HUSBANDS

 Dad always says "I have liked every one of her husbands."

STOLEN SILVERWARE

 My sweet husband has been stealing silverware from restaurants for well over 35 years, for which I have cringed and have nary a matching set for more than two people in my kitchen drawer.  I am now 63 and have given up, so today  when he was leaving for a three day business trip the last thing I said as he left was "We need spoons." 

THINK AGAIN

 Over the weekend I had to do the weekly food shopping so I headed into good old Smiths out West in Utah, the equivalent to Florida's Publix. Upon entering the grocery store I was neck and neck with two other shoppers, a teenager type about 15ish and his father.  Their relation was easy to see as they mirrored each other from the top of their blonde blonde heads to the pointed boots on their toes.  Cute.

Going for our shopping carts I hear the young man say "Just get a small cart Dad because we don't need too much stuff."   Weaving up and down the aisles we kept passing each other as we gathered our items up for purchase.  

Down the cereal aisle I hear "Do we need that?" causing me to look up at the Dad with a box of Raisin Bran in his hands.  Moving on down another aisle, over the bustle of busy Saturday shopping I hear "Dad we have soup.  We don't need that.    Mom said just get what we need.  Do we need that?" and I thought Jesus Christ, that kid would get on my every last nerve if I had to live with him, related or not.  

Reaching the end of the store while picking up my favorite rootbeer and water bottles I once again encounter the shopping duo as I hear "Dad next time we shop you've got to bring a list and stick to it because you impulse buy and Mom said get only what we need." 

At this point I could not stand it another minute.

I turned to the handsome, miserable, middle aged man and said

"I bet you thought you'd left your wife at home."    

 

 BAD HOUSE FIRE

This past summer my cousin asked me to go with her to a plastic surgeon consultation.  She was interested in getting a breast lift and implants to step in line with so many other middle-aged women seeking to regain their youth.  Oh brother.

I myself am not looking to regain my youth, and I am not fond of being poked, prodded, jabbed, dilated, stuck, stretched, or scanned.  I am not interested in my cholesterol numbers, mammogram results, or scheduling a colonoscopy to dig up god knows what.  Look, I consider old age the last chapter and we have no choice but to keep turnin the pages. If I am sick I will go to a doctor but I know I am not immortal and that makes good sense to me.  When it comes to gravity I'm handlin it my way and the plan is to keep wearin underwire  the way good old Victoria intended.

 I told Suzi  to just put on a good bra and be done with it but no, she was intent on going and taking me with her.  Driving there I reminded her that I do not like doctors, doctors offices, and waiting in general.  She laughed saying "I know I know but I still want to hear what you think after we see what the doctor has to say. 

I warned her.

So.  Off we go.

Walking through the smokey glass doors the cool air rushed out along with the smell of money dipped in scented body butter. "Mmmmm, it sure smells good in here I will give you that much."

As Suzi filled out the standard medical forms I did what I do by looking around and taking notes.  Yuck.  The decorator did everything matchy-matchy like my old obnoxious roommate.  I prefer eclectic . 

What a true pain in the ass she was, all concerned about my unmatched furniture.  Hell, the two sides of face did not match.  And damn if you ever wanted anything to match I'd say it would be the two sides of your face.  But you did not hear me complain.  She was also not a fan of having pets because they don't wear underwear.  You should of seen the two sides of her mis-matched face when I told her she had a problem on her hands then because her new roommate did not wear any either.

A young woman came to the inner door and called my cousins name.  We both got up and followed her aesthetic looking self to the examining room.  The woman looked like a Stepford wife on steroids.  Her peach uniform matched her lipstick, nail polish, and eyeshadow that matched perfectly with the peach paint on the office walls.  

I was then offered to take a seat in the doctor's private office to wait while my cousin was physically examined.   Again I looked around. Peach peach and more peach.  Oh my goodness.  The picture frames, the windrow dressings, carpet, even the furniture was a light distressed peach.  

Shortly thereafter in walked Suzi followed by the surgeon to whom I was introduced.   Well well looky here.   Not only was the whole office dressed in peach but the good doctor too as he extended his hand from his peach shirt and peach plaid tie.  I could not help but smile. He offered us both to please sit, then handed us a photo album that contained large before and after pictures of his patients and their procedures.

