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 |  My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| 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. |
| PROMPT: Would you rather be attacked by one ten-foot horse, or ten one-foot horses? State your preference and explain yourself. Er, um, not that I'm an equine expert, but aren't the heights of horses measured in hands? It's kinda ridiculous to fear the attack of an animal that could be as tall as ten of my little hands... I just examined my hand, and it's six whole inches in length, so ten of these multiplied by six would equal sixty inches, or five feet. A horse with these measurements would be shorter than me... huh? Something is off here... I've hitched a ride on a few horses, and they were all taller than me. Why would I have burdened a smaller animal? Whose gigantic hands are gauging the size of horses? Is this mythical ten-foot horse measured by a hand one-foot in length? Wait, I'm confused...surely the prompt is not suggesting a horse with ten feet/hooves? Okay, this horse is taller than me, so it's large...Hmm... my initial response is neither. I would rather not be attacked by any horse, of any size. Like I stated, I'm not a horsey person, so my question is this: do horses attack? Did I provoke this horse, or horses? Is there a defence? What actions would a horse employ to attack? Could they chomp, stomp, karate kick, or trample? Oh, perhaps they'd throw their ample and considerable weight around, and pin me to the ground like a wrestling body slam. Maybe a head butt would be possible? All of these sound painful, and avoidable. If delivered by the bigger prompt option, this attack is potentially extremely painful. My odds for survival would diminish, too. One horse with four slashing legs is better than ten horses, all be it tiny horses, with the equivalent of forty striking legs. Huh, I really don't like my choices here. I'm no scrapper, but I believe I'd fare better with one big animal. I could manage to keep my eyes on one moving assailant. Ten could scuttle, scurry, and sneak. They'd more than likely operate as a pack, a team. I'd be battling a blitz. Little creatures are able to fit into every available nook and cranny. The big fella would be somewhat hampered by his bulk. I stand a fighting chance of ducking and covering, okay cowering, in a space too small for him to enter, and reach me. Ya, a ten-foot tall horse couldn't discover too many hidey holes in which to lay wait, and surprise me. I suppose I'd hear him thrashing about more than I'd hear ten separate teeny tiny light-on-their-hooves horses. Hey, the ground would probably shake with each step of the giant. I just can't see him tip-toeing. Is something one-foot tall capable of attacking? What about the cuteness factor? Don't we associate small with harmless? Oh, I forgot the ten sets of snapping teeth... like Chihuahua nips, or piranha bites?Now if I was forced to take evasive action who would I prefer to evade? Not that I could ever out run any horse, especially the one with legs the diameter of my body, but how could I hope to have the stamina to continue moving against ten? They could take turns resting, and attacking me in endless tag teams. What are my anti-attack options? If I attempted to kick a horse, I'd be side-lined by a charley-horse, and they are seriously excruciating. Biting? Please the horseflies have more luck inflicting discomfort, and extracting their pound of horse flesh. There is bear spray, and pepper spray, and mace... the pepper could induce a sneezing fit in the big horse. What's a riding crop? Would a sound thwack across the nose stop a horse attack? So, this like a death by one super cut, or a thousand miniature cuts... size and strength versus numbers... I believe I still prefer one on one. Is there any chance that this "attack" is a verbal one? |
| PROMPT: Imagine that you do not need for money.. for anything. Not that you're rich and money is no object, but you are the only person in the world who does not need to pay for food, clothes, expenses, or anything else. But... the only stipulation is that you always have to be naked, wherever you go... work, school, grocery store, wherever. Your life is normal except for not needing money, but always being naked. What do you think.. would you do it, and why (or why not)? Whoa, hold on here! Where does my money come from? What is its source? I am suspicious. It seems to me that I'm being paid to shuck/shun clothing. Does money grow on trees, only my trees? And by the way, if I was coerced/lured/whatever into constantly being naked, why would I have the