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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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