Oh my oh my oh my.  By the look on my face I am sure this doctor was thinking., this damn broad is going to blow the sale.  And he would have been right.  After seeing one page after the next of breast, chin, cheek, and butt implants, I felt like both my retinas were ready to fly off my eyeballs.  I just cannot imagine what in the world these women were thinking to do this to their bodies in the name of youth.  How looking like an Alien with a huge butt equates to youthfulness I will never know, but indeed to each their own.  

Take the aged singer Madonna for example.  She was born in 1958 making her 63 years old.  Her public persona for singing and acting is one thing but perhaps she is best known for wearing underwear as clothes.  So one can imagine her plight to stay young is heavy duty.  Her aim has obviously been to look young, sexy, refreshed, and revitalized as she still wants to run around naked.  But I say hell no, it did not work out.  Because instead she looks like she survived a bad house fire and I am left wonderin just how many skin grafts the poor thing had to endure.  This cannot be the desired look, she was going for.  Bless her heart.

After we pulled in the drive at home Suzi seemed a bit irritated as she looked at me with exasperation and asked Well, do you have anything positive to say?"  

"Yes."  I told her.  "Yes, I do. If you decide to go through with this I can pretty much guarantee you that they will match."

SHE'S BEEN SMOKING

I work for a small accounting firm for almost twenty-five years.  When it comes to tax returns we usually see clients once a year but talk to them several times on the phone throughout.  And more often than not the client comes to our office for their accounting services but occasionally we go to them instead.

From the outset of my employment, one of our clients is Mr. Sergio Garcia who owns a top of the line dental lab that services the people who live on Fischer Island, Palm Island, Star Island and Coral Gables.  Basically the posh of the posh in Miami.  A year ago Mr. Garcia opened a new state of the art lab that resides in the penthouse of a luxe high-rise overlooking the sparkling waters of Biscayne Bay.

So this year after preparing his work, my boss and I both wanted to see his new digs but had to go to different clients afterward so we took separate cars which we often do because my boss is an old school smoker.  He had his office built as an addition to the back of his home so that he could enjoy his habit of chain-smoking cigars while at work too.  His wife chain-smokes as well but her choice of pleasure is Marlboros.  Every single thing that comes out of that house and office is reeking and I mean reeking with smoke. 

After getting lost then finding our way, valet parked the cars and the doorman pointed us in the right direction. Walking into the building an old friend of my boss came up to him and they started chatting so I continued on by myself as he said he would meet me upstairs.

While waiting at the elevator door a woman joined me.  She smelled so good I turned to look.  The slender woman was brown as a berry and serious. No one else came along, so we rode to the top of the building together and then got out.  Turns out we were both arriving at the same place, The Sunshine Dental Lab which encompassed the entire floor.

The woman walked in first then surprised me by stopping at the reception desk where she went behind it and sat down.  Looking up at me she gave a rather curt but perfunctory "May I help you?"

"Yes, thank you" I replied continuing "My name is Ivey Mae McFarland and I am here to see Mr. Garcia.  He is expecting me."

She told me I could have a seat.  As she turned to leave, again I got another whiff of her clean and powdery scent like she was in from the beach and freshly showered.  But damn, I was thinkin what a sour personality this woman has when a brilliant flash of diamond drew my eyes to her left hand.  Wow, I thought somebody sure put a ring on it, sour-puss and all.  I started to look around when almost immediately her scent came back by as she returned.

Again, she offered no smile no pleasantries just a curt  "Please follow me" and I did thinking I must find out what she is wearing before I leave. 

My mouth was on the floor as I took in my surroundings. The engulfing glass and chrome were made that much more intense by cool inset lighting that gradually shaded everything in greens and purple as we walked.  Futuristic state of the art on steroids describes what I was seeing there.
   
We rounded a corner and headed down a long hallway.  On our left was a terrarium type of extended greenhouse that gave the effect of entering the Amazon river, waterfalls included. To the right, smokey glass veiled an endless stream of dental technicians as they worked, their heads bowed whilst creating a variety of man-made teeth, oblivious to the comings and goings around them.
Looking about me I could not even imagine the bottom dollar to build this place nor the overhead to run it.

