PLANT FLOWERS WHEN IT'S COOL

I’ve been dreading gardening in the summer heat.  I do not like heat.  And I do not like work a whole lot either.  So when the 51 plants I had ordered in a moment of insanity (yes, I ordered something that causes me to work because my church was selling them) arrived on a chilly, cloudy, 53 degree day, I was more than thrilled. 

I began by carefully digging a little hole and loosening all the dirt around it to give the dirt plenty of air pockets so the rain water can get to the plants, since they won’t have the benefit of garden hose water if my memory serves me correctly from the last few flower beds I cooked.  After planting five flowers this way, I reverted to stabbing the soil, pushing the “digging trowel”* (see definition below) sideways with one hand and shoving the flower roots into the crevice with the other hand, then mashing down the dirt.  Using this speedy technique, I planted all 51 flowers in 59 minutes.  I started at 11:12 and finished at 12:11, by which time I had peeled down to just a T-shirt in spite of the chill in the air.  I went inside and opened all the windows.  (I regretted that after a while.)

So my point is this.  When people tell you it’s too cold to plant flowers, don’t listen to them.

*Wikipedia says a trowel is “one of several similar hand tools used for digging, smoothing, or otherwise moving around small amounts of viscous or particulate material.”  “Viscious”?  Like maybe a snake?  Not in my garden!  Oh wait a minute.  That’s “viscous.”  Viscous means (and I quote) “sticky, gluey and syrupy, so if something is viscous , you usually don't want to stick your fingers in it.” Ya think?

A DOWNRIGHT GOOD DAY

How can a person be exhausted and depressed at the beginning of the day and calm and happy (although not yet rested!) at the end of the day?  Well I’ll tell you how. 

The weather was so beautiful that I got my favorite lounge chair out of the garage and laid it out on the patio and sat under the trees and dozed. 

A mamma bird fed her babies in a nest directly over the patio in a perfect spot for me to watch without getting up and moving my chair.

I broke a jar of oil in the kitchen and cut my finger without even getting mad, and it gave me a chance to finally get the kitchen floor mopped.

My husband and I pitched a few horseshoes, and I made a ringer.

It rained about ten minutes just as the house was getting too hot, and cooled everything down to the perfect temperature.

And finally, we went to McDonald’s for a caramel Sundae.

It just doesn’t get any better than this.  J

HOUSE DECORATING

I wasn’t surprised when my sister told me she couldn’t sleep one night this week, so she got up and rearranged furniture.  She likes to move furniture around a lot more than I do.  In fact, moving it an inch is more than I like to do.  But the result is that her house stays fresh and interesting, with knick knacks and centerpieces changing with the season.  At my house, no one moves the knick knacks because I would have to dust.  Besides, they’re kind of scary because of the things growing in them.  And it’s not houseplants.  As for centerpieces?  Mine’s a stack of paperwork. 

I told her I know how it feels when you can't get things placed just right in a room.  One day in Sunday School, the preacher asked for prayer requests, and I asked him to pray for me to figure out how to decorate my wall so I could get on with my life.  The class members looked at me in stunned silence.

What’s wrong with a little dry humor?  Haven’t they met Maxine yet?

COURTESY FLUSH

Public bathroom entertainment does exist.  I walked into the stall and took a seat.  I noticed a small sign with tiny letters posted on the door.  Not having Xray eyes, I ignored it.

As I left the stall, I read the sign: “Please help us keep this restroom clean.”  Then I got to the punch line.  You might have seen a sentence like this before, but I live a sheltered life.  “A courtesy flush or two before the final flush will help prevent the toilet from becoming clogged.”  A courtesy flush!  And not just one, but two courtesy flushes.  As if I didn’t get it, it continued with the toilet training lesson:  “The toilet will fully flush if the flush handle is pushed all the way down.  Thankyou!”

I did.  I thanked the sign for a good laugh.  Then I found some paper in my purse and copied it down just for your benefit.  You just never know when proper etiquette might call for a courtesy flush.

 Changing my Husband's Plans

It was Saturday and the Masters Golf Tournament was to be televised from 3:00-7:00.  Third round of four.  We had planned to go to Scotland Neck to visit with his mom and watch the Masters with her.  We were going to get there by 3:00.

