Working at a newspaper, I find myself taking ads for garage sales from many, many ambitious people who actually have them.
Myself? Well, not surprisingly, I never have garage sales. Don't get me wrong, I admire those people who do, I just don't have them myself. I always thought it was because I was too lazy to gather all the crap I have in my house up and laying it out on the driveway for others to peruse, discuss and ultimately reject. (What?? That is a perfectly good 8-track player, how could you not want that?) Now I have come to the conclusion that I don't have garage sales because I have a mental illness.
My illness stems from my intense belief that my crap is worth more than you are willing to pay me for it and I don't want to let anything go (and because I'm too lazy to haul my junk outside and put price tags on it).
About a year ago, my sisters and mom came over to help me fix up my basement and make the kids' rooms into "guest rooms" and basically make it a livable section of the house.(Yes, it requires an entire cleaning crew to get this done). My sister reminded me just the other day of them going through the hordes of stuff in my basement. They started by asking me if I wanted to keep this or that. They quickly learned, if asked, I would not release anything. (Now do you wonder why my house is so full of crap?)
It started out simply enough with questions like: Them - "Why do you have this little blow up beach ball thing?" Me - "My son brought it home from after-prom, so it has a story attached to it. He probably still wants that." Them - "No he doesn't" It is thrown away. (Being the youngest, I have learned they just ask to be polite, they really don't care what the response is. They are older and know what's best for me. Actually, most of the time that is true. Apparently you don't get any smarter with age.) They immediately quit asking. When they left the basement, about four lawn & leaf bags of junk went with them.
Miraculously, my basement became a clean, livable space--then. It seems I have a way of accumulating stuff. Some things even I am a little ashamed I have kept (I have a cast from a broken leg I had 18 years ago). Other things, how do you pitch them? Just a couple of weeks ago I took down a handprint my son had made when he was three. Now obviously, I have no use for it now, but how can a mother throw it away?? If you don't throw it away, where do you keep it. At what point do you draw the line??
And that's just sentimental stuff. What about that recliner you paid $400 for back in 1988? I mean it's still in good shape, why shouldn't someone be willing to pay $200 for it now. I mean my gosh, it's half price!! The dresser only has a few scrathes on it, it should be worth at least a third of its original price, right? WRONG! My stuff is crap. Your stuff is crap. If it's at a garage sale, everyone pretty much thinks it's crap. Well, maybe I'm wrong. People have told me about garage sales they had and made $1,000-$2,000. I'm lucky to make $10.
I guess it really is just my stuff that is crap.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
In all seriousness...
If you enjoy reading my posts, please pass along my web address. I am trying to get up a lot of readers. I am kind of hoping someday to publish somewhere other than my little newspaper, but need a lot of feedback to proceed. If anyone knows a way for me to increase my readership, I am open to any and all suggestions.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sports stupid
The childhood trauma came rushing back!
I'll explain. Yesterday, while sitting at my mother's with my daughter and two of her friends, I tossed my phone over to my daughter to show her a picture message I had just received. When we finished oohing and aahing over the picture, she tossed the phone back to me. (Here is where the trauma comes in!)
I'll just say it, I am probably the most unathletic person on the face of the Earth. I mean maybe if it was a sport that didn't involve catching, throwing, running, kicking or hitting something, maybe I would have been good at it. Plus, as a little kid with glasses, my face was apparently a magnet for balls. I think I can honestly say I have been hit in the face with just about every ball known to man except for a bowling ball or a croquet ball (which probably would have killed me if I had been hit with them, thus ending my tragic tale). Yes, I have been hit with a softball, baseball, basketball, soccer ball, red rubber ball, volleyball (which I played and have been told that the spectators felt sorry for me because I was so horrible--"Serve the ball over the net this time, Christine!!!") and yes, even a golf ball (don't ask).
Anyway, I attempted to catch the phone with a motion that can only be described as some kind of spastic twitch. Needless to say, I did not actually catch it. I was SO happy to know this mini convulsion was witnessed by others. Friend says, "That was a horrible catch!" (She pretended I had actually caught the thing because it had at least landed in my lap.)