We stopped at an inner office suite where the receptionist swept her hand towards the doorway to acknowledge we had arrived then without a sound she turned to walk away.  Damn, her body language too couldn't have been more off-putting and cold but she sure smelled good.

After she left I looked at the photos placed behind Mr. Garcia's desk then took an instant double-take.  It appeared that the receptionist with the chipper disposition is Mr. Garcia's new wife!  Mr. Garcia had told us a couple of years back that he had divorced and remarried.  So this is her.  Wow.   I did not see that coming.

Just then Mr. Garcia came through the doors with his Latin charm and took my hand to kiss it.  "Hello hello hello Miss lovely Ivey."  Please sit down he gestured and I did.  After we spent about ten minutes catching up with our lives we got down to business.  Mr. Garcia looked over his returns as I asked a few questions he said "hold on let me get something."  He reached for the inner-office phone and punched in a couple of numbers and waited.  With an apparent no response he slammed down the phone and I jumped in my seat.  

Whoa Nellie!  I have known this man a very long time and seen him in many circumstances.  I have seen him at parties, a funeral, a couple of weddings, and of course doing his tax-work for almost 25years.  In all this time I have never seen even the slightest indication of a temper.  His kids have also commented that their Father could not be more reasonable and laid back.  It is a known fact that in the Garcia household their Mother was the disciplinarian. I was immediately curiouser and curiouser.  

Without hesitation, he pulled a cellphone from his pocket and speed-dialed a number that was obviously answered "Where are you! Smoking again ?" he barked with words dripping in anger and I became instantly uncomfortable.  thinking oh brother is there ever trouble in paradise here.

He spat "You can smoke on your own time" then abruptly slammed down the phone.  It was as if he had forgotten I was even there.  My eyes wide as saucers as I watched this calm gentleman losing his temper.  I sat motionless while he then went back behind his desk and dialed his phone again.  

Moments later a tall young man with perfect olive skin and twinkling brown eyes came in.  I knew the handsome man.  He was Sergio Jr and carried all the charm of his Dad, and then some. 

Sergio Sr. asked his son "Can you please bring me the auto-expense file for last year?  Celine would do it but she can't because she is outside smoking." With this, his son replied "Sure Dad.  I'll be right back." As he turned to go he left me with a wink and a smile.

Mr. Garcia and I turned our attention back to his financial planning as if nothing had happened.  Soon Jr. returned.  He handed his Father the folder as his Dad asked "Is Celine finished smoking yet?" "I'm sure I don't know Dad," he said then quickly left the room this time looking at me with a smile and roll of his eyes.  Shortly thereafter Mr. Garcia picked up the phone again and dialed whilst that time I held my breath.

In two minutes tops, Smoking Celine came in a threw a check on her husband's desk and huffed out, her wonderful scent wafting around us.

My uncomfortable level was getting the best of me so I spoke to ease the tension and said "Your wife smells so darn good!" to which he snapped.
"She smells so good because she just sprayed because has been smoking!  She loves to smoke.  She can't work because she is too busy smoking!"

Oh my.  The wrong thing to say.

Mr. Garcia was walking me to the door and saying goodbye when my long-winded boss appeared inside the dental lab.  Apparently, he had been downstairs talking and smoking himself, the entire time I had been working with Mr. Garcia.  His infamous stogie still in his hand as he was reeking of smoke because had not used any of Celine's spray.

THE HANDSOME BUS

Aftershave floats in the air as I slowly make my way, through the sea of tan tasseled loafers, that lead up eighty pair of perfectly pressed dockers. This is the most dashing group of men I have ever seen in my life.  And lucky me I get to travel with them once a year. 

With capacity nearly full, I take my time walking through our plush limousine-bus.  I feel warm eyes upon me as the cool blowing air vents brush my skin and swirl the light fabric of my skirt.  A young man's gaze slowly drops down my legs as I stroll by him, then nestle into the window seat across his aisle. Pausing, then turning to look at the stranger, I catch his eyes as they drift up to meet mine for the short ride to the Clinton Library and piano bar.  

Dated lamps cast a dim light along Mainstreet, magnifying the contrast of the modern lines of the museum that is quickly coming into view.  Once the bus comes to a halt I wait before standing to go, so I can watch.

