Now that I watch my cholesterol, as well as my budget, I don’t see much steak on the grill anymore. The good news is that I’ve discovered a dozen other uses for that eight-piece set of serrated-blade steak knives in the back of the kitchen drawer. (Or maybe that set has dwindled to only three.)
1. By carefully manipulating the tip, they are great for untangling shoelaces that have become knotted. If the knot won’t let go, just saw the laces apart.
2. Depending on the style, steak knives can be used to pry up blobs of paint from the last craft project off the concrete floor of the garage.
3. Can’t find the scissors to nip off the bottoms of the zinnias for a flower arrangement? Steak knife to the rescue. Use a cutting board to stabilize the stem, not your thumb. (Or just pre-apply several adhesive bandages to save time.)
4. Steak knives can be quite handy when tightening a cabinet knob. Some steak knives tend to snap, so discard those with broken blades. (I think that’s where number eight went.)
5. When things get stuck in things, you may be able to pry them out with a steak knife.
6. Steak knives can be used to mix things, like small amounts of concrete patch in plastic cups. Just don’t leave to answer the phone, do a load of laundry, then read the mail. Concrete patch hardens rather quickly. (Buebye number seven.)
7. When the bottom of your fry pan gets burned-on black stuff, give it a scrape with your trusty steak knife. If the black stuff won’t come off, hide the fry pan.
8. Sometimes you can poke loose yucky stuff that gets stuck in the drain. Just don’t let go of the steak knife. (Bye bye number six, hello plumber.)
9. Steak knives are great to dig around in flower pots and cut loose soft roots. Caution: don’t use a lot of pressure to loosen plants from those flimsy six-pack containers. Remember, steak knives are sharp, skin is soft, and emergency room visits are very expensive.
10. You can use the tip of the knife to slowly let the air out of some inflatable mattresses. There’s a much faster way, but you don’t want to know it – it’s not worth patching the mattress.
11. Some steak knives can be used for bookmarks. If you have a lot of books, remember where you lay the book down. (That could explain the disappearance of number five – and that mystery from the library.)
12. Slender steak knives can be used to pry apart things that are stuck together, like uncancelled stamps from envelopes, transparent tape from gift wrap and siblings in a bubble-gum blowing contest.
And, yes, be sure to remember all that safety stuff about knives in general. Geeze, we’re all adults here and know the dangers. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go change an electrical outlet. Humm, I wonder where I left my steak knife?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
Panic in the Toothpaste Aisle
While browsing through dental products in a major store the other day, I overheard a woman mutter, “What the …, all I want is a tube of toothpaste.”
I could not resist the urge to offer understanding sympathy and came out with a brilliant, “I hear you and I know what you mean,” a left-over phrase from the corporate employment days.
She looked at me like she had just run up face-to-face with the village idiot. What I should have said was, “Oh, heck, yes, I understand one-hundred per cent. There are just too many choices and all I, too, want is a tube of good old-fashioned toothpaste!”
If manufacturers were smart, they would simplify the ingredients – and cost – for people like us and label their product as “Good Old-Fashioned” toothpaste. I really don’t want “whitening,” “super whitening,” “extra superduper whitening,” “smokers’ and coffee drinkers’ whitening,” “mint flavored whitening,” or “baking soda and peroxide and mint flavored and striped and mouthwash and cavity prevention and handy standup-tube whitening.” Just plain ol’ toothpaste will do, thank you.
Thirty minutes later I had eliminated all the toothpastes with fancy ingredients while muttering, “What the …, all I want is plain old-fashioned toothpaste!” I finally grabbed the least expensive brand and turned around to pick a mouthwash.
Aaarrrrgggh! Too many choices! Should I pick a brand by price or one that color-coordinates with the bathroom color scheme!?
Maybe the solution is just to stock up on good old-fashioned baking soda and keep my mouth shut!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
I could not resist the urge to offer understanding sympathy and came out with a brilliant, “I hear you and I know what you mean,” a left-over phrase from the corporate employment days.
She looked at me like she had just run up face-to-face with the village idiot. What I should have said was, “Oh, heck, yes, I understand one-hundred per cent. There are just too many choices and all I, too, want is a tube of good old-fashioned toothpaste!”
If manufacturers were smart, they would simplify the ingredients – and cost – for people like us and label their product as “Good Old-Fashioned” toothpaste. I really don’t want “whitening,” “super whitening,” “extra superduper whitening,” “smokers’ and coffee drinkers’ whitening,” “mint flavored whitening,” or “baking soda and peroxide and mint flavored and striped and mouthwash and cavity prevention and handy standup-tube whitening.” Just plain ol’ toothpaste will do, thank you.
Thirty minutes later I had eliminated all the toothpastes with fancy ingredients while muttering, “What the …, all I want is plain old-fashioned toothpaste!” I finally grabbed the least expensive brand and turned around to pick a mouthwash.
Aaarrrrgggh! Too many choices! Should I pick a brand by price or one that color-coordinates with the bathroom color scheme!?
Maybe the solution is just to stock up on good old-fashioned baking soda and keep my mouth shut!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Daylight Savings Time
Daylight savings time begins Sunday, April 2 at 2 a.m. It’s time for most Americans to set their clocks ahead – spring forward – one hour.
As a retiree, I’ve decided I’m not participating this year. Just too much trouble. I would just have to reverse the whole clock-setting thing again in the Fall and besides, I’m not going to bed or getting up any earlier anyway. If you want to talk to me at 10 a.m. daylight savings time, wait an hour or call in the afternoon. If you want to have lunch with me, have a mid-morning snack and I’ll meet you at noon my time.
