Um, boy; I've been remiss! I'm copying links to latest articles. I hope you like them!
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This is my latest. Since we're going to be going on vacation soon (and now that I finally have two boobs!), it was time to go swimsuit shopping. As with most things in my life, it didn't go well. I was told that this one made women laugh out loud several times. I hope you like it!
She's Got the Bathing Suit Blues
No matter your weight, women get freaked out whenever it’s time to
buy a bathing suit. I’ve always hated buying one, even when I was young
and had no body issues. But, we’re getting ready to go on vacation, and
the last time my current swimsuit was in style was the early 80s.
First thing I did was to thumb through women’s magazines, looking for
what’s fashionable right now. I came across article after article
counseling that once I had figured out my body shape, they had tips for
the best bathing suit for me. I saw straight-shaped, pear-shaped,
inverted triangle-shaped, and several other body types. Problem was, I
couldn’t find mine – outta shape.
Armed with ideas, I headed for the mall. I chose the mall because
there were several large chain stores in one place, plus lots of smaller
stores. I figured I had a better shot at finding my bathing suit there
than driving to every strip mall in the area.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m lazy; the mall had the best opportunity to
get this done and over with in as little time as possible. I’d be home
with a suit in time to make dinner and watch "Big Brother." Off I went.
As I walked in, I quickly began to think I’d made a mistake. The
corridors were filled with teenagers who looked at me as if I’d just
disturbed their shrine with my old self. Too bad for them; I was there
on a mission. The teens would have to share their kingdom with the likes
of me.
I saw a sign that boasted 20 percent off the entire bathing suit
line; but it was at Victoria’s Secret, the bastion of rail-thin models
with oversized breast implants. Still, I had to take a look around. A
perky, 20-something sales girl came up and asked if she could help me. I
don’t know if it was my insecurity, or if I really heard her add, “Out
the door.”
The merchandise confirmed what I knew; this wasn’t the place for me.
Even when I was younger I don’t think I would have been comfortable
wearing Victoria's Secret swimwear, which amounted to little more than
dental floss with ruffles.
I went into a department store and headed toward the beachwear. I
stood in the middle of swimsuit territory, reading placards that claimed
to work wonders for my figure. One line claimed that my curves would be
flattered and shaped thanks to tummy controlling technology; another
line claimed to be swimwear with shaping secrets for the real woman’s
body. It seemed as if all the lines were promising I was going to love
what I saw in the mirror when I wore their magical swimsuits.
Barring a Slim Fast miracle, there wasn’t much of a chance of that
happening. Still, after I read another placard promising nothing short
of a mystical transformation, I was beginning to buy the hype.
I grabbed several wonder suits and headed for the dressing room, eager to see the amazing change in my body.
Unfortunately, it was occupied by several teenaged girls that didn’t
look like they’d eaten so much as a raisin in the past year. They
modeled bikinis that would make the ruffled dental floss look modest,
each squealing things like, “Does this make me look fat?”
I slithered into a stall, hoping not to bring any attention to me and
my matronly, magical shape wear. Unfortunately, I caught one of the
girls eyeballing me, so I figured I’d have fun with it. I said, “I don’t
know about you girls, but I’m getting really tired of people using me
for my body. You know, for shade and stuff.” The girls laughed, and I proceeded
into a booth and began trying to pour myself into one of the magical
swimsuits.
Here’s the thing about miracle swimwear; it’s made out of something
called Lycra, which is about as flexible as sheet metal. I was able to
get my legs through, but the rest of the suit balled around my rear end.
I grabbed handfuls of fabric, and pulled with everything I had. I
finally got the chest part of the suit over my butt, but there was a way
to go before I got the bra where it belonged. After double checking to
be sure I’d grabbed the right size, I pulled and pulled, but it wouldn’t
budge any farther.
Trying to use gravity, I lay down on the floor, put my feet up on the
bench, and used my legs to lift my body while I tried tugging the suit
in place. Unfortunately, the bench wasn’t screwed in as I had thought.
The next thing I knew, the bench toppled over, sending piles of
swimsuits, my clothes and plastic hangars raining down all over me.
Next, as if in slow motion, my purse began a bizarre barrel roll as
it careened down the bench, bumped over my legs and spilled its entire
contents all over my half-naked body. My wallet skidded out sending
credit cards through the air, spilling open the change purse, which
sprayed coins all over the small booth - with a random quarter or two
pinging off the mirror.
