Getting older...it's not all booze and crying!

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.

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?!"

I haven't had a zit since 1998.

Now when old men flirt with me, it's only slightly creepy.

I always wished for curves. Hmm, I should have been more specific where I wanted them.

I don't mind admitting I have three cats. But, their photo is not the wallpaper on my phone (yet).

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...

I am getting used to quizzical looks.

Medical personnel have stopped asking if there is a chance I could be pregnant.

I no longer have a need for belts.

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.

Taking a nap is completely acceptable.

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.

When a driver honks at me, I simply mouth the words "That's right, I'm old, now #%?@ off!"



And the best thing about getting old?

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, isn't important at all.

Scary Movies: Rules for staying alive...

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.)  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.  They could just save your life...

      

1.      When a house tells you to get out, GET OUT.

 

2.      Do not let your dog dig…anywhere.

 

3.      If you have lost a loved one, by no means participate in any kind of ceremony to bring them back.

 

4.      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.

 

5.      Never walk into a cornfield.

 

6.      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.

 

7.      Avoid little girls with braids.

 

8.      Always, ALWAYS walk forward. If you must walk backward, at least look behind you first.

 

9.      Never take the trash out after dark.

 

10.  Add a priest to your speed dial.

 

11.  You should immediately leave town if you experience any of the following:

 

An unusually large amount of crows, bees, or flies

 

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).

 

A doll, ANY doll

 

Your new neighbors moving in after dark

 

A chair rocking by itself (not necessarily a rocking chair)

 

Your child’s imaginary friend talking back

 

12.  When searching for something or someone, never suggest splitting up.

 

13.  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.

 

 

Following my rules won't guarantee you'll never 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 (insert scary laughter here).

Happy Halloween!

Why I Don't Skydive...

Before I get into this post, I have to show you a couple of definitions that are very important.

1.      Clumsy (adjective) Done awkwardly or without skill or elegance.

2.      Accident-prone (adjective) Having a greater than average number of accidents or mishaps.

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.

It started in early childhood.  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.

As an adult, the “accidents” continued. Most of the time I stayed safely indoors, but every year, we would go on a vacation (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 full swing, hitting my sunglasses, which I was wearing on my face at the time.  I spent the rest of our trip with black and blue circles around each eye.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh yeah, one more thing…yes, I live in Colorado, but don’t ask me if I ski.

My Dirty Little Secret!

My name is Elaine and I am not a hoarder. I prefer the term curator of my own personal museum. Okay...I may have some 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 second storage unit. I have enough candles that if I lit them all at the same time, they would be visible from outer space.

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.

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 dream 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.

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 have any grandchildren, but I know I will have them…someday.

This Is Your Brain On Shopping!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy shopping!

P.T. is no F.U.N!

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.

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.

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.

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 circus trick 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.

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.

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!

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.

To Stir With Love

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."

To me, preparing a meal begins with opening the freezer and deciding what I can thaw in fifteen minutes.

To my husband, preparing a meal begins with sharpening the knives.

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.

He will use every measuring cup and measuring spoon we have, and even some I didn't know we had.

If a recipe calls for two bowls, I will use the measuring cup as one of the bowls.

He will dirty half a dozen bowls in his attempt to find two the right size.

To add extra flavor, I will grab black pepper and the first jar I see containing something green.

He will get out a mortar and pestle, mix together a dozen different herbs and spices, resulting in a magical fragrance and taste.

I take full advantage of the microwave oven.

He believes the microwave oven is for cooking instant oatmeal, and nothing else.

I clean up as I go.

After he is done cooking, the kitchen needs to be hosed down, including the ceiling.

And, last but not least...

My meal is rubbery and bland.

His meal is robust, savory, and delectable.

Happy eating, everyone!

That Which Is Lost...

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.

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?

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 ended. 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.

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.

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...what was I saying?

The Eyes Have Hills

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.

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.”

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 very generous tip, or a very minimal one, depending on the amount I perceived was on the bill.

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.”

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 hallucinations 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 please don’t scream in the car ever again. I told him I would try not to.

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.

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 she 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.

When the Man Picks the Movie...

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.

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.

Let’s see what we know about the typical “guy film”:

The main character never follows the rules.

They never drive station wagons or minivans.

The only women they know are hookers and strippers.

Instead of good versus evil, the plots are more about bad (but in a cool way) versus evil.

They never wear cardigan sweaters.

They have names like Gunner and Snake, never Todd or Wesley.

