I just finished my most recent Netflix movie, "Reds", a 1981 movie missed during my child raising years. "Reds" is a brilliant movie co-written, produced and directed by and starring Warren Beatty as John Reed, a revolutionary journalist. Diane Keaton plays his wife, Louise Bryant, a writer and feminist.
The film is set in the period from 1915, when Reed meets Bryant, to 1920, when he died in Moscow at age 33 and became the only American to be buried in the Kremlin. How this came to be is the focus of the story. In short, he and Louise made their way to Russia and witnessed the Bolshevik Revolution and each wrote a book about it - Reed’s Ten Days that Shook the World and Bryant’s Six Months in Russia. If you see the movie, also read Louise’s letter home after Jack’s funeral in Russia ("The Last Days With John Reed").
But the point of this writing lies not with the story of the movie but with The Witnesses. Beatty advertised across the country for anyone who had been associated with John Reed and came up with about two dozen people, some of them intellectuals from the Greenwich Village circle of Reed and Bryant. Beatty interviews and films these octogenarians against a black screen with a single light illuminating the face, then intersperses interview bites of these real life witnesses throughout the movie. Brilliant.
At one point one of these wrinkled ladies -- don’t get me wrong, they were sharp in their thinking -- says “Men like war. Otherwise they wouldn’t still be at it”. I sat up. I rewound the movie to that section. Did I hear what I heard? Was this the emperor’s new clothes? Men LIKE war? How could that be with the suffering, destruction, lost lives, economic cost and chaos that comes with war? Haven’t wars come about for self-defense, protection of borders, resources, retaliation, revenge, greed, and conquest. Isn’t it all about oil? Isn’t war a necessary evil? How could it be that “men like war”?
I finished the movie but this uncomfortable concept stayed with me. Men like war. Could this better account for the "WMD" and "spread of democracy" rationales and why Congress endorsed the invasion of Iraq? Could this account for the huge popularity of football -- competition of two small armies who go head to head? Fans say “it’s just a game”, but young men suffer injury, sometimes death from this game in the name of sport and entertainment. Wrestling? Boxing? Well, these don’t involve “armies”.
“Otherwise they wouldn’t still be at it” began to make sense. Warring has gone on from the beginning of known human history but now we have a United Nations for resolution of conflict. Instant world wide communication. Summit meetings. Meetings of heads of state. Seems like infinite opportunities for solving differences. Unless, of course, men like war.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Heartburn
Kathie’s been on me about getting a post up. It seems like a coon’s age since I’ve felt like writing! Perhaps this morning marks the end of my funk for a while.
Things started going whacky last Wednesday. I knew the nice young marketing person who has been helping my little group put together our magnet hospital kickoff event has a lot on her plate, but I was completely taken aback when she sent me a room props proposal late that afternoon for $500 over budget. (The event is this coming Wednesday.) We discussed the proposal and I told her I’d have to clear the amount with my VP.
I drove home and changed into jeans and a sweater for my new part-time job at the call center. (It’s a hoot, but I’ll write about that later.) Remembering that I had to stop and buy gas along the way, I hopped in the Miata to leave home a few minutes earlier than usual. The Miata had other plans, apparently. When I turned it on, the engine sputtered and spit and generally acted like it wanted to die. Ignoring that, I gave it a little more gas, backed out of the garage, and started down the street. The “Check Engine” light blinking on the dashboard made me re-think the going-to-the-2nd-job idea, however, and I turned the car around and went home to watch movies in bed; I just couldn’t face one more obstacle that day.
Thursday evening, I requested online a tow from AAA, suggesting in the comments box that they bring a flatbed rather than trying to pull my little baby all the way over to Mt. Pleasant. Did the tow company show up with a flatbed? No-o-o-o. The nice young man who jumped out of the non-flatbed truck took one look at the low front on the Miata and called back for a flatbed. “Sorry, Ma’am, it’ll be another half hour.” No problem, I thought. It’s not like I was going anywhere.
Friday morning, I called the service department, and the nice young man there said that his master mechanic had estimated my bill would be about $540. Ouch. “While he’s at it, Wayne, would you have him change the oil, too?”
“Sure thing,” he said, and we hung up, me thinking what a nice young man he was.
Then I e-mailed our nice young marketing person and told her we just couldn’t exceed our room props budget. She e-mailed me back and explained very reasonably that she would have to cancel the contractor altogether then, because there just wasn’t anything else that could be cut from the proposal to get the amount down to our budget. She gave me some good ideas for things we could do ourselves. My stomach started to knot as I wondered how I was going to get everything done in time.
Later, I went over to the classrooms where our event will take place to pull up my PowerPoint presentation and see how the colors will look in the rooms’ lighting. “Uh,” I said out loud to myself, “why is there a funny looking black W icon in front of my file name?” Opening the file, I saw gobbledygook. OMG, I’d lost my “Stars of Our Show” presentation that had taken me forever to put together.
