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Category: Humor

Published on Leave a comment on DIY: Doing It to Yourself

My current favorite tool

It's official: the Do It Yourself craze is out of control. It's the biggest scam perpetrated on the American public since Valentine's Day. As you probably suspected, it is a vast middle class conspiracy designed to generate billions for the big box hardware stores and the niche cable channels. The infuriating part is HOW it generates the billions. It's not by inspiring you to try the latest fads in 'updating' your home. Oh, no. it's more insidious than that. The DIY trend is designed to make you THINK you can do things yourself. But of course this is a damnable lie on par with the Prince Charming myth disseminated by the Feb 14 people.

Listen to me carefully here: You Cannot Do Any Of That Stuff Yourself. You don't have the expensive precision tools. You don't have the hot studs/studettes and their two dozen lackeys, each of whom have won the renovation equivalent of the Oscar in their respective fields (Woodworking, Tilework, Plumbing, Electrical, and the big kahuna, Home Staging). Most importantly, you don't have a CLUE how to do any of this stuff. If the extent of your experience before tackling a project is watching an HGTV show on said project, that 22 minutes per episode means bupkus. You need to accept this and be at peace with it.

So here's how they get us - they convince us we can do this stuff. We head to the big box store, happily lay out the cash for tools and materials because we know we are saving tons of money on labor by doing it ourselves. But when we fail miserably (and we will), they know we will head back to the big box at least one more time to try and fix the big mess we just made. Cha Ching! And yes, sadly, most of us end up calling the professionals anyway, once we realize the ugly truth and cannot in fact get the water supply shut off after the toilet is already ripped out of the master bath. Double Cha Ching!

Do I sound bitter? Oh, yes, I am one of the millions who have drunk the DIY Kool-Aid. But they make it look so easy, dang it! Even the packagers are in on the deal. How many times have you read on the side of a package, "No Tools Required!" or "Easy Installation"? Even the ones that have the little rating system, "Easy, Medium, Difficult" are a scam - never attempt anything above Easy and if you do, be sure to have your handyman's cell phone number at the ready.

Can you tell we have owned a few homes that were a bit of a fixer? Some were move-in ready and didn't need much work other than a coat of paint here and there. Easy! At least that is something I know I can do (except for the time I cheaped out on paint and it took me four coats and four hours before I gave up and bought the good paint to get decent coverage - lesson learned).

Other homes we've owned, on the other hand, have had oodles of projects. Most were maddeningly, temptingly DIY-type tasks. But nothing is ever that easy, is it?

In one place we lived, I'm guessing the previous owners were avid DIYers, judging from the variety of can light styles throughout. Could we not get more than two of a kind that match each other, people? Can Light Project #1: the can was missing its trim. The light worked fine, except for the 1/2 inch gap all the way around. Classy! So I'm thinking, no big deal, just go buy a piece of trim and plop it up there. Problem solved, right? Picked up some trim, got it home no problem. Where/how to attach trim to existing can? Big Problem. Took the can out of the ceiling to see if there was some sort of attachment further up the can, and found it was the wrong kind of can for that slot. Specifically, it was a can designed for a space with no insulation and of course there was nothing but loads of pink cotton candy insulation in the space. Ruh Roh! Back to the big box store for the correct type of can that Won't Burn Down My House.


The Root of All Evil

As if that wasn't enough - right as you walk in the door, there were three recessed light fixtures, or at least there are supposed to be. There are two fixtures and a third hole but no fixture, just wires dangling out of the ceiling, which brings us to Can Light Project #2. WTF?? How hard is it to just buy the other can and put it in? Funny you should ask. Turns out the hole is one that has very little clearance between ceiling and roofline, so not just any can will work there. On the third try, managed to find a fixture that not only would fit in the space, but would sort of match the other two that were already up there. We're talking within 2 feet or so, so it would be nice if they matched.

By this time, the big box store people have my picture on a poster in their break room due to the number of return/exchange items I am racking up.

So anyway, I am ecstatic about finally finding a fixture that appears to be the solution. All that is left to do is white to white, black to black, ground to ground and we are in business, right? Of course the house wiring is stiff as a board and does not want to bend into the correct shape to fit into the little j-box of the fixture, so we have the usual drama and cursing to get the wires joined. Finally get everything copacetic, fool around with the stupid little metal clamps that keep the fixture more or less in place in the hole, shove it in there, and it's Go Time - screw in bulb, turn on switch, mission accomplished. The excitement is building. Turn on switch. And . . . nothing happens.

Of course it doesn't.

Remove bulb, pull fixture out, assuming stupid wires have become detached somehow in the process, possibly in the shoving portion of our show. But all is well with the wires . . . (head scratching here) . . . is bulb faulty? Go find other smallish bulb that definitely works in other fixture . . . still nothing . . . then realization dawns.

Did I mention this house was lousy with light switches, the purpose of which approximately 25% of which have not been identified? So I'm giving the stink-eye to the single switch that operates the other two lights that are in proximity with the one I am working on, and I start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this one light is on a different switch?

Yup.

