Most of us have heard of shrink wrap.
That’s not the question. What I want to know is when did manufacturers start reducing the contents of their packages so we get less product, but pay the same price or more.
I first noticed it with stuffing mix. I thought the box was the same, but the world – and I – had gotten bigger. A nearby grocery clerk confirmed my sanity and that the package was, indeed, smaller. Packaging for other products has also shrunk. Remember when you could get two good blows out of a Kleenex? Not now.
Makeup is shrinking, too. Lipstick may make you all glossy and smooth, but there are fewer applications. Guess the trade off is that it is supposed to last longer.
What products have you found to be in smaller packages?
I think there is more behind this trend than corporate profit and executive bonuses. I think it’s either in anticipation of smaller people or we’re in some kind of galaxy volume warp that is melting the polar ice and reducing land mass starting with stuff we don’t really need. Well, here’s a thought: If all the polar ice melts, will Earth drip all over Mars and cool it down enough for humans to colonize?
Or maybe it’s those tiny little Martians behind all this shrinking product phenomena. Oh, just had another thought: If we’re invaded by Martians, does that mean yet another national holiday complete with a day off from work, cards, gifts, and special foods, in celebration?
And just so no one is offended, Happy (insert holiday here) to one and all.
© Copyright 2008 Suzzwords
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
And How Old Are You Now, Honey?
Bumper Sticker:
We are born naked, wet and hungry.
Then things get worse.
After attending a lunch gathering of old grads from my old high school, I realized how many times the subject of age came up and how often was heard, “Well, just how old are YOU now?”
I felt like I had just experienced déjà vu – a flashback to childhood. Think about it. Remember when you were a tot and Uncle Ernest would bend down, give your cheek a pinch and say, “Sweetums, just how old are you now?” You would hold up three fingers, smile and hope shiny round metal things (nickels, dimes and quarters) would be forthcoming to trade for candy.
Do we eventually get to the age of again holding up fingers, but having to close and open both hands several times to rack up the right age? Or is it okay to quip, Maxine style, “Nunya! Now go find something else to do!”?
Are we spiraling backwards and going out the same way we came in: naked, bald, toothless and trying to focus on the train-spoon headed to the tunnel-mouth? I just hope whoever is driving my spoon also makes the appropriate noises, “Whooo, whooo, chug, chug.”
Okay, okay, I know there is no way to stop the progression (regression?) into old age. Well, maybe cosmetically some of us can have nips and tucks and look a youthful forty-eight when we’re actually eighty-four, but how many eighty-four-year olds do you know who are still in bowling leagues?
When we reach the stage where we are fed, powdered and diapered, I think there should be warning signs to prevent our children and other younger people from even thinking about hovering over our cribs, cooing, and then inflicting the ultimate torture – pursed lips blowing “ppppffffffhhhhhtttttt” against bare belly skin (as we once did to them).
Youngin’s beware – we could just reach out and bop you with our change purses filled with shiny round metal things (nickels, dimes and quarters). Now where’s that candy machine?
© Copyright 2008 Suzzwords
We are born naked, wet and hungry.
Then things get worse.
After attending a lunch gathering of old grads from my old high school, I realized how many times the subject of age came up and how often was heard, “Well, just how old are YOU now?”
I felt like I had just experienced déjà vu – a flashback to childhood. Think about it. Remember when you were a tot and Uncle Ernest would bend down, give your cheek a pinch and say, “Sweetums, just how old are you now?” You would hold up three fingers, smile and hope shiny round metal things (nickels, dimes and quarters) would be forthcoming to trade for candy.
Do we eventually get to the age of again holding up fingers, but having to close and open both hands several times to rack up the right age? Or is it okay to quip, Maxine style, “Nunya! Now go find something else to do!”?
Are we spiraling backwards and going out the same way we came in: naked, bald, toothless and trying to focus on the train-spoon headed to the tunnel-mouth? I just hope whoever is driving my spoon also makes the appropriate noises, “Whooo, whooo, chug, chug.”
Okay, okay, I know there is no way to stop the progression (regression?) into old age. Well, maybe cosmetically some of us can have nips and tucks and look a youthful forty-eight when we’re actually eighty-four, but how many eighty-four-year olds do you know who are still in bowling leagues?
When we reach the stage where we are fed, powdered and diapered, I think there should be warning signs to prevent our children and other younger people from even thinking about hovering over our cribs, cooing, and then inflicting the ultimate torture – pursed lips blowing “ppppffffffhhhhhtttttt” against bare belly skin (as we once did to them).
Youngin’s beware – we could just reach out and bop you with our change purses filled with shiny round metal things (nickels, dimes and quarters). Now where’s that candy machine?
© Copyright 2008 Suzzwords
Saturday, January 05, 2008
10 Resolutions that are Easy to Keep
10. I resolve to email stupid jokes to friends as often as possible.
9. I resolve to give up the idea of bungee jumping and sky diving.
8. I resolve to let Mother Nature wash my car.
7. I resolve to move before having to clean the oven.
6. I resolve to consider ice cream a health food.
5. I resolve to eat more health foods.
4. I resolve to go outside and play as often as possible.
3. I resolve to wear clothes with elastic waists or made with stretch fabric.
2. I resolve to eat chocolate at least five times a week.
1. I resolve to be grateful everyday for dear friends and blogging buddies.
© Copyright 2008 Suzzwords
9. I resolve to give up the idea of bungee jumping and sky diving.
8. I resolve to let Mother Nature wash my car.
7. I resolve to move before having to clean the oven.
6. I resolve to consider ice cream a health food.
5. I resolve to eat more health foods.
4. I resolve to go outside and play as often as possible.
3. I resolve to wear clothes with elastic waists or made with stretch fabric.
2. I resolve to eat chocolate at least five times a week.
1. I resolve to be grateful everyday for dear friends and blogging buddies.
© Copyright 2008 Suzzwords
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Mismatched
Ladies First …
Act 1
Scene One: A terrific sale on shoes, so you pick up those black pumps you’ve been needing and, what the heck, get the same style in navy, too. Ooh, and what a great price on fisherman’s sandals, just plop the navy pair in your basket. Oops, red is sold out in your size, but at this price, go ahead and get them in black.
