newsletter58

Mother is trying her hand at creating children’s stories. No writer's block for her. She’s already completed the last page that says "The End."

Daughter fell down the stairs and broke her foot. The next day Daughter slipped in the bathroom and broke her thumb. Father wants to register her with the Guinness Book of Records under the category of Most Broken Bones in an 8237 hour period. In order to reach that goal, he will place banana peels in her path. As luck would have it, he got an e-mail from a nice prince of a country he’d never heard of who was selling stock in his South American Banana Conglomerate. After charging his purchase to his credit card, Father proudly declared, “Talk about your perfect timing!”

Father picked up the violin he played as a boy and remembered how to play it! Mother plans to manage his musical career and has already scheduled his first performance at the local school for the deaf. Mother and Father are such caring people.

Father played his violin for Baby Girl, aka Granddaughter. After hearing his performance of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," she announced, “I don’t like the violin.” Father insisted she have her hearing checked because he played it exactly as he had in second grade when he won the blue ribbon for the “Student Needing the Most Improvement.”

Baby Girl is growing up too fast. Her speech is improving now that she’s going to nursery school and is with other children. Her grandmother is concerned at her use of four letter words, but Grammy guesses b-l-u-e is a close enough substitute to azure and is quiet about it, trying not to be critical.

Mother had to buy a purple vacuum cleaner to match her new décor. Now that the rug and furniture are no longer pink, she explained how the new appliance best picks up matching lint, fiber and thread in a color coordinated environment. Father just doesn’t understand things domestic.

Mother got very excited to see the sign reading “free range eggs.” Not quite sure what range eggs were, never-the-less, she dashed to the check out counter to collect hers. The clerk was less than gracious. Mother said they shouldn’t advertise free things and then turn away customers.

Father wants to enter the local Dancing with the Stars competition. Mother feels he has an excellent chance of winning because her great niece by marriage twice removed once won a Charleston contest. Mother is sure it’s in the genes.

National Sock Day - Only those who own matching pairs of socks may celebrate this day. You could pull out the toolbox and tear the washer apart to find your missing socks, then call a repairman to put the washer back together. Your repair bill should be reasonable since you did the first half of the job yourself. Or we could devote the day to searching for lost socks. Or making sock animals. Or even knitting socks.

National Toss the Roses Day - On this day, we will go around our homes and offices and discard all the disgustingly dusty, though once beautiful, dried or plastic flowers we have everywhere. Then we'll get to replace them.

National Oil the Stapler Day - Honor this intrepid, ignored friend you mash periodically by giving it a spritz of oil somewhere on its metal person. Be sure and waste a ream of paper and a box of staples to remove any excess oil so it won’t mar the résumés you’ll be sending out tomorrow because you took the day off to celebrate this important to you, goofy to your former employer, holiday. Remember to expect a cut in your last paycheck for wasting the paper and staples. Note: This is not a green holiday in any sense whatsoever.

Wash a Cat’s Foot Day - Because kitties normally lick their paws and aren’t particularly faithful about brushing their teeth, dip each of those paws into mouthwash. After you return from the emergency room with your wounds well bandaged, languish on a bed of pain to enjoy the quiet. Be prepared. Your feline in hiding will neither reappear nor forgive you for many hours - or at least until you pop the top on a can of cat food.

Ceiling Tile Day - Lie back, look up and count the thousands of holes in your ceiling tile. If you have no ceiling tile, find some, be it at the library, the doctor’s waiting room, a friend or enemy’s house, or your workplace. Whilst others may cast a puzzled gaze your way, there is no need to speak because you’ve thoughtfully written the name of the holiday on the bottom of your slippers or other footwear. If you lose count, start over. I’ve been advised it’s rare for a person to run out of ceiling holes to count and/or re-count in a 24 hour period, so enjoy!

Hey, I’ve got it, the perfect name to cover every holiday that is, was or ever will be. It will leave no one out. It will be perfect for the whole world to celebrate and is even politically correct. And here it is, complete with greeting.

Happy Allidays! Do whatever you like, whenever you like, all day long and remember, the celebration is in the head of the celebrant. The only requirement is you must be gracious because that’s always a better thing, says Martha Bear®.

I love to read or hear about practical jokes, the operative words being “read or hear.” When someone else is punked, it's often hilarious. When you're the victim, you may need to go deep inside yourself to find the humor.

Case in point: Many moons ago, I got a jury duty notice. Ever striving to be a better citizen and because I had no prior experience on the wrong side of law, I got up early to find the courtroom in which I would be making my judicial decisions. My dream of giving a fair and reasonable ruling upon the head of some vicious, insane criminal was squelched as I watched a cheery old lady plead no contest for her 14 jay walking tickets and then spill the secret for her crisp apple fritters to the bailif as she was escorted off to pay her fine. With a sigh I realized I could go back to work since it was still three hours until my official office quitin’ time. The question was, should I?

