Seeing as I have been somebodies mother for the past twenty odd years and have finally reached what I lovingly call "the jumpin' off place" (when your youngest child is at last entering the first grade and for the first time in more years that you care to remember you won't have anyone home with you for 6 whole hours) , I have found myself feeling more and more impatient for school to begin. As reluctant as I may have been last month for summer to bid a fond adios to us amigos who love the warmth and sun, as the new school year approaches with all it's promise of kids gone bye-bye, I'm noticing that I've all but given up motherhood for the time being. I'm sure this is quite disturbing to my children who are used to a mother who actually cares for their needs. They don't understand what's become of the old mom and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I know either. I have begun to wonder if my behavior is normal for women who have reached this stage in their lives and if the medical community has come up with a name for it like they did with PMS and mad cow disease. All in all, I am discovering that I have absolutely no desire to help my children- or anyone's children for that matter- with anything. And what's more, I don't try to dance around a task to get out of it or make up excuses as to why I can't do something for them at that moment like I would normally do. Normally, if my 15 year old daughter asked me for a ride somewhere and it wasn't a good time for me, I would tell her that I couldn't do it right then but maybe in an hour or two. I would say this in an effort to let her know that as her mother, I would care for her needs and wishes as much as possible. But as of recently, if asked to do a task such as give her a ride somewhere, I find myself feeling totally burdened by the idea and I don't have the strength to make up excuses as to why I feel this way. Example: Daughter- "Mom, will you give me a ride to so and so's house?"
Me- "no."
Daughter- "Why not?"
Me- "Because I don't want to." This answer leaves my daughter looking perplexed, but it seems to get the message across pretty clearly. After discovering that there's not alot about that kind of honest answer that anyone can really argue with, I have begun to use it to my advantage and have realized that I've been far too agreeable when it comes to a child's demands. The other day one of our children and their friends kept coming inside the house asking me to help them with their little projects. They wanted to set up a water slide on the hill in the park next to our yard and they wanted to do this or they wanted to do that and so on. After about the tenth time they came in and asked me to get them something, I started feeling a little annoyed with them. They were interupting me every five minutes as if I were just the scullery maid or some other such thing put here on earth merely for their own convinience. When I realized I was being taken advantage of by people who were, though somewhat shorter and younger than myself, still capable of accomplishing small victories such as turning on the hose without help, a light came on inside my head that caused me to realize I had every right to my own time and space and the setting up of a water slide for perfectly able-bodied ten year old's wasn't a requirement by law, so the next time they came in asking for my help I simply stated, "Stop bugging me. You guy's are old enough to figure out how to set up a water slide." The boy's just stood there staring at me for a few desperate moments before devising a reason as to why I had to go out and assist their cause. " But we can't find the stakes that hold the water slide down." they told me. "Then use rocks" I replied, silently praising my own ingenious for having come up with such an idea. The boy's just stared some more and blinked alot. After a while one of them cautiously asked, "but...won't rocks hurt if we bang into them?"
"Yes," I declared, "especially if you bang them with your heads." Simple enough, but they still stood there looking confused. When I offered nothing more in the way of a solution, they just stood there looking at me as if I were crazy. Finally I said something mothers everywhere all feel like saying but seldom do; "Look," I began,"I was not put on this earth simply to provide children with their every whim and desire. I have a right to a life of my own to some degree. Now go outside and leave me alone for the rest of the day and do not come back in here and bother me again unless one of you breaks a bone or someone starts bleeding profusely or something is on fire." After that speech, the boys managed to set up the water slide without my help and even staked it into place using something other than rocks.
I know this behavior might be shocking to some mothers, but on the other hand it may give some a sense of relief. Maybe there are other women out there who have at last realized that there only objective in life is not to serve their children's every wish and tickle every fancy. But this is not all. I have also noticed that along with getting a backbone, I am now demanding that my children actually serve and help me for a change. I am doing this by any means possible. I am beginning to insist that the teenagers be out of bed before noon and get their chores done before the end of the world. This morning when one of my teenagers refused to get up by the appointed time, I woke her up by sucking her nose into the vacuum hose. She was mad at me at first and tried to express her fury with words, but the suction of the vacuum prevented her from making any sense. I highly recommend this method to anyone with similar issues.
Now before you judge me too harshly, you need to remember that none of this means that I don't love children, especially my own. I have simply discovered that I have a right to a life now and then. You know, you give any kid an inch and they'll take a mile. I'm probably guilty of allowing my kids to take more than a mile where I am concerned so I'm just trying to balance the scales a bit. Besides, no one ever takes me too seriously around here and it's mostly all fun and games-until someone loses an eye. Or maybe a nose.
Sunday
Like-ish is not a real language.
Our teenage girls have their own language which I believe can only be understood by other teenagers. This language, known as "Like-ish", is sweeping the Nation, and if we Americans do not put our collective feet down, Like-ish will soon become the number one language spoken in our Country and we will all be forced to speak it. Soon we will be calling our children to dinner by saying; "Like, dinner's ready-ish!" and when trying to enforce a curfew we will have to say something such as "I want you like, home by like, ten-ish" which sounds as if you are giving your child permission to be home anytime between nine and eleven.
I think these teenagers are much smarter than they would have us believe. They invented this kind of language on purpose, thinking that if they could get the adults around them to start speaking it, they would have far more freedom. For example, your teenage daughter comes to you with her report card and you see that she is failing several classes to which you respond; "Like, you are grounded-ish until you like, get these grades up and stuff!" This just doesn't sound like you mean it, so the child can throw it all back at you when they tell you that you didn't make your demands clear to them; " I like, thought grounded-ish meant that I could like go to Sally's since she just lives like three block's away." Sally actually lives twelve miles from your home, and your child knows this, but by intelligently inserting the word 'like' in her geographical description, your child has given herself an out. "Sally lives twelve miles away, not three blocks!" you inform her. "Mom, I said she lives like three blocks away, meaning it feels like three blocks when you drive fast. Besides, your the one who said I was "like" grounded-"ish". How am I supposed to know what that means?"
If these teenagers are our future leaders and they continue speaking this language, this "like-ish" stuff could end up getting the whole Country into alot of trouble. Just imagine the impact this language will have on our justice system if a Judge were to give the death sentence to a serial killer by saying, "Serial killer-ish dude, you have been found like guilty-ish and are hereby like, sentenced to death by like, the electric chair where alot of volt thingies will go through your body and stuff and like, kill you until you are like, dead-ish. " What would happen if our traffic signs were changed to say "STOP-ISH" and the speed limit signs were changed to say "Like 25-ish" ? A crisis is brewing here people. We need to do something, and fast. Just the other day I witnessed our daughters Dallas and Maddie having the following conversation: "Did mom buy anymore of those toaster thingies?"
