The Circus

Summer colds are the worst and mine was a doozy.   Monday morning I was scheduled for the first appointment of the day with my dentist.  Since I couldn't reach the office over the weekend to reschedule and I didn't want to be one of "those people" who cancel at the last minute, I decided to go and let them hear me for themselves.  Cough.  Cough.  Cough.  I knew that nobody in their right mind would want me within six feet of them.

Although I was hacking while talking to the receptionist, she didn't seem too concerned. Even though I know the dentist wears a mask and plastic gloves, I was still shocked when he didn't think my coughing was a big deal either.  I, on the other hand, didn't even want to be in the same room with me.

My view from the dental chair.

They led me back to the chair, clipped my bib on and the circus began.  First, Sidekick Sam put a mini-trampoline in the front of my mouth, which may have shielded them somewhat from gross-ocity but I believe it's designated function was to keep my jaws wide open.  Then, the dentist crammed both his hands and part of his arm into my mouth and began baton twirling with tiny silver instruments, an act that he himself said he never perfected in any classroom during dental school.  I started to laugh, which made me cough, which made him stop and raise the mechanical chair to an upright position.  Every time he lowered the chair, he would say something funny which would make me laugh, which would make me cough.  This was going to be a long morning.

Somewhere in the middle of the hilarity, Sidekick Sam, who is the Princess of Compassion, says, "I don't mean to frighten you, but...."

I ask you, does it even matter what she says next?  I mean, I'm already alarmed based upon her introductory statement.  This, apparently, was the wild animal portion of the show because I have turned into a dragon and plumes of smoke are billowing out of my mouth. Sam is just trying to reassure me that this is normal.  Normal.  Really?

Guess what?  My eyes had been closed.  Before she mentioned it, I thought there was a pot of chili burning somewhere.  Now I have arrived at the painful conclusion that my mouth is on fire.  That's okay though, because it's normal.

Years ago, my dentist made me a queen when he inserted a permanent crown of gold into my mouth.  I have behaved regally ever since; sometimes I even wear a tiara. Now these two are trying to one-up that guy by making me the winner of a prestigious sporting event:  The Triple Crown.  I am short enough to be a jockey, but I'm not crazy about that outfit.

When the dust settled - or, in this case, when the temporary crown was glued into place, three hours had elapsed.  The trampoline was removed.   The whole side of my face was achy and sore but I was floating on air I was so elated.  Why?  

No, I hadn't been sucking in the nitrous oxide!  Who would even think I would do that? Well, it does make your voice sound squeaky and funny, so it would fit into the circus theme. 

But that was not the source of my glee.  I was delighted BECAUSE IT'S OFFICIAL! After he finished, my dentist told me I have an extremely tiny mouth.

 My dentist is a professional and he says I have an extremely tiny mouth.  It must be true then.

Extremely.Tiny.Mouth.

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My Questionable Cleaning Style

Kitchen Horror!

My lovely Motel 6 bedroom

I have made a hideous mess of my kitchen while elevating our bedroom to "cleanest ever" status.  
If you are asking yourself what a cake dish and two punch bowls were doing in the bedroom in the first place, you don't know me well.

Last week four of my all-time favorite friends came to visit and the first couple arrived six hours before I expected them.  The sheets were in the dryer and I was at the tail-end of my weekly kombucha bottling session so the kitchen was a wreck, but other than that things weren't as gruesome as they could have been. These were "self-cleaning" guests and after a week of fun - including Indian cooking lessons - they departed, leaving the house cleaner than they found it.  I must mention that the guys prepared all the meals and cleaned up afterward too. I swear, I could soooo love communal living!

Learning in Santhoshi's Kitchen.  Yum.

Guess which guest chef is left-handed?

Maybe depression at their departure inspired the current cleaning binge?

Yesterday I ripped everything out of all the closets, cabinets and drawers of the master bath and bedroom and took everything that didn't belong to the kitchen. It took all day but I knew Jerry was going to work late so I had extra time to get everything straightened back up.  What I forgot to factor in was that Kate was coming over.

"Oh my God, what happened here?" was her entry line.  Things only deteriorated from there.  Before the evening was over, I had emptied drawers and shelves in the kitchen too.  When Jerry got home, he didn't even comment.  He's used to these upheavals and knows that they usually abate on the third day.  It also helped that he could see that the boudoir was Holiday Inn clean.  