I have never understood this whole “time saving” business anyway. There are times when I would like to go to this mysterious “time bank” and withdraw a few hours. There must be hours and hours just piled sky-high that no one has thought to use. Do you know anyone who has ever successfully made a withdrawal?
You know how busy people are always saying, “Oh, I wish I had one more hour in the day,” or “I sure could use an extra day this week.” If we could find this time bank, think how handy that extra hour or day could be. Bad thing is, in no time politicians would figure out a way to tax our time withdrawals and our tax dollars would be funding a study on why kids fall off tricycles. (Oops, hasn’t that one already been funded?)
And don’t give me that old “you get it back in the Fall” routine. Maybe one hour, sure, but where are all the summer hours? I bet it’s all those stored summer hours that are causing global warming. All those banked summer hours of 80 and 90 degrees are heating up the planet.
I think it’s time we retirees all stood up and started a campaign to end this foolishness. You go ahead and get it started and I’ll be along sometime after noon – my time!
P.S. You might enjoy later comments made Monday, October 2, 2006, when it was time to "Fall Back."
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
As a retiree, I’ve decided I’m not participating this year. Just too much trouble. I would just have to reverse the whole clock-setting thing again in the Fall and besides, I’m not going to bed or getting up any earlier anyway. If you want to talk to me at 10 a.m. daylight savings time, wait an hour or call in the afternoon. If you want to have lunch with me, have a mid-morning snack and I’ll meet you at noon my time.
I have never understood this whole “time saving” business anyway. There are times when I would like to go to this mysterious “time bank” and withdraw a few hours. There must be hours and hours just piled sky-high that no one has thought to use. Do you know anyone who has ever successfully made a withdrawal?
You know how busy people are always saying, “Oh, I wish I had one more hour in the day,” or “I sure could use an extra day this week.” If we could find this time bank, think how handy that extra hour or day could be. Bad thing is, in no time politicians would figure out a way to tax our time withdrawals and our tax dollars would be funding a study on why kids fall off tricycles. (Oops, hasn’t that one already been funded?)
And don’t give me that old “you get it back in the Fall” routine. Maybe one hour, sure, but where are all the summer hours? I bet it’s all those stored summer hours that are causing global warming. All those banked summer hours of 80 and 90 degrees are heating up the planet.
I think it’s time we retirees all stood up and started a campaign to end this foolishness. You go ahead and get it started and I’ll be along sometime after noon – my time!
P.S. You might enjoy later comments made Monday, October 2, 2006, when it was time to "Fall Back."
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Friday, March 31, 2006
Belly Buttons
Belly buttons.
We all have them. Most of us keep them hidden. Some people have them pierced. Ouch! Some celebrities flaunt them. Some are “outies.” Some are “innies.” Small children are fascinated with them – especially their own.
I once knew a kid who thought that if his belly button fell off, his guts would fall out. He knew it was true because his big brother (age six) told him. His older brother also told the kid he was adopted – and came from Mars. The kid got even, though, as he was the first to figure out the relationship between parents and St. Nick and wasted no time exploding his older brother’s firm belief.
Now the question is, which came first, the pierced and revealed belly button or low-rise jeans? Did manufacturers respond to a “need” to show off belly button jewelry or did manufacturers of belly button jewelry exploit an area of anatomy to boost sales?
Ankles were hot in the 1920s, the braless look took over the 60’s and miniskirts and hot pants showed off thighs plus in the ‘70s. By the ‘80s, women were wearing power suits with big shoulder pads. By the 1990s, we were all wearing plaid shirts, cowboy boots and hats, and line dancing the night away.
Now, along with rings, rods, and plugs, the young teen and twenty somethings are covering their bodies with symbols, pictures and words.
What’s next? It will be interesting to see what the next generation does to rebel against their parents. Will nudity become the norm or will teen angst be expressed in extreme modesty and conservatism.
I hope I’m here to see it, what ever it is. Maybe the kids will bring back rock and roll and disco so we older folks can bop and boogie again until the wee hours of 9:30. Whooo, hooo.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
We all have them. Most of us keep them hidden. Some people have them pierced. Ouch! Some celebrities flaunt them. Some are “outies.” Some are “innies.” Small children are fascinated with them – especially their own.
I once knew a kid who thought that if his belly button fell off, his guts would fall out. He knew it was true because his big brother (age six) told him. His older brother also told the kid he was adopted – and came from Mars. The kid got even, though, as he was the first to figure out the relationship between parents and St. Nick and wasted no time exploding his older brother’s firm belief.
Now the question is, which came first, the pierced and revealed belly button or low-rise jeans? Did manufacturers respond to a “need” to show off belly button jewelry or did manufacturers of belly button jewelry exploit an area of anatomy to boost sales?
Ankles were hot in the 1920s, the braless look took over the 60’s and miniskirts and hot pants showed off thighs plus in the ‘70s. By the ‘80s, women were wearing power suits with big shoulder pads. By the 1990s, we were all wearing plaid shirts, cowboy boots and hats, and line dancing the night away.
Now, along with rings, rods, and plugs, the young teen and twenty somethings are covering their bodies with symbols, pictures and words.
What’s next? It will be interesting to see what the next generation does to rebel against their parents. Will nudity become the norm or will teen angst be expressed in extreme modesty and conservatism.
I hope I’m here to see it, what ever it is. Maybe the kids will bring back rock and roll and disco so we older folks can bop and boogie again until the wee hours of 9:30. Whooo, hooo.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Moving Day
Okay, everyone, show of hands, please.