expense of clothing covered? Am I not supposed to be continually uncovered in order to qualify? Clothing wouldn't be needed or optional. Hmm, I think I need a why... Why me, and why this one-person nudity? To what (bare) end? Is there a reason? Is there an end game? Is there a goal? Justifications aside, what are the positives, the benefits of baring all? I suppose I'd never be bothered, or bogged down with wardrobe choices. Jeans, or a skirt? Socks, or hose? T-shirt, or blouse? What colour was my aura, or my mood? Inconsequential, insignificant. I'd miss certain colours though if I was to strut starkers. My natural skin tone is not blue, green or purple. Wait, I forgot my bruises and scars, okay, they are rainbow hued. Oh, and if I was appearing sans footwear that would alleviate choices, too. Oh, and nothing to zip, button, buckle, snap, or tie. I could conceivably escape the confines of my house in a more timely fashion if I didn't have to bother with any dressing at all. Oh hey, sizing would be a moot memory. Who cares what size my clothes once were? There'd be no shimmying, squeezing, or holding my breath. Ah, yippee, I'd be spared slaving over laundry! No clothes equals no dirty clothes. There'd be no mending either, or storage. My closets would no longer bulge at the seams. All right... the positives are counter-balanced by negatives.... First of all, the climate where I choose to reside is unpredictable. For at least six months of the year, the weather tends to be chilly, snowy, and icy. I'd most likely have to sprint when outdoors to work up a sweat, and create body heat, but it does tend to be slippery as well. And then when the fear of frostbite abates, the threat of sunburn, and sun stroke arrives. Rain isn't a problem, I'm basically drip and dry. Oh, and with this variable weather, the terrain changes. The tootsies wouldn't take kindly to snow, slush, ice, pebbles, rocks, twigs, sizzling asphalt, and more. Um, most if not all business establishments frown on public nudity. They state their aversion with signs that warn: no shirt, no shoes, no service. So, if they object to bare feet, I'm guessing they oppose bare butts. I'm fairly certain that restaurants would not permit me to try self-serve either. The typical napkin doesn't protect much from spills... For travelling abroad, I'd obviously have no need for a strip search, and I'd never be accused of smuggling, but where would I carry my passport? I'd really miss pockets. They are so handy. Where would I stash some mad money, or foreign currency? I'd be forced to stow all my what-if essentials in an enormous bag, and tote it around. Sigh, More than likely I'd develop a hunch in my back. Laws enacted and enforced in certain locales would restrict my roaming at large. In Petrolia, Ontario Canada my buck-toothed nakedness could conceivably evoke raucous noise, and that is strictly prohibited there. No hooting, and or whistling is permitted. I would be banned from skinny-dipping in Bancroft, Ontario Canada, and doesn't that translate to no nude swimming? I wonder if tattoos would be categorized as clothing? I believe they should be show-cased and admired. If I was to be bare faced and bare-assed all the time, I might fancy a tattoo, or two. I could be a living, breathing artist's canvas... Anyway.... nah, nope, I believe I'll pass on this opportunity. I'll find other ways to shock the public. This girl still needs her secrets. I'm happy with the skin I'm in, and the clothing that protects it. Clothes make a statement, and what kind of a message would constant nudity make? |
| PROMPT: You can have the most dominant trait of any animal of your choice for 48 hours. What is it and what do you do with it to make the most of it? Any animal trait...? Well, when my children were younger, and often plotting mischief, the ability to crane my head right around effortlessly, and to see distances, and to have perfect night vision would be fantastic. They soon lost their gullibility, and guffawed at my assertion that I had eyes in the back of my head. They also checked, so they then knew I couldn't possibly see everything they did behind my back. Most animals have a keen sense of hearing, and that would've been a handy skill for a weary mother to possess, too. Ah, the power to really mean it when I said, "I see you," and "I hear you." The ability to soar and swoop in the endless sky like a bird has its appeal. I could then understand, and appreciate that expression " from a bird's eye view." Freedom to float almost effortlessly with a breeze would feel so liberating. I could flit, and glide vast distances. I'd travel and explore. From safe vantage points, I could study people, unhurried, and unnoticed. Yes, I'd like to fly "free as a bird." |
