Lately, I’ve been thinking about becoming a celebrity, but I’m not sure how all this “famous” business works. For example, when a woman goes on a talk show, who holds her purse? I’m sure she must need someone to watch out for the valuable stuff like credit cards, cash, expensive makeup, and jewelry. She can’t just leave her designer purse laying around in a “green room” or tossed on a table somewhere.
Celebrity women purses are not like the ones my friends and I carry around. Celebrity women have really good stuff, we ordinary women have purses full of tissues and grocery receipts. Our makeup comes off the hooks at K-Mart and our credit card has a spending limit of $200.
We ordinary women don’t carry jewelry in our purses because the gold will scratch off or the glue on the genuine, imitation diamonds and sapphires will break free.
Celebrity women must have “people” to carry big stuff that won’t fit into the teeny purses you occasionally see them with. It would be hard to stuff a full coupon organizer into a teeny purse. There’s just no room for disinfectant wipes, pair of pliers, and a squirt bottle of decongestant. Maybe celebrity women (or their kids or grandkids) don’t have to use a Wendy’s restroom or ever have stuffy noses.
Maybe I need to rethink becoming a celebrity just because of this purse business. I’m not sure all my Medicare and medical insurance cards would fit into a teeny purse and leave any room for adhesive bandages, aspirin, safety pins, lip balm, kids pictures, pet pictures, other family pictures, cell phone, calculator, tire gauge, and a ring of keys.
But then …… if I were a celebrity, I would have “people.” Now where the heck would I keep my “people?”
Well, I’ve just decided that being a celebrity is just too complicated so I’m going to Target to get a bigger purse!
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Big ‘ol Glasses Frames
What ever happened to those big ol’ eyeglasses frames of the 70s and 80s? You know the kind – they went from the top of your eyebrow to halfway down your cheek and from side to side. When glasses were still made of real glass and mounted in those babies, you almost fell forward from the weight. The plastic ones were only a tiny bit lighter, but came in fake tortoise shell and cool colors like royal blue and pink.If you needed bifocals, the bifocally part was large enough to scan an entire page of the newspaper without bobbing your head. I always thought the “aviator” styles were quite handsome on men. My girl friends and I favored a more girly style and complimented each other on how cute we were.
For the last several years when I picked out frames, I had limited choices: teeny oval, teeny oval-ish and teeny oblong-ish. The biggest frame in the store was under an inch-and-a-half high, barely covering my eye socket. Look a teeny bit up, see frame; look straight ahead, see “out,” look a teeny bit down, oops, there’s the teeny bifocal. Without the frames, I think the lenses could be called “contacts.”
I asked if they had any frames that weren’t so “squinchy” and the glasses lady nearly fainted from horror. “Why, my dear, these are the latest styles.” Yikes. The latest styles do look cute on folks under twenty-five, but when the wrinkles start to creep in, we want as much camouflage as possible. If we’re just a teensy bit overweight by, oh, say, maybe ten or fifty pounds or so, we also want a pair of glasses in proportion to our face and figure. There’s nothing more silly looking than one of us … er, of generous proportions in a pair of those little squinchy glasses with frame arms so tight that they almost disappear into the generosity on the sides of our face.
So you frame manufacturers out there, supersize some of those frames, give us some color (I vote for red and leave off the rhinestones), and make us stylish again. Damn the squinch, full vision ahead! And don’t plan on charging more for the larger size. There’s plenty of us with a drawer full of obsolete prescriptions in huge frames and we can set up at the flea market faster than you can say “squinchy!”
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The Fridge
If you were born before 1940, someone you knew still used a real ice box, the kind that held a large square of ice (straight from a real ice house) that kept cold, well sorta, the contents of an insulated metal box on legs. These were soon replaced with electric refrigerators, but for years after most folks still called the newfangled inventions “ice boxes.”
The fancy new fridges came with tiny compartments that held at least two heavy-duty aluminum ice cube trays and little else. The ice trays were a challenge, especially if encased in ice. Once released from the ice tomb, removing cubes from the tray was like removing a prehistoric mammoth from the Arctic. If the release mechanism was not operated properly, it was possible to launch ice cubes throughout the room.
This magical box also made frost around the ice compartment and defrosting became an all day event preceded by several days of “eating up the leftovers.” Depending on the time lapsed from the last defrosting, this was not a job for sissies. Pans of steaming hot water set under the ice/frost clump, ice picks, kitchen knives, screwdrivers, and even hammers, were used to break free large clumps of frost.
Some early refrigerators came with “refrigerator sets,” heavy-duty glass containers in clear or green glass. Sets usually included several sizes of storage containers and a special bottle so the happy owners could enjoy ice cold water. The water containers had a serious flaw in that they did not refill themselves and were often found on the top shelf with just enough water to cover the crumbs left by a previous sipper. Serious consequences could be imposed on the guilty one for not cleaning and refilling the bottle and “I’ll rip all the hair out of your head if you ever do this again!” often reverberated through the house. (Moms were much tougher in those days.)
Today’s modern marvels did away with all that fun. They have various compartments at just the right temperature for the contents and dispense filtered water and ice through the door. (Manual defrosting is unknown.) Some models even have sensors that read bar codes and let the owner know when it’s time to shop; some even connect to the Internet and place grocery orders. The irony is that most people are working long hours to pay for their fridges and are too tired to cook, so they eat out – all that money spent on a fridge to store soda, pizza poppers, and popsicles!
Sipping from the old water container has also been updated. An informal survey of secretive fridge behavior has revealed four out of five people squirt chocolate syrup directly into their mouths from the Hershey squeeze bottle, three out of five use their index finger to sneak a dollop of peanut butter, and when given the chance, all five lick the inside of the tops of ice cream containers!
Sigh. Modern appliances, primitive man.
P.S. Try this: a dollop of peanut butter in the mouth, then a big squirt of Hershey syrup. Ummmm, messy, but good. Just don’t tell anyone where you learned this!
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Reasons Not to Get a Haircut Today
At least once, we’ve all come out of the hair salon wishing we had not gone in. Here are some really good reasons to cancel your hair appointment or walk out if you are a walk-in. Run, run, I say, out the door and don’t look back.
1. If your hairdresser says, “My four kids all came home with blotchy red spots and now I have it. Do you know what this rash is?”
