On The Road Again

I'll be away for a while, and it's just as well, since I don't seem to have any ideas for the blog. Jay and I will be making our annual pilgrimage to Omaha, to spend Thanksgiving with Kelley and Al and Cosette.

I won't be blogging for a while, but I'll be reading, and maybe commenting. So, don't be talking about me while I'm gone. OK?

Bad Hair Day

I have been letting my hair grow, just because I have never worn it long. My mother insisted on keeping it very short, and every time it grew past my ear lobes, she'd have it cut. I swore that when I grew up, I'd let it grow long enough to sit on. But, with one thing and another, it always seemed more practical to keep it relatively short.

I didn't have anything better to do during the summer and, knowing that I am not getting any younger, I realized that if I wanted to have long, long hair, I'd better "git-er-done". It was now or never. So, I set out to see how long I could let it get before I ran screaming to my hairdresser and begged him to "Cut it off! Cut it all off!"

As it grew I learned some things. 1. My hair grows very fast. After about four months, it hung past my shoulders. 2. I didn't have a clue what to do with it. 3. Long hair sheds. A lot.

So, when I finally got to the beauty shop, my hairdresser nearly fainted. It must have rattled him pretty badly, because, sad to say, he gave me a very bad hair cut.

He started out telling me he had been having trouble breathing, and then proceeded to talk non-stop all through the shampooing, cutting and drying. He kept leaving, to do other things such as fetching and carrying for the other two hairdressers and answering the phone, all the while jabbering away. After going to him for 20+ years, I knew that he was easily distracted, so I wasn't surprised. However, I did wish he would stop looking at me in surprise as though he had forgotten I was there when he finally came back to his station, and asking me how he had cut my hair when it was short, as though I hadn't darkened his door in decades, instead of just a few short months.

I went home looking like someone had plopped a bowl on my head and cut around it, but at least it's short again. And, I can predict that when I go back in about six weeks, he's going to look appalled and ask, "Who cut your hair?"

Stay tuned.

Gimmee That Old Time Religion

My telephone rang Sunday afternoon, just as I filled in 1-Across on the Sunday Crossword Puzzle. The caller was a woman who identified herself as the wife of a local pastor. I thought, "This won't take long. She'll invite me to come to their church, I'll explain that I already belong to a church, she'll thank me, wish me a a good afternoon and I can get back to the puzzle. But, no. I wasn't to get off as easily as that.

Mrs. Pastor: Mrs. A, do you have a personal relationship with God?

Me: Why, yes I do.

What I wanted to say: I talk to God all the time. Not that He always answers. I think he must have better things to do than to answer my piddly little prayers. In the grand scheme of things, he can't just drop everything and help me win the lottery.

Mrs. Pastor: Well, good. So, do you think you are going to heaven?

Me: I certainly hope so.

What I wanted to say: Not today, I hope. There are a few books in the world that I haven't yet read and I would like to find out who the Next Iron Chef is going to be.

Mrs. Pastor: It is very important that we go to church and pray as hard as we can, because, you know we are in the end times.

Me: Oh, I don't know about the end times, but we are certainly going to - er - Hades in a handbasket.

What I wanted to say: The end times? Holy Sh**, how did I miss the signs? I gotta go. I'm off to to Walmart to get plastic wrap and duck tape!

Mrs. Pastor: Yes, indeed. It is so important in these days, with politics being the way it is.

Me: Politics? Did you say you are a Pastor's wife?

What I wanted to say: Aha! Now I understand. You're scared of the Godless Liberals who just passed one of the Healthcare bills in the House of Representatives, which is a bill, by the way, that I have prayed for. And, I continue to pray that it passes the Senate. Also, by the way, I think God would want everyone to have affordable healthcare. And, so would his son. So there.

Mrs. Pastor: Yes, I am. (and she told me the name of her husband's church, which I didn't recognize as any major denomination that I had ever heard of.) I was sitting here at home on this lovely fall afternoon, praying about what I could do to help God and it came to me that He wanted me to get on the phone and make these calls, urging people to go to church and pray, so that they can all go to Heaven when the time comes.

Me: Well, thanks for your call. I'll surely think about what you have said.

And, we hung up.

