food, and fresh water. We live in Colorado. In my mind, to go hiking in Colorado without the right gear and supplies… well, it’s just dangerous. I was wearing flip flops, which would be little protection against rattlesnakes. I didn’t even have my knife! Ever since I realized that bears eat people, and Colorado has bears, I have not gone hiking without a knife. You may think that’s silly, but in my mind “silly” would be bringing shark repellant. I am <em>never</em> silly.<br />
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My inner turmoil continued. What if I slip and fall into a crevice and am forced to gnaw off one of my limbs, because I don’t have a knife. It could happen. I checked my phone and it was only half charged! And worse than that, I didn’t even have lip gloss with me. Trying to hide my anxiety, I went on the hike. To my immense relief, I wasn’t eaten, I didn’t get dehydrated, <em>and</em> I didn’t even get chapped lips. BUT, I did get dirt in my flip flops. Will the words “surprise me” ever come out of my mouth again? No.<br />
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I’m not spontaneous. I like to say I’m prepared…and careful…and only slightly paranoid. So, if you hear the sound of a promise breaking, it’s probably just me, telling someone I’ve just met that I’m “laid back.” I wish.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-46637857984215955542011-09-11T21:20:00.000-06:002011-09-11T21:20:56.626-06:00When the Honeymoon is Over<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3HeCZX1vSurn-34zXvkY_FLoj2bmfs1CIue1H5PdMkPJ5CbJ7gZEjF-zuZZoLXO-KdGUiEvUCbJvMXonc_wN8JpeZ1WUQ1pgQpA-nrOq1uCwsIf77EtGypQPrEkns3kzLhBViE7_FsWxf/s1600/eww+honeymoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3HeCZX1vSurn-34zXvkY_FLoj2bmfs1CIue1H5PdMkPJ5CbJ7gZEjF-zuZZoLXO-KdGUiEvUCbJvMXonc_wN8JpeZ1WUQ1pgQpA-nrOq1uCwsIf77EtGypQPrEkns3kzLhBViE7_FsWxf/s200/eww+honeymoon.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Several years ago, I read a popular book on relationships. In it, the author described the different phases, but one in particular caught my attention. The “honeymoon” phase. According to this expert, this phase is the first two years of your relationship. <br />
<br />
<br />
Apparently, Day 730 you are madly in love and can’t keep your hands off each other. Day 731 you are discussing twin beds. I was appalled at such a generalization. I had to believe the changes take years, and maybe for some couples, the honeymoon stage never ends.<br />
<br />
Perhaps, you can identify with the subtle changes in these examples. The first one is when love is new. The second represents whatever the heck you call the next phase.<br />
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<br />
“It’s a beautiful day. I thought we could go for a motorcycle ride and take a picnic lunch.”<br />
“That sounds wonderful. I love to feel the wind in my hair!”<br />
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<em>“I have to get a part for the toilet at Home Depot and I thought I’d take the bike. You don’t want to go, do you?</em><br />
<em>“Someone has to clean the dog puke out of the carpet, and I guess that’s me. Besides, it leaves my hair a tangled mess.”</em><br />
<br />
<br />
“John just invited us to dinner…would you like to go?”<br />
“Oh yes, I can’t wait to meet him. I feel like I know him already!”<br />
<br />
<em>“We were going to have a guys-only dinner, but John forgot and asked his girlfriend. Do you want to go?”</em><br />
<em>“No thanks. He spits when he talks and his last girlfriend wore a school uniform and had a curfew.” </em><br />
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“Are you interested in seeing this movie with me? I know it’s kind of a chick flick.”<br />
“I don’t mind…I just like to sit in the dark with you (wink).”<br />
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<em>“You’ve watched three football games in a row. How about taking me to see a movie?”</em><br />
<em>“I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a hot poker……Honey, put that down.”</em><br />
<br />
<br />
“The shower is leaking. Maybe I should call a plumber.”<br />
“Nonsense. I can fix that in a jiffy.”<br />
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<em>“How long do we have to live with no door on our refrigerator, and pretend that all the food isn’t rancid?”</em><br />
<em>“You ask me this every month. Nagging me isn’t going to make it happen any sooner.”</em><br />
<br />
<br />
I sincerely hope your relationship will always be in the honeymoon phase. These examples have absolutely no resemblance to mine. In fact, I’m about to lovingly make him a late night snack of moldy cake and sour milk. Goodnight, all.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-68846773516224380302011-09-03T14:18:00.000-06:002011-09-03T14:18:39.741-06:00You Shouldn't Have...Seriously.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiS3NC13BZ2kha2GAnjAYZrtr3XeVOXk58sd6Wm0yJStnCK8uIgTtutFW_HnLTFIedo2xRJLnzegVLkmdVwzn3DXIjGfUWJYii4MDF30TBfoZd8sZQKnSw7myt2W-FaA6ttDjUu0lHisK/s1600/eww+pic+gift+face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiS3NC13BZ2kha2GAnjAYZrtr3XeVOXk58sd6Wm0yJStnCK8uIgTtutFW_HnLTFIedo2xRJLnzegVLkmdVwzn3DXIjGfUWJYii4MDF30TBfoZd8sZQKnSw7myt2W-FaA6ttDjUu0lHisK/s200/eww+pic+gift+face.jpg" width="200" xaa="true" /></a></div>The other day I told my daughter I was going to write about the “gift face.” She immediately knew what I was talking about. “You mean the thing that you and I are so bad at?” “That’s the one.”<br />
<br />
<br />
I loved to open presents as a child, but somewhere along the way I must have gotten a really, really, terrible gift. Now, opening presents fills me with anxiety. I guess I just don’t have good control of my face. And, insincere words coming from my mouth sound…well, insincere. And, if you are wondering if I am a bad poker player, YES. What I think of as my “nonchalant” face appears to others as if I’ve just discovered I have a second belly button. I cannot disguise whatever emotion I am feeling.<br />
<br />
Just last Christmas, I was with my in-laws, and I opened a wrapped gift to discover a box of brownie mix. Not aware that the next box contained one of those new pans which make every brownie a corner (which I truly love!) I had to show utter delight with my brownie mix. As I was trying to look enthusiastic, I was wondering if they had done their Christmas shopping in their own kitchen. Should I be happy it wasn’t a can of pinto beans? <br />
<br />
My daughter and I agree that my stepson is the master of the gift face. He would have been grinning ear-to-ear at a can of beans as if owning one was his wildest dream. Socks, underwear, a can of shaving cream, a cheese grater—he appears to treasure them all. I have to admit I’ve been tempted to play around a bit, and wrap something so lame even he couldn’t get excited over, but I honestly couldn’t figure out what that would be. <br />
<br />
Thinking back a few decades, I may know when my fear started, or at least <em>who</em> started it. I won’t name them, but I will say they were a relative by marriage only. All eyes were on me one Christmas when I opened her gift to find a plastic wall clock. Not just any plastic wall clock, this one included a plastic replica of a fireplace, with a roller painted with flames, so as the battery-operated roller spun, it looked exactly like a genuine roaring fire. See, I can’t even describe it without getting sarcastic. Now, if you are thinking what an ungrateful person I am, you should know that she never used or wore any of the dozens of gifts I gave her over the years. Christmas was just a yearly reminder of how different we were.<br />
<br />
One year she really got me with <em>the gift that keeps on giving.</em> It was a pie made of fabric and filled with potpourri. When I pulled it out of the plastic bag, I almost fell off my chair from the strawberry fumes. Maybe she thought the tears streaming down my cheeks were in appreciation of the gift, but I doubt it. She then said to me with a twinkle in her eye, “If the fragrance fades, you can put it in the oven for five minutes and the smell will come back.” Touché. <br />
<br />
The pie that wouldn’t die wound up in a box with the fireplace clock, the oil lamp in the shape of Texas, the Dollywood snow globe, and the Dale Earnhardt fanny pack.<br />
