Summertime Dating in the ‘50s

Window air-conditioners were just becoming affordable in the early 1950s, making the ritual of Saturday night date preparation much more comfortable for us Southern young ladies who were of dating age. Prior to the installation of the mammoth metal monsters hanging from the window, we took cold showers, pointed every fan in the house in our direction and prayed the sticky anti-perspirant held until we got to the air-conditioned movie theatre.

Our attire was much different than what is worn in public today. No shorts and halters for our “hot” dates in August (yes, I said that on purpose). We wore “peasant” blouses and “circle” skirts underlined with several layers of starched crinolines. Nylon hose were worn to show off our new Capezio “flats.” We accented our dainty little necks with brightly colored silk scarves. Screw-back pearl earrings set off our Prell-washed hair. Our dates wore sports jackets or even suits, but mostly in the summer just starched and ironed white dress shirts or short-sleeve plaid shirts, ties optional, and slacks. No jeans for date night unless the date rode a motorcycle, but that’s a different story.

Since most of our dates drove un-air-conditioned cars (yes, the times were indeed primitive), we had two choices. Insist on windows up or shellac our hair with so much spray that not even gale-force winds would move a single hair. One problem. Humidity increased the stickiness of the spray causing hair to droop from the weight and/or catch every leaf, bit of paper or tine of comb, and refuse to let go. Any young man with more than an hour's experience, knew NOT to touch his date’s hair.

Summer drive-in theater dating during July and August was not even an option. In addition to hot and humid air, the mosquitoes were voracious, pouncing on every bit of exposed skin. Even with a mosquito coil burning on the dashboard, the tiny pests flocked into the car, got high on the camphor aroma, then danced around exposed skin looking for a tasty treat. So much for our Midnight in Paris, Channel No. 5 or Tigress cologne; within five minutes of lighting that coil, we were bathed in eau de citronella or camphor.

The only relief was the air-conditioned snack bar, usually crowded with sweating teens trying to look “cool.” (Yep, meant that one, too.) As soon as the lights came on between double features and the dancing popcorn boxes strutted across the screen, teens popped out of Fords and Chevys to line up for snow cones and large Cokes with extra ice.

As much fun as it was in the other seasons, the neighborhood drive-in was just not the place for a Saturday night date in August, no matter how good the “Monster from the Black Lagoon” was said to be.

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

Speaking of Bathrooms

My blogging friend, Joy, over at The Joy of Six, had an interesting post, He’s in the ”Library” … Again, about time spent in the bathroom. While reading her words, I immediately became lost in memories of blissful hours spent in bubble baths and Calgon moisturizing beads.

I haven’t had a really nice, long soak for quite a while. One of the reasons is that my bathtub is only fourteen inches deep and a little over four feet long. I need longer and deeper. There also seems to be some sort of additional person attached to my body who has added way too many pounds. This poundage person has swelled my middle, hips and butt to an impressive expanse making it hard for me to get into and out of the tub. (Age has nothing to do with it so just be quiet.)

Getting in the tub is a real challenge. Before the poundage attachment, I would just hop in and sit down in a small sea of bubbles. Now I find that it’s more like launching a ship and there comes a point of no return as gravity takes over and the heaviest part of me aims for the lowest part of the tub. I learned, before giving up on baths altogether, not to fill the tub before getting in so I didn't create a lavender-scented mini-tsunami as the wake of my descent washed over the side and swirled around the tile floor.

Getting out of the tub required gymnastics and prayer. “Please God, let me haul out safely and I swear I will never feed this attached person another cookie.”

I have my fingers crossed that one day I will win one of those nifty “walk in” tubs and my desire to enjoy languid soaks will become a reality. Now if I can just convince this lumpy person to leave. Humm. Maybe I can just lure it off with a some Hershey's Kisses.

