OneSaneVoice
Backtalk by a Brooklyn Girl
OneSaneVoice
The Meek Are Getting Ready
Husband and I went upstate the weekend after Thanksgiving, a three-hour drive we love to take. On the way, we always pass a lot of churches and church signs, and one of them proclaimed the title message above. I doubt the clergy was referring to the Black Friday shoppers this year, at least not the ones at a certain Wal-Mart on Long Island who trampled a worker to death as he attempted to open the doors to let them in.
I don't know if you've ever been caught in a human stampede, but it's truly frightening. Up until a recent vacation, I thought this kind of thing only happened at crazy South American soccer games where the crowd went berserk after a big win. But a couple of months ago, we were in Chicago and decided to take the train into the city from the airport after being told it was an easy ride. It turned out the line was under repair, however, and halfway there we all had to get off and go up to the street for a bus.
As Husband and I reached the top of the escalator, dragging our suitcases behind us, we saw that the landing was jammed with passengers with only one door to exit. There was literally no room for the riders coming off the escalator, forget the luggage. We started yelling for the crowd to move -- somewhere, anywhere -- and when no one did, we just plowed into them. The people behind us plowed into us, and still the escalator kept coming with people and suitcases shooting off. I remember seeing a woman with a stroller in my way and I put my arms straight out in front of me to push her aside so I didn't land on her baby. Fortunately, no one was injured, but it was bizarre.
This year, we spent Thanksgiving Day with Son and Daughter at the same lovely restaurant I wrote about in Like the Pilgrims Before Us, where we could each order lamb chops or filet mignon or whatever we wanted and Husband could still have his turkey and yams. It was a very terrific dinner during which we also celebrated Daughter's new position as Head Teacher, and Son's promotion at work. As almost-vice president Palin would say, there was maybe lots of thanking to be done, you betcha.
Daughter told us a story about an incident on the train coming out to see us that strangely foreshadowed the Wal-Mart disaster. She said the platform was very crowded and there was a woman standing nearby who had rudely pushed her way to the front. When the doors opened, she thrust her body into the passengers attempting to disembark. They were not happy and demonstrated as much. The platform crowd was already disgusted with her for pushing through them, and they joined in the general verbal displeasure. The woman grabbed a seat, ignoring everyone.
As her fellow passengers glowered at the woman, Daughter put on her most warm and professional head-teacher-at-a-school-for-special-needs-children demeanor, and sat down right next to her. "Excuse me," she said, patiently, "perhaps you're from out of town so you may not be aware that the practice here is to let the passengers off before boarding the train."
The woman stuck her face right in Daughter's and said, "I'M FROM NEW YORK," which Daughter had already surmised, but was trying to give her a graceful way out. As she continued to mutter non-holiday greetings under her breath, Daughter just smiled blissfully, lost in the refuge of her iPod earbuds. Eventually, the grumbling ceased and the fuming went silent as Daughter rode along contentedly, satisfied that her work there was done. If only the poor Wal-Mart employee had been as lucky.
Daughter's Featured Fotos offer us a Maybe Kind Of Ladies Theme, don'tcha know
ladies in gas masks
fishing
whaling
getting ready
I don't know if you've ever been caught in a human stampede, but it's truly frightening. Up until a recent vacation, I thought this kind of thing only happened at crazy South American soccer games where the crowd went berserk after a big win. But a couple of months ago, we were in Chicago and decided to take the train into the city from the airport after being told it was an easy ride. It turned out the line was under repair, however, and halfway there we all had to get off and go up to the street for a bus.
As Husband and I reached the top of the escalator, dragging our suitcases behind us, we saw that the landing was jammed with passengers with only one door to exit. There was literally no room for the riders coming off the escalator, forget the luggage. We started yelling for the crowd to move -- somewhere, anywhere -- and when no one did, we just plowed into them. The people behind us plowed into us, and still the escalator kept coming with people and suitcases shooting off. I remember seeing a woman with a stroller in my way and I put my arms straight out in front of me to push her aside so I didn't land on her baby. Fortunately, no one was injured, but it was bizarre.
This year, we spent Thanksgiving Day with Son and Daughter at the same lovely restaurant I wrote about in Like the Pilgrims Before Us, where we could each order lamb chops or filet mignon or whatever we wanted and Husband could still have his turkey and yams. It was a very terrific dinner during which we also celebrated Daughter's new position as Head Teacher, and Son's promotion at work. As almost-vice president Palin would say, there was maybe lots of thanking to be done, you betcha.
Daughter told us a story about an incident on the train coming out to see us that strangely foreshadowed the Wal-Mart disaster. She said the platform was very crowded and there was a woman standing nearby who had rudely pushed her way to the front. When the doors opened, she thrust her body into the passengers attempting to disembark. They were not happy and demonstrated as much. The platform crowd was already disgusted with her for pushing through them, and they joined in the general verbal displeasure. The woman grabbed a seat, ignoring everyone.
As her fellow passengers glowered at the woman, Daughter put on her most warm and professional head-teacher-at-a-school-for-special-needs-children demeanor, and sat down right next to her. "Excuse me," she said, patiently, "perhaps you're from out of town so you may not be aware that the practice here is to let the passengers off before boarding the train."
The woman stuck her face right in Daughter's and said, "I'M FROM NEW YORK," which Daughter had already surmised, but was trying to give her a graceful way out. As she continued to mutter non-holiday greetings under her breath, Daughter just smiled blissfully, lost in the refuge of her iPod earbuds. Eventually, the grumbling ceased and the fuming went silent as Daughter rode along contentedly, satisfied that her work there was done. If only the poor Wal-Mart employee had been as lucky.
Daughter's Featured Fotos offer us a Maybe Kind Of Ladies Theme, don'tcha know
ladies in gas masks
fishing
whaling
getting ready
Days of Whine and Coffee
Back in 2006, when I was researching ways to begin writing this blog, I came across several sites I still visit to this day. One of them is called STARBUCKSGOSSIP.COM, and it’s a website hosted by a former barista who posts relevant news flashes along with the comments of Starbucks partners and customers. With the subheading 'Monitoring America's Favorite Drug Dealer', it's not sanctioned or controlled by the corporation, and is essentially a sounding board for those who work for or patronize the coffee giant, and walk away with either a paycheck or a venti latte and something to say.