Vanilla in its infancy

Today I got up to face the explosion in the kitchen and ended up arranging my spices which led directly to infusing vodka with vanilla beans.  When I was done with that, I whipped up a batch of my homemade deodorant and made laundry soap - all in a kitchen that would have caused social services to remove my child from the home had they had occasion to visit.   (She's twenty-six.  I wonder where they would place her?)  Then, instead of picking it all up, I decided to write this blog.

I am currently taking an online course called:  Focus and Concentration.  I wonder if they have a money-back guarantee?  

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Choosing Glasses

Two years ago, Jerry made a major faux pas when he went to get an eye exam and came home with new (unapproved) glasses. Glasses are a fashion statement that demand careful consideration. Just grabbing a pair and buying them without (my) scrutiny is such a ….guy thing.

Over time I got used to them but apparently Jer felt the sting of censure because last Monday morning he called me from work. He appeared to be inviting me to lunch but he had an ulterior motive. He slid in a plea for me to help him choose a suitable pair of glasses, since we would be out anyway.

We arrived at the optical side of the eye doctor's practice at 11:30. Jer commenced trying on frames. A rep was standing off to the side and I asked him what frames were “in” in Europe. (This matters because European eyewear arrives in the US a couple of seasons later. If you don't mind looking like a dweeb for a few months, you will be totally stylin' for the rest of the time you wear your glasses.)

No.

Nyeh.

Harrison Ford?

Jerry modeled frame after frame after frame but neither of us could make a definitive decision. The rep even chose a few pairs for Jer to try on. Neither of us liked his choices either.

Girlie.

Intense.

Mobster.

Colorful.

Finally we winnowed down the selections. We took pictures of the top contenders and sent them to our daughter Kate for her opinion. Then, for fun, Jer began to try on sunglasses:

Sophia Loren?

Retro

About now the technician began giving us her input and I had this feeling that the selection process had dragged on too long and maybe we should leave so she could close for lunch.  

The decision was difficult but finally the group achieved consensus, the glasses were ordered and we went on our merry way.


Three days later, we were sitting together at dinner when Kate said, “Are those your new glasses, Dad? I like them.”

I looked up. I agreed. The temples had this interesting shape and were made of dark brushed metal. Very classy. “Me too,” I said. “Great choice.”

Jerry said, “No. These are still my old ones. I pick up the new pair tomorrow.”

My husband always has been on the cutting edge of fashion. It took me two years this time, but I finally caught up!

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Beat the Heat!

When it's a hundred outside, how does this northern girl - a self-professed shade loving mammal - beat the heat?

(Of course we have air conditioning...which I keep at 80 degrees during the summer.   If I'm outside in über hot weather, going inside to 80 degrees feels wonderful.  Today I went wild and turned the a/c down to 79, but that's mostly for emotional reasons.) 

Usually one of the following tricks cools me down enough for me to be comfortable:

First, I get a bandanna wet and then wear it around my neck.  This serves a dual purpose.  It cools me, sure, and that's important. But I'm also in my sixties so any legitimate reason to cover my scary neck is a plus.

Next, I make myself a big glass of ice water, adding thinly sliced cucumbers and mint from the garden.  The floating mint and cukes don't make the water any colder, but the glass sure looks classy.  Presentation is everything!

While I'm in the kitchen, a quick trip to the freezer scores me a handful of frozen grapes.  (I also like frozen mango chunks.  Frozen chocolate covered raspberries are my very favorite, but they disappear immediately after I dip them.  They rarely even make it to the freezer, they are that awesome.)  Of course, ice cream would work too, but that goes without saying, right?

I take these icy snacks down to my basement where it's naturally cooler because it's underground.  Then I set up a box fan to blow air on me.  This is the summer equivalent to a space heater in the winter.  I only care about my immediate environment, not the entire house.   I also have a lovely handheld black feathered fan I can use.  It may be 80 degree air, but air in motion feels cooler to me.  

Usually those couple ideas are enough to make me feel comfortable, but some days when it's really, really humid, I might need to take my game to the next level.  