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So, if you see me opening gifts in a dark corner, or sniffing the box before opening it, you will know why. And, I will continue to get anxious. Because I never know when a fish on a plaque that sings <em>Take Me to the River</em> will show up. <em>Gulp.</em><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-25685515142014483112011-08-23T16:55:00.002-06:002011-08-23T21:04:49.870-06:00Size Matters...But What is TOO BIG?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOqxkNhh3o__6A2XSwK-gZGYd9hncaPwXCHXPGzh2bubZYpeLcIb0VbnC-9xblXiaXXQ_D37n_h6SRdVlSHDqLjkx1CrEEp8ooznaJ7zwKbR4D_Y8Mq2kdD3AXVDpQXH92mgDD4A2MPXfm/s1600/candyland+board.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOqxkNhh3o__6A2XSwK-gZGYd9hncaPwXCHXPGzh2bubZYpeLcIb0VbnC-9xblXiaXXQ_D37n_h6SRdVlSHDqLjkx1CrEEp8ooznaJ7zwKbR4D_Y8Mq2kdD3AXVDpQXH92mgDD4A2MPXfm/s200/candyland+board.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We’ve all done it—you follow the road signs, go through the entrance, park where the attendants tell you, shuffle along the rope labyrinth, note the anticipation on all the faces, grab a map when it’s offered to you, and finally…FINALLY… it’s your turn to enter. Disney World? Six Flags? Nope…I’m talking about IKEA.<br />
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There was more hype about IKEA coming to our area, than when gold was found in “them thar hills.” I have to admit, I knew very little about IKEA, other than people saying they sure wish we had one. I was curious. I figured the grand opening might be kind of crowded, so I decided to wait a few weeks. <br />
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“Let’s go to IKEA today!” It was a Sunday afternoon. As we were driving on the highway, I caught a glimpse of something blue off to the west. Something big...very big...and very blue. Not what I would call a soothing blue. I would describe it as an electric blue, the shade of blue that jangles your nerves and makes your fillings hurt. As we got closer and I could see the whole structure, I was horrified. It was a massive, blue box. No attempt whatsoever had been made to make it attractive or blend in with it’s surroundings. It was my first indication that IKEA is all about saving you money, even if it means creating blight on the landscape. <br />
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After winding our way through a path of cones, we were finally led to a parking garage which makes up the belly of the big, blue beast. We parked the car, and headed to the area marked entrance. Sorry, you cannot enter here. That would be <em>way</em> too easy. We’d prefer you walked halfway around the outside of the building, winding up in this exact same spot, and then you can enter. Fine, I thought, we’ll play your little game of Candyland. <br />
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Up the escalator, and through the doors, at last we had arrived. I knew this was not a “small world, after all” if we needed a map, so I gladly accepted one. Now, it’s our usual shopping tactic to stop just inside the entrance to a store and come up with a plan of where we want to go. Turns out if you stop in an IKEA, the entire store will collapse. It’s designed to keep you moving. People ahead of us were grabbing cloth shopping bags, which really confused me because I thought this was a furniture store. <br />
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The first (and only) item that caught my eye as we were herded like cattle, following the big arrows on the floor, was a drafting table with a price tag of $159. I had to admit that was a pretty fantastic price. Especially since it had a light box built into the table. We knew it was a risky move, but we stepped out of the herd. Upon closer examination, we discovered the price did not include legs. And, it did not include lighting for the light box. Who would buy a table without legs? Or a light box without a light? I imagined I heard snickering, all the way from Sweden.<br />
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I knew we were not going to buy anything, simply because we had tired of being in line and we really wanted to skip that last line at the registers. As we gladly scooted around that whole area, we found ourselves in the food section. A food section...in a furniture store...curiouser and curiouser. “Would you like a meatball?” I was asked. No, <em><strong>I just want to go home. </strong></em><br />
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Fun fact: IKEA was created by a seventeen year old boy. The first two letters are his initials. Sounds egotistical to me. Well, this is Elaine of Elaine’s Wonderful World signing off.<br />
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Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-7731722197328706492011-03-13T15:03:00.000-06:002011-03-13T15:03:44.814-06:005 Things Women Know and Men Don’t Understand!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQZsdapEOAymAtYqvEGTpnN_fYKwFFbKR7XrcEPgqa89VK2AS4nZ0J8S4gBxyWl6YqZA_uGSSXpABLjSZjXj4aE3zdkvo2Srz0RU1tp8HtsIZ2g0OgOU8GeeAOFx19x6aV1mjw3-j9qOy/s1600/man_wiping_brow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" q6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQZsdapEOAymAtYqvEGTpnN_fYKwFFbKR7XrcEPgqa89VK2AS4nZ0J8S4gBxyWl6YqZA_uGSSXpABLjSZjXj4aE3zdkvo2Srz0RU1tp8HtsIZ2g0OgOU8GeeAOFx19x6aV1mjw3-j9qOy/s200/man_wiping_brow.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
“Honey, what’s for dinner?”<br />
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“Oh, you can have whatever you want. I’m not eating today.”<br />
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“W<em>hy</em> aren’t you eating today?”<br />
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“I’m shrinking my stomach.”<br />
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Now, women know that if we don’t eat anything for a day, our stomach will collapse inward. Then, the next day, a smaller amount of food will make us full. It’s completely scientific. And, don’t expect us to cook for you on this day, because that would just be cruel. Men don’t understand this.<br />
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“Honey, is your car still making that noise?”<br />
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“I don’t know. I turn up the radio so I can’t hear it.”<br />
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Women know that when a car makes an unidentifiable sound, we don’t even consider taking it in to be checked. Why would we put ourselves through the humiliation of trying to imitate the sound as every man in the place snickers? Why would we waste our time trying to convince the mechanic he needs to drive the car to hear it, only to find that for the first time in eight months, the sound is gone? So, as far as we are concerned, there is really <em>nothing</em> wrong with the car. Men don’t understand this.<br />
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“Honey, we need to leave for the party. Are you ready?”<br />
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“Not quite.”<br />
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“But, you’ve had seven hours to get ready.”<br />
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Women know that it doesn’t really matter if we have three days to get ready. Everything we do has to be done <em>at the last minute</em>. We wait to shower so we will still be fresh. We wait to get dressed, so we don’t wrinkle our outfit. Nails must be polished last, because once they are wet, there must be nothing else we have to do, except to use the bathroom, which must be done seconds before leaving the house. Men don’t understand this.<br />
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“Honey, where is the bag of Oreos?”<br />
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“I ate them all.”<br />
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“I thought you were on a diet?”<br />
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“I am.”<br />
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Women know that to be on a diet, all the foods that would tempt us must be gone. We will consume <em>huge</em> amounts of food that would be bad for our diet. Men don’t understand this.<br />
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“Honey, if you are concerned about running out of gas, why don’t you fill it when you have half a tank?”<br />
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“That’s ridiculous.”<br />