The substance of the readers' comments has changed over the past two years in accordance with the company's much-publicized decline in sales and brand loyalty. Where partners' remarks (the company tags its employees partners) posted in earlier days had a general upbeat, appreciative, support-the-team ring to them, this last year's comments have hovered somewhere between disillusion and outright vitriol. As the wind blows, so do the trees.
There is never a single reason formerly darling companies fall out of favor, but common causes are missteps in management, changes in the economy, new competition, and that ever-fickle entity known as the public. In my work history, I have witnessed both sides of this scenario.
My father was an entrepreneur who founded a company in the 1970's that succeeded in beginning an industry where none had existed before. But 25 years later, advances in technology outdated his product. He considered his employees family and he struggled to find new avenues for his company to survive without layoffs of longtime staff. He managed to keep his company afloat, but his search for a new vision was not fulfilled before his death.
I also worked several years for a niche company that should have gone on forever had the owners not ignored market demands while bleeding its resources dry. I remember the sick feeling in my stomach as I peeled a fax off the main office fax machine pertaining to the owner's renovation of his multi-million dollar mansion. It was a bill for master bathroom Italian marble that exceeded my yearly salary. This while the company missed shipping windows resulting in enormous vendor fines. I jumped ship before the death knell sounded.
Companies fall on hard times and so do their workers. That's the tarnish on the brass ring of capitalism. Some failing businesses have owners who work late into the night at great personal sacrifice, and some have bosses who leave early to play golf. So I continue to read the Starbucks Gossip comments with interest in both management and staff; the upstairs and downstairs.
Recently, the site has exploded with news of a stolen corporate laptop containing the personal data for 97,000 partners. The company is taking measures to help those affected guard against identity theft. But the rumblings of disgruntled partners who are watching the empire around them flounder are even louder for having bubbled beneath the surface for so long.
Amid all the lashing out, a customer posted a comment saying that if things are so miserable, maybe the baristas should find another position requiring minimal training for maximum hourly wage and benefits somewhere else, suggesting that in a country where a working-class kid from the Brooklyn projects can become a billionaire selling coffee, there must be a better future for them than whining on a website.
When morale sinks, though, every landscape looks bleak. In a comment further along was a one-line statement from a partner responding to the corporate clumsiness that could result in the possibe theft of his identity. He sounded distinctly doubtful. "Who would want to be me?" he asked.
Daughter's Featured Fotos depict The Outer Edge
foggy in the penthouse
unlikely
a little privacy, please
after the show
The substance of the readers' comments has changed over the past two years in accordance with the company's much-publicized decline in sales and brand loyalty. Where partners' remarks (the company tags its employees partners) posted in earlier days had a general upbeat, appreciative, support-the-team ring to them, this last year's comments have hovered somewhere between disillusion and outright vitriol. As the wind blows, so do the trees.
There is never a single reason formerly darling companies fall out of favor, but common causes are missteps in management, changes in the economy, new competition, and that ever-fickle entity known as the public. In my work history, I have witnessed both sides of this scenario.
My father was an entrepreneur who founded a company in the 1970's that succeeded in beginning an industry where none had existed before. But 25 years later, advances in technology outdated his product. He considered his employees family and he struggled to find new avenues for his company to survive without layoffs of longtime staff. He managed to keep his company afloat, but his search for a new vision was not fulfilled before his death.
I also worked several years for a niche company that should have gone on forever had the owners not ignored market demands while bleeding its resources dry. I remember the sick feeling in my stomach as I peeled a fax off the main office fax machine pertaining to the owner's renovation of his multi-million dollar mansion. It was a bill for master bathroom Italian marble that exceeded my yearly salary. This while the company missed shipping windows resulting in enormous vendor fines. I jumped ship before the death knell sounded.
Companies fall on hard times and so do their workers. That's the tarnish on the brass ring of capitalism. Some failing businesses have owners who work late into the night at great personal sacrifice, and some have bosses who leave early to play golf. So I continue to read the Starbucks Gossip comments with interest in both management and staff; the upstairs and downstairs.
Recently, the site has exploded with news of a stolen corporate laptop containing the personal data for 97,000 partners. The company is taking measures to help those affected guard against identity theft. But the rumblings of disgruntled partners who are watching the empire around them flounder are even louder for having bubbled beneath the surface for so long.
Amid all the lashing out, a customer posted a comment saying that if things are so miserable, maybe the baristas should find another position requiring minimal training for maximum hourly wage and benefits somewhere else, suggesting that in a country where a working-class kid from the Brooklyn projects can become a billionaire selling coffee, there must be a better future for them than whining on a website.
When morale sinks, though, every landscape looks bleak. In a comment further along was a one-line statement from a partner responding to the corporate clumsiness that could result in the possibe theft of his identity. He sounded distinctly doubtful. "Who would want to be me?" he asked.
Daughter's Featured Fotos depict The Outer Edge
foggy in the penthouse
unlikely
a little privacy, please
after the show
The Secret Weapon
I recently read the hot literary smash known as The Secret, which I’m aware has also been made into a film. The message this book has to impart is three-fold and goes as follows:
1. Think positive thoughts and good things will happen to you.
2. Think negative thoughts and bad things will happen to you.
3. You are what you think.
If this sounds like a worthy but repetitive message, I believe you’re right. I also believe I’ve saved you 190 pages reiterating the above, although you should read the book anyway because you may not be convinced by me just saying so that The Secret works.
As it always has. James Allen put this philosophy into words in the masterful As A Man Thinketh, published in 1902. Dale Carnegie developed an entire course of seminars based on the same principle. Dr. Norman Vincent Peale shouted it in The Power of Positive Thinking. And before all of them, Plato and Socrates may have been the first ones in the house. Sadly, The Secret’s now best-selling author paid only marginal tribute to these predecessors whose works were far more eloquent. But you can’t say she didn’t make her point.
I felt that point when I read her book and realized with horror that I was personally responsible for the destruction of Secret Weapon. Don’t roll your eyes, but Secret Weapon is a hair finishing crème by John Frieda that I’ve used every day for the past eight years. In case you didn’t know, women who wear their hair curly often use finishing crèmes so they don’t look like Little Orphan Annie. Even the most killer black dress loses its power if you have Bozo hair. So every morning, EVERY MORNING, as I scrunch my curls with Secret Weapon, I say a mantra in my head to the John Frieda company, “Please don’t ever stop making Secret Weapon.”