George woke up that morning asking, “When are we going to Scotland Neck?”  I told him we would leave at 1:30 so that we could be there by 3:00 to watch the Masters.  He said he thought we were going to be there at 1:30.  I said no, his mother wasn’t expecting us until 3:00.  A few minutes later, he said we had to get ready to leave.  He would not pay attention to my reasoning.  (So what’s new?)

At 10:30 I put our lawn chairs and tarp on the grass and started spray painting.  He paced.  He worried.  He got mad.  I did too, and I told him he just couldn’t stand it if I planned to do two things on the same day.  I said we had three hours before we would leave, and he could get a nap.  He paced more and kept repeating that we needed to leave.  I said, once again, that his Mom expected us at 3:00.  That went right past him.

We left at noon.  He did get his nap after all - during the first two hours of the Masters in his mom’s easy chair.  Serves him right! 

Married Minds

When you’ve been married a long time, you sometimes understand each other.  I found my husband reading my mind this morning when he should have been minding his own business.  I was in the kitchen thinking about something he had done that I was getting over being mad about.  You know how some things infuriate you, but gradually you accept them and get over them?   I have been through the acceptance stage and now I’m in the sarcasm stage and moving toward the get-over-it stage.  In my mind – not out loud - I said something very spiteful.  George walked through the kitchen and said, kind of laughing, “If you live around here you’re going to get a lot of jabs.” 

Geez.  You’d think a woman could fuss in silence and get away with it.  There should be a reward for those moments when a wife chooses not to verbalize, don’t you think?

Vernal Equinox Egg Stand

When my husband was younger, he used to impress me with extraordinary facts that I had never heard of.  The first one I remember is how to stop the hiccups.  He offered me $10 to hiccup again, and I couldn’t.  But the one I think he enjoyed the most was balancing an egg on its end on the first day of spring.

I observed this feat for several years until, one year, I boiled an egg ahead of time and put it in the refrigerator.  That evening, when George was sitting in his easy chair, I carried the egg to him and reminded him that it was the first day of spring.  He smiled, then tried for quite a while to get that egg to stand on its end.  Then I took it and tried to balance it but, of course, it didn’t work, so I just said, “Screw it!” and slapped the egg down on the table.  George about jumped out of his skin!  I couldn't stop laughing.

They say that standing eggs on end during the equinox probably has something to do with eggs symbolizing fertility and spring symbolizing rebirth.  However, I have read that anyone can do it any day of the year.

George has given up trying to impress me as the marriage has matured. 

APPLIANCE GRIMLINS

The clothes washer, TV and phone went on the blink yesterday.  Is something putting a spell on our mouse hole?  Cat Mojo was emitting a most curious meow.  (The good news is that the little devil didn’t bite me.)

The washer stopped in the spin cycle.  I was able to get it started again by turning it off and on. (It’s a woman thing.)  I picked up the phone to call the repairman, but there was no dial tone so I used my cell.  He said a service call might be premature right now.  He didn’t want to waste my money.  Me either.  He asked me to test it and call him back. 

I called the telephone repair service about the dial tone.  Later the phone rang and the repairman said he was checking to see if my phone was still out.   I said no and thanked him for fixing it.  He said he hadn’t done anything yet.

I turned on the washer to test it, then turned on the TV.  No power.  I tried turning it off and on, and that worked.  (I’m telling you.  You’ve got to listen to a woman!)   I tuned in to the New Age Music channel and settled down to read.  The TV was silent.  Suddely the music started playing, the washing machine kicked off, and Mojo jumped on the bed and meowed at me.

About an hour later we heard a strange noise outside and the clocks in the house beeped and blinked.  It happened two more times.  Mojo disappeared.  If these grimlins don’t go away tomorrow, I might disappear, too!

SCARY SNOW

As I sat at the kitchen table typing on my laptop (mine’s more of a table-top), I thought I heard something.  It didn’t sound like rain.  And, well, you can’t hear snow. 

I opened the door.  Freezing rain was pitter pattering on the porch.  Nice, cozy night to stay indoors! 