Scene Two: You are late for a meeting. You are dressed and ready to go. Just have to slip on those new navy pumps. Don’t need to turn on the light. Your shoes are paired up. Grab and go.
Scene Three: On the way out of the restroom to the meeting you check your outfit – perfect. You check your hair and makeup – perfect. You check your shoes – yikes! How did that THAT happen!
Scene Four: Back home again, you rematch your pumps and put the black pair in the hall closet! While you are at it, the black sandals go in the hall closet, too!
Act 2
Scene One: Which pair of earrings should you wear with this outfit; the studs or the J-hoops? Silver or gold? These hoops would look good, no wait, maybe these studs. You put a hoop in your right ear and a stud in your left. The phone rings, the dog wants out and there is a strange noise coming from the refrigerator. You answer the phone, let the dog back in and the noise was just the ice maker defrosting. Off you go!
Scene Two: You make a note to self to ALWAYS check your earrings before leaving the house and never have lunch with those teasing women again.
Finale
You find a darling pair of light beige slacks that fit perfect, are light-weight and just right for summer. Then you find the perfect top that hides those few, only a few, extra pounds on your hips and butt. It covers all the faults. A few days later you have to run to the grocery so you jump into those perfect slacks and fault-hiding top and slip into your navy sandals. You grab your cup to finish off the coffee and – splash, it speckles the front of your perfect top. In almost one motion, you strip off the top, grab another from the closet and you are out the door. As you approach the store, you notice that the young man retrieving the carts has turned around to look at you. In the store, you notice several more people looking your way, some smiling. It must be this great outfit. After you get home, you check yourself out in the hall mirror and realize that (1) your top only comes to just below your waist, (2) your light-weight slacks are slightly opaque and (3) you have on red underwear!
Now the men …
Act 1
The occasion requires a suit and tie, but which tie? This brown and yellow one will go okay with the blue suit, no one will notice anyway.
Act 2
Now for shoes. Well, the Nikes are definitely out. The black ones need to be polished. These tan loafers will look okay. Do you really need socks? Guess so. These will do.
Finale
You have no idea why the ladies looked at you so strangely or understood why the teen with the tattoos, pierced eyelid and green spiked hair gave you a “thumbs up.”
One man’s solution to the male matching dilemma …
The artist husband of one of my best friends has solved the problem of mismatched shoes and socks: black shoes, black socks. No compromise. Black shoes, black socks with everything. Nearly drives her nuts. In the early years of their marriage, she bought him socks of different colors. Had to take them back and get black socks. Tan slacks? Black shoes, black socks. Denim cutoffs? Ditto. Blue suit? Yep. Now if she could only get him to wear a black tuxedo year round he would never, ever again be mismatched!
P.S. You gotta admire a rebel in this era of regimentation.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Act 1
Scene One: A terrific sale on shoes, so you pick up those black pumps you’ve been needing and, what the heck, get the same style in navy, too. Ooh, and what a great price on fisherman’s sandals, just plop the navy pair in your basket. Oops, red is sold out in your size, but at this price, go ahead and get them in black.
Scene Two: You are late for a meeting. You are dressed and ready to go. Just have to slip on those new navy pumps. Don’t need to turn on the light. Your shoes are paired up. Grab and go.
Scene Three: On the way out of the restroom to the meeting you check your outfit – perfect. You check your hair and makeup – perfect. You check your shoes – yikes! How did that THAT happen!
Scene Four: Back home again, you rematch your pumps and put the black pair in the hall closet! While you are at it, the black sandals go in the hall closet, too!
Act 2
Scene One: Which pair of earrings should you wear with this outfit; the studs or the J-hoops? Silver or gold? These hoops would look good, no wait, maybe these studs. You put a hoop in your right ear and a stud in your left. The phone rings, the dog wants out and there is a strange noise coming from the refrigerator. You answer the phone, let the dog back in and the noise was just the ice maker defrosting. Off you go!
Scene Two: You make a note to self to ALWAYS check your earrings before leaving the house and never have lunch with those teasing women again.
Finale
You find a darling pair of light beige slacks that fit perfect, are light-weight and just right for summer. Then you find the perfect top that hides those few, only a few, extra pounds on your hips and butt. It covers all the faults. A few days later you have to run to the grocery so you jump into those perfect slacks and fault-hiding top and slip into your navy sandals. You grab your cup to finish off the coffee and – splash, it speckles the front of your perfect top. In almost one motion, you strip off the top, grab another from the closet and you are out the door. As you approach the store, you notice that the young man retrieving the carts has turned around to look at you. In the store, you notice several more people looking your way, some smiling. It must be this great outfit. After you get home, you check yourself out in the hall mirror and realize that (1) your top only comes to just below your waist, (2) your light-weight slacks are slightly opaque and (3) you have on red underwear!
Now the men …
Act 1
The occasion requires a suit and tie, but which tie? This brown and yellow one will go okay with the blue suit, no one will notice anyway.
Act 2
Now for shoes. Well, the Nikes are definitely out. The black ones need to be polished. These tan loafers will look okay. Do you really need socks? Guess so. These will do.
Finale
You have no idea why the ladies looked at you so strangely or understood why the teen with the tattoos, pierced eyelid and green spiked hair gave you a “thumbs up.”
