What’s Smoking?

North Carolina has always loved its tobacco.  So, for that matter, have people from states like New York and New Jersey, who’ve  loaded their car trunks with cartons and cartons when they passed through.  Illegal, but no doubt lucrative when you consider NC state tax is about 35 cents a pack in contrast to NY’s $2.75 per pack.   The federal tax adds an additional $1.01.

Sounds like incentive enough to stop smoking, but then I’m not a smoker…and smokers aren’t giving me any advice about this Snickers bar I’m eating right now.

(I should tell you that South Carolina has only a 7 cent tax per pack there AND you can buy the fireworks which are probably illegal where you live, too. )

My point is that I was surprised back when the NC legislature added that 35 cents state tax and even more surprised when they made it against the law to smoke in NC restaurants.   Philip Morris has even changed its name to Altria, but don’t worry, they still have Prince Albert in a can.  Poor guy.

In other words, smokers ‘can’t get no respect’ these days.   Law enforcement is even watching to make sure smokers don’t dump their butts on the ground.  Offenders are fined and ticketed for littering.   This sign is on a parking garage.
I’ll get back to this later.

Today, my friend Beanie and I went to a memorial service for a mutual friend’s mother in a city about an hour from here.  We met at a pre-arranged location, then I drove us the 30 miles to the church.

I thought I was prepared–I had two 2×2″ notepad slips on which I’d jotted down some directions.  My system had flaws; I went to the wrong place and had to call Beanie for directions to our meeting spot..   Nevertheless, when she jumped in my car a few minutes later and started unloading electronic equipment, I thought it was overkill.

“Mind if I unplug your cellphone and put Vera in?” she asked.

Vera the Voice took us back onto the highway and headed in the right direction.  Big deal!  I wouldn’t have even needed my  notes for that 50-ft. jaunt.

Beanie said, “I found us a place to eat lunch.  Barbecue.  We’re in barbecue country.”

The whole state of North Carolina is barbecue country, more or less.  There is eastern style, Lexington style, and a third kind popular west of Charlotte.  Truthfully,  I like them all, but rarely ever eat pork–my protest against all the hog farms in the state.

For the restaurant leg of the trip, we went off Vera’s pre-programmed route and Beanie diddled with her iPhone to get us there.  Vera nagged the entire time and even whined that Beanie needed to update her maps.  Vera finally had to be bound and gagged–unplugged and put away.

The town of Lexington is serious about its barbecue.  Remember when Chicago had the painted cows around the city?  Lexington has pigs.   One held a prominent place in the restaurant:

Photo by Beanie.  I didn’t have the nerve.

We talked about the No Smoking in the little barbecue joint.  There was a time that the air would have been blue with cigarette smoke.  Yet here it was,  doing a brisk, smoke free business, although there was a sign in the bathroom warning NO SMOKING IN HERE. The bathroom had no heat– a small, windowless, room so narrow one needs to back in.  There wasn’t even a sink;  a common one in the hall served both men and women.  Anybody that goes in there to smoke is desperate and crazy.   They probably don’t wash their hands either.

We made it to the church with 20 minutes to spare and after the service, Vera was reinstalled as Directional Diva.  We were back on the Interstate heading home when Beanie squealed.  She was laughing so hard I couldn’t understand her, so we had to exit and go back to see the large billboard I’d missed.  Obligingly, she got out of the car and took this smoker smackdown shot:

I did take one photo, however.  It was behind the restaurant, in the parking lot.  You know what I think I’ve got here?  (Enlarge it if you need to.)

Looks to me like that’s a smoked pig smoking.

Say It in Six–Or Else!

I am late to the six-word memoir craze.

That’s eight words…but you get the idea.  The fourth collection of these lines, It All Changed In An Instant, is a compilation submitted by readers of Smith Magazine. Not only was I unfamiliar with the six-word memoir books,  I’d never heard of Smith Magazine either.

I must be the only one.  When I googled it, there were 11,500,000 options.

I was probably in the bathroom.

NPR ran a segment about it recently and that’s where I became hooked.  The lines were funny, sad, poignant….  One they quoted during the interview was something like,  Loneliness:  one egg in the pan. Doesn’t that gut-punch you?