Everyone who has moved at least twice, please raise your hand.
Ah, ha! Every one of you!
Then you remember what it’s like. Or maybe you would rather forget.
Depending on your personal organization skills, how much stuff you had, and the length of time you had to round up boxes and toss out junk, probably reflects your feelings about your moves. Have you noticed that after five or six relocations, sentiment gives way to practicality, but no matter how many times you move, part of your heart is still in your first real “home.”
Have you also noticed how stuff accumulates in proportion to the space you are leaving? You always have one more room full of stuff than you have rooms. When I moved from my parents’ house, it was a couple of suitcases, three or four boxes of shoes (I was big into shoes), and a few dresses in dry cleaning bags. In no time, boom, I filled a one-bedroom apartment. Eventually I worked up to a three-bedroom house with closets to spare. Five years later, a long-distance move from that house now bulging at the seams delighted the movers. A few houses later, I came back to an apartment with half the stuff and shortly worked up to another house with over-flowing closets.
Now I’m thinking of down-sizing (again) and have been cleaning out closets. I’ve been cleaning out closets for almost three years and I’m convinced they refill on their own. I’ve discovered weird things on top shelves and things I don’t even remember buying. There must be someone living here that I don’t know about who slips out, brings in things and crams them in the closets.
My ideal closet would be poised over a bottomless pit with a spring-activated door in the floor. When the weight on the floor door reached a certain weight, the door would silently swing downward, permanently “storing” the contents of the closet in the pit below. There would always be plenty of room in that closet to pile, stack and heap more stuff, and when asked where something was, the answer would be, “I put it in the closet!”
I have a friend who has a small place that is always neat and tidy. If she brings something in, something goes out. She can pack up and move with two days notice – and has done it. My neighbors just moved. Took them four days, three friends and a huge rented van to move the furniture and yard equipment. That’s after a week of several pickup truck loads of boxes every evening. They should finish up by tomorrow!
I’m not looking forward to moving again. My perfect move would be to pick up my purse, have a lovely drive and then walk in the front door of my completely furnished and stocked new place. Since that’s not about to happen, I guess I’m back to cleaning closets. You wouldn’t happen to want twelve pairs of sandals, fifteen pairs of sneakers and athletic shoes, eighteen pairs of casuals, and nine pairs of pumps, would you?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Everyone who has moved at least twice, please raise your hand.
Ah, ha! Every one of you!
Then you remember what it’s like. Or maybe you would rather forget.
Depending on your personal organization skills, how much stuff you had, and the length of time you had to round up boxes and toss out junk, probably reflects your feelings about your moves. Have you noticed that after five or six relocations, sentiment gives way to practicality, but no matter how many times you move, part of your heart is still in your first real “home.”
Have you also noticed how stuff accumulates in proportion to the space you are leaving? You always have one more room full of stuff than you have rooms. When I moved from my parents’ house, it was a couple of suitcases, three or four boxes of shoes (I was big into shoes), and a few dresses in dry cleaning bags. In no time, boom, I filled a one-bedroom apartment. Eventually I worked up to a three-bedroom house with closets to spare. Five years later, a long-distance move from that house now bulging at the seams delighted the movers. A few houses later, I came back to an apartment with half the stuff and shortly worked up to another house with over-flowing closets.
Now I’m thinking of down-sizing (again) and have been cleaning out closets. I’ve been cleaning out closets for almost three years and I’m convinced they refill on their own. I’ve discovered weird things on top shelves and things I don’t even remember buying. There must be someone living here that I don’t know about who slips out, brings in things and crams them in the closets.
My ideal closet would be poised over a bottomless pit with a spring-activated door in the floor. When the weight on the floor door reached a certain weight, the door would silently swing downward, permanently “storing” the contents of the closet in the pit below. There would always be plenty of room in that closet to pile, stack and heap more stuff, and when asked where something was, the answer would be, “I put it in the closet!”
I have a friend who has a small place that is always neat and tidy. If she brings something in, something goes out. She can pack up and move with two days notice – and has done it. My neighbors just moved. Took them four days, three friends and a huge rented van to move the furniture and yard equipment. That’s after a week of several pickup truck loads of boxes every evening. They should finish up by tomorrow!
I’m not looking forward to moving again. My perfect move would be to pick up my purse, have a lovely drive and then walk in the front door of my completely furnished and stocked new place. Since that’s not about to happen, I guess I’m back to cleaning closets. You wouldn’t happen to want twelve pairs of sandals, fifteen pairs of sneakers and athletic shoes, eighteen pairs of casuals, and nine pairs of pumps, would you?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Monday, March 20, 2006
When Daughters Turn Into Their Mothers
I made an astute observation the other day about mothers and daughters. Daughters turn into their mothers when they start hooking their back-hook bras in the front. The speed of the spin to get everything in the right position depends on the age of the daughter-turned-into-her-mother. The older the daughter/mother, the slower the spin.
Daughters who wear the newer front-hook bras have the ability to defy aging because they probably also go to yoga classes or have personal workout equipment that folds flat for easy storage under the bed. They may also carry PDAs, have a large collection of CDs, DVDs, and video games, and burn their own disks with their 8X CD/DVD (DVD+/-RW) drives.
Daughter/mothers also dye their hair red to disguise the resemblance to their mothers who have dyed their hair blue. (This is particularly patriotic if another relative has snow-white hair and stands in the middle.)
It’s a very strange process, this business of getting older. Looking at the annual reports from companies that manufacture age-defying products, business is flourishing.
