Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Old Joke #12

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To show the opossum it could be done.

Monday, March 30, 2009

An Elementary Retrospective - First Grade



First Grade

Teacher: Mrs. Floyd.

I can still remember going home for lunch the first day, over the top excited because I’d learned to read the word “Oh.”

And getting kept after school that afternoon for talking.

Mrs. Floyd was also big on punctuality. I always got to school on time, Mom saw to that, but when winter came, I had problems getting out of my snow pants. Since we wore dresses to school regardless of the season, to keep our spindly legs from turning into scrawny icicles, we also donned thick wool coats with matching hats and pants.

Beside each classroom was a cloakroom, a narrow hallway lined with rows of hooks. I remember Mrs. Floyd sitting in that cloakroom, drilling me on how to unsnap my hat, unbutton my coat and shimmy out of those pants (which meant removing my saddle shoes and then retying them) in what she considered to be a reasonable amount of time.

We saw a lot of the janitor that year, because Peter Nunn kept peeing his pants. Also, when Vicki Williams barfed. Before mopping it up, the janitor would sprinkle on deodorizer, flakes that looked just like the peppers in the jars on the table at Pizza Hut restaurants.

I’ve never been able to bring myself to put those things on my food.

We learned to read about Dick, Sally and Jane from this giant book that sat on the floor and, according to my recollection, was shoulder-height to a first-grader. Mrs. Floyd would hand each of us the pointer, and we’d take turns tracing it along the words beneath the pictures of the Terrible Trio doing such things as rescuing Puff, their cat, from a tree, or dissuading Spot, their dog, from chasing Puff. Never a dull moment at that house. (Notice how Jane, even though she's second oldest, gets third billing? Shades of Jan Brady.)

I’ve heard a lot of criticism of DS&J over the years, but my main memory is just being thrilled to learn to read. My sister, Rita, is 16-months older than I am, and it killed me when she started school. I pleaded to go with her. When Mom said I was too young, they wouldn’t let me attend, I begged for a chance to plead my case to the powers-that-were.

“Just let me talk to them,” I said. “I know I can convince them.”

Apparently, my belief in my powers of persuasion is a life-long delusion.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

A Couple of Answers

Over the past few days, people have posed a couple of questions in the comments, so I thought I'd take a few minutes to answer them.

1) No, I didn't throw up after the race. And if I can manage to get my shin splints under control, I'll probably run some more this summer. BTW -- my time was 42 minutes -- 14 minute miles. Like I said, there were only two other entrants in my age range. So those of you out there (Blicky) who are running 9 and 10 minute miles and finishing in 100th place, just keep at it. All you have to do is outlast the competition.

2) Linda Rosenfeldt's family moved away when we were in second or third grade. Haven't seen her since.

3) Are you always this funny? According to Old Dog, no. But since you're asking me....

4) It took me about an hour to clean out the hot tub, plus me, Phinn and the floor. Then another hour and a half washing/drying bath towels, while simultaneously running all the tub toys through the dishwasher in a mesh bag.

Phinn, who just turned 2 in January, did NOT help. His idiot grandmother sat him down to watch Monsters, Inc. while she cleaned. A few minutes later he wandered into the bathroom. His lower lip was trembling and his beautiful eyes were starting to puddle over with tears.

"M-m-monsters," he said, shaking.

So we went back to the living room to find something that wouldn't scare any further crap out him and to cuddle on Grandma's lap for a bit.

I keep wanting to tell him I AM trainable, but sometimes I wonder myself.

Anything else? Leave a comment and I'll add it to this list.

Please limit it to things discussed in this blog; if it's from real life, the answer is, "I don't know what the hell I was thinking."

Friday, March 27, 2009

An Elementary Retrospective - Kindergarten

F! E! S! Let’s go! This was the cheer for Franklin Elementary, the school I attended from Kindergarten through Eighth Grade. When I first started going there, our mascot was a bulldog. Then, for some reason – because another school had first dibbs maybe? – we got a new mascot. The collie. If this doesn’t sum up for you the kind of weenie-ass school I went to, read on: Kindergarten: Teacher: Miss Barbara. (I don’t remember her last name. It’s been fifty years. Give me a break.) I didn’t actually start kindergarten till mid-year (1960), because we’d moved that summer and the schools were so overcrowded because of the Baby Boom that I got wait-listed. It was during Kindergarten that I got engaged for the first time, to Robert Simpson, who had the most beautiful blue eyes. I can still remember my mom’s face when I brought home the ring he gave me. And I remember throwing it at him when I caught him finger-painting with Becky Vice.
Then there was Neil, who always brought Cracker Jacks for mid-morning snack. I didn’t much care for Neil, but I loved Cracker Jacks, so my best friend, Linda Rosenfeldt said, “Tell him you like him, and he’ll share with you.” Worked like a charm. Unfortunately, Neil’s other charms soon palled and long after I’d gotten my fill of Cracker Jacks, he continued to trail around after me. So Linda said, “During story time, move to another spot, and when he follows you, tell on him.” Oh, Linda, you devious woman. You are the influence that all parents fear.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