Since Dearly Beloved prefers oatmeal,  I’ll have to double my egg consumption from now on to keep from feeling sad about my egg.

The first one they quoted, believed to have been said by Ernest Hemingway: For Sale:  Baby shoes, never worn.

Not sure what mine would be. (Hey, that’s six words and perfect for an indecisive person like me.)

Who am I?  Are you SERIOUS?

Marriage.  Life is funny that way.

This could get out of  hand.

Oh, the things one can do! One person might write, Where does it end, my ASS! while I, the possessor of a broad butt, would change it to, Where does it end?  My ass!!!

How ’bout this old song by Gale Garnett?  We’ll Sing in the Sunshine. What a sweet memoir.

Or in another direction. . .

Made my bed; lying in it.

Missed my calling…but can’t redial.

Stop the world!  Let me off.

I can’t go on like this!

I could go wild with political memoirs.

Kindergarten Congress:  We even have recess.

Lucky are those from previous administrations who can say (or sing): Unindicted. . . and it feels so GOOD!

It’s a good thing I didn’t learn of this earlier.

A little crazy.  Could be worse.

Driving myself to distraction.  No brakes!

One more and it’s your turn:

In fudge and friendships… add nuts.

Where’s Robin?

We’ve had snow, icy rain, sleet, rain, more sleet, more rain.  The ground is saturated, the creeks are overflowing, and this is what Miss Piggy has to contend with when she goes outside.            

When I went out to run errands earlier in the week, I parked near a vacant lot with mud, slush, and dead leaves.  As I watched, some of the leaves moved.  Some even flew.

ROBINS!  When Mother Nature gives you weather lemons, go for the worms!

I lost count. . . 50? 100?  I don’t have an actual count.  Alas, my camera was inadequate for the task.

Once I decide on a camera, I can go back and take another rainy day picture.  Robins will be too easy.  Next time we’ll count worms.

Runnin’ With the Posse

The story you’re about to read is true.  I didn’t change any names to protect the innocent because I don’t know any except for Dearly Beloved, my neighbor, and me.   Although we’re innocent, I don’t think there is a need for disguise.  At this point, we don’t fear retribution.

I worked outside this afternoon, shoveling up Miss Piggy’s cigar stubs and stuffing them down vole holes.  I’m not all sweetness and light, you know.  I was thinking, “Eat sh– and die!” with every move.   I’m sure they’ll tunnel their way to my rose bed, munching on roots every inch of the way.   Such was my frame of mind when I saw a stranger behind the shrubs at the back of our yard.

Brashly, I threw down my shovel and started to give chase, but I was no match for his speed.  He ran up the driveway so fast that he’d disappeared by the time I puffed my way to the top.  Since my neighbor’s yard is downhill and lined with shrubs, I was betting he’d headed in that direction.  The street was too open.   I ran behind the neighbors’ house, closing their heavy wrought iron gate behind me in an attempt to corner him.  Dearly Beloved had been out for a walk and when he saw me running, he followed to see what was wrong.  It’s not often he sees me running.

“Come help me!” I called to him.

I frantically rang my neighbor’s doorbell so she’d know that we had invaded her backyard.  She and I stood at her back door trying to decide the best course of action while DB crept around the garage, thinking he could corner the intruder.  At that point, two men called from OUR backyard,  asking for information.   We could see only the tops of their heads, but we didn’t recognize either of them.  What was going on?!

“Back here!” DB called.

The fence between the two properties is six feet where they were standing, but drops toward the back.  They ran to the lower section and scaled the fence.  That was when I saw  POLICE stenciled on the back of their black jackets.

Holy crap!  This must be one bad ass dude!  Wily, too!  Even with two cops and DB in pursuit, he managed to elude all three.  He squeezed UNDER the gate and dashed up the driveway.  Once again, he disappeared immediately.   One policeman ran to get their car as the other one raced up the street on foot.  He hollered to a woman walking a dog and she pointed to another yard farther up the street.

“HEY. . . !” I called.  “Why are you chasing him?”

“Long story!” he yelled back over his shoulder.

What was his crime?  Was he captured?  I may never know.

The cops had referred to him as “Rat Dog.” Harsh… but then I don’t know what his crime might have been.  He’d looked innocent to me.  In fact, I’d chased him because I wanted to HELP him.