One man’s solution to the male matching dilemma …
The artist husband of one of my best friends has solved the problem of mismatched shoes and socks: black shoes, black socks. No compromise. Black shoes, black socks with everything. Nearly drives her nuts. In the early years of their marriage, she bought him socks of different colors. Had to take them back and get black socks. Tan slacks? Black shoes, black socks. Denim cutoffs? Ditto. Blue suit? Yep. Now if she could only get him to wear a black tuxedo year round he would never, ever again be mismatched!
P.S. You gotta admire a rebel in this era of regimentation.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Irish Fruitcake Recipe
Seems a number of people are searching for the famous Irish fruitcake recipe now that the huge holiday insanity season is approaching. I know you are out there as I get three or four hits a day on my Sitemeter.
I found this recipe for Irish fruitcake years ago and have since seen a number of variations, including the Jack Daniels version.
Fruitcakes have become outrageously expensive to make at home so if you are on a budget and won't be baking this year, just read the recipe while sipping a beer!
Irish Fruitcake
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
4 large eggs
2 cups dried fruit
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup brown sugar
lemon juice
nuts
1 gallon Irish whiskey
Sample the whiskey to check for quality.
I found this recipe for Irish fruitcake years ago and have since seen a number of variations, including the Jack Daniels version.
Fruitcakes have become outrageously expensive to make at home so if you are on a budget and won't be baking this year, just read the recipe while sipping a beer!
Irish Fruitcake
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
4 large eggs
2 cups dried fruit
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup brown sugar
lemon juice
nuts
1 gallon Irish whiskey
Sample the whiskey to check for quality.
Take a large bowl.
Check the whiskey again to be sure it is of the highest quality.
Pour one level cup and drink.
Repeat.
Turn on the electric mixer; beat 1 cup butter in a large, fluffy bowl.
Add 1 teaspoon sugar and beat again.
Make sure the whiskey is still OK.
Cry another tup.
Turn off mixer.
Break 2 legs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.
Mix on the turner.
If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the whiskey to check for tonsisticity.
Next, sift 2 cups of salt.
Or something.
Who cares?
Check the whiskey.
Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.
Add one table. Spoon. Of sugar or something.
Whatever you can find.
Grease the oven.
Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.
Don't forget to beat off the turner.
Throw the bowl out of the window.
Check the whiskey again.
Go to bed.
Who the hell likes fruitcake anyway?
****************************
P.S. Do you have a favorite or old family fruitcake recipe or joke about fruitcake to share? I would love to add it to my collection! See my profile for my email address.
Monday, November 12, 2007
No-Nos in the Workplace
CNN recently posted an article on their Web site called “Things you should never do at work.” Included is good advice about not to gossip, hit on your boss or steal office supplies.
After reading the article, I noticed a few things they left out, so I made my own list.
1. Sniff at your pits and declare to anyone who will listen, “Gee, maybe I should have showered this morning.”
2. Fall asleep at your desk, then when awakened, jokingly tell your boss you were just looking at the inside of your eyeballs.
3. Come to work in slippers and offer to show your ingrown toenails to the receptionist.
4. Bring your pet iguana to work on your shoulder.
5. Bring your three-year-old to work and explain, “The day care won’t take him because he has the mumps.”
6. Explain the reason you are late is because you changed your mind about what to wear and the zipper in your skirt/slacks broke and held you hostage until you could get someone to cut you out.
7. At three in the morning, leave a message on your boss's voice mail that you are sick and won't be in, forgetting that the sound of the party in the background will also be recorded.
8. Go to lunch and not return, then show up the next morning but offer no explanation.
9. Have a screaming phone conversation with your soon-to-be ex while customers are waiting – and listening.
10. In the lunchroom, ask a coworker to “taste this and let me know if you think it’s gone bad.”
Now then, what’s your advice about what not to do at work?
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
After reading the article, I noticed a few things they left out, so I made my own list.
1. Sniff at your pits and declare to anyone who will listen, “Gee, maybe I should have showered this morning.”
2. Fall asleep at your desk, then when awakened, jokingly tell your boss you were just looking at the inside of your eyeballs.
3. Come to work in slippers and offer to show your ingrown toenails to the receptionist.
4. Bring your pet iguana to work on your shoulder.
5. Bring your three-year-old to work and explain, “The day care won’t take him because he has the mumps.”
6. Explain the reason you are late is because you changed your mind about what to wear and the zipper in your skirt/slacks broke and held you hostage until you could get someone to cut you out.
7. At three in the morning, leave a message on your boss's voice mail that you are sick and won't be in, forgetting that the sound of the party in the background will also be recorded.
8. Go to lunch and not return, then show up the next morning but offer no explanation.
9. Have a screaming phone conversation with your soon-to-be ex while customers are waiting – and listening.
10. In the lunchroom, ask a coworker to “taste this and let me know if you think it’s gone bad.”
Now then, what’s your advice about what not to do at work?
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Breaking News
It seems like almost every television news channel has “breaking news.” One local channel reported a breaking news weather alert long after the storm was over. A popular cable channel was still running a breaking news alert about a celebrity eight hours after the breaking news first broke.
Now hold on here, just how long can breaking news break? Is there a time limit?
If breaking news is red hot new news, and several hour old news is just “news,” then is day old news “olds?”
Maybe we should define the difference between new breaking news and old breaking news. Oh, wait, news is supposed to be “new,” so if breaking news is new news, is it really breaking news or just news? If we called old breaking news something like “Recent News,” it would kind of lose it’s dramatic appeal and just be old news. But then old news is not news at all, it’s just stuff that happened in the recent past.
I wonder when breaking news becomes history. You know, too old to be breaking news or even news at all. I guess “breaking history” won’t work in a scrolling banner across the bottom to the TV screen.
What about breaking news that is reported over and over and over until we are all sick of it. Would that be considered “persistent update” news or PU for short?