It can also be a lot of fun. Just today in the grocery store, I watched from the sidelines as a young mother tried to catch her toddler as he sprinted down the cereal aisle. And I just love it when a teen in his new graduation car zips past and rushes to be first to stop at the light. We older, wiser folks estimate the light change and roll past the youngster who is still at a dead stop.
For those of us too old to be young and way too young to be old, it’s an adventurous time of life. Right now, since I can’t decide if my hair should be red or blue, I think I’ll just get a little of each. Yeah, that’s it, with a white streak in the middle just in case a parade comes along!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Daughters who wear the newer front-hook bras have the ability to defy aging because they probably also go to yoga classes or have personal workout equipment that folds flat for easy storage under the bed. They may also carry PDAs, have a large collection of CDs, DVDs, and video games, and burn their own disks with their 8X CD/DVD (DVD+/-RW) drives.
Daughter/mothers also dye their hair red to disguise the resemblance to their mothers who have dyed their hair blue. (This is particularly patriotic if another relative has snow-white hair and stands in the middle.)
It’s a very strange process, this business of getting older. Looking at the annual reports from companies that manufacture age-defying products, business is flourishing.
It can also be a lot of fun. Just today in the grocery store, I watched from the sidelines as a young mother tried to catch her toddler as he sprinted down the cereal aisle. And I just love it when a teen in his new graduation car zips past and rushes to be first to stop at the light. We older, wiser folks estimate the light change and roll past the youngster who is still at a dead stop.
For those of us too old to be young and way too young to be old, it’s an adventurous time of life. Right now, since I can’t decide if my hair should be red or blue, I think I’ll just get a little of each. Yeah, that’s it, with a white streak in the middle just in case a parade comes along!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Monday, March 13, 2006
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Rhyme Time
For the past several days, a silly rhyme from my childhood has been drifting in and out of my thoughts. It’s also morphed into other little ditties, mainly the sing-song stuff we used when jumping rope.
I had the evil thought that if I passed these rhymes along, they would stick in someone else’s brain and I would be free to ponder more important issues.
Okay, here goes.
Hi, Ho
Hi, ho, silverware.
Tonto lost his underwear.
Tonto say, “Me don’t care,”
Lone Ranger buy me ‘nuther pair!”
Found a Peanut
Found a peanut, found a peanut,
Found a peanut just now.
I just now found a peanut,
Found a peanut just now.
It was rotten, it was rotten,
It was rotten just now.
Just now it was rotten,
It was rotten just now.
Ate it anyway, ate it anyway,
Ate it anyway just now.
Just now ate it anyway,
Ate it anyway just now.
Got a belly ache, got a belly ache,
Got a belly ache just now.
Just now got a belly ache,
Got a belly ache just now.
Called the doctor, called the doctor,
Called the doctor just now.
Just now called the doctor,
Called the doctor just now.
Died anyway, died anyway.
Died anyway just now.
Just now died anyway,
Died anyway just now.
Down in the Valley
Down in the valley where the green grass grows,
There sits Betty pretty as a rose.
Up came Jimmy and kissed her on the cheek,
How many kisses did she get this week?
1, 2, 3 ...
One Potato
One potato, two potato,
Three potato, four.
Five potato, six potato,
Seven potato, more.
Mississippi
How do you spell Mississippi?
M!
I!
Crooked letter!
Crooked letter!
I!
Crooked letter!
Crooked letter!
I!
Hunch back!
Hunch back!
I!
That’s how you spell Mississippi.
Love and Marriage
Betty and Jimmy sittin' in a tree.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
First comes love,
Then comes marriage,
Then comes Betty with a baby carriage!
How many children will they have?
1, 2, 3 …
Now that I'm free of silly songs, I have begun to wonder just what was it that Meat Loaf would not do for love. It’s much easier than trying to understand what it is that Medicare Part D covers.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
I had the evil thought that if I passed these rhymes along, they would stick in someone else’s brain and I would be free to ponder more important issues.
Okay, here goes.
Hi, Ho
Hi, ho, silverware.
Tonto lost his underwear.
Tonto say, “Me don’t care,”
Lone Ranger buy me ‘nuther pair!”
Found a Peanut
Found a peanut, found a peanut,
Found a peanut just now.
I just now found a peanut,
Found a peanut just now.
It was rotten, it was rotten,
It was rotten just now.
Just now it was rotten,
It was rotten just now.
Ate it anyway, ate it anyway,
Ate it anyway just now.
Just now ate it anyway,
Ate it anyway just now.
Got a belly ache, got a belly ache,
Got a belly ache just now.
Just now got a belly ache,
Got a belly ache just now.
Called the doctor, called the doctor,
Called the doctor just now.
Just now called the doctor,
Called the doctor just now.
Died anyway, died anyway.
Died anyway just now.
Just now died anyway,
Died anyway just now.
Down in the Valley
Down in the valley where the green grass grows,
There sits Betty pretty as a rose.
Up came Jimmy and kissed her on the cheek,
How many kisses did she get this week?
1, 2, 3 ...
One Potato
One potato, two potato,
Three potato, four.
Five potato, six potato,
Seven potato, more.
Mississippi
How do you spell Mississippi?
M!
I!
Crooked letter!
Crooked letter!
I!
Crooked letter!
Crooked letter!
I!
Hunch back!
Hunch back!
I!
That’s how you spell Mississippi.
Love and Marriage
Betty and Jimmy sittin' in a tree.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
First comes love,
Then comes marriage,
Then comes Betty with a baby carriage!