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Women know that putting gas in the car is not one of our favorite activities, which means we will do anything to avoid it. We will use the following excuses NOT to stop and get gas: <br />
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It’s too cold out.<br />
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It’s too hot out.<br />
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It’s too windy.<br />
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There is a chance for lightning.<br />
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We are waiting for the price to come down.<br />
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Someone was using our favorite pump. <br />
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Somewhere between an eighth of a tank and the warning light coming on, we will offer our car to anyone, with the hope that they will fill it up. Men don’t understand this.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-80175547766305825892011-02-28T22:29:00.000-07:002011-02-28T22:29:42.623-07:00A Crappy Title<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH03-I9c70XinlJFs6AUGhpFV86c92lJjdd892j4LoclIdcF-DNckTry15YGvIdoyXd69_3foyZQG56yjU7fg21PhJ4DFp9af9du7_RvJvrwrAsygk9jTDdqS0w4GK8nwMZ4itE_IQO6Lr/s1600/a+crappy+picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH03-I9c70XinlJFs6AUGhpFV86c92lJjdd892j4LoclIdcF-DNckTry15YGvIdoyXd69_3foyZQG56yjU7fg21PhJ4DFp9af9du7_RvJvrwrAsygk9jTDdqS0w4GK8nwMZ4itE_IQO6Lr/s200/a+crappy+picture.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>It’s been a long time since I posted anything new. And, I am about to tell you why. I am a fraud. A hypocrite. The whole idea behind Elaine’s Wonderful World is to celebrate all the glorious flaws which make us who we are. Perfection is not even in our vocabulary. <br />
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But, old habits are hard to change. And, trying to be perfect is more of a career for me, not just a habit. So, this is the process I was using to write each post: come up with an idea, write it, review and make changes, check spelling and grammar, review again, decide where new paragraphs should start, change a word or two, review again, come up with a title, find a picture, cut and paste into my blog, review one last time, determine that it is as close to perfect as I can get, and publish. OMG….this is supposed to be a fun and humorous blog, not a dissertation to earn a PHD!<br />
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So, I have to let go. Therapy might have helped if I hadn’t fixated on a piece of artwork hanging crooked behind the therapist’s head. I think I need to proceed slowly…you know, baby steps. If a stranger walks by with the tag sticking out of the back of their sweater, I will resist tucking it in for them. I won’t let my blood pressure rise when I see “your” and “you’re” used incorrectly. If putting cans of soup away in my kitchen, one gets stacked upside down, I will just leave it that way. For awhile.<br />
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So, you will notice some changes to Elaine’s Wonderful World. Starting with this one. A crappy title and a crappy picture. I feel so free.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-858900470004153942010-12-20T17:30:00.000-07:002010-12-20T17:30:00.815-07:00Here We Come A-Modeling!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGe18Ev22y0axtelyDEujXwO-9Mp_ro0bQG9SGeUsueX0NtcnnHK_tgwqyyd2qkNdO1Og17_ivNeJSAiuGHUwuGEh_1At4plWAj2zLJl8W5HyzdQ7lPlkPjv3zrL8b8HZyoj5xlfGdZcSt/s1600/eww+xmas+modeling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGe18Ev22y0axtelyDEujXwO-9Mp_ro0bQG9SGeUsueX0NtcnnHK_tgwqyyd2qkNdO1Og17_ivNeJSAiuGHUwuGEh_1At4plWAj2zLJl8W5HyzdQ7lPlkPjv3zrL8b8HZyoj5xlfGdZcSt/s200/eww+xmas+modeling.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>After the experience in my last post, you would think I would have given up modeling. You would think. <br />
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A few weeks after the video fiasco, my phone rang (this was before caller ID) so I answered it. Before I could even say hello, the modeling manager said he had another job for me. It would be fun, I didn’t have to audition, and he needed my husband, too. Well, that last part certainly caught my interest. I said yes.<br />
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So, on a sunny October morning, we headed to the address. We were more than a little surprised that the location was a house. We were greeted by the photographer, who led us to a lower level room. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace and just to the left of the fireplace stood a completely decorated Christmas tree. Across the room was a free-standing wooden door, solid at the bottom, with small panes of glass in the top half. It had been propped up and the camera was on a tripod on the other side of the door. Before I had a chance to ask questions, the photographer’s assistant took us to another room, where our “wardrobe” was, provided by Dillards. My husband’s outfit was a striped night shirt and dark blue knee length robe. I giggled when I saw it. Then she pulled mine out of the garment bag. I would have taken back the giggle if I could. Full length plaid flannel night gown and dark green chenille robe. Did I mention that it was seventy degrees that day?<br />
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The concept: family of four on Christmas morning. The children arrived, accompanied by their moms--boy, age seven or so, and girl, not a day over three. Really, I was going to be a mom of a three year old? I had a flashback to an incident that happened a week before... <br />
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<em>My daughter had been hired to model western wear in a catalog. One of the outfits also came in adult sizes and the owner of the company wanted a mother-daughter photo. My daughter’s manager told him “Don’t worry, her mother's here.” He agreed to meet me. I walked in, and he asked me if I had any photos, which of course, I didn’t. He then told me to take a seat outside his door and he called the manager back in. I couldn't help but hear what they were saying. “She’s too old, we’ll go with someone else” was all I heard. I wanted to throw the door open and demand to know how I could be too old to be my own daughter’s mother! But instead, I slumped down in my chair deflated. I drove to the location of the shoot and watched my daughter pose and smile at her new “mother” who I later found out was seventeen years old. I did the math. Her teenage mom would have given birth at the age of eight. Oddly, I felt better.</em><br />
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The children changed into pajamas and robes, and we were told where to stand. My husband stood in front of the fireplace with a coffee cup in one hand and his leg up on the hearth. The boy sat on the floor in front of him. I got to sit on the hearth and the little girl was going to be standing in front of me with my arms around her. Piece of cake, right? There were two things I was reminded about three year olds. They can’t stay in one place for long, and they don’t like to be held by strangers. We were in our poses for a good ten seconds before she burst out crying. I tried to comfort her and she looked at me like I was the boogie man. Her mother said soothing things to her from the sidelines, but she really wanted her mother to hold her. That went on for fifteen minutes. Did I mention I was wearing flannel <em>and </em>chenille and sitting less than a foot from the crackling fire? The photographer decided to shoot the photo while she was winding up for the next outburst. The only other direction we got was for my husband to take his foot off the hearth. I turned to look at him. Heehee. I’m sure he didn’t want my husband’s hairy leg in the photo and risk scaring small children. The photographer either got the shot he wanted or just gave up, but we were finally finished. As we drove away, I remember wondering what the photo was for, and if we would ever get to see it.<br />