Why in the name of all that is holy, I don't know, but two of the three lights are on a single switch, and the third one is on a three switch fixture around the corner. Of course it is. So I throw one of the three switches while the can is still dangling from wires out of the ceiling and Eureka, the light comes on. Do a little celebration dance, get the correct bulb in there, shove it back in place, turn it on, Nada (insert cursing here). Take can out of hole, disassemble, re-attach stupid white wire that became mysteriously disconnected (see 'shoving' above), reconnect, shove can back in hole, put correct bulb in, throw switch, and a frickin' hour later stupid hole has stupid fixture in it, like it was supposed to be when they cut the stupid hole in the stupid ceiling in the first place.

Lord I don't want to be that girl, the one that leaves a bunch of unfinished projects for the next homeowner. That's just wrong.


My future favorite tool. It's a Dremel MaxSaw.

I don't know about you, but I am exhausted. I have decided rather than try to save a bunch of money doing all these future projects myself, I am going to work extra hard on generating some income to hire the pros to come in and do this stuff. The DIY Kool-Aid has worn off and I don't want to do anything around here more complicated than flushing a toilet. Did I mention we bought a new toilet? It's sitting out in the entryway, still in its box, pretty as you please. Can't wait to see how that project turns out.

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2

Published on 2 Comments on To Eavesdrop, or Not To Eavesdrop?

So I'm out to dinner with the hubs (in a happier time when it was both safe and normal to go 'out' to dinner), looking forward to a casual evening on the lake. My needs are simple: enjoy a hot burger (that I did not have to cook myself) and some cold beer without being disturbed. Is this too much to ask? Apparently, sometimes it is.

We were at a local joint, outside on their lakeside deck. Unlike the dank restaurant proper, the deck was quite pleasant, perfect for watching sunsets and the boat traffic traveling thither and yon.

I didn't need ears this big for this one

Although it was a weekend evening, the weather had been a little sketchy earlier in the day, so the place was less crowded than usual. The deck was not large, maybe the size of a two-car garage. There was a family group over at one side, but they appeared to be finished with their meal and were busy watching a pastoral vignette of ducks and turtles in the water below. Another foursome sat at one of the tables. That was it. We chose the nearest empty table, which happened to be adjacent to the foursome, and waited for our waitress.

My first clue that my wish for a peaceful evening was a little overly optimistic: when one of the foursome retired to the deck rail behind us for her cigarette break. The cigarette was no big deal. I mean, we were in South Carolina. Just about the last place in the country that is clinging to the Right To Bear Butts with both gnarled, tobacco-stained hands. But the friends Smoking Woman had left behind at the table across the deck were loath to leave her out of their conversation. So their convo continued, shouted across the deck so that Smoking Woman could still be included.

Okay, this was annoying but I could handle. Makes it way easier for me to eavesdrop! Plus, how long could it last? About the time it takes to smoke one ciggie, right? Plus plus, this group had high potential for My Personal Amusement. Let's just say although their table had been cleared, we didn't need their pile of Bud Light bottles to figure out they had been there for a while.

I honestly don't recall much of what they were saying. Part of me was trying to be considerate and block it out, like that one time I was in the grocery checkout line and the gal on the phone behind me was relating (in full voice, mind you) that she is freaking out because her boyfriend is demanding a paternity test and she knows he won't be happy with the results.

Ahem.

Back to the Bud Lite foursome. My initial Personal Amusement transformed into Pearl-Clutching Mortification as their shouted conversation ended when one of the non-smoking ladies yelled across the deck, 'yeah, cuz she SWALLOWS!'

As I mentioned, there weren't many of us out there at the time. Besides the foursome, it was just the two of us, and a LARGE FAMILY GROUP with half a dozen kids under the age of 10. Obviously someone at the foursome's table had forgotten they were using their Annoying Drunk-ass Outside Voice. Heads swiveled. Birds stopped chirping. I swear the massive, ancient air conditioner at the rear of the building even stopped roaring for a tick. I double-dog dare any of you out there to exercise the amount of self-control it took me not to turn and stare, mouth agape; not to mention, laugh out loud. My husband, bless his heart, chose this moment to excuse himself on the pretense of going to retrieve our sunglasses (we had left them on the boat since the skies were overcast). So foolish of us. Who knew I would soon need them to camouflage my facial expression and keep me from getting rousted by the locals for laughing at their drunken antics?

As that eternal few seconds of silence stretched on, someone in the foursome chastised the other three, reminding them about the little kids in the audience nearby, and so forth. Things calmed down. I thought I was home free.  With any luck, they would be gone baby gone by the time the hubs returned with the sunglasses, and we could enjoy our dinner.

Smoking Woman returned to her seat. Someone at their table had the foresight to change the subject, whatever hot mess that conversation had been. So they began discussing what half of the civilized world had been talking about for weeks - a certain best-selling trilogy featuring sex, sex, and one other thing, I think it was . . . sex. Great. Just what I want to overhear from the already-blitzed-and-a-little-bit-ticked-off foursome.