| PROMPT: Creation Saturday! I've taken one line from each of your blogs on 2/24. Your task is to write a poem or a story with the lines, but also to discover who owns what lines... THE LINES: "everyone loves"--Poisoned Purple Pen, "television station"--Chris Breva,..."hair salon"---Jade Amber, "spiritual soul"--Prosperous Snow (Neva), "too many interests"--S.B. Musing, "obstacles head on"--TaH2O, "direction we're heading"--Kittiara... Everyone loves to hear of human bloopers, the quirky, amusing little things that people do not get right. We've all fallen victim to mistakes that make us roll our eyes, shake our heads, and wonder what were we thinking? Those momentary lapses of judgement occur too frequently. Sadly, too many of these faux pas are now referred to as distractions, and we permit them free reign when we are driving motor vehicles. Drivers have too many interests that tempt them, too many gadgets. They no longer keep their eyes trained on the road. They choose to fiddle with their cell phones, or their tablets, or their I-Pods; they text, they carry on conversations with people not in the car, they snap photos of passing scenery, they listen to music, and search for other tunes. Perhaps they are booking appointments to places such as the hair salon, the medical clinic, or planning their appearances on the latest breaking news at the television station. One of the most distracting, frustrating, and yet most blindly trusted automobile gadgets is the GPS. Who needs to map out their route before hopping in the car? Who needs to have a real live navigator? Who needs to stop and seek directions? The almighty , all-knowing GPS will guide everyone step-by-step. street-by-street. No need to stare out the windshield, or read road signs. A voice will direct you: turn right in twenty metres, follow this road for five kilometres, you should reach your destination in twenty minutes. Heaven help you if you ignore the voice, or miss a cue. Then you hear, "recalculating, recalculating." There often isn't any life, any inflection to that robotic voice. It is well-modulated, so very patient. It has no spiritual soul. Many drivers have forgotten to trust their own eyes, or to look for signs/markers themselves. They seem totally reliant upon the GPS. If they are instructed/urged/coerced to turn here, they turn here. It matters not if they strike obstacles head on . They do not defy, or question the GPS with. "Explain the direction we're heading." Lately, here in Ontario Canada, drivers have found themselves in ridiculous predicaments all because they put their faith in a GPS. One woman drove her car into the water of a harbour claiming that her GPS commanded her to do so. Uh, did she not notice the moored boats, the dock, the water, or the ramp she trespassed on? Now ,a man has ignored many posted warning signs to drive his car up an incline and enter an enclosed subway tunnel. Apparently, he proceeded for some distance and only stopped his vehicle when he reached a subway station. Luckily the trains were not operational at the time since it was in the early morning. Um, did he not see, and or feel the metal tracks? Did he not notice "the road" was narrow, and free of other traffic? News reports claim he temporarily abandoned his car, and returned to it to find the police in attendance. Most drivers who become stuck somewhere attempt to drive their cars. A ditch, or mud. or snow... most people extricate themselves , or seek assistance. Could this driver not reverse out of the tunnel? Yes, he blamed his GPS... Hmmm, there was probably some kind of abuse at work here.... substance abuse... So, there is a new culprit, a new scapegoat for bad drivers. The defence seems to be my GPS made me do it... |
| PROMPT: Have you ever taken a job you didn't want in order to support yourself? What was it? In "The Meaning of Work", an episode of NPR's Ted radio Hour, psychologist Barry Schwartz asks, "Why is it that for the overwhelming majority of people on the planet, the work they do has none of the characteristics that gets us up and out of bed toward the office every morning?" Are you working in your dream profession now? In answer to this prompt's first question, yes. Yes, I have toiled at a thankless job. I was hesitant to take the position, but I was wheedled into it, a do-a -friend-a-favour job. I was assured I could handle it. At its inception, I'd been out of the work force for a short time due to health issues, and I wanted to try something new. I must