I crawled into bed to read and Mojo curled up with me.  He looked so relaxed, breathing slowly and calmly, head tucked under his front paw.  But that tail was twitching.  Oh my!  Not a good sign.   I rubbed his back soothingly, but I saw the tail twitch again and quickly withdrew my currently non-bloody hand.  I have been vaccinated by Mojo’s teeth one too many times. 

So what had I done?  What was bugging Mojo?  I went and checked his food, water, and litter box.  All was well.  However, when Mojo ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.  I returned to find him sitting beside the door to the porch listening intently, ears up, tail tucked under.  OK.  I got it.  This crazy cat was spooked by the soft pitter patter of freezing rain!

I thought, “How stupid,” then I thought, “I need to become a disciple of Mojo.  Stay alert.  Never get lazy.  That’s the secret to living simply and abundantly.”  Pretty soon, he started munching on his cat food.  He had decided that life was good.  I decided that, too.  J

SLAW GEYSER

I was hurrying (as always) to clean up the kitchen when I picked up a plastic container with leftover, juicy slaw in it - and no lid on it.  I dashed across the kitchen with it, and dropped it.  Luckily, it landed right side up.  The force of the landing sent wet globs of slaw skyward.  George got a good laugh out of seeing the spotted design on the kitchen floor. 

Later, cleaning up again (why was I in the kitchen so much that day?!), I dropped a bottle of oil on the counter, smashing my ceramic spoon rest to smitherines.  Oh well.  Stuff happens. 

But when I was in the living room – finally relaxing – and heard a glass breaking in the kitchen, I knew this day was going from bad to worse.  George had dropped the wine glass he was getting off the cabinet shelf.  After cleaning that up, I drank some wine and called it a night!

 

They say you’re going to have a good day if your toast falls jelly-side-up.  But slaw-side-up-with-lid-off is different.  Does it qualify as a jelly-side-up experience if a bad day follows?  I don’t know the theory behind it, but the proof’s in the pudding - or the slaw, in this case.

Cell Phone in Church

Our choir had rehearsed long and hard for the cantata. The big night arrived.  I prepared for the event before I even got out of my car by turning my cell phone ringer off.  So glad I remembered that. 

People started pouring in.  Everyone knew everyone.  The volume escalated.  When the minister began the service, the silence was deafening.  We stood for an opening prayer.

About ten seconds into the prayer, I heard someone’s cell phone go off behind me, and – darndest thing - their ring tone was the same tune as my cell phone's alarm!   I spent a moment thinking about that coincidence.  Then I realized it was my alarm.  I scrambled through my purse for the phone, crouched on the seat (as if no one would know I was there) and fumbled with it until I got it turned off.  It’s so easy to turn off when I’m not in a panic.  Mental note - the ring silencer doesn’t silence the alarm. 

After that humiliation, I turned the volume off completely.  We finished singing, then the choir sang, then the congregation sang again - and my snooze alarm vibrated and buzzed.  It has never buzzed that loud before.  In my frenzied panic, I couldn’t turn that phone off to save my life!  So I sat on it.  That works in the car.  When I do that, I can’t even hear it ring, much less buzz.  It didn’t work on the church pew.

While sitting on the egg I had laid (proverbially speaking), I mentally rehearsed what I would do to turn it off, then I removed it from under my derriere, turned it off, and put it back into my purse. 

I stood again to sing, trying to compose myself.  Then my purse (with the phone in it) fell off the pew with a loud bang. 

The Bible says, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”  I vow never again to be critical when someone’s cell phone goes off in church. 

NEW DO

I got a new hairdo recently.  I look ten years younger!  And if you believe that I’ve got some beachfront property to sell you. 

I wanted to try a new hairdresser, so when a Groupon for a haircut popped up in the inbox, I bought it.  By the luck of the draw, Jonathan drew me.  Although he’s a daddy, he’s a mere child from my senior point of view. 

Jonathan gave me the best haircut I’ve ever had!  So the next time I went to him, I said I wanted it highlighted.  He said that’s good.  I think he had seen my home-made color one time too many.  I came home with color and highlighting and received at least a dozen compliments.

On my third visit, he hugged me.  (By now we’re homeys.)  I told him that the haircut and coloring he gave me was wonderful, and I had gotten a multitude of compliments on it, however... “Even though it’s beautiful this way, I think that if it were just a tad darker, it would make me look younger.”