For those of you who were behind the door when 50 Shades of Grey was handed out to every over 30 female south of the 30th parallel, this is an X-rated - okay maybe R17 - book about a rich guy who ensnares an innocent young college girl and volunteers to complete her sexual education with plenty of lube, handcuffs, and things that shall not be mentioned here in order to keep me from getting kicked out of the major search engines. Couple questions:

  • I want to know which one of the brain trust at the Bud Light table thought this would be a palatable subject?  Among the gal pals, sure. But out on a double date? Okay, maybe it was their kink?
  • Do these guys look like they spend a lot of time reading?
  • and for those guys who DO spend a lot of time reading, which of you reads soft porn masquerading as romance aimed at the middle-aged female demographic?

Sweet Mother of Pearl. Talk about out of the frying pan. We were close enough and they were loud enough, there was no sense pretending I didn't hear every word. There I sat, now clearly angled away from their table so that in case my self control slipped, I didn't want them to see my facial expression. Thank dog the hubs had returned with the sunglasses by now. Innocent lamb that he is, he kept asking me questions about what they were talking about. So I was trying to run a low volume commentary for him, but he could't hear me, so everything got whispered twice. Now THAT didn't appear a bit awkward.  I dared not look over there. Might as well pull up a chair to their table and ask for clarification as the convo progressed.

It was obvious neither of the two men in the foursome had read the book. The women kept making this or that reference to this or that naughty bit. I think they thought if they kept it light and used plenty of euphemisms, the guys would have no clue. But there were no flies on those guys. They were on the scent. They knew something was up. They wanted details. The conversation went something like this. My thoughts in italics.

Man: So what's the big deal about this book? What's it about?

Dangerous question. Tread carefully here.

Woman: It's a story about a guy and a girl. It's a fantasy. If you haven't read it, you wouldn't understand.

Good answer. Way to sidestep the touchy subject of sexual fulfillment (or lack thereof).

Man: So if it's a fantasy, what's so interesting? I read technical manuals all day at work. If it isn't real, I'm not interested.

Woman: Sometimes it's nice to read about people whose life is different from yours.

Meaning, I sure wish you would read this book and pick up a few pointers.

Man: If you like it so much, how is it different from your actual life?

Oh, he is clever. Notice how he has circled back to his original question: what's it about?

Woman: It's WAY different. For one thing you would need a bigger . . . wallet.

Skate save! She almost blew it! Right now she is feeling pretty clever that she narrowly avoided the excruciatingly delicate topic of Size Matters.

Man: Oh - so it's all about the money. Well, let me tell you something: money isn't everything. Are you saying I don't make enough money?

Ruh-roh. Almost makes me wonder if the truthful answer about the 'wallet' might have been better. That might have had a bumpy start, but would have gotten them thinking about sex instead of money. At least there's a potentially mutually satisfying solution to that particular argument.

Woman: No! I said it's a fantasy.

Man: But you said you really liked it and you wished your life was like that.

Woman: Forget it. I'm going to the boat.

And . . . we're done. Off they went in a sulky huff. Thank dog - at least I could take off my sunglasses and not worry about making eye contact. They were wearing me out!

A part of me felt sorry for them. I mean, who hasn't had a wee bit much to drink and ruined what was turning out to be a pretty entertaining evening? But then I thought about what idiot brings up the topic of an awesome sex fantasy  you couldn't put down to your partner/mate unless you think they are receptive to new ideas in the boudoir? Otherwise there's only one way that comes off: you're not cutting it in the bedroom, so I am finding satisfaction elsewhere. Granted, it's harmless satisfaction from a trashy beach read, but still - that has to sting a little bit. I hope they went home and had mad makeup sex. Either that, or Googled the nearest AA meeting.

As for me, the chili burger was great and the Yeungling was cold. If it's not about beer, burgers, ducks, or turtles, I don't want to talk about it without my sunglasses.

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1

Published on 1 Comment on The Brits Are Through Horsing Around

One more post about hair, and I'll stop, I promise.

Have you heard about the TV series, Rake? It stars Greg Kinnear as a ne'er-do-well Los Angeles lawyer. No lack of material there, amirite? The show is pretty funny, but I discovered it is the American version of an Australian series (tagline: 'the bar has been lowered'). So I gave the original a look as well, which is also a scream. Because it features a lawyer, naturally there are many courtroom scenes. And here's the connection to the hair topic:


He has a curious craving for a bag of oats, guaranteed

What on earth is up with those ridiculous wigs the British empire lawyers, or 'barristers', wear in court?? A courtroom should be a scene of solemn dignity. Yet the most powerful guys in the room are all wearing what looks like a child-size vintage Easter bonnet. I should know - I had one (bonnet, not wig). Might as well have the President deliver the State of the Union in a Davy Crockett-style cap. Or an amateurish orange combover.

How can one be expected to maintain decorum and focus while wearing a hot, itchy, not to mention comical, remnant of a 400-year-old tradition on top of your head? For comparison, imagine wearing one of those Viking horn helmets the next time you give a PowerPoint presentation at work.