My Inner Jock



On Saturday, I participated in a 5K Walk/Run, sponsored by Digestive Care Specialists in Dayton, OH. The proceeds from the entry fees went to Reach Out, the free clinic where I work, and to Good Neighbor House, another free clinic in the area that offers dental services.


I started out at the back of the pack, with the dog walkers, figuring on a leisurely stroll with my iPod, but after 5 minutes or so I got bored. I had some Motown cranking on the 'Pod, and pretty soon I was jogging.


At least until I hit the first hill.


Once I was on level ground again, the urge to overtake the group in front of me became overwhelming. And so on, and so on.


After the race, I was standing around with my boss, trying to decide whether to puke or not, when they called my name.


I took second place in the Women 55-59 division! (Out of 3 entrants, but I figure I also get to claim victory over all the women who didn't get up off the couch.)

For entering, I got a cool T-shirt, a free salad from McDonalds, a tube of spray hand sanitizer (that no grandma should be without) and a roll of toilet paper with a band that says, "Help Wipe Out Colon Cancer." (No shit.)


And, for placing, I got a kaleidoscope. I was a little afraid to look in it --would it have a colon picture that grew polyps when you twisted it? -- but it was just a normal kaleidoscope.



I wonder how many more t-shirts I could wrack up before my knees give out?

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Old Joke #11

A rabbi, a minister and a priest walk into a bar, and the bartender says, "What is this, a joke?"

Monday, March 23, 2009

Come On a' My House


Our downstairs bath is a multi-purpose room. In addition to the normal fixtures one associates with a bathroom, it also hosts our washer and dryer.

And, it’s an indoor swimming facility.

The previous owner installed a hot tub. Before you go all emerald with envy, let me describe this thing. Molded from greenish-yellowish-grayish fiberglass, and riddled with hairline cracks from age, it could easily accommodate four Sumo wrestlers. It takes, without exaggeration, an hour to fill. And that’s just to cover the jets.

My grandkids LOVE this tub. One of their favorite things is to bring over their suits and “swim.” We have lots of bath toys and fluffy towels, and, thank God, a ceramic floor.

Most of the grandkids are, biologically speaking, Old Dog’s. Of the current census of 11 (which fluctuates due to marriages and divorces) only one (shown above with his baby sister*) carries my genetic material. I don’t love him more than the others, but I do enjoy scanning his little face for traces of myself. Because his father is an anonymous donor and his maternal grandfather passed away a couple of years ago, I am the only biological grandparent in his life (although he has scads of non-biological grandparents who adore him).

(BTW – there’s a huge advantage to having a grandchild via an anonymous donor – you can claim all the positive traits and ascribe any you don’t like to his unknown father. “He’s so smart – he gets that from me” and “That temper tantrum thing – that must run in the donor’s family.”)

I picked him up on Friday and we spent the day together, eating lunch as the “pool” filled. I donned my suit and got him into his swimmy diaper. He wasn’t sure about swimming indoors, but once I hauled out the singing dolphins and Pooh and Eyeore and their boats, he was happy to paddle in the warm water, while Grandma showed him how to squeeze Pooh so that water sprayed from his mouth.

The first time I did this, Pooh also spat some bits of leaves and debris that had been resting in his tummy since we put the wading pool away last summer. So a few moments later when I noticed the water was cloudy, I figured that was the cause.

As Phinn continued to play, without a care in the world, however, the water went from cloudy to out-and-out murky. Then I looked at Phinn’s cherubic little face and remembered his nanny telling me that he’d probably poop in the next couple of hours.

Have you ever seen the movie Silkwood? Or watched the part of Monsters, Inc. where Phlegm is decontaminated after he gets that kiddie sock stuck to his back? If so, you have an idea what the next half hour looked like at our house as I disinfected him, me, the tub, the toys, the floor and a load of bath towels.

Kind of takes all the sexy right out of hot tubs, doesn’t it?