How many children will they have?
1, 2, 3 …
Now that I'm free of silly songs, I have begun to wonder just what was it that Meat Loaf would not do for love. It’s much easier than trying to understand what it is that Medicare Part D covers.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Monday, March 06, 2006
License to Email
I think there should be a test and then licensing for people to use their email! Maybe even pre-mailrital counseling with an instructor. Why? How many emails have you gotten with a least ten forwards and not one of those emailers knew how to use the delete key. My motto is if you have to scroll through more than four previous senders or a hundred-fifty names, it’s not worth reading!
There should also be a ban on those gushy emails that promise happiness at the end. You know the kind: Send this to five people and you will get your wish in twenty-six years, ten people and it’s only twelve years, and four-hundred and ninety-two and your wish instantly comes true.
I fell for that one, not once, but twice. It doesn’t work. My boobs are still not up where they once were and I’m not driving a shiny new Cadillac STS-V.
Has it been “Friendship Week” every week for the past three years? Who invented the custom of sending pictures of sunsets and babies to celebrate the event? Here’s the part that mystifies me. At the end, the email gives specific instructions to “pass this to your friends and send one back to me.” Is that like having to wear a porkchop around your neck to get the dog to play with you? I love my friends – couldn’t make it without them, so I try to let them know in ways other than threatening emails.
Well, that’s my rant for today. I just got an email that promises 1,526 bars of chocolate in only three weeks if I forward it to everyone in Siberia and I have to get busy.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
There should also be a ban on those gushy emails that promise happiness at the end. You know the kind: Send this to five people and you will get your wish in twenty-six years, ten people and it’s only twelve years, and four-hundred and ninety-two and your wish instantly comes true.
I fell for that one, not once, but twice. It doesn’t work. My boobs are still not up where they once were and I’m not driving a shiny new Cadillac STS-V.
Has it been “Friendship Week” every week for the past three years? Who invented the custom of sending pictures of sunsets and babies to celebrate the event? Here’s the part that mystifies me. At the end, the email gives specific instructions to “pass this to your friends and send one back to me.” Is that like having to wear a porkchop around your neck to get the dog to play with you? I love my friends – couldn’t make it without them, so I try to let them know in ways other than threatening emails.
Well, that’s my rant for today. I just got an email that promises 1,526 bars of chocolate in only three weeks if I forward it to everyone in Siberia and I have to get busy.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Monday, February 27, 2006
Does It Matter?
Some people have waaaaay too much time to think about things that don’t matter. I read an article in this morning’s paper about what ever happened to colored toilet paper that was so popular in the ‘50s and ‘60s. It seems it’s demise was mainly economical. Translation: It was too expensive for manufacturers to produce and customers were turned off by the possibility of a dye rash or pollution of the environment. There, now you know.
Really, now, was it important to have colored toilet paper? Not only was some of it in pastel shares of pink, blue and green, “designer” floral prints were also available. Think of all the other non-essential things that came across grocery and department store shelves that we didn’t need. Things like the electric potato peeler and still available glow-in-the-dark shoes. (Honey, put you shoes in the closet; they’re keeping me awake!)
What ever happened to the electric hot dog cooker? When it’s too cold to grill out, have we all gone back to a pot of boiling water? Duh.
Oh, and remember that magic hair restorer? Just choose your color and spray it on your bald spot. I think with a different label, it was called PAINT!
Good ol’ Ron Popeil became a zillionaire selling us such can’t-live-without products like the Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler. Really. You can still buy them online. Really. Twenty bucks. www.ronco.com/
You can even find these egg scramblers on Ebay. I’ll sell you a fork (sealed in plastic wrap for your protection but it might have “Wendys” stamped on the handle) and a plastic bowl for only ten bucks, but you have to crack your own egg.
While “researching” this important literary contribution to the world, I Goggled the words “stupid inventions.” Jump back – I came up with 1,310,000 hits. I would Google “stupid blogs” but I’m afraid this one may come up.
Oh, what the heck; does it really matter?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Really, now, was it important to have colored toilet paper? Not only was some of it in pastel shares of pink, blue and green, “designer” floral prints were also available. Think of all the other non-essential things that came across grocery and department store shelves that we didn’t need. Things like the electric potato peeler and still available glow-in-the-dark shoes. (Honey, put you shoes in the closet; they’re keeping me awake!)
What ever happened to the electric hot dog cooker? When it’s too cold to grill out, have we all gone back to a pot of boiling water? Duh.
Oh, and remember that magic hair restorer? Just choose your color and spray it on your bald spot. I think with a different label, it was called PAINT!
Good ol’ Ron Popeil became a zillionaire selling us such can’t-live-without products like the Inside-The-Shell Egg Scrambler. Really. You can still buy them online. Really. Twenty bucks. www.ronco.com/
You can even find these egg scramblers on Ebay. I’ll sell you a fork (sealed in plastic wrap for your protection but it might have “Wendys” stamped on the handle) and a plastic bowl for only ten bucks, but you have to crack your own egg.
While “researching” this important literary contribution to the world, I Goggled the words “stupid inventions.” Jump back – I came up with 1,310,000 hits. I would Google “stupid blogs” but I’m afraid this one may come up.
Oh, what the heck; does it really matter?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Monday, February 20, 2006
Springtime at Home Depot
More accurate than robins, the arrival of the Homeowners to the garden supply section of Home Depot announces the arrival of Spring. Both males and females may still be in their winter plumage of jackets or sweaters and blue denim jeans if temperatures are still on the chilly side. If spring plumage has already been adopted, especially during warm sunny days, Homeowners appear in colorful tee shirts and shorts. They arrive just before the last killing frost of Winter and tend to hover around the petunias, seed displays and hand tools.
