Dolly Parton Wouldn’t Sing About These

Last week we took granddog Ivy back to Georgia to be with her family after our dog-sitting stint.  Since she was Dearly Beloved’s walking partner on his long daily jaunts,  it is an understatement to say that he misses her.  The lonely Maytag repairman is a party animal by comparison.

My grandsons fancy me a “sew-er” and line up any mending when they know I’m coming.  This time, a large stuffed animal, its leg dangling, needed surgery.  Its owner, Little Elmo, was delighted at the outcome.   Being a hero to a five-year-old is a wonderful, smoochy delight.

My sewing skills are pretty much confined to mending because of lack of talent.  It’s the buttonholes that foil me.  When I used to make dresses for myself, I’d sew in snaps and put buttons over them so that I wouldn’t have to deal with buttonholes.  I don’t trust that method any more.  Either snaps aren’t what they used to be or more of me is expandable.  One good sneeze out in public could get me arrested.

Dearly Beloved has a pair of jeans he finds especially comfortable and he has put my mending skills to the test.  One knee split long ago and I mended it.  Sometime later, he asked me to do it again.  This time, he asked would I use a patch.

The jeans belong in the garbage.  In the past, with his other “favorite jeans,” I’ve sewn patches inside the knee and then stitched the outside together so that it wouldn’t show.  Not this time.

Wiser these days, I have come to realize that what constitutes a “favorite pair” is any that  Mr. Non-shopper does not have to go out and buy for himself.  The ones he has are some the kids have given him over the years.  The current favs have strings hanging from the bottom and threadbare sections in potentially embarrassing spots, though I doubt he’d be arrested.

I rifled through my scraps and came up with a riotous fabric from some project, as well as some dark denim patches that had a ten-cent price tag on them and are surely older than me.  With these props, I “fixed” the jeans, believing that my efforts would speed along the decent burial they deserve.  

The rear has more of the denim patches dotting the seat.

Side note:  Whenever he used to receive an oddball article of clothing as a gift (usually from his mother who couldn’t keep her sons’ sizes or preferences straight) he would tell the children that “this will be something good to wear by the fire.”  

I thought that at best, these would be relegated to fireside status.

Last weekend when we were getting ready to go to Georgia, he put on the jeans, but I thought it was while he was packing the car and that he planned to change for the drive.

Oh, no.  He wanted to “show these babies off to the boys” when he met them at the bus stop that afternoon.  That meant he also wore them inside when we stopped for lunch someplace in South Carolina.

Yesterday he had his car inspected.  I didn’t see him when he left, but he returned– wearing them.

He wears them on walks,  admitting that he does get some odd looks and funny smiles.  He says they’re thinking, “Now there’s a guy who’s comfortable in his own skin.”  

I doubt that.

He completes his look with a Rastafarian belt which doesn’t match the patches, but does go well with the Bob Marley music on his iPod.  Mainly, it holds up his pants since his waist has shrunk from all that walking.

He has the jeans on again today.  This time he has matched the patch by wearing a red, white, and blue plaid shirt.

To mix my metaphors, I have decided that if you can’t beat ’em, fight fire with fire.  I have just the equipment. . . my red sweatpants, which he detests.  I found them at the back of a closet shelf.  I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wear them before he retires those ratty-looking jeans.

I’ve heard so much bull on the televised campaign trail that I do have a lingering concern about these red sweatpants.

Just to be on the safe side, I won’t go near any cow pastures.

Reunited And It Feels so G-o-o-d!

Dearly Beloved and I attended high schools 200 miles apart, so we didn’t know each other during our teen years.  I don’t mind at all.  That way, I can believe without any doubt that he was as terrific a football player as he says, as Troy Donahue-handsome as his mother says, and as hard-working and industrious as his friends tell me.

In contrast, he pictures that I was not the plain, skinny, mixed up girl I remember (an awkward stage I didn’t outgrow until my 30’s.)

Would I attend one of my own class reunions?  I’d sooner empty Miss Piggy’s anal sacs.

On the other hand, Dearly Beloved’s class reunions are held locally, so it’s easy for him to attend.  He has another one coming up this month– the big 5-0.  I’ve attended two of them and know that the record of the couple who produced four children in three years will remain intact and that the guy who had been divorced four times may have increased his lead, since the astonished expression on his new bride’s face at the last reunion revealed that she was unaware of his dubious distinction.

If they recognized the guy in the best physical shape, DB would be a strong contender.  Sure, his medical records have as much ink as the rest of us, but his exercise regimen–walking a couple of hours a day– has him looking as trim and muscular as he must have been in high school.

Earlier this week we were driving somewhere when he pointed out to me that the sport shirt he was wearing was one he hadn’t been able to wear for some years because it had been too tight.  To show me, he said confidently, “Reach over here and button the collar.”

I leaned over and gave it a try.  No dice.

“It’s not going to work because of your turkey wattle,”  I told him.

“My WHAT???”  He looked genuinely stricken.

“This,” I said, reaching under my chin and flapping my own seductively at him.

“You and I don’t HAVE turkey wattles,” he said, quite definitely, yanking down his visor to confirm his statement in the mirror.

See?  Rose-colored glasses!  I love that about him!

He reached up and buttoned the shirt himself.