The dialogue is typically “Hey, %$#@&*!” “What the #@%^ do you want?” “Go ^#$% yourself!”

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.

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.

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 YES, 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 do like our fantasies, don’t we?

Can You PLAN to be Spontaneous?

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.


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 like spontaneous women.

I was feeling almost giddy…until the bartender placed before me…a White Russian. I immediately had a flashback (yes, this is a flashback in a flashback) 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. 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.

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.”

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! That was as likely as me traveling with just one bag.

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 never silly.

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, and 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.

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.

When the Honeymoon is Over

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.


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.

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.


“It’s a beautiful day. I thought we could go for a motorcycle ride and take a picnic lunch.”
“That sounds wonderful. I love to feel the wind in my hair!”

“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?
“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.”


“John just invited us to dinner…would you like to go?”
“Oh yes, I can’t wait to meet him. I feel like I know him already!”

“We were going to have a guys-only dinner, but John forgot and asked his girlfriend. Do you want to go?”
“No thanks. He spits when he talks and his last girlfriend wore a school uniform and had a curfew.”


“Are you interested in seeing this movie with me? I know it’s kind of a chick flick.”
“I don’t mind…I just like to sit in the dark with you (wink).”

“You’ve watched three football games in a row. How about taking me to see a movie?”
“I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a hot poker……Honey, put that down.”


“The shower is leaking. Maybe I should call a plumber.”
“Nonsense. I can fix that in a jiffy.”

“How long do we have to live with no door on our refrigerator, and pretend that all the food isn’t rancid?”
“You ask me this every month. Nagging me isn’t going to make it happen any sooner.”


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.

You Shouldn't Have...Seriously.

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.”


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.

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?

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.

Thinking back a few decades, I may know when my fear started, or at least who 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.

One year she really got me with the gift that keeps on giving. 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.

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.

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 Take Me to the River will show up. Gulp.

Size Matters...But What is TOO BIG?

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.



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.


“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.


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 way 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.

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.


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.

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, I just want to go home.


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.

5 Things Women Know and Men Don’t Understand!

“Honey, what’s for dinner?”

“Oh, you can have whatever you want. I’m not eating today.”

“Why aren’t you eating today?”

“I’m shrinking my stomach.”

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.



“Honey, is your car still making that noise?”

“I don’t know. I turn up the radio so I can’t hear it.”

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 nothing wrong with the car. Men don’t understand this.



“Honey, we need to leave for the party. Are you ready?”

“Not quite.”

“But, you’ve had seven hours to get ready.”

Women know that it doesn’t really matter if we have three days to get ready. Everything we do has to be done at the last minute. 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.



“Honey, where is the bag of Oreos?”

“I ate them all.”

“I thought you were on a diet?”

“I am.”

Women know that to be on a diet, all the foods that would tempt us must be gone. We will consume huge amounts of food that would be bad for our diet. Men don’t understand this.



“Honey, if you are concerned about running out of gas, why don’t you fill it when you have half a tank?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

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:

It’s too cold out.

It’s too hot out.

It’s too windy.

There is a chance for lightning.

We are waiting for the price to come down.

Someone was using our favorite pump.

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.

A Crappy Title

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.


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!

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.

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.

Here We Come A-Modeling!

After the experience in my last post, you would think I would have given up modeling. You would think.

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.

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?

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...

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.

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 and 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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Happy holidays, everyone!

Me? A Model Mom?

“Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?” –Derek Zoolander

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.

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. I was screwed. 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. I was so screwed.

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.”

Life returned to normal, and I continued my not-so-glamorous real role as a mom. I put the whole modeling fiasco out of my mind…until I got a call. “They loved you!” my daughter’s manager told me. My first reaction was “What is wrong with those people?” “They did suggest you get some runway training, so someone on my staff will help you.”

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. “You will be a mom.”

The day we taped the fashion show was a lot of fun. I sat and drank coffee (we started very early in the morning) as I waited for my turn with the hair stylist and the makeup artist. An hour later, I had huge 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.

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.

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?”

Remembering Thanksgiving BPT (Before Pop-up Timers)!!!

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.

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.

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. Darn it, 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.

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.

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. Wow, 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.

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. And, I still do my shopping two days before Thanksgiving. Which reminds me…I am next in line to check out. Happy Thanksgiving!!!

There's No Place Like Home!

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.

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 this is bad feeling.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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 no way 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. I’m okay with either.