That collarless,  little brown Chihuahua may still be on the loose.

Iced In

It’s Monday, all right.  My computer insists that “loading” is too much to ask of it this morning.   When I looked in the mirror… hello!  Dilbert’s ALICE was staring back at me.  Bad hair day!  If you can’t place Alice in your mind, then imagine that I slept with my head in a pool ball rack.

The schools are closed, so there will be the usual guffawing by those from colder climes who can’t believe that a city can be paralyzed by a little precipitation.  Although I, too, drove in the Midwestern snows without incident,  I wouldn’t be able to  get out of my driveway today even if I needed to take my winning lottery ticket in to be validated by 10 AM.

Luckily, I don’t have a winning lottery ticket.

Our driveway. Solid ice.

When the newspaper carrier tossed out our paper, it slid all the way down the driveway to the back gate.  Fortunately, I was able to retrieve it without doing the same.

We had ample warning of the storm, so while the rest of the populace was rushing to the store for bread and milk,  this former Girl Scout stocked up on yarn, books, and wine.

Speaking of books, Dearly Beloved is rediscovering the pleasures of reading simply for enjoyment now that he’s retired.   Browsing in bookstores or library doesn’t have the same appeal to him as it does for me, so occasionally I pick up a book I think he’d enjoy.   I find him somewhat mystified and myself foolishly delighted when I find one that he relishes.    (“How did you know I’d like that?“)

My most recent find is one he enjoyed so much that he recommended it to our kids and their spouses.  That’s a first.  His absorption was such that I am curious to read it, too.  The book,  The Opposite Field, is a memoir by Jesse Katz,  a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner.   The book jacket proclaims it to be “…an epic book, a funny book, a sexy book, a rapturously evocative and achingly poignant book.  Above all it is true, in that it happened, but also in a way that transcends mere facts and cuts to the quick of what it means to be alive.”

You could keep it in mind for Father’s Day, but then again, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.

Looks like DB will be getting a knitted cap.  I’ll try to make it epic and sexy.  What do I want?  I think I’ll take No. 15 on this wish list. An entire day of being able to go to the bathroom without having to respond to  “Are you in there?”   Be still, my heart!

Hanging My Heart

This is our front door.   As you can see, it isn’t one that lends itself to a wreath.  It doesn’t show up well from the street and whatever we hang has to look nice from the inside as well as the outside.  We installed the door several years ago  because the glass panes brighten the previously dark entry hall.  We can’t chase each other naked through the hall any more, but one has to make sacrifices sometimes.Several houses in the neighborhood have pretty heart wreaths up for Valentine’s Day and I wanted to hang one on our door.

I have looked on craft websites, browsed  in stores, but just haven’t seen anything that met my requirements:  pretty on both sides, lightweight so that it doesn’t bang against the glass panels, and oh yes… cheap.

Yesterday I had an idea.  I’d bend two silk tulips into a heart shape and use them as a wreath.  I bought the tulips and wired them together.  I still have to add red ribbon.  The rubber band  on them now is to give the shape “memory” (I’m saying that, but really have no clue as to whether or not it’ll work!)  until I remove it when I’m ready to hang it.

The unhearty heart.

I liked the idea, but it didn’t look like a heart to me, because the leaves looked like horns.  I played with them.

Eeyore Heart

Now it was a heart with bunny rabbit ears.

I had decided that the leaves would have to go and was getting the scissors when Dearly Beloved walked by.

“That’s pretty!” he said encouragingly.

Nah, it doesn’t look right.  I’m going to cut off the leaves.

“Don’t do that.  It looks GOOD!”

I don’t know.  You think it looks like a heart?

His expression changed.  He looked back down at the tulips.

“It’s a heart?”

Hearty har har.

Calendarphobia

I suffer from calendarphobia.

It manifested itself when I bought a calendar from Office Depot instead of the bookstore.  That meant my week began on Monday with Sunday tacked on at the end, sharing a square with Saturday.  It seemed logical enough, but my brain wouldn’t make the adjustment.  When I wrote down appointments, my brain counted squares instead of reading the day, so I’d write it in the wrong place, thereby showing up a day late for appointments.

I have now reverted to the calendars with Sunday at the beginning of the week.