Well, all this is just too confusing for me. I’m going to go watch Spongebob.
Alas, where is Walter Cronkite when you really need him?!
P.S. January 17, 2008 -- Go here for a Broom Hilda cartoon giggle about "Breaking News."
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Now hold on here, just how long can breaking news break? Is there a time limit?
If breaking news is red hot new news, and several hour old news is just “news,” then is day old news “olds?”
Maybe we should define the difference between new breaking news and old breaking news. Oh, wait, news is supposed to be “new,” so if breaking news is new news, is it really breaking news or just news? If we called old breaking news something like “Recent News,” it would kind of lose it’s dramatic appeal and just be old news. But then old news is not news at all, it’s just stuff that happened in the recent past.
I wonder when breaking news becomes history. You know, too old to be breaking news or even news at all. I guess “breaking history” won’t work in a scrolling banner across the bottom to the TV screen.
What about breaking news that is reported over and over and over until we are all sick of it. Would that be considered “persistent update” news or PU for short?
Well, all this is just too confusing for me. I’m going to go watch Spongebob.
Alas, where is Walter Cronkite when you really need him?!
P.S. January 17, 2008 -- Go here for a Broom Hilda cartoon giggle about "Breaking News."
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Halloween Memories
My hubby and I first lived in a new subdivision of mostly young people our age. Everyone knew everyone else and their children. It was safe then to turn the kids loose to play outside under watchful eyes from parents up and down the street.
Halloween night, from twilight to about 8 or 8:30, saw a stream of little kids from surrounding homes scurrying to one house, then another, in the age-old quest for candy, candy, candy. In simple getups, clowns, tramps, princesses and ghosts came running to our door. They carried plain old paper bags. No expensive, fancy costumes and elaborate, glowing plastic pumpkins back then.
After handing out treats, we could hear a faint, “Say thank you” from the sidewalk. A few little ones new to this fabulous idea of sugar in abundance would pause to peek inside their bags to see what they got. Experienced five year olds barely paused, knowing the faster they went, the more candy they would have at the end of their run.
By about 9 p.m., a few sugar-deprived teenagers and kids brought over in cars from other areas started coming. We turned out the lights, but kept the candy bowl handy.
One year there was a banging on the door and G. leaped up ready to throw candy (and I suspect a few choice words) out the door. There stood two of the saddest characters we had ever seen. The "daughter," who stood over six-feet tall, had a really bad hairdo, what appeared to be a missing front tooth, a tacky dress, and a very pregnant-looking belly.
The shorter "father," dressed in overalls (no shirt), had an obviously fake grey beard and a shotgun. Yikes! It was the most ridiculous our neighbors (both guys) had ever looked and just as the "father" was ready to haul off G. for soiling his daughter, we started laughing so hard we couldn't even talk.
They started to laugh, the pillow-baby fell out of Don's dress and porch lights went on in the houses around us. Neighbors came out to see what all the noise was about and soon we had a front yard party going. What a Halloween that was.
Now all the kids in my present neighborhood have grown and gone and those with children of their own trick-or-treat at parties, church events, or the malls.
Expensive store-bought costumes have replaced clever home-made getups. Little children – at least in my area – no longer whoop and shout “twick or tweat” at the door for candy, candy, candy.
I still buy miniature chocolate bars, though, just in case.
Sigh.
Now what in the world will I do with all this candy? Oh, silly me … never mind.
Happy Halloween!
P.S. – What’s your best Halloween memory?
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Halloween night, from twilight to about 8 or 8:30, saw a stream of little kids from surrounding homes scurrying to one house, then another, in the age-old quest for candy, candy, candy. In simple getups, clowns, tramps, princesses and ghosts came running to our door. They carried plain old paper bags. No expensive, fancy costumes and elaborate, glowing plastic pumpkins back then.
After handing out treats, we could hear a faint, “Say thank you” from the sidewalk. A few little ones new to this fabulous idea of sugar in abundance would pause to peek inside their bags to see what they got. Experienced five year olds barely paused, knowing the faster they went, the more candy they would have at the end of their run.
By about 9 p.m., a few sugar-deprived teenagers and kids brought over in cars from other areas started coming. We turned out the lights, but kept the candy bowl handy.
One year there was a banging on the door and G. leaped up ready to throw candy (and I suspect a few choice words) out the door. There stood two of the saddest characters we had ever seen. The "daughter," who stood over six-feet tall, had a really bad hairdo, what appeared to be a missing front tooth, a tacky dress, and a very pregnant-looking belly.
The shorter "father," dressed in overalls (no shirt), had an obviously fake grey beard and a shotgun. Yikes! It was the most ridiculous our neighbors (both guys) had ever looked and just as the "father" was ready to haul off G. for soiling his daughter, we started laughing so hard we couldn't even talk.
They started to laugh, the pillow-baby fell out of Don's dress and porch lights went on in the houses around us. Neighbors came out to see what all the noise was about and soon we had a front yard party going. What a Halloween that was.
Now all the kids in my present neighborhood have grown and gone and those with children of their own trick-or-treat at parties, church events, or the malls.
Expensive store-bought costumes have replaced clever home-made getups. Little children – at least in my area – no longer whoop and shout “twick or tweat” at the door for candy, candy, candy.
I still buy miniature chocolate bars, though, just in case.
Sigh.
Now what in the world will I do with all this candy? Oh, silly me … never mind.
Happy Halloween!
P.S. – What’s your best Halloween memory?
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Friday, October 19, 2007
Igpay Atinlay
Ancay ouya eakspay igpay atinlay?
Sometime around the seventh grade, a group of us girls all learned to speak pig latin. This incredible language was passed on to us by Nancy’s older brother, who assured us that only we and a few chosen others could understand this strange and cryptic language.