Of course, it turns out that this was a negative thought because it has the word ‘don’t’ in it. The word ‘don’t’, according to The Secret, invites failure because the Universe only hears that word so it doesn’t give you what you’re asking for. Apparently the Universe has attention deficit and can’t sit still long enough to hear the rest of your message. As a result of this ignorance on my part, the John Frieda company got a message from the Universe to put a pineapple fragrance into their Secret Weapon along with some other mystery ingredient which must be known by the chemists who created it as 'fatal goo'.
So now the Universe, in conjunction with John Frieda, has turned me into that person in the drugstore you see secretly smelling beauty products. The one who turns away from the security camera as she flips the top on a tube and furtively takes a whiff. I know you always thought she was just off her meds as you steered your cart to a different aisle, one without her in it. I’m here to tell you she’s not a mental case. In fact, she's very well read. She’s just looking for the pre-pineapple finishing cremes. And now you too know The Secret.
Daughter's Fotos were taken at the annual New York Chocolate Show at Pier 94, and spotlight two of her favorite things: Superheroes and Chocolate.
the dark chocolate knight
sweet
superchocolatehero
web of cocoa
1. Think positive thoughts and good things will happen to you.
2. Think negative thoughts and bad things will happen to you.
3. You are what you think.
If this sounds like a worthy but repetitive message, I believe you’re right. I also believe I’ve saved you 190 pages reiterating the above, although you should read the book anyway because you may not be convinced by me just saying so that The Secret works.
As it always has. James Allen put this philosophy into words in the masterful As A Man Thinketh, published in 1902. Dale Carnegie developed an entire course of seminars based on the same principle. Dr. Norman Vincent Peale shouted it in The Power of Positive Thinking. And before all of them, Plato and Socrates may have been the first ones in the house. Sadly, The Secret’s now best-selling author paid only marginal tribute to these predecessors whose works were far more eloquent. But you can’t say she didn’t make her point.
I felt that point when I read her book and realized with horror that I was personally responsible for the destruction of Secret Weapon. Don’t roll your eyes, but Secret Weapon is a hair finishing crème by John Frieda that I’ve used every day for the past eight years. In case you didn’t know, women who wear their hair curly often use finishing crèmes so they don’t look like Little Orphan Annie. Even the most killer black dress loses its power if you have Bozo hair. So every morning, EVERY MORNING, as I scrunch my curls with Secret Weapon, I say a mantra in my head to the John Frieda company, “Please don’t ever stop making Secret Weapon.”
Of course, it turns out that this was a negative thought because it has the word ‘don’t’ in it. The word ‘don’t’, according to The Secret, invites failure because the Universe only hears that word so it doesn’t give you what you’re asking for. Apparently the Universe has attention deficit and can’t sit still long enough to hear the rest of your message. As a result of this ignorance on my part, the John Frieda company got a message from the Universe to put a pineapple fragrance into their Secret Weapon along with some other mystery ingredient which must be known by the chemists who created it as 'fatal goo'.
So now the Universe, in conjunction with John Frieda, has turned me into that person in the drugstore you see secretly smelling beauty products. The one who turns away from the security camera as she flips the top on a tube and furtively takes a whiff. I know you always thought she was just off her meds as you steered your cart to a different aisle, one without her in it. I’m here to tell you she’s not a mental case. In fact, she's very well read. She’s just looking for the pre-pineapple finishing cremes. And now you too know The Secret.
Daughter's Fotos were taken at the annual New York Chocolate Show at Pier 94, and spotlight two of her favorite things: Superheroes and Chocolate.
the dark chocolate knight
sweet
superchocolatehero
web of cocoa
Only the Turkey Gets Basted
In school yesterday, a bunch of us were talking about our plans for Thanksgiving, and when I got home I saw my friend Blondie had sent me an e-mail with a holiday gobble-giggle:
A man in Jacksonville calls his son in San Diego the day before Thanksgiving and says, "I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.
"Pop, what are you talking about?" the son screams.
“We can't stand the sight of each other any longer," the father says. "We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Denver and tell her."
Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. "Like heck they're getting divorced," she shouts, "I'll take care of this."
She calls Jacksonville immediately, and screams at her father, "You are NOT getting divorced. Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back, and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?" and hangs up.
The man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife. "Okay," he says, "they're coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own way."
This holiday has crept up on me like a stalker in sneakers, and I’m wondering if it’s because now I’m the one who’s in school while my kids are graduated and working. Husband lost his Mom recently so our focus has been on that while the calendar pages flipped and the leaves hit the ground. Suddenly, Thanksgiving is around the corner.
Some of my friends are getting the ultimate taste of what life with grown children is really like as their kids break the news that they’ll be spending this holiday with the other family, aka the in-laws. Even if Thanksgiving has always been your holiday and you receive this news with a smile so plastic you could store cold cuts in it, graceful acceptance goes a long way toward family harmony and the creation of new traditions. To say nothing of providing a golden bargaining chip for the next one.
Your grown children need not be married, though, to test your flexibility. One woman in my class, who has children ranging in age from grade school up through the 20's, was upset because her 22-year-old son who is living at home just got a large tattoo. And that’s the thing with working young adults living in the house where they used to be kids. Once they reach a certain age, your rules are really just suggestions. They're in charge of themselves and their choices.
That’s what I said to her because I remember the delicate balance of that situation, and also, why should I be the only one with pierced, tattooed kids? You can face it down or turn your head away, but every parent has to walk into the wind every now and then. And when it does blow toward you, and the only thing left is deciding how to react, you could do worse than to remember that attitude is everything so pick a good one. Looking on the bright side of that big tattoo, nothing says Merry Christmas like a giant tube of Bacitracin.
Daughter's Featured Fotos provide Unorthodox Symmetry
painted crabs
crawling out....it's the hulk!
early bird crew
line up the usual suspects
A man in Jacksonville calls his son in San Diego the day before Thanksgiving and says, "I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.
"Pop, what are you talking about?" the son screams.
“We can't stand the sight of each other any longer," the father says. "We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Denver and tell her."
Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. "Like heck they're getting divorced," she shouts, "I'll take care of this."
She calls Jacksonville immediately, and screams at her father, "You are NOT getting divorced. Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back, and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?" and hangs up.
The man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife. "Okay," he says, "they're coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own way."
This holiday has crept up on me like a stalker in sneakers, and I’m wondering if it’s because now I’m the one who’s in school while my kids are graduated and working. Husband lost his Mom recently so our focus has been on that while the calendar pages flipped and the leaves hit the ground. Suddenly, Thanksgiving is around the corner.