2. If your hairdresser says, “That rotten ex-husband of mine is a real b - - - - - d. I could just kill him!”
3. If your hairdresser says, “It will only take a minute to rinse out your shamp…. , ooh, yuck, what is that stuff in the drain?!”
4. If your hairdresser says, “I knew I shouldn’t have had that last drink at the party. What a hangover I’ve got this morning."
5. If your hairdresser says, “Hey, look how big a bubble I can blow with this new gum!”
6. If your hairdresser says, “Do you smell smoke?”
7. If you hairdresser says, “Do I smell like I’ve been smoking pot?”
8. If you hairdresser says, “Hey, do you know where I can score some more pot?”
9. If your hairdresser says, “You’re not a cop, are you?”
10. If you hairdresser says, “Uh, you did want it really short in the back, right?”
11. If your hairdresser says, “Oh, I thought you meant bright red, not auburn.”
12: If your hairdresser says, “Dropped the comb, but don’t worry, the floor is clean.”
13. If your hairdresser says, “AAAAAAAHHHHHHCCCCCHHHHOOOOO!”
14. If your hairdresser says, “Gotta hurry, I got a hot date.”
15. If your hairdresser says, “OOPS!”
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
1. If your hairdresser says, “My four kids all came home with blotchy red spots and now I have it. Do you know what this rash is?”
2. If your hairdresser says, “That rotten ex-husband of mine is a real b - - - - - d. I could just kill him!”
3. If your hairdresser says, “It will only take a minute to rinse out your shamp…. , ooh, yuck, what is that stuff in the drain?!”
4. If your hairdresser says, “I knew I shouldn’t have had that last drink at the party. What a hangover I’ve got this morning."
5. If your hairdresser says, “Hey, look how big a bubble I can blow with this new gum!”
6. If your hairdresser says, “Do you smell smoke?”
7. If you hairdresser says, “Do I smell like I’ve been smoking pot?”
8. If you hairdresser says, “Hey, do you know where I can score some more pot?”
9. If your hairdresser says, “You’re not a cop, are you?”
10. If you hairdresser says, “Uh, you did want it really short in the back, right?”
11. If your hairdresser says, “Oh, I thought you meant bright red, not auburn.”
12: If your hairdresser says, “Dropped the comb, but don’t worry, the floor is clean.”
13. If your hairdresser says, “AAAAAAAHHHHHHCCCCCHHHHOOOOO!”
14. If your hairdresser says, “Gotta hurry, I got a hot date.”
15. If your hairdresser says, “OOPS!”
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Christmas 2006
I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head.
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”
The words to this carol were originally written as a poem, “Christmas Bells,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1864 just months before the end of the American Civil War. The poem originally contained two extra stanzas that were omitted by John Baptiste Calkin in 1872, who added the music and transformed Longfellow’s poem into the carol we know today.
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head.
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”
The words to this carol were originally written as a poem, “Christmas Bells,” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1864 just months before the end of the American Civil War. The poem originally contained two extra stanzas that were omitted by John Baptiste Calkin in 1872, who added the music and transformed Longfellow’s poem into the carol we know today.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Pet Gifts
I just watched a commercial about the “perfect gift for your pet.” Huh? “The perfect gift” for what? When did we start buying “gifts” for our pets? And how do pets actually determine the difference between a “gift” and an old tennis ball?
Do pets have color preferences? Do they prefer squeaky toys that match their eyes or their fur? When two pets are just sitting around, do they discuss what they want for Christmas? Is there a Peta Clause? Maybe an Afgan Hound with long silky red fur who wears glasses? And just how would a pet tell Peta Clause what they want, pee on the leg of his chair? Are pets disappointed if they don’t get the latest jeweled collar or the right squeaky toy? Would it be better to just give them gift cards to PetSmart so they can shop for exactly what they want?
Ask yourself, “Does Fido or Fluffy really give a damn about a cedar-filled, heated bed cozy covered in designer fabric? And speaking of beds, do pets really need foam steps to make it easer for them to climb into your bed and plop on your pillows? Think about it. Do you really want to put your face where they just … oh, never mind.
What about the abandoned and feral animals during this holiday season? Will the more privileged pets soon be standing in front of pet shops and feed stores ringing the bells on their collars and wagging their tails while nudging small kettles in your direction?
People, people. Get a grip. Pets are not furry people. They would think a stick or a piece of string is a gift! Ripping the paper from a “gift” is as much fun as an actual gift (unless it’s edible). Ever see a cat demolish a roll of toilet paper just ‘cause he can? Now that’s fun.
Tell you what. If you are determined to buy your pet a gift, send me $49.95, plus $9.95 shipping and handling, and I’ll send you Mr. Stick – gift wrapped in newspaper at no extra charge. Mr. Stick comes in two sizes, twig and a little bigger, in your choice of flavors, oak or pine. For that special feline, don’t forget the six foot long String Buddy for only $29.95, $5.99 shipping and handling. Five dollars from the sale of each Mr. Stick and String Buddy will go to a nearby spay and neuter clinic. Hurry, quantities are limited.
Geeze.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Do pets have color preferences? Do they prefer squeaky toys that match their eyes or their fur? When two pets are just sitting around, do they discuss what they want for Christmas? Is there a Peta Clause? Maybe an Afgan Hound with long silky red fur who wears glasses? And just how would a pet tell Peta Clause what they want, pee on the leg of his chair? Are pets disappointed if they don’t get the latest jeweled collar or the right squeaky toy? Would it be better to just give them gift cards to PetSmart so they can shop for exactly what they want?
Ask yourself, “Does Fido or Fluffy really give a damn about a cedar-filled, heated bed cozy covered in designer fabric? And speaking of beds, do pets really need foam steps to make it easer for them to climb into your bed and plop on your pillows? Think about it. Do you really want to put your face where they just … oh, never mind.
What about the abandoned and feral animals during this holiday season? Will the more privileged pets soon be standing in front of pet shops and feed stores ringing the bells on their collars and wagging their tails while nudging small kettles in your direction?
People, people. Get a grip. Pets are not furry people. They would think a stick or a piece of string is a gift! Ripping the paper from a “gift” is as much fun as an actual gift (unless it’s edible). Ever see a cat demolish a roll of toilet paper just ‘cause he can? Now that’s fun.