I’m here to tell you; you don’t know true humiliation in your life
until you find yourself lying half-naked on the floor of a dressing room
stall with a bathing suit gathered around your rear end, covered in
change, credit cards and plastic hangers; with teenaged girls banging on
the door asking if you’re all right.
That was it. There was no way I was going to find some magical
swimsuit that would make me look like a rail-thin Victoria's Secret
model with over-sized boobs. After I cleaned up the mess I’d made, I
left the store, came home and made dinner in time for "Big Brother."
My swimsuit dilemma? You know what they say; everything old is new
again. Look out swimming pool; me and my 80s neon swimsuit, bedazzled
cover up, leg warmers and overly teased and sprayed hair are on our way.
Yup, this one got the comments, too!
What are we talking about?
Cell phones are everywhere and it seems that everyone has them, from
older adults down to 3 year olds. It’s only been 10 or 15 years since
they became a universal commodity, yet it seems that none of us can live
without them. Does anyone remember when a trip to the store armed with a
list was all you had? No one could call and add to it; yet we lived and
made do.
Yikes! When did I turn into an old lady talking about the good old days?
Of course, the kids wanted their very own cell phones. They began to
show up on the top of both Christmas and birthday wish lists. Matt and I
couldn’t figure out what tweens could possibly use cell phones for
other than games. We had a perfectly good home phone. So, we told them
that when they saved their money, we’d take them to buy whatever phone
they could afford.
We’re living proof that kids are amazingly thrifty when they want
something bad enough. Within a month, both girls had the newest cell
phones. And what did they use them for? Games. That, and to text each
other even though they were in the same house and most often, the same
room. It took us a while, but we finally caught on that texting is this
generation’s version of passing notes to each other, usually to complain
about us.
Today, it’s as if we have to be in touch with everyone for any reason
all the time. I recently overheard a woman talking to her friend about a
soap opera. Well, at least I hope it was a soap opera. If not, then I
am now complicit to a murder involving the head of a hospital, his third
wife, her lover, a second cousin, and somebody’s step-daughter who just
got out of her third stint at rehab, who may or may not be the lover’s
cousin’s sister.
With half the population of people on the phone 24/7, you’d think
they were doing important things like negotiating for hostages. Most
times, the conversation is trivial; and it makes people in the service
industry crazy.
While standing in line at a bank, a woman had several deposits, a
withdrawal slip, and a bag of coins she wanted counted. In the middle of
the teller’s questions, her phone rang. She answered it, and proceeded
to say, “No, I’m not doing anything. What’s up?”
The teller grabbed the lady’s phone, told whomever was on it that she
was actually very busy, that the woman was incredibly rude for implying
that she wasn’t doing anything, and hung up on the person. Bystanders
erupted into applause.
Of course, that was all in my head, but wouldn’t it have been awesome if it had really happened?
When we owned our restaurant, people would walk in the door with the
phone in their ear. They’d pause, tell us what they wanted, and then it
was right back to their important call. Heaven forbid, we had a question
about what they’d just ordered. We’d try to get their attention, but
they’d hold up their finger as if saying, “Wait a minute.”
Since no one in the family is serious about much, we’d just laugh and
say stuff like, “Look, that thar’s somebody from the future with one of
those new fangled communicatory deevices!” (said in a hillbilly
accent). Then we’d ignore them until they got off the phone.
Increasingly, cell phones have made us a rude culture.
In line at the pharmacy, I saw a woman speaking on her cell. I
thought it must be a very important conversation, as when the assistant
began asking her questions about her allergies, the woman held up her
pinky. Not even her forefinger, her pinky. Surely she must be on an
important phone call; either that or she doesn’t concern herself with
small things like providing life-saving information about possible
adverse reactions to medication.
Turns out, she was having a heated conversation about where to go for
dinner that night because after the day she’d had, there was no way she
was going to cook. Personally, judging by the pharmacist’s face, I’d
have been more worried about surviving my next dose of medicine.
The problem people may not have thought about when having one-sided
discussions in public is that while they may be having a normal
conversation, we’re only hearing part of it. You may be celebrating a
positive test for pregnancy, but trust me, the person overhearing your
conversation only hears two words – “tested positive;” and assumes the
worst.
It’s amazing how quickly people can run to avoid contracting whatever it is you just tested positive for.
Then, as if the Silicone Valley Gods hadn’t had enough fun, they came
up with Bluetooth. Or, as I like to call it, the harbinger of our Star
Trek future.
The cruelest irony, however, has to be that while most of the
population is chained to a cell phone speaking to every person they
know, most businesses have gotten rid of humans answering theirs.