All the trauma of picking teams in grade school came rushing back. Remember the days when the teacher would assign two people to be captains (usually the most athletic) and told those captains to choose their teams? Now, I realize someone has to be picked last, but every single time? That's just wrong. I was so far down the list of people to pick, EVERYONE got picked before me. "I want Beulah, the paraplegic, you have to take Christine" or "I want Emily with the iron lung, you have to take Christine." What may be even worse than being chosen after someone with a prosthetic leg is being bartered off because you suck so much, the opposing team thinks the handicap of having you on the team somehow makes up for the athletic prowess of someone else. For example, "You have Dawn (a really good athlete), so you have to take Christine." Apparently this is supposed to help shift the balance of power from the team being unstoppable (because of Dawn), and being a guaranteed loser (because of me).
I've got to tell you, when the hierarchy of life is determined by recess (as it is in grade school), your self-esteem sort of plummets when the kid on life support is chosen for the team before you.
The really sad part is that even if the kid on life support is chosen as the captain, even THEY won't choose you for the team because they want their team to win.
Oh well, at least I didn't have to run to catch the phone.
I'll explain. Yesterday, while sitting at my mother's with my daughter and two of her friends, I tossed my phone over to my daughter to show her a picture message I had just received. When we finished oohing and aahing over the picture, she tossed the phone back to me. (Here is where the trauma comes in!)
I'll just say it, I am probably the most unathletic person on the face of the Earth. I mean maybe if it was a sport that didn't involve catching, throwing, running, kicking or hitting something, maybe I would have been good at it. Plus, as a little kid with glasses, my face was apparently a magnet for balls. I think I can honestly say I have been hit in the face with just about every ball known to man except for a bowling ball or a croquet ball (which probably would have killed me if I had been hit with them, thus ending my tragic tale). Yes, I have been hit with a softball, baseball, basketball, soccer ball, red rubber ball, volleyball (which I played and have been told that the spectators felt sorry for me because I was so horrible--"Serve the ball over the net this time, Christine!!!") and yes, even a golf ball (don't ask).
Anyway, I attempted to catch the phone with a motion that can only be described as some kind of spastic twitch. Needless to say, I did not actually catch it. I was SO happy to know this mini convulsion was witnessed by others. Friend says, "That was a horrible catch!" (She pretended I had actually caught the thing because it had at least landed in my lap.)
All the trauma of picking teams in grade school came rushing back. Remember the days when the teacher would assign two people to be captains (usually the most athletic) and told those captains to choose their teams? Now, I realize someone has to be picked last, but every single time? That's just wrong. I was so far down the list of people to pick, EVERYONE got picked before me. "I want Beulah, the paraplegic, you have to take Christine" or "I want Emily with the iron lung, you have to take Christine." What may be even worse than being chosen after someone with a prosthetic leg is being bartered off because you suck so much, the opposing team thinks the handicap of having you on the team somehow makes up for the athletic prowess of someone else. For example, "You have Dawn (a really good athlete), so you have to take Christine." Apparently this is supposed to help shift the balance of power from the team being unstoppable (because of Dawn), and being a guaranteed loser (because of me).
I've got to tell you, when the hierarchy of life is determined by recess (as it is in grade school), your self-esteem sort of plummets when the kid on life support is chosen for the team before you.
The really sad part is that even if the kid on life support is chosen as the captain, even THEY won't choose you for the team because they want their team to win.
Oh well, at least I didn't have to run to catch the phone.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Victoria's Secret (PG-13)
This the Victoria's Secret semi-annual sale. Now some of you , shall we say, "perkier" ladies may not care about such things, but for some of us whom gravity has attacked with a vengeance, we need to know the Secret.
How do you know when it's time to be let in on the Secret? Here are a few clues: 1) When you walk past and flash your breasts at your husband by lifting the bottom of your skirt. 2) When you start to worry you are going to zip your bosoms up in your jeans. 3) When you lie on your back and have to put your arms over your head because your ta tas are flanking you. 4)When you dry off from the shower and as you bend over to dry your legs, your knockers resemble tube socks with croquet balls in them.
Ok, those are a just a few of the clues you get.