What I wanted to say: Mrs. Pastor, I'm sure that you are sincere. You sound like a very nice woman. But, when you make these phone calls, you seem to be assuming that you are talking to heathens, because they don't attend your husband's church, and you can show them the way. Otherwise, your questions would have been phrased differently. For instance, "Mrs. A? I'm calling to get your ideas on how we can bring non-believers to God." See? That means you are assuming that I am on your side, and incidentally, God's.

It's a good thing I was feeling mellow that afternoon, or I might have engaged her in a debate about who's a Christian and who's not. But, I learned a long time ago that a debate of that kind would have resulted in a standoff, and we would not have parted friends.

I worked in a place where the majority of people knew I was a Democrat, and made the leap that I must also be a heathen. They were pretty obvious about it. I have had religious tracts placed in my box in the mail room and in the front seat of my car. And, when I spoke to the H.R. manager about it, suggesting that it came pretty close to religious harassment, I was told that it shouldn't bother me if I'm a Christian. I couldn't think fast enough to reply to him. But, I did go to my boss, the Plant Manager, and, to my surprise, he told the H.R. manager that he had been receiving the same tracts, and Mr. H.R. man had better do a little investigating and get it stopped. It stopped so quickly that we decided that the culprit was the H.R. Manager, himself.

So, maybe I'm just a little sensitive about it when strangers ask me if I'm going to Heaven. To me, that's just rude.

Stay tuned.

To Sleep, Perchance

When I retired, the first happy thought I had was, "Oh, goody, I don't have to go to bed so early any more!" For decades, I had been rolling out of bed by 6:00 a.m., in order to get to work. Now that I was retired, I could stop setting the alarm and sleep as late as I wanted to and go back to being the night owl I had always been.

Now, several years into my retirement, I seem to be in danger of getting my days and nights mixed up. I'm staying up later, and when I finally get to sleep, I can't stay that way. I wake up several times a night and just can't seem to stay in bed. I find myself wandering from room to room like Lady Macbeth and, most nights, end up dozing in my recliner until morning.

When my daughter was an infant, she got her days and nights mixed up, and my doctor told me to just make sure she was fed and her diaper was dry, then let her scream it out. He assured me it would only take a night or two. DJ, all too fortuitously, said he had to be out of town for a couple of days, taking depositions, and why didn't I let her scream those nights. Chicken. He just couldn't stand to hear her screaming and always gave up before I did, and ruined everything by picking her up. Then, he handed her to me and went back to bed.

The first night he was gone, I put her in her crib, all nice and cozy, told her good night, poured a bourbon and coke and went out on the patio so I couldn't hear her as well. She screeched and screamed for well over an hour before she fell into an exhausted sleep. Mission accomplished, I thought. But, I was as wrong about that as George W. Bush was. The next night, I repeated the routine and she screamed for about 45 minutes. Better, but at that rate, it would take more than a couple of nights to break her of the habit. DJ would just have to grin and bear it. And, sit out on the patio with me and my bourbon. After another night or two, she finally took the hint and settled down into a routine of sleeping at night.

But, enough about her. Let's get back to me. Because it is, after all, all about me, isn't it? Anyhoo, now I'm wondering how to get back into the habit of staying in bed all night. I don't think screaming myself to sleep would be a good idea. The neighbors would be pounding on the walls on two sides, and the floor above me. No, that wouldn't do at all.

I have decided that part of the problem is that after a few hours, I stiffen up and begin to ache, and that wakes me up. So, I have started taking some Ibuprofen just before I go to bed. That seems to help a little, and makes me think there is hope for a good night's sleep, yet.

I suppose I could try to forego that lovely little nap I take every afternoon. I hate to do anything that drastic, though.

Does anyone else out there in cyberspace have the same problem? What do you do about it? Hmmmm?

Stay tuned.

They Woudln't Dare - Would They?

I was reading through blogs this afternoon, and came across one by Cyberspace Dawdler and it made me realize that I am going to have to add something to my previous blog.

Walmart has gone into the funeral supplies business. Yep. They have a selection of 14 caskets with prices starting at $999.99. They also have decorative urns for the loved ones' ashes with prices starting in the $30s, for adults, children and even pets.

They even have "Keepsake Urns" and necklaces that hold only part of one's ashes. This struck a chord with me. I had always told my children that I wanted my ashes to reside on Jay's mantle for 6 months of the year and Kelley's the next 6 months. But, with "Keepsake Urns" I wouldn't have to be shunted from one residence to the other. And, with whatever ashes are left over, they can put in a tasteful necklace or key ring. They could even offer them to my friends and other family members. I'm sure there will be plenty of me to go around. Another little problem solved.