Tell you what. If you are determined to buy your pet a gift, send me $49.95, plus $9.95 shipping and handling, and I’ll send you Mr. Stick – gift wrapped in newspaper at no extra charge. Mr. Stick comes in two sizes, twig and a little bigger, in your choice of flavors, oak or pine. For that special feline, don’t forget the six foot long String Buddy for only $29.95, $5.99 shipping and handling. Five dollars from the sale of each Mr. Stick and String Buddy will go to a nearby spay and neuter clinic. Hurry, quantities are limited.
Geeze.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Friday, December 15, 2006
Fruitcake
Fruitcake … love it or hate it. No, wait, love it, hate it, OR love it but say you hate it and eat it secretly, sort of like a closet fruitcake fan.
There are two types of fruitcake, really, really good fruitcake filled with all sorts of real fruit and plump pecans or really, really bad fruitcake filled with way too many raisins, mystery nut bits and bits of mystery nut shells, and tough, dried green, red and yellow blobby, chewy things that may have originated at the end of pencils.
Good fruitcake is a divine pleasure to the senses, moist, fragrant and a thrill to the palate. My dear Aunt Elizabeth made the best fruitcake in the entire world. A visit to her house from October on meant a “taste” of the latest fruitcake to mature. She used all the finest ingredients and the best whiskey to produce a dark, rich and highly intoxicating slice of heaven. She wrapped her fresh fruitcakes in cheesecloth, put them in metal cake containers and poured a generous glug of “preservative” over the tops before snapping on the lids. About once a week, she would open all the cans and add additional glugs for insurance. Her whole house would be so perfumed during this ritual, it was a wonder the feds didn’t raid the place.
She also tasted the whiskey occasionally – okay, frequently – to make sure it was still acceptable and took a lot of kidding from the rest of the family about which had more whiskey in it, the cakes or the cook.
With such a good role model, it was only natural that I later became sort of famous for my fruitcakes “preserved” with apricot brandy. I also had to carry on the tradition of making sure the preservative was acceptable and once ran out of brandy, but was too, uh, well let’s just “tipsy” to drive anywhere to get more.
Along with the rise of mass produced brick-like (and tasting) fruitcakes, came the fruitcake jokes, starting with the now famous “there’s only one fruitcake in the world and it just keeps going around from family to family.” Standup comics and cartoonist have seasonal fodder to make people smile and I’ve yet to hear a really bad fruitcake joke.
So, in keeping with the season, here’s my contribution to fruitcake jokes: “How many nerds does it take to eat a fruitcake? None, not even nerds eat fruitcake!” Okay, okay, I’ll stick to baking.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fruitcake!
P.S. You might enjoy reading "Irish Fruitcake Recipe" written in November 2007.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
There are two types of fruitcake, really, really good fruitcake filled with all sorts of real fruit and plump pecans or really, really bad fruitcake filled with way too many raisins, mystery nut bits and bits of mystery nut shells, and tough, dried green, red and yellow blobby, chewy things that may have originated at the end of pencils.
Good fruitcake is a divine pleasure to the senses, moist, fragrant and a thrill to the palate. My dear Aunt Elizabeth made the best fruitcake in the entire world. A visit to her house from October on meant a “taste” of the latest fruitcake to mature. She used all the finest ingredients and the best whiskey to produce a dark, rich and highly intoxicating slice of heaven. She wrapped her fresh fruitcakes in cheesecloth, put them in metal cake containers and poured a generous glug of “preservative” over the tops before snapping on the lids. About once a week, she would open all the cans and add additional glugs for insurance. Her whole house would be so perfumed during this ritual, it was a wonder the feds didn’t raid the place.
She also tasted the whiskey occasionally – okay, frequently – to make sure it was still acceptable and took a lot of kidding from the rest of the family about which had more whiskey in it, the cakes or the cook.
With such a good role model, it was only natural that I later became sort of famous for my fruitcakes “preserved” with apricot brandy. I also had to carry on the tradition of making sure the preservative was acceptable and once ran out of brandy, but was too, uh, well let’s just “tipsy” to drive anywhere to get more.
Along with the rise of mass produced brick-like (and tasting) fruitcakes, came the fruitcake jokes, starting with the now famous “there’s only one fruitcake in the world and it just keeps going around from family to family.” Standup comics and cartoonist have seasonal fodder to make people smile and I’ve yet to hear a really bad fruitcake joke.
So, in keeping with the season, here’s my contribution to fruitcake jokes: “How many nerds does it take to eat a fruitcake? None, not even nerds eat fruitcake!” Okay, okay, I’ll stick to baking.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fruitcake!
P.S. You might enjoy reading "Irish Fruitcake Recipe" written in November 2007.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Man Who Thought He Was a Train
This is a true story, or at least as true as I can remember. My girl friend and I first became aware of the man who thought he was a train during a shopping trip to downtown Jacksonville, Florida, in the early 1950s. We needed gloves and hats for a luncheon. Luncheons were big in those days as we learned to become proper young ladies.
There were several hat stores in town and we were just coming out of our second when here he came, dashing past us so fast we weren’t really sure of what we had seen. We also heard him. The shop owner must have seen our startled faces as we jumped out of his way and back into her doorway.
“That’s the man who thinks he’s a train,” she explained. “Right on time, too. Comes past here every afternoon about this time.” Our teenage faces must have given away how startled we were. The man could have been anywhere from 25 to 55, dressed in faded blue overalls and plaid shirt, and atop his head a grey and white striped engineer’s cap. He was pulling a clattering “caboose,” a red Radio Flyer wagon, smiling and nodding as he flashed past at a brisk trot.
We soon learned the man who thought he was a train lived nearby, but no one knew exactly where or even his name or why he thought he was a train. He appeared about noon coming through Hemming Park, past Morrison’s Cafeteria, past the Presbyterian Church, then on to Jacob’s Jewelers where he rounded the huge pedestal clock and made a left toward Kresses, then several blocks later, a right at Walgreens, to circle past the Imperial Theatre, past the First National, finishing up across from Penny’s and disappearing into the residential neighborhood just east of the Post Office.