admit the chance to work locally, and forgo commuting appealed to me. Well, there's always new skills to learn, you know, challenges, and new people to meet. And I definitely handled challenges! There was no initiation period, or gradual introduction. Immediately, I became a cook in an extremely busy, and popular restaurant in the height of the summer tourist season. It was a fast-paced atmosphere; go go, hustle, always on my feet and moving. Never was there time for breaks. The entire shift was jam-packed with activities. Not only food prepared for non-stop customers, but food prepping, receiving of supplies and their storage, cleaning, ordering essentials, cleaning, and visits from health inspectors. Oh, it was a whirlwind. The trouble was the owner/boss chose to lead from a distance. He was often out of the country for prolonged periods of time, and we, the staff were left to run the restaurant. Scheduling was non-existent, and time off was difficult to arrange. Rarely, did I manage to have two days back to back away from the business. Even when he made an appearance, the boss didn't think this was a priority. From day to day, I wasn't always certain of my working hours. I had to self-co-ordinate with the other cooks. Argh! Did I mention I was the sole non-smoker? If there was a brief pocket of time between cooking orders, the other cooks, all males, I might add, buggered off outside to smoke. Their attitudes were the hell with prep. Um, if the prep wasn't done, it complicated the cooking, and created longer shifts. It's time-consuming and aggravating to be dicing onions, mixing dough, or whatever at a furious pace at the very time those items are needed. It's all about time management, and planning. The guys would rather piss and moan when they ran out of stuff, and then blame each other. I came to realize that I'd been hired to babysit one cook in particular, let's refer to him as Craig because that was his name. For some reason the boss, my friend, tolerated everything this cook did. The others preferred not to work beside him any more, they'd had enough. Craig was a junkie and a drunk. He'd turn up stoned. The moment his shift ended he bee-lined to the beer store and bought his night's supply of beer. He'd turn up hung over. He was slovenly. He was loud and opinionated, customers heard him out front. He was a drama queen. The busier the kitchen became, the slower he'd react. He'd curse. He'd drop food on the floor and try to serve it. He'd mix up orders. He'd become belligerent. With all this, Craig had a high regard for his abilities. He considered himself the best. And, oh, his non-stop stories that were altered everyday. Even he couldn't keep his own facts straight. His favourite tale concerned the time he'd blacked out in the kitchen, (his inaccurate words). To describe myself as irked would be stating it mildly. He played fast and loose with this occurrence, and I know because I was with him when it all happened. It was a typical morning breakfast rush, and Craig had arrived stoned. He could barely mumble, his eyes were glazed, and he stumbled about. This restaurant kitchen had tile floors always slippery with something. The grill was gas-fired. Grease splatters. Sharp knives are used. We have to move quickly. Anyway, standing at the sizzling grill, Craig begins to shake, foam at the mouth, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He was experiencing a full body seizure. He was heading face first for the grill when I caught him and eased him to the floor. His thrashing knocked his head against the floor, and somehow one of his feet became wedged under the grill. I yelled for a waitress to call 911, and I managed to roll him onto his side. All the food was ignored and burned on the grill. Orders backed up. Paramedics invaded the kitchen and whisked Craig away. This was a first for me. Within a few days, Craig returned and then tried to tell me the story as if I hadn't been there. He admitted to the drug use, and thought he might cut back a bit. Huh, he only added drinking on the job. I found his beer stash in a storage room. As I said, the boss forgave him everything. I lasted three and a half years before I quit. I didn't need the stress. I tried to work with Craig, but he was more interested in self-destructing. Ah, Elaine a middle-aged waitress was a different character. I began referring to her "incidents" as Elaine'isms, and she could make me laugh. It was with relief that I noticed a dishwasher had been hired for one summer. We sure needed her help! She was a well-endowed, shy sixteen -year old working her first job. The rest of us had been