I raced back to my desk and pulled up the file with no problem. Whew! I e-mailed the nice young IS man to find out what was wrong, initiating a back-and-forth string of messages that would eventually diagnose the problem.
Between e-mails with him, I received a call from two of our corporate communications ladies, who proceeded to drill me about the accuracy/clarity of the information on the event invitations that had been mailed out to our six hundred Nursing employees weeks before. I explained several times - and as calmly as I could at that point - the details they needed in order to write a news item for the company-wide newsletter.
Then I went over to the classrooms again and, with the help of the nice young IS man, I reassociated my presentation with the correct software and was finally able to open the file. Double whew!
Back in my office, I noticed that it was getting late and I hadn’t heard from the Miata service department that the car was done. At 5:15 (they close at 6), I called and was told by the nice young cashier girl that the car was ready and the bill was $620. “Huh? How much was that oil change?” She read me each item, one of which was a $180 tow bill.
“But I had AAA tow it,” I whined.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, the driver who left off your car said the tow bill was not paid.”
So I called AAA and told the nice young man who answered about my problem. “May I put you on hold a moment, Ma’am?” Sure, I answered, and was then disconnected completely.
Calling back, I got a woman who seemed to prefer talking to listening.
“Ma’am, you’re not listening to me. I’m not stupid. I know I have to pay my own repair bill. I just need to know that the tow bill is paid.”
She hung up and called the dealership herself. While I waited for her to call me back, I noticed that I didn’t have enough snack bars for the event, and e-mailed the nice Dietary man to please order some more.
The phone rang. The AAA woman explained that I have a $180 repair bill.
“Well, actually, it’s a $620 repair bill, but I just need to know that AAA paid my tow bill.”
“Ma’am, you have a $180 repair bill.”
“May I put you on hold and call the shop myself?” Sure, she answered.
The nice young cashier girl explained again to me that I have a $180 tow bill. Hearing the consternation in my voice, she checked with Wayne, who came on the line and explained to me that the $180 item was for labor even though the wording on the bill designated the item as “towing”. Hm...
“Thanks, Wayne.” Clicking over to the AAA woman, I thanked her for her time and explained that everything was resolved.
“OK, Ma’am, but you’re going to have to pay your $180 repair bill before we can tow your car.”
Good grief. By the time Kelly came to pick me up, I had the worst heartburn ever. It would be another evening of watching movies in bed.
Things started going whacky last Wednesday. I knew the nice young marketing person who has been helping my little group put together our magnet hospital kickoff event has a lot on her plate, but I was completely taken aback when she sent me a room props proposal late that afternoon for $500 over budget. (The event is this coming Wednesday.) We discussed the proposal and I told her I’d have to clear the amount with my VP.
I drove home and changed into jeans and a sweater for my new part-time job at the call center. (It’s a hoot, but I’ll write about that later.) Remembering that I had to stop and buy gas along the way, I hopped in the Miata to leave home a few minutes earlier than usual. The Miata had other plans, apparently. When I turned it on, the engine sputtered and spit and generally acted like it wanted to die. Ignoring that, I gave it a little more gas, backed out of the garage, and started down the street. The “Check Engine” light blinking on the dashboard made me re-think the going-to-the-2nd-job idea, however, and I turned the car around and went home to watch movies in bed; I just couldn’t face one more obstacle that day.
Thursday evening, I requested online a tow from AAA, suggesting in the comments box that they bring a flatbed rather than trying to pull my little baby all the way over to Mt. Pleasant. Did the tow company show up with a flatbed? No-o-o-o. The nice young man who jumped out of the non-flatbed truck took one look at the low front on the Miata and called back for a flatbed. “Sorry, Ma’am, it’ll be another half hour.” No problem, I thought. It’s not like I was going anywhere.
Friday morning, I called the service department, and the nice young man there said that his master mechanic had estimated my bill would be about $540. Ouch. “While he’s at it, Wayne, would you have him change the oil, too?”
“Sure thing,” he said, and we hung up, me thinking what a nice young man he was.
Then I e-mailed our nice young marketing person and told her we just couldn’t exceed our room props budget. She e-mailed me back and explained very reasonably that she would have to cancel the contractor altogether then, because there just wasn’t anything else that could be cut from the proposal to get the amount down to our budget. She gave me some good ideas for things we could do ourselves. My stomach started to knot as I wondered how I was going to get everything done in time.
Later, I went over to the classrooms where our event will take place to pull up my PowerPoint presentation and see how the colors will look in the rooms’ lighting. “Uh,” I said out loud to myself, “why is there a funny looking black W icon in front of my file name?” Opening the file, I saw gobbledygook. OMG, I’d lost my “Stars of Our Show” presentation that had taken me forever to put together.