Turns out the wigs are a holdover from the 17th century wig craze. The Brits and the Aussies have given up wearing them except on special occasions. I'm sure they are all thrilled. Not only do they look silly, they were expensive and a pain in the tuckus to maintain.

The barristers aren't the only ones who are thrilled. The wigs are made of horse hair. I guess those donations from Manes of Love will have to go somewhere else.

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2

Published on 2 Comments on Spring Is In The Hair

A version of this post first appeared in 2015.


Props to my stylist, Stephanie, aka The Miracle Worker

Spring is in the air here in South Carolina, a time of great anticipation and migration. The coots and geese are impressive, but they can't compete with the flocks of women gathering at their favorite beauty salons, lining up for the new spring 'do. I should know - I was one of them.

I had vowed to grow my hair out so that I could have a different look for my daughter's wedding, and was ever so close to having a chin-length bob. But I couldn't take it anymore. It was taking longer and longer to style my hair. My cowlicks kept subverting my efforts at Veronica Lake-style bangs. That side part was heaven-on-scalp for my gray roots. Finally, I succumbed to the siren call of the local salon and joined my fellow females for our annual Spring Makeover.

I have the type of hair that the best that can be said about it is that it's better than no hair at all. It's naturally very dark (or it was in my youth), which translates to 'high maintenance' once the Battle of the Gray commences. There's plenty of it, for now, but it's very fine. Last but not least, it's straight as a board.

When I was a teenager, long hair was in fashion. I'm talking down-to-the-waist long. This was also the era before blow dryers were commonplace, so washing and drying it was a headache. I dolled it up with sponge rollers on occasion; just the last few inches, to give it a little curl. Sometimes I used socks. Yes, socks. You place the hair in the middle of the sock, roll it up a few rotations, and tie the sock in a knot. This way you can put all the hair in a single sock rather than scores of little pink sponge rollers, which was faster, easier, and way more comfortable to sleep in. Yes, we slept in them overnight before the miracle of electric curlers arrived. But I digress.

In high school I girded my loins and cut my hair to shoulder length, which was big drama for me but what a relief, cutting both my hair and my grooming time in half. As time passed, I experimented with shorter and shorter styles. By the time I became a mom, there were plenty of men whose hair was longer than mine. And I loved it. Five minutes max, a little dryer, a little product, and you're out the door looking way better than those styles I spent ten times longer on. I must add I was living in Texas at the time. Short hair has an added bonus there in the summer months.

As much as I like the short styles, I have to admit they are not universally popular. I was shopping with my mom and her sister once. We all had short hairstyles at the time. The owner of the shop we were in was Middle Eastern. We were chatting, so he learned we were all related (as if he couldn't already tell by three 5'-9" women who came in together). When he felt comfortable, he asked us, 'why?' We said, 'why what?' and he said 'why do you wear your hair so short?' I guess he thought it was a family tradition, or a punishment of some kind. He may have been more used to women with long, thick, gorgeous Princess Jasmine hair. Princesses Jasmine, we were not. We stared blankly back at him and responded, 'why not?'

My biggest pet peeve about having short hair is how often I am called 'sir'. Granted, I am tall, as I mentioned earlier. I am not exactly svelte. But I never leave the house without earrings, mascara, lipstick, and the most essential grooming ingredient: eyebrows. I have a pretty respectable set of very obviously female equipment, if you get my meaning. My voice is not particularly deep. I no longer own a pair of overalls. Nevertheless, I wish I had a free partial foil for every time I have been called 'sir'.

I am sure there are also plenty of folks who assume I am a lesbian because I am the furthest thing from a girly-girl, have an active lifestyle, enjoy DIY projects around the house, and wear my hair short (never mind that I have been in a relationship with the same man for more than 30 years and have two grown children with him). I have no problem being mistaken for a lesbian. There are some exceedingly stylish lesbians out there. But mistaken for a man?? Sheesh!! Not the same thing at all!


80s era home perms. Do you begin to see why I wear my hair short now?

The first time it happened, I can't say I didn't have it coming. Strike one: I was living in Minnesota. Minnesota is a beautiful place full of friendly people, but it's not exactly a Vogue subscription hotbed. Strike two: I was at a home improvement store - stereotype alert!! Strike three: I was dressed casually: jeans, comfy boots, plaid shirt layered over a turtleneck sweater. From a distance, I admit, I probably looked like a man. The cashier said, 'thank you, sir' when we finished our transaction. Then she actually looked at me. As I stared back at her, somewhat stunned, she apologized and we went on our merry way. Immediately I resolved not to leave the house again in masculine garb if at all possible. But I shouldn't have worried. It has happened several times since then, regardless of what I am wearing. Sometimes I feel the urge to punch these people in their unobservant noses. But that would just validate their assumption - way too manly!

I like my hair short. I'll be damned if I'll knuckle under to societal stereotypes and waste another year growing it out. I have better things to do with my time. If I'm mistaken for a man, so be it. It's an unfair fact of life that men's haircuts are way cheaper. Maybe the gender confusion will save me some money on my next haircut.

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Published on Leave a comment on Texas and Norway: A Love Connection

A version of this post originally appeared on my Listly account in 2016. Is Listly still a thing?