Six months ago when I went to the doctor, she took issue with my exercise schedule (picture it written in the little triangle on Sundays) and wasn’t impressed with my weight, either.   (Please don’t try to picture that at all!)   She expected an improvement by my January appointment.

I’ve been dreading that appointment for days.  Even though I know I’ve lost a little weight, that may or may not show up on the scales. We’re talking numbers I can show on one hand here and they can be distorted by things like  fluid retention,  constipation…  you get the drift.  (Oh, add “gas” to the list.)

My brain has been stressing for days about the looming appointment,  telling me,  “ACK!!  Weigh-in on Tuesday!” and sending me into panic mode.

Panic mode is …well… constipating.   All day yesterday I swallowed Citrucel fiber pills with glasses of water, hoping for a record BM.  It didn’t happen.

Last night I didn’t have anything to eat or drink after midnight (as if we all drive through Wendy’s at 3 AM!) and set the alarm for 6:30 AM.  My doctor has moved to the suburbs, so what used to be a five-minute drive now takes 30.  I made it without so much as a cup of coffee, with ten minutes to spare.  As  I sat in the car until 8, my stomach began rumbling,  letting me know that the fiber pills had been noted and processed.

The notice indicated that the train would be coming through about 8:30 AM.

I figured that was about the time my doctor would be sticking her finger up my rear end to check for polyps.

Oh, dear gawd. . . !

There was no bathroom in the waiting room.  You may know that I have a history with doctor’s office bathrooms.   I waited while the woman ahead of me checked in.  The receptionist finally looked at me and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

Of course.

She could not find my name on her appointment sheet.   She looked at my record and informed me that my appointment isn’t until Thursday.

Ducky.  Calendarphobia recurrence.  I must not have put that last loop on the 8 when I posted it in my brain.  I was so sure, I hadn’t even looked at the calendar.

By that time it was 8:10.  I figured I had about 20 good minutes.

“Could you do my bloodwork now so that I won’t have to fast again on Thursday?”

She shook her head regretfully. “No, because I don’t have the lab order yet.”

Ordinarily, I might have pushed that a little, but the clock was ticking.  If I hurried, I could get to a supermarket for pears, broccoli, and more fiber pills before  I broke into a cold sweat.   Hey, when you’re planning something–and I’ve got two days here– might as well dream BIG.   Dreaming about poop is not something I do, generally, but hey…!

Somebody alert Ripley’s, please.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

I’m one of those people who enters the codes from my Diet Cokes into an My Coke Rewards account.  I do it because they include some good causes to which points may be donated.  They’ve recently added the American Red Cross Haiti Relief as an option and they’ll donate two points for every point we do.

Dots from Weinermobile World

Although I don’t believe myself to be a hypochondriac,  I’m probably this close to the line: o|

A couple of weeks ago I went for my annual mammogram.   It isn’t just the physical act of having someone ram one’s boobs into a pasta machine that causes anxiety, then there’s the wait for the Official Letter.  I know there are places where they tell you on the spot, but mine isn’t one of them.

The Letter came about three or four days after my mammogram.  Everything was copasetic.  Great!  But later that same evening as I was enjoying a bubble bath,  I rubbed the washcloth over my right breast and felt a little sting on the right underside where it was hard to see.

I felt it.  There was definitely something there.

After I dried off,  I stood  before my lighted mirror with the magic Big Eye to the 12th power that can make anything scary.  Sure enough, in the middle of an orange-ish mole I’ve had for ages was a raised, round black spot. When I touched it,  there was that little sting again.   Also, the texture of the entire mole had changed.  It was now dry and wrinkled, like a peeling sunburn.

I put on my robe,  went to the den where I sat down between Dearly Beloved and his TV ballgame.  I opened my robe.

The shock on that man’s face. . . !  NOTHING gets between DB and a ballgame except the occasional nap.

“Look at this,” I said, pointing to the spot.  “What do you think it is?”

He sighed, picked up his jaw, and looked at the spot.

“Hmm.  I don’t know.  How long has it been there?”

I shrugged.  “My mammogram was fine.”

He looked closely.  It WAS worrying.