You can easily discern Homeowners from browsers by their glazed eyes and relentless pursuit of grass greening products and lawn care equipment. Many Homeowners shop in pairs, with the female of the species carrying a long list and the male trailing behind pushing a cart and chirping, “Yes, dear,” or grunting, “Gotta have a new mower/edger/hedge trimmer/seed spreader/chain saw this year.”
Keen observers often hear the distinctive call of “Honey, I found the aphid spray,” or “Oh, my god, the tomatoes are already in!” over the tops to the towering display racks. Several Homeowners may often be seen fluttering around sales displays using their shopping carts to manipulate closer to the items. Males seem mostly attracted to large, gasoline-powered items, while females flock towards any scented flowering plant.
Once fully-equipped to eliminate all non-grass plants from the green areas and fully-encapsulate selected plants with mulch, Homeowners streak to the checkout counters where bickering may occur between the pairs or other Homeowners. Here, observers have recorded such cries of, “I thought YOU brought the damn credit card,” or “Hey, bud, you’re poking me in the ribs with that shovel.”
Aaaaah, Spring. My favorite time of year. Let me share with you a little poem I learned years ago to celebrate the season.
Spring has sprung,
The grass has riz.
I wonder where
The flowers is.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
You can easily discern Homeowners from browsers by their glazed eyes and relentless pursuit of grass greening products and lawn care equipment. Many Homeowners shop in pairs, with the female of the species carrying a long list and the male trailing behind pushing a cart and chirping, “Yes, dear,” or grunting, “Gotta have a new mower/edger/hedge trimmer/seed spreader/chain saw this year.”
Keen observers often hear the distinctive call of “Honey, I found the aphid spray,” or “Oh, my god, the tomatoes are already in!” over the tops to the towering display racks. Several Homeowners may often be seen fluttering around sales displays using their shopping carts to manipulate closer to the items. Males seem mostly attracted to large, gasoline-powered items, while females flock towards any scented flowering plant.
Once fully-equipped to eliminate all non-grass plants from the green areas and fully-encapsulate selected plants with mulch, Homeowners streak to the checkout counters where bickering may occur between the pairs or other Homeowners. Here, observers have recorded such cries of, “I thought YOU brought the damn credit card,” or “Hey, bud, you’re poking me in the ribs with that shovel.”
Aaaaah, Spring. My favorite time of year. Let me share with you a little poem I learned years ago to celebrate the season.
Spring has sprung,
The grass has riz.
I wonder where
The flowers is.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Friday, February 17, 2006
Missing the Flying Toasters
Ah, the good ol’ days when Macintosh ruled the personal PC world with their logical and simple operating system. Although pricey, they were affordable, too. Those trusty Macs ran powerful, but simple, software that opened whole new avenues of creativity.
When color monitors replaced the one-piece Macs with the nine-inch screens, some of the coolest screen savers in the world could be selected to dance across the desktop. My favorites were the Flying Toasters, clacking away as they flew from one corner of the screen to the other, and Get Barney that required a bit of interactivity to do away the annoying purple dinosaur.
Maybe it’s not so much the screensavers I miss. Maybe it’s the simplicity of the computer operation. Or just maybe the world situation, although not perfect, was less complicated than today. I wonder if my parents, and the parents of all the others my age, felt the same way about the Model-T growing up to be the Ford Thunderbird!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
When color monitors replaced the one-piece Macs with the nine-inch screens, some of the coolest screen savers in the world could be selected to dance across the desktop. My favorites were the Flying Toasters, clacking away as they flew from one corner of the screen to the other, and Get Barney that required a bit of interactivity to do away the annoying purple dinosaur.
Maybe it’s not so much the screensavers I miss. Maybe it’s the simplicity of the computer operation. Or just maybe the world situation, although not perfect, was less complicated than today. I wonder if my parents, and the parents of all the others my age, felt the same way about the Model-T growing up to be the Ford Thunderbird!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Cold Enuff Fer Ya!
When I was a kid, I would hear my relatives ask each other, “Well, cold enuff fer ya?” It was later while living in Oklahoma that I realized there were different degrees of cold, and what is “cold enuff” for one may not be too cold for another.
Where I grew up in North Florida, when the winter temperature plummets to forty-five degrees we all complain about how cold it is and that we are freezing. We pile an extra log in the fireplace (if we are lucky enough to have one) and push the thermostat up higher than we have it for cooling in the summer. (Some of us still wear shorts and tee shirts inside, this is Florida after all.)
Sweaters and coats come out of closets just so we can at least get one or two wearings out of our Christmas gifts. Every now and then we see a few flakes of snow and all hell breaks loose. Every child in the area is rushed outside to see real snow and hospitals are flooded with kids with stiff necks whose tongues won’t recoil inside their lips.
Even more rarely, like every fifteen or twenty years or so, we waken to a white wonderland of accumulated snow. Sometimes it even lasts until sundown. We all but declare a holiday snow day and the electric company issues pleas to conserve power to prevent rolling blackouts. The reason for the high energy consumption is that we have all run outside (some in shorts and tee shirts), leaving doors wide open, to frolic in the phenomenon. Even adults flop backwards trying to make snow angels and kids scrape up the snow for pitiful snowmen. If there is not enough snow or it begins to melt in the sun, refrigerators are raided for frost and shady places are harvested.