No one expected me back at work. Someone was covering my desk for the rest of the day since no one could have guessed how many hours or even weeks jury duty would take. But would I listen to the little angel of responsibility sitting on my right shoulder and / or that appealing little slacker devil sitting on my left.

Okay. I choose the low road and went straight home. Now, I could have gone shopping and spent money. I could have gone to the movies and spent money. But money wasn't a factor. My criminal mind told me I might be seen around our small town, and I didn't want word reaching my office.

Once I was safely inside the house, I changed into my "knock-around clothes" as Daddy called them; sweat pants for the day was gloomy - a good day for evil acts of daring-do and watching the soaps.

The phone startled me awake just as I'd been nodding off in front of the TV. All kinds of things rushed through my mind. The office was calling for me. Oh no! Someone reported my car in my driveway when it should be in the parking lot outside my office window!!!

"This is the county sheriff's office looking for Jane Marie Malcolm. We have reason to believe she did not return to her place of employment.”

"Here I am!" said I, my heart racing, adrenaline shooting through my veins or wherever adrenaline shoots. I was busted! Why, oh why had I let myself do the wrong thing? What would the consequences be if I told the truth? I would lose my job for sure. People just don't do jury duty until 2:00 p.m. and then go home the rest of the day, do they? How would I get out of this? I could fib and tell them I had only stopped by the house for a moment to feed the cat because I'd forgotten to that morning, or I wasn’t feeling well, or I was just walking out the door on my way back to work. Like lightning flying wild and crazy inside Frankenstein’s laboratory, my mental sparks were generating enough electricity to light the Empire State Building where the gorilla of guilt stood on my back.

After approximately 2.1 seconds, I still didn't know what I would say. But as I opened my mouth to let fall out whatever my imagination created to cover my misdeeds, I heard a peculiar sound coming from the answering machine. I took me another 2.1 seconds to realize what I was hearing was laughter. And not just anyone's laughter. It was that of my husband, Bruce, in the background!

That dog! That double dirty dog! Knowing me as he does and apparently seeing my car in the drive - the garage is too full of garage junk for my car to fit - he had one of his male co-workers call the house and pretend to be from the sheriff’s department. I bit, hook, line and 1000 pound sinker! They sure got me good!

While I’m confessing, I may as well tell you I was not the most gracious of ladies for the next several hours. I was embarrassed, not with playing hooky, but that I'd fallen for their wicked scheme. I gave them what-for for sure. Today I laugh about it, but not then.

Lesson learned: Grin and bear it. If you’re smiling, practical jokers won't know they've gotten to you!

A girlfriend in grade school told me another name for a bra was an "over the shoulder boulder holder." I thought that was the funniest thing I'd ever heard. I was about ten years old at the time, so that explains a lot.

This letter has nothing to do with that. It was the only lead-in I could think of to shoulders. Yesterday, my husband, Bruce, had shoulder surgery. Yup. After five years of his left shoulder "biting" him and nearly bringing him to his knees, he had an operation to repair his rotator cuff.

It went something like this. After trying to squeeze the operation between his city commission meetings, (being an honorable elected official these days, he feels it necessary to attend all meetings whenever possible), the doctor's calendar, and a trip to see family in Wichita, Kansas, he finally got the go ahead from his primary physician. The call came in at 4:56 p.m. on a Friday before the scheduled surgery the next Monday at 6:00 a.m.

So there we were, up at 3:30 a.m. to drive from our little Amelia Island to the big city of Jacksonville, Florida, a good hour away. We knew how to get to Jacksonville, just not the surgery center. I had written the directions to the surgery center on the back of a used post-it. Turning the inside roof light on in the car to read my less than legible scribblings, I managed to get us lost. Bruce admittedly has no sense of direction, so he was of little use. Also, because he only has one good eye, he has a bit of a time seeing when on coming traffic is aiming at him. As you might imagine, it's always an adventurous ride. The good news is dumb luck took us past one of the roads listed on my post-it. We turned around, followed that street and, voilá, we found the place. In fact, we arrived 4 minutes early, before they had any turned on any lights.

Once inside, someone injected Bruce's shoulder to numb it. We waited for the meds to take effect. After a few minutes, his voice was gone. If his voice box was dead, he wouldn't feel a bit of pain in his shoulder according to the anesthesiologist said. Made sense to us, sort of. We guessed his arm was supposed to feel like a lead barbell, too, because Bruce asked me if his arm was tied down. It was not. His thumb was useless. He couldn’t pick up a thing. All good signs, the nurse said.