We practiced our new communication all weekend to be ready to whisper secrets to one another in study hall or flaunt openly in front of the boys.
In no time, we became so fluent that we used the language within earshot of our parents. When on the telephone discussing that cute boy in English, we left out no details about his dreamy eyes, his wavy hair or the way he looked running track during gym class. Why, we could just say anything and our parents would have no clue.
Occasionally, just to show off, we would answer back to our moms in pig latin, then condescending say, “Oh, I forgot, you only speak English.” Betty’s mom didn’t think it near as clever as we did and Betty wound up grounded for a week.
It was great fun among us girls as we told jokes, gossiped and even did our homework immersed in the switching of consonants and adding the “ay” at the end of the word.
All was going along smoothly until one day I slipped up and muttered “ammitday” under my breath when I dropped an armful of books in the living room.
Hands on hips and feet firmly planted, my mom suddenly appeared. “Iway avehay adhay enoughway. Ifway ouya asay atthya ordway againway, young lady, ouya areway roundgay orfay away onthmay! Ownay ickpay upway hosetay ooksbay andway ogay otay ourya oomray!”
Good grief! SHE knows our secret language! She knows everything we’ve been saying. Arrrrgggggh! We’re doomed.
The next day in home room, I spread the horrible news to the other girls. Within three days of diplomatically quizzing their mothers, we were devastated to learn that yes, the other mothers and most of the dads, knew our secret language.
When we confronted Nancy’s brother, he howled with laughter. “Of course Mom knows pig Latin, you goofs. Who do you think taught it to me?!”
We decided Nancy’s brother had to be punished for lying to us and then laughing at us. We almost let him off the hook, until we found out he told the guys he hung out with what fools he made of his sister and her stupid friends.
It took a little cocoa powder, sugar, flour, butter, vanilla, salt and baking powder and we whipped up the most beautiful pan of brownies to ever come out of Nancy’s kitchen. We giggled and imagined the consequences of one extra chocolatey secret ingredient recommend by Betty’s older sister.
Almost as if on clue, the brother and his friends appeared.
“Don’t touch these brownies,” we admonished the boys. “They are for a bake sale tomorrow and they have to cool.”
We went up to Nancy’s room, hands clamped over out mouths to keep the laughter from filtering downstairs, and slammed the door. Once secluded, we buried our heads in her pillows, rolling on the bed as tears streamed down our faces.
Two hours later when we emerged, the brownies had disappeared. So had her brother’s friends. At 3 a.m., reported Nancy, her brother was locked in the downstairs bathroom.
We never spoke of the incident again.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Sometime around the seventh grade, a group of us girls all learned to speak pig latin. This incredible language was passed on to us by Nancy’s older brother, who assured us that only we and a few chosen others could understand this strange and cryptic language.
We practiced our new communication all weekend to be ready to whisper secrets to one another in study hall or flaunt openly in front of the boys.
In no time, we became so fluent that we used the language within earshot of our parents. When on the telephone discussing that cute boy in English, we left out no details about his dreamy eyes, his wavy hair or the way he looked running track during gym class. Why, we could just say anything and our parents would have no clue.
Occasionally, just to show off, we would answer back to our moms in pig latin, then condescending say, “Oh, I forgot, you only speak English.” Betty’s mom didn’t think it near as clever as we did and Betty wound up grounded for a week.
It was great fun among us girls as we told jokes, gossiped and even did our homework immersed in the switching of consonants and adding the “ay” at the end of the word.
All was going along smoothly until one day I slipped up and muttered “ammitday” under my breath when I dropped an armful of books in the living room.
Hands on hips and feet firmly planted, my mom suddenly appeared. “Iway avehay adhay enoughway. Ifway ouya asay atthya ordway againway, young lady, ouya areway roundgay orfay away onthmay! Ownay ickpay upway hosetay ooksbay andway ogay otay ourya oomray!”
Good grief! SHE knows our secret language! She knows everything we’ve been saying. Arrrrgggggh! We’re doomed.
The next day in home room, I spread the horrible news to the other girls. Within three days of diplomatically quizzing their mothers, we were devastated to learn that yes, the other mothers and most of the dads, knew our secret language.
When we confronted Nancy’s brother, he howled with laughter. “Of course Mom knows pig Latin, you goofs. Who do you think taught it to me?!”
We decided Nancy’s brother had to be punished for lying to us and then laughing at us. We almost let him off the hook, until we found out he told the guys he hung out with what fools he made of his sister and her stupid friends.
It took a little cocoa powder, sugar, flour, butter, vanilla, salt and baking powder and we whipped up the most beautiful pan of brownies to ever come out of Nancy’s kitchen. We giggled and imagined the consequences of one extra chocolatey secret ingredient recommend by Betty’s older sister.
Almost as if on clue, the brother and his friends appeared.
“Don’t touch these brownies,” we admonished the boys. “They are for a bake sale tomorrow and they have to cool.”
We went up to Nancy’s room, hands clamped over out mouths to keep the laughter from filtering downstairs, and slammed the door. Once secluded, we buried our heads in her pillows, rolling on the bed as tears streamed down our faces.
Two hours later when we emerged, the brownies had disappeared. So had her brother’s friends. At 3 a.m., reported Nancy, her brother was locked in the downstairs bathroom.
We never spoke of the incident again.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Happy Birthday Dear Olive
October 20 is the birthday of the world's oldest blogger, Olive Riley, a feisty 108-year-old Australian great-great-grandmother with amazingly clear memories of her colorful life. She was born on October 10, 1899, in Broken Hill, a mining town in central Australia.
Physically frail but mentally alert, Olive lives in an aged care hostel 50 miles (80 km) north of Sydney. Her blog (or 'blob' as she calls it), The Life of Riley, is read throughout the world.