“LOOK!”  he said smugly.

I nodded quickly so that he’d undo it before his eyes started bulging.

“Oh yeah.  Lookin’ good, Babe,” I answered.

Here’s a question for you:  Is it a waddle or a wattle?  If you want to waste an afternoon on the internet looking into it, let me know what you decide.  I tried, but stopped to try some of  the exercises one could do to get rid of it, like bending your head from side to side but not touching your ear to your shoulders.  The cellophane sound popping in my neck was so annoying that I moved on to Option B–something about rubbing female testosterone on it.  I couldn’t imagine DB being interested and, since we plan to waddle through life together, I looked no further.

Maybe I’ll knit him an ascot.  They worked for Cary Grant when he could no longer button that top button, not to mention Elvis.  Heck, he couldn’t button down to his waist some days.

Nah.  DB wouldn’t wear it and it doesn’t matter anyhow.  His reunion is the week before Thanksgiving.

Gobble, gobble.

 

 

 

 

 

(Fabulous photo of the ascoted turkey is being used with the kind permission of LynnGuppy.  Her blog is LynnGuppy: Live Music, Fine Art, and General Mischief.  I’m not sure whether this is art or mischief.)

Stop Me Before I Click Again!

Want to go to lunch?  Don’t ask me where I want to go because I’ll probably say, “Any place is fine with me.” 

Even if I add, “…maybe not Mexican”  you could say,  “That’s too bad…I found a terrific Mexican restaurant!”  and I’d probably beat you to the car in my haste to try it.   It isn’t that I’m demurring when I say any place is fine.   Do I want to eat out?  YES.  That’s my opinion.  Where is irrelevant.

When I was in school, those aptitude tests we took told me nothing.  I would score equally in several completely unrelated areas, giving the counselor no idea of where to point me.    Dearly Beloved has already retired with a wife who never figured out what she wanted to be when she grew up.  (Except Mrs. DB, of course.)

Don’t even ask  my favorite color…book…movie.   When I take those magazine tests on What’s Your Decorating Style?  it turns out I don’t have one.  “What’s Your Personality Type?”  is a waste of time for me.   My clothing style?  HA!  Our garden is pretty, but it isn’t cottage, or Charleston, or native–it’s some of all of those and more.   Or less.

Does that mean I’m well-rounded or simply wishy-washy?  Darned if I know. 

Is my enjoyment of  knitting, sewing, embroidery, needlepoint, gardening, and crafting simply the megrim   (Word of the Day!  ta dah!)  of  an unfocused mind?  For sure it indicates a lack of dedication to either, and allows for  mediocre skills in each.   If my craft closet is cluttered,  my brain must be ready to blow all that stored confetti.  

My hopscotch interests make my visual hikes into the blogosphere  dizzying.  My favorite bread is a Blogroll.  I’d have callouses on my bum if I looked at all the blogs that I find entertaining. 

The knitting blogs…OH MY GOSH!   I never tire of looking at their FO’s.  That’s Finished Objects, something you haven’t seen on my blog.   They’re amazing!    They not only complete projects, but they spin, they dye, they make up their own patterns…I am SO not in their universe, but in awe of their talents.   I could (and do!) spend  hours peeking into their knitting baskets.

The blogs by the graphic artists, the design mavens. . . holy cow!   The art blogs. . . how can anyone be clever enough to think up Paris Breakfasts?  And the sewing blogs!  These aren’t women who do the smartypants dance simply because they’ve completed a Simplicity pattern without having to rip out a seam.     They know what all those presser feet are for, design their own patterns.    They have to tell you that they made what they’re wearing.  (sigh)

The knitting blogs led me to the nature/birding blogs, thanks to the Nature Knitter who shows me sights  I missed when we lived in Minnesota.  What nice people  the birding bloggers are!    Mary Ferraci is a friend; I just haven’t met her yet.   She’s generously  supplied me with photographs  even after I maligned her favorite dog breed.  To know someone who can supply a horny toad on demand is  not to be taken lightly!  

Down to Earth  takes me up and down  rivers and creeks in eastern North Carolina, where I grew up and reminds me of  beauty I’d long forgotten.   And Mountain Musings  shows me a  part of our state unmatched in majesty, except for those weird white squirrels.  She transplanted from Wisconsin to NC; we transplanted from NC to Wisconsin for several years.    Dawn Fine  goes EVERYWHERE  and takes us along for the ride. 

There are some cooking blogs that I love to browse and they led me to the writing blogs which I have been exploring of late.  I love the simplicity of 100 Words from Dublin.  Don’t let me ever miss Dooce.com’s  Daily Chuck  picture;  I’m admiring of anyone who can support herself with a blog!  

Then there are the book blogs, the pet blogs, the photography blogs, the news blogs…!   My recent discovery of some good blogs by  retired women was  like opening a chocolate sampler.    Hello, friends!   Just this week, I’ve come upon some responsible current events blogs.

Send on the links to the self-discipline blogs! 

In the meantime,  I’d better not  put myself up against a fifth-grader, but I could learn a thing or two from this five-year-old:

Thanks to Pogostick Photography!
Thanks to Pogostick Photography!

MY NAME IS MARY LEE AND I’M A BLOGOHOLIC!