An hour and a half later the operation was complete. I was talking to the doctor who explained what each of two pages of arthroscopic pictures of the inside of Bruce's left shoulder meant. To me, each exposure looked like a colorful full moon. I couldn't tell the torn rotator cuff from the repaired, but they sure looked pretty. When Bruce asked which picture was which, I faked it and pointed to the moon on the bottom right, guessing that was the finished product. He didn't know the difference and nodded his head in agreement that, indeed, this photo showed the operation was a success.

Still a smidge groggy, Bruce was ready to go home. I helped him dress since his left arm was strapped into a sling-thing with so many plastic and Velcro closures, it reminded me of half a black straight jacket. Being a bit of a germ freak, ok, a lot of a germ freak, I squatted down to hold his trouser legs up off the floor. He stuffed his feet in the leg holes, bouncing off the bed only once, to return to a standing position whilst using the top of my head to balance himself. With some difficulty, I managed to get his pants buttoned, thinking of that line from A Christmas Story, "You'll shoot your eye out with that thing," as I stared at the circular brass closure.

Eventually, I walked around behind him and saw I managed to leave his left cheek outside his pants. Don't ask. I was grateful he'd worn his "Flying Cupig" shorts decorated in winged oinkers, a Valentine gift from me.

As I double checked to make sure we'd forgotten nothing, I glanced over to see Bruce trying to put on his black eye patch. Just like a pirate, he generally looks quite dashing. Not this time. Picture this. His left hand is fused to his waist in the sling. He's holding the patch in that hand while his right is stretching the elastic band, literally, three feet high straight up as he bends over to try and fit his head through the huge elastic hole he's made. You guessed it. His numb left thumb let go, and he shot himself in the face with the patch.

Three days after the surgery, I found the laundry done, including my undies quartered and folded. This is day four. I think I’ll ask him to climb onto the roof to check for a loose shingle tomorrow. Heck, it’s supposed to be a pretty day, and how many hands does it take to hold a hammer? You don't think Bruce is a slacker, do you?

My good friend, Bonnie, told me she had an old recipe about how to set the color in fabric to keep it from running by using salt and vinegar in the water. She was going to dig through her things and try to find it.

Her efforts to unearth that recipe got me to thinking how I'm a packrat. I get it from our dear father. Our brother, Bob, agrees because he discovered Daddy’s old bookcase-sized 1960s homemade speakers (with the woofers and tweeters) stored in the basement never to be used again once Dad had replaced them. I guess it gave Daddy a feeling of security knowing they were there should there ever be a dire speaker emergency. That reminded me of some of the things I've found from my past lives while searching the house for a particular object.

Daughter Barbra's scout scarf, flashlight and pocketknife are in a box in the attic. She loved to camp, but hated the food and choking smoke from the campfires. I have her funny faces captured in photos to prove it. Those pictures are always good for blackmail material, but not as great as her chickenpox-covered face captured on film, now CD, forever. Barbra had best be perfect the rest of her life or else … hee, hee.
My own Girl Scout pin from the depths of my jewelry box takes me back to the time of handmade woven newspaper sit-upons. I first learned to make those No Bake Cookies with the cocoa, peanut butter and oats during a scout meeting. To this day, we call them "Girl Scout Cookies" at our house and I'm not talking the ones in the box that sold for 50¢ in my day.
Why am I still saving my filled Green Stamps books? Can you say "collector's item"? Maybe they're not, but boy did I collect those stamps and redeem them. One of my prizes was a red aluminum apple shaped cookie jar. No one could retrieve a cookie without the lid making a sweet ping sound, alerting the mother of the house, me, that someone was about to spoil their dinner. I personally tried to remove the lid silently and failed, too. I don't think it was an intentional alarm of sorts, yet it sure worked as one. Of course, hubby and the kids weren't so crazy about it. Funny thing is I can’t find that red cookie jar anywhere. Wonder WHO saw/handled/ pitched it last? No one seems to know …or will admit to anything.
I found several old notebooks. One held decorating ideas and was filled with magazine pictures of different window treatments and furniture arrangement, etc. I had one for crafts I hoped to find the time to make. Others held recipes, financial advice, and I recently came across a clipping on how to buy a mattress. Naturally, I found that clipping just after we purchased two new mattresses for the house.
I came across the menu from Zachery's, our five star restaurant in Arkansas. I was the hostess and bookkeeper. Bruce was everything else but the chef. We spent two years at that 24/7 job. I would open the place at 9 a.m. and Bruce would shut ‘er down at 2 a.m. We'd meet somewhere in the middle. It almost killed us, so we got out of the business. When I look at that menu, I’m reminded of the rich and cheesy Seafood Lasagna we served as a specialty and am happy to announce my cholesterol is back to healthy levels now.
When I found an old dancing school program, I had to search for my name among the hundreds of other child performers. There it was and along with it were memories of my sister, Nancy, and me in our ornate dance costumes with our mother putting lipstick on us back stage. As adults, Daddy used to tell us he went to so many recitals, he'd sit in the back and nap until his girls came on stage. Then no one could tear his eyes off us. He was very proud despite our missteps onto our tulle skirts, our falls and the times we went stage left instead of stage right like everyone else in the group. Think he might have been a little prejudiced?
I've always been a crafter, which means I have enough supplies to papier mâché, paint and decorate a blimp should the need arise. It's the nature of the "artiste" to save/collect the leftover scraps from every project ever completed or attempted. To that end, I'm currently painting, rubber stamping (with a rose image I actually had copied from a potato stamp I carved), and embellishing handmade greeting cards. I love to make new from old. Always have.