I raced back to my desk and pulled up the file with no problem. Whew! I e-mailed the nice young IS man to find out what was wrong, initiating a back-and-forth string of messages that would eventually diagnose the problem.
Between e-mails with him, I received a call from two of our corporate communications ladies, who proceeded to drill me about the accuracy/clarity of the information on the event invitations that had been mailed out to our six hundred Nursing employees weeks before. I explained several times - and as calmly as I could at that point - the details they needed in order to write a news item for the company-wide newsletter.
Then I went over to the classrooms again and, with the help of the nice young IS man, I reassociated my presentation with the correct software and was finally able to open the file. Double whew!
Back in my office, I noticed that it was getting late and I hadn’t heard from the Miata service department that the car was done. At 5:15 (they close at 6), I called and was told by the nice young cashier girl that the car was ready and the bill was $620. “Huh? How much was that oil change?” She read me each item, one of which was a $180 tow bill.
“But I had AAA tow it,” I whined.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, the driver who left off your car said the tow bill was not paid.”
So I called AAA and told the nice young man who answered about my problem. “May I put you on hold a moment, Ma’am?” Sure, I answered, and was then disconnected completely.
Calling back, I got a woman who seemed to prefer talking to listening.
“Ma’am, you’re not listening to me. I’m not stupid. I know I have to pay my own repair bill. I just need to know that the tow bill is paid.”
She hung up and called the dealership herself. While I waited for her to call me back, I noticed that I didn’t have enough snack bars for the event, and e-mailed the nice Dietary man to please order some more.
The phone rang. The AAA woman explained that I have a $180 repair bill.
“Well, actually, it’s a $620 repair bill, but I just need to know that AAA paid my tow bill.”
“Ma’am, you have a $180 repair bill.”
“May I put you on hold and call the shop myself?” Sure, she answered.
The nice young cashier girl explained again to me that I have a $180 tow bill. Hearing the consternation in my voice, she checked with Wayne, who came on the line and explained to me that the $180 item was for labor even though the wording on the bill designated the item as “towing”. Hm...
“Thanks, Wayne.” Clicking over to the AAA woman, I thanked her for her time and explained that everything was resolved.
“OK, Ma’am, but you’re going to have to pay your $180 repair bill before we can tow your car.”
Good grief. By the time Kelly came to pick me up, I had the worst heartburn ever. It would be another evening of watching movies in bed.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
That Damn Flamingo!
Patty has been wondering why I haven’t been blogging over the last several months, starting with the month of October spent in South America. Forget that I’m learning Spanish, working full time, raising two cats, keeping in shape enough to climb to 16-18,000 feet at the drop of a hat, teaching myself how to make movies and slide shows in the iMac. And, oh yes, learning every Andrea Bocelli lyric in English, Spanish, and Italian.No, I see the real reason every morning as I back out of my driveway. The flamingo needs to be re-painted. Jennifer mentioned this when she was here at Thanksgiving, “Mom, it would be really easy to touch up your flamingo, just a little paint from the hardware store”. At that point Flamingo got in line with clean the garage, arrange for a carpenter to put in a new garage attic, re-landscape the back yard into a Peruvian jungle, get a cap put on the fireplace chimney, get the seal repaired on the back sliding door, re-grout the bathtub ... need I say more?
Monday, January 01, 2007
Renewal and Peril on Cowles Mountain
New Year's 2007 sunrise from the "summit" of Cowles Mountain, San Diego. What a way to start the New Year!View of the Pacific to the west, Mexico to the south, Cuyamaca Mountains to the east, Palomar and reservation lands to the north. Sounds like a real estate ad.
A few months ago at the top of these steps I spent one of my nine lives... rattlesnake stretched out across the trail sunning himself, gives me that familiar rattlesnake warning -- bless his little cold heart -- as my leg froze in mid-air above him, waiting for him to slither off the trail.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
The Twins a la Kathie's Memory
The writing class story is not how I remember the origin of The Twins.
Actually,The Twins surfaced on the Marco Polo sailing somewhere off Turkey in 1996. Maybe two women traveling together, young and elegant and blonde, was unusual for those times. Well, blonde in Turkey was ... the only place I’ve had a stranger sit down beside me with a marriage proposal.
We got the question frequently .... first, are you sisters? Then the inevitable, who is older? This last question may be flattering to the older, but what if you’re eight years the younger? Forget that Patty had Anderson Cooper hair and his same gorgeous blue eyes, and that the older sister had the age delaying genetics of brown eyes.