And I watch some more as the handsome men file off the bus in high spirits.  This is a tough job but someone has to do it I think smiling to myself, then join the line of exiting men, bound for celebration.

I'm here to get the story and from what I can see so far, I can't wait to read it myself.  

SHARPEN YOUR KNIVES OR LIFT SOME WEIGHTS

So after almost eight years of living half of each year in Park City, Utah I need to ask what is the deal with your pizzerias?  I have not ordered a single pizza anywhere at anytime from anyone that is cut all the way through.  At first I did not pay it any mind.  At some point it registered.  Then it became an irritant because often when we order pizza, we are out and about.  Being a writer, I lug enough around as it is so I do not come prepared with a butcher knife or pizza cutter on my person as a daily routine.    

Obviously ripped pizza and messy cheese is not the end of the world.  In the big scheme of anything uncut pizza is totally meaningless.  Still I have to ask what the hell is wrong with these people here?  Are they just not getting enough oxygen?  I have never seen such bland and boring hum-drum people in my life and apparently it reflects in their ability to cut a pizza through.  I mean how much effort does it take?  It can't be that everyone has dull knives, can it?

The last time I ordered pizza it was from a nice family owned Italian restaurant in Salt Lake City.  I had ordered from them once in the recent past and they were off the chain delicious.  The pizza was simply fabulous.  The mozzarella was the good stuff and when melted was still thick and oozing.  It was so outstanding that the fact that it was not cut through was fleeting and unimportant.  To hell with the country's chicken sandwich war between Chic Filet and Popeye's I needed to eat Z. Brothers pizza again. Yesterday I purposely found myself in the same area of SLC and obviously ordered their pizza again. 

This time when I called I remembered to ask " Oh could you please make sure the pizza is sliced all the way through?"  My question was met with polite silence.  Polite because everyone is polite here in Utah, no matter what.  I waited then asked again.  "Could you please make sure the pizza is sliced all the way through?"  To which the weak voice said "You want it double cut?"
  
OK.  Now I am irritated.  This is a thing here?  They have a name for it?  What the hell.  So I say "Look I don't care how many times you have to slice through it I just want the pizza cut into slices like normal people do it all around the country.  I don't want you to outline where I am supposed to cut it when I get the pizza at home.  I don't want to roll the dough, put the sauce and cheese on it, or bake or cut it through.  I want y'all to do it which is why I am at home calling you on the phone and paying you money to make the pizza and bring it to me."
Pause
"Do you want the pizza double cut?"

 

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

Looks like there were two versions of this story at my house.

   One Christmas night while exercising with my sisters, I discovered something new.  

   This is what happened.  

   After Christmas supper, the abundance of candied yams and sugar cookies always sends my figure conscience clan out for a walk.  Mother usually accompanies us on the two mile loop that winds around our family home.  But this year she stayed back to watch football with the men folk.  At the time five out of the seven of us had teenagers.

     It's nice and cold outside, about fifty degrees.   The sun hasn't set and the warmth feels good in the winter air.  Looking down I am surrounded by my wonderful sisters feet, all clad in exercise shoes.  We turn north and our mouths start running too.

   Lucy as the eldest, always has the rest of us clamoring for her attention.  Witty, sensible and tough describe my parents first born.  Lucy Lea is loyal through and through.  Her classic beauty rivals the depth of her intelligence and the reach of her humor.  Her long wavy hair shines as she purses her lips to speak.  Lorraine is bombarding her with questions as I eagerly wait, to do the same.

   Huddled together while we race walk, the conversation turns to our kids and the dreaded task of informing them where they came from.  After discussing our combined options Polly asks "do y'all remember when Mother talked with us?" 

   Continuing on, the sun starts sinking low as I listen carefully to my sisters recollection of our childhood.   It appears we each got the birds and the bees chat around our eighth birthday.  Sounds about right. 

   As we laugh and walk and jockey for position, neighboring Christmas lights cast a nostalgic glow as the evening grows into night.  With all of my sisters agreeing on the basic facts of mom's story there is one little detail that none of them are repeating.  One by one they reminisce and it confirms what I have thought all these years!  Hello?  I got too much information. 
  