a crew for years, and we knew the bustle and the banter. Elaine actually confronted this newbie and said, "I don't know why you're working here. If I had your God-given talents, I'd be working at Hooter's." Imagine sharing that with a young lady! Elaine also panicked one night because she had a French truck driver as a customer and she didn't know what he wanted. I asked her to explain to me what he'd said. "I don't get it. He wants something called mayonnaise. What is that?" I just looked at her. "Um Elaine, he wants mayo." "Huh, are you sure?" No, I am not currently working in my dream job. I have no idea what that is. I'm semi-retired at home. I keep the books, and crunch the numbers for our trucking business. I'm the favoured chauffeur for those who need a ride. I run errands for family. I babysit. Sometimes, I'm even a woman of leisure. |
| PROMPT: Come up with a Top 10 List-- any topic or subject you'd like-- and explain briefly your reasoning behind each pick. Let's see... what things do I think about, crave, like enough so that they number at least ten, consider combining in a list, keep nearby for any time indulgence, wish to wax eloquent with, consider worthy of this blogging therapy... ? There were no surprises. There was no "eureka", or "really, you could find ten?" Okay, here is my admission/submission/obsession... Writing about the Christmas calories kinda prompted some salivatin'. Let the crumbs do their thing; crumble, collect, scatter... MY TOP 10 MOSTEST FAVOURITE HOME-BAKED COOKIES Huh, listing only ten cookie flavours was a piece of cake. Truth be told, I haven't yet met a biscuit I do not like. Sure, there are "store-boughten" ones that tempt me, but Mrs. Fields, The Keebler elves, Mr. Christie, and the other big names cannot compete with home-made and fresh-baked. So, here is my list of personal favourites, the cookies that made the cut... Oh wait, should I count down like the radio billboard Top 40? Least favourite to "favouritest"?Yes... NUMBER TEN: Chocolate Chip... Don't get me wrong, this is a great cookie. It's a people pleaser, but I have baked so many of these over the years without any added nuts, say walnuts, or pecans which is how I'd prefer them. Certain family members are purists who do not appreciate mint chocolate chips, or raspberry chocolate chips, or any type of nuts. Bah, cookie critics! I'm not saying I would turn down a chocolate chip cookie, just that it's not my top pick. Oh, my tri-coloured Sheltie was named Chocolate Chip Cookie. The Canadian Kennel Club requested three different names from me, and this third choice was not intended to be taken seriously. We referred to her as Tasha, and she loved her namesake cookie. NUMBER NINE: Snickerdoodles... Fun name, huh? Sometimes, I need a break from the charms of chocolate, and this cinnamon cookie is it. There's something tantalizing about the aroma of warm cinnamon.....mmm... NUMBER EIGHT: TRIPLE CHOCOLATE, or DEATH BY CHOCOLATE.... What a way to go! This cookie is a triple threat: cocoa, milk-chocolate chunks, and white chocolate. Calories and cavities be damned! Decadence at its sweetest. NUMBER SEVEN: Gingerbread, not snaps 'cause I bake my cookies to be soft, or as a daughter's love interest raved "squishy cookies." The spice blend teases the taste buds, and the nose. I'm not a dipper, yuck. I don't like soggy biscuits, or cups of tea that require chewing. Gingerbread likes to be shaped by cookie cutters, too. One Christmas, my youngest daughter attempted to mix a batch of gingerbread. Huh, it was super sticky, and the colour of s**t. Apparently, she misread the directions, and a tablespoon translated to an entire carton of molasses. Not all baking disasters are edible. NUMBER SIX: Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Yummy! Whoever first paired these two together was a culinary genius. NUMBER FIVE: Peanut Butter Aaahh, these melt in my mouth, and are far finer than a p.b. sammy. P.B. on bread may stick to the roof of your mouth, but not its cookie counter part. NUMBER FOUR: Molasses Spice...This surpasses gingerbread. I believe I have a stash on ice in the freezer. NUMBER THREE: Oatmeal Cocoanut Chocolate Chip I think I may be drooling... I have an attraction to cocoanut, I confess. The oatmeal is healthy, right? This tastes better than a bowl of it, you know, porridge, gruel. A handful of oatmeal in the form of a cookie bypasses the dirtying of a bowl, and it fits easily into pockets, purses, whatever. NUMBER TWO: Santa's Whiskers Yes, really, this is a cookie, and a darn scrumptious one at that! It melds three of my favourite flavours: shortbread, cocoanut, and