Some of my friends are getting the ultimate taste of what life with grown children is really like as their kids break the news that they’ll be spending this holiday with the other family, aka the in-laws. Even if Thanksgiving has always been your holiday and you receive this news with a smile so plastic you could store cold cuts in it, graceful acceptance goes a long way toward family harmony and the creation of new traditions. To say nothing of providing a golden bargaining chip for the next one.
Your grown children need not be married, though, to test your flexibility. One woman in my class, who has children ranging in age from grade school up through the 20's, was upset because her 22-year-old son who is living at home just got a large tattoo. And that’s the thing with working young adults living in the house where they used to be kids. Once they reach a certain age, your rules are really just suggestions. They're in charge of themselves and their choices.
That’s what I said to her because I remember the delicate balance of that situation, and also, why should I be the only one with pierced, tattooed kids? You can face it down or turn your head away, but every parent has to walk into the wind every now and then. And when it does blow toward you, and the only thing left is deciding how to react, you could do worse than to remember that attitude is everything so pick a good one. Looking on the bright side of that big tattoo, nothing says Merry Christmas like a giant tube of Bacitracin.
Daughter's Featured Fotos provide Unorthodox Symmetry
painted crabs
crawling out....it's the hulk!
early bird crew
line up the usual suspects
Hand me the wrench
One evening a week ago, I flipped on the light to go upstairs to our bedroom and nothing happened. I looked all the way to the top of the steps and saw that the bulb in the ceiling light was burned out. I knew from past experience with this fixture that it's a two-person job replacing the bulb since someone needs to hold the ladder steady to prevent it from toppling off the landing with the other person on it. Shit.
I mentioned the situation to Husband when he got home that night. Then I mentioned it again the next night and then again one of the following mornings thinking that maybe the darkness was preventing movement. Since daylight savings has effectively removed all semblance of daytime, my window of opportunity was shrinking. I lucked out Saturday morning around nine o’clock when Husband said he was ready. I jumped up to get the ladder, at which point Husband announced he'd hold the ladder steady for me but he wasn't climbing it.
This seemed an ironic choice since I'm the one who broke my arm in March walking across a level floor, but the game was on so I went to get my climbing shoes. Up on the ladder, I was unable to screw the bulb in so Husband had to climb up after all. He called down the bad news. The socket was cracked in half and wouldn't accept the bulb. The fixture had to be replaced.
Everyone has watched Extreme Makeover so you'll hear me when I say any show starring us would be called Extremely Not Doing it Ourselves. I've covered the home renovation and repair terrain before in entries here and here so I won't belabor the domestic stress that ensues. To avoid that, we always hire Dominic, a talented handyman/contractor from the Dominican Republic whose name is hard to pronounce so it's just Dominic. I said to Husband that we needed to call him right away.
HUSBAND: What's the hurry?
OSV: Well, there's no hurry for you. You go to bed at 10:00 and I'm still up so all the lights are on downstairs. But by the time I'm ready to go up it's pitch dark.
HUSBAND: Meaning?
OSV: Meaning I have to feel my way up a dark staircase late at night.
HUSBAND: Can't you use a flashlight?
OSV: Who am I, Tom Sawyer? We live in a cave? We're in a two-story house. It needs to be lit.
Husband looked at me like this was way more than he bargained for. I looked back at him like excuse me for being so high maintenance as to expect electricity. We stood there staring each other down until one of us went and called Dominic.
Dominic has had much silent amusement at my expense, but he is always too polite to laugh out loud. A while back, I asked him to come replace the broken smoke detector in the kitchen and he suggested moving it to a different wall. He said he was surprised it never went off being directly across from the stove and toaster oven. I said he could go ahead and move it, but it's never been a problem.
The fact is, it went off incessantly for eighteen years, especially when the kids toasted consecutive waffles, which was always. If you ask my children, they will tell you their main memory of me is jumping up and down underneath the smoke detector flailing a dishtowel back and forth until the stupid thing shut up. You can advise them to cherish that memory because it could be worse. At least I wasn't wearing a miner's helmet going up the stairs.
Daughter's Featured Fotos are Just the Way It Looks
tourists
the major food groups
natural energy
.jpg)
bubble wrap skirt/tights in the city, part 4
(see tights in the city, part 3)
I mentioned the situation to Husband when he got home that night. Then I mentioned it again the next night and then again one of the following mornings thinking that maybe the darkness was preventing movement. Since daylight savings has effectively removed all semblance of daytime, my window of opportunity was shrinking. I lucked out Saturday morning around nine o’clock when Husband said he was ready. I jumped up to get the ladder, at which point Husband announced he'd hold the ladder steady for me but he wasn't climbing it.
This seemed an ironic choice since I'm the one who broke my arm in March walking across a level floor, but the game was on so I went to get my climbing shoes. Up on the ladder, I was unable to screw the bulb in so Husband had to climb up after all. He called down the bad news. The socket was cracked in half and wouldn't accept the bulb. The fixture had to be replaced.
Everyone has watched Extreme Makeover so you'll hear me when I say any show starring us would be called Extremely Not Doing it Ourselves. I've covered the home renovation and repair terrain before in entries here and here so I won't belabor the domestic stress that ensues. To avoid that, we always hire Dominic, a talented handyman/contractor from the Dominican Republic whose name is hard to pronounce so it's just Dominic. I said to Husband that we needed to call him right away.
HUSBAND: What's the hurry?
OSV: Well, there's no hurry for you. You go to bed at 10:00 and I'm still up so all the lights are on downstairs. But by the time I'm ready to go up it's pitch dark.
HUSBAND: Meaning?
OSV: Meaning I have to feel my way up a dark staircase late at night.
HUSBAND: Can't you use a flashlight?
OSV: Who am I, Tom Sawyer? We live in a cave? We're in a two-story house. It needs to be lit.
Husband looked at me like this was way more than he bargained for. I looked back at him like excuse me for being so high maintenance as to expect electricity. We stood there staring each other down until one of us went and called Dominic.
Dominic has had much silent amusement at my expense, but he is always too polite to laugh out loud. A while back, I asked him to come replace the broken smoke detector in the kitchen and he suggested moving it to a different wall. He said he was surprised it never went off being directly across from the stove and toaster oven. I said he could go ahead and move it, but it's never been a problem.
The fact is, it went off incessantly for eighteen years, especially when the kids toasted consecutive waffles, which was always. If you ask my children, they will tell you their main memory of me is jumping up and down underneath the smoke detector flailing a dishtowel back and forth until the stupid thing shut up. You can advise them to cherish that memory because it could be worse. At least I wasn't wearing a miner's helmet going up the stairs.