When this happens, I will plunge my feet into a dishpan that's filled with cool water.   This immediately cools me off.  My friend Elaine, who taught me this trick, calls this a "redneck swimming pool" but I jazz it up a little. By adding Epsom salts to the water, I can pretend I'm at a spa.  

Hydrotherapy also works in the form of a quick cold shower.  Style points to those who keep their hair wet.  Blow drying your hair in summer seems so wrong to me.

If you are not absolutely frigid after trying these suggestions, you can employ my number one secret weapon for beating the heat.  This will work, guaranteed! Drop everything and drive to the library.  Reading a magazine in the cool, cool library is a perfect thing to do in the heat of a Carolina summer day.  

Remember to take a sweater.  Oh, and save a seat for me.

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The Baby

Sunday evening the grands and their parents came over for supper.  After the meal was done, the boys went outside to play with their Dad and Grampy.  Jessica tagged along to watch.  

This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for!  I scooped up the baby and asked permission to take him to our next-door neighbor Mary Ann's.  She, of course, was delighted to have a six-week-old visitor and I was in "Grammy Heaven" showing him off.  He's sooooo cute!  

We were having a blast with the little guy when Jerry arrived and told us it was time for the kids to go home.  We helped get them all strapped into their car seats and they left.

Later Jer told me that when Jessica and Brent began gathering up their things to leave - baby paraphernalia, left-overs, kids' crocks, and so on - Brent asked her, "Do we have everything? ...Have we forgotten anything?"  Jessica, whose arms were overflowing, said, "I've got OUR stuff, have YOU forgotten anything?" 

At this point, the two-year-old chimed in. "THE BABY!"

Brody, who had been quietly observing in the background said nonchalantly, "I already told them that."

Lucky Parker!  Both his older brothers have "got his back."

Baby Parker on the go

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Dancing in the Moonlight

In his youth, Allen Palmer had the body of a Greek God and when he aged he was kick-ass cool, bright and amusing.  Allen's death was a loss to the entire neighborhood (and beyond) and so we had a Caribbean themed “Celebration of Life” party. Of course we did.

Allen Palmer, circa 1961
Shot during the filming of  "The Teahouse of the August Moon"

The place was jam packed with friends and family who wanted to pay their respects and remember their friend.  As the night wore on, people began grabbing the mike from the steel drummer and telling Allen stories. Many of them had known him their whole lives so they had lots of fond memories to recount. I had a story too, but mine remained untold. Until now.

Shortly after I met Allen, I added him to my bucket list. That was the day that I discovered he had been an instructor at Arthur Murray Dance Studios, the Cadillac of dance institutions. I vowed on the spot to dance with him. I didn't know where, I didn't know when, but I knew. It WOULD happen.  

Jerry and I are extremely compatible in many ways, but as a couple we are lousy at dancing. Secretly, I've always blamed him.  It's not that we haven't tried - we have taken so many dancing lessons over the years that we should be the Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire of our time. I yearn to be that couple on the dance floor that performs so beautifully that everyone else stops in awe and watches their dazzling footwork. Clearly, I needed to dance with Allen Palmer.

And then, it happened. I will never forget that night. We were all at an outdoor concert at the clubhouse and people were dancing on the grass in front of the band. Suddenly, Becky Palmer materialized out of the darkness. “Please go dance with Allen!” she begged. “I'm exhausted.”

She didn't have to ask twice. It was a shining moment which will live forever in my memory. I floated over the lawn to the dance area just as a slow song started. And then Allen took me in his arms. 

God has a wicked sense of humor and this was the longest song of my life, spent stepping all over poor Allen's feet. At one point, I think I may have even kicked him in the shins. It was mortifying. People were looking at us, but not for the reason I had imagined. Turns out that it's me, not Jerry, that is rhythm impaired.

Armed with this insight, I have started my “Afterlife Bucket List” - things to do after I die. First on my list? “Take dancing lessons from Allen Palmer.”

P.S. Jerry, this post is your public apology and the only one you'll ever get so if you don't read it, it's not my fault. 

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I Quit Sugar!

I quit sugar!

Sure I did. In my dreams. I am eating a lot, lot less of it these days but if you live in America and eat out ever, you are gonna eat sugar - salad dressing, marinara sauce, soup, ketchup.  Oh it's there.  Hiding in everything.  Virtually all processed foods also include the white stuff.