"What toaster thingies?"
"You know those like, pastry-ish things."
"Those things in the blue box?"
"Umm. No, they're in a kind of like yellow-ish tan-ish pink-ish box."
"Oh, they're in the freezer. Oh guess what Dalley! Guess who I talked to for like seven hundred years last night?"
"Bob?"
"No..."
"Ted?"
"Nooo. Mack!" (I've changed some names here)
"Oh my gosh! Like, you did? What did he say? Do you like, like him and stuff?"
"I think we're like, just really good friends and stuff."
"So like, what did you guy's talk about?"
" We talked about eeeverything! We like talked about like really cool and deep stuff ya know? He's just like, like this really sensitive nice guy and he's like sooo open about his feelings and stuff and he's just really really cool. He wants to get a bullet bike and, oh my gosh Dalley! Look outside! Nellie Furtado is stuck in the tree again!" (Nellie is our neighbors cat but our girls call her Nellie Furtado, after the singer. She's always getting stuck in our tree.) Dallas flings a window open and calls outside to Nellie in a monster voice, "AAhh! Nellie Furtado! You are like so crazy-ish and fat-ish!"
"Why is she fat-ish?" Maddie asks
"Because she's not as fat as Bella." Dallas tells her. Bella is our 7 year old Siamese cat who we named long before the Twilight saga began, in case you were wondering.
"Nellie has such long leg-ish thingies!" Dallas says, then goes back into her gravely monster voice, "Aahh! Nellie Furtado!"
"Aaahh! Nellie Furtado!" Now both girls sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger leaning out the window yelling like monsters,
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Fur-taco! Aahh!"
"Aahh!"
"Gedt oudt of dat tree!"
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Furtado get down! Aahh!"
"Aahh, get down Nellie furry taco-ish thing!"
"Raaah! Don't panic Nellie!"
"Don't panic!"
And so it goes. I'm not sure we can trust our futures to people like this.
I personally have tried to make a difference in our Country's future by using a trick practiced by many heads of government: Bribery. I offered to pay my teenage daughter Twenty bucks if she could go a whole day without saying the word "like". She failed miserably as soon as her friend Kim called; "Kimmy! Like, I just tried to call you! You must be like psycho or something! And guess what Joe said last night! He like said this and this and like then he said blah blah blah and then he came over and I was all like 'hi' and stuff and he was all like 'hi' and stuff and then we like went outside and like sat on like the like porch and like like like..." Geeze. Before you know it, we are going to have a female President who speaks Austrian monster like-ish. "Aahh! We like, hab da Powah to like change dis Country for da beddah and stuff! We can like, doo et yoo guy's! Aahh-ish! Kitty, gedt down! Ther's a kidten stuck ind dat tree! Don't panic!"
Oh my.
I think these teenagers are much smarter than they would have us believe. They invented this kind of language on purpose, thinking that if they could get the adults around them to start speaking it, they would have far more freedom. For example, your teenage daughter comes to you with her report card and you see that she is failing several classes to which you respond; "Like, you are grounded-ish until you like, get these grades up and stuff!" This just doesn't sound like you mean it, so the child can throw it all back at you when they tell you that you didn't make your demands clear to them; " I like, thought grounded-ish meant that I could like go to Sally's since she just lives like three block's away." Sally actually lives twelve miles from your home, and your child knows this, but by intelligently inserting the word 'like' in her geographical description, your child has given herself an out. "Sally lives twelve miles away, not three blocks!" you inform her. "Mom, I said she lives like three blocks away, meaning it feels like three blocks when you drive fast. Besides, your the one who said I was "like" grounded-"ish". How am I supposed to know what that means?"
If these teenagers are our future leaders and they continue speaking this language, this "like-ish" stuff could end up getting the whole Country into alot of trouble. Just imagine the impact this language will have on our justice system if a Judge were to give the death sentence to a serial killer by saying, "Serial killer-ish dude, you have been found like guilty-ish and are hereby like, sentenced to death by like, the electric chair where alot of volt thingies will go through your body and stuff and like, kill you until you are like, dead-ish. " What would happen if our traffic signs were changed to say "STOP-ISH" and the speed limit signs were changed to say "Like 25-ish" ? A crisis is brewing here people. We need to do something, and fast. Just the other day I witnessed our daughters Dallas and Maddie having the following conversation: "Did mom buy anymore of those toaster thingies?"
"What toaster thingies?"
"You know those like, pastry-ish things."
"Those things in the blue box?"
"Umm. No, they're in a kind of like yellow-ish tan-ish pink-ish box."
"Oh, they're in the freezer. Oh guess what Dalley! Guess who I talked to for like seven hundred years last night?"
"Bob?"
"No..."
"Ted?"
"Nooo. Mack!" (I've changed some names here)
"Oh my gosh! Like, you did? What did he say? Do you like, like him and stuff?"
"I think we're like, just really good friends and stuff."
"So like, what did you guy's talk about?"
" We talked about eeeverything! We like talked about like really cool and deep stuff ya know? He's just like, like this really sensitive nice guy and he's like sooo open about his feelings and stuff and he's just really really cool. He wants to get a bullet bike and, oh my gosh Dalley! Look outside! Nellie Furtado is stuck in the tree again!" (Nellie is our neighbors cat but our girls call her Nellie Furtado, after the singer. She's always getting stuck in our tree.) Dallas flings a window open and calls outside to Nellie in a monster voice, "AAhh! Nellie Furtado! You are like so crazy-ish and fat-ish!"
"Why is she fat-ish?" Maddie asks
"Because she's not as fat as Bella." Dallas tells her. Bella is our 7 year old Siamese cat who we named long before the Twilight saga began, in case you were wondering.
"Nellie has such long leg-ish thingies!" Dallas says, then goes back into her gravely monster voice, "Aahh! Nellie Furtado!"
"Aaahh! Nellie Furtado!" Now both girls sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger leaning out the window yelling like monsters,
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Fur-taco! Aahh!"
"Aahh!"
"Gedt oudt of dat tree!"
"Nellie!"
"Nellie Furtado get down! Aahh!"
"Aahh, get down Nellie furry taco-ish thing!"