(*Although they have different mothers, the kids share a donor, so they’re biologically related.)

Friday, March 20, 2009

The Zygomatic Smile


As a number of you figured out, the trick to differentiating a real smile from a fake one is the eyes.

That’s because there are two different muscle groups that create smiles.

Both true and forced smiles use the zygomaticus major muscles – the ones that control the lifting of the corners of the lips.

In addition, a second muscle group, the obicularis oculi, also comes into play when smiling. As you can guess from the name, these muscles surround the eyes. The inner half of this muscle group controls the eyelids and the skin directly below them. The outer half runs around the outside of the eye, pulling down the eyebrows and raising the skin under the outer eye and over the cheekbones when you smile.

Like the zygomaticus majors, the inside group can be controlled voluntarily; however, only about 10% of people studied can consciously control the outer group. So, to tell a fake smile from a real one, you need to study the eyebrows (are they drawn down?), the cheeks (are they lifted up?) and the skin beneath the outer eye (is it crinkled?).
So now you're ready to move on to something tougher. See how well you do identifying emotions just from the eyes at Mind in the Eyes.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Spot the Fake Smile

Today, I propose that we play a game. Let’s see how good you are at knowing a fake smile from a real one.

Go to this link and take the test.

Then post your results in the comments, along with anything you want to share about how you decided which smiles were real and which were fake.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Tuesday Bonus: You Be the Judge

Someone once told me that women can't be assholes, only bitches.

Last night, Old Dog and I were sharing war stories about our Mondays.

"Rough days affect everyone differently," I said. I pointed to that ridge of muscles that run from the shoulders to the neck. "It gets me right here."

He kissed me on the top of the head and began massaging my stiff muscles.

"Whereas," I continued, "it apparently gets you right in the armpits."

(I emphatically deny being a bitch on that one.

I will, however, cop to asshole.

BTW -- Don't start feeling sorry for him. He then thrust my head into his armpit and held it there for 30 seconds. I may have to amputate my nose.)

Monday, March 16, 2009

Old Joke #10

A hunter is having a drink at a bar when a older woman sits down on the stool next to his.

They get to talking, and she confesses to being 62. Well, he thinks, she looks pretty darn HOT for 62!

She's drinking quite a bit and, while they're chatting, she comes right out and asks if he's ever had a "sportsman's double" - a mother and daughter threesome.

No, he says -- but she might be able to talk him into it.

She slams back one last drink, wipes her mouth and, looking directly into his eyes, says, "Tonight's your lucky night."

Aroused, he follows her back to her place.

Right as they enter the front door, she clicks on the hall light and shouts up the stairs:

"Mom! You still awake?"

Friday, March 13, 2009

Friday Culture Day - Voltaire



God is a comedian, playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.

Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.

An ideal form of government is democracy tempered with assassination.

As long as people believe in absurdities they will continue to commit atrocities.

Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.

Behind every successful man stands a surprised mother-in-law.

Never argue at the dinner table, for the one who is not hungry always gets the best of the argument.

(This is my 100th post, so I celebrated with 100 words.)

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The Birds and the Bees - Part 3

Old Dog says he got The Talk after his dad caught him trying to stop a rooster from copulating with a hen in their chicken yard. Young Pup was worried that the rooster, who had the hen’s neck trapped in his beak, was trying to kill her. “Nah,” said Doggy Daddy, “that’s how chickens have sex.” And then he nodded and walked away, a man relieved to have an unpleasant task behind him. (Thank God Old Dog’s first wife was the one who had to deal with any misconceptions that left behind. There’s a lot to be said for buying a pre-owned model.)

My first husband’s mom, on the other hand, gave him a pamphlet. Period. Not even a, “and let me know if you have questions.” Just a little booklet and you’re-on-your-own-buddy.

It is possible, however, to be too detailed. Some friends ran into this when describing the upcoming birth of their new baby to its soon-to-be brother, aged 8, and sister, age 6.

“A woman’s body,” Dad explained, “has three openings. Each these serves a specific purpose: one is for peeing and one is for pooping, but it’s the third opening that we’ll be talking about today.”

At this point, the 8-year-old interrupted. “You mean it comes out the pussy?”

Maybe our parents were right after all.

Monday, March 9, 2009

The Birds and the Bees - Part 2

Since today is Barbie’s birthday, revealing her role in my sex education seems appropriate.