The first thing that happens when I go cold turkey is that I get a headache. It lasts for three days. I realize that this is withdrawal but that doesn't make me feel better.  Headaches are no fun at all.  

Next I have strong cravings. I crave lots of different foods but what they all have in common is sweetness. This is excruciating because a stalk of celery is not satisfying when what you really want a big bowl full of Breyers and I can't even put peanut butter on it because - you guessed it - mine has sugar in it.

It takes three full weeks before I realize something amazing is happening. My food now tastes delicious and flavorful. Fruit tastes sweet. Really sweet.  Some foods taste saltier too.  Really salty.  I didn't expect that.

Finally, I understand when people eat a bite of dessert and say, “It's too sweet to eat.” I always thought that these people were twisted show-offs needing attention. I now realize I was probably born addicted. I feel liberated.

But this is America. Here we celebrate with junk food. Halloween comes. I eat three mini-Snickers and a Butterfingers. I try not to beat myself up. The next morning I don't feel so good. Hmmm....

I'm a slow learner.  Thanksgiving comes. Pie.

Airport candy bowl

Christmas is THE WORST. My sister comes and makes homemade peanut brittle. I cave.  

Summer's here.  The holidays are long gone. I've been back on the wagon a while but lately I've been eating a piece of very dark chocolate after meals for its “health benefits." Still, it's only one piece.  And it's supposedly healthy for you.  See how easily I can rationalize?  It's a talent, really.

Dove came out with a dark chocolate dipped dried cherry. I bought a bag at WalMart. I told myself I'd only eat one piece a day after a meal.

In the parking lot, I ripped open the bag. I ate three pieces. The next day, I look at the nutritional information on the side of the bag. It says there are four servings inside. I look inside the bag. There is one cherry left and a few chocolate shards.

So much for quitting sugar.

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Welcome, Baby!

According to my sister, mother of five boys, it's the third child that is the game changer.  "Because you only have two hands," she says simply.  

On Sunday at 10:52 am, Jessica's game changer, Parker David, made his grand entrance into this world.  Weighing in at precisely seven pounds, he was an impressive twenty-one inches long.  And cute.  Need I even mention that?  (Was there any doubt?)  

We're crazy in love with him already!

On Sunday afternoon, Jerry and I took the boys to meet their newest brother.  They were suitably impressed - especially because he brought gifts for them.  The boys thoroughly enjoyed their afternoon, spent alternately admiring the baby and playing with their new Ironman Smashers with accessories.

When it was finally time to go, Brody turned to Grayson and said, "Don't leave any pieces at the doctor hotel."  Then, after a moment of thought he turned to Grampy and said, "This IS a hotel, isn't it?"

Just three more boys and Jessica could bump my sister off the top of the "number of offspring list" and seize the family record for most sons as well.  I'm totally in favor of that but, with boys now ages four, two and zero, it might be difficult to sell my daughter on the obvious merit of the idea.  

Maybe I'll wait a few weeks before I mention my plan.

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Embarrassing Moment, Number 33,756

My sister shortened the straps on this cami for me
 - but obviously not enough!

THIS is what I saw when I walked by my mirror on Monday afternoon ~ AFTER I'd finished entertaining a new friend, spent about a half an hour talking with two neighbor guys (how could they keep a straight face?) AND waved at several friends who were driving by.

MADONNA meant to show off HER bra, but I was totally clueless.

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You be the Judge

My daughter says I write too many stories about my grandsons. I say it's a miracle I write about anything else, I'm so crazy-in-love with them.

This week when they came to visit, Grayson, the two-year-old, arrived in his full Spiderman regalia, including, but not limited to, a red nylon hat with an eye shaped mask attached.  Soon Brody and I began to feel our wardrobe choices for the day were lacking, so we decided to remedy that by taking a trip to the costume treasure chest.

Brody, in a regal mood, was busy digging through rainbows of feather boas, looking for a crown. Meanwhile, I chose the monarch butterfly wings. He picked up my twinkly Glinda (the good witch) wand, evaluating whether or not it met his royal criteria.