He was a legend in downtown Jacksonville and delighted most people with his familiar “whoooo whooo” to let those in his path know he was coming their way. He also made chugging noises that became most audible when he occasionally had to stop for a red light. He was a free spirit; always smiling even when chugging and whoooo whoooing. There was even a brief article about him in the local paper.
Fast forward four years and, with high school diploma in hand, I went to work for a downtown insurance company. On the third day at my new job, just as I was leaving the building for lunch, there he was – hat, caboose, sound effects, and that radiant smile. By then he had acquired the name of “Train” and was greeted warmly by many friends along his route. He just smiled and nodded, gave a friendly “whoooo whooo” and kept going.
Later, with several more years away for college, I was back in town and working for the same insurance company in the public relations department. That first day I couldn’t wait to hit the street at noon to see if the man who thought he was a train was still around.
I headed for the sandwich place with a view of Train’s route. Just as I was finishing up the best pastrami on rye in the area, there he came! Slower now, but with the familiar whoooo whooo, what looked like a new cap, and his Radio Flyer caboose. He had added a small lantern to the back of the wagon and a small dog atop a pillow inside, ears flapping in the breeze. I saw him a number of times during the next few years before changing jobs and moving away.
I suspect by now, some 56 years later, “Train” has gone to that great switching yard in the sky, but his memory lives on. Although no one knew who he was or where he came from, he was accepted, loved and appreciated for the smiles he brought to weary office workers. Even now, after all these years, when I hear a train whistle, I think of the man who thought he was a train and the joy he added to the lives of so many people.
So, Train, where ever you are, here’s one for you: whoooo whooo!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
There were several hat stores in town and we were just coming out of our second when here he came, dashing past us so fast we weren’t really sure of what we had seen. We also heard him. The shop owner must have seen our startled faces as we jumped out of his way and back into her doorway.
“That’s the man who thinks he’s a train,” she explained. “Right on time, too. Comes past here every afternoon about this time.” Our teenage faces must have given away how startled we were. The man could have been anywhere from 25 to 55, dressed in faded blue overalls and plaid shirt, and atop his head a grey and white striped engineer’s cap. He was pulling a clattering “caboose,” a red Radio Flyer wagon, smiling and nodding as he flashed past at a brisk trot.
We soon learned the man who thought he was a train lived nearby, but no one knew exactly where or even his name or why he thought he was a train. He appeared about noon coming through Hemming Park, past Morrison’s Cafeteria, past the Presbyterian Church, then on to Jacob’s Jewelers where he rounded the huge pedestal clock and made a left toward Kresses, then several blocks later, a right at Walgreens, to circle past the Imperial Theatre, past the First National, finishing up across from Penny’s and disappearing into the residential neighborhood just east of the Post Office.
He was a legend in downtown Jacksonville and delighted most people with his familiar “whoooo whooo” to let those in his path know he was coming their way. He also made chugging noises that became most audible when he occasionally had to stop for a red light. He was a free spirit; always smiling even when chugging and whoooo whoooing. There was even a brief article about him in the local paper.
Fast forward four years and, with high school diploma in hand, I went to work for a downtown insurance company. On the third day at my new job, just as I was leaving the building for lunch, there he was – hat, caboose, sound effects, and that radiant smile. By then he had acquired the name of “Train” and was greeted warmly by many friends along his route. He just smiled and nodded, gave a friendly “whoooo whooo” and kept going.
Later, with several more years away for college, I was back in town and working for the same insurance company in the public relations department. That first day I couldn’t wait to hit the street at noon to see if the man who thought he was a train was still around.
I headed for the sandwich place with a view of Train’s route. Just as I was finishing up the best pastrami on rye in the area, there he came! Slower now, but with the familiar whoooo whooo, what looked like a new cap, and his Radio Flyer caboose. He had added a small lantern to the back of the wagon and a small dog atop a pillow inside, ears flapping in the breeze. I saw him a number of times during the next few years before changing jobs and moving away.
I suspect by now, some 56 years later, “Train” has gone to that great switching yard in the sky, but his memory lives on. Although no one knew who he was or where he came from, he was accepted, loved and appreciated for the smiles he brought to weary office workers. Even now, after all these years, when I hear a train whistle, I think of the man who thought he was a train and the joy he added to the lives of so many people.
So, Train, where ever you are, here’s one for you: whoooo whooo!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Señor Poly Ester
On warm summer Saturday evenings of the mid-80s, several of my friends and I would head to an outdoor bar along the downtown river to enjoy the setting sun and listen to the big band sounds of the 40s piped to the outdoor area. The breezes kept away the mosquitoes and perspiration, making it ideal for relaxing or dancing a few slow dances. Occasionally, a hit from the 50s (our generation) could be heard, so we would break into the “bop” for a bit of high school nostalgia.
The few husbands in tow would make sure each of us “single gals” danced at least once, then we would settle into quiet conversation until the sun set, the breezes faded away, the last drop of alcohol had been drained and the mosquitoes descended with voracity.
The place was seldom crowded, with couples drifting in on the way to or from dinner or dropping in, like us, just to hear the music and share the events of the week.
Once, during Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade, a handsome young couple emerged from the shadows and for several minutes held us all in awe as they put on a spectacular display of professional ballroom dancing. Wow. We were entranced and when they glided back into the shadows we all applauded. The rest of the evening was spent speculating about who they were, where they came from and where they were going.
Toward the end of the summer, a 40-ish, dark haired, dark eyed man appeared at the bar. We all noticed him as he was resplendent in a dark brown polyester leisure suit with a matching shirt of orange, yellow and brown design. (Remember now, this is the 80s and polyester had been declared a fashion disaster and, in Florida during the summer, these non-breathing garments turned into sweat machines.) The smell of his Old Spice, even from a safe distance, was so strong that it overrode our own perfumes, cigarettes and drinks.
He first approached one of my single friends, bowed slightly, and asked her to dance. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so she accepted. Upon returning Barb to the table, he bowed again, kissed her hand and – yes – clicked his heels. He was a pretty good dancer, as we women were all soon to discover. Before the evening ended, he had danced with each of us. Ever the gentleman, he was polite and not once improper, kissing our hands and clicking his heels as he brought us back to our seats. After we each had danced, he disappeared, much to the relief of the husbands.