Her blogging pal, Mike Rubbo, carefully documents and publishes Olive’s stories for us all to enjoy. Olive and Mike teamed up when he as researching centenarians and then made a film for the ABC called “All About Olive.”
So here’s to you Olive on your 108th birthday.
What a joy you are and what a wonderful gift you have given us with your stories.
Now on with the celebration!
Happy Birthday Dear Olive!
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Declutteritis
It’s been a long, exhausting and painful month. I incurred a serious attack of declutteritis.
It all started with exposure to a television program about handy-dandy ways to simplify your life. A vision quickly spread to my brain of tidy closets and litter-free table tops, bookshelves and desks.
If not caught in the early stages, declutteritis can spread to the entire body causing a flurry of activity resulting in painful aches and pains from dragging, pulling, stooping, keeling and lifting.
It can also be expensive. Victims of this all-consuming delirium are often found in department stores scooping up containers and baskets of all sizes, labeling materials and trash bags.
Fortunately, recovery requires very little medication for the normally healthy person unless attics, basements and sheds are involved, or heavy furniture or equipment requires moving. A few over-the-counter pain relievers, some liniment and a good movie on DVD, plus a few days rest, clears up the aches.
Some victims often suffer a side effect. Declutteritis may lead to garagesaleotis, a short-term frenzy to rid the home of stuff that is no longer wanted, but too good to throw away. Further aches and pains may result, but can also be treated with non-prescription pain relievers and a cup of hot tea after the sale subsides.
Warning: Recovery from declutteritis and the resulting garagesaleotis can result in a trip back to the department stores with a bag of change (mostly dimes and quarters) to bring home more useless stuff to be stored in the closets and on table tops, bookshelves and desks.
Caution: Both conditions may reoccur, primarily in the Spring and Fall.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
It all started with exposure to a television program about handy-dandy ways to simplify your life. A vision quickly spread to my brain of tidy closets and litter-free table tops, bookshelves and desks.
If not caught in the early stages, declutteritis can spread to the entire body causing a flurry of activity resulting in painful aches and pains from dragging, pulling, stooping, keeling and lifting.
It can also be expensive. Victims of this all-consuming delirium are often found in department stores scooping up containers and baskets of all sizes, labeling materials and trash bags.
Fortunately, recovery requires very little medication for the normally healthy person unless attics, basements and sheds are involved, or heavy furniture or equipment requires moving. A few over-the-counter pain relievers, some liniment and a good movie on DVD, plus a few days rest, clears up the aches.
Some victims often suffer a side effect. Declutteritis may lead to garagesaleotis, a short-term frenzy to rid the home of stuff that is no longer wanted, but too good to throw away. Further aches and pains may result, but can also be treated with non-prescription pain relievers and a cup of hot tea after the sale subsides.
Warning: Recovery from declutteritis and the resulting garagesaleotis can result in a trip back to the department stores with a bag of change (mostly dimes and quarters) to bring home more useless stuff to be stored in the closets and on table tops, bookshelves and desks.
Caution: Both conditions may reoccur, primarily in the Spring and Fall.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Monday, October 01, 2007
Things We Hardly Do Anymore
If you are from an average working family and grew up in the 30s, 40s and 50s, you will remember some of these.
Run towels through the wringer.
Sip Coca-Cola from the green bottle right out of the ice-filled box in front of the filling station.
Take shoes to the repair shop.
Trim grass with manual shears.
Defrost the refrigerator’s freezer compartment.
Drink from a woodland stream.
Walk to the corner store.
Use an outhouse.
“Patch” sheets.
Pile in the car for a Saturday night movie at the drive-in.
Press an ear to the console radio to listen to Fibber Magee and Mollie.
Make aprons out of flour sacks.
Open a beer can with a church key.
Get a really great surprise out of the Cracker Jack box.
Send off for a secret decoder ring.
Know all the words to all the songs on “Your Hit Parade.”
Wear triple roll socks.
Attach playing cards to bike wheels so they flap against the spokes and make an engine sound.
Hula-hoop.
Prime the pump.
Loose a skate key.
Pluck a chicken.
Step up on the running board.
Hold your nose when administered castor oil.
Win a goldfish at the county fair.
What do YOU hardly do anymore?
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Run towels through the wringer.
Sip Coca-Cola from the green bottle right out of the ice-filled box in front of the filling station.
Take shoes to the repair shop.
Trim grass with manual shears.
Defrost the refrigerator’s freezer compartment.
Drink from a woodland stream.
Walk to the corner store.
Use an outhouse.
“Patch” sheets.
Pile in the car for a Saturday night movie at the drive-in.
Press an ear to the console radio to listen to Fibber Magee and Mollie.
Make aprons out of flour sacks.
Open a beer can with a church key.
Get a really great surprise out of the Cracker Jack box.
Send off for a secret decoder ring.
Know all the words to all the songs on “Your Hit Parade.”
Wear triple roll socks.
Attach playing cards to bike wheels so they flap against the spokes and make an engine sound.
Hula-hoop.
Prime the pump.
Loose a skate key.
Pluck a chicken.
Step up on the running board.
Hold your nose when administered castor oil.
Win a goldfish at the county fair.
What do YOU hardly do anymore?
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Oh, Darn
Quick – what is a darning egg? Oh, my gosh, that’s right. I can’t believe you are THAT old. What, Betty? No, it does not come from a darn chicken.
According to one of my favorite sites, Wikipedia, “A darning egg is an egg-shaped ovoid of stone, porcelain, wood, or similar hard material, which is inserted into the toe or heel of the sock to hold it in the proper shape and provide a firm foundation for repairs. When the repairs are finished, the darning egg is removed.”