Daughter's Featured Fotos are Just the Way It Looks
tourists
the major food groups
natural energy
bubble wrap skirt/tights in the city, part 4
(see tights in the city, part 3)
Take the money and ride
I can't say I have a soft spot for the Discovery Channel, only because Husband always has either that or History on when I join him in the evening for some quality couple time in front of the TV. As a result of his ruling domain over the remote, I've sat through countless hours of finding out why hummingbirds hum and male seahorses have babies, and I've watched Field Marshall Rommel march over the ridge into Allied lines so many times it seems inconceivable that we only won the war once.
There is a particular show on Discovery, though, that has made it onto my 'try not to miss' list and that would be Cash Cab. At first glance, it seems like NYC is the only place this show could happen, meaning of course that it began in the UK. Most of our really imaginative New York-esque shows started life in Britain, like All in the Family in the '70s, but actually it's a trend that goes back to before the war we won together. It would make my day to find out that John Cleese is originally from the Bronx and he just had an awesome voice coach.
The premise of Cash Cab is that "there are 13,000 cabs in New York City but only one that pays you." An ordinary looking taxi cruises the city streets and picks up unassuming passengers who are then invited to be contestants on the game show that unfolds inside the cab. An affable driver/host asks them trivia questions on the way to their destination, and they can rack up some nice winnings in addition to a free cab ride. No small score in itself.
Three wrong answers and the passengers are out on the street, regardless of how far they are from their destination. Getting stopped at a traffic light triggers a Red Light Challenge, a bonus question with a multi-part answer. If they get stumped on a question, they have two avenues for assistance – a mobile shout out using a cell phone, and a street shout out.
My favorite is the street shout out because it's so New York. Picture a taxi carrying two young couples dressed to go clubbing, and they're hanging out the cab window at a curb yelling to a pedestrian, "Hey, Lady! Can you help us out here? What organization was founded in 1966 by Betty Friedan? Do you know?"
And the Lady leans in the window and says into their very young, born in 1988 faces, "NOW!" And the clubbers respond, "Yeah, now. We're on a game show. So do you know the answer?" And the Lady repeats even louder, "NOW! National Organization for Women! NOW!!" And the club noodles win a thousand dollars and they still don't know who the hell Betty Friedan is. Now, if only John Cleese were driving.
Go along for a ride with Cash Cab here.
Scene On The Street is the subject of Daughter's Featured Fotos
taking flight
garbage truck...wait!
still pouring cement on 1st ave
post election advice
There is a particular show on Discovery, though, that has made it onto my 'try not to miss' list and that would be Cash Cab. At first glance, it seems like NYC is the only place this show could happen, meaning of course that it began in the UK. Most of our really imaginative New York-esque shows started life in Britain, like All in the Family in the '70s, but actually it's a trend that goes back to before the war we won together. It would make my day to find out that John Cleese is originally from the Bronx and he just had an awesome voice coach.
The premise of Cash Cab is that "there are 13,000 cabs in New York City but only one that pays you." An ordinary looking taxi cruises the city streets and picks up unassuming passengers who are then invited to be contestants on the game show that unfolds inside the cab. An affable driver/host asks them trivia questions on the way to their destination, and they can rack up some nice winnings in addition to a free cab ride. No small score in itself.
Three wrong answers and the passengers are out on the street, regardless of how far they are from their destination. Getting stopped at a traffic light triggers a Red Light Challenge, a bonus question with a multi-part answer. If they get stumped on a question, they have two avenues for assistance – a mobile shout out using a cell phone, and a street shout out.
My favorite is the street shout out because it's so New York. Picture a taxi carrying two young couples dressed to go clubbing, and they're hanging out the cab window at a curb yelling to a pedestrian, "Hey, Lady! Can you help us out here? What organization was founded in 1966 by Betty Friedan? Do you know?"
And the Lady leans in the window and says into their very young, born in 1988 faces, "NOW!" And the clubbers respond, "Yeah, now. We're on a game show. So do you know the answer?" And the Lady repeats even louder, "NOW! National Organization for Women! NOW!!" And the club noodles win a thousand dollars and they still don't know who the hell Betty Friedan is. Now, if only John Cleese were driving.
Go along for a ride with Cash Cab here.
Scene On The Street is the subject of Daughter's Featured Fotos
taking flight
garbage truck...wait!
still pouring cement on 1st ave
post election advice
Run for Your Life
It's something of a guilty pleasure to read the post-election newspaper and wedge myself into the crowd of spectators watching the victorious Obamas soak up their new status as First Family. As a parent, I understand the President-elect's current regret over having included his children in televised interviews during this historic election, which seems to have started around the time of RoboCop. Now the Obamas' job as both leaders and parents will be to shield those children from the bizarre spotlight of expectations and voyeurism the media and citizens will undoubtedly provide. I would like to say in advance to the President I voted for and our First Lady: you're welcome, and I'm sorry.
So much is being published about the process our country has just wrapped up and in other ways is only beginning that it became a challenge to find a non-political story to catch my interest in the paper today. But then I saw it under the 'abroad and at home' heading. It was right above the piece about an airline crew having to use duct tape to keep an unruly, inebriated passenger in her seat during a United flight from Puerto Rico to Chicago. In addition to striking a flight attendant and falling on a blind passenger's head and then pulling the person's hair, her antics caused the aircraft to land in North Carolina. For me, the most remarkable part of this story is that I wasn't on the plane.
The item that grabbed me, so to speak, was about a female jogger in Arizona who was attacked by a fox while on a trail near Prescott. The animal bit her foot while she was running so she reached down and grabbed it by the neck to pull it off, at which point the fox then bit her arm. She wanted the animal tested for rabies so she ran a mile to her car with its jaws clamped to her arm. I feel compelled to repeat that because I can't remember the last time I ran a mile to my car with or without a fox chewing on my arm.
Once she arrived at her automobile, she pried the animal off and tossed it in her trunk. You can go ahead and read that sentence again on your own without my emphasis. It certainly deserves a second look. She then drove to the Prescott hospital where the fox proceeded to bite an animal control officer. The sheriff's department report stated that both the runner and the officer were receiving rabies vaccinations.