Finally, one late afternoon while we were enjoying the sun at the ship’s pool side cafe the questions came from two young, and as I recall good looking, young men working the bar... and out of Patty’s mouth pops the now infamous “we’re twins”. For a while, the “we’re twins” came out only when the “who’s older” question was asked. Over time, the information came to be offered with the “are you sisters” question. Now, all it takes is some clueless person to look at us as though they are about to ask the question.
Did it begin in writing class as Patty remembers, or sailing in the Mediterranean? I prefer my story... but then an eight years older brain can fill in a memory any way it wants.
Actually,The Twins surfaced on the Marco Polo sailing somewhere off Turkey in 1996. Maybe two women traveling together, young and elegant and blonde, was unusual for those times. Well, blonde in Turkey was ... the only place I’ve had a stranger sit down beside me with a marriage proposal.We got the question frequently .... first, are you sisters? Then the inevitable, who is older? This last question may be flattering to the older, but what if you’re eight years the younger? Forget that Patty had Anderson Cooper hair and his same gorgeous blue eyes, and that the older sister had the age delaying genetics of brown eyes.
Finally, one late afternoon while we were enjoying the sun at the ship’s pool side cafe the questions came from two young, and as I recall good looking, young men working the bar... and out of Patty’s mouth pops the now infamous “we’re twins”. For a while, the “we’re twins” came out only when the “who’s older” question was asked. Over time, the information came to be offered with the “are you sisters” question. Now, all it takes is some clueless person to look at us as though they are about to ask the question.
Did it begin in writing class as Patty remembers, or sailing in the Mediterranean? I prefer my story... but then an eight years older brain can fill in a memory any way it wants.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
The Twins
So here’s the story behind our being twins.
One Friday in October of 1995, I flew to San Diego to stay with Kathie for a day or so before our flight to Hawaii to watch the Ironman. The next morning, we attended Kathie’s writing class. (In those days, she dreamed of writing a book. Eleven years later, I can’t even get her to write a post.)
We sat in the back of the crowded classroom. I was wedged between Kathie and one of her classmates, a nice older lady. Kathie introduced me as her sister.
“Which one of you is older?”
“Actually, we’re twins.” It was out of my mouth before I even realized it. “Where did that come from?” I wondered to myself.
“No we’re not,” Kathie hastened to correct me, and went on to explain to the lady that she’s older…or that I’m her baby sister…or something like that.
I whispered to her, “The twins answer was working. Next time, just go with it, hm?”
We’ve been twins ever since.
One Friday in October of 1995, I flew to San Diego to stay with Kathie for a day or so before our flight to Hawaii to watch the Ironman. The next morning, we attended Kathie’s writing class. (In those days, she dreamed of writing a book. Eleven years later, I can’t even get her to write a post.)
We sat in the back of the crowded classroom. I was wedged between Kathie and one of her classmates, a nice older lady. Kathie introduced me as her sister.
“Which one of you is older?”
“Actually, we’re twins.” It was out of my mouth before I even realized it. “Where did that come from?” I wondered to myself.
“No we’re not,” Kathie hastened to correct me, and went on to explain to the lady that she’s older…or that I’m her baby sister…or something like that.
I whispered to her, “The twins answer was working. Next time, just go with it, hm?”
We’ve been twins ever since.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
An Idea for a New Listerine Flavor
As I read Mother Jones' post about Detective Nurse this morning before work, I found myself wondering what kind of person might "accidentally" wash her hair in organophosphate insecticide. After all, the patient was only fifty years old - not nearly old enough, in my opinion, to miss the garlic scent of her new shampoo.
Then I remembered how, ten years ago when I was still just a sweet young (forties) thing, I had reached into the bathroom cabinet for my mouthwash. Without looking, I took a good swig. Yikes! It was nail polish remover! The bottle wasn't the same size or even the same shape as that of the mouthwash.
The taste stayed in my mouth for hours. Duh.
Then I remembered how, ten years ago when I was still just a sweet young (forties) thing, I had reached into the bathroom cabinet for my mouthwash. Without looking, I took a good swig. Yikes! It was nail polish remover! The bottle wasn't the same size or even the same shape as that of the mouthwash.
The taste stayed in my mouth for hours. Duh.
You know Joan?!?
So we celebrated Christmas at Jessie's house. Michael supervised a wild and crazy kitchenful of cooks preparing our traditional international dinner. This year we chose to have an Italian meal. I rustled up Kathie's Rachael Ray recipe for vegetable not-sagna. It turned out pretty well but didn't look very Italian. Go figure.
Anyway, between slicing, dicing, measuring, and stirring (and sipping on my pomtini), Patrick and I did our best to whup each other's behinds at air hockey. Oh - I almost forgot - we also got in a few rounds of Ruckus, a game at which people with ADD really excel. Between Jessie, Kelly, and me, we had some pretty excellent players!