The old red leash, the sheet music from Bruce's grandmother's gramophone, Barbra's Alvin the Chipmunk telephone, my Wink E Bear teddy bear and so much more, all bring the best treasure, sweet memories. And as Martha Bear™ says, "It's a better thing."

No, I'm not doing my impersonation of the father who wins the major award of a leg-shaped lamp in the beloved movie, A Christmas Story. I'm talking about keeping my husband's cold at bay and me not getting it!

We all know living in the same house with a person who has contracted a head cold, most times, means you will be its next victim. Au contraire, mon frère. (I always said that before an argument when I was a little kid because it rhymed and because I thought I was so smart to be able to speak French.) You see, I have ways to control those nasty contagious germs of his. OK, control is too strong a word. Let's just say I happily dodged the germ-laden bullet this time. Here's my technique.

First and foremost, purchase liquid hand sanitizer by the gallon. With or without a coupon, it's a must! Then, no matter how rude it may be, appear to be, or actually is, use the stuff. If someone sneezes, coughs, burps, or otherwise makes a noise of any sort, including talking and singing, ask them to hold out a hand and spritz a generous sized blob into it.

Fill the air with the spray that kills 99.9% of germs. Don't be stingy about it. At the risk of succumbing to "Lysol" poisoning, take the chance. DO IT!

Wipe down all surfaces with disinfecting wipes. Not only clean the table, but the kitchen counters, door knobs, toilet seat, jars, keyboard, cans, whatever your loved one may have touched or is possibly thinking about touching.

Use all things disposable, where and whenever you can. In the kitchen, use paper towels. Whatever you do, don't touch that cloth towel! Don't allow anyone else to use it either. It is blanketed with ambassadors of disease who lie in wait to swarm all over you as they have your loved one.

Don't touch the sick person who by now I hope you have corralled across the room. It is still permissible to speak to your bug-afflicted mate, so long as he is at least, at least, 12 feet away, preferably more.

Likewise, don't touch his clothes or his dishes. Don't read his books or magazines. Don't listen to his CDs since you don't know when last he listened. Beware of his phone and the house phone, and most of all the TV remote. These are all disease carriers. Carriers, I tell you!

As for feeding him, well you just sort of have to. But if you're close enough to see him fill his face with food without the aid of binoculars, then you are way too close. Back away. Do it immediately.

Lest you think I am callous, may I defend myself by saying, what good will it do for us to sacrifice ourselves to the cold gods? Isn't it enough we drop, by way of the leaf rake, their dirty sheets, towels, pants, socks and shirts into hot bleach water to be washed on the heavy-soil cycle? Isn't it enough we cook their meals to the point of volcanic bubbling, chancing a nasty burn to ourselves just to make certain to kill any latent crawlies? Isn't it enough we sleep in another room, in my case, the cramped office of Story Central on an aluminum cot whose legs collapse with the regularity of a swinging door at a prison escape. Do I complain when I am awaken as my forehead bangs against Bruce's wooden desk chair on one side of me or my hair becomes tangled in the wheels of my computer chair on the other side? Certainly not. Sacrifices are necessary from everyone when a cold threatens.

And why do we do all this? I do it because I promised that "in sickness and in health" part of the marriage vow. When my husband, Bruce, is sick, I’m in health. Works for me. You, no doubt, have your own good reasons for caring for a house mate with a cold.

For those of you saying, "You're killing all the "good germs" and "What about building your immunity?" As Scarlett O'Hara says in Gone With The Wind, "I'll think about that tomorrow." For my part, I didn't get my husband's cold and that's a better thing! Bruce doesn't call me Flo, short for Florence Nightingale, for nothing!

Gotta run. Time to wipe down Mr. Buzzbee, the cat, with a disinfectant sheet. I caught Bruce petting him with my hidden video camera.