The first winter I lived in Oklahoma, I discovered that not only was the weather cold enough, but too damn cold for me. It snowed and snowed and snow piled up – and up – and up. The wind blew drifts against the houses and cars and I saw exactly what purpose those “snow” fences served. I also discovered that cords on electric blankets do not reach all the way around the kitchen and extension cords are required. I also discovered that it is not wise to fry bacon while wearing an electric blanket turned to “high.” I measured my misery in how many pairs of socks I had on. A three-sock snow day turned me into a homesick lunatic.
My next door neighbors, however, thought this mild winter weather was just wonderful and no where near what they had back home in upstate New York. Ah ha! It was not cold enough for them. My native Oklahoman friends waltzed outside to get the mail and newspapers without layering on sweaters and coats. I decided there was nothing in the mail box I really want to see until spring and canceled my paper subscription.
Finally back home in Florida, I now welcome each “cold snap” with open arms. When the Weather Channel predicts blizzard conditions sweeping across the Plains or dropping great volumes of snow on the Northeast, I run outside (in shorts and tee shirt) and kiss my unfrozen ground.
Nope, not too cold fer me. Hit be juss fine, juss fine.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Where I grew up in North Florida, when the winter temperature plummets to forty-five degrees we all complain about how cold it is and that we are freezing. We pile an extra log in the fireplace (if we are lucky enough to have one) and push the thermostat up higher than we have it for cooling in the summer. (Some of us still wear shorts and tee shirts inside, this is Florida after all.)
Sweaters and coats come out of closets just so we can at least get one or two wearings out of our Christmas gifts. Every now and then we see a few flakes of snow and all hell breaks loose. Every child in the area is rushed outside to see real snow and hospitals are flooded with kids with stiff necks whose tongues won’t recoil inside their lips.
Even more rarely, like every fifteen or twenty years or so, we waken to a white wonderland of accumulated snow. Sometimes it even lasts until sundown. We all but declare a holiday snow day and the electric company issues pleas to conserve power to prevent rolling blackouts. The reason for the high energy consumption is that we have all run outside (some in shorts and tee shirts), leaving doors wide open, to frolic in the phenomenon. Even adults flop backwards trying to make snow angels and kids scrape up the snow for pitiful snowmen. If there is not enough snow or it begins to melt in the sun, refrigerators are raided for frost and shady places are harvested.
The first winter I lived in Oklahoma, I discovered that not only was the weather cold enough, but too damn cold for me. It snowed and snowed and snow piled up – and up – and up. The wind blew drifts against the houses and cars and I saw exactly what purpose those “snow” fences served. I also discovered that cords on electric blankets do not reach all the way around the kitchen and extension cords are required. I also discovered that it is not wise to fry bacon while wearing an electric blanket turned to “high.” I measured my misery in how many pairs of socks I had on. A three-sock snow day turned me into a homesick lunatic.
My next door neighbors, however, thought this mild winter weather was just wonderful and no where near what they had back home in upstate New York. Ah ha! It was not cold enough for them. My native Oklahoman friends waltzed outside to get the mail and newspapers without layering on sweaters and coats. I decided there was nothing in the mail box I really want to see until spring and canceled my paper subscription.
Finally back home in Florida, I now welcome each “cold snap” with open arms. When the Weather Channel predicts blizzard conditions sweeping across the Plains or dropping great volumes of snow on the Northeast, I run outside (in shorts and tee shirt) and kiss my unfrozen ground.
Nope, not too cold fer me. Hit be juss fine, juss fine.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Wardrobe Makeover
I hope no one from one of those makeover shows or a tacky-dressed “fashion” critic ever offers me a wardrobe makeover. I would have to politely turn them down because I couldn’t stand to watch them faint at the sight of my “comfortable” clothes. My idea of fashion is cool in the summer, warm in the winter, and lots of elastic.
Shoes should also be comfortable: no spindly heels to accent my calves, no strappy things to accent my ankles and especially no platform stuff to accent my Blue Cross card.
Most of my friends are into the same fashion trend – “loose,” “baggy,” and “washable” often accents the descriptions of our latest wardrobe acquisitions. There comes a time in life when dry cleaning is no longer a necessity unless you are one of those high society grande dames. Since my status in life runs pretty much with the JC Penny and Walmart crowd, I don’t think I’ll ever have problems with ball gowns and silk suits.
And who appointed those self-proclaimed “fashion” critics to be the authorities anyway? Have we become so mushy-brained that we can no longer make judgments for ourselves? Can you imagine their job descriptions? “Must appear at film and award ceremonies and later make disparaging comments about all outfits other than their own.” This I say to “them,” “Toots, take a good look in the mirror before you start throwing those barbs.”
Personally, I still like denim bell-bottoms and flowered mumus (loose, comfortable and washable). I do draw my fashion line at stretch pants and hemlines above the knee. Let’s face us, most women over fifty-five should avoid anything that looks good on a teen-ager.
Speaking of teenagers, I don’t even want to mention my thoughts on “modern” undergarments other than to say if the garment is smaller than and weighs less than a dollar bill, it’s best left for the under-thirty somethings.
I guess I’ll never appear on the Oprah show (she always looks so great, even without makeup) as a famous writer simply because if anyone suggested “control pantyhose,” I’d head for the hills. Unless, of course, there was a chance I could bring back the “natural” look. Now wouldn’t THAT be fun! Oh, I can just hear Joan and Melissa now, “ Well, would you look at that! She doesn’t have one single crow’s foot or a freckle! How unfashionable. And what is with those Jimmy Chos! Does she not know Birkenstocks are back in style?”