Who was this man? We giggled and guessed, and that’s when we dubbed him “Señor Poly Ester.” It was two weekends later before we all got together again and headed to the river. We had forgotten about Señor Poly Ester. Just as the sun had fully set, there he was, this time impeccable in a powder blue leisure suit with matching shirt. As before, his shoes glistened almost as much as the pomade on his hair and the scent of his cologne tipped us off he was behind us at the bar.
We women hit the panic button and hurriedly plotted whispered escape routes. Would it be too obvious if we all hit the ladies room at the same time? Oops, too late. He was so gallant that we didn’t want to be rude, so all but Barb, who professed a sprained ankle, were, in turn, on the dance floor, trying hard not to breathe in too much Old Spice. This evening, after he had hand-kissed and heel-clicked each of back to the table, he even went to a group of women on the other side of the deck and successfully whirled each of those four around the dance floor.
When he finally disappeared, we all collapsed into laughter, including the four across the way. My group also decided that it was time to find a new place to meet. We just couldn’t endure another encounter with Señor Poly Ester, as charming and outdated as he was. Besides, with the end of summer, the breeze off the river was cooling down.
We never saw Señor Poly Ester again, but we often talked about him. He never told us his real name and other than to ask us to dance, had very little to say.
It’s been over 20 years now, the river bar is long gone, one of my friends has passed away, and I haven’t seen the others in several years. I wonder if they, too, remember Señor Poly Ester and the Saturday summer evenings on the river. I wonder, too, if Señor Poly Ester remembers us and if he ever updated his wardrobe.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
The few husbands in tow would make sure each of us “single gals” danced at least once, then we would settle into quiet conversation until the sun set, the breezes faded away, the last drop of alcohol had been drained and the mosquitoes descended with voracity.
The place was seldom crowded, with couples drifting in on the way to or from dinner or dropping in, like us, just to hear the music and share the events of the week.
Once, during Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade, a handsome young couple emerged from the shadows and for several minutes held us all in awe as they put on a spectacular display of professional ballroom dancing. Wow. We were entranced and when they glided back into the shadows we all applauded. The rest of the evening was spent speculating about who they were, where they came from and where they were going.
Toward the end of the summer, a 40-ish, dark haired, dark eyed man appeared at the bar. We all noticed him as he was resplendent in a dark brown polyester leisure suit with a matching shirt of orange, yellow and brown design. (Remember now, this is the 80s and polyester had been declared a fashion disaster and, in Florida during the summer, these non-breathing garments turned into sweat machines.) The smell of his Old Spice, even from a safe distance, was so strong that it overrode our own perfumes, cigarettes and drinks.
He first approached one of my single friends, bowed slightly, and asked her to dance. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so she accepted. Upon returning Barb to the table, he bowed again, kissed her hand and – yes – clicked his heels. He was a pretty good dancer, as we women were all soon to discover. Before the evening ended, he had danced with each of us. Ever the gentleman, he was polite and not once improper, kissing our hands and clicking his heels as he brought us back to our seats. After we each had danced, he disappeared, much to the relief of the husbands.
Who was this man? We giggled and guessed, and that’s when we dubbed him “Señor Poly Ester.” It was two weekends later before we all got together again and headed to the river. We had forgotten about Señor Poly Ester. Just as the sun had fully set, there he was, this time impeccable in a powder blue leisure suit with matching shirt. As before, his shoes glistened almost as much as the pomade on his hair and the scent of his cologne tipped us off he was behind us at the bar.
We women hit the panic button and hurriedly plotted whispered escape routes. Would it be too obvious if we all hit the ladies room at the same time? Oops, too late. He was so gallant that we didn’t want to be rude, so all but Barb, who professed a sprained ankle, were, in turn, on the dance floor, trying hard not to breathe in too much Old Spice. This evening, after he had hand-kissed and heel-clicked each of back to the table, he even went to a group of women on the other side of the deck and successfully whirled each of those four around the dance floor.
When he finally disappeared, we all collapsed into laughter, including the four across the way. My group also decided that it was time to find a new place to meet. We just couldn’t endure another encounter with Señor Poly Ester, as charming and outdated as he was. Besides, with the end of summer, the breeze off the river was cooling down.
We never saw Señor Poly Ester again, but we often talked about him. He never told us his real name and other than to ask us to dance, had very little to say.
It’s been over 20 years now, the river bar is long gone, one of my friends has passed away, and I haven’t seen the others in several years. I wonder if they, too, remember Señor Poly Ester and the Saturday summer evenings on the river. I wonder, too, if Señor Poly Ester remembers us and if he ever updated his wardrobe.
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Before and After
Have you ever awakened at 2 a.m., flipped on the television to dull your senses to fall asleep again, and been subjected to the amazing “before and after” tales of how Betty Lou in Michigan and Bob in Alabama lost a zillion pounds in only twelve days?
Not only did Betty Lou and Bob loose all that weight, but they didn’t have to diet OR exercise, they just took this amazing pill. Two things the infomercial doesn’t tell you: what’s in the drug (newt’s eyes, snake sweat or perhaps powdered cave slime?) and that poor ol’ Betty Lou and Bob didn’t sleep during the twelve days of shedding all those unwanted pounds.
Betty Lou went from a size 98 down to a size two and feels wonderful. Bob now has lots of energy and can leap over automobiles from a standing position. Heck yeah, they feel wonderful. They’ve been high for the past twelve days!
Okay, here’s the part that I can’t figure out. If the people portrayed in the before and after shots lost all that weight, why are they wearing the same outfits in the “after” as in the “before,” and why don’t the “after” outfits fall off?
Could it be that the advertisers are exaggerating just a teensy bit?
We all know there’s only one way to loose weight. Not the most fun, but it won’t mess up your head as well as your cute, but pudgy body. As for me, I’m headed to the fridge for a large helping of ice cream. I’ll settle for the carrot sticks and cross my fingers that someday “they” will come up with a tasty Rocky Road with no calories or cholesterol. Humm, wonder how carrot sticks taste dipped in chocolate syrup?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Not only did Betty Lou and Bob loose all that weight, but they didn’t have to diet OR exercise, they just took this amazing pill. Two things the infomercial doesn’t tell you: what’s in the drug (newt’s eyes, snake sweat or perhaps powdered cave slime?) and that poor ol’ Betty Lou and Bob didn’t sleep during the twelve days of shedding all those unwanted pounds.