You "perkier" ladies, also known as young women, small breasted women or "enhanced" women, can go to Walmart or Target and just pick up a sports bra. Me? Not so lucky.
I recently purchased a couple of less expensive bras to wear on weekends or on Big Panty days (or let's face it, those days when you just want to be comfortable). After I got them home, I decided to wear one of my new purchases. Now, I had tried them on at the store to make sure they fit, but I had NOT tried them on with clothes. Anyway, I put one on and was wearing it to work on one of my 16-hour days for comfort's sake. I looked down and noticed that it appeared I had two cannons facing opposite directions preparing to shoot! Now, I firmly believe that having larger breasts when you are 60 pounds overweight is kind of like God's compensation to you. "Well, you have cottage cheese thighs, a huge flat butt and a gut which sticks out further than your backside, but look, you have cleavage now!"
However, without Victoria's Secret to lift those sisters up and put them where they belong, it is of no use whatsoever. So I guess my point is I will be at Victoria's Secret sometime this weekend making my half-price (but still expensive) purchase because the girls are worth it. I will bear with the stiff underwire, live with the "push-up" feature which makes 'em look better and deal with the biting that occurs after about eight hours. Hey, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do.
How do you know when it's time to be let in on the Secret? Here are a few clues: 1) When you walk past and flash your breasts at your husband by lifting the bottom of your skirt. 2) When you start to worry you are going to zip your bosoms up in your jeans. 3) When you lie on your back and have to put your arms over your head because your ta tas are flanking you. 4)When you dry off from the shower and as you bend over to dry your legs, your knockers resemble tube socks with croquet balls in them.
Ok, those are a just a few of the clues you get.
You "perkier" ladies, also known as young women, small breasted women or "enhanced" women, can go to Walmart or Target and just pick up a sports bra. Me? Not so lucky.
I recently purchased a couple of less expensive bras to wear on weekends or on Big Panty days (or let's face it, those days when you just want to be comfortable). After I got them home, I decided to wear one of my new purchases. Now, I had tried them on at the store to make sure they fit, but I had NOT tried them on with clothes. Anyway, I put one on and was wearing it to work on one of my 16-hour days for comfort's sake. I looked down and noticed that it appeared I had two cannons facing opposite directions preparing to shoot! Now, I firmly believe that having larger breasts when you are 60 pounds overweight is kind of like God's compensation to you. "Well, you have cottage cheese thighs, a huge flat butt and a gut which sticks out further than your backside, but look, you have cleavage now!"
However, without Victoria's Secret to lift those sisters up and put them where they belong, it is of no use whatsoever. So I guess my point is I will be at Victoria's Secret sometime this weekend making my half-price (but still expensive) purchase because the girls are worth it. I will bear with the stiff underwire, live with the "push-up" feature which makes 'em look better and deal with the biting that occurs after about eight hours. Hey, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Scooter weather
I would love to be able to drive my scooter again. I miss it. A little background--We bought a little Honda moped a couple of years ago. I live in a small town where the speed limit is usually no more than 30 miles per hour, so a vehicle that has a top speed of about 29 mph is just fine. Also, there's not much traffic, so you are relatively safe (unless someone is driving behind you talking on their cell phone, eating a hamburger, putting their hair up in a ponytail, putting on mascara in the rearview mirror and simultaneously talking with the nine other people smashed into their little clown car). The good side is that the scooter gets between 80 and 90 miles to the gallon which, when gas is $4 a gallon, is a darn sight better than my Buick. The bad part is that I look like a Cabbage Patch doll riding on a Barbie bike. Or a Weeble riding a straw. Whatever--you get the picture.
Ok, so I'm a short, fat, old lady riding around on a tiny little scooter wearing a bicycle helmet. (I mean better safe than sorry, right?) Since I live in a small town and work for the local papaer, I know many of the folks around here. I can just imagine the conversation around the dinner table: (Hey, I'm in menopause, you know it's about ME!) "Did you see Christine on her scooter today? I wonder where that seat goes when she sits on it? Do you think it has to be surgically removed when she stands up? You suppose those tires are reinforced? Does she think a bicycle helmet is going to protect her if she gets hit by a car?