He looked up for a moment, saw me flapping around the room and said,
“You're beautiful.”

Too many grandson stories? I think not!

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Cooking Class

“I cracked the coconut earlier today and removed the meat,” said Santhoshi, the young Indian woman who was to teach our cooking class. Michelle and I were the first two pupils in her first class and she was sweating she was so nervous.
“Really?” Said I. “How'd you do that?” I asked. She indicated a large mortar and pestle sitting on her counter. 

Right then I knew that recreating the Indian meal that she had tailored specifically with my dietary guidelines in mind and was now going to spend the evening teaching me how to make was going to be impossible for me to execute. MY mortar and pestle is the right size to crack a walnut and my first thought was to use a chop saw. How do you get the meat separated from the hull? I have no clue. Maybe it just falls off or maybe you need a pry bar for that.

Santhoshi and Michelle cooking korma

The class continued. Santhoshi also had prepared a paneer dish that had marinated all day. Turns out it wasn't something she usually fed her family because it came from another part of the country. She felt, though, that all Americans expected it with their Indian meals. 

On to korma, the mouth-watering focal point of our Indian dinner. Lots of chopping is involved - it's full of veggies. I estimate the end product, which smelled beyond terrific, takes basically two-and-a-half hours to create - that does not factor in the time it takes to crack the aforementioned coconut or cut and marinate the paneer referenced above.

She also made Jeera - a savory, cumin-flavored rice - plus a sweet milk dessert called payasam. This dish included saffron, that deliciously expensive thread from the crocus flower. I've had a jar of saffron threads for longer than I've lived in South Carolina, but never found occasion to use it. That was about to change.

In our class environment the meal took a bit longer to prepare, largely because I kept butting in and asking irrelevant questions but also because we laughed a lot. Cooking classes can be fun!

Two hours into our class, I realized that neither of the students were helping do any of the work. That probably slowed us down a bit, too. I should have at least offered to chop the onions. I do that all the time at my house. Now it was time to fry the paneer.  I helped by stirring it. It was approaching 8:30 and I usually eat hours before that. Michelle and I began sneaking bits of extra coconut. I never realized how totally yummy raw coconut can be.

The Korma - I call it "heaven in a pot!"

The paneer smelled divine. Santhoshi had made a lot of it - an entire skillet plus some skewers that she put in the oven. We tried it. Then, the two students ATE the entire skillet of fried paneer. Wow! I didn't even think I liked the stuff. What was in that marinade?

Now comes the highlight of the evening. Time to try the meal. Our instructor plated the food with some naan (because naan is the world's best flatbread) and gave us a hearty serving of flavorful rice, about a half cup of korma and some of the oven-baked paneer. I began by sampling the korma and it was just sooooo tasty.  

Santhoshi had left the dining area to get her husband a plate of food (and that's a whole different story, believe me) and I asked Michelle to sneak us each another scoop of the korma. She complied. I ate that. My Lord, that stuff was downright divine! Then, as I was gobbling up the rice and cheese, our teacher left again. This time MICHELLE added more korma to our plates. It was seriously good. We could not get enough of it! I wanted to take home a giant doggy bag and eat nothing but korma for the rest of the month. 

When Santhoshi reappeared, she served us each another heaping cup of korma. Remember - we had already eaten a skillet of cheese and nibbled on coconuts and eaten THREE SERVINGS OF THE STUFF! 

We both ate it all. Every luscious bite. Neither of us were hungry at all now. In fact, by the time we'd finished, I was Thanksgiving full - but it was the best Indian meal I've ever had in my entire life.

I received the recipes in my email but who are we kidding here? Our sweet teacher even invited me to take a road trip to the Indian store to buy the more exotic ingredients. I optimistically bought a coconut from Harris Teeter that's already been scored for easy opening.

I need more instruction, that's what I need! I am thinking I will just enroll in the same Wednesday night class until I feel like I really can do it on my own. (That's code for never.)

Seriously, if you live in my area, take this class! At the end of it, you will eat the best Indian food of your life and that's totally worth the wait. Totally.  And if you learn how to make vegetarian korma, invite me for supper. Often.