Betty Lou went from a size 98 down to a size two and feels wonderful. Bob now has lots of energy and can leap over automobiles from a standing position. Heck yeah, they feel wonderful. They’ve been high for the past twelve days!
Okay, here’s the part that I can’t figure out. If the people portrayed in the before and after shots lost all that weight, why are they wearing the same outfits in the “after” as in the “before,” and why don’t the “after” outfits fall off?
Could it be that the advertisers are exaggerating just a teensy bit?
We all know there’s only one way to loose weight. Not the most fun, but it won’t mess up your head as well as your cute, but pudgy body. As for me, I’m headed to the fridge for a large helping of ice cream. I’ll settle for the carrot sticks and cross my fingers that someday “they” will come up with a tasty Rocky Road with no calories or cholesterol. Humm, wonder how carrot sticks taste dipped in chocolate syrup?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
I Want New Stuff Gift Registry
Unless we are having a baby, moving to a new home, or getting married, we folks over the age of 60 are getting shorted on gift registries. Remember when brides registered their china and silver patterns at jewelry stores? Where I grew up, there were only two jewelry stores downtown (there were no malls back then) and we future brides all trouped into the most prestigious to register our patterns.
In the years to follow, we’ve all shelled out a pretty penny for bridal and baby showers, graduations, and house warmings. I figured out that just to break even, I’m due back close to $8,692.37 in gifts.
There’s a lot of stuff I could use since the sheets, frying pans, and welcome mat I got at bridal showers has long since worn out. Trouble is, there are no socially accepted reasons for me to “register.”
So here’s my idea. I propose that once every four or five years, we 60-somethings cajole our friends into throwing us a “I Want New Stuff” shower. The heck with the silver and china (even the kids don’t want it), let’s go for replacement linens, a new toilet seat, a microwave, and some of those dandy outdoor solar lights just to get started.
I’m real excited about the prospect of registering for gifts at such innovative stores as Home Depot, Lowes, Target, Sears, and now K-Mart.
You know that as soon as the larger stores get wind of this idea, it’s headed straight to their marketing departments. I’m starting my list now so by the time the ad campaigns and greeting cards are rolling out, I’ll be ready to shop!
So what’s on your list?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
In the years to follow, we’ve all shelled out a pretty penny for bridal and baby showers, graduations, and house warmings. I figured out that just to break even, I’m due back close to $8,692.37 in gifts.
There’s a lot of stuff I could use since the sheets, frying pans, and welcome mat I got at bridal showers has long since worn out. Trouble is, there are no socially accepted reasons for me to “register.”
So here’s my idea. I propose that once every four or five years, we 60-somethings cajole our friends into throwing us a “I Want New Stuff” shower. The heck with the silver and china (even the kids don’t want it), let’s go for replacement linens, a new toilet seat, a microwave, and some of those dandy outdoor solar lights just to get started.
I’m real excited about the prospect of registering for gifts at such innovative stores as Home Depot, Lowes, Target, Sears, and now K-Mart.
You know that as soon as the larger stores get wind of this idea, it’s headed straight to their marketing departments. I’m starting my list now so by the time the ad campaigns and greeting cards are rolling out, I’ll be ready to shop!
So what’s on your list?
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Where Have the Green Stamps Gone?
Remember S&H Green Stamps? (If you are under 40 – never mind) Remember the thrill of getting enough Green Stamps with one purchase to fill a page? Remember the even bigger thrill of filling a whole “book?” With enough Green Stamps, a family could furnish their house from the redemption catalog.
Short of fresh foods, you could get almost anything with enough stamps. With some negotiating, you could probably get a train load of fresh corn. I read somewhere that students from one school saved enough stamps to “purchase” two gorillas for their local zoo.
Green Stamps, those tiny little glue-backed squares of perforated paper, made a difference where a person shopped. Moms would often go out of their way to buy the week’s groceries where they could get those little gems, fill the last book, and finally bring home new canisters or set of frying pans.
Only the most responsible kid was assigned the chore of gluing the stamps in the redemption books and reporting the progress to Mom. Until ready for pasting, the “onesies” and “twosies” were stored, along with the books, in an old cigar box held closed with a sturdy rubber band. The cigar box was then hidden in the back of a kitchen drawer, safe from younger siblings’ hands and burglars. If the house were on fire, Mom would grab the cigar box and leave her wedding band behind!
One of the surest ways to get out of being the “paster” was to lick and slap a stamp on your forehead and waltz through the house as if all was normal. If you didn’t escape Mom’s wrath fast enough, you could count on losing a bit of facial skin when the stamp was removed.
The glue on the back of those stamps must have been made from the most disgusting things on earth. It only took licking three or four stamps to get a green tongue and send you running for a wet washcloth or sponge in a saucer of shallow water. Bleaugh! It wasn’t long before those little tube “moisteners” with the sponge thingies on the end appeared. Fill the tube with a bit of water and gently – gently! – dampen the back of the stamps. (Too heavy a hand and you had to wait for the stamp and surrounding tablecloth to dry, then go find the bottle of paste.)
I just found out you can still redeem old Green Stamps, but they are much more fun as “collectables.” The redemption catalogs from which to choose your treasures are even more fun. Did we really think “earth colored” lime green, orange and yellow dishes made food more attractive? If you are really determined to cash in your stamps, check out the “green points” link below.
For a bit of fun, paste a few stamps on your forehead and waltz through Walmart. Just be ready with a really, really good explanation when the security guard says, “Please come with me.”
Redeem your Green Stamps: http://www.greenpoints.com/catalog/cat_use.asp
For a bit of history: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S&H_Green_Stamps
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Short of fresh foods, you could get almost anything with enough stamps. With some negotiating, you could probably get a train load of fresh corn. I read somewhere that students from one school saved enough stamps to “purchase” two gorillas for their local zoo.
Green Stamps, those tiny little glue-backed squares of perforated paper, made a difference where a person shopped. Moms would often go out of their way to buy the week’s groceries where they could get those little gems, fill the last book, and finally bring home new canisters or set of frying pans.