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Two weeks before Christmas, it was a Sunday morning and we were sleeping in. The phone rang, but we let it go to voicemail. The phone rang again. And, again. Starting to wonder if it was the same person and something was wrong, I got up to check our messages. “Who was it?” my husband asked, as I listened to the third message. “Go get the paper” was all I could say. He handed me the Sunday edition of The Rocky Mountain News and I started ripping through the sections. OH MY GOD was all I could say when I got to a magazine section and the photo of us in our pajamas was on the cover. There we were, in all our flannel glory. The photo was taken through the panes of glass, as if to be peeking in on a family Christmas. The first thing I noticed (no big surprise) was my hair, which had two inches of black roots. That was odd. I’ve heard a camera can add five pounds, but black roots? Next, I looked at my husband’s leg. They used a shot where his leg was on the hearth, but it was completely blackened out. Smart editing. The boy was holding a box that was not wrapped on the bottom, and the huge excitement on his face looked odd because he hadn’t opened the gift yet. The little girl had her hand on my knee and I hoped it wasn’t obvious that she was pushing my leg to get away. She was looking at her “real” mother and I was holding on tight so she couldn’t leave the shot. Great. It looked like I was abusing her.<br />
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The phone calls continued all day as friends and neighbors found us in the newspaper. “Is that really you?” was the question we heard the most. I wanted so badly to say “No, natural blondes don’t HAVE dark roots, and my husband has two legs, not just one.”<br />
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The newspaper insert was about ten pages long, advertising different stores at our local mall. We were so relieved when the commotion died down, and the ad with our photo was probably used to line birdcages, catch paint drips, and ignite logs. I was very happy to put that experience behind me, and I would live a happy life if I never saw that photo again.<br />
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Two days before Christmas, my husband and I decided to do some last minute shopping. We headed to the mall, found a parking space, and ran to the doors to escape the cold. There in front of us, as we entered the mall, was a poster size version of our photo. At the same time, we both groaned and pulled our coat collars up. It was everywhere--on the directory, hanging from the ceiling, outside the movie theater.<br />
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A few days after Christmas, my husband surprised me with two of the posters. I still run across them every once in awhile. That was the end of my modeling career. Most of it was fun, some was tough on my ego. Even if I get a call tomorrow, I’d have to say no. I don’t think I could take being told I’m too old to be a grandmother.<br />
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Happy holidays, everyone!Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-74184395884725420332010-12-02T10:57:00.001-07:002010-12-02T15:11:16.204-07:00Me? A Model Mom?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihi9BKH5ljSe9Jvgx1BIl79A4sBiDqa-iXUn1bFyFf7N0-0W1g9Ty9Nk2zZuVgLO30Stl6lbEqdayEhC9rpjRKoAR0CCJ1LGk8zU7lt7qJ1-5JT7NzTPPQC83vf-JQVNspSfJgV6vg8uIc/s1600/1977-barbie-fashion-model-fb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihi9BKH5ljSe9Jvgx1BIl79A4sBiDqa-iXUn1bFyFf7N0-0W1g9Ty9Nk2zZuVgLO30Stl6lbEqdayEhC9rpjRKoAR0CCJ1LGk8zU7lt7qJ1-5JT7NzTPPQC83vf-JQVNspSfJgV6vg8uIc/s200/1977-barbie-fashion-model-fb.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>“Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?” –Derek Zoolander <br />
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When my daughter was nine or ten, she did some local modeling. Since I took her to weekly classes, I got to know her manager pretty well. One day he called, saying he needed a big favor. He had gotten a call from a company looking for adult models, and he only managed children. Would I be willing to meet with them? I tried to make excuses, but finally relented. <br />
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The day of the “meeting” I tried on every item of clothing I owned, and settled on a tweed suit with wide black belt and simple black pumps. I was ready to go. My husband agreed to drive me. As I arrived and stood at the office door, I looked down at my outfit and felt confident. I entered the receptionist area, and looked at the two women already seated. I can only describe them as head-to-toe chic. In a matter of seconds I went from being Audrey Hepburn to Tammy Faye Bakker. I grabbed a magazine and pretended to read as I scoped them out. I was guessing they were old enough to vote, but not old enough to drink. I was thirty six years old.<em> I was screwed.</em> The other thing I noticed was that they both had black leather books, no doubt their fabulous portfolios. If they asked me for photos, all I had was my driver’s license and my Sam’s card. <em>I was so screwed. </em><br />
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When they finally called me in, I was unprepared for the amount of people who would be witnessing my humiliation. Four men and two women were seated at a long table. No, I have no photos. No, I have no experience. You want to see my WHAT? My runway walk? Good Lord, I had to walk from one end of the room to the other without tripping. I tried to remember how models turned. My feet tangled. I looked at them sheepishly, and in unison the group said “That’s enough, thank you.” I practically ran out of there, and once I was back in the car, I looked at my husband. Before he had a chance to ask, I said “THIS…NEVER…HAPPENED. We are NEVER to speak of this. EVER.”<br />
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Life returned to normal, and I continued my not-so-glamorous <em>real</em> role as a mom. I put the whole modeling fiasco out of my mind…until I got a call. “They <em>loved</em> you!” my daughter’s manager told me. My first reaction was “What is <em>wrong</em> with those people?” “They did suggest you get some runway training, so someone on my staff will help you.”<br />
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It turned out that the job was a video for a line of women’s clothing. They hired two other women, and we sat together as the director explained the concept. We would model the clothes on a runway, complete with fog machine and “fake” audience and photographers. As each of us came down the runway, the video would cut to scenes of us wearing the same outfits, but in our “regular” lives. The director told the redhead that she would be in a board room, giving a presentation to a group of men. He told the brunette that she would be a traveling business woman, briefcase in hand, checking into a hotel. Of course, my mind wandered and I imagined myself as a lawyer, or a politician, or possibly a college professor. He turned to me. “<em>You</em> will be a mom.” <br />
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The day we taped the fashion show was a lot of fun. I sat and drank coffee (we started <em>very</em> early in the morning) as I waited for my turn with the hair stylist and the makeup artist. An hour later, I had <em>huge</em> hair and more makeup than I had ever worn, complete with brown lipstick. I had to trust that they were trying to make me look good. Finally, the clothes arrived. The redhead was to wear burgundy separates, and the outfit for the brunette was a black knit dress with a matching jacket. My outfit? A purple and turquoise jumpsuit. Apparently, I was a circus mom.<br />
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The second day of shooting took place at a furniture store. They had taken a living room display and decorated it for Christmas. I was to sit on the sofa, and my two “daughters” would bring me presents from under the tree. We would hug and I would open the gifts and laugh delightedly. I was told to keep the boxes tilted away from the camera since they were empty. The two little girls were adorable in their holiday outfits. The sofa where I sat was plush and gorgeous. And, then there was me. Nothing says Christmas like brown lipstick and a purple and turquoise jumpsuit.<br />