In answer to the last question, I don't know how much protection my helmet will provide, but I hope if I get hit, I'm not having a Big Panty day.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Big Panties
Gotta say, I'm kind of having a "Big Panty" day. I don't know what you call them, but that's what I call them. For those of you who are young, guys, newlyweds (that's anyone who has been married less than half their life)or any combination of the above, I will explain. Big Panty days are those days when you wake up and your nose is kind of stopped up, your face feels greasy, you walk into the bathroom, glance in the mirror and shriek (probably because in addition to your greasy face, you find a big red zit about to make its appearance and four new whiskers on your chin. Basically you feel really ugly and fat and just want to wear something comfortable and don't care if it matches or it's from the 70s or whatever.
Those are the days you open your drawer and dig to the bottom and find your big panties. The ones where half the elastic is hanging out, or have holes ot stains or what have you. The ones you should have already thrown away, but have never really gotten around to "just in case" you needed them. (You know you have them...it's those panties your mom always said NOT to be wearing if you were in a car wreck.) (Can't you hear the EMS now, "Man, she should have listened to her mama. That's probably why she got in this horrible, disfiguring, maiming accident. Because she was wearing her big panties. She should have known better!)
Now, I don't know what other people call those days and I'm basically just assuming guys have their own version of it, having never actually been a guy myself. (However, those chin whiskers are becoming more and more prevalent...)
Speaking of displaced hairs, have you ever noticed older men have little bushes growing out of their ears?? I used to think it was just because as it fell off their head, it just took root wherever it landed like in their ears or on their back. Now I have decided it's a self-preservation adaption that God gave them. It protects them from the savage spewing of the menopausal women around them.
As I've gotten older, I have noticed certain changes. The first thing I noticed was that all of a sudden, everyone around me started having a big bowl of Stupid in the morning. Then came the fact that no one seemed to noticed the temperature would just unexpectedly rise to like 300 degrees. (Why is no one else sweating?? Are they dead?)
In the middle of the night, for some odd reason, I wanted to shove my husband out of bed because he was sucking up all my air and of course, causing me to sweat like a pig.
Now of course, I have to come realize that as always, it's all about ME! I have to remember to be patient and hope their box of Stupid runs out soon. (My box of Grouch seems to be bottomless, so don't bet on it running out anytime soon. And I can chew on one bowl of Grouch for DAYS!)When the temperature rises, I just sit and fan and laugh it off (better to join in on the laughter than just feel like you're being laughed at). In the middle of the night, I get up and put my feet on cold tile. (It helps). Hopefully everyone around will me will survive the next decade or so.
Now that I think about it, I guess I would rather have a big panty day than a tiny hat day.
Those are the days you open your drawer and dig to the bottom and find your big panties. The ones where half the elastic is hanging out, or have holes ot stains or what have you. The ones you should have already thrown away, but have never really gotten around to "just in case" you needed them. (You know you have them...it's those panties your mom always said NOT to be wearing if you were in a car wreck.) (Can't you hear the EMS now, "Man, she should have listened to her mama. That's probably why she got in this horrible, disfiguring, maiming accident. Because she was wearing her big panties. She should have known better!)
Now, I don't know what other people call those days and I'm basically just assuming guys have their own version of it, having never actually been a guy myself. (However, those chin whiskers are becoming more and more prevalent...)
Speaking of displaced hairs, have you ever noticed older men have little bushes growing out of their ears?? I used to think it was just because as it fell off their head, it just took root wherever it landed like in their ears or on their back. Now I have decided it's a self-preservation adaption that God gave them. It protects them from the savage spewing of the menopausal women around them.
As I've gotten older, I have noticed certain changes. The first thing I noticed was that all of a sudden, everyone around me started having a big bowl of Stupid in the morning. Then came the fact that no one seemed to noticed the temperature would just unexpectedly rise to like 300 degrees. (Why is no one else sweating?? Are they dead?)
In the middle of the night, for some odd reason, I wanted to shove my husband out of bed because he was sucking up all my air and of course, causing me to sweat like a pig.