   I remember the summer before I turned eight.   Liquid memories of swirling hula-hoops, private tree forts and roller skates take me back in time.  Endless days of water skiing and barbecue with the smell of pool chlorine in my hair, fill my senses.  Details of how I came into the world and ended up playing in my backyard on thirty-fourth terrace, were not important to me.  I was young and happy, safe and carefree.

   Just about this time Rosemary and Polly notice I am conspicuously quiet.  In fast succession my siblings prod me and slow their pace.  Lorraine speaks up.  "Well Ivey Mae you sure are quiet.  What did mom say to you about 'doin it'?"

Slowly I reply.

  "Yea, looks like I got a little more information on doin the horizontal dance than y'all did."  Lingering the words to tease my sisters, it works.  "What?  What?  Oh my god what did she say!"  Lorraine, Polly, Lucy, Alice, Rosemary and Daisy are all talking at once and no one is walking as they form a circle around me.  Lucy Lea starts groaning and a smile creeps on her face "come on, what did she say?"

  " Well, my version is right on with yours almost verbatim.  She called me inside, sat me down on my bed with a library book and told me the fundamentals of the man with the sperm, the woman with the egg and combined they create conception. Yadda yadda."

  Then getting grossed out even speaking about it, an embarrassed grin creeps on my face causing my sisters to squeal like stuck pigs.  "What? What? Tell us! What did she say?"

   "Mind you, I asked no questions!  I could have cared less.  All I wanted was to go back outside and play."  Then she says "the couple can make love either lying down or......... standing up."   Daisy and Lorraine scream the loudest , in unison, "EEEEWWWwww GROSS!"  Roaring with laughter we start up the long walkway and see our parents rocking side by side, smiling, at the sight in front of them.      

   Adding a final thought to our sisterly secret, I lower my voice. "Hhhhhmmmmm.  No wonder their bedroom door is locked all the time." 

  Then Lucy says in the same muted voice with a wink in her eyes  " And now we understand why she can wear the shower cap and a moo-moo and still look so darned cute to dad!"

  