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A few weeks later, a copy of the video arrived in the mail. Just as I was slipping it into the VCR, the kids got home from school. Perfect. I really wanted their opinion because I knew they would be honest. When the video was over, I waited anxiously. My daughter said “You look pretty, Mom. Who were those girls?” I guess it was strange for her to see me with other daughters. Now, the real test. My son. “I liked it. It looked like a real fashion show.” I was so relieved. I just didn’t want to look like a fool. My son was still looking at me. “What?” “You’re not going to show this to anyone else, are you?”Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-73427820065058792502010-11-24T18:37:00.000-07:002010-11-24T18:37:38.490-07:00Remembering Thanksgiving BPT (Before Pop-up Timers)!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkIYyrQY-lgXxnY-4bTQlcq2BlX-XvBNxlAf8uNUN4NXJYK42UCBX-4udgd8aVVhiAUcMnNM8x9S9aoExagYzcPs2C2z3R1PgYcXGPQD_ixiShr3wT8y24Ut_dXMLi6J8KUS0QYAZLW_l/s1600/turkey1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMkIYyrQY-lgXxnY-4bTQlcq2BlX-XvBNxlAf8uNUN4NXJYK42UCBX-4udgd8aVVhiAUcMnNM8x9S9aoExagYzcPs2C2z3R1PgYcXGPQD_ixiShr3wT8y24Ut_dXMLi6J8KUS0QYAZLW_l/s200/turkey1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>As I fight my way through the grocery store, equipped with yet another cart that won’t make left turns, I find myself reminiscing about Thanksgivings past.<br />
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Turkeys and I have a love/hate relationship. LOVE cooking them, HATE thawing them. One year, after two days in the refrigerator, the turkey was still frozen solid. I immediately called the Turkey Hotline. Fortunately, Mom was home and answered the phone. “You need to put it in cold water” she said. “If you don’t have a big enough bucket, it can go in your bathtub.” So, the turkey and I went upstairs to the master bath. When I thought it was filled enough, I dumped the turkey in. Now, I could barely get this thing upstairs, it was so heavy. But, darned if it didn’t float. I could already see the e-coli forming on the part of the turkey exposed to the air. I looked around for something heavy, but everything I tried eventually slipped off and the turkey would pop up again. <br />
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After trying everything I could think of, I settled on a cookie sheet with a stack of pots and pans balanced on top of that. Success! I went back downstairs to start on the pies. A few hours later, the kids and I heard a crash from upstairs. <em>Darn it</em>, I thought. We ran up, and couldn’t help but notice wet footprints going down the hallway. I followed the footprints and the kids went to check on the turkey. Well, apparently, Kitty decided to leap from the edge of the tub onto Turkey Island, and was immediately immersed in very cold water. I found her under the bed, completely soaked. Needless to say, I knew she would never try that again. But, just in case, every year since, I close the door.<br />
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The very next year, our family was sitting around the dining room table, enjoying the bounty of food. At the end of the meal, I brought out the pumpkin pie. Everyone groaned, so we decided to watch a movie, and then have dessert. About twenty minutes into the movie, there was a lull in the action, and I noticed a sound I didn’t recognize. I asked if the kids heard it and they said yes. We listened for quite awhile, and then something clicked in my brain. I knew that sound! The kids followed as I rushed to the dining room. There, in the middle of the table, tongue deep into the pumpkin pie was our Lhasa Apso, Teddy. Not too concerned because I had made two pies, I marveled at what this dog had accomplished. The table was still set with plates, silverware, candles, wine glasses and water goblets. He had managed to get to the pie without disturbing anything on the table. I could just picture him moving one paw at a time, stopping to make sure we hadn’t heard him, and then proceeding. I think we all had a little more respect for him after that.<br />
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My favorite story goes way back to the first Thanksgiving dinner I ever made. For years, we spent the holiday with my in-laws, but we had moved to another state. I was on my own. My biggest concern was getting it all done by early afternoon. I wasn’t sure how long the turkey would take, and I needed the oven for the pies and various casseroles. I figured I needed to start cooking at 5 am. So, there I was, up before the sun. By the time dinner was ready, I had used every bowl, pan, baking sheet, measuring cup, and spoon we had. I brought the food out and placed it on the table. <em>Wow</em>, I thought, this looks like a meal you would see in a magazine. I finally sat down for the first time that day. I quickly drank half a glass of wine while the food was passed around. I stood up and excused myself from the table. I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. I slept for four hours. I missed the meal. I missed Thanksgiving. <br />
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I still struggle. The turkey never seems to thaw in time, and I am forced to put my hand into the icy cold cavity to retrieve the goody bags inside (I think I had cooked two turkeys before I even knew about the bags). No one has invented a turkey anchor so I am still piling things on top of the bird to hold it down. I still need a bolt cutter to get the stupid wire thingy off the legs. <em>And</em>, I still do my shopping two days before Thanksgiving. Which reminds me…I am next in line to check out. Happy Thanksgiving!!!Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-66292389751756761872010-11-01T20:18:00.000-06:002010-11-01T20:18:02.948-06:00There's No Place Like Home!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0qoSXV3NirYWtcCEJPygsXIMUXDCHMLXTcmZvDOMf5uRRA5znV20a158qxK6S_xuPQ4HEta2dPVbO2NwKw_O0FSRSi4cZR6tqTkbdbHnWktw25xPhEGmuQdN3m87YJEXxYKVFnsp6wty/s1600/lockedout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0qoSXV3NirYWtcCEJPygsXIMUXDCHMLXTcmZvDOMf5uRRA5znV20a158qxK6S_xuPQ4HEta2dPVbO2NwKw_O0FSRSi4cZR6tqTkbdbHnWktw25xPhEGmuQdN3m87YJEXxYKVFnsp6wty/s200/lockedout.jpg" width="181" /></a></div>People say to me “Elaine, most of your stories happened a long time ago...how can you remember back in such detail?” Well, sometimes I don’t have to go very far back. Like today, for instance. <br />
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I can’t say it started like any other day, because due to a serious brain fart three weeks ago, I scheduled a dentist appointment for a Monday morning. Two hours…that’s how long I was in the dentist chair. The entire lower half of my face was numb. I’d never been so happy to leave a place in my life. I got home, and the first thing I did was let the dogs out. As I passed through the kitchen I noticed a spider floating in the dog’s water bowl. When I was completely confident that it was dead, I took the bowl outside to dump it. Because we have an obnoxious kitten (yes, some kittens can be obnoxious) who tries to escape every time there is a door open, I pulled it shut behind me. Dumped the water bowl, turned to go back in, and the door was locked. I immediately had that <em>this is bad</em> feeling.<br />
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I knew the front door was locked, because I had just locked it. We have a hidden spare key, but I had given it to our painter so he could get in while we were out of town. He returned it, but did I put it back in the hiding place? I already knew the answer, but I checked anyway. No key. I sized up my situation. Both doors locked and no phone. I checked all the windows and they were locked tight. The only person who could help me was in a meeting on the other side of town.<br />
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I saw my neighbor’s front door open. A neighbor I have been waving to for over five years, but never met. I knocked on her door, trying not to drool out of the side of my mouth. I introduced myself and asked to borrow her phone. It went to voicemail and I tried hard not to sound completely pathetic, but I left a message that I needed him to come home. I went back to our house, found a sunny spot in the backyard to sit, and the dogs and I waited. When an hour and a half had gone by, I started plotting how I could break in. Then, I was reminded of another horrible situation I had gotten myself into....<br />