Beam me up, Scotty.
This is another one that got quite a few comments!
Breath, Stretch . . . Ah, forget it!
Years ago, I hurt my back. I went to the doctor and he asked me how I
did it. Strangely enough, I had no clue. I just woke up and could
barely get out of bed. He determined that I must have pulled a muscle
and suggested that I try Yoga. I made an appointment.
I arrived at my first class and my senses were immediately assaulted
by an overwhelming scent. I looked around and found the source - an
incense burner. I quickly identified the smell as Patchouli.
If you’ve never smelled Patchouli, I can’t begin to describe it. It’s
one of those fragrances that you either love or hate. I happen to
despise it. My brother, on the other hand, can’t burn enough of it. I
remember walking into his apartment once, and had to leave because I
felt like I was drowning, the air was so thick. He just rolled his eyes.
After regaining my equilibrium, I looked around the room. I should
have realized that this wasn’t going to end well. I was the only one
wearing a girdle underneath my leotard.
Then I noticed a tall, rail-thin girl coming my way. She was like a
bubbly version of Twiggy, and was all of 20 years old - if that. But she
was really sweet, and she made me feel welcome. She even asked if I’d
like to be in the front row. I’m sure she figured that due to my
advancing years, I’d be able to see her more easily. I just thought, no,
Twiggy, I don’t want the rest of the class to see my well-padded rear
end in all its glory. It would be like showing the class a before and
after picture and yes, I would definitely be the before.
My peppy instructor introduced herself as Sarah. This put me in mind
of the makers of tender, delicious, and fattening frozen cakes. All I
could think about was Sarah turning into a double layer chocolate cake
made with real whipped cream and topped with decadent chocolate icing. I
mentally drooled like Homer Simpson. It took all my resolve to put the
vision out of my mind and not lunge at her for a nibble.
We began, and she told us to stretch our arms up in the air, a move
called the “Salutation to the Sun.” I was beginning to think this wasn’t
going to be nearly as difficult as I’d thought. I happily stretched my
arms up in the air and covertly looked around to see if anyone was
impressed by my reach. Unfortunately, all eyes were on Sarah.
Next, she told us to take a deep breath. Again, I was thinking this
isn’t going to be nearly as bad as I had feared. Just as that thought
flittered through my mind, she instructed us to exhale, and slowly bend
over to touch your toes. Whaatt??
The odds of that happening were about the same as turning a Bengal tiger into a vegetarian.
I looked around and saw a room full of skinny people dressed in
skin-tight leotards with their noses pressed against their knees. I
hunched down and kept watching the class, waiting for them to begin
their ascent. I quickly mimicked doing the same. They looked at each
other and said things like, “that felt great.” I began inching my way
toward the door.
Another muscle-defying pose later, I yet again pretended to be doing
it. Sarah, bless her heart, must have seen my distress. She said to no
one in particular, although everyone in the room knew who she was
talking to, that it’s OK if we can’t do the pose. She instructed us to
do what we were comfortable with.
At that point, I was comfortable with identifying, and using, the exit.
What I really wanted to do was make a hasty retreat before any of my
lithe classmates could stop me with peppy, encouraging words. Sadly, the
stretch was over before I could get out.
Still, I managed to inch a little closer to the door.
The next stretch had us lying on the floor, with our hands clutching
our ankles behind us. I should amend that, the others were clutching
their ankles behind themselves. I was on the floor staring at the
carpet, wondering when the last time it was vacuumed and making a mental
note to vacuum mine when I got home.
By the time the class was over, I’d managed to inch myself next to
the door. I was almost free, when Sara/Twiggy/Task Master asked how I
enjoyed the class. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I smiled and lied
that it was wonderful. Before she could engage me again, I showed
athletic prowess that I didn’t know I had.
I bolted out the door with amazing speed. In my mind, I was imagining
the entire class chasing after me like a herd of Yoga Zombies with me
as a speeding gazelle avoiding being dinner.
I finally got home, where Matt took one look at my face and silently
went back to working his crossword puzzle. Being married so long, he
didn’t have to ask me anything. In fact, he didn’t bring the class up
for weeks.
Fast forward to now, life once again proves that it has a sense of
humor. Matt and the kids are learning Yoga, and the girls are actually
very good at it. I’ve even been incorporating some of the moves into my
own workout. It’s still difficult, but if you keep working at it, it’s
supposed to get a little easier and I’m trying.