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Excitement on an Airplane

Last week, I posted a story about going to Ohio to our friend Chris' wedding. Getting there was another story.  Of course we obviously did, so that's a happy ending, but if you've ever flown you can totally sympathize with our angst because of our pilot's lack of bedside manner.

Here are the texts of the actual event.  It's a study in everything a pilot should not say:

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Our Breakfast Surprise

THE MAN'S STORY:

I'm thinking about an old buddy - a guy I used to work with in two different companies  - and feeling kind of bad that I haven't kept in touch. This friend lives in South Carolina and hasn't visited Northeast Ohio in years.

I hit the gym early and decide to grab breakfast in Boston Heights to catch up on some paperwork before I start my work day. I sit down at a corner booth and begin writing. The table directly in front of me is vacant.

Soon someone is seated. I look up and there is a couple talking to their waitress. The man looks kind of like the very guy I was just thinking of and I begin to entertain the idea of covertly snapping a pic on my cell and sending it to my friend.


THE COUPLE'S STORY:

We once lived in Hudson, OH, and arrived yesterday to attend the wedding of our friend and former next-door neighbor.  Our schedule is packed.  We are trying to cram seeing as many people as possible into a few day's time. The woman we'd planned on visiting this morning ended up taking a quick trip to California so this is the only block of free time we have in this entire trip. We decide to go to Boston Heights and eat a leisurely breakfast at this fun place we used to enjoy on Saturday mornings.  

I was poking around, taking my old sweet time getting ready when my husband urged me to hurry up.  I thought to myself, "Why? We have all morning," but I finished quickly and we were on our way.

A few minutes later, we enter the restaurant.  Little has changed in the years since we last dined there.  We normally choose a booth and there are plenty available today but for some reason when the hostess asks where we want to sit, we say we don't care so she puts us at the table directly in front of this handsome guy who is looking down, quietly writing.

The waitress greets us. 


OUR HOLLYWOOD ENDING:

The man at the table hears the couple speak to the waitress.  He gets up, walks over and says, “May I join you?”


THE WRAP UP:

That is how we ended up having breakfast with an old friend that we hadn't planned on seeing, during a time we didn't know we'd be available, in a city where we normally wouldn't even have been.  Coincidence?  I prefer to think otherwise.

Jerry and Dave enjoying breakfast

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Descriptions

Be nice!

Remember how your mother used to say, "If you can't say something good about someone, don't say anything at all?"

Here's a handy list of word substitutions to use when describing me.  

Sometimes I like to pretend
I'm Cher and try on wigs.

Instead of:                   Use:

Old                           Seasoned
Nosy                         Inquisitive
Cheap                       Thrifty
Talkative                   Articulate
Short                        Short (Because I am.)
Bossy                        Assertive
Wired                        Energetic
Self-Centered             Free-Spirited
Rude                         Sassy
Irresponsible              Carefree
Odd                           Eccentric
Loud                          Enthusiastic
Weird                         Quirky


Thank-you.  I feel better already.

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The Dress

Jerry and I married when we were mere children and so we've grown up together. Over the years, we've come to see pretty much everything eye-to-eye.

Or not.

I first saw THE DRESS on my FACEBOOK feed on Friday afternoon. The caption read: What Color is this Dress? The first comment was from a famous Hollywood actress. She said, “It's white with gold trim, you idiots!”

The dress I was looking at was far from white but this actress is a gifted comedy writer so I thought she was joking. 

The DRESS kept popping up everywhere all day long. Later I heard it even made the evening news. Same picture - a vivid blue dress with black trim that some people were saying was white. Is this an “Emperor's New Clothes” thing? I mean, come on! How can anyone mistake white for blue?

Our youngest daughter sent us a text. “I have seen this dress 300 times today and it's WHITE and GOLD!”  What?

It was then I began to believe that two entirely different pictures were being circulated, same dress - one blue and one white. That's easier than thinking something's wrong with your own child's eyesight.  I asked her to text me the picture she was looking at.  She did.

When Jer got home from work, he said, “What was Kate talking about?” After I told him, he said he hadn't seen THE DRESS and so Kate shared the picture with the entire family.

Jer looked at the photo. “It's white and gold,” he said. I thought he was kidding which annoyed him and he began trying to convince me that the dress was not blue. “The dress is white, Chris. White like the woodwork. White like our sheets. White like a blank sheet of paper.” 