Texas and Norway may seem at odds in many ways. Weather, language, cuisine, are all on opposite ends of the spectrum. But if you do a little digging, you'll find they have more in common than you might think.

The two cultures blend well, once you think about it.

They're not averse to a little cultural exchange.

They're both instantly recognizable in their native costumes.

Their blue flowers put on quite a show in the springtime.

Both cultures enjoy an alternative to sliced bread.

Wherever the sun is shining, that's where they'll be.

The more flags, the better.

They both set aside one day of the week specifically for eating tacos.

They do love their caffeine.

An issue pondered by many in both countries: 'How will I spend my oil money?'

If you're on board with the concept of Texwegians, I hope you'll check out my book, The Dala Horse. Available in paperback, e-book, and audio formats from Amazon.

Texwegian t-shirt from The Wooden Spoon in Plano, Texas

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10

Published on 10 Comments on Crutches Are/Are Not Your Friend

I went 60+ years without breaking a bone. But in one brief moment of inattention, both the streak and my right ankle went to pieces. I was on crutches for a couple of months after surgery and hobbled around in a boot for a few more weeks after that. So I had plenty of time sitting around to contemplate this unexpected turn of events. Plenty. Of. Time. It was definitely a learning experience; to wit:

Don't let that smile fool ya
  • Crutches aka Death Sticks are the devil's handiwork.
  • Crutches and bifocals are a match made in hell.
  • Crutches and stairs? Fugghedaboutit.
  • When on crutches due to injury, prepare a fun fictional answer for how the injury happened - especially important if the truth is boring, or makes you look like a fool. You will get asked again and again by well-meaning strangers. Skydiving and skateboarding come to mind. Level of risk should be proportional to your age (the higher your age, the higher the purported risk).
  • Crutches will give you a new and profound appreciation for handicap parking spots, accessibility ramps, and grab bars.
  • You will also get a newfound appreciation for good quality public facility design. For example: why are some handicap accessible stalls all the way at the end of the row, furthest from the entry?
  • Oh, and thanks for heavy doors with pull handles on public restrooms - NOT.
  • However, I must say crutches come in handy for pushing bathroom doors closed.
Had to go with the Cowboys Blue
  • Your quad in your healthy leg will get a workout. All those squats at the gym finally pay off. Also I think whomever invented yoga was probably on crutches before doing so.
  • Baby wipes are your friend. Bath tubs/showers are not. 'Nuff said.
  • Doesn't matter where you stash your crutches. When they start to fall over (and they will), they will fall in such a way to cause maximum havoc.
  • When well-meaning friends and family offer to help stash your crutches away, they will always be stashed out of your reach.
  • Well-meaning friends/family will try to 'help' you by holding onto your body or clothing for 'support'. Don't Let Them.
  • If you're on crutches, chances are pretty good you might also have a cast somewhere. Casts are your friend. Having your injury immobilized while it heals is a good thing.
  • While we're on the topic of casts: casts are now high tech, fast, non-messy, and come in fun colors like Cowboys blue, Barbie pink, GI Joe camo, unicorn rainbow vomit, etc. - go for it! Life's too short for a plain white cast.
  • One more about casts, then I promise I'll stop: having the plaster cast sawed off can def get the heart rate up. They swear the saw they use to do this will stop running before it cuts into your flesh . . .
  • The warning label on the prescription painkillers is more terrifying than your injury.
  • If your hair is longer than a couple of inches, either get a haircut or wear a ponytail or find a favorite hat. Hair falling into your eyes while you're on crutches is not your friend.
  • West Texas is no place for crutches unless you gain 20+ pounds for ballast.
Titanium is your friend for sure
  • Wear clothing with pockets. If no pockets are available, your bra/manssiere is a handy substitute. If you don't have pockets, you can toss a bag with a strap cross body, or tuck items into your waistband like a kangaroo. Do what you gotta do to keep your hands free because crutches. I confess I did use my neck and my teeth to hold stuff a couple of times. This is Not Recommended. One of the nurses recommended I try a backpack, the kind that comes with a belt to secure it around your waist and keep it stable back there. This is a good idea in theory, especially for folks who have to return to work or school while still on crutches. However, in practice, it is a PIA to get to the stuff in the backpack if you are on crutches.
  • Do not use pockets. Pockets are hazardous. They only really work well for small, light weight items like one tissue or a sticky note. Or if you're an actual kangaroo. If you overload side pockets, it throws off your balance. This is the same balance you have just worked for days if not weeks to get used to on crutches without factoring in the effect of improperly balanced loads in your pockets. And of course there is that tendency to overload the pockets so that you make fewer trips. This is a trap. Full side pockets interfere with the swing of the crutches. Just Say No. Also note the kangaroo pouch idea only works best with very tight fitting garments. Otherwise, with all the swinging and swaying motion of the crutches, the item could easily fall through your 'pouch' and trip you, or break, or both.
  • Worst chore on crutches so far: maybe not what you might think (bathroom trips). Bathroom trips are pretty heinous, but I'm gonna go ahead and go with making the bed. All that bending/stretching/ tugging is exhausting. Now you might ask, why on earth am I insisting on making the bed when I'm on crutches? I have no good answer. I'm not right in the head.
  • Stepping on the scales was a pleasant surprise after I got my cast off. Seeing my pitiful little chicken leg after getting the cast off was not. Losing weight is totally not worth losing muscle mass.
  • If your injury is on your lower leg like mine was (ankle), getting a 'Barbie foot' is a thing and to be avoided if at all possible. A properly fitted cast and professional physical therapy techniques can help you avoid this.
  • I really don't want to jinx you, but if you are on crutches, you will probably need to learn how to perform a controlled fall. Especially if you have young children, pets, or Legos in your living space.
  • Startles are bad for balance. Your practical joker neighbor is not your friend.