Now if I didn’t love this kid so much, his next statement would have put him in the hospital.  He said, “The hair isn’t going to do it.  It will take botox.”

Out of the mouths of babes…

Wrong Medicine.

Oops!  I did it again.  All I did was switch his medications around.

George used to sleep a lot in the daytime.  Then someone told me that low blood pressure makes you tired.   (Duh!  And I had to be told this?)   Several of his pills lower his blood pressure, whether on purpose or as a side effect, so I started giving him most of those pills at night.  Now he sleeps like a baby, but not in the daytime.  Tadaaa!

Problem is, I gave him his bedtime medications this morning, and so far he has been sleeping sixteen hours.

I am the dispenser of George’s (or should I say, “the victim’s”) medications.  Yes, I know I’m dangerous, but less dangerous than if he were to do it himself.  It isn’t simple.  I have on the bottle caps 1:00, 7:00, AM, PM, or AM/PM.  Some pills are to be taken twice a day, some once a day, some all four times, some cut in half, and some in multiples all at one time.  Some should be taken with meals, some before meals, and some don’t matter.  I think.  That’s a detail I haven’t mastered yet.

Can you blame me for making a mistake once in a while?  Unfortunately, George is the helpless casualty.  He either goes into hallucinations, gets nauseated, or sleeps all day – which is what happened today.

 

BASKETBALL SEASON IN JUNIOR HIGH

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s
 

My oldest child entered seventh grade this year, and our first year of Junior High School has been an exercise in problem solving.  Take, for instance, basketball season.

My daughter and the rest of the seventh grade cheerleaders have been wearing their mini skirt cheerleading uniforms to the bus stop in sub zero weather.  They say they have to wear their uniforms on the days the 7^th grade boys have a ball game.  Something about school spirit, they claim.

One seventh grader astutely declared that she thought the boys should have to wear their basketball shorts on game days.  Wouldn’t that be fair?  The boys could shiver and turn blue, just like the girls.  And the girls could whistle at the boys’ legs in the hall. 

I saw some older and obviously wiser cheerleaders wearing sweat pants under their mini skirts last week.  I almost suggested that to my daughter.  But this is the last week of basketball season anyway, and why start an argument with an adolescent?  There’s no future in it!

So I ended basketball season in zip-lipped relief. All of us parents of cheerleaders and basketball players will again find our children practicing their music lessons, getting to bed on time, and possibly even doing their homework.  Grades will improve and moms’ and dads’ dispositions will smooth out.  Until the next junior high problem hits.  Wonder what it will be?

SCOFFLAWS

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

When you look at the hard times farmers are having and the layoffs people are suffering, doesn’t it just make your blood boil to see corporate executives who are too stingy to pay their traffic ticket fines?

I saw in NEWSWEEK that there’s a sting operation in Chicago to nab the city’s “most egregious corporate scofflaws.”  I looked that up and it means remarkably bad traffic law violators.  Some of those corporate executives owe $200 parking ticket fines. 

I must confess that I have stretched my luck a little, too, when it comes to traffic violations.  Like the time I made a U-turn at a major intersection in Milwaukee in front of a policeman.  I told him, in my best Southern drawl, that you could do that in North Carolina.  And you can.  I almost got away with it in Wisconsin, too!

But come on.  How long does it take to write a $2.00 check for a parking ticket?  [I did say this was written in 1987.]  These scofflaws need to be held accountable.  It’s us regular citizens who are taking up the slack for them.

The city of Chicago has put an extra punch into their sting operation on corporate scofflaws.  They’re going to send in their income tax auditors. 

Bzzzzz……..Sting!

TIPS FOR JUNIOR HIGH PLEBES

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

During a unit about friendships, the eighth graders at church composed the following letter to upcoming seventh graders:

Dear Sixth Graders,

Now that you have graduated from sixth grade into Junior High School, we, your older and wiser eighth grade friends, want to protect you from a few seventh grade pitfalls - in the name of friendship and all in good sport, or course:

·        Don’t start rumors about eighth graders.

·        Keep your nose out of eighth graders’ business.