Then Dan, Karen, and their family arrived. Dan's related somehow to Michael's side of the family and is a really nice guy. I mentioned to him that he would be hard pressed to beat us attention-challenged girls at our card game, but he said, no, he has ADD, too.
"Oh yeah? I've got this blog post you've got to read." And I proceeded to show him Joan's post "Christmas Carols for the Disturbed" (12/22/06). He looked at me, awestruck.
"You know Joan? No kidding, you know Joan? I read her blog all the time!"
Yes, folks, I work with the (in)famous Joan, and am therefore a near celebrity (just one degree removed!).
And Dan? Shh...don't tell anyone, but I read her blog all the time too.
Anyway, between slicing, dicing, measuring, and stirring (and sipping on my pomtini), Patrick and I did our best to whup each other's behinds at air hockey. Oh - I almost forgot - we also got in a few rounds of Ruckus, a game at which people with ADD really excel. Between Jessie, Kelly, and me, we had some pretty excellent players!
Then Dan, Karen, and their family arrived. Dan's related somehow to Michael's side of the family and is a really nice guy. I mentioned to him that he would be hard pressed to beat us attention-challenged girls at our card game, but he said, no, he has ADD, too.
"Oh yeah? I've got this blog post you've got to read." And I proceeded to show him Joan's post "Christmas Carols for the Disturbed" (12/22/06). He looked at me, awestruck.
"You know Joan? No kidding, you know Joan? I read her blog all the time!"
Yes, folks, I work with the (in)famous Joan, and am therefore a near celebrity (just one degree removed!).
And Dan? Shh...don't tell anyone, but I read her blog all the time too.
I'm on Gavin's Message Board!
Gavin, one of my British (actually, I think he's English) blogging buddies, has invited me over to his new message board. I registered on his site this evening, and I'm almost as impressed with myself as I am by his web abilities. Come on over and take a look!
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
A Christmas to Remember
My friend PJ sent me the following story. In 1999, it won first prize in the Louisville Sentinel's contest for wildest Christmas dinner stories. On the day after Christmas, it seems like appropriate material for a post. (Sorry, Kath - you might want to skip this one.)
Christmas with Louise
As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay's kids' stockings overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.
One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, "What does this do? You're kidding me! Who would buy that?"
Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour. Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for Lovable Louise. She was at the bottom of the price scale.
To call Louise a doll took a huge leap of imagination.
On Christmas Eve and with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.
The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more.
We all agreed that Louise should remain in her panty hose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner. My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door.
"What the hell is that?" she asked.
My brother quickly explained, "It's a doll."
"Who would play with something like that?" Granny snapped.
I had several candidates in mind, but kept my mouth shut.
"Where are her clothes?" Granny continued.
"Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran," Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room.
But Granny was relentless. "Why doesn't she have any teeth?"
Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, "Hang on, Granny, hang on!"
My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, "Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?"
I told him she was Jay's friend. A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized Grandpa might need a new eyeglasses prescription.
The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the panty hose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa.
The cat screamed.
I passed cranberry sauce through my nose.
Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants.
Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and went to sit in the car.
Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health!
It was surely a Christmas to remember.
Well, that's one family's story. Thanks for the chuckle, PJ.
I hope everyone's Christmas was as memorable as Louise's.
Christmas with Louise
As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Jay's kids' stockings overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.
One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, "What does this do? You're kidding me! Who would buy that?"
Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour. Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for Lovable Louise. She was at the bottom of the price scale.
To call Louise a doll took a huge leap of imagination.
On Christmas Eve and with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I went home, and giggled for a couple of hours.
The next morning my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more.
We all agreed that Louise should remain in her panty hose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner. My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door.
"What the hell is that?" she asked.
My brother quickly explained, "It's a doll."
"Who would play with something like that?" Granny snapped.
I had several candidates in mind, but kept my mouth shut.
"Where are her clothes?" Granny continued.
"Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran," Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room.
But Granny was relentless. "Why doesn't she have any teeth?"
Again, I could have answered, but why would I? It was Christmas and no one wanted to ride in the back of the ambulance saying, "Hang on, Granny, hang on!"
My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, "Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?"
I told him she was Jay's friend. A few minutes later I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise. Not just talking, but actually flirting. It was then that we realized Grandpa might need a new eyeglasses prescription.
The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the panty hose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa.
The cat screamed.
I passed cranberry sauce through my nose.
Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants.
Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and went to sit in the car.
Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered that Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health!
It was surely a Christmas to remember.
Well, that's one family's story. Thanks for the chuckle, PJ.
I hope everyone's Christmas was as memorable as Louise's.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Pet Peeve #23 Revisited
This morning, I had less than an hour to get my last minute Christmas errands run before I had to clock in at Lowe's. And I also wanted to talk with Kathie, who had told me previously that she wouldn't be answering the phone on Christmas morning. Kind of a long story. You don't want to hear it.