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

Mother’s Day Hints

What Not to Give Mom on Mother’s Day

10. Toaster

9. Can Opener

8. Ironing Board

7. Iron

6. Turtlewax

5. Laundry Basket

4. Dish Pan

3. Broom

2. Bucket for Mop

1. Mop


What to Give Mom on Mother’s Day

1. Flowers

1. Chocolate

1. Dinner Out (Not Burger King)

1. Movie and Dinner Out

1. Car Detailing

1. Day at the Spa

1. Gold or Pearl Earrings

1. Gift Certificate to Department Store (Not Walmart)

1. Diamonds

1. House Cleaning Service for a Year

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

Three Stages of Life

As I was sitting in the patients' waiting room the other day, it occurred to me that “patient” is a silly name for we who sit and wait … and wait. Yes, the “waiting” part of “waiting room” is accurate, it’s that “patient” part I don’t get. I was far from being “patient.”

As I thought a bit more as I waited, I realized all this hokey about all the stages of life – baby, toddler, teen, young adult, mature – can be squashed into just three stages.

Early Stage – Impatience: Birth to about age four, it’s all “me, me, me.” Feed me, change me, entertain me – NOW! Give me that NOW! Take me there NOW! Let me out of this basket NOW! At about age four to five serious interaction with other children and adults begins.

Middle Stage – Patience: From about age four to about age 65, we realize we must “behave” and "have patience" to be fed, clothed and entertained. We have to be "patient" and smile and do all kinds of stuff we don’t want to do, like go to school and work and get vacinated. As we mature, we have to be “patient” with family, coworkers, impatient children, and stand in line, to survive. If we are not “patient” we will have to live in a jail or in a cave and eat slimy things crawling up the walls. Or worse, live with other impatient people who nag us everyday to “get a life.”

Late Stage – Adult Onset Impatience: This is the most fun time because we can blame our impatience on 1. age, 2. those new meds, 3. the weather (too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, the tornado, the hurricane, etc.), 4. underpants too tight, 5. the broccoli gives me gas, 6. Didn’t sleep a wink last night, 7. Cat or dog. 8, The TV, 9. The price of groceries these days, or 10. Loosing our car keys in the house.

This A.O.I. can definitely work in our favor. “Don’t bother Grampa while he’s sleeping in his chair. He didn’t sleep a wink last night.” “No, honey, Gramma does not want to hold that stinky, wet, muddy puppy. Give it to your Mommy. She likes puppies.” “Go where? In this weather?” “Of course I can have a beer. It’s the new meds that are the problem.” “Turn down that damn noise or I’ll put my foot through the screen.” “Well, if I knew where I lost it, I would go get it now, wouldn’t I!”

Now you can tell anyone who annoys you by telling you how impatient you are that they will just have to bear with you. You’ve been diagnosed with A.O.I. and it’s incurable. And you want a sandwich – with a beer – NOW!

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

The Elder Storytelling Place

By the time we reach the age of 60, we have at least one whopping good story to tell. With a bit of luck, we have a whole bunch of stories to tell. With an infusion of imagination and a touch of “journalistic liberty,” we have also added a bit of drama to otherwise ordinary stories.

Also by this time, most of our family and friends have heard all our stories, even the variations (just to add a bit of interest, of course).

Now we have a wonderful new place spin our tales of life, love, and growing up, to a whole new audience on Ronnie Bennett’s recently launched The Elder Storytelling Place .

I am very proud to say she has chosen one of my stories, " The Man Who Thought He Was A Train " for the April 27, 2007, feature. (The story originally appeared here in December 2006.)

Almost everyone who lived in my city during the pre-mall era of the 1950s went to town for work or major shopping. Almost everyone who went to town knew about the train man.

I hope my story will not only bring you a smile, but also help us remember a more peaceful time when being different was accepted and people were not so ready to judge, condemn and ridicule.

Thanks, Ronni, for the honor of choosing me to join your storytellers. And thanks, too, for letting us keep alive some of our most precious memories.