By now I GET that he sees THE (blue) DRESS as white. Both our daughters agree. But to me (and my son and daughter-in-law) it's blue - and not a sweet, pastel, baby blue either. It's vibrant, vivid, bright blue.  My husband was unable to persuade me that THE (blue) DRESS that I was seeing with my own eyes was white, but I admire him for trying.

The upside of THE (blue) DRESS question was that we'd spent so much time discussing it that it was way past our normal suppertime. We were hungry so we decided to eat out. (Yay.)

We were at the restaurant waiting to be seated when we realized the young couple behind us was arguing about the color of THE (blue) DRESS.
Best to find out early in your relationship that there are some things you are never gonna agree on.

And that's okay.

                             
                                                         * * *


If you are among the roughly 27 people in America (or the U.K.) who didn't see the photo of THE (blue) DRESS, here it is. 

(Photo:  Swiked/Tumblr)

Interestingly, those who seem to see THE (blue) DRESS as white/gold are early birds and the blue/black group are night owls.  This is from research I, myself, conducted by scientifically polling five people.

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Snow Day, 2015!

Yesterday I was looking forward to attending a cooking class on preparing Indian food. Jerry was in Georgia to attend a college career fair, so it was the perfect night to venture out of my comfort zone.

Then I received this text: Winter Weather Advisory in effect for York Cnty/Zone, SC until Thursday at 7:00 AM EST. 

My cooking class was postponed, Jerry's event was canceled and we found ourselves at home, deciding upon what to do with our evening. 

And then this text arrived: 
From TC City Mgr: Inclement weathers expected to reach totals of 8"-10" of snow by midnight. Please stay off roads. Dial 911 for emergencies including downed trees

An irrelevant aside:
I was a bit peeved by the “weathers.” Why does texting excuse people from using punctuation? 

Back to the point:
It wasn't snowing yet and I felt the evening would be best spent visiting our grandsons, whom I hadn't seen since Monday. That falls under the category of emergency, right?  Apparently not, because both Jerry and Jessica vetoed my idea. They knew the roads were dry, but bad weather was obviously on the horizon and why take a chance?

By midnight, there was a dusting of snow. The storm had begun.

Today I awoke to the sound of whooping and hollering, the happy noises of children sliding down the golf course hill behind our house. I looked outside and, sure enough, there they were - sledding on the wet grass.

They say that 90% of what we worry about never happens. I think the percentage is higher when you're talking about weather.

Happy snow day!

A Different Millers Tale

This week, I have a special treat.  Jan Miller, my funny friend from across the pond, has graciously consented to be my guest blogger.  Here's her Valentine's Day story:

A Different Millers Tale - All True, it could only happen here....

I woke up February 14^th a bit excited, we’ve been married 32 years this year but I would still describe my personality type as hopeful. Steve bought me tea in bed with my favourite biscuits, a card that’s got lovely sentiments (I’m wearing my "Wonderful Wife" badge now) and an inside joke inside! GSOH* -  very important.  

I eventually located my card for him - better than Christmas when my card for Steve just disappeared in a menopausal moment. (If you got the “Dear Husband” card in December instead of yours please let me know and I’ll stop looking.)  

Anyway, I’m not good in the morning and who would have thought the card I wrote and hid in my knickers drawer only last night would have fallen down the back of cabinet so I had to remove the drawers to find it, knocking over the tea in the process? 

We got everything sorted, read our cards .... and then there was a knock.  We wondered was it our front door?   Steve opened the window to check why Postie wasn’t using the bell, leant forward into the frame  and his glasses tumbled from his face... down the porch roof, bounced over the gutter and landed on the driveway, our good mood all broken down with a loudly -swearing semi-naked hubby dashing about putting on his trousers to go downstairs.

Wow, what a lovely surprise – the cutest Flowercard has arrived from our very good friends and the scratches have almost polished out of the glasses!  

*GSOH  Guy with sense of humour 

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

   

Weight and Exercise

This morning I weighed myself.  I went downstairs and put in a load of laundry then vacuumed.  When I came back upstairs I weighed myself again.  I weighed a half a pound more.  Proof positive that if you want to lose weight, you should avoid housework.

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com