I remember seeing my grandmother pulling socks from her mending basket and sliding the handy little tool into the toe or heel before expertly weaving a patch of soft thread. My mom, too, mended socks but didn’t always have a matching thread. On the days when I wore the light blue socks with the red thread repair I always made sure my shoelaces were double knotted.
You would think the skill of sock mending would be passed down from mother to daughter. Somewhere between my mom and me, that knowledge and desire flew out the window (along with the passion for dusting).
Shortly after I got married someone gave me a sturdy darning egg made of wood with a handy handle for quick retrieval. Yeah, like you can loose one of those things in a sock. My young husband was thrilled with the prospect of my darning his socks “just like mama” and I soon had a lap full of socks to go with the egg.
Being a crafty, but unwilling sock darner, I quickly figured out that being an expert sock darner meant an endless supply of socks to darn as my groom was an expert toenail grower.
I set about to end the ridulous practice of spending nine cents a skein on yarn for every color of sock imaginable and hours with needle, thread and darning egg. The tradition of sock darning stops here.
My first few darns were okay, but as more socks appeared in my new mending basket, I began to make lumpier and lumpier repairs. Oh, gee, seems a badly darned sock is a bit uncomfortable. Complaints from the wearer only resulted in more lumps. Finally I suggested, in a volume readily heard, that he just go buy new socks and throw the old ones away. The cost of new socks in those days was about the same as a skein of mending yarn.
“What?! And waste a perfectly good mate to the holey sock? Mama always darned my socks.”
After a brief and lively conversation about sock repair, I knew our marriage would eventually spiral downhill.
The topic, and additions to the mending basket, stopped for several weeks, then one day raised it’s ugly head with a pair of dark blue socks with holes in both toes. I offered to go that very minute and buy new ones, but nooooo, these had to be “mended” – and mended right now.
I quickly mended the socks, but not with the traditional needle, yarn, and stupid darning egg. My darling put on his socks, finished dressing and out the door he went. He never, ever asked me to darn his socks again. He even bought two dozen pairs of socks in assorted colors.
I bought a new box of staples.
P.S. (Added January 2, 2008) My sentiments were echoed in one of my favorite cartoons, Pickles, today.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
According to one of my favorite sites, Wikipedia, “A darning egg is an egg-shaped ovoid of stone, porcelain, wood, or similar hard material, which is inserted into the toe or heel of the sock to hold it in the proper shape and provide a firm foundation for repairs. When the repairs are finished, the darning egg is removed.”
I remember seeing my grandmother pulling socks from her mending basket and sliding the handy little tool into the toe or heel before expertly weaving a patch of soft thread. My mom, too, mended socks but didn’t always have a matching thread. On the days when I wore the light blue socks with the red thread repair I always made sure my shoelaces were double knotted.
You would think the skill of sock mending would be passed down from mother to daughter. Somewhere between my mom and me, that knowledge and desire flew out the window (along with the passion for dusting).
Shortly after I got married someone gave me a sturdy darning egg made of wood with a handy handle for quick retrieval. Yeah, like you can loose one of those things in a sock. My young husband was thrilled with the prospect of my darning his socks “just like mama” and I soon had a lap full of socks to go with the egg.
Being a crafty, but unwilling sock darner, I quickly figured out that being an expert sock darner meant an endless supply of socks to darn as my groom was an expert toenail grower.
I set about to end the ridulous practice of spending nine cents a skein on yarn for every color of sock imaginable and hours with needle, thread and darning egg. The tradition of sock darning stops here.
My first few darns were okay, but as more socks appeared in my new mending basket, I began to make lumpier and lumpier repairs. Oh, gee, seems a badly darned sock is a bit uncomfortable. Complaints from the wearer only resulted in more lumps. Finally I suggested, in a volume readily heard, that he just go buy new socks and throw the old ones away. The cost of new socks in those days was about the same as a skein of mending yarn.
“What?! And waste a perfectly good mate to the holey sock? Mama always darned my socks.”
After a brief and lively conversation about sock repair, I knew our marriage would eventually spiral downhill.
The topic, and additions to the mending basket, stopped for several weeks, then one day raised it’s ugly head with a pair of dark blue socks with holes in both toes. I offered to go that very minute and buy new ones, but nooooo, these had to be “mended” – and mended right now.
I quickly mended the socks, but not with the traditional needle, yarn, and stupid darning egg. My darling put on his socks, finished dressing and out the door he went. He never, ever asked me to darn his socks again. He even bought two dozen pairs of socks in assorted colors.
I bought a new box of staples.
P.S. (Added January 2, 2008) My sentiments were echoed in one of my favorite cartoons, Pickles, today.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Blog Block
I read somewhere that the word “blog” comes from saying “web log” real fast. What is it called when a blog writer has writer’s block? I think I have “Ogbloc ” or “Gloc” because for the past few weeks I’ve had no desire to write.
Maybe it’s the weather. Here in North Florida, it’s hot and dry one day and dry and hot the next. The lawn is crispy, the plants have wilted and some of the dogwoods are dropping leaves. I would water more, but we're in the middle of a serious drought and I don't want to add to further depletion and pollution of the Florida Aquifer.
My friend in Oklahoma said their area is covered in lush green and water overflows the banks of the North Canadian River. When I lived in Oklahoma City some years ago, at this time of year, the clay soil had cracked into miniature canyons and there was only a trickle of water in the river.
There was even a joke about the North Canadian whose riverbed was often crisscrossed with tire tracks. “Hey, do you know why there are so many cats in Oklahoma City?” “No, why are there so many cats in Oklahoma City?” “Ever try to drown a bag of kittens in the North Canadian!” (Get it? Dry river bed … oh, never mind. It’s a joke, folks, just a joke.)
Television news programs give prominence to stories about the rich and famous – over and over and over. Maybe they should find out how many of us actually care about rich people in rehab. Most of us are too busy trying to keep the electricity on, gas in the car, and food on the table.