·        When you go out for cheerleading and basketball, be kind to all team members.

·        In Sunday School, don’t goof around.  [The Sunday School teacher had a little input here.]

·        Don’t do your own seventh grade dance, because the eighth graders won’t come.

·        Eighth graders pick when, where, and what the dances are about.  You’ll get to do it next year.

·        Don’t give away your locker combination.

·        Keep your locker clean so Mr. Kiener won’t give you a warning.

·        Don’t chew gum in Mr. Eddy’s class.

·        Don’t fall asleep in Mr. Eddy’s class.

·        Become friends with your parents.  They act different when you’re in Junior High.  Use adult messages.  If you want to go to a movie, don’t say, “Can I? Please? Everybody’s going!”  Instead, say, “I would really like to see this interesting movie.  We’ll car pool.”  Another example:  Don’t say, “Everybody’s wearing this.”  Your parents will know that’s a bunch of bull.  Instead, say, “I’ll pay for half.”  That’s an adult message.

·        Be friends with people you like, even if they’re ugly.

These are the facts and figures of being in Junior High.

Yours truly,

The Jr. High Sunday School Class of ‘87

TAXI CITY

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

“YIPPEE! This taxi is off duty!”  I silently screamed.  My hubby had gotten home early and he had offered to drive the daughter to the movie.  That meant picking up two extra riders, naturally.  Rule #1 in Taxi City:  Children must never go anywhere without bringing friends along.

He asked what time the movie started.  “7:00.”  He asked me what time he had to pick up the friends.  “Don’t know.”  He asked how long it would take to get to the movie via friends’ houses.  “39 minutes.  That’s one minute to the first house, one minute stop, six minutes to second house, one minute stop, seventeen minutes to movie, one minute stop, twelve minutes home.”  Rule #2 in Taxi City:  Mother’s mental map and calculator must be available at all times.

He asked if I wanted to ride along.  I bit my tongue and did not say, “Are you crazy?”  Instead, I said, “No thanks.  I have to wait for our son’s friend’s mother’s taxi service to bring him home.”  Also thinking, “Thank goodness it’s her turn.”  Rule #3 in Taxi City:  Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hubby said he might shop for a lawn mower on his way home.  He knew I wanted a different one than he wanted.  Now I understood his generous offer to play taxi driver.  Rule #4 in Taxi City:  When it comes to taxi drivers’ benefits, anything goes.  It’s squatters rights.  He catches on fast.

SCATTER BRAIN

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

I have been plagued with a bad memory all my life.  I’ve even been called a “scatter brain.”  Now I’m plagued with scatter brained children.  When it all hits in the same day, I feel like I’m trying to fight back Lake Michigan.

One morning before school last week my son Fred asked me where his coat was.  He had asked me where his watch was the night before.  He had asked me where the turtle’s worms were, too.  I wondered how he thought I knew all these things, even though I did happen to know that his Tae Kwon Do pants were at City Hall.

Fred planned to ride his bike that day.  He looked in the garage and it was gone.  He asked me where it was, like I had been riding it or something.  He found it where he himself had hidden it while playing hide.

Then my daughter Susan said she wanted to watch the VCR tape she had forgotten to watch the night before, and would I drive her to school late today.  At the bus stop, she asked, “Will you feed my turtle today?”  The turtle we had bought the day before was on a hunger strike, and I got a mental image of myself coaxing it to eat a worm.  I replied NO, but I would check in on it from time to time to see if it was upside down.

Fred said he owed the school for the lunch he forgot to take yesterday, and Susan said she owed for the milk ticket she forgot.

After they left for school, I found the check I wrote to the school and gave Fred to put in his pocket.  I threw out the pizza I forgot to refrigerate overnight and fed the dog, who hadn’t come home in time for bed and ended up sleeping outside.  I searched for the past due library book, the Christmas gift I kept forgetting to exchange, and my list of phone calls I forgot to make the day before.

I try to help my kids overcome forgetfulness by making them take the consequences for their forgotten duties.  That reminds me, I forgot to make Fred go to bed 15 minutes early last night for forgetting to clean his room.

I think it’s hereditary.  I think it’s a losing battle, too.