pecans. Alas, I punished myself this past Christmas, and I did not bake any of these. I knew their power. They are my Kryptonite. I had knee surgery booked for the new year, and I realized I wouldn't be very mobile... translation: I didn't need any extra weight to limp with... NUMBER ONE: Shortbread... This is my absolute" favouritest" cookie. They never seem to taste too sweet, but I am well aware of their butter, and sugar content. No chewing is necessary. They dissolve in my mouth. There are savoury versions, and lemony ones, too. Mom ruined them when she insisted upon adding cheerful red or green cherries as a garnish. They had the texture of leather. Blech! Funny, family members don't agree with my list, but they are not protesting too much. They know only too well where their cookies come from, and they do not want to risk withdrawal... |
| PROMPT: Think of a biographical movie you've seen... how did it differ from a book you have read about the same person (or how did it compare to what you knew of the person based on the news or just general information)? Did it change your opinion? What did it add to your knowledge of the individual? In those infamous Charlie Brown words of frustration, "Aaaack!" This prompt is beyond my limited capabilities. I am struggling. What biographical movie(s)? What corresponding book(s)? I do not have any to put together and compare. Do comic book heroes count? I have perused Batman and Superman comics in my youth. I have viewed movies based upon those characters... Both venues were pretty much the same, no surprises. Enigmatic crime-fighters with tragic back stories battle their own inner demons, and any evil threatening mankind. Uh huh, all this has been explored in print, and cinema. Nope, I've got nothing, nada... |
| PROMPT: Tell us about a time you purchased something you really wanted and couldn't wait to have, but soon regretted. So, today's blogger topic is buyer's remorse... Technically, no money exchanged hands when I married my spouse 'cause my parents generously footed the bill for the festivities, they did not believe in bribes, and some would think I came with a dowry. In reality, they threw me a thank-God-you're-leaving-home party, so my hubby didn't see any profit from our nuptials. What I'm saying in a convoluted manner is neither my partner, nor I purchased the other, and so logically, there can be no buyer's remorse. As far as I'm aware, there were no warranties either, applied or otherwise. After almost thirty-nine years exasperating each other, I think we're in it for the long haul, no lasting regrets. Several different houses in varying towns have been bought over the years. Regrettably, we never resided any where long enough to rue our choices. When we sought change, we moved. The same could be said of my vehicles. For most of this marital contract, Number 1 husband has operated an autobody shop. He restored and repaired all manner of transportation options with wheels. Anything I drove was up for sale, and eventually would be sold out from under me. I had no time to grieve regret my cars, trucks, vans, or SUVs. He once traded his services to a customer who paid with a water bed. Hubby really wanted one, and in his mind he got what he wished for without forking out hard-earned money. The initial set-up took time and effort. New sheets had to be purchased for it. Water had to be pumped in, and then permitted to heat before we could try it. Long story short, hubby and his spine found the new bed uncomfortable. If he wanted to sleep, he stretched out on the bedroom floor. Moi, very pregnant with Future-Super-Child Number 3, loved it. It was a free flow variety which meant there were always waves rolling in, or the tide cresting if someone so much as breathed, coughed, or sneezed. I imagined I was floating on a gently swaying boat. The current two kids treated it as a trampoline. The only thing I regretted about this bed o' water was the extra effort it took to disassemble and then re-assemble it every time we re-located. During a winter move, the mattress would freeze. Does food with calories qualify under this prompt? Perhaps I've regretted succumbing to a passing whim, a fleeting fancy. Who hasn't purchased post-Christmas cookies? The price was attractive, a discount. I'd assuage any murmurs of self-argument such as I really didn't need it, I bake my own cookies, the biscuits are probably stale, and it wasn't much of a bargain since they were over-priced to begin with. Yes, I admit the cute tin snowman packaging was a lure, but what I really couldn't resist were the delectable shortbreads nestled within... Cookies are the gifts that keep on giving... Moan, calories and their companions weight gain, are the ultimate buyer's remorse. They stick around. They cling. They refuse to budge. Christmas-Calorie Remorse Christmas calories lay lurking all 'round the house stuffed into each nook and cranny, ready to pounce. They sweet-talked my will power, urged it to denounce the wiggle, the jiggle of my broadening bounce. .... anyway, it's a work in progress... |
