I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon.
Happy 10th WDC Anniversary, SandraLynn Team Florent!! I'm sorry I can't battle alongside with you, dear Florent. Go forth and go well! You are doing excellent!
WWAD-what would Andre do! Maybe he could get a 3D-printer, make bracelets with WWAD on them and sell them on the side.
We get our dogs braided rope toys to chew on and use dental sticks to help clean their teeth. Perhaps Andre would enjoy a nice braided chew rope, and if someone would make a banana flavored dental stick, he could use it for a swizzle stick in his drink and chew on after he downs it.
My grandgiggles now ask if I'm wearing bubble wrap when I venture forth for a meander/walk/stroll. I thought a clumsy monkey could be conceivable and that he'd be told the same thing I am. Be careful. What is that? Accidents happen, to me any way.
QueenNormaJeanGreeneggs&vegham You win! I've never been shot at, well, not directly. I once experienced the back window of my car being shot out as I drove along a highway. I believe it was a hunter's errant bullet. I wrote about us accident prone people. I refer to it as O.U.C.H. I believe I intended that to mean Our Unique Clumsiness Hurts. We create our own writing material.
Oh come on - I've had so many weird accidents - last one I swear I tripped on a feather. Broke 2 bones in my hand, cast for 4 weeks and now I'm going to see the doctor tomorrow. Cannot move the blasted hand at all.
Car accidents, been shot at, blew my knee getting into a truck. falling down drunk and waking up looking like a prize fighter when I had to go to a family funeral. I've had a few good ones.
I'm the accident-prone one around these parts - although most people would guess my most-used word falls into the "swear" category, it's actually "ouch."
Years back I dated a lady who was extremely accident prone. On one occasion she caught her dress pocket on a door handle as we exited the theater. She ripped her dress open, buttons popping off all over. Another time I stopped to pick her up for a dinner date. As we were exiting her apartment, she remembered her purse and rushed back in to grab it. She slipped on the floor and slid into the table, chipping her front tooth. On yet another outing while viewing some antique mining equipment, she climbed up on a big dump truck for a picture. She decided to jump down, but had caught her shirt on something and ripped it off!
The prompt today is very simple: Tell us a story about the person you call Mom. Ah, Mom memories, the best! My Mother has been 'gone' for years now. Sometimes, it seems as if she's stepped outside and will be right back. I still find myself speaking to her expecting a response. I recognize her in a phrase that escapes my lips, or a reaction that surprises me. Mom learned to drive out of necessity. With three of us and later four of us needing transport to various venues and her extended family residing at a distance, Mom decided she could and would drive the family sedan. I remember her practices. She refused to attempt this in the southern Ontario town where we lived. No, she preferred to get behind the wheel in a less-trafficked village in Northern Ontario. I never minded this. We'd enjoy a road trip for most weekends and an excuse to visit my maternal grandparents. With her staring straight ahead, this meant jaunts careening down dirt back roads, squealing at each bump and cheering Mom to go faster. We taught her all there is to know about distracted driving. This occurred in the pre-seat belt era. Our car , an impressive Pontiac, would now be classified as a land yacht and it provided plenty of room for three siblings to create mischief. We could and did refuse to sit preferring to stand. We rolled the back windows up and down over and over. We wrestled. We argued. I'm sure Mom felt a few of our errant kicks land in the back of her seat. We directed a gazillion questions at the back of her head. We suggested routes. We insisted she settle squabbles then and there. We whined about dying of hunger and thirst. Over the summer, Mom gained confidence. I still recall her indignant anger when she failed her first road test in our home town. I sided with her because clearly the tester needed eyeglasses. Mom had stopped at a stop sign before preceding onto a busy thoroughfare and her tester insisted that this stop sign did not exist. Eagle Street itself stretched along one end of Preston and it did not boast any stop signs. Mom had been instructed to turn onto Eagle from a side street where there were and always had been the familiar red octagonal signs. That tester proved lucky that I hadn't been present because I liked to argue. As luck would have it, Mom drew the same tester and the same route for her second road test. This time Mom chose to linger at the supposed phantom stop sign and provoke the tester into questioning the obvious delay. Mom simply pointed at the stop sign and raised her eyebrows. Anyone with a mom knows that look. She'd have crossed her arms too, but in order to pass her test she needed to keep both hands on the steering wheel. This time, Mom passed and received the coveted licence. That shiny ,baby blue Pontiac had been the first and only vehicle my father purchased as brand new. He returned home one evening to find two immense dents in the aluminum siding he'd spent weeks installing himself. Mom had pulled into the driveway and failed to brake in time. She'd collided with the house. The dents were actually perfect impressions of the Pontiac's headlights and housings. He chose not to replace those panels or hammer out the 'kinks.' Mom chose to never speak of this again, well she did utter one curse word. Every time she settled into the driver's seat she had to see her 'handiwork.' Her last words muttered through clenched lips were, "I'm so angry I could spit nails."
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