Besides, I do a mean “Salutation to the Sun.” I’ll get around to
those other poses one day. Just as soon as I meet a vegetarian Bengal
tiger.
This one got 15 comments. People really identified with other people's awful children. Click on the link to read them.
Not MY Child!
We’ve all seen them; children whose parents have the ability to tune out while their children are misbehaving.
Honestly, misbehaving is a mild word for kids running through a
restaurant, knocking over chairs and bumping into tables, sending plates
flying. Yet their parents keep on eating as if nothing is going on. The
funny thing is, if you point out their miscreants’ behavior, you’re
nasty or hate kids.
And why is it that they’re almost always out in restaurants or in movie theaters when we’re trying to have a nice evening?
Years ago, Matt and I went to a theater and the family behind us had
brought all five of their manner-impaired imps. We knew it was going to
be a difficult evening right off the bat. I’m guessing that the parents
wanted to keep them busy, and to accomplish that goal, bought every
candy bar known to human kind. The constant rustle of candy bars being
opened made it difficult to hear anything going on in the movie.
Unfortunately, the theater was full, so we had little choice but to stay
put.
If the goal was to keep them quiet by feeding them, it didn’t work.
The kids proved that they were quite accomplished at talking with their
mouths full. In record time, we knew that little Scotty needed to go
number two and that his sister, Lisa, was a dummy head.
Soon, I’m guessing due to all the sugar in their little systems,
their limbs began to flail unchecked. The back of my seat was being
kicked with annoying regularity. Of course, when we’d turn around and
ask them to please stop kicking, the parents glared at us. The mom made a
lame attempt to stop it by saying something trite like “the lady wants
you to knock it off,” then turned her attention back to the movie. The
children, correctly, knew that she wasn’t going to do anything about it
and the kicking began with renewed fervor.
Finally, Matt had had it. He unfolded his 6’2” frame from the seat,
stood up and turned around. The children’s eyes turned into saucers at
the sight of the large man before them. Matt rumbled that if their feet
made contact with the back of our chairs just one more time, he was
going to stick them in a most uncomfortable spot.
This sent the mom to the lobby to complain about the mean man who
threatened her little angels. The manager came out, and when we asked if
he was there to remove the loud family, the surrounding patrons erupted
into applause. This annoyed the horrible family, whose much smaller
husband got up and made a show of threatening to beat Matt up. At long
last, the family was asked to leave.
As for us, we were given free
tickets to another movie, as we had no idea what had transpired since
the beginning of the show.
Oh, and what was the movie these thoughtful parents brought their
young children to see? “Children of the Corn.” I’m guessing they wanted
to introduce the kids to the rest of the family.
The thing is, people who have problem children rarely know it. Once, I
was planning a field trip for a group. I wanted to charter a bus to
visit the Baltimore Aquarium, spend time at the harbor, and come home
later that evening.
However, Matt and I had gone on a bus trip before, where children
were running up and down the aisles while their parents paid no
attention, blissfully staring out the window. He insisted that if I
wanted him to come along, we set an age limit for the bus ride.
A group of ladies and I met to discuss the upcoming trip at a grocery
store café. I dreaded breaking the news of the age limit, because one
of the most ill- behaved child’s mothers was there. She remarked that it
was a shame that some parents let their kids run around and do whatever
they liked. She said, and I quote, “It’s those types of parents that
ruin it for people like me.”
That’s when I mentioned to her that her son was in the midst of
adding another wing to the fort he’d built out of soda cans while we
were chatting.
The thing is, we’re all guilty to one extent or another when it comes
to thinking our children are angels. To us, they always will be. No
matter how many times we’ve struggled with temper tantrums and argued
that the word “share” is actually a verb and not a concept to be
debated, we love them and think they’re wonderful.
We’ve taken care of them, comforted them when they had a rough day at
school. And when bad dreams invaded their sleep, they’d come bearing
their blankies and teddy bears, wanting to sleep in mom and dad’s room.
We’ve held them when they cried after a loved one or a pet passed away;
trying to explain the finality of death, as we struggle to make sense of
it ourselves.
Inevitably, the time comes all too quickly when they know that a
thunderstorm is just that and not God and the angels engaged in a
bowling tournament.
One of the hardest things for a parent to do is recognize their
children’s faults. It’s perfectly natural that we can tune them out.
Moms are particularly good at that. But tune them out at your own peril
while you’re out with them. After all, you don’t want to be one of those
people who can sit at an ice cream store while your child has locked
his sister in the dairy case.
The truth of the matter is sometimes, it is your child.