We looked at pictures on the computer.  Plenty of photos of black specks on brown moles, but none looked anything like mine.  My spot was hard and round, like a BB.  We decided I should call the doctor on Monday as it was obviously fast growing.  It hadn’t been there the week before.

Later,  I found myself scratching at the itchy skin around the black spot.  It was rough and dry, almost like a scab over the entire mole surface.  The texture was so dry,  it felt like I could peel it right off.  I told myself I shouldn’t mess with it, then promptly started picking at it gently with my fingernail.  A bit of it relaxed and I nudged it along,  loosening it like a piece of old Scotch tape.  It came off in one piece.  Weird.  It looked like a clear plastic dot with a black thing in the middle.

It WAS a clear plastic dot with black thing in the middle.  It looked like a peppercorn.  The technician must have stuck it there to mark the mole for the radiologist.

Now I’m all for people being good at their jobs… so good they can sneak a dot on a mole without the molee feeling it.  I think it would be nice, though, if they’d remove it.  Or at least make mention of it!

People who grew up when I did, in the 50’s, have probably had more than their share of radiation.   It’s a wonder my feet haven’t fallen off from all the x-raying they had in the “fluoroscope” at the shoe department of our town’s department store.

We not only stuck our feet in to see our bones in our Buster Browns when we were buying shoes, we played with ‘em while our mamas were buying their shoes.  They were as accessible to kids as a gumball machine, so I’d check my feet after ‘the picture show” every Saturday, hoping they’d grown enough to require a new pair of Mary Janes.

Some of those machines were still in use in the 1970’s and even 80’s.  They were banned state by state and quietly removed from stores.  I think they were invented by the guy who went on to invent the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile.

Strange world.

Here is one of the very early ads for the technology.  It’s enough to give Manolo Blahnik the heebie jeebies.

You know, the “imaging department” where I had my mammogram could even have added a line or two to that Official Letter:

Your mammogram was clear.  So was the black dot we stuck onto your mole.  You may remove it now.   Nothing to worry about.  Just a little piece of rubber from an old Weinermobile tire.

Don’t Be Drinking Red Wine When the Aliens Come for You

Apparently there are plenty of wine slurpers out there looking for a cure.  Not for the drinking, but the errant spots on carpet or upholstery.

I am here to help you, Friends, as my rugs have not a trace of grape at the moment.

When Dearly Beloved spilled wine on the plush white (really, it’s cream) rug the other night, we knew that BLOTTING was the first step of CPR.  (Carefully Preserving Rug.) While DB worked on it with some old towels, I dashed to my computer and typed in “Removing Red Wine Stains from Carpet.”

I’d heard that white wine worked. . . OxyClean. . . club soda.  I had all of those on hand, but I wanted to know what was best. Help, help me, Google!

There may be 50 ways to lose your lover, but there are, in fact, 1,580,000 ways to remove red wine stains.   I went for the eHow method, which was the first one shown.  I’ve found those always seem logical.  (Coincidentally, I saw that Jane {TheycallmeJane blog} used that same site this week to check on How to Identify an Alien Abduction.  Let’s give ‘em points for versatility!)

The instructions began by informing me that it wasn’t the end of the world.  I passed that information on to DB, who was looking pretty sick about the whole thing.

1. Start by blotting the spill with paper towels or a clean cloth.    Roger that.

2. Combine 1 tsp. carpet shampoo or dish detergent with 1 c. peroxide in a small bowl.

If there is one thing we have around here, it’s carpet cleaning stuff.  We have sprays for pet stains,  liquid for pet stains, and concentrate for pet stains.  Not quite what I was looking for.  I plundered through the cleaning cabinet over the dryer and pushed aside the OxiClean, finally locating a bottle of the carpet shampoo machine stuff we bought last year.  I’d use a teaspoon of that.

I raced to our bathroom to look for peroxide.  Nope.  The guest bathroom?  YESSS!!!

Now we were talking!

I selected a small Rubbermaid bowl.  That was probably not critical to our success.

Soak a clean sponge in the mixture, squeeze it halfway dry, then gently blot the stain. I grabbed two sponges from the sink and dashed into the living room and we began blotting again, this time with the sponges instead of the towel.

At first it looked grey, but then it began to look more promising.  We blotted and dabbed, then sponged with clean water and dabbed  and blotted again with clean towels.