Now of course, I have to come realize that as always, it's all about ME! I have to remember to be patient and hope their box of Stupid runs out soon. (My box of Grouch seems to be bottomless, so don't bet on it running out anytime soon. And I can chew on one bowl of Grouch for DAYS!)When the temperature rises, I just sit and fan and laugh it off (better to join in on the laughter than just feel like you're being laughed at). In the middle of the night, I get up and put my feet on cold tile. (It helps). Hopefully everyone around will me will survive the next decade or so.
Now that I think about it, I guess I would rather have a big panty day than a tiny hat day.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Foot Fetish
This weekend I was invited to get a pedicure with my mom and daughter. Sounds like a fun outing, right?? Well, it was a fun time. For me anyway. I can't really say the same for the poor guy who was administering my pedicure.
Before I even went to get my pedicure, I had to mow my legs. (Again with the judging??) In my defense, my legs rarely see the light of day. (Believe me, there's a reason for that. I do not have legs anyone wants to see. My legs look the hood of a white vehicle that has been pelted with hail! I know, tan fat looks better than white fat, but like a vampire, I burst into flame when coming into direct sunlight.)
Anyway, back to my pedicure story. I have to admit here that besides the fact that my feet look Fred Flintstone's (short square toes on short square feet), I generally abhor shoes and taken them off about March and don't put them back on until around November. Needless to say, they aren't exactly the softest feet on Earth. (Ok, my kids call them moccasins.) Anyway, I'm soaking my feet in the tub and he does the thing with the toe nails (clipping, buffing, cuticle trimming, etc.) He looks at my heels and looks at me with a pained expression. He said, "You want cut off?" I'm thinking, ouch! Not particularly. (Besides, I need those callouses to walk on later, right?)
He gets out his electric sander and some kind of toxic cleanser and proceeds to scrub the heck out of my heels. After like 20 minutes, he falls back exhausted. Next comes the application of pretty polish to ugly toes. (I know they're ugly, but they are still attached to my legs, so you do what you can, right?) He polishes them beautifully and has me sit in front of this teeny, tiny little fan blowing on my toes, which puts out about as much air as a snore. I sit there for a while and it seemed like long enough for the polish to dry. WRONG! I put on my sandals and immediately messed up my polish. The guy came back over and redid my polish. (God bless him!!) Before I left, he insisted I wear some flip-flops he provided, so I didn't mess up my toes any further. (The flip-flops resemble hospital shoes for thsoe who are not really interested in hygiene. Anyway, I did finally leave and my toes are lovely.
I heard that guy retired right after I left.
Before I even went to get my pedicure, I had to mow my legs. (Again with the judging??) In my defense, my legs rarely see the light of day. (Believe me, there's a reason for that. I do not have legs anyone wants to see. My legs look the hood of a white vehicle that has been pelted with hail! I know, tan fat looks better than white fat, but like a vampire, I burst into flame when coming into direct sunlight.)
Anyway, back to my pedicure story. I have to admit here that besides the fact that my feet look Fred Flintstone's (short square toes on short square feet), I generally abhor shoes and taken them off about March and don't put them back on until around November. Needless to say, they aren't exactly the softest feet on Earth. (Ok, my kids call them moccasins.) Anyway, I'm soaking my feet in the tub and he does the thing with the toe nails (clipping, buffing, cuticle trimming, etc.) He looks at my heels and looks at me with a pained expression. He said, "You want cut off?" I'm thinking, ouch! Not particularly. (Besides, I need those callouses to walk on later, right?)
He gets out his electric sander and some kind of toxic cleanser and proceeds to scrub the heck out of my heels. After like 20 minutes, he falls back exhausted. Next comes the application of pretty polish to ugly toes. (I know they're ugly, but they are still attached to my legs, so you do what you can, right?) He polishes them beautifully and has me sit in front of this teeny, tiny little fan blowing on my toes, which puts out about as much air as a snore. I sit there for a while and it seemed like long enough for the polish to dry. WRONG! I put on my sandals and immediately messed up my polish. The guy came back over and redid my polish. (God bless him!!) Before I left, he insisted I wear some flip-flops he provided, so I didn't mess up my toes any further. (The flip-flops resemble hospital shoes for thsoe who are not really interested in hygiene. Anyway, I did finally leave and my toes are lovely.