THEY CAN'T BREATHE

Layton Valley, Utah smells reminiscent, but out of place as I walk through the wild flowers growing along the path winding back up to the resort.  The dry desert heat lifts a scent that is so familiar, yet I cannot place my finger on it.  The thin air is quiet and serene as I gaze over the Wasatch Mountain range and imagine the vast difference between here and Florida.
Getting closer to the resort entrance I am distracted from my focus on figurin out the smell of the air by how good Eddie Money sounds through their sound system.
Two Tickets to Paradise causes me to pause by the entrance.  I decide to sit a while and ponder life on the smooth cedar bench closest to the door.
There is no hurry today.  And even if I was in a hurry I couldn’t move fast if I wanted to.  Dang it is hard to breathe here, so taking a pause to catch ones breath is always a prudent past time in Utah.
This visit to my favorite state of Utah, I am in the valley so I am not nauseated or flat out incapacitated like when I go further up into Park City.   But I am used to being at sea level so even at 4,350 feet; it doesn’t mean the building ain’t swayin!
Still, visiting Utah continues to be one of the biggest hoots of my life.  But man oh man what a schlepp to get here.  The topography could not be any different from my home town of Coral Gables, so it would have to be far far away.
It takes one leg of the trip to arrive at a HUB, usually DFW, then me and my camel hump move on to another plane and one more flight.  By the time I gather my entire luggage I am huffing and puffing real well.
This trip by the time I arrived at the rental car counter, a cute man in a nice hat with a lovely wife wearing pretty shoes, stopped to admire my ability to travel like a Uhaul all on my own two legs, with no wheels in sight.  They were both smiling incredulously as the gentleman told me “We are really impressed with your strength, do you need any help?”
Laughing I replied. “Thank y’all so very much.  No I am good with the bags, but I could always use help with my Mother back in Coral Gables. Y’all up for that?”  We chuckled away and then bid a good day.
Being here is a surreal blend of reality.  It is like some sort of blast from the past because aside from the landscape, the general way that Utahans live life reminds me of growing up in the sixties, in Miami.  Their manner of behaving is very civil.  There is a comfortable feeling in Utah that ties the streets and homes together as one.
Calm, is the name of the game in Utah.
After visiting for four years and the three out of four seasons, I am convinced as to why everyone, everywhere in Utah is calm…they can’t breathe!
Even when Utahans are tellin you fantastic news or having a celebration they can barely if at all, muster up the appropriate body language to get their point across.  I am tellin you it is hard to get ‘er done, in Utah.  I have not been to a wedding or even a party yet in Utah but I am imaginin’ ahead of time that I will not have to take a nap that day, before the festivities
Thin air tempers everything.  I have friends who live half the year in Park City Utah and the other half of the year they reside in flat and sunny Boca Raton.  A Floridian’s idea of a mountain is a landfill.   Their first stop when returning to Utah each summer is the oxygen rental company.  This may sound over the top for those of you who don’t understand altitude sickness, but it is something you don’t want to get and once you have had it, you will prevent it at any cost.   Most people from Florida feel something out of the norm when visiting a high altitude.  The lucky ones just get a headache for a couple days. 
And Utah dusk in the summer time is just the strangest thing.  Once dusk falls over the magnificent Wasatch Mountain range, a grayish purple covers the world as far as the eye can see.  It insists that lingering feel of dinnertime until about nine thirty at night.  Can you imagine?  It makes me feel like I am in Alaska or something.
You’d think with all of this extra sunlight people would be extra productive.  Not the case.  The thin air makes Utahans feel sorta like they have a constant case of Thanksgiving-Turkey hang over but without the bloat.
And referring to bloat?  Ain’t no one bloated here.  They do not even have a visual on what it means to be bloated.
Well for one thing there is no Blue Bell ice cream out West.  Anyone Southern will know exactly what I am sayin and secondly, not bein able to breathe takes away your appetite.  Look, there is a Cupcake War winner right across the street from our hotel here in Layton.  I must have cupcake radar because the very first afternoon I stumbled upon it looking for the typical Walmart vacay staples.  Literally, right across the street but it doesn’t matter.   I have been to the bakery four times in two weeks but low oxygen zaps how good food looks and tastes.  Either that or it is just too much trouble to chew.  It’s like you can’t do two things at once in Utah because there is no good thick airflow.  So you either breathe or eat cupcakes and when it comes down to those two, I will breathe.  Visiting Utah is the best diet tool I have ever known.
And Utahans have an unusual way of speaking.  They end their sentences fast.  They will be talking a normal speed and then at the end of whatever it is they are saying, they speed up and shorten the last word.  They cut the last word in half each and every time.  I think they are running out of breath.
The whole altitude thing is a big adjustment.  But I am startin to get the hang of it.  This trip after two weeks, I was at least able to walk my skinny self to the bathroom to brush my teeth without getting dizzy.




 

BATMAN LOOKS LIKE A BAD GUY

Kids do say the darnedest things as Art Linkletter proved with his popular sixties comedy hour.  Interviewing five and six year olds gave the viewing public a howl of laughter with their knee jerk reactions.  The innocent answers Mr. Linkletter plucked from the contestants and their gap tooth smiles was genuine reality TV.

   The holidays bring an abundance of little people stories from the youth that is our familial future.

   My three year old niece is a big fan of Super Heroes.
   She can see right through Batman and his suspicious leather mask and sweeping black cape as she describes her observations to my sister.

   "You know Nanna, Batman looks like a bad guy but really, he is very nice."

   I wonder if she has noticed anything in particular about Robin.

WHO'S GONNA RIDE IN BACK WITH GRANNY?

Fresh fall air puts Chase in a good mood and he decides to buy us a new family vehicle. This is what happened.

   I am not one to really care what kind of car I drive as long as it is safe and sound.  I don't like the SUV types because they feel the wind more, so other than that, Chase has free rein to shop and buy whatever his heart desires. 

   After a couple weeks of Internet shopping, tonight after supper, he leaves to go pick up the new car, while I do dishes and eye my laptop, that is beckoning me to write.

   Within the hour our daughter takes his call as he excitedly tells us to come outside.  He will be driving up shortly in our new family vehicle, that is a complete surprise and his excitement is contagious.  We immediately go out front and wait.

   The three of us are lined up in the yard. 

   Our son, who is 6ft2inches, our daughter, just shy of 5ft8inches , and me 5ft6inches, eagerly awaiting our brand new ride.