| PROMPT: What is the most embarrassing thing ( merchandise, employee, customer,or otherwise) you can recall seeing in a retail store environment? Why yes, yes I have spotted embarrassing things while out partaking of retail therapy. Perhaps a few were of my own making, or that of my inquisitive children. I recall an irresistible fountain, an escalator, and a full length mirror, but I shall merely tease with them... Picture if you will a grocery store teeming with shoppers in search of their next meal. Fruit is fondled, vegetables are viewed, boxes beckon, tins are tossed, and expiry dates are examined. Most customers have chosen to dress casually. One day, when thankfully I was unescorted, and thus had no kids-with-questions, a senior citizen, undeniably a woman, caught my unbelieving eye. Her hair, dishevelled and white, sprouted from her pink scalp, her brows, and her jutting chin. She exposed herself to my shock as she leaned over a refrigerated bin to rummage amongst plastic-wrapped portions of meat. Shapeless polyester pants were pulled high and snug to under her breasts; pendulous , naked breasts sagging past her hidden waist line. Whoa! There was an absence of a bra, or a camisole, or a vest, or a shirt, or a jacket. Yep, she'd let it all hang out. For some reason, I cannot recall the colour of those hiked pants, but they also dangled, somewhere between her knees and feet. Her feet were encased in sturdy sneakers with loose, lolling laces. No one seemed to be staring directly at her, or engaging her in conversation. Was this politeness? Who were any of us to question her minimal style? |
| PROMPT: Tell us about a book you're currently reading (or have recently finished) . Give us a brief synopsis and your thoughts on it. Sigh, there are far too many books to read, and too few hours to do so. I like nothing better than to immerse myself in a book, and ignore petty distractions. Reading has never induced sleepiness, and once I begin a book I usually continue until I finish. Thankfully, I read quickly, but it still requires a block of uninterrupted time. Life intrudes.Needs dictate that I sleep, shop, cook,eat, bathe, earn a wage and all those incidental activities. So, my latest eye exercise is a tome of past newspaper articles. I can read one, or a few pages at a sitting. I am enjoying an Erma Bombeck memoir titled 'Forever Erma.' It contains a sampling of the 4,500 plus syndicated humour columns she wrote between 1965 and 1996. Erma discovered that she could share her unique perspective as a mother to encourage people to laugh with her. Raising children is stressful, but it is also a chance to tickle a funny bone instead of despairing. She rallied mothers, and showed them no one had to be alone. This is an excerpt from her column of March 5, 1969. Ever since President Nixon"s inaugural plea to " speak quietly enough so that our words can be heard as well as our voices", I've had misgivings about my big mouth. I've always admired parents who discipline their children in hushed whispers:" Arthur, you are a naughty boy for turning on all the gas jets. Now I want you to drag your little sister out into the fresh air, give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and apologize. Don't make Mama have to raise her voice." I'm a shouter. No one is born a shrew. Erma goes on to write that she once believed that no mother should ever discipline a child in anger, but then she herself had offspring.She writes, " there were only 32 hours every week when I wasn't angry, and then I was sleeping." She claimed that no child listened unless the dishes rattled when Mom spoke. She discovered her kids were runners who avoided her wrath, so, how could she possibly whisper to someone she couldn't see? Her humour appeals to me. When I was a teenager, I gifted a set of Erma's books to my own mater by way of apology for my transgressions. Even the book titles evoked giggles... 'Motherhood, The Second Oldest Profession','The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank', 'If Life is a Bowl of Cherries What Am I Doing in the Pits?','Aunt Erma's Cope Book'. |
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