"Raaah! Don't panic Nellie!"
"Don't panic!"
And so it goes. I'm not sure we can trust our futures to people like this.
I personally have tried to make a difference in our Country's future by using a trick practiced by many heads of government: Bribery. I offered to pay my teenage daughter Twenty bucks if she could go a whole day without saying the word "like". She failed miserably as soon as her friend Kim called; "Kimmy! Like, I just tried to call you! You must be like psycho or something! And guess what Joe said last night! He like said this and this and like then he said blah blah blah and then he came over and I was all like 'hi' and stuff and he was all like 'hi' and stuff and then we like went outside and like sat on like the like porch and like like like..." Geeze. Before you know it, we are going to have a female President who speaks Austrian monster like-ish. "Aahh! We like, hab da Powah to like change dis Country for da beddah and stuff! We can like, doo et yoo guy's! Aahh-ish! Kitty, gedt down! Ther's a kidten stuck ind dat tree! Don't panic!"
Oh my.
Thursday
Ode to a Mexican Vampire
Here we go again. Just when I thought it was safe to go to sleep and stay asleep, I was once again very rudely awakened. Last night around midnight, one of the many daughters in this house decided that she needed to wake me up in order to ask me a very important question: "Are the tortillas in the fridge still good?"
Me: "Are you kidding me?"
Daughter: "Well, I looked at the expiration date on the package, but it was blurry."
Me: " What?"
Daughter: "I couldn't tell what it said, I don't have my contacts in."
Me: "That means it's way too late to be eating tortillas."
Daughter:"Can I go to the store to buy more?"
Me: " You mean go to the store for tortillas right now?"
Daughter: " I need tortillas."
Me: "Were you planning to make pajamas out of them?"
Daughter: "Mom..."
Me: "Daughter..."
Daughter: "Mmahomm."
Me: "Dauhhhghter."
Daughter: "Mom, yes or no?"
Me: "Yes or no what?"
Daughter: "What?"
Me: "Yes or no what?!"
Daughter: "Yes or no can I go to the store?"
Doug: "NO! No, you cannot go to the store, you cannot go anywhere and you cannot wake your mother and me up to ask about tortillas!"
Daughter: "Dad, this has nothing to do with you, I was asking mom."
Me: "Yeah Doug, this has nothing to do with you. This ridiculous conversation is just for mothers and daughters. You know nothing about the condition of a tortilla."
Doug: "Thank goodness."
Daughter: "Whatever, I'll just eat something else."
Me: "Why aren't you out hunting humans with the rest of the Vampires? They're the only ones who eat this late."
Daughter: "I wanted Mexican food." She says, and leaves the room.
Me: "Holy cow! I will never sleep in this house!"
Doug: " It smells like dog poop."
Me: "Oh for Pete's sake. Why do you think everything smells like dog poop? Did you brush your teeth?"
Doug: "What!? The dog pee'd on the sheets?!"
Me: "That is not what I said."
Doug: "Who's dead?"
Me: "Douglas!Go to sleep! You are so deaf! Geeze!"
Doug: "It doesn't smell like cheese, it smells like dog poop."
Me (laughing) : "You are sooo deaf."
Doug: "What?"
The end.
Me: "Are you kidding me?"
Daughter: "Well, I looked at the expiration date on the package, but it was blurry."
Me: " What?"
Daughter: "I couldn't tell what it said, I don't have my contacts in."
Me: "That means it's way too late to be eating tortillas."
Daughter:"Can I go to the store to buy more?"
Me: " You mean go to the store for tortillas right now?"
Daughter: " I need tortillas."
Me: "Were you planning to make pajamas out of them?"
Daughter: "Mom..."
Me: "Daughter..."
Daughter: "Mmahomm."
Me: "Dauhhhghter."
Daughter: "Mom, yes or no?"
Me: "Yes or no what?"
Daughter: "What?"
Me: "Yes or no what?!"
Daughter: "Yes or no can I go to the store?"
Doug: "NO! No, you cannot go to the store, you cannot go anywhere and you cannot wake your mother and me up to ask about tortillas!"
Daughter: "Dad, this has nothing to do with you, I was asking mom."
Me: "Yeah Doug, this has nothing to do with you. This ridiculous conversation is just for mothers and daughters. You know nothing about the condition of a tortilla."
Doug: "Thank goodness."
Daughter: "Whatever, I'll just eat something else."
Me: "Why aren't you out hunting humans with the rest of the Vampires? They're the only ones who eat this late."
Daughter: "I wanted Mexican food." She says, and leaves the room.
Me: "Holy cow! I will never sleep in this house!"
Doug: " It smells like dog poop."
Me: "Oh for Pete's sake. Why do you think everything smells like dog poop? Did you brush your teeth?"
Doug: "What!? The dog pee'd on the sheets?!"
Me: "That is not what I said."
Doug: "Who's dead?"
Me: "Douglas!Go to sleep! You are so deaf! Geeze!"
Doug: "It doesn't smell like cheese, it smells like dog poop."
Me (laughing) : "You are sooo deaf."
Doug: "What?"
The end.
Sunday
IDGIT-ITIS is not contagious
I imagine you must be wondering if I had run out of brilliant true stories to tell you, but alas, I have more than enough stories to fill a lifetime and so, here is yet another one.
This time I am going to take you back to many moons ago, way back to 1981 when I was just 13 years old. I guess it could have been '82 now that I think about it, but the older I make myself in this story the more idiotic I look to the outside world. Hmm. Wait...I suddenly realized that during the course of the writing of this blog all I have managed to do is make myself look incredibly idiotic so I suppose it matters not one bit whether I was 13 or 14 at the time this incident took place, as there would be many more times in my future life that I would have the opportunity to be ridiculous.
I must first preface by telling you that I was prompted to write about this incident when Doug brought home two (almost) new scooters last week that he had acquired through one of our tenants who no longer had a need for them. Doug, seeing that we have several teenagers, found it highly probable that someone at our house might want to ride them around town so he bought them. After expressions of glee by all the children still living at home, Doug took the younger ones across the street to the high school parking lot for a tutorial on proper riding. I wondered over later with the intention of just watching them but found myself on the back of one of the scooters-about to relive my experience from the early eighties which was the first and last time I have ever attempted to ride a motorcycle.
As a girl growing up with a bunch of brothers, I was forced to put up with all kinds of garbage, like being forced to learn how to ride dirt bikes. Well okay, 'forced' probably isn't quite the right word. Actually, I begged my older brother to teach me how to ride because I wanted to go out and experience for myself what seemed to drive the men in my family to near drunken excitement when it came to anything loud and possessing it's own motor.