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Shoes should also be comfortable: no spindly heels to accent my calves, no strappy things to accent my ankles and especially no platform stuff to accent my Blue Cross card.
Most of my friends are into the same fashion trend – “loose,” “baggy,” and “washable” often accents the descriptions of our latest wardrobe acquisitions. There comes a time in life when dry cleaning is no longer a necessity unless you are one of those high society grande dames. Since my status in life runs pretty much with the JC Penny and Walmart crowd, I don’t think I’ll ever have problems with ball gowns and silk suits.
And who appointed those self-proclaimed “fashion” critics to be the authorities anyway? Have we become so mushy-brained that we can no longer make judgments for ourselves? Can you imagine their job descriptions? “Must appear at film and award ceremonies and later make disparaging comments about all outfits other than their own.” This I say to “them,” “Toots, take a good look in the mirror before you start throwing those barbs.”
Personally, I still like denim bell-bottoms and flowered mumus (loose, comfortable and washable). I do draw my fashion line at stretch pants and hemlines above the knee. Let’s face us, most women over fifty-five should avoid anything that looks good on a teen-ager.
Speaking of teenagers, I don’t even want to mention my thoughts on “modern” undergarments other than to say if the garment is smaller than and weighs less than a dollar bill, it’s best left for the under-thirty somethings.
I guess I’ll never appear on the Oprah show (she always looks so great, even without makeup) as a famous writer simply because if anyone suggested “control pantyhose,” I’d head for the hills. Unless, of course, there was a chance I could bring back the “natural” look. Now wouldn’t THAT be fun! Oh, I can just hear Joan and Melissa now, “ Well, would you look at that! She doesn’t have one single crow’s foot or a freckle! How unfashionable. And what is with those Jimmy Chos! Does she not know Birkenstocks are back in style?”
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Got Parts?
I was watching one of those infomercials (you know the kind that comes on at two in the morning) for a “body sculpting” exercise machine when I realized I not only didn’t have, but apparently never got, the body parts the device was designed to “sculpt.”
This clever invention targeted the “abs,” “obliques” and “lats,” as well as several other parts. I don’t remember ever having those parts, so they must be only found on the thirty-something-and-under folks.
Those of us who arrived in the thirties and forties missed out. There were other parts that we got, but they were never all that big a deal and certainly didn’t need sculpting. We all pretty much accepted each other in the packages we came in. Even boobs, although important to us “girls,” didn’t necessarily have to be the silicone-assisted sizes they are today.
The only big deal part I can remember among the girls was waist size. We had all been brainwashed by Scarlet O’Hara into thinking we had to have tiny waists. Those of us who refused to wear elastic-torture undergarments, compensated with billowing skirts held up with layers of crinolines, nylon net underskirts designed to puff out those “circle” skirts with cutesy poodles near the hems. We topped off the mushroom look with “chinch” belts, three-inch wide, heavy-duty elastic devices designed to take at least two inches off our waists. Breathing was a bit of a problem, but at fifteen, fashion was more important than minor details like turning blue.
Nowadays, if those abs, obliques and lats are in there somewhere, they are now buried under new parts that are far more useful. I’ve noticed that as I’ve aged, I have gained a nice crumb tray just below my neck and further down an excellent addition that holds a book at just the right level. My lap is nice and soft and bouncy and makes me a hit among two-year olds. I have plenty of padding on the backside, too, so I don’t complain anymore about how hard the benches are.
I guess as we go through life, parts come and go, depending on your need. Having a “six-pack” would be okay (we used to think that refered to Miller), but I would settle for just seeing my ribs and hip bones again.
At least I’m saving a ton of money not buying all that body sculpting equipment. Now if I could just figure out what to do with all those antique crinolines in the attic!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
This clever invention targeted the “abs,” “obliques” and “lats,” as well as several other parts. I don’t remember ever having those parts, so they must be only found on the thirty-something-and-under folks.
Those of us who arrived in the thirties and forties missed out. There were other parts that we got, but they were never all that big a deal and certainly didn’t need sculpting. We all pretty much accepted each other in the packages we came in. Even boobs, although important to us “girls,” didn’t necessarily have to be the silicone-assisted sizes they are today.
The only big deal part I can remember among the girls was waist size. We had all been brainwashed by Scarlet O’Hara into thinking we had to have tiny waists. Those of us who refused to wear elastic-torture undergarments, compensated with billowing skirts held up with layers of crinolines, nylon net underskirts designed to puff out those “circle” skirts with cutesy poodles near the hems. We topped off the mushroom look with “chinch” belts, three-inch wide, heavy-duty elastic devices designed to take at least two inches off our waists. Breathing was a bit of a problem, but at fifteen, fashion was more important than minor details like turning blue.
Nowadays, if those abs, obliques and lats are in there somewhere, they are now buried under new parts that are far more useful. I’ve noticed that as I’ve aged, I have gained a nice crumb tray just below my neck and further down an excellent addition that holds a book at just the right level. My lap is nice and soft and bouncy and makes me a hit among two-year olds. I have plenty of padding on the backside, too, so I don’t complain anymore about how hard the benches are.
I guess as we go through life, parts come and go, depending on your need. Having a “six-pack” would be okay (we used to think that refered to Miller), but I would settle for just seeing my ribs and hip bones again.
At least I’m saving a ton of money not buying all that body sculpting equipment. Now if I could just figure out what to do with all those antique crinolines in the attic!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
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