It always thrills me how much can be learned from a few short moments reading the newspaper, and it saddens me that print journalism is currently on such shaky ground with plummeting circulation amid reader desertion to online sources for current events. With that in mind, let's review what we've just discussed:
1. Barack and Michelle Obama and their two lovely daughters will need the nation's support and generosity of spirit as they settle into the highly visible new lives that only one of them was actively seeking.
2. For the safety and protection of all passengers and crew, our judicial system should institute a charge of FWI or Flying While Intoxicated. Anyone found guilty could be punished by having to fly to Australia and back in a non-reclining seat with no snacks.
3. Should we ever be jogging in the Southwest and a rabid animal attaches itself to our body, wow, that one's a toughie.
Boring Headline: Blogger Visits Prescott Without Incident
Daughter's Featured Fotos offer a better chance of excitement via the NYC 2008 Halloween Parade
jack-o-lanterns
your basic turquoise spandex
so little time, so many undead
enchanted forest
So much is being published about the process our country has just wrapped up and in other ways is only beginning that it became a challenge to find a non-political story to catch my interest in the paper today. But then I saw it under the 'abroad and at home' heading. It was right above the piece about an airline crew having to use duct tape to keep an unruly, inebriated passenger in her seat during a United flight from Puerto Rico to Chicago. In addition to striking a flight attendant and falling on a blind passenger's head and then pulling the person's hair, her antics caused the aircraft to land in North Carolina. For me, the most remarkable part of this story is that I wasn't on the plane.
The item that grabbed me, so to speak, was about a female jogger in Arizona who was attacked by a fox while on a trail near Prescott. The animal bit her foot while she was running so she reached down and grabbed it by the neck to pull it off, at which point the fox then bit her arm. She wanted the animal tested for rabies so she ran a mile to her car with its jaws clamped to her arm. I feel compelled to repeat that because I can't remember the last time I ran a mile to my car with or without a fox chewing on my arm.
Once she arrived at her automobile, she pried the animal off and tossed it in her trunk. You can go ahead and read that sentence again on your own without my emphasis. It certainly deserves a second look. She then drove to the Prescott hospital where the fox proceeded to bite an animal control officer. The sheriff's department report stated that both the runner and the officer were receiving rabies vaccinations.
It always thrills me how much can be learned from a few short moments reading the newspaper, and it saddens me that print journalism is currently on such shaky ground with plummeting circulation amid reader desertion to online sources for current events. With that in mind, let's review what we've just discussed:
1. Barack and Michelle Obama and their two lovely daughters will need the nation's support and generosity of spirit as they settle into the highly visible new lives that only one of them was actively seeking.
2. For the safety and protection of all passengers and crew, our judicial system should institute a charge of FWI or Flying While Intoxicated. Anyone found guilty could be punished by having to fly to Australia and back in a non-reclining seat with no snacks.
3. Should we ever be jogging in the Southwest and a rabid animal attaches itself to our body, wow, that one's a toughie.
Boring Headline: Blogger Visits Prescott Without Incident
Daughter's Featured Fotos offer a better chance of excitement via the NYC 2008 Halloween Parade
jack-o-lanterns
your basic turquoise spandex
so little time, so many undead
enchanted forest
We Don't Get Fooled Again
On the front page of the newspaper today was a close-up of the young husband in our county who just confessed to killing his wife. Two days ago the front page sported a similar photo with the headline, "Husband of missing woman pleads for help in finding wife." Yesterday his face appeared under the banner, "Body of missing woman found." So today's headshot was no big surprise.
Except to some. The day the 29-year-old teacher did not show up at her job and her car was discovered abandoned on the parkway and her husband was the picture of distraught concern, the similarly aged students in my school commiserated with him. Not the handful of us seasoned lifers. Those of us who've logged four or five decades on the planet exchanged looks that said, "Oh, he's guilty. Take it to the bank."
Our younger classmates were stunned at our jaded reaction. What had he done to earn our suspicion, they wondered. Well, for one, he read the police a text message he had received from his wife at 6:30 that morning on his way to the gym while she was driving to work. She wished him a wonderful day and wrote how much she loved him and how he meant the world to her and signed it hugs and kisses. This after just saying goodbye at home.
Those of us who are really alive at 6:30 in the morning driving to work are not texting love notes to the spouses we've been with for nine years and just kissed goodbye. We're immersed in the daily rituals of commuting, like dribbling coffee from our travel mug or trying to decide when it's safe to put on mascara in the rear view mirror.
There were other red flags, but let's stay with the text message because it was so obvious. He didn't respond to the message but he saved it. And there were no others like it saved in his phone. Certainly there are couples who exchange schmoopy messages, but why save just the one? People have patterns in their communications that are easily verified. Schmoopiness does not just appear fully schmooped. But clearly it's impossible to fake a voicemail from someone you've already murdered so he no doubt saw his alibi devices as limited.
On the same page as the above mess was the follow-up to a previous story about a woman in a coma as a result of being poisoned by her estranged husband while she prepared their children for school one morning. At the time of his arrest, his statement was, "I sprinkled enough cyanide in her coffee to kill her." Meaning that the coma came as a real frustration to him? Words elude me except to say that she has since died so at the very least they can charge his ass with the maximum.
Beneath these stories in the paper was a related one reporting that femicide – the killing of a woman – by her husband or partner is a leading cause of premature death for women in the United States. Reasons cited were the accessibility of guns combined with gains made by women causing their partners to feel insecure and angry. In less modern times, that premature death statistic applied to childbirth. Why does this not feel like progress?
Daughter's Featured Fotos say Childhood Gone Strange
elderly tweety
swimmy fish sticks
walking mcnuggets
homeless on sesame street
Except to some. The day the 29-year-old teacher did not show up at her job and her car was discovered abandoned on the parkway and her husband was the picture of distraught concern, the similarly aged students in my school commiserated with him. Not the handful of us seasoned lifers. Those of us who've logged four or five decades on the planet exchanged looks that said, "Oh, he's guilty. Take it to the bank."
Our younger classmates were stunned at our jaded reaction. What had he done to earn our suspicion, they wondered. Well, for one, he read the police a text message he had received from his wife at 6:30 that morning on his way to the gym while she was driving to work. She wished him a wonderful day and wrote how much she loved him and how he meant the world to her and signed it hugs and kisses. This after just saying goodbye at home.
Those of us who are really alive at 6:30 in the morning driving to work are not texting love notes to the spouses we've been with for nine years and just kissed goodbye. We're immersed in the daily rituals of commuting, like dribbling coffee from our travel mug or trying to decide when it's safe to put on mascara in the rear view mirror.