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About six years ago, when I lived by myself in a condo, I decided to go out on the balcony to see what the temperature was like, so I could decide whether to wear a coat or not to work. Just as I closed the sliding door, the safety bar slips down into place, and I am locked out...on my second floor balcony...no phone..no coat...wearing a skirt and heels. I figured it wouldn’t be long before someone would go by walking their dog and I could get help. An entire hour went by and there was no one. A neighbor I knew who worked at home had a ground floor unit, and I thought if I yelled loud enough he would hear me. Nope, that didn’t work either. I looked in the little storage closet, and noticed there were some drop cloths. I could tie them together, attach them to the door handle and shimmy my way to the ground…wearing a skirt…and heels. <br />
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By then, I knew they were probably worried about me for not showing up at work. I pictured a city-wide search, and how silly I would look on the news, when they discovered I hadn’t been abducted at all...I was just locked out on my balcony. I got mad. What happened next was one of those bursts of strength that mothers have when their child is trapped under a car. Using nothing but my bare hands, I pulled at the door frame until it started to bend. Then I slammed my body against the door, creating a gap large enough for my hand to fit through and lift the stupid safety bar.<br />
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Now, my present situation wasn’t as bad as all that. But, I had been waiting two hours now. The numbness of my face was wearing off, and I desperately wanted a Tylenol. What I needed was my inner MacGyver to kick in. We have a tool chest on our patio and I looked to see what there was. I decided to break a window in the back door, stick my hand through and unlock the door. But, I was worried about the obnoxious kitten because I knew he was probably parked right on the other side of the door. I remembered seeing people preparing their homes for a hurricane by putting tape across their windows in an X pattern. I found a roll of duct tape and covered every square inch of the window. I then went to another window, called out to the kitten, and when I knew he was safely out of the way, I took a heavy tool (couldn’t find the hammer I had pictured myself using) and started slamming it into the tape covered window. I couldn’t believe how hard I was hitting it, and it wasn’t breaking. I knew I only had a few seconds before the kitten would come back to the door, so I swung hard. It started to break. <br />
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Now, on TV they always wrap their arm in a jacket or something before they stick it in the jagged opening, but the only thing available was my Coldwater Creek sweater which I had miraculously saved from the rag bin, when I managed to get the nail polish I spilled out of it. There was <em>no way</em> I was going to endanger that sweater again. So, I just stuck my bare arm in. Unlocked the door, put the dogs in their crates, tossed the kitten in my office, and swept up the broken glass. They are coming to replace the window tomorrow. I can’t wait to tell the glass guy that I broke it myself. He’ll either be very impressed, or replace the glass quicker than he’s ever done before, and get the heck out of here. <em>I’m okay with either.</em>Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-24731687163674700882010-09-08T08:27:00.000-06:002010-09-08T08:27:00.189-06:00Ten Things I Never Thought I’d Do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Cr9vc3hVC_jjOSayDBjAuuSxzQO72PRUQ3qL4iyVk29O4l_7ZREMSP_tEFeC9E7xAoyyZC2t__ZTzImEE-MGfMd8Naba_NvxQq5GA8cddcamWaCX1sYondAELXI1Z_l38obGNEECsZuD/s1600/eww+pic+33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Cr9vc3hVC_jjOSayDBjAuuSxzQO72PRUQ3qL4iyVk29O4l_7ZREMSP_tEFeC9E7xAoyyZC2t__ZTzImEE-MGfMd8Naba_NvxQq5GA8cddcamWaCX1sYondAELXI1Z_l38obGNEECsZuD/s200/eww+pic+33.jpg" width="153" /></a></div>When I decided to do this list, I started writing down all the things I could think of. It was quickly apparent that my list had a theme, so I am calling this “Ten Things I Never Thought I’d Do Regarding Food.” There will be more lists forthcoming. <br />
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1. <strong>Eat at the mall.</strong> For decades, I just shopped and went home. Now, I am a slave to the food court. I blame Cinnabon. There are 750 Cinnabon franchises and I have eaten at 428 of them.<br />
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2. <strong>Reminisce about past meals.</strong> I can’t remember the password to my bank account, but I can describe (in detail) meals I had four years ago. <br />
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3. <strong>Stash candy.</strong> My grandparents had a crystal candy dish, and to children who only got candy at Easter and Halloween, it was truly a glorious thing. My mother had a taste for candy and we knew it was in the house somewhere, but the same woman who hid our Christmas presents in the same spot in her closet every year, managed to find a perfect hiding spot for candy. And, I’m convinced she ate the wrappers, too. I am sorry to say I have a candy drawer. And, it’s a big one.<br />
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4. <strong>Eating one meal while planning another.</strong> I try not to, but while I am eating breakfast, I am thinking about lunch and dinner. That scares me.<br />
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5. <strong>Eat standing up at the sink.</strong> I do this after clearing the table of dishes. Now, I could talk about researchers claiming that food, while eaten standing up, has fewer calories. But, I know those researchers weren’t scientists. They were just women like me. In self defense, I only eat those things that would be a terrible waste if they went down the garbage disposal.<br />
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6. <strong>Become a recipe junkie</strong>. It’s the photos. If I see a photo of a scrumptious meal, I have to have that recipe. I will drool as I read off the ingredients, rip it out of the newspaper or magazine, scan it and send it to my recipe junkie friends, and put it in my “recipe file” knowing that I will never make it. And, I need the recipe for everything I eat at a party, even though I know it only tastes good because I didn’t have to cook it.<br />
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7. <strong>Forage for food.</strong> If I get stuck somewhere and miss meal time, I will eat anything I can get my hands on. A lint-covered cough drop from the bottom of my purse is not off limits. I would suck the mint flavoring off a toothpick, and not think twice.<br />
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8. <strong>Forget about sharing.</strong> I have convinced myself that you only have to share when the other person is aware there is something to be shared. Let’s say a relative sends a small box containing half a dozen chocolates. You mentally determine that three of those are yours. You eat your three. Then it occurs to you that the other person isn’t home, so doesn’t know how many there were, so you eat another one, ready to claim that there were only four in the box. Then, it really gets ugly as you realize they have no idea anything arrived, so you eat them all and take the empty box outside to the trash can and bury it under something else. This is hypothetical, of course.<br />
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9. <strong>Give into urges.</strong> I was shopping alone; there was no one to tell me not to, so I bought ten packages of Marshmallow Peeps for ten dollars. How could I pass up such a good deal? And really, each box of fifteen peeps is one serving.<br />