With as little enthusiasm as he could muster, my older brother reluctantly took me out to the back yard to teach me the logistics of riding such a machine. There was alot to think about. The clutch had to be let out slowly while the gas had to be given gradually at the same time. I learned about shifting gears, where the brakes were etc. Finally I climbed on and kicked that puppy to life, extremely proud of myself for doing so on the first or second try. Then came the hard part. I kept killing the motor by letting the clutch out too fast and not giving it enough gas. Over and over I had to restart the bike while my increasingly impatient brother kept reminding me that the key was to slowly let off the clutch. I was fantastic at listening, because after that I just kept giving the bike lots of gas, revving up the engine and then letting the clutch out way too fast and killing the machine.
After about the seventy-fourth try, I was sure I had the concept down. I started up the bike and held on tight to the clutch, gave it a little gas, a little more, and then let out the clutch gradually, slowly. I gassed it a bit more, one hand on the gas, one hand on the clutch, letting it out slow, feet in position, ready to shift...all at once I got brave and let the clutch out way too fast while giving it way too much gas. The bike sputtered but shot forward and took off like a rocket. I had finally done it, the bike was moving fast, the only problem this time was that I was no longer on the bike. My hands were still holding tight to the handlebars, inadvertently pulling on the gas, but the rest of my body was running wildly behind it trying to keep up, screaming frantically while my brother stood by yelling "Let go of the gas you idgit!"
Around and around the backyard I ran, holding onto the bike for all I was worth, screaming "Ah! Ah! Ah!Ah!" in short little bursts of terror, and all that time my brother just kept yelling at me to let go of the gas. A simple thing really, to let go of the gas. The bike would just stop moving then. But I just could not do this no matter how I tried. You see, after careful analyzation of this procedure, it has dawned on me that when a person is truly terrified, the tendency seems to be that they tense up, therefore causing ones hands to ball into fists. I believe this to be the phenomena that I experienced that day, so I really couldn't help it. In fact, the more frightened I became, the more my hands would tighten up and the faster the bike would go until I was screaming at a fevered pitch, unable to keep my wildly running legs up to speed. I finally let go of the bike out of sheer exhaustion. It crashed into the back of the house and fell over like a dead dog. Needless to say, my desire to ride a motorcycle never resurfaced and my brother called me an idgit (whatever that meant) for the next two months. So, the other day when I found myself on the back of one of the new scooters, I was reminded of this experience when I suddenly realized that I was headed straight for a fence. I was able to stop myself just in time but I realized with horror that I was again experiencing the same strange problem I had in my youth which I have now named "idgit-itis". Apparently I am the only person in the U.S who suffers from this dreaded disease. Lucky me.
P.S. - My brother has just informed me that I failed to spell the word 'idgit' correctly so I have gone back and edited that word, but I would also like to tell my brother that I did a spell check on that word and it was not a word that is recognized by the spell checking system, which simply tells me that people who know how to spell bad words are dumb. The end.
This time I am going to take you back to many moons ago, way back to 1981 when I was just 13 years old. I guess it could have been '82 now that I think about it, but the older I make myself in this story the more idiotic I look to the outside world. Hmm. Wait...I suddenly realized that during the course of the writing of this blog all I have managed to do is make myself look incredibly idiotic so I suppose it matters not one bit whether I was 13 or 14 at the time this incident took place, as there would be many more times in my future life that I would have the opportunity to be ridiculous.
I must first preface by telling you that I was prompted to write about this incident when Doug brought home two (almost) new scooters last week that he had acquired through one of our tenants who no longer had a need for them. Doug, seeing that we have several teenagers, found it highly probable that someone at our house might want to ride them around town so he bought them. After expressions of glee by all the children still living at home, Doug took the younger ones across the street to the high school parking lot for a tutorial on proper riding. I wondered over later with the intention of just watching them but found myself on the back of one of the scooters-about to relive my experience from the early eighties which was the first and last time I have ever attempted to ride a motorcycle.
As a girl growing up with a bunch of brothers, I was forced to put up with all kinds of garbage, like being forced to learn how to ride dirt bikes. Well okay, 'forced' probably isn't quite the right word. Actually, I begged my older brother to teach me how to ride because I wanted to go out and experience for myself what seemed to drive the men in my family to near drunken excitement when it came to anything loud and possessing it's own motor.
With as little enthusiasm as he could muster, my older brother reluctantly took me out to the back yard to teach me the logistics of riding such a machine. There was alot to think about. The clutch had to be let out slowly while the gas had to be given gradually at the same time. I learned about shifting gears, where the brakes were etc. Finally I climbed on and kicked that puppy to life, extremely proud of myself for doing so on the first or second try. Then came the hard part. I kept killing the motor by letting the clutch out too fast and not giving it enough gas. Over and over I had to restart the bike while my increasingly impatient brother kept reminding me that the key was to slowly let off the clutch. I was fantastic at listening, because after that I just kept giving the bike lots of gas, revving up the engine and then letting the clutch out way too fast and killing the machine.
After about the seventy-fourth try, I was sure I had the concept down. I started up the bike and held on tight to the clutch, gave it a little gas, a little more, and then let out the clutch gradually, slowly. I gassed it a bit more, one hand on the gas, one hand on the clutch, letting it out slow, feet in position, ready to shift...all at once I got brave and let the clutch out way too fast while giving it way too much gas. The bike sputtered but shot forward and took off like a rocket. I had finally done it, the bike was moving fast, the only problem this time was that I was no longer on the bike. My hands were still holding tight to the handlebars, inadvertently pulling on the gas, but the rest of my body was running wildly behind it trying to keep up, screaming frantically while my brother stood by yelling "Let go of the gas you idgit!"