Thoughts on Getting Older

As I rapidly approach my seventieth birthday, I am struck by two thoughts about the advantage of getting older. It’s not very likely you will find these elsewhere because most people who write of aging are busy telling us how to stay healthy or how to invest our vast accumulation of wealth.

Advantage of Getting Older Number One: We don’t have to hear, “My how you have grown.”

Remember that? In our youth, any adult who had not seen us for at least fifteen minutes was auto-verbalized to say those words. Out of fear of a smack on the back of the head, how many of you squelched the urge to reply with smartass things like, “Well, it’s too hard for me to shrink,” or “Did you think I would get smaller?”

As we ourselves aged, we realized those "how you have grown" comments were not so much about growth spurts, but realizations as to how fast time has passed.

Advantage of Getting Older Number Two: We no longer have to decide what we want to be when we grow up.

It seemed from the age of three up, we were constantly asked this question by relatives, teachers, and even strangers. When I was growing up, girls who replied with occupations like engineer, doctor, or astral physicist, were redirected to more “rewarding” goals like housewife/mommy, teacher, or nurse. Thank goodness the young women of today have more choices.

Now that I’ve given you two more thoughts for today, I think I’ll go grocery shopping and whisper smartass responses into the ears of shopping-cart-trapped small children so they will be prepared for the future.

Gee, this is great having no career goals or getting taller. As for being a smartass? We can now get away with that, too. Younger relatives and friends will just shake their heads and roll their eyes and explain, “You know how it is when they reach this age.”

Whoopee, “this age” suits me just fine!

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

… Or Is It Just Me?

How many times have you said:

Is it hot in here … or is just me?

Is it cold in here … or is just me?

Is this too salty … or is just me?

Is this too sweet … or is just me?

Can you smell that … or is just me?

Is that dress ugly … or is just me?

Is this bus going too fast … or is just me?

Do you feel queasy from that hot sauce … or is just me?

Do you think parasailing off this bridge was stupid … or is just me?

Do those pants make her butt look big … or is just me?

Is this the most stupid TV program ever … or is just me?

Is that wave coming this way … or is just me?

Oww, is that blister from six hours in the sun … or is just me?

Shouldn’t you throw that firecracker after it’s lit … or is just me?

Is “… or is just me?” the most stupid phrase you’ve ever heard … or is just me?

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

In the Future?

Stardate: 3165-3/7

We’ve landed safely on the abandoned planet formerly known as Eartha. We’ve confirmed that the enormous remains of a settlement that we saw from the air seems to be some sort of religious center as we’ve discovered inhabitants’ dwellings surrounded by a type of primitive concrete belt; perhaps to carry worshipers around and also away from this “city.”

Our crew of scientists will begin exploration.

Stardate: 3165-3/8

Amazing discovery. We’ve determined that this indeed is a religious center populated with numerous temples. We’ve also determined that the inhabitants worshiped some sort of bean-like object that was bathed in a ceremonial liquid. The worshipers partook of the resulting elixir to gain alertness and stamina.

Stardate 3165-3/28

We’ve discovered thousands of “shoppees” throughout the “city” that must have dispensed the elixir, as well as numerous dwellings containing religious paraphernalia such as containers to brew the elixir and share it among worshipers.

Stardate 3165-4/10

Fantastic find – we have uncovered an almost-intact major temple and subsequently, we believe to be on track to discover the name that the inhabitants called their religion. How ironic that in such a primitive society as this must have been, that the religion was based on the vision of future space travel. The ancient writing on stone and wood, when deciphered by the Cryptosphere, appears to be either “Stardeer,” Starbukkes,” or “Starbucks.”

What strange creatures these inhabitants must have been.

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

Weird Words

Think about this.

Put a “T” on “here,” and you are already “there.”

Do airline personnel say “boobye” on Halloween?

Can you hit a golf ball off a tee shirt?

If a bird flew into the chimney flue, would it wind up with bird flu?

If you drop a bud into the cake flour, will it still flower?

If you stored sports equipment in your attic, would that be considered the modern-day equivalent of having bats in your belfry?