You might be wondering why there are no photos of me on crutches in this post. That's because I let it be known there was a fate worse than death in store for anyone who took unapproved photos of me during my recuperation. Death Sticks photos were not on the Approved list.

I still have the Death Sticks in the garage. Being on crutches for two months is not something I want to repeat. Ever. I should probably donate them, but I'm afraid as soon as I do, I'll need them again. I got the crutches because I wasn't watching where I was going. I'd like to say I learned my lesson, but I tripped over something yesterday, so, maybe not. I guess they better stay put.

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Published on Leave a comment on Sign of the CheesePocalypse
Photo here from an article
way funnier than mine

This post originally appeared in January 2014.

Such dreary news lately, what with all the usual global warming and depressed economies and fighting and bombing and killing. The capper sent icy fingers clutching my heart:

There is a Velveeta shortage.

For you gourmands and food snobs out there, Velveeta is a cheese (like) product made by Kraft. Imagine a larger, softer, oranger stick of butter sold in the regular aisles (not dairy) of your local grocery. It is a popular ingredient in macaroni and cheese and cheese dips because it melts and blends so well. Apparently Kraft transitioned Velveeta-making to a new production facility recently, causing some production delays.

Sweet Mother of Pearl.

I understand this is mostly an East Coast problem. I will be checking my local grocer today, guaranteed. I haven't bought any Velveeta in ages, but just the thought of a shortage makes me want to dash to the store and arm-wrestle a grandma for the last box.

I haven't bought Velveeta in a while because let's just say it rarely makes any of those listicles featuring the healthy foods you should be eating. I was surprised to discover it actually does have some real cheese in it (cheddar, Monterrey Jack, and Swiss). Kraft has been making Velveeta for ages, but it really took off when they started promoting its use in mac n cheese. If you have ever made homemade mac n cheese, you know why. Making it with real cheese is problematic. Getting actual, real shredded cheddar cheese to melt and mix properly with the milk can be tricky, especially if you are a 'panster' like I am in the kitchen. I rarely have all the ingredients I need for any given dish and try to wing it. Last time I did this with mac n cheese, the cheese just wouldn't blend properly. My mac n cheese tasted okay, but looked more like mac n brain splatter. Yum!

I do have fond memories of Velveeta from childhood. My mom is the oldest of six. When I was a kid we had many family gatherings. Most featured my Aunt Billie's infamous cheese dip. It had two simple ingredients: Rotel tomatoes and Velveeta. She had a big brass fondue pot, the kind that requires a can of Sterno underneath to keep the contents warm. Cultivating a taste for that cheese dip was a sign of maturity. It may be my imagination (or my petrified middle-aged taste buds), but I swear the Rotel was hotter back then. A little of that cheesy goodness dipped with a tortilla chip could burn all the way down from tongue to tummy. If you could handle the heat, you were on your way to becoming an adult.

I love it, but I just can't eat Velveeta on a regular basis. They say it has real cheese in it, but when you open up that cardboard container and pry apart the foil liner to reveal what they lovingly call the 'loaf', 'real cheese' is not a phrase that comes to mind. I fear if I go back to the V, I will feel some pressure to consume even more unnaturally orange foods. What's next -  a big plastic barrel of cheese balls in the pantry? Completely giving up and just standing over the sink squirting a can of Cheese Wiz into my mouth? Troubling as it is, maybe this shortage is for the best.

Note: I did come up with the title on my own; validated when I discovered NPR had the same idea. Two minds, but with a single thought!

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Published on Leave a comment on Swiss Miss

This post originally appeared in August 2013.

I bet even Omnipotent, Omnipresent Oprah didn't see this coming. One of the world's wealthiest humans, while in Switzerland attending the wedding of her friend Tina Turner (yes, that Tina Turner), was given the brush-off by a boutique clerk in Zurich. Ohhhhhh so many angles to this story - where to begin??