I heard that guy retired right after I left.
More about being directionally impaired
Now I have a new thing to fear about GPS systems. What if they lie to you?
My niece recently went on a trip with her new GPS system and decided to rely solely on directions being given by said device. They ended up driving 50 miles out of their way and still had not arrived at the destination they thought they had programmed in. Okay, she said they think they know what they did wrong and she doesn't think it will happen again. But what if it does?
I can picture the conversation with my husband now. "Honey, I'm on my way to Reno, Nevada. I just passed a sign that said Anchorage 17 miles. Did I make a wrong turn?"
I mean why do thay make it so difficult to use? If you had a good sense of direction you wouldn't need a GPS, right???
Anyway, I have a friend who owns a Garmin. Hers is very polite and has a very pleasant voice. It doesn't berate you when you become too befuddled to proceed. It calmly says, "recalculating." That's a very polite way, right?? Plus It has these little encouraging dings when you do it right. You kind of feel like you're on a game show and doing well. "Ding, ding!" (I'm so proud of you! Good job!)
If you turn wrong, it merely gives a disappointed "dong." (Better luck next time!) It does not threaten you or sound threatening. Plus you can pick out a picture of a cool car you wish you were driving. (I think I would pick a picture of a fun sports car and pretend I'm driving that instead of the blue-hair Buick I actually drive around in. Then at least I could pretend to myself I am cool!)
My niece recently went on a trip with her new GPS system and decided to rely solely on directions being given by said device. They ended up driving 50 miles out of their way and still had not arrived at the destination they thought they had programmed in. Okay, she said they think they know what they did wrong and she doesn't think it will happen again. But what if it does?
I can picture the conversation with my husband now. "Honey, I'm on my way to Reno, Nevada. I just passed a sign that said Anchorage 17 miles. Did I make a wrong turn?"
I mean why do thay make it so difficult to use? If you had a good sense of direction you wouldn't need a GPS, right???
Anyway, I have a friend who owns a Garmin. Hers is very polite and has a very pleasant voice. It doesn't berate you when you become too befuddled to proceed. It calmly says, "recalculating." That's a very polite way, right?? Plus It has these little encouraging dings when you do it right. You kind of feel like you're on a game show and doing well. "Ding, ding!" (I'm so proud of you! Good job!)
If you turn wrong, it merely gives a disappointed "dong." (Better luck next time!) It does not threaten you or sound threatening. Plus you can pick out a picture of a cool car you wish you were driving. (I think I would pick a picture of a fun sports car and pretend I'm driving that instead of the blue-hair Buick I actually drive around in. Then at least I could pretend to myself I am cool!)
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Sick, sick, sick
I have decided ibuprofen is a wonder drug.
Why, you may ask? because it makes everything okay.
I have been stricken with strep throat (yes, I did say stricken--call me a drama queen, but I really felt like poop.) for the last two days. This is the only time in my life I have ever had it, so I'm sure I have had it worse than anyone else ever has. Besides having a throat that feels like you are swallowing shards of glass, I also have glands the size of golf balls protruding from my neck, making me look like a monster from a horror movie. (Ok, maybe they're not really the size of golf balls, but they feel like it.)
Anyway, I got up again this morning feeling yucky (did I mention my head has had a small tribe of bongo players in it?) with a screaming headache, sore throat and massive glands. (Yes you better call the WAH-mbulance) My saintly husband had bought me some liquid-filled gel caps of ibuprofen the night before, so I decided I would give it a try. (I mean even if it killed me, I would only feel better, right?)(I know, totally overdramatic.) Unbelievably, a half hour later I was feeling like a human being again, albeit a sick one, but not a horrible feeling sick one.
Not only did it get rid of headache, fever and somewhat releive my throat, but even my feet feel better!
I'm thinking about buying it in bulk now. If it gets rid of all pains, maybe it will get rid of that annoying neighbor!
Why, you may ask? because it makes everything okay.
I have been stricken with strep throat (yes, I did say stricken--call me a drama queen, but I really felt like poop.) for the last two days. This is the only time in