Does a “beltway” go around a city or help direct a strip of leather around the waist of your pants?

Are “belt loops” a hide tanner’s equivalent of a cereal product?

If you loose weight around your middle, did you waste your waist?

Where does "lost" weight go?

If an end zone and a time zone got married, would their child be the end of time?

Can a “dojo” also be a female deer with a nickname?

If you “toe the line,” are sandals required?

Can you read red tea leaves while riding on the Reading Railroad?

That’s enough from me. Now it’s your turn.

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

T.P. Versus Paintballs

We awoke on a recent winter morning to discover we had been the target of a paintball attack. A whole series of orange “shots” spread across the front of our house as if fired from a slow moving car. Thank goodness the shooter was no closer or we could have been cleaning up glass as well. Double thank goodness it was only paint.

After the police report was filed for both a neighbor and us, and the mess had been washed away, I came out with nice clean windows and doors and a respect for the young police officer who answered the call.

Once back inside and warm again, I got to thinking about how much has changed. Do teens no longer creep into a chosen yard in the dark and toss rolls and rolls of toilet paper over the roof, across the cars and as high into the trees as possible?

Many years ago, the good-looking high school senior who lived across the street was treated to a T.P. party by his admirers on the cheer leading squad. There was so much giggling and “shhhushing” and car door slamming, it woke half the neighbors, but not the teen or his family.

The girls did an excellent job. Morning light revealed a tree beautifully draped with long white streamers gently wafting in the breeze, cars artistically adorned with sort of a plaid pattern, and hedges topped with loops and loops of toilet paper. Just as the teen and his parents discovered the yard decorations, a light rain began to fall. Well, you know what happens when T.P. meets moisture.

By afternoon, the rain had passed as well as a car of whoohooing waving girls as our young neighbor was filling trash bags with mushy, disintegrating tissues while pretending to be annoyed.

Back to our paintballs. Whoever did this was not having fun – at least not fun in a normal sense. (We have a strong suspicion who the culprits are.) It was done out of malice … a way of “getting even” for long-past imagined injustices. How sad.

Too bad we can’t turn back the clock for our young people and let them flourish in a world of innocent T.P. tossing – and put away the guns.

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

No More Free Cotton

As I picked up a prescription the other day, it occurred to me that I could hear the pills rattle. I’ve been hearing pills rattle for some time, but it never seemed significant. (There must be some aging rule, you know, like one new pill for every five years over the age of 50.) Maybe I never really paid attention to the sound before because I’ve been busy with more important matters like trying to find a good rock and roll radio station.

The pills rattled because there was no little cotton puff stuffed on top of them to cushion and minimize their space. I miss that little wad of cotton but not because of it’s cushioning effect, but because of all it’s recycling potential.

I don’t know about your house, but in mine, we had a special container just for the cotton plucked from pill bottles. Who bought cotton balls? Just get one out of the container. That cotton was used to remove nail polish, swab out the dog’s ears, apply all sorts of liquids to all sorts of places, stuff or restuff small toys and pillows, and spread oily stuff on tools. The uses were endless

Now it’s all over. The pills rattle in their cottonless containers. It’s the end of an era. Economy has prevailed. What’s next? Will we just hold out our hands so the pharmacist can pour the pills into our cupped palms? Maybe we'll bring our own containers like a chipped coffee cup and an old mayonnaise jar or save and reuse the bags in which we brought home the tomatoes?

Maybe instead of recycling my pill containers, I’ll just save them for the future. I could stand outside the pharmacy and offer them to people with no containers. “Get your red hot pill bottles here!”

Or I could save them up and build something. In no time I would have enough to build an small house. Why not? I’ve seen pictures of houses built from beer cans. I can “chink” the spaces with cotton. Oh, wait. There’s no cotton. Oh, the heck with it. I’m going back to looking for that good rock and roll radio station!

© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords

When a Woman Celebrity Goes On a Talk Show, Who Holds Her Purse?

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

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

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

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