Entertainment programming is either a “challenge” of some sort, young women vying for the attention of some past-his-prime entertainer, or just plain filth or violence or both. Some of the so-called comedy programs are so laced with profanity and vulgarity that it’s hard to know what the punch line is. And we wonder why our kids are nuts. Thank goodness for PBS and the few channels that run old sitcoms and movies.
Air pollution, water pollution, floods, droughts, global warming, wars, famine, poverty, terrorists, drugs, child abuse, elder abuse, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Ackkkkk!
And politics … oh, geeze … what is there to say other than can adult men and women who aspire to the presidency of the United States get any sillier?
As soon as the weather cools down maybe my blogability will return along with some nice rain showers that aren’t defined by a “category.” In the meantime, I’m avoiding the things that I can’t change that tick me off. Well, almost everything. Okay, just a few things. To avoid everything, I would have to live in a cave – in a different country – on a different planet.
And now we return you to your regularly scheduled life. Do not adjust your brain. Plenty of people are willing to do that for you.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Maybe it’s the weather. Here in North Florida, it’s hot and dry one day and dry and hot the next. The lawn is crispy, the plants have wilted and some of the dogwoods are dropping leaves. I would water more, but we're in the middle of a serious drought and I don't want to add to further depletion and pollution of the Florida Aquifer.
My friend in Oklahoma said their area is covered in lush green and water overflows the banks of the North Canadian River. When I lived in Oklahoma City some years ago, at this time of year, the clay soil had cracked into miniature canyons and there was only a trickle of water in the river.
There was even a joke about the North Canadian whose riverbed was often crisscrossed with tire tracks. “Hey, do you know why there are so many cats in Oklahoma City?” “No, why are there so many cats in Oklahoma City?” “Ever try to drown a bag of kittens in the North Canadian!” (Get it? Dry river bed … oh, never mind. It’s a joke, folks, just a joke.)
Television news programs give prominence to stories about the rich and famous – over and over and over. Maybe they should find out how many of us actually care about rich people in rehab. Most of us are too busy trying to keep the electricity on, gas in the car, and food on the table.
Entertainment programming is either a “challenge” of some sort, young women vying for the attention of some past-his-prime entertainer, or just plain filth or violence or both. Some of the so-called comedy programs are so laced with profanity and vulgarity that it’s hard to know what the punch line is. And we wonder why our kids are nuts. Thank goodness for PBS and the few channels that run old sitcoms and movies.
Air pollution, water pollution, floods, droughts, global warming, wars, famine, poverty, terrorists, drugs, child abuse, elder abuse, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Ackkkkk!
And politics … oh, geeze … what is there to say other than can adult men and women who aspire to the presidency of the United States get any sillier?
As soon as the weather cools down maybe my blogability will return along with some nice rain showers that aren’t defined by a “category.” In the meantime, I’m avoiding the things that I can’t change that tick me off. Well, almost everything. Okay, just a few things. To avoid everything, I would have to live in a cave – in a different country – on a different planet.
And now we return you to your regularly scheduled life. Do not adjust your brain. Plenty of people are willing to do that for you.
© Copyright 2007 Suzzwords
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Guest Blogger on “Time Goes By”
One of the first sites I found when I started blogging two years ago was Ronni Bennett’s Time Goes By. Wow, I thought, what a terrific writer and what great issues she chooses to champion. Ronni’s focus is on topics important to us elderly folks: health care, retirement, discrimination, even other bloggers. She recently started a second site for us to tell our stories at The Elder Storytelling Place.
Ronni has also been pivotal in changing our vocabulary. I never liked the word “senior” when applied to us; it sounds like we skip about in caps and gowns, grey hair aflutter in the breeze, as we graduate into the unknown. Along came our Ronni using “elder” and we enthusiastically embraced the new-old word and celebrated as it morphed into other terms like “elderblogger.”
I, like many of Ronni’s devoted readers, have received her generous pats on the back, words of encouragement and sage advice. I am a better writer and much better elderblogger because of her examples and enthusiasm.
My ego soared when Ronni published two of my stories on her Storytelling site. When her invitation came to be one of five guest bloggers while she was on vacation from Time Goes By, I drove family and friends crazy with my elation. Me, little ol’ me! OMG!
Now it’s official. Today is the day my guest shot (well, what would you call it?) appears. While I’m off being goofy with ego-itus, mixed with strong shots of humility, for the rest of the day, please come visit my contribution, “A Dose of Laughter.”
Thanks, Ronni, for making one elder gal feel very “spechul.”
Oh, and if you haven’t already, be sure to bookmark Time Goes By and The Elder Storytelling Place to visit again and again.
Ronni has also been pivotal in changing our vocabulary. I never liked the word “senior” when applied to us; it sounds like we skip about in caps and gowns, grey hair aflutter in the breeze, as we graduate into the unknown. Along came our Ronni using “elder” and we enthusiastically embraced the new-old word and celebrated as it morphed into other terms like “elderblogger.”
I, like many of Ronni’s devoted readers, have received her generous pats on the back, words of encouragement and sage advice. I am a better writer and much better elderblogger because of her examples and enthusiasm.
My ego soared when Ronni published two of my stories on her Storytelling site. When her invitation came to be one of five guest bloggers while she was on vacation from Time Goes By, I drove family and friends crazy with my elation. Me, little ol’ me! OMG!
Now it’s official. Today is the day my guest shot (well, what would you call it?) appears. While I’m off being goofy with ego-itus, mixed with strong shots of humility, for the rest of the day, please come visit my contribution, “A Dose of Laughter.”
Thanks, Ronni, for making one elder gal feel very “spechul.”
Oh, and if you haven’t already, be sure to bookmark Time Goes By and The Elder Storytelling Place to visit again and again.
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