LABELS

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

I loved it when someone in the audience asked Burt Reynolds why he was wearing a green shirt that didn’t match his outfit and he answered, “It was my last clean shirt.” 

We are judged by our uniforms.  Put on a ski mask and you’re either a sportsman or a burglar.  Put on a wet suit, a cowboy hat, or a suit and tie, and you’re transformed into a role to play.  Put on a designer label and you’re saying, “I’m gullible and will pay anything for this label.”  I broke down and bought one once.  I still have the jeans, but that “Gloria Vanderbilt” label on my butt drives me crazy.  I’m giving free advertising to that company.  Don’t they know that their advertisement might be turning people away, depending on whose butt it’s on?

I guess I just don’t understand labels.  I have to look at the price tag to know if an item is an expensive brand or a cheap one.  Other shoppers just look at the label and automatically know the price.  Do they go to school for this or what?

Now that I’ve aired my insecurities, you can go ahead and label me “mixed up mouse.”  But don’t ask me to wear it!

RAT TAIL

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

This is a tale of a tail – a rat tail that is!  My ten-year-old son Fred has grown his tail halfway down to his waist.  Rat tails are long sections of hair that people allow to grow indefinitely.  I don’t know what makes them eventually decide to cut them off.  I hope to find out soon. 

We went to Grandma’s house for Christmas.  When I saw my nephew walk in with one side of his hair sticking up like a rooster comb and the other side down in his eyes (and an earring in one ear!) I quit worrying about my son’s rat tail right then and there!

We adults went about our business and tried not to notice the boys’ hair again until one evening after dinner.  I had found my husband’s high school yearbook and left it on the table – after reading all the notes from his girlfriends, of course.  The kids started pouring over it to find their dad’s football pictures and graduation pictures.  They checked out every detail of the strange prom dresses and crew cuts.  I hardly noticed them until I heard John (the one with the rooster comb) say, “Boy!  They sure had some weird hair styles back then!”

Fred tried several times that week to get his hair to look like John’s.  It’s hard to do, though, if you aren’t willing to cut off your tail!

IRONING

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

I never find the time to iron.  I don’t mind ironing.  I sort of like it.  It is my alone time when I can smooth out things in my mind while smoothing out the wrinkles.  I love to see, smell, and feel a smooth, clean, hot piece of material under my fingers.  It’s one of those satisfying jobs that gives visible results – even if nobody else notices, and even though you have to do it again next wash day.

Unfortunately, I don’t do it again next wash day.   I shove it into my hiding cabinet above the washing machine and tell myself I’ll do it right after breakfast.  Then lunch.  Then supper.  Then I say Saturday would be a good day.  Then Sunday.  And so on.

Last night I kissed my daughter good night and spied her un-ironed shirt that had been in my hiding cabinet.  It was spread flat on the floor with two large books on top.  Seemed like she thought she could press it overnight.  Let her think that.  If I enlightened her, I’d have to do it right then. 

It must not have worked because she didn’t wear it to breakfast.  I found it in a corner of her room after she left for school.  I decided to leave it there.  It could wait there just as well as in the hiding cabinet.  Perhaps she would get inspired and actually iron it herself.  We mothers do have our fantasies, you know.

As I pondered the idea, I heard the dryer turn off.  I ran to grab my son’s Tae Kwon Do uniform and fold it before the wrinkles set in.  I fantasized about ironing it.  (And husbands think we fantasize about other things when they’re away!)  The Tae Kwon Do instructor would have ironed it.  In fact, when my son forgot to stuff it into his bag after class last week, his instructor took it home, washed, and ironed it.  What a guy.  (Now there’s a fantasy.)

Maybe I’ll iron that uniform after all.  Right after supper tonight.

CHICAGO

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

This country mouse visited the city last week.  Chicago!  And I didn’t see anything “toddling” about it even though Sinatra’s tune played in my mind’s ear all day long.

No, Chicago doesn’t toddle any more.  It takes full, confident strides, as if it has a life of its own.  My mission on this, my first trip ever to Chicago, was to become semi-skilled at moving from point A to point B without getting mugged.