Around and around the backyard I ran, holding onto the bike for all I was worth, screaming "Ah! Ah! Ah!Ah!" in short little bursts of terror, and all that time my brother just kept yelling at me to let go of the gas. A simple thing really, to let go of the gas. The bike would just stop moving then. But I just could not do this no matter how I tried. You see, after careful analyzation of this procedure, it has dawned on me that when a person is truly terrified, the tendency seems to be that they tense up, therefore causing ones hands to ball into fists. I believe this to be the phenomena that I experienced that day, so I really couldn't help it. In fact, the more frightened I became, the more my hands would tighten up and the faster the bike would go until I was screaming at a fevered pitch, unable to keep my wildly running legs up to speed. I finally let go of the bike out of sheer exhaustion. It crashed into the back of the house and fell over like a dead dog. Needless to say, my desire to ride a motorcycle never resurfaced and my brother called me an idgit (whatever that meant) for the next two months. So, the other day when I found myself on the back of one of the new scooters, I was reminded of this experience when I suddenly realized that I was headed straight for a fence. I was able to stop myself just in time but I realized with horror that I was again experiencing the same strange problem I had in my youth which I have now named "idgit-itis". Apparently I am the only person in the U.S who suffers from this dreaded disease. Lucky me.
P.S. - My brother has just informed me that I failed to spell the word 'idgit' correctly so I have gone back and edited that word, but I would also like to tell my brother that I did a spell check on that word and it was not a word that is recognized by the spell checking system, which simply tells me that people who know how to spell bad words are dumb. The end.
Friday
The trouble with saving people's lives is that they might return the favor.
If we are to really get acquainted, there are a few things you need to know about my husband. First, he is twelve years my senior (which does not give him the right to boss me, but that's a story for another time.) I was just 21 years old when we got married. But I saw this tall, handsome guy at the gym one day and that was it, I was done.
The next thing you should know about Doug is that he'd already had a brief encounter with marriage before we'd ever met, bless his heart. His first marriage lasted less than five years, but produced a son that made the whole thing worth while. The most unfortunate part of his first marriage, for me anyway, is that it took quite awhile for the word to get out among his peers that he was no longer married to his former wife. Despite the fact that there were six years between his divorce and the time that we met, there were still those few people who knew Doug when he was married to his first wife that had never received the news that they'd divorced. You need to understand that Doug knows almost everybody on planet Earth. This I'm quite sure, is because he is more personable and friendly than anyone I've ever known. I'm not kidding when I say that we can't enter a store, go to a movie, a restaurant or on vacation to Florida without Doug running into someone he knows well enough to keep all of us waiting while they chit-chat. It's become the family joke, even my mother teases him about it.
Sometimes Doug runs into an old friend and gets so involved in catching up that he neglects to introduce me. I hate this because it usually forces me to introduce myself, which I will do rather than stand there like some stranger who's just invited herself to listen in on someones conversation. It wasn't this way when we were first married. It took certain experiences before I realized that if Doug wasn't going to tell people who I was, then I had to do it myself.
If you have been keeping up, you'll remember that I saved Doug's life one night. Well as luck would have it, while I was pregnant with a subsequent child, Doug got to return the favor.
You see, I was probably about seven months pregnant when one day we thought it would be nice to take the kids out for pizza. Now prepare yourselves, because we are going to enter a restaurant which means Doug will be running into someone he knows and this incident will lead to something very dreadful.
We walked into the restaurant and almost immediately Doug sees a long lost friend. They get talking and Doug forgets that I'm even there. I felt extra dumb because being seven months pregnant, you automatically feel ugly and fragile. This is a time when an otherwise assertive woman finds herself very uncomfortable being assertive, so rather than introduce myself I just walked away to attend to the children. I ordered the pizza, got the kids settled and kept looking over at Doug who had slowly found his way to the table while still yapping on with his buddy- who's family was seated across from us. These two were deeply engrossed in their conversation, but every time I looked up, Doug's friend would look at me with a most perplexed expression and it finally dawned on me what this guy must be wondering. This guy had known Doug when he was married to Allison and he hadn't seen him since before their divorce years earlier. He had no idea who I was. Imagine what this must have looked like to him, Doug there with this young pregnant woman and three little girls, clearly not Allison and their son. He didn't know what to think. When there was a slight break in the conversation and Doug finally turned around, I gave him the devil about it. "Why didn't you introduce me so this guy knows that I'm your wife? He keeps looking at me funny!" I whispered. Doug looked over and Saw his friend (We'll call him Dean) involved with his own family. "Well, he's busy with his family now." Doug says, not wanting to interrupt them. The pizza comes but Dean starts talking to Doug from across the table again, so Doug turns his attention away from us and starts into another lengthy discussion, again not taking the time to introduce me or his family. I'm starting to get upset and a little embarrassed as I see that Dean is obviously looking at me with eager anticipation, waiting for Doug to at last put his curiosity at rest. This is when things really get ugly. In a huff I nudge at Doug's leg under the table, a reminder that I am there and he needs to acknowledge it out loud. He only turns long enough to glance at me, and then responds to Dean's remark with a hearty laugh. The reminiscence goes on without my involvement and by now I am fuming. I pick up a slice of pizza and take a huge bite out of it, chopping down on it in anger. It's way too big, and there is far too much cheese to swallow and it goes down my throat in a lump and stays lodged there. I try to swallow hard, but it won't go down. It only takes a minute for me to realize that I am no longer able to breathe and I begin to panic. I stretch out my neck and try to spit it out, but it's stuck good. I try to cough, nothing. No sound even comes out of my mouth. I am choking, and all the while my husband is going on and on laughing and talking to his friend, paying no attention at all to what's happening right under his nose. I grab my throat in the "universal" choking sign and slide my chair back, finally catching the attention of my children. They start calling out "Dad!" while I begin slapping my hand down on the table to get him to notice me. I get the attention of Dean, who then points out to Doug that I am turning blue. Finally catching his attention, Doug jumps up and moves quickly around the table toward me. By now tears are streaming down my face. Doug gets behind me and locks his arms around my rib cage, under my chest and just above my pregnant belly. He gives me a squeeze, but nothing comes up. Another, nothing. The third time, he really puts some effort into it and pulls his fists hard up under my chest. The air forces the soggy pizza up from my throat and hurls it onto the table in front of us with a thud. Humiliated, I gasp for air and collapse back into the chair. I reach for a napkin to wipe my mouth and when I look up, I see the stares of nearly everyone in the room which just embarrasses me even more. I just want to get my children and go home. The mushy soggy mass that had been lodged in my throat was now in the middle of the table. Doug leans over my chair, "You okay?" he asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. I'm so full of emotions and hormones I can barley speak but I manage to spit out a few raspy words under my breath; "You make me sit here like a dummy while you yammer on with your long lost boyfriend who has no idea that you are remarried and you don't even bother to introduce me. Now everyone in here is looking at me and that gross wad of pizza. I'm a complete spectacle with snot and tears running down my face but your friend still has no idea who I am!" Doug looks up and realizes that Dean is watching us and It finally occurs to him that I'm right. "By the way Dean," he says, pointing at me, "this is my wife, Stephanie."