We had done our best.  Was the e-How recipe a good choice?

I went back to my computer to read some of the Comments and noted a section I hadn’t seen the first time:

Commerical products like OxyClean and Wine Away do an excellent job of removing red wine stains, but try this homemade version if you don’t have either of those on hand.

You know, they could have mentioned that at the beginning.  We went back to our blotting, this time with OxyClean.  I used the same small Rubbermaid bowl, in case you’re taking notes.

I’ve never heard of Wine Away, but I’m adding that to my grocery list and will keep it with the OxyClean.  Those sound simpler than the peroxide, carpet shampoo formula.

Perhaps DB will be confident enough to drink wine in the living room again.  He hasn’t had the nerve to do that since The Incident.  Miss Piggy is still smirking.

Just out of curiosity, I decided to check the Alien Abduction Identification to see if there were tips and warnings at the bottom of that one.  Sure enough. . .

The more symptoms you can count, the more likely it is that you can correctly identify an alien abduction. If you have experienced all of these symptoms after a single event, chances are very high that you have been a victim.

Good advice, I suppose, but to paraphrase Dorothy in Jerry Maguire, I’m pretty sure I’d know they had me at Hello.

Seeing Red

Our favorite time of the day is the one we call “Wine Time!”

The hour is as fluid as the wine.  While 6 PM is the general target hour, it adjusts, according to our whims.  Well, our whims and Dearly Beloved’s sense of propriety.  There have been days I’d have started at 3.

Now that it is just the two of us, the House Rules have been mislaid, no doubt under a pile of dust and papers, since the cleaning regimen has been…um…relaxed, too. For instance, we have Wine Time  (and dinner) in the den.  Red Wine Time, to give  you an idea of where I’m going with this.

Now that I am of Medicare age (holy crap!) I metaphorically walk and chew gum at the same time occasionally, just to make sure I can still manage.  Two days ago, I did so in the form of having my glass of wine and playing with some photographs on my computer.

Oops!

I knocked the glass over and the contents spilled onto the end table, sisal rug, and arm of the  sofa. (That link is there in case you want to see our sofas and read how we came to have a den that looks like a motel lobby.)

I wasn’t worried about the sofa fabric being ruined.  I’m not that lucky.  This fabric may look like gold damask with Christmas napkin print, but I’m pretty sure it’s Kevlar and horsehair because sure enough, the wine sat patiently without penetration, waiting to be mopped up.

To his credit, Dearly Beloved did not say, “I KNEW that was going to happen!” even though he has probably said, “You make me nervous doing that” about 100 times as I’ve reached for the glass of wine or set it down on a coaster without looking.   He simply helped me clean it, poured  another glass for me, and we lived happily ever after.

Until last night.

I was in the den listening to a book on CD and knitting, so DB was reading in the living room when the urge to begin Wine Time struck.    He said something about it being so nice to sit in the living room (read room with the white rug) for a change, I suggested he take his wine and continue reading there.

“You’re an adult!  You can handle it.” I actually said that.

Two minutes later there was a strangled cry.  “MARRRRRRR-EEEEEEEE!!!!”

I didn’t have to ask what happened.

How it happened is the amusing part.

Miss Piggy, who has nightmares that someone is going to steal her bones, often sneaks them into the living room because it’s rarely occupied.  She also claims the never-used fireplace in there as her doghouse.  That’s allowed, but she can’t lie on the white rug.  It sounds confusing, but she knows the rules.  If we walk past the living room, she reluctantly gets up and moves from rug to fireplace without our saying a word.  Last night, she took her bone and waddled in to keep company with DB while he was reading.

He was in the process of chiding her for being on the carpet and telling her not to knock the table and spill his wine when HE knocked the table and spilled the red wine all over the white rug.

Although it took some work on our part, there is not a trace of wine stain on the rug this morning.   Like the time I burned up the tea kettle one day and he melted the coffee pot the next, we wax, we wane.   (If you need proof, the melted globs are pictured here.)   Our harmonious, if clumsy,  co-existence continues as if aligned by the stars.  What goes around, comes around.. or spills, burns, breaks…

No recriminations or accusations, with one exception:

DB swears that Miss Piggy is smirking at him.