Only the most responsible kid was assigned the chore of gluing the stamps in the redemption books and reporting the progress to Mom. Until ready for pasting, the “onesies” and “twosies” were stored, along with the books, in an old cigar box held closed with a sturdy rubber band. The cigar box was then hidden in the back of a kitchen drawer, safe from younger siblings’ hands and burglars. If the house were on fire, Mom would grab the cigar box and leave her wedding band behind!
One of the surest ways to get out of being the “paster” was to lick and slap a stamp on your forehead and waltz through the house as if all was normal. If you didn’t escape Mom’s wrath fast enough, you could count on losing a bit of facial skin when the stamp was removed.
The glue on the back of those stamps must have been made from the most disgusting things on earth. It only took licking three or four stamps to get a green tongue and send you running for a wet washcloth or sponge in a saucer of shallow water. Bleaugh! It wasn’t long before those little tube “moisteners” with the sponge thingies on the end appeared. Fill the tube with a bit of water and gently – gently! – dampen the back of the stamps. (Too heavy a hand and you had to wait for the stamp and surrounding tablecloth to dry, then go find the bottle of paste.)
I just found out you can still redeem old Green Stamps, but they are much more fun as “collectables.” The redemption catalogs from which to choose your treasures are even more fun. Did we really think “earth colored” lime green, orange and yellow dishes made food more attractive? If you are really determined to cash in your stamps, check out the “green points” link below.
For a bit of fun, paste a few stamps on your forehead and waltz through Walmart. Just be ready with a really, really good explanation when the security guard says, “Please come with me.”
Redeem your Green Stamps: http://www.greenpoints.com/catalog/cat_use.asp
For a bit of history: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S&H_Green_Stamps
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Monday, October 02, 2006
Fall Back
Daylight Saving Time ends October 29, 2006.
Is it just me or do other people feel that we have more important national considerations than fiddling around with the time? Can we take a vote on sticking with just one time and skipping all this Daylight Saving Time business?
Yes, yes, I know. I’ve already fussed about this last April when we sprang forward. To read my original post, click: Daylight Savings Time .
I will probably keep fussing about it for no other reason than I can. So there.
Who came up with this falling and springing anyway? With a bit of searching, I did learn that the correct name for this nonsense is Daylight Saving (no “S”) Time and that the Department of Transportation is responsible for ensuring that the time zones observing Daylight Saving Time all begin and end on the same date. Wonder how they do that – call all the mayors? “Hi, Debbie, this is Stan over at the D.O.T. Don’t forget to remind everyone to fall back on Sunday.”
Now if you think there will be a lot of grumpy people when the time changes October 29 (not as bad as in the Spring), whoooeee, just wait until next March 11, 2007. According to http://www.timetemperature.com/ and a number of other Web sites, President Bush has extended You-Know-What-Time by four weeks. I can hear those alarm clocks being yanked off night stands and slammed into walls now. Okay, show of hands – everyone who looooooves getting up an hour early, wave now. You, over there, you morning person – get out of this blog!
I really don’t care which way we fall or spring. I would be happy with just one time all year. Right now my car clock is set on the correct time. Last Spring when the time changed, it took me three weeks to figure out which button controlled the clock’s hour setting. In the meantime, I found a mileage thingy for trips, a place to store loose change, and the best county-western radio station in town.
Well, all I can say is that it’s a good thing it wasn’t fall back or spring forward day in 1955 just as Marty McFly was barreling down Main Street in Doc Brown’s plutonium-powered DeLorean "time machine” to hook up with that power cord just as lightening strikes the old clock tower. Why, just think, one hour either way and, oops, some of us might not be here today!
For a bit of fun, check this out: http://www.bttfmovie.com/
P.S. You might enjoy earlier comments made Saturday, April 1, 2006, when it was time to “spring forward.” Daylight Savings Time
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Is it just me or do other people feel that we have more important national considerations than fiddling around with the time? Can we take a vote on sticking with just one time and skipping all this Daylight Saving Time business?
Yes, yes, I know. I’ve already fussed about this last April when we sprang forward. To read my original post, click: Daylight Savings Time .
I will probably keep fussing about it for no other reason than I can. So there.
Who came up with this falling and springing anyway? With a bit of searching, I did learn that the correct name for this nonsense is Daylight Saving (no “S”) Time and that the Department of Transportation is responsible for ensuring that the time zones observing Daylight Saving Time all begin and end on the same date. Wonder how they do that – call all the mayors? “Hi, Debbie, this is Stan over at the D.O.T. Don’t forget to remind everyone to fall back on Sunday.”
Now if you think there will be a lot of grumpy people when the time changes October 29 (not as bad as in the Spring), whoooeee, just wait until next March 11, 2007. According to http://www.timetemperature.com/ and a number of other Web sites, President Bush has extended You-Know-What-Time by four weeks. I can hear those alarm clocks being yanked off night stands and slammed into walls now. Okay, show of hands – everyone who looooooves getting up an hour early, wave now. You, over there, you morning person – get out of this blog!
I really don’t care which way we fall or spring. I would be happy with just one time all year. Right now my car clock is set on the correct time. Last Spring when the time changed, it took me three weeks to figure out which button controlled the clock’s hour setting. In the meantime, I found a mileage thingy for trips, a place to store loose change, and the best county-western radio station in town.
Well, all I can say is that it’s a good thing it wasn’t fall back or spring forward day in 1955 just as Marty McFly was barreling down Main Street in Doc Brown’s plutonium-powered DeLorean "time machine” to hook up with that power cord just as lightening strikes the old clock tower. Why, just think, one hour either way and, oops, some of us might not be here today!
For a bit of fun, check this out: http://www.bttfmovie.com/
P.S. You might enjoy earlier comments made Saturday, April 1, 2006, when it was time to “spring forward.” Daylight Savings Time
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Road Trip
If you grew up in the 40s and 50s and went on family trips, then you probably tasted the gooey sweet, pecan-covered goodness of a Stuckey’s pecan bar.
Clever kids of my era would time their bathroom break demands with the proximity of the next Stuckeys. Why? Well, my dear, you had to go through the gift shop to reach the restrooms and although you may have had to dash in, you could take up to the end of your parent’s patience to saunter back out past all the delightful souvenirs. With a little luck or a lot of whining, the least you would come out with was a pecan roll to be shared with parents and siblings.