Wizard of Seeds?
I’d written a little about nasturtiums before, but only scratched
the surface of my lack of skill growing them from seed. Here, as Paul
Harvey used to say, is the rest of the story.
Years ago, Matt and I owned and operated a restaurant. As part of
that business, we catered. Meat and cheese platters were always popular,
but I always thought that the mounds of parsley most delis use for
decorating the platters were excessive. It made me feel like grabbing a
lawn mower or a pair of clippers. I went in search of other ways to
dress them up and stumbled upon a humble flower called the nasturtium.
Nasturtiums are colorful annuals, whose flowers and leaves are
edible. It’s actually a member of the watercress family. They have a
peppery taste and the leaves are often used as greens in salad.
The problem with buying them for use in food preparation is that
they’re often sprayed with pesticides. Confident that most people would
bristle at the thought of having pesticide-laden produce dressing up
their otherwise non-toxic food, I knew I’d have to grow them myself.
The thing is, I fell in love with the graceful little flowers and
soon, they were in every hanging basket and flower box around my house.
But, as with most of the flowers I fall in love with, I always wondered
if they came in other, more unusual colors. And one day, an innocent
spring time trip to Target for a new dress turned into a fateful turning
point in my quest for unusual nasturtiums.
I’m not known for going into a store, buying what I want and leaving.
It drives Matt crazy. I’m more of a grazer, wandering around admiring
things that I don’t need, but find myself suddenly wanting. So, as I
wandered amongst the rows of merchandise, I spotted a packet of seeds
for a mixture of cream and mahogany colored nasturtiums called 'night
and day.' Since I’ve had very little success growing any flower from
seed, I was thrilled to see the words, 'easy to grow.' If I hadn’t been
in a public place, I would have done my dance of joy.
Instead, I came home and planted a few seeds in between my petunias.
And waited. I kept watch like a cat stalking birds, but no seedlings
emerged. By July, I resigned myself to the fact that the unusual little
flowers weren’t going to bloom.
The following year, I purchased another pack of seeds but I read the
instructions on the back before planting them. The package insisted that
the seeds would sprout, but to insure germination, advised me to soak
them in warm water the night before planting, which I did. Again,
nothing happened.
I bought another packet that counseled me to use a nail file to
insure sprouting. Since nothing else had worked, I filed away and found
out too late that filing them until they’re reduced to half their size
kills them.
If you’ve ever heard me say that nothing is idiot proof to a
sufficiently talented idiot I was talking about myself. I’ve also heard
that the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over,
expecting different results. Being both an idiot and crazy (or a crazed
idiot), I gave it another try. I turned to the World Wide Web for help,
because as you may know, that always turns out well for me (she says
sarcastically).
I went on a gardening Web site, hoping to find another dummy that
couldn’t grow them from seed; misery loves company. More than that, I
was looking for someone who could tell me what I was doing wrong. And
that’s when ‘GrannyGreenThumbFromGeorgia’ asked me a simple question –
did I know the difference between a nasturtium seedling and a weed?
Turns out, I don’t.
For some reason the phrase, ‘don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater’ was ringing in my ears.
In one last attempt to grow night and day nasturtiums, I fashioned a
home made greenhouse using a plastic platter with a clear lid - leftover
from my catering days. I bought peat pots, filled them with special
seed starting soil, watered and waited.
One morning, I awoke to one of the windiest days ever. I’m talking
Kansas style, lift your house up from the foundation, carry you off and
drop you in Oz type of wind. And my very lightweight greenhouse was
playing the part of Dorothy. There were peat pots, dirt, seeds, and
pieces of plastic flying everywhere. I ran out to try to salvage
something but was quickly blinded by a hail of extra fine, specially
treated dirt. I had to watch helplessly as my deck continued its homage
to Kansas.
The next day, which, ironically, was windless and hot, I went about
cleaning up the mess. I managed to get dirt out of the cushions, the
wicker table, hurricane lamps, wind chimes, and even the pillows on the
hammock. Matt came out to help, turning on the ceiling fan for a breeze.
As dirt rained over us, we realized I’d missed a spot.
I’ve finally thrown in the towel. My quest for night and day
nasturtiums has been abandoned. For some reason, though, my family
doesn’t believe me, probably because they know me. But there’s another
reason. I came across an unusual poppy that I’ve just got to grow. The
downside is, you have to grow them from seed. But they, too, claim that
they’re easy. Bonus, they grew wild in Kansas!
I’m off to see the Wizard – of seeds.
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