Anyway, I thought I'd better multitask if I was going to get everything done, but in order to do that I was going to break one of my own rules - "Don't talk on the cell phone when you're checking out at the cash register!" Of course, the clerks were totally unimpressed by my lack of manners, so today when my Lowe's customers "multitasked", I just smiled.
I guess a little tolerance goes a long way...especially on Christmas Eve.
Peace.
Anyway, I thought I'd better multitask if I was going to get everything done, but in order to do that I was going to break one of my own rules - "Don't talk on the cell phone when you're checking out at the cash register!" Of course, the clerks were totally unimpressed by my lack of manners, so today when my Lowe's customers "multitasked", I just smiled.
I guess a little tolerance goes a long way...especially on Christmas Eve.
Peace.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Sunday at Lowes
An elderly gentleman approaches me, pushing a shopping cart. “I need someone to cut some blinds for me.”
“What aisle will you be on, sir?”
“Ten.”
“I’ll get someone right over to you.”
Later, he approaches my cash register, newly cut blinds in his cart and his wife in tow.
“You fixed me up with the right person.”
“Glad I could be of help.”
“Your kindness is surpassed only by your beauty.”
His wife, the lady customer behind him, and I all grin.
----------------------------------------------------------
“Your change is twenty five dollars, sir.”
“Uh, Ma’am?”
“Hm?”
“You gave me one too many twenties.”
Thank Jesus for honest customers.
----------------------------------------------------------
A man with a bit of a ‘tude bellies up to the counter, all dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes – medium gray suit, red violet shirt, and a red and green Christmas tie. The combination catches my eye.
“Nice tie.”
“Thank you.”
I can be evil sometimes.
---------------------------------------------------------
Closing time and my dogs are beat. As I amble toward the back of the store to deliver the trash to the dumpster area, I notice all the smells that distinguish the different departments, such as the mothball-y and toxic odors of the fertilizer area and the new carpet smell of Flooring. I am warned to watch my step by the beep-beep-beeping of forklifts rolling up and down the aisles trying to finish their restocking.
Ordinarily, the far back corner behind Plumbing is a beehive of activity after closing; this is the time when new merchandise comes into the store on a conveyor line and is distributed by the after hours crew. Tonight, though, the area’s semi-dark and quiet. When I open the hatch to throw in the bags of trash, a cool breeze of pine scented air refreshes me. Inside are the remains of a discarded Christmas tree, or perhaps just the sawed off branches from all those trees that were sold earlier in the day. It makes me sad, but I welcome the lovely smell.
It’s been a pretty good day.
“What aisle will you be on, sir?”
“Ten.”
“I’ll get someone right over to you.”
Later, he approaches my cash register, newly cut blinds in his cart and his wife in tow.
“You fixed me up with the right person.”
“Glad I could be of help.”
“Your kindness is surpassed only by your beauty.”
His wife, the lady customer behind him, and I all grin.
----------------------------------------------------------
“Your change is twenty five dollars, sir.”
“Uh, Ma’am?”
“Hm?”
“You gave me one too many twenties.”
Thank Jesus for honest customers.
----------------------------------------------------------
A man with a bit of a ‘tude bellies up to the counter, all dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes – medium gray suit, red violet shirt, and a red and green Christmas tie. The combination catches my eye.
“Nice tie.”
“Thank you.”
I can be evil sometimes.
---------------------------------------------------------
Closing time and my dogs are beat. As I amble toward the back of the store to deliver the trash to the dumpster area, I notice all the smells that distinguish the different departments, such as the mothball-y and toxic odors of the fertilizer area and the new carpet smell of Flooring. I am warned to watch my step by the beep-beep-beeping of forklifts rolling up and down the aisles trying to finish their restocking.
Ordinarily, the far back corner behind Plumbing is a beehive of activity after closing; this is the time when new merchandise comes into the store on a conveyor line and is distributed by the after hours crew. Tonight, though, the area’s semi-dark and quiet. When I open the hatch to throw in the bags of trash, a cool breeze of pine scented air refreshes me. Inside are the remains of a discarded Christmas tree, or perhaps just the sawed off branches from all those trees that were sold earlier in the day. It makes me sad, but I welcome the lovely smell.
It’s been a pretty good day.
Friday, December 08, 2006
The One with the Healthy Heart
This morning I received a call from my grandson, Patrick, who was on his way home from his six-month check-up with the cardiologist.
"NaNa?"
"Yes, my Man?"
"The doctoh say my heart ok!"
Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!
"NaNa?"
"Yes, my Man?"
"The doctoh say my heart ok!"
Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!
Pet Peeve #23
Why do people continue talking on their cell phones when they pull up to the cash register at the store? Are they just so busy that they can't fit their phone calls into non-cash register time? Makes me crazy...