And who could return home without one of those fabulous chenille bedspreads? Most were displayed on long ropes slung between trees with bamboo poles propping up the ropes to keep the spreads off the grass and waving enticingly to passing motorists. Some of those 1940s and 50s bedspreads are still in use. Finding one today to buy is still possible, but the price now would have paid for our whole trip, or maybe even two, then.
So which is better, the slower, stop and go, road trips of our childhood, or today’s zoom-down-the-highway-in-half-the-time? Hard to choose. Childhood trips included open windows in the summer to dry the sweat and cold hands and toes in the winter, so today’s autos are much more comfortable. On the other hand, the scenery of yesterday was constantly changing with plenty of farms and dairy herds to admire. Today’s interstates are easier to drive with ample service exits and rest stops. But still it would be nice to stop for a pecan roll and plastic alligator with bobbing head, or double scoop of fudge ripple now and then. Oh, sure, I know those and many more treats are still available, but somehow they just don’t have the same magic as that we hold in our memories.
Fun sights/sites to visit:
http://www.stuckeys.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuckeys
http://www.hojoland.com/28flavors.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Johnson
http://www.seerockcity.com/Html/index.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_City
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burma-Shave
http://www.montgomerycollege.edu/Departments/hpolscrv/mthomas.htm
http://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/nge/Article.jsp?id=h-1016
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Clever kids of my era would time their bathroom break demands with the proximity of the next Stuckeys. Why? Well, my dear, you had to go through the gift shop to reach the restrooms and although you may have had to dash in, you could take up to the end of your parent’s patience to saunter back out past all the delightful souvenirs. With a little luck or a lot of whining, the least you would come out with was a pecan roll to be shared with parents and siblings.
If Stuckeys wasn’t on your immediate route, you watched for the Howard Johnson’s signs and begin to salivate for one of the 28 flavors of ice cream. Dad would stop for gas to fill up the old blue Plymouth and fill up the kids with a sugar fix. “Well, hurry up and decide, dammit. I want to get to Aunt Flora’s before dark.”
On the way to or from, you had to pass at least one “See Rock City” ad emblazoned across a barn. Being first to spot a barn with the famous sign was part of our back-seat game, but now I can’t remember exactly how it was played or what the prize or consequence was.
And just to keep things lively and everyone awake, there was always a sing-song chorus as we rattled off the Burma-Shave shave signs in time to the soft bump-bump of the tires across the big, modern two-lane highway.
To kiss a mug
That's like a cactus
Takes more nerve
Than it does practice
Burma-Shave!
And who could return home without one of those fabulous chenille bedspreads? Most were displayed on long ropes slung between trees with bamboo poles propping up the ropes to keep the spreads off the grass and waving enticingly to passing motorists. Some of those 1940s and 50s bedspreads are still in use. Finding one today to buy is still possible, but the price now would have paid for our whole trip, or maybe even two, then.
So which is better, the slower, stop and go, road trips of our childhood, or today’s zoom-down-the-highway-in-half-the-time? Hard to choose. Childhood trips included open windows in the summer to dry the sweat and cold hands and toes in the winter, so today’s autos are much more comfortable. On the other hand, the scenery of yesterday was constantly changing with plenty of farms and dairy herds to admire. Today’s interstates are easier to drive with ample service exits and rest stops. But still it would be nice to stop for a pecan roll and plastic alligator with bobbing head, or double scoop of fudge ripple now and then. Oh, sure, I know those and many more treats are still available, but somehow they just don’t have the same magic as that we hold in our memories.
Fun sights/sites to visit:
http://www.stuckeys.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuckeys
http://www.hojoland.com/28flavors.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Johnson
http://www.seerockcity.com/Html/index.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_City
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burma-Shave
http://www.montgomerycollege.edu/Departments/hpolscrv/mthomas.htm
http://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/nge/Article.jsp?id=h-1016
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
Friday, September 01, 2006
That Competitive Nature
As children, we learned about being competitive.
“I can run faster than you.”
“Nonny nonny nah nah, I got a bigger piece of cake!”
“Bet my grade is better than yours.”
“I’m the prettiest.”
Teen years only made the spirit of competition more robust and by the time we achieved status in the working world, we had honed our talents to a razor sharp edge.
Now we are retired. Has the urge to compete worn off? Absolutely not. We are just competitive about different topics. The only good thing to come from the high prices of drugs is that we elders now have something new to berate and/or brag about. Have you listened in to any conversations at the pharmacy counter among the “Part D” recipients?
“Whooeee, why just last month my blood pressure pills alone were over $200!”
“Huh. You think that’s bad, you should see the cost of that dang drug the doc put me on for high cholesterol.”
“Listen, the two of you just think you are paying through the nose. Look at the cost of these refills for my arthritis and diabetes medicine. Just out of sight, I tell you, out of sight!”
“Well, you would just not believe what I had to give up just to pay for this small bottle of pills. I just don’t see where the money is coming from for the refill.”
Oh, the competition.
Truth is, it was a lot more fun when we were younger. Besides, you may have been able to outrun me, but I definitely was the prettiest!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
“I can run faster than you.”
“Nonny nonny nah nah, I got a bigger piece of cake!”
“Bet my grade is better than yours.”
“I’m the prettiest.”
Teen years only made the spirit of competition more robust and by the time we achieved status in the working world, we had honed our talents to a razor sharp edge.
Now we are retired. Has the urge to compete worn off? Absolutely not. We are just competitive about different topics. The only good thing to come from the high prices of drugs is that we elders now have something new to berate and/or brag about. Have you listened in to any conversations at the pharmacy counter among the “Part D” recipients?
“Whooeee, why just last month my blood pressure pills alone were over $200!”
“Huh. You think that’s bad, you should see the cost of that dang drug the doc put me on for high cholesterol.”
“Listen, the two of you just think you are paying through the nose. Look at the cost of these refills for my arthritis and diabetes medicine. Just out of sight, I tell you, out of sight!”
“Well, you would just not believe what I had to give up just to pay for this small bottle of pills. I just don’t see where the money is coming from for the refill.”
Oh, the competition.
Truth is, it was a lot more fun when we were younger. Besides, you may have been able to outrun me, but I definitely was the prettiest!
© Copyright 2006 Suzzwords
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