I have never been completely sold on cremation, but now I am. It would be just too humiliating to think of my bereft children having to go to Walmart to pick out a casket. And yet, I don't want them to have to pay a small fortune to a funeral home for something that is going to be stuffed into a hole in the ground that they can't reuse or resell.

O.K. I'll stop writing about this subject, now. Unless something new happens, such as KMart or Cosco or Amazon.com jumping on the bandwagon, not to be outdone.

Not So Famous Last Words

Since I entered my twilight years, one or the other of my children has, periodically, suggested that I should memorialize my last wishes in a written document. This is, presumably, in case they should one day find my carcass in peaceful repose in my recliner, book in my hands and reading glasses perched on my nose. They seem to think they wouldn't know what to do with me at that point.

In the first place, they wouldn't be the ones who found me, having long since committed me to Shady Pines. So, chances are I will be found by an attendant after I have missed a couple of meals, a bingo game and an elder aerobics session.

So, I decided to do as they asked and wrote my last wishes, and saved it to a folder in my computer. I look upon it as my chance to have the last word, something I haven't achieved in life.

Anyhoo, when I got through with it I realized that I had placed myself squarely on the horns of a dilemma. I couldn't "shuffle off this mortal coil" without letting them know I had finally done what they wanted. They might not even look for it, thinking I had never gotten around to writing it.

On the other hand, telling them about it would undoubtedly pique their curiosity, compelling one or both of them to sneak off to my computer to read it. And, that's exactly what happened. When Kelley was home last week, I broke down and told them about it and while they did manage to beat back an urge to race each other to my computer, I have no doubt that they entered into a deal whereby Jay would read it and report to Kelley.

Then, Jay, being unable to keep from commenting, let me know he had read the document, saying, "I guess it wouldn't be a bad idea for me to write something like that, too. Only mine would be funnier."

There goes my chance to have the last word.

Stay tuned.

To Cook Or Not To Cook - Not

I learned a long time ago that it just doesn't do to make meal plans when the kids come home. We always end up going in different directions, or just don't want what is planned, or don't have time to cook. It took me years to let go of the feeling that I had to make sure everyone was well fed while they were here. Silly me.

So, when my daughter announced her plan to come and visit for a few days, I didn't waste a lot of time on meal planning. And, that's just fine with me, because I really don't like to cook.

Just because I don't like to cook doesn't stop me from avidly watching the Food Network. I suspect it's the same impulse that leads a person to be a Peeping Tom - that sense of satisfaction comes from feeling free to look but not touch.

Before I downsized my life I had a large collection of cookbooks full of dog-eared pages marking recipes that sounded good at the time. I used to pour over these books, and had every intention of preparing a fabulous meal, and each time, I'd run across a list of ingredients that I never keep on hand, but must have for the chosen recipe. So, I would abandon that idea and search in vain for a recipe with a shorter ingredient list that wouldn't require an expensive trip to the grocery store for a spice or an herb that I would probably only use once. Failing that, I would simply order a pizza.

Once I thought I had found my kind of cookbook. It was called "The I Hate to Cook Book", by Peg Bracken. Clearly, she had written the book for people like me. Imagine my consternation when I eagerly began to read and discovered that every one of her recipes had to be, well, cooked. Talk about false advertising! Granted, the recipes were simple and less time-consuming, and I don't know what I was expecting. But, exactly what part of "I Hate to Cook" didn't the woman understand? I had vaguely thought that the recipes in the book would all start with a phrase like, "pick up a roasted chicken from the deli at your local grocery......"

I'm a frequent customer at the deli section, under the illusion that I am eating healthy because it is "home cooking", just not cooked at my home. And, I'm not the only one who feels that way. I ran into a friend at the store one day, who had a basket full of prepared deli dishes. She told me she didn't see any reason to cook when the folks in the deli do it so much better. My sentiments exactly.

Oops! Gotta go. It's time for the Barefoot Contessa. Have you seen her pantry? The shelves are crammed full of ingredients - not a cobweb in sight. You won't catch her having to rush out in her apron to buy a last-minute ingredient at her local gourmet grocery. Maybe I'll buy one of her cookbooks. After all, on her show, when she finishes preparing a meal she always asks, "How easy was that?"

Stay tuned.