And while I'm ranting, I may as well complain about people who pass me by without an acknowledgement of my existence. I've taken to saying "Hi" or "G'morning" to everyone I pass - whether or not they look at me - if for no other reason than to just irritate them. Amazing how many will even smile and return the greeting. "Now, was that so hard?" I want to say.
I must be getting old.
And while I'm ranting, I may as well complain about people who pass me by without an acknowledgement of my existence. I've taken to saying "Hi" or "G'morning" to everyone I pass - whether or not they look at me - if for no other reason than to just irritate them. Amazing how many will even smile and return the greeting. "Now, was that so hard?" I want to say.
I must be getting old.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Silver Medal
As I mentioned before, my friend Joan has a great blog. She calls it "Walk This Way". Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s noticed her talent. The other day, she told me she had won second place in the Canadian Blog Awards photo/art category. (I didn’t even know she’s Canadian!)
Congrats, Joan! I want to be just like you when I grow up! :)
Congrats, Joan! I want to be just like you when I grow up! :)
Phish Story
Yesterday after lunch, I ran into my friend Beth in the hospital lobby. She had just walked in the front door. The bewildered look on her face caused me to ask her what was wrong.
“I just had to put my mail in the mailbox.”
Pause.
“I haven’t used the mail for a long time. I haven’t even bought stamps in over a year.”
Another pause.
“I’ve been paying my bills online, but the day after Thanksgiving, Wachovia called and asked if I knew these four people who had tried to access my account. I didn’t, so we agreed that I should close my account immediately. I’m never banking online again!” (It took me another minute of her talking to realize that she meant she had decided to not pay her bills online anymore.)
It turns out that she had received an e-mail message from Wachovia – or so it had appeared. She said it looked really authentic. Just by Beth’s clicking the message open, the sender(s) had accessed her password. Fortunately, when the scumbag attempted to charge $3,000 worth of stuff, Wachovia called her. Way to go, Wachovia!
I like the old fashioned kind of fish story a lot better.
“I just had to put my mail in the mailbox.”
Pause.
“I haven’t used the mail for a long time. I haven’t even bought stamps in over a year.”
Another pause.
“I’ve been paying my bills online, but the day after Thanksgiving, Wachovia called and asked if I knew these four people who had tried to access my account. I didn’t, so we agreed that I should close my account immediately. I’m never banking online again!” (It took me another minute of her talking to realize that she meant she had decided to not pay her bills online anymore.)
It turns out that she had received an e-mail message from Wachovia – or so it had appeared. She said it looked really authentic. Just by Beth’s clicking the message open, the sender(s) had accessed her password. Fortunately, when the scumbag attempted to charge $3,000 worth of stuff, Wachovia called her. Way to go, Wachovia!
I like the old fashioned kind of fish story a lot better.
Alter Ego
I have an alter ego. Not everyone knows what it is. See if you can guess.
Since October, I have worked a part-time job - on Wednesday evenings and weekend days. (I won’t bore you with the reasoning behind my working seven days a week.) My hands get really dirty and by the end of a shift my legs and feet are very tired, but it’s actually pretty fun because I meet all kinds of people.
OK, I’ll tell you the place of business is a retail big-box kind of store. I myself have shopped there for years; my son-in-law especially loves it when I give him their gift cards for Christmas.
One last hint? It’s located right across the street from the hospital where I work full time.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m no good at playing games/keeping secrets. I work at Lowe’s in West Ashley. Come by and see me!
Since October, I have worked a part-time job - on Wednesday evenings and weekend days. (I won’t bore you with the reasoning behind my working seven days a week.) My hands get really dirty and by the end of a shift my legs and feet are very tired, but it’s actually pretty fun because I meet all kinds of people.
OK, I’ll tell you the place of business is a retail big-box kind of store. I myself have shopped there for years; my son-in-law especially loves it when I give him their gift cards for Christmas.
One last hint? It’s located right across the street from the hospital where I work full time.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m no good at playing games/keeping secrets. I work at Lowe’s in West Ashley. Come by and see me!
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
New Links
I've finally found some local friends who actually blog. Both are my co-workers at the hospital and very cool people. Joan is a talented photographer and a major networker. She's sent our blog to Lowcountry Blogs, a blogroll affiliated with the Charleston Post & Courier. Hey Kath - we're on a blogroll! Start writing, Girl!
Anyway, Joan's blog is a hoot! And Gene is just one of my favorite people - such a sweetie pie and a real inspiration. If you don't believe me, click here.
Anyway, Joan's blog is a hoot! And Gene is just one of my favorite people - such a sweetie pie and a real inspiration. If you don't believe me, click here.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Miracles Do Happen
I have just done something so goofy - one of those things that remind most of us on a daily basis how lucky we are.