  All eyes are searching the street, then at once, we see a snow white pick up truck rolling our way in the early evening light.

   While Chase turns the truck up our drive, I feel the puzzlement of my kids thought process, because it is the same as mine. There is a single cab.  He bought a truck with a single cab.  It is a beautiful new Ford 150. 

  We have four members in our family and more times than not, my mother rides with us.  Our new family car, seats three.

   As Chase emerges from the truck, our son speaks.

   "Nice truck dad.  Who's gonna ride in back with Granny?"   

  

BANGIN OUT THE BUMPER

I can bang out the dent in the bumper, but there ain't a hammer made, that is big enough to bang out what is wrong with him.

THE DOG HEAD COUNT FOR THANKSGIVING

The road trip for Thanksgiving promises to be extra entertaining if we don't get this dog situation under control.

   The whole family, teenager included, five dogs and my mother, in one vehicle?

   This conjures up a colorful vision of mayhem on the Florida Turnpike.

SOMEBODIES GOTTA GO!

OK, at this point it is five dogs too many!
   And somebodies gotta go.

   Nobody's gonna get hurt, a no-kill shelter, or Pet Smart or something.  But somebodies gotta go.

   After four days and four hours of five dogs, the two sweet puppy visitors are still in the front yard.  And the two that may be headed to the shelter, ain't  walkin on four legs! 

I FIGURE IT'S BEST

Well today I took the rescued dogs to our handsome vet.  They had no chip to trace the little cuties to their master.

   None of the interested neighbors or relatives, welcomed them into their family as I had hoped.

   Then, Chase came back home early from the Keys, with the big hairball, our Lab.

   So, tonight, as I lock up the house, I figure it's best not to count anything walkin on four legs. 

THE WAY I FIGURE IT

I awoke early this morning to three dogs, one cat and five rabbits.

   Well before noon, I had rescued two little, itty bitty dogs from a live and bustling pay-day Friday intersection, bringing the sum of dogs to five.

   By early evening Chase took the elder mutt, Gracie Burns along with him to Key Largo.

   As I lock up the house for the night we are at a grand sum total of four dogs, one cat and five rabbits.  So, the way I figure it, I'm comin out ahead.

ARE THOSE YOUR EYELASHES?

One evening in nineteen eighty five, I had to work.  This is what happened.

   Walking straight to the hot window and bright lights, another waitress saddles up beside me as we read the posted menu on the wall, in preparing for our night shift of waiting tables.  Both of us are young and working hard.  I smile and say hello.  She frowns.

   Focusing my attention back to the specials for tonight, I see her turn towards me from the corner of my eye, and feel Alicia take a swooping step closer.  She is not a relative, not even friendly towards me, just ignored me to my face, and suddenly, she is standing way too close. 
 Don't breathe on me unless I want you to.

   Then she demands.  "Are those your eyelashes?" with a more disgusted tone, I have never heard.

    Taken aback by her rude and imposing self, my wit through Auntie's bloodline saves me.

   Batting my eyes in slow motion, I turn to her and smile.  "Well, sweetie if they ain't mine whose are they?  Sometimes, I have to curl them to see where I am going."



  

A REDNECK

Somebody just told me to use an Alphanumeric.

   Well first off, I had to grab the dictionary.

   Secondly, I can guaran-dam-tee-ya, a redneck would never use that word.
 If you want me to use abc's and numbers together just tell me.   

CANDY APPLES

The smooth red candy is clear, and inviting my mouth to taste the sweetness, then crunch through to tangy green apple, waiting below. 

   The first batch my daughters made were sticky and the second batch was burned.  These are oh, so, just right.

   I simply adore candy apples.  This is my idea of a darned good piece of fruit.  I have two brother-in-laws that scrape icing off of cake, because they want just a little cake and alot of icing, like me.  I bet they think this is an appropriate breakfast fruit too. 

THE WATERING HOLE

I ain't bringin that horse back to the watering hole, much less try and make him drink it.  He's been there.  Still, he was only on the edge and never drank, only sipped the water.  He wasn't thirsty.

   He knows where it is and when he gets thirsty he'll want a drink. 

   Then, he can look for a new hole, an old hole or the watering hole he only sipped at, but is oh so good.