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10. <strong>Eat on the way home from the grocery store.</strong> I only started to do this recently, and this is what motivated me to make this list. I put the bags of groceries in the back of my Jeep, start to close the door, and then suddenly I will rip through all the bags trying to find the box of cookies. Once I find it, I throw it through the car to the front seat. That way I am keeping my shame to myself. Then, I will proceed to eat half the box on the trip home. The really sad part is…I only live half a mile from the store.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-53901234120419050962010-08-31T20:32:00.001-06:002010-09-02T23:09:24.588-06:00Getting “Stung” by Love!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8aNblxy-CG_p_5NXtrGnaRhNDNEUvaqdffjsMN0IBcl7DyNR35m5XFeWW9WH8lqT_MMLFZupJnIXfm6lwVukQCuEw9lqmuLxFOn5fLWgLR69butPsdXP0rkKxfPwcZhcvR4fZqMG5w6F/s1600/eww+pic+99.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8aNblxy-CG_p_5NXtrGnaRhNDNEUvaqdffjsMN0IBcl7DyNR35m5XFeWW9WH8lqT_MMLFZupJnIXfm6lwVukQCuEw9lqmuLxFOn5fLWgLR69butPsdXP0rkKxfPwcZhcvR4fZqMG5w6F/s200/eww+pic+99.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Even when I was young, I didn’t like first dates. There’s the stupid nervousness and trying to learn about each other without it sounding like an interrogation. Wait…let’s not forget the <em>pre-</em>date issues, like getting a big zit in the middle of your forehead! Or discovering two minutes before you’re getting picked up that the shirt you want to wear is missing a button; the one at your chest. So, you find a guy who doesn’t make you nauseous, you get married, and never have to worry about first dates again. Right? <br />
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Then why, at the age of forty eight, did I find myself standing in my bathroom getting ready for a first date? The interrogation had been done online, but now I was going to come face-to-face with a man who seemed <em>so</em> great, I knew there was surely something very wrong with him. I danced in my bathroom to “It’s Raining Men” to get me in the mood for the date. I chose a turtleneck sweater and dark jeans. Every inch of me was covered. I guess I didn’t want to give off any kind of signals—like I was a woman.<br />
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My daughter drove me to the art museum where I was meeting him. In a weird role reversal kind of thing, my daughter told me to “go have fun” and call her if I needed a ride home. <br />
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The lobby was full of people, so I searched all the male faces to see if I recognized him from his photo. I spotted him leaning against a wall, and worked my way through the crowd. Now, what happened next had everything to do with my age. I can see objects which are miles away, but I can’t see anything within three feet of me. That causes a problem with my depth perception. When I walked up to him, I accidently pressed my body against his. He told me many months later that he thought I was <em>very</em> friendly--so much for not sending signals.<br />
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The date was incredibly fun. My only embarrassing moment was when I was pointing to a certain area of a painting, and a guard jumped out of nowhere and told me quite seriously to step away from the painting. I guess I was trying to break the tension, so I stuck out my wrists so he could cuff me. I don’t think the guard got it, but my date was amused.<br />
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After we left the museum, we walked downtown to get dinner. The conversation was great, he was smart and witty, and there was definitely chemistry. But, I had reached the point in our date where I started to wonder how this fantastic guy could possibly be single. I knew there had to be something wrong with him, I just hadn’t figured out what.<br />
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Our nine hour date—yes, I said nine—was coming to an end. We walked through a city park to get to the parking garage. I couldn’t believe I was having romantic thoughts, and this was our first date. Maybe when you’re in your forties, everything is speeded up. Anyway, I was starting to give up on finding something wrong with him. The hour was late and the garage looked empty. We got to his level and his car was the only one in the whole garage. As we got closer, I could just make out the shape of his car. I suddenly froze. Actually, I was still walking, but my brain froze. Directly under one of the lights sat a bright yellow Gremlin. With black stripes. Like a bumblebee. I just couldn’t grasp in my brain that this guy I was just feeling so attracted to, would choose to drive <em>this</em> car. <br />
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I told myself I had to act like the mature woman I was, and not be judgmental. I had come a long way from the teenage girl who got back with her boyfriend when he bought a Camaro. I searched my brain to come up with a comment about the car that didn’t sound at all sarcastic. I had just opened my mouth when I realized he was walking past the Gremlin. WHAT? This <em>wasn’t</em> his car? We went around a bend and sitting there was a dark blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. This mature woman wanted to jump up and cheer! <em>This</em> was exactly the car I thought he would have. <br />
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After years of being together, I still wonder if I would have gone on a second date with him, if the bumblebee on wheels <em>was</em> his car. Thank goodness, we’ll never know.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-3056200936284569422010-08-20T11:37:00.001-06:002010-08-21T11:17:45.276-06:00Dirty Laundry Exposed!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Yt5b9yG45yjMC2lWkkX2lHnIhR3QTnxJ08LMWYcmDFbIRDEXow_rd06lS8-wr2H-nXwB4gSoFRAnRg_dNsCAea9UzoFw4oJ87_tiEULKT8rTaq8n49CflOPpjD8Rtf3ythqkBfTN3ilW/s1600/eww+pic+37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Yt5b9yG45yjMC2lWkkX2lHnIhR3QTnxJ08LMWYcmDFbIRDEXow_rd06lS8-wr2H-nXwB4gSoFRAnRg_dNsCAea9UzoFw4oJ87_tiEULKT8rTaq8n49CflOPpjD8Rtf3ythqkBfTN3ilW/s200/eww+pic+37.jpg" width="146" /></a></div>Six years ago, I fell in love. How did I know it was love? Was it the thundering explosion of fireworks, trumpets screaming from the heavens, my heart welling up in my chest until I was sure it would burst? No. I knew I was in love the first time I did his laundry. For me, to love him was to love his dirty clothes. <br />
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<br />
I treated those cotton T shirts like they were made of the finest silk, spun from the rarest silkworms. I folded them with military precision, and stacked them to the standard of the most elite menswear store. I couldn’t wait to see his face when I presented to him this symbolic offering of my unfathomable love. “Awe, you did my laundry…aren’t you sweet.” <br />
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<br />
Fast forward twelve hundred and forty eight loads of dirty laundry. “Honey, do I have any clean white socks?” I mumble “I don’t know.” He searches the laundry basket with no luck, and finally discovers white socks in the washer. What he doesn’t know is they have been there for a week and a half. They are in a holding pattern until the dryer gets freed up, which won’t happen until I change the sheets on our bed. I like to put clean sheets on straight from the dryer for that fresh smell. Yes, I know the fresh smell dissipates after sitting in the dryer for so much time. But, it’s not like I’m fanatical about it. I decide to pull out the sheets and put them back in later. His precious socks get tossed in the dryer. I set the dryer to “incinerate.” He tells me he can’t wait and he’ll have to change his clothes so he can wear black socks. Yes, there are black socks in his drawer. And blue and gray, and several shades of brown. Just not white. <br />
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<br />
One day, as he eyed the mountain of his clean laundry stacked on his side of the bed, he asked me why I sorted it, washed it, dried it, and folded it, but I didn’t put it away. I didn’t even have to think about this one. “Because, I want you to <em>see</em> the laundry and realize for just a split second that I worked hard to get this pile of clothes clean. If I put it away in your drawers, you might just pull out what you need each day and take it for granted that somehow you have clean clothes.” That was the end of that conversation.<br />
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Weeks later when I was looking for a sweater on the top shelf of our closet, I made a discovery that shook my world-- a never-opened package of white socks. When he got home, I threw the socks on the bed, and said “Explain THIS!”Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-29081551695756290812010-08-05T11:27:00.000-06:002010-08-05T11:27:44.720-06:00The Price of Winning!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQgeL_2BISFPy4DIwadLJet81FjpBHYWGVNw6lyHauG7zD3tICnp6_jq3M65S4YAiraidBnG8F1LQgwiQSVCOx15hAms2DzFPv1stggoXmArlnbDoHpjdkwa2Ir3BMqAkVZ-YOGeMVZYhz/s1600/eww+pic+44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQgeL_2BISFPy4DIwadLJet81FjpBHYWGVNw6lyHauG7zD3tICnp6_jq3M65S4YAiraidBnG8F1LQgwiQSVCOx15hAms2DzFPv1stggoXmArlnbDoHpjdkwa2Ir3BMqAkVZ-YOGeMVZYhz/s200/eww+pic+44.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We all like to have our way, but there <em>are</em> some drawbacks.<br />