Don Francisco, host of SabadoGigante, one of the most popular shows on Univision. Net worth = many, many millions.
  • Americans everywhere read about this and said, Oh No You Didn't! Kind of shocking to realize there are actually people in the world who don't know who Oprah is. For a little perspective, how many of you would recognize this guy if he was in line behind you at Starbucks? >>>>>>
  • If this snippy Swiss clerk is similar to retail clerks around the world, I'm guessing she was paid hourly and perhaps on commish. I say 'was', assuming this person was summarily dismissed after this story hit the fan. Hope she is lying awake at night missing her job and the commission she would have made on that $38,000 handbag she refused to show Oprah. Yes, $38,000.
  • As I am blogging this I cannot find any definitive pix of the bag in question. Maybe something like this one, except in crocodile. Nice and all, but is it really worth two years of college tuition (which I happen to know about, since I am just now wrapping up paying for kid #2)?
  • You don't have to be Oprah to be insulted when snippy clerks give you attitude. Two incidents come to mind. Once, more than 20 years ago while living in Texas, we took a road trip across the border into Matamoros, looking for bargains on Mexican silver jewelry, and of course, booze. I had my negotiating skills all polished up and ready for action, which took some polishing because I really, really hate negotiating for anything. But it was my understanding if I was going to practice haggling, this was the place. It was expected. So I put on my Big Girl Panties, found a shop with some great jewelry, and made an offer. The owner didn't even bother with me, just turned his back on me and left me standing there. It was not a matter of language barrier. He spoke English perfectly well until that point. I know what you are thinking, but, hey, it was a fair offer! The other time, I was in a discount rug warehouse (carpet, not toupee) near Charlotte, NC managed by some middle eastern folks who certainly seemed to know their stuff re carpets. A very nice gentleman showed me around. He was nice, that is, until he asked me what price range I was interested in. When I told him, he turned on his heel - literally leaned back slightly so that a little sliver of the heel of his run-down Payless beater loafers made just enough contact that he could literally spin zzzzt! and put me in the rear view - walked away from me, and sent what looked to be his 12-year-old son to come and deal with me instead. Keep in mind this was a big, unadorned discount warehouse in a rundown industrial park off I-77, not Neiman Freaking Marcus. The prices are supposed to be low, right? In both instances, I was mortified. In both instances, I left without buying anything. Oprah, I feel your pain. Oh, how I wish I had the resources, financial and otherwise, to extract sweet, sweet revenge on both of those yahoos. But I didn't then, and I don't now. The best I could do was leave with head held high, dignity somewhat intact, and nurture my outrage for decades until I had this chance to expose those inconsiderate, rude sunzabitches in a public shaming. What, me nurse a grudge??
  • Speaking of crocodile, just because something is made of prehistoric reptile doesn't necessarily mean it should cost that much. It is almost time for the annual gator hunt here in South Carolina. You have to have a tag to hunt one legally. Tags costs $100. All you need is a tag, a gun and a boat, or a friend who is willing to share. Where the real cost comes in is curing/tanning the hide. It is time consuming and a little pricey, but way cheaper than paying retail!

I think we should invite Oprah to South Carolina this fall for the annual gator hunt. South Carolina doesn't have any crocodiles that I am aware of, but gator is close enough IMO. She could bag her own. We know she can easily afford the processing fees if she is willing to wait several months for the hide to cure. As soon as her new handbag is ready, her first stop should be that shop in Zurich, just to wave the DIY gator bag around and say 'nanny nanny boo boo' to that idiot clerk.

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Published on Leave a comment on Get Out Of The Zone

JK about the Taco Bell. I am 94 days drive-thru free and counting.

Recently I shouted down the oh-so-persuasive voices in my head and forced myself to do something that was out of my comfort zone. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and am so glad I talked myself into it. I find as I get older, the figurative overstuffed La-Z-Boy that is my designated comfort zone is harder and harder to climb out of. Okay, yeah, it's literal, too.

All kinds of studies have shown the mental, physical, and social benefits of varying your routine. When we are young, this is pretty much unavoidable because just about everything you do is new to you. Those things you try that you enjoy, you tend to repeat, and therein lies the slippery slope to Routineville. As we age, not only are there fewer things we haven't tried; the I Can Do Anything I Want freedom of adulthood is often squandered when doing Anything morphs into doing the same thing, over and over again. The girl who dared try the high dive and got her ears pierced - twice each! - becomes the woman whose idea of living dangerously is ordering Taco Bell's #2 lunch combo instead of old trusty #1. Folks, that is one lap away from the human version of the dog that has worn a dusty path in the grass precisely 18 inches inside the perimeter of the back yard fence.

Venturing outside the comfort zone represents risk. Often there is more at stake than getting a soft taco instead of crunchy with your combo meal.  For example, consider all of the people unfortunate enough to get stuck on the Poop Cruise. Imagine those who were taking their first cruise. No doubt some were outside their comfort zone but had finally decided to take the plunge and were feeling pretty good about it. Ocean breezes, midnight buffets, chocolate fountains - what could go wrong? Poop Cruise was certainly not a disaster of Titanic proportions, but both experiences probably put a lot of people off cruising for life. Still, this is not something you could anticipate happening (at least prior to it happening- now you can!). Some activities, after you sign the waivers, come with a t-shirt that says MORON.