When I was a kid, I loved playing with my Barbie doll. She was a star as I acted out, puppet fashion, every book or movie that caught my fancy. I couldn’t sew, but I’d cut out fabric to make the costumes she needed for a given role, then bind them together with scotch tape and staples. They weren’t very durable, but my attention span was as short then as it is now, so they didn’t need to be.

I often played with Vicky, who lived across the street. One day we were in the log cabin playhouse my dad had built for us kids in our backyard when she asked me if I knew where babies came from.

“From your mom’s belly,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Yeah, but how does it get in there?”

Since it was still four years before Reverend Puff would bring his magic record into school, I had to admit ignorance.

“I can show you,” she said, “but we’ll need some stuff.”

We set off down the alley behind my house, searching the neighbors’ trashcans until we found a discarded aerosol can of Lilt home permanent solution and one of Barbasol.

She hefted the almost empty can in her hand. “This should do it.”

Back at the cabin, we stripped off Barbie and Ken’s clothes. Vicky applied the Lilt to Barbie’s groin area and the Barbasol to Ken’s. Then she rubbed them together.

“And when the shaving cream mixes up with the Lilt,” she said, “that’s when you get pregnant.”

This is how screwed up things were at my house: my mom overheard this conversation, and did nothing to correct this misconception.

For the next few weeks, my Barbie sported a wad of cotton beneath her blouse.

Just as I was beginning to grow bored with the restrictions pregnancy was placing on my leading lady, I overheard my mom and one of my aunts talking about a woman who’d had a miscarriage.
I looked up from my blooming Barbie.

“What’s a miscarriage?” I asked, and got the standard response.

“Go look it up.”

A week later, after a trip to the library, my Barbie was once again svelte.

“I thought your Barbie was having a baby?” Mom said.

“She had an abortion.”

(There are a lot of morals you can construe from this, but the chief one is: Don’t put life-and-death decisions in the hands of fourth-graders.)

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Celebrity Collage by MyHeritage



There you go, CG! Don't know why you thought this would be so hard on the ego....

MyHeritage: Family trees - Genealogy - Celebrities - Collage - Morph

Friday, March 6, 2009

The Birds and the Bees - Part 1


The only thing my parents’ generation hated worse than sex education being taught in the schools was teaching it themselves at home.

My mother, who bore 7 children, was so uncomfortable with the topic that she outsourced it to my older sisters, who handled about as competently as most subcontractors. Any time I had a question they couldn’t answer, they just made something up.

This may be why, as a teenager, I loved to torture my mom by plopping down on her bed when she was trying to read, and announcing, “I have a question about sex.” One night, driven to the edge by my incessant curiosity, she wailed, “I let you read anything you want. Isn’t that enough?”

I actually, honest to God, first learned about the mechanics at Franklin Elementary when the pastor of a nearby church came to our school and played an LP that explained everything. I still recall sitting in a group of seventh and eighth graders (boys on the left side of the aisle, girls on the right) in the auditorium and listening to the measured voice on the record saying, “then the man’s penis, engorged with blood, becomes stiff, allowing him to insert….” And sitting there, face flaming inside a curtain of hair, thinking, “so that’s how it works.”

Long past the point of “ewwww,” I was just glad to finally understand what everyone else seemed already to know.

What worked out less well was my attempt, years later, to transmit that information to my daughter. She swears to this day that my fumbling conversation, complete with hand-drawn diagrams of ovaries and fallopian tubes, was the most traumatic event of her childhood. That may be partly because I hate the word “engorged,” so I substituted “filled up.” She insists she thought the man spurted blood during sex.

(If anyone out there is thinking, “Ah, so that’s why she grew up to be a lesbian,” just stop it. If mismanagement of The Talk caused homosexuality, there wouldn’t be a straight person on this planet.)

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Wednesday Culture Day


I'm tired of hearing it said that democracy doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work. We are supposed to work it.

Many of us spend half of our time wishing for things we could have if we didn't spend half our time wishing.

All the things I really like to do are either immoral, illegal or fattening.

Nothing risque, nothing gained.

A hick town is one where there is no place to go where you shouldn't go.

There is no such thing in anyone's life as an unimportant day.

(I know I've been a little light on content since I came back from my little hiatus, but there's a good reason. Vodka Mom is going to be out of town this weekend, and she's invited me to do a guest post. So I've been working slavishly to write something worthy.)

Monday, March 2, 2009

Health Update

I just had a mammogram and they found a lump in my breast.

Luckily, it turned out to be my belt buckle.

(This should actually be titlled "Old Joke #9," but that would have given it away. Anyway, of course I have a lump. There's a BB in there!)

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