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The other day, we stopped in at Petsmart for cat and dog food. He headed to the dog section, leaving me to ponder the difference between “Mixed Grill” canned cat food and “Supreme Supper.” He was finished first, and pushing a cart with eighty pounds of dog food, he joined me. “I’ve been looking for you. I thought you might be looking at the kittens.” He knew immediately he had made a grave error, but at that point, it was just too late. He cringed as he saw my face light up. “They have KITTENS?”<br />
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I’m sure the cart left skid marks as he tried to keep up with me. I was in heaven as I perused the bevy of fluffy kittens, each one cuter than the last. I always have to read their little stories that the shelter provides, even though they usually make me cry. Now, at this point, it’s important to know that I am drawn to the most pathetic animals which have the least chance of being adopted. That day, it was a little striped kitten named Edgar. His sheet said that he had fallen on his head, developed a seroma (build-up of fluid) and they didn’t “think” there was any long term damage. Now, I’m all for being honest, but this little disclosure was probably keeping anyone from adopting him. Who would want a brain-damaged kitten? Hmmm. “Let’s get going,” I heard through my kitten-induced fog. I begrudgingly said goodbye to Edgar and headed to the checkout. <br />
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The next day, after a decent amount of discussing, reasoning, and begging, he relented and told me I could go get Edgar. The shelter had to approve me, which amounted to one phone call to a reference, and deciding I “looked like a nice person.” It helps to look horrified when they ask if you plan to have the cat de-clawed. So, Edgar got to come home with me.<br />
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Elaine, you got your way and have a new kitten. How can there be any drawbacks? Ah, this is where the price of winning comes in. I have lost the right to complain. So, when Eddie (Edgar was a little formal) runs amuck through our house, all I can do is shrug my shoulders. When he skidded across the dining room table taking the silk floral arrangement with him, I just watched silently. When he dashed across the loveseat where I was sitting, jumping into the bowl of popcorn I was eating, causing half the popcorn to fly up in the air, I knew I wouldn’t get any sympathy. And, when I noticed the “toy” Eddie (I was calling him Eddie Haskell by this time) was playing with on the kitchen floor was actually my four hundred dollar pair of sunglasses, all I could say was “Gee, I need to remember not to leave those out.” When he systematically sent every flower pot on the windowsill crashing to the floor, I knew it would be my job to clean up. And, when sixty-five-pound Bear walked by with Eddie wrapped around his back leg, all I could do was mouth the words “I’m sorry.”<br />
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I have since put in place a self-imposed ban on stepping into Petsmart. Did I mention that Eddie was the second kitten I adopted from there? That’s right; there are two cats in our home I cannot complain about. The vet looked over Eddie and gave him a clean bill of health, with no sign of brain damage. I wasn’t surprised…<em>but</em> there are people in this house who think it's time for <em>me</em> to get a check-up.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4842966978191388621.post-41925560368621098922010-07-08T11:38:00.000-06:002010-07-08T11:38:14.392-06:00Give Me the Suburbs! Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKWzN80h5Ac3FsLRLTbq5E_8qEpN2Md0jzRJkDfu-u8yMtzO9mPO6UrEbp-eKC_uDXodBzBH2D2VAXWQblW7hOeTQ-UdsnspQqQbZvMAlWqj4QSFeV5ISGH3_y3hp7EOwokbgnNoSRxzE/s1600/eww+pic+97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKWzN80h5Ac3FsLRLTbq5E_8qEpN2Md0jzRJkDfu-u8yMtzO9mPO6UrEbp-eKC_uDXodBzBH2D2VAXWQblW7hOeTQ-UdsnspQqQbZvMAlWqj4QSFeV5ISGH3_y3hp7EOwokbgnNoSRxzE/s200/eww+pic+97.jpg" width="200" /></a>I think my least favorite thing about living in the country was the close proximity to wildlife, or, as the country folk say, varmints. </div><br />
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One day I woke up to a very bad smell. After a quick sniffing-sweep of the house, I realized it was coming from our bedroom closet. Using a set of kitchen tongs (I never claimed to be brave) I removed one shoe at a time from the bottom of the closet. There, among the last couple of shoes, I found a dead mouse. I had no idea the smell of one mouse corpse could fill an entire house. I had so much to learn. Rubber gloves and a snow shovel later, the mouse was removed. If I had owned a haz-mat suit and goggles, I would have put those on, too. I sat on the bed feeling pretty good that I had handled the situation myself and not resorted to a frantic phone call to my husband. Then, I heard a sound... <br />
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It was coming from the pile of shoes. My first reaction was to stand on the bed and scream, and the second was to look around for a weapon. The muffled sound continued, and I realized the pile of shoes was between me and the door, so there was no escaping. I had to face whatever it was. As I got closer, it became apparent that the sound was coming from one of my boots. I decided that it might be another mouse mourning the loss of their friend. I turned the boot upside down and shook. A large ball of fluffy boot-lining fell to the floor. Inside the ball were half a dozen tiny mouse babies. <br />
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My first instinct was <em>now I have to raise them as my own</em>. I was thinking mouse milk, an eyedropper, maybe a heat lamp…I realized that was unrealistic, so I had to find another alternative. I couldn’t stand the thought of watching them slip away one by one. I knew I should have put them outside to be food for some other animal, you know, circle of life and all, but I just couldn’t do it. It may sound cruel, and I still have nightmares about it, but I flushed them. As I was putting shoes back in the closet, our cat showed up looking curious. I glared at her, and asked her what-the-heck kind of cat was she, who couldn’t even do basic cat things like keep our house free of mice. I made a mental note to cut back on her cat chow.<br />
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So, after three months of living in the middle-of-nowhere, isolated, varmint-riddled, prone-to-flooding country, we put our house up for sale. One very interested buyer came back to see it a second time. It was a father with his two year old daughter. He wanted to walk the backyard to see where the property lines were, and he talked about what a great yard it was for kids. We stood talking for quite awhile, the man holding his daughter, and me trying not to look too anxious. I wanted out! We told the man how much we loved living there, and how we would really miss the peace and quiet. My eyes drifted around (which happens when I lie) and I caught some movement in the grass behind the man. <br />
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There, coming in our direction, was a five foot long black snake, which I instantly nicknamed “the deal-killer.” Now, I like to think that if the man had chosen to put his little girl down, I would have stopped him and pointed out the snake. I’m almost sure of it. Thankfully, my scruples were not to be tested, because the man and my husband started walking towards the house. I followed behind, trying to look nonchalant. <br />
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Eventually, the house sold, I kissed the country goodbye and headed back to the suburbs. Ah, the sound of barking dogs and bickering families, the sight of trash cans all lined up on the curb, the smell of burning burgers on a grill. I was home.Elainehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04896721595243003272noreply@blogger.com4