I was not always so resistant to the temptation to try somewhat risky new things. A couple of times in my ignorant youth, I took advantage of the opportunity to go up in small planes with friends. Once was with a college friend who was taking flying lessons. Her instructor was with us. The second time was on a date with a guy. No one else was with us. Both times we landed safely. Aside from 30 seconds of terror during the flying lesson when they were practicing coming out of a stall (without preparing me beforehand, thanks ever so much), I never felt unsafe. However, now I see online an alarming number of fatal accidents in 'homemade' aircraft, most while flown by experienced pilots. Folks, I don't care how much experience you have flying. If the words 'homemade', 'kit', or 'DIY' are associated with the make/model of the plane, I'm calling a cab.

Never since seeing the movie Jaws have I had any interest in cage diving, but I understand the movie had the opposite effect on some folks and cage diving to get up close and personal with sharks is a thing. Yep, sounds stupid to me, too, but apparently plenty of people get their adrenaline rush this way. The companies who offer this service have loads of literature attesting to their 100% safety record, strength of the cages, blah blah blah. But sometimes the cage structure may be the least of your worries. One cage diving boat didn't even make it far enough test the veracity of their own propaganda. They arrived in 'Shark Alley' and prepared for a fun-filled day lowering human-sized canapes into frigid ocean water alongside toothsome two-thousand-pound carnivores. Alas, a rogue wave capsized their boat before anyone could say 'zip my wetsuit'. Everybody into the pool, indeed. Several were injured. Three died. Could have been worse, but other boats were in the vicinity and scooped up the shark snacks before the sharks heard the dinner bell ring.

Oh hell no

Now you know I can't wrap this up without a few words about skydiving. When I was young and stupid, I had skydiving on my list. Back then we didn't call it a 'bucket list', but that's basically what it was, a list of things I wanted to try. When you're young, you don't add the depressing phrase 'before I die' because when you are young and stupid, death is not on your radar. See Jackass or YouTube for proof of this.

Anyway, most of these things were not things I was particularly interested in. I just wanted to try them to enjoy the effect it would have on other people when I casually mentioned I had done this thing or that thing. Yes, to make me look cool. Ack.

I never got around to skydiving and after I had a couple of kids, I wised up and crossed it off the list. I figured if I was going to die doing something stupid, at least it should be something I want to do rather than something I was doing to impress other people. I know lots of people enjoy this hobby safely, but when something goes wrong, it goes wrong in a big way. Proof: tell me which of these phrases gives you the greatest feeling of unease:

1) malfunction

2) freak updraft

3) failure

4) caught on camera

5) accidental

For those who selected 4, I feel your pain. Now try the exercise again when each phrase appears in an article about skydiving. The correct answer is All Of The Above.

Sheesh. I really don't want to be granny about trying new things, but after writing this, I have just about talked myself out of everything. That combination zipline/bungee jump/polar bear tracking junket in the Arctic I just bought on Groupon is out of the question. Instead, I will throw caution to the winds and ask for the extra hot salsa - with my trusty Combo #1, natch.

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2

Published on 2 Comments on What’s Wrong With This Shirt?
The offending item
original photo here

Bemused by the big stink over a certain back-to-school offering (see photo) at a shop I haven't stepped foot into in more than 25 years (and rarely did even when my kids were small). Many knickers are in a twist over the last item listed on the shirt, Math. The argument goes like this: because the 'math' box is unchecked, it implies the (probably female) wearer doesn't like/isn't good at math, which fuels a sexist cliche that females are less intelligent.

My two cents on the Math question: yes, it is stupid and offensive, but let's be honest - what percentage of the population does like/is good at math, regardless of gender? Walk down any street in this country - heck, in the world! - asking everyone if they like/are good at math, and I bet you a gently-used 1990s era Texas Instruments multi-function calculator complete with original paperback instruction manual larger and heavier than said calculator, that at least 70% of the responses will be negative. (See what I did there?)

Also, it must be asked that on the topic of gender and intelligence, what is the ratio of males to females in the management hierarchy of said clothing store company responsible for giving the go-ahead to sell this shirt? Just askin'.

Anywho - math, schmath. Math is one of those necessary evils like kale or pap smears -  you know it is good for you, but it's dang hard to work up any enthusiasm for it. More interesting to me are the other three items on the list on that shirt: shopping, music, and dancing. Why aren't more people enraged by that list? Isn't the inclusion of those three cliche-ridden fluff hobbies more offensive than the unchecked Math?

I know all of you dance and band mommies are about to climb all over me for that. Yes, dancers are highly skilled athletes. Yes, it takes years of dedication to become a professional musician. But we all know playing at Carnegie Hall or dancing with the Bolshoi is not what the shirt maker had in mind. You are lumped in with shopping, for crying out loud!

(nervously looking over my shoulder, wondering if there is such a thing as Shopping Mommies)

If this store really wanted to impress me, here are a few other combinations that would be more palatable on a 'My Best Subjects' shirt.

Checked: Bioengineering     Quantum Physics      Economics

Unchecked: Housework

or

Checked: Tolerance      Inclusion      Equality 

Unchecked: Misogyny

or (my personal fave)

Under where it says 'My Best Subjects', only one box is checked off, and that box says 'ALL OF THEM'.

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