I took my kids there on the first day of their spring break.  The event my teenage daughter longed for finally happened, but not until after we had visited the Shedd Aquarium, the Art Institute, and the Sears Tower.  Finally, I said the magic words:  “All right.  Let’s go for lunch.”  I wondered what Hardrock Cafe was like, but I had received good advice before leaving home that it was a safe place to go.  Earlier in the day, a taxi cab driver had told us it was so expensive they had valets there to park your car for you.  I gasped.  He apparently thought we were out of our minds because it was just a hamburger joint with $5.00 hamburgers, and didn’t we know that we could get a hamburger cheaper at McDonalds?

Upon arriving at Hardrock Café without a car and therefore without having to worry about how much you are supposed to tip a valet, I gasped again.  The place was decked out in my language – 50s memorabilia!  Platinum records on the walls.  Old fashioned pinball machines clanging everywhere.  Fifties music blaring. Waitresses dressed in 50s uniforms flitting to and fro across the room.  The focal point was a motorcycle perched on a ceiling beam. 

The hamburgers were indeed delicious, but the cabbie was wrong.  They cost $6.00 instead of $5.00.

COMMUNICATION CRAZIES

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

I’m not sure I understand everything I know about this, as my father in law used to say.  But sometimes our family gets the “Communication Crazies.”

All I said was that liquor goes to your head faster if you drink on an empty stomach, at which my thirteen year old daughter remarked that it would do it even faster if you stood on your head.

The Communication Crazies are especially funny when they catch you by surprise.  At dinner my husband, speaking about a grade point average, said, “I’m sure it has to be high to get honors,” to which our daughter responded, “It ought to be!   You put enough Tabasco on it!”  

Sometimes Communication Crazies are embarrassing.  I had been sifting through information at the library for two hours when I went to the desk for help.  The harder I tried to speak, the more I stuttered.  I finally said, “I’ve been reading so long I can’t talk.”  Having accomplished speaking that complete sentence, I left.

Sometimes the Communication Crazies hit just because you are talking too fast.  My son describes it thus:  “If someone is saying something sixty thousand miles an hour and they don’t make sense, you pick up your camera and tell them, ‘I’m looking inside your head at your brain, and it looks like a double exposure.’”

Some things come out backwards when you try to communicate them.  Last week a girl at a financial service company was trying to explain the economics of bid and asked prices of gold certificates.  She said, “You just have to buy high and sell low.”  I thought, “Yes, that’s what my husband says I do all the time.”

Communications really get crazy when you throw in a dash of Southern accent.  I went to a pancake breakfast at the American Legion.  As I approached, I wondered if the people standing outside the door were coming or going, so I asked, “Is this the line?”  The answer I got was, “No, this is the Legion.”  ……That’s okay.  It took me a few minutes, too.

BEST BALL TOURNAMENT

Part of a series of stories I wrote while living in Wisconsin in the 80s

I swore I would never try to hit another golf ball.  However, when my kids joined the junior golfing league, they enjoyed it so much that they asked me to take them to the driving range every week.  Rather than watch from the car, I chose to whack at a few golf balls myself.  To my surprise I hit them pretty well,

My kids encouraged me, but they seemed to sense that they shouldn’t push the matter.  My husband snickered and recalled that I had told him to shoot me if he ever saw me with a golf club in my hand again.  My old golf lesson buddy (who did learn to play and now golfs with her husband) stared curiously when my family told her I was interested in golf again.

One day an invitation came in the mail.  Did I want to play in a “best ball” tournament?  My husband explained how it works.  Everybody in your foursome hits the ball, and the best ball of the four gets to stay where it is while the other three golfers collect their balls (if they can find them) and take them to the spot where the best ball lies.  From there, they all take another crack at it.

I figured I could do that – until they told me the rules stated that we had to use at least three of my drives.  I cannot make a driver (that’s the longer club with the wood end on it) come in contact with the ball.  I arrived early to practice, thinking perhaps my drive would have miraculously changed.  Not!  On my first swing, the club sailed twenty yards.  The ball stayed on the tee. 

What a relief when they said I could drive with an iron instead of a driver.  (Also relieved that they didn’t kick me off the golf course.)  Our foursome won the Soggy Balls trophy for the most balls in the pond.  I put mine on the mantle beside my son’s huge trophy from the junior tournament.