I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, so this evening I had planned to just sit here at my computer and mess around, read blogs, balance my checkbook, do some lessons in an online class I’m taking, and maybe write a post of my own.
About half an hour ago, I realized it was getting late and I’d better get some dinner so that whatever I eat won’t go to fat after I hit the sack (as if that’s going to help). I went downstairs, still thinking about a post I’d like to write, and put a pot of water on the stove for cooking spaghetti. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed on the counter the Tupperware wannabe in which I keep my hearing aid dryer thingy. (Yes, I’m partially deaf. Perhaps I’ll write a post about it some day when someone develops a procedure to fix my brand of deafness, because I will be having that procedure done. To be able to hear normally again, I would be happy to pay my share of that surgeon’s wife’s - or husband’s - upkeep!)
Anyway, the dryer thingy is almost as annoying as the hearing aid and the deafness put together, because it won’t work if it isn’t baked for 30 minutes once a week. So I had put it on the counter this morning, thinking I would bake it this evening. And bake it I did.
I put that little sucker in the toaster oven, turned the dial to 350 degrees, set the timer to 30 minutes, and went outside to pull the Miata into the garage. But by now my mind was reeling with the mental image of the gigantic spider I’d just killed in the living room in an effort to keep Sammy from yet another vet visit. (What is it with that cat? This spring, he took one too many swings at a snake out in the woods. Maybe he was just sizing Aragog up for a saddle?)
A fuzzy image of a not so fuzzy but at least dead Aragog
Oh yeah, I wanted some garlic bread to go with my spaghetti. Retrieving the garlic bread from the freezer (see Kathie’s post about my cooking capabilities), I opened the toaster oven door to take out the dryer thingy and put the bread in its place. “Wait a minute, that doesn’t look like the dryer thingy,” I thought to myself.
Dryer thingy a la Tupperware wannabe
No kidding. It was the dryer thingy with the Tupperware wannabe melted around it and down onto the bottom of the toaster oven! Five more minutes and the whole thing would have gone up in flames!
See what I mean about miracles?
P.S. This episode was almost as good as the time the kids and I evacuated the house and called the Mt. Pleasant fire department at 11 pm because we smelled smoke. The firemen looked at me a little funny when they opened the dishwasher door and found a Tupperware wannabe melted to the heating element on the bottom. Guess I should quit buying Tupperware wannabes.
I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, so this evening I had planned to just sit here at my computer and mess around, read blogs, balance my checkbook, do some lessons in an online class I’m taking, and maybe write a post of my own.
About half an hour ago, I realized it was getting late and I’d better get some dinner so that whatever I eat won’t go to fat after I hit the sack (as if that’s going to help). I went downstairs, still thinking about a post I’d like to write, and put a pot of water on the stove for cooking spaghetti. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed on the counter the Tupperware wannabe in which I keep my hearing aid dryer thingy. (Yes, I’m partially deaf. Perhaps I’ll write a post about it some day when someone develops a procedure to fix my brand of deafness, because I will be having that procedure done. To be able to hear normally again, I would be happy to pay my share of that surgeon’s wife’s - or husband’s - upkeep!)
Anyway, the dryer thingy is almost as annoying as the hearing aid and the deafness put together, because it won’t work if it isn’t baked for 30 minutes once a week. So I had put it on the counter this morning, thinking I would bake it this evening. And bake it I did.
I put that little sucker in the toaster oven, turned the dial to 350 degrees, set the timer to 30 minutes, and went outside to pull the Miata into the garage. But by now my mind was reeling with the mental image of the gigantic spider I’d just killed in the living room in an effort to keep Sammy from yet another vet visit. (What is it with that cat? This spring, he took one too many swings at a snake out in the woods. Maybe he was just sizing Aragog up for a saddle?)
A fuzzy image of a not so fuzzy but at least dead AragogOh yeah, I wanted some garlic bread to go with my spaghetti. Retrieving the garlic bread from the freezer (see Kathie’s post about my cooking capabilities), I opened the toaster oven door to take out the dryer thingy and put the bread in its place. “Wait a minute, that doesn’t look like the dryer thingy,” I thought to myself.
Dryer thingy a la Tupperware wannabeNo kidding. It was the dryer thingy with the Tupperware wannabe melted around it and down onto the bottom of the toaster oven! Five more minutes and the whole thing would have gone up in flames!
See what I mean about miracles?
P.S. This episode was almost as good as the time the kids and I evacuated the house and called the Mt. Pleasant fire department at 11 pm because we smelled smoke. The firemen looked at me a little funny when they opened the dishwasher door and found a Tupperware wannabe melted to the heating element on the bottom. Guess I should quit buying Tupperware wannabes.
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