There were other red flags, but let's stay with the text message because it was so obvious. He didn't respond to the message but he saved it. And there were no others like it saved in his phone. Certainly there are couples who exchange schmoopy messages, but why save just the one? People have patterns in their communications that are easily verified. Schmoopiness does not just appear fully schmooped. But clearly it's impossible to fake a voicemail from someone you've already murdered so he no doubt saw his alibi devices as limited.
On the same page as the above mess was the follow-up to a previous story about a woman in a coma as a result of being poisoned by her estranged husband while she prepared their children for school one morning. At the time of his arrest, his statement was, "I sprinkled enough cyanide in her coffee to kill her." Meaning that the coma came as a real frustration to him? Words elude me except to say that she has since died so at the very least they can charge his ass with the maximum.
Beneath these stories in the paper was a related one reporting that femicide – the killing of a woman – by her husband or partner is a leading cause of premature death for women in the United States. Reasons cited were the accessibility of guns combined with gains made by women causing their partners to feel insecure and angry. In less modern times, that premature death statistic applied to childbirth. Why does this not feel like progress?
Daughter's Featured Fotos say Childhood Gone Strange
elderly tweety
swimmy fish sticks
walking mcnuggets
homeless on sesame street
Into the Night
Husband and I just returned from Florida where we spent the last several days. It wasn't a vacation, though. Husband's mom passed away. I wrote about my adorable mother-in-law in this entry right here and about how she always wanted her belongings to find the proper home so they would continue to be enjoyed. In the beginning it weirded me out; then I came to think of it as quirky and endearing. In the end, it was sadder, sweeter, and more poignant than I could ever have imagined.
My in-laws were married over 60 years and they were that couple who finished each other's sentences seamlessly. They were so in tune and so comfortable together they could make snide but knowing remarks in front of each other that were right on target. When I first met them nine years ago, they had already been living in south Florida for over a decade having relocated from a tony New York suburb. I asked my mother-in-law how they came to choose that particular area for retirement.
She replied, "Your father-in-law really wanted to move to Florida. I told him I wanted to live anywhere else. So we compromised. We moved to Florida." At that point she gestured around at all the palm trees and drug stores while my father-in-law dismissed her complaint with a wave saying, "Oh, you haven't done so bad."
My in-laws and I hit it off immediately. Husband had been widowed for over a decade when we met, and his mom hugged me at our wedding and whispered in my ear, "Now I can see what he was waiting for." Husband has a sister and a married brother who arrived with his wife, so there were three of us women gathered in my mother-in-law's walk-in closet down in their apartment after we returned from temple. My father-in-law had requested that everything in the closet be dispersed before we left.
Now I have to tell you that Husband's mother was a fashionista. She died in her mid-eighties and we found receipts for custom-made jewelry dated a year ago. We found the custom-made jewelry, too. In her salad days, she was a sales associate at one of New York's top-tier retail stores for over two decades and she treasured her employee discount. I am willing to wager that no one on the planet put it to better use.
Inside that closet, packed on every shelf and every inch of floor space, was the classy and sophisticated evidence of a life well-clothed, well-lived, and certainly always noticed. Louis Vuitton, Balenciaga, Fendi, Coach, Tiffany – they were all there. Suddenly, I appreciated the luxury she had infused into her daily life, and the haven it afforded her amidst whatever else was going on.
Over the next two days, my sisters-in-law and I sorted and divided and boxed whatever was left for charity. In alternating turns, the process was sad, frantic, overwhelming, giddy, and strangely cathartic. At one point, we thought we had dropped one of her Tiffany earrings on the carpet and we were all on the floor searching. Then Husband's sister said, "You know, Mom is probably looking down at us laughing because we're trying to find an earring she knows she lost ten years ago."
The men were all in the other room the whole time talking about cars or work or stocks or whatever it is guys talk about, who knows. What I do know is that there were four women together in a closet that weekend, laughing and crying, and one of them was watching.
Daughter's Fotos fittingly evoke Elegant Whimsy
Quintuplets in Queue by Yuko Shimizu
Prince of Plush Panda by Yuko Shimizu
Believe the Type Exhibition
Land of A
Believe the Type
An Exhibition Exploring the Art of Typography @ Ogilvy & Mather
best. shoes. ever.
My in-laws were married over 60 years and they were that couple who finished each other's sentences seamlessly. They were so in tune and so comfortable together they could make snide but knowing remarks in front of each other that were right on target. When I first met them nine years ago, they had already been living in south Florida for over a decade having relocated from a tony New York suburb. I asked my mother-in-law how they came to choose that particular area for retirement.
She replied, "Your father-in-law really wanted to move to Florida. I told him I wanted to live anywhere else. So we compromised. We moved to Florida." At that point she gestured around at all the palm trees and drug stores while my father-in-law dismissed her complaint with a wave saying, "Oh, you haven't done so bad."
My in-laws and I hit it off immediately. Husband had been widowed for over a decade when we met, and his mom hugged me at our wedding and whispered in my ear, "Now I can see what he was waiting for." Husband has a sister and a married brother who arrived with his wife, so there were three of us women gathered in my mother-in-law's walk-in closet down in their apartment after we returned from temple. My father-in-law had requested that everything in the closet be dispersed before we left.
Now I have to tell you that Husband's mother was a fashionista. She died in her mid-eighties and we found receipts for custom-made jewelry dated a year ago. We found the custom-made jewelry, too. In her salad days, she was a sales associate at one of New York's top-tier retail stores for over two decades and she treasured her employee discount. I am willing to wager that no one on the planet put it to better use.
Inside that closet, packed on every shelf and every inch of floor space, was the classy and sophisticated evidence of a life well-clothed, well-lived, and certainly always noticed. Louis Vuitton, Balenciaga, Fendi, Coach, Tiffany – they were all there. Suddenly, I appreciated the luxury she had infused into her daily life, and the haven it afforded her amidst whatever else was going on.
Over the next two days, my sisters-in-law and I sorted and divided and boxed whatever was left for charity. In alternating turns, the process was sad, frantic, overwhelming, giddy, and strangely cathartic. At one point, we thought we had dropped one of her Tiffany earrings on the carpet and we were all on the floor searching. Then Husband's sister said, "You know, Mom is probably looking down at us laughing because we're trying to find an earring she knows she lost ten years ago."
The men were all in the other room the whole time talking about cars or work or stocks or whatever it is guys talk about, who knows. What I do know is that there were four women together in a closet that weekend, laughing and crying, and one of them was watching.
Daughter's Fotos fittingly evoke Elegant Whimsy
Quintuplets in Queue by Yuko Shimizu
Prince of Plush Panda by Yuko Shimizu
Believe the Type Exhibition
Land of A
Believe the Type
An Exhibition Exploring the Art of Typography @ Ogilvy & Mather
best. shoes. ever.
Within, Without
On TV a couple of weeks ago, I saw an ad for a free $5 coupon if you went online to the Olay skincare site. So right there were two things I could love: coupons and Olay. I've been using Olay since high school, way back when it was called Oil of Olay, before oil fell from grace in everything but your car or furnace.
I am nothing if not an avid consumer. Husband will be opening the mail and he'll hold up an envelope from CVS addressed to me and say, "Look! It's handwritten from the company president. He wants to know where you were this week." And well he should if he's doing his job.
On the Olay website, my eye was drawn to a testimonial from a woman who wrote: "After one week of using Olay Definity, my friends asked me what I was doing differently for my skin. My husband even told me I looked luminous!" I was in my car before Windows shut down.
I've written in this space here and here about my frustration with discontinued products I've come to rely on for my natural look so I predict right now that Olay Definity will be off the shelves before you can try it. In fact, the CVS saleslady attempted to steer me toward the new Regenerist line so she must already know something, but the testimonial was for Definity so I went ahead and charged the foaming moisturizer and illuminating eye treatment.
I waited almost a week and then one evening when Husband came through the door after a long day, I greeted him with, "Hi sweetie! I hope you had a good day at work. Do I look luminous?" He stared at me confused, like he usually does when I'm ridiculous, and said, "Oh, yes. Absolutely. What?" Then he walked by me to the bathroom.
Husband is a great sport and I have certainly tested his limits. One winter several years ago, we were visiting Silverton, Colorado on vacation. Silverton is an extremely picturesque small town in Southwest Colorado. The nearest real city is over the San Juan Mountains to Durango at the other end of the Durango Silverton Railroad line. Silverton has two main streets, both restored to their old west flavor of the 1800's. And like it no doubt was in the 19th century, everything but the bars shut down at dark.
It so happened after dinner one evening, I noticed I was in need of a drugstore remedy known as Monistat. I don't want to upset my male readers, so I'll just say that this is a product used to treat a specific feminine irritation. If you're a woman you know what I'm talking about, and if you're a guy, that's all you need to know without your 'blechhh' reflex kicking in.
I confided my situation to our waitress who advised me to get to the only drugstore in town before they closed. If we missed it, the nearest pharmacy was in Durango, 75 miles away over snow-covered, winding mountain roads. We hurried along one of the two streets to Silverton Drugs on the outskirts of town. We arrived just before they locked the door.
Inside the tiny store, there were exactly two packages of Monistat on the shelf. I looked at Husband shocked and said, "Can you believe this? $25.99? This is $15 at CVS." He looked back at me and said, "Are you kidding? These are the only two in an 80-mile radius. I say we buy both and leave a note on the shelf with our hotel address. If anyone wants the other one, it'll cost them $40."
In the end we only bought the one, and when we left the store, they locked up. Out on the street, Husband said, "Do you know how lucky you are we got here in time?" I said, "Me? You're the one who'd be driving 75 miles over the mountain. I couldn't sit that long in this condition." And I'm sure when I said it I was totally luminous.
Daughter's Featured Fotos highlight Wrecks & Wreckers
tomato spray. i think i'm allergic to this too
fighting cock whiskey. the only one
i say, "let it all out"
woody
I am nothing if not an avid consumer. Husband will be opening the mail and he'll hold up an envelope from CVS addressed to me and say, "Look! It's handwritten from the company president. He wants to know where you were this week." And well he should if he's doing his job.
On the Olay website, my eye was drawn to a testimonial from a woman who wrote: "After one week of using Olay Definity, my friends asked me what I was doing differently for my skin. My husband even told me I looked luminous!" I was in my car before Windows shut down.
I've written in this space here and here about my frustration with discontinued products I've come to rely on for my natural look so I predict right now that Olay Definity will be off the shelves before you can try it. In fact, the CVS saleslady attempted to steer me toward the new Regenerist line so she must already know something, but the testimonial was for Definity so I went ahead and charged the foaming moisturizer and illuminating eye treatment.
I waited almost a week and then one evening when Husband came through the door after a long day, I greeted him with, "Hi sweetie! I hope you had a good day at work. Do I look luminous?" He stared at me confused, like he usually does when I'm ridiculous, and said, "Oh, yes. Absolutely. What?" Then he walked by me to the bathroom.
Husband is a great sport and I have certainly tested his limits. One winter several years ago, we were visiting Silverton, Colorado on vacation. Silverton is an extremely picturesque small town in Southwest Colorado. The nearest real city is over the San Juan Mountains to Durango at the other end of the Durango Silverton Railroad line. Silverton has two main streets, both restored to their old west flavor of the 1800's. And like it no doubt was in the 19th century, everything but the bars shut down at dark.
It so happened after dinner one evening, I noticed I was in need of a drugstore remedy known as Monistat. I don't want to upset my male readers, so I'll just say that this is a product used to treat a specific feminine irritation. If you're a woman you know what I'm talking about, and if you're a guy, that's all you need to know without your 'blechhh' reflex kicking in.
I confided my situation to our waitress who advised me to get to the only drugstore in town before they closed. If we missed it, the nearest pharmacy was in Durango, 75 miles away over snow-covered, winding mountain roads. We hurried along one of the two streets to Silverton Drugs on the outskirts of town. We arrived just before they locked the door.
Inside the tiny store, there were exactly two packages of Monistat on the shelf. I looked at Husband shocked and said, "Can you believe this? $25.99? This is $15 at CVS." He looked back at me and said, "Are you kidding? These are the only two in an 80-mile radius. I say we buy both and leave a note on the shelf with our hotel address. If anyone wants the other one, it'll cost them $40."
In the end we only bought the one, and when we left the store, they locked up. Out on the street, Husband said, "Do you know how lucky you are we got here in time?" I said, "Me? You're the one who'd be driving 75 miles over the mountain. I couldn't sit that long in this condition." And I'm sure when I said it I was totally luminous.
Daughter's Featured Fotos highlight Wrecks & Wreckers
tomato spray. i think i'm allergic to this too
fighting cock whiskey. the only one
i say, "let it all out"
woody