The next thing you should know about Doug is that he'd already had a brief encounter with marriage before we'd ever met, bless his heart. His first marriage lasted less than five years, but produced a son that made the whole thing worth while. The most unfortunate part of his first marriage, for me anyway, is that it took quite awhile for the word to get out among his peers that he was no longer married to his former wife. Despite the fact that there were six years between his divorce and the time that we met, there were still those few people who knew Doug when he was married to his first wife that had never received the news that they'd divorced. You need to understand that Doug knows almost everybody on planet Earth. This I'm quite sure, is because he is more personable and friendly than anyone I've ever known. I'm not kidding when I say that we can't enter a store, go to a movie, a restaurant or on vacation to Florida without Doug running into someone he knows well enough to keep all of us waiting while they chit-chat. It's become the family joke, even my mother teases him about it.
Sometimes Doug runs into an old friend and gets so involved in catching up that he neglects to introduce me. I hate this because it usually forces me to introduce myself, which I will do rather than stand there like some stranger who's just invited herself to listen in on someones conversation. It wasn't this way when we were first married. It took certain experiences before I realized that if Doug wasn't going to tell people who I was, then I had to do it myself.
If you have been keeping up, you'll remember that I saved Doug's life one night. Well as luck would have it, while I was pregnant with a subsequent child, Doug got to return the favor.
You see, I was probably about seven months pregnant when one day we thought it would be nice to take the kids out for pizza. Now prepare yourselves, because we are going to enter a restaurant which means Doug will be running into someone he knows and this incident will lead to something very dreadful.
We walked into the restaurant and almost immediately Doug sees a long lost friend. They get talking and Doug forgets that I'm even there. I felt extra dumb because being seven months pregnant, you automatically feel ugly and fragile. This is a time when an otherwise assertive woman finds herself very uncomfortable being assertive, so rather than introduce myself I just walked away to attend to the children. I ordered the pizza, got the kids settled and kept looking over at Doug who had slowly found his way to the table while still yapping on with his buddy- who's family was seated across from us. These two were deeply engrossed in their conversation, but every time I looked up, Doug's friend would look at me with a most perplexed expression and it finally dawned on me what this guy must be wondering. This guy had known Doug when he was married to Allison and he hadn't seen him since before their divorce years earlier. He had no idea who I was. Imagine what this must have looked like to him, Doug there with this young pregnant woman and three little girls, clearly not Allison and their son. He didn't know what to think. When there was a slight break in the conversation and Doug finally turned around, I gave him the devil about it. "Why didn't you introduce me so this guy knows that I'm your wife? He keeps looking at me funny!" I whispered. Doug looked over and Saw his friend (We'll call him Dean) involved with his own family. "Well, he's busy with his family now." Doug says, not wanting to interrupt them. The pizza comes but Dean starts talking to Doug from across the table again, so Doug turns his attention away from us and starts into another lengthy discussion, again not taking the time to introduce me or his family. I'm starting to get upset and a little embarrassed as I see that Dean is obviously looking at me with eager anticipation, waiting for Doug to at last put his curiosity at rest. This is when things really get ugly. In a huff I nudge at Doug's leg under the table, a reminder that I am there and he needs to acknowledge it out loud. He only turns long enough to glance at me, and then responds to Dean's remark with a hearty laugh. The reminiscence goes on without my involvement and by now I am fuming. I pick up a slice of pizza and take a huge bite out of it, chopping down on it in anger. It's way too big, and there is far too much cheese to swallow and it goes down my throat in a lump and stays lodged there. I try to swallow hard, but it won't go down. It only takes a minute for me to realize that I am no longer able to breathe and I begin to panic. I stretch out my neck and try to spit it out, but it's stuck good. I try to cough, nothing. No sound even comes out of my mouth. I am choking, and all the while my husband is going on and on laughing and talking to his friend, paying no attention at all to what's happening right under his nose. I grab my throat in the "universal" choking sign and slide my chair back, finally catching the attention of my children. They start calling out "Dad!" while I begin slapping my hand down on the table to get him to notice me. I get the attention of Dean, who then points out to Doug that I am turning blue. Finally catching his attention, Doug jumps up and moves quickly around the table toward me. By now tears are streaming down my face. Doug gets behind me and locks his arms around my rib cage, under my chest and just above my pregnant belly. He gives me a squeeze, but nothing comes up. Another, nothing. The third time, he really puts some effort into it and pulls his fists hard up under my chest. The air forces the soggy pizza up from my throat and hurls it onto the table in front of us with a thud. Humiliated, I gasp for air and collapse back into the chair. I reach for a napkin to wipe my mouth and when I look up, I see the stares of nearly everyone in the room which just embarrasses me even more. I just want to get my children and go home. The mushy soggy mass that had been lodged in my throat was now in the middle of the table. Doug leans over my chair, "You okay?" he asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. I'm so full of emotions and hormones I can barley speak but I manage to spit out a few raspy words under my breath; "You make me sit here like a dummy while you yammer on with your long lost boyfriend who has no idea that you are remarried and you don't even bother to introduce me. Now everyone in here is looking at me and that gross wad of pizza. I'm a complete spectacle with snot and tears running down my face but your friend still has no idea who I am!" Doug looks up and realizes that Dean is watching us and It finally occurs to him that I'm right. "By the way Dean," he says, pointing at me, "this is my wife, Stephanie."
Monday
Superman couldn't fly either, if he was pregnant.
Just over 15 years ago I was very pregnant with daughter #3, and due to the fact that I'm virtually hip-less, my babies never had any choice but to stick way out front. This caused an array of problems for me, some obvious one's (like wearing two completely different shoes without knowing it) and some not so obvious, like finding it more difficult to save peoples lives.
I say this because if you have ever had the opportunity to save someones life, you will understand the complexities of performing such a task. First of all, when the opportunity to "save" someone arises, most of the time you are totally unprepared for it. Secondly, once you have had the chance to gather you're faculties and have become fully aware of the situation, you find yourself already right in the middle of it and realize that you have been working on auto-pilot without really thinking. This is what happened when I had to save Doug's life one night.
As you recall, I was super pregnant, like due in five minutes or something like that. It was late and we were getting ready to go to bed when Doug asked; "What was that joke your dad was telling you yesterday?"
"Just the one about the guy with a wooden eye who goes to a dance and see's a girl with a club foot, so he asks her if she wants to dance and she says 'would I! would I!' and he gets offended and calls her 'hare-lip, hare-lip'. " I tell him.
"What does a hare-lip have to do with it if she has a club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know, maybe she was born with a cleft pallet." I say. "Huh. Why didn't he call her club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know. It's dumb. Goodnight..." and with that we fell asleep.
Now, if you have read my other posts you are aware that nothing ever happens at our house unless it's the middle of the night, so much later on in the middle of the night, after I was completely asleep and not aware that Doug had gotten up for some reason, I was awakened by a thunderous crash. Anyone who knows Doug also knows he is 6 ft. 6 and not a little sissy boy. When he fell, the house almost came down. It was so loud the shock of it jolted me awake instantly. In less than a second my brain tallied up the facts: Doug was on the floor possibly having a heart attack, it was pitch black outside and my bladder was so full I had to consider running to the bathroom first. Luckily my auto-pilot kicked in and I shot like a dart from my side of the bed with super-human speed. I didn't actually get out of the bed because it seemed much more reasonable to just scamper on all fours from one side of the bed to the other. Walking is one of those things that pregnant women just become accustomed to not doing. I had gradually, over the course of nine months, found myself doing everything to avoid actually standing up, and this time was no different. I scrambled up and across the bed so fast I found myself actually gliding on my pregnant belly (which was now playing the role of a bowling ball) and as if I had no control over my limbs whatsoever, my arms flew straight out in front of me making me all the more aerodynamic, like superman, if you can believe that. It's just incredible how easy flying can be when you really put your back into it. I couldn't stop no matter what I did, and there was hardly time to come up with a good plan for a crash landing while still keeping the little passenger intact. All I really know is that I was sleeping, and then I was scampering, and then I was sliding, and then I was flying and it wasn't until I was in mid-air that I realized I was going to land (hard) on something, and that something was Doug- who's life I was supposed to be saving. All of the sudden time slowed way down and I was floating in mid-air for a moment, long enough to figure out that if I turned halfway really quick and pulled my knees up, I could at the very least save the life of my unborn child. So that's what I did. Twisting and tucking in mid-air, I landed on Doug who had simply gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom, stood up too quickly and gotten dizzy. Not but three minutes had passed from the time we were both in bed. Now we lay together in a heap on the floor, Doug's face squashed against my belly, me stretched across him sideways holding the knee I had used to break my fall. We lay there in the stillness, Doug's breathing labored simply because I was suffocating him with my baby fat. Finally, a muffled voice came from out of the darkness:
"What the H--- are you doing?!" Doug asked as pointedly as he could through squished lips, "I'm saving your life! What the H--- are you doing?" I responded. With those questions out of the way we continued to lay there, stunned into dumb silence. At last I found the strength to get up off my husband, who by now looked almost dead. "Are you gonna get up?" I asked once I was on my feet, staring down at his lifeless form. "Should I? Maybe I should just sleep on the floor." He said without moving.
"Fine. I'll throw you a pillow." My knee was beginning to swell up and turn purple. I limped over to the edge of the bed and sat down. "Do you think the neighbors heard you fall? " I asked him, examining my knee, "It sounded like a bomb hit."
"I tried to lean against the wall, but it was further away than I realized." He explained, still stretched out on the floor.
"Aren't you glad I was here to resuscitate you?" I joked.
"You should have just let me die."
"Why would I do that?"
"You could've collected the insurance and saved your knee."
"Oh, I would never just let you die, would I? " I waited for a response. "Would I?" I asked again. Doug's voice trailed up from the floor, "Club foot, club foot."
I say this because if you have ever had the opportunity to save someones life, you will understand the complexities of performing such a task. First of all, when the opportunity to "save" someone arises, most of the time you are totally unprepared for it. Secondly, once you have had the chance to gather you're faculties and have become fully aware of the situation, you find yourself already right in the middle of it and realize that you have been working on auto-pilot without really thinking. This is what happened when I had to save Doug's life one night.
As you recall, I was super pregnant, like due in five minutes or something like that. It was late and we were getting ready to go to bed when Doug asked; "What was that joke your dad was telling you yesterday?"
"Just the one about the guy with a wooden eye who goes to a dance and see's a girl with a club foot, so he asks her if she wants to dance and she says 'would I! would I!' and he gets offended and calls her 'hare-lip, hare-lip'. " I tell him.
"What does a hare-lip have to do with it if she has a club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know, maybe she was born with a cleft pallet." I say. "Huh. Why didn't he call her club foot?" Doug asks. "I don't know. It's dumb. Goodnight..." and with that we fell asleep.
Now, if you have read my other posts you are aware that nothing ever happens at our house unless it's the middle of the night, so much later on in the middle of the night, after I was completely asleep and not aware that Doug had gotten up for some reason, I was awakened by a thunderous crash. Anyone who knows Doug also knows he is 6 ft. 6 and not a little sissy boy. When he fell, the house almost came down. It was so loud the shock of it jolted me awake instantly. In less than a second my brain tallied up the facts: Doug was on the floor possibly having a heart attack, it was pitch black outside and my bladder was so full I had to consider running to the bathroom first. Luckily my auto-pilot kicked in and I shot like a dart from my side of the bed with super-human speed. I didn't actually get out of the bed because it seemed much more reasonable to just scamper on all fours from one side of the bed to the other. Walking is one of those things that pregnant women just become accustomed to not doing. I had gradually, over the course of nine months, found myself doing everything to avoid actually standing up, and this time was no different. I scrambled up and across the bed so fast I found myself actually gliding on my pregnant belly (which was now playing the role of a bowling ball) and as if I had no control over my limbs whatsoever, my arms flew straight out in front of me making me all the more aerodynamic, like superman, if you can believe that. It's just incredible how easy flying can be when you really put your back into it. I couldn't stop no matter what I did, and there was hardly time to come up with a good plan for a crash landing while still keeping the little passenger intact. All I really know is that I was sleeping, and then I was scampering, and then I was sliding, and then I was flying and it wasn't until I was in mid-air that I realized I was going to land (hard) on something, and that something was Doug- who's life I was supposed to be saving. All of the sudden time slowed way down and I was floating in mid-air for a moment, long enough to figure out that if I turned halfway really quick and pulled my knees up, I could at the very least save the life of my unborn child. So that's what I did. Twisting and tucking in mid-air, I landed on Doug who had simply gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom, stood up too quickly and gotten dizzy. Not but three minutes had passed from the time we were both in bed. Now we lay together in a heap on the floor, Doug's face squashed against my belly, me stretched across him sideways holding the knee I had used to break my fall. We lay there in the stillness, Doug's breathing labored simply because I was suffocating him with my baby fat. Finally, a muffled voice came from out of the darkness:
"What the H--- are you doing?!" Doug asked as pointedly as he could through squished lips, "I'm saving your life! What the H--- are you doing?" I responded. With those questions out of the way we continued to lay there, stunned into dumb silence. At last I found the strength to get up off my husband, who by now looked almost dead. "Are you gonna get up?" I asked once I was on my feet, staring down at his lifeless form. "Should I? Maybe I should just sleep on the floor." He said without moving.
"Fine. I'll throw you a pillow." My knee was beginning to swell up and turn purple. I limped over to the edge of the bed and sat down. "Do you think the neighbors heard you fall? " I asked him, examining my knee, "It sounded like a bomb hit."
"I tried to lean against the wall, but it was further away than I realized." He explained, still stretched out on the floor.
"Aren't you glad I was here to resuscitate you?" I joked.
"You should have just let me die."
"Why would I do that?"
"You could've collected the insurance and saved your knee."
"Oh, I would never just let you die, would I? " I waited for a response. "Would I?" I asked again. Doug's voice trailed up from the floor, "Club foot, club foot."
Thursday
Beauty is in the eye of those who need glasses
Any woman who believes that beauty requires pain has never experienced the joy of just staying ugly. A few days ago, in an effort to keep up with the times in which we now live, I decided I should stop using regular razors and just go buy one of those new and improved techno-razors that everyone has been using forever. (Everyone except me, that is.) So, armed with the sharpest razor in the world, a can of tropical flavored shave gel and a guarantee that I would get the closest shave possible (according to the manufacturer) , I went into the bathroom and shaved my legs. Now, the promise that was made to me when I purchased this particular razor was that I would get the "closest" shave any razor has ever given to womankind, which is of course true, if your desire is to remove all the skin from your legs and yet still retain a fine layer of stubble. This razor did everything it promised; it shaved my legs and came very "close" to removing the hair also. But to make matters worse, I decided to be stupid and (thinking it would hide all the damage caused by the new razor) sprayed fake tan all over my legs which stung so bad it caused me to invent several new swear words that no one has ever heard before.
What is it with body hair that makes it attractive or unattractive? Leg hair is considered unattractive on women but not on men who, if they were to shave their legs, would be considered gay. Facial hair is like this also, women can't grow full beards and get away with it. Most people consider this ugly. Men who are capable of growing full beards are accepted among society as normal people and mostly not ugly unless they were ugly before they grew the beard, in which case facial hair doesn't really help.
My sister(who is married to the Secret Service as you will recall from a previous post) happens to think the Secret Service is more attractive (not that he wasn't before) with a beard. Apparently when the Secret Service grows a beard, he loses his boyish good looks and is instantly upgraded to "Hot". Put him in his classic black suit and tie, put a wire in his ear and throw on the government issued sunglasses and allegedly my sister melts like butter on a warm skillet.
Of course, all good things can become bad if they are overdone. ZZ-top's beards are not attractive unless you consider ZZ-top attractive, which I don't. Although, my Mother-in-law always maintained that there is a lid for every pot and this must be true as I have never known ZZ-top to have produced a music video that didn't feature women with long (neatly shaven) legs who seem to find those bearded dudes attractive. And, according to their song titled "Legs", ZZ-top ( ugly or not) suggest that they like women who have legs and know how to use them. This could only mean that people like me who shave with an ice pick still have a few things to learn about the proper care and function of legs.
The same idea that there is a lid for every pot holds especially true in cases like Abraham Boxwood (not his real name) , a man we were once acquainted with through business who had the biggest case of buck teeth I ever saw. One guy in the office mentioned that Abraham could've eaten corn through a fence with those teeth. They should have had their own zip code. His teeth would often arrive at business meetings five or ten minutes before Abraham and even begin taking notes for him. Abraham had a wife that we never had the opportunity to meet, but she must have found something about the poor guy attractive, though I'm not sure what it was. None the less, the saying "There's a lid for every pot" seems to hold true. A comforting thought to anyone out there who feels like a lid-less pot, or a pot-less lid for that matter. But there is another saying that I find to be the most comforting of all: Beauty is in the eye of those who need glasses.
What is it with body hair that makes it attractive or unattractive? Leg hair is considered unattractive on women but not on men who, if they were to shave their legs, would be considered gay. Facial hair is like this also, women can't grow full beards and get away with it. Most people consider this ugly. Men who are capable of growing full beards are accepted among society as normal people and mostly not ugly unless they were ugly before they grew the beard, in which case facial hair doesn't really help.
My sister(who is married to the Secret Service as you will recall from a previous post) happens to think the Secret Service is more attractive (not that he wasn't before) with a beard. Apparently when the Secret Service grows a beard, he loses his boyish good looks and is instantly upgraded to "Hot". Put him in his classic black suit and tie, put a wire in his ear and throw on the government issued sunglasses and allegedly my sister melts like butter on a warm skillet.
Of course, all good things can become bad if they are overdone. ZZ-top's beards are not attractive unless you consider ZZ-top attractive, which I don't. Although, my Mother-in-law always maintained that there is a lid for every pot and this must be true as I have never known ZZ-top to have produced a music video that didn't feature women with long (neatly shaven) legs who seem to find those bearded dudes attractive. And, according to their song titled "Legs", ZZ-top ( ugly or not) suggest that they like women who have legs and know how to use them. This could only mean that people like me who shave with an ice pick still have a few things to learn about the proper care and function of legs.
The same idea that there is a lid for every pot holds especially true in cases like Abraham Boxwood (not his real name) , a man we were once acquainted with through business who had the biggest case of buck teeth I ever saw. One guy in the office mentioned that Abraham could've eaten corn through a fence with those teeth. They should have had their own zip code. His teeth would often arrive at business meetings five or ten minutes before Abraham and even begin taking notes for him. Abraham had a wife that we never had the opportunity to meet, but she must have found something about the poor guy attractive, though I'm not sure what it was. None the less, the saying "There's a lid for every pot" seems to hold true. A comforting thought to anyone out there who feels like a lid-less pot, or a pot-less lid for that matter. But there is another saying that I find to be the most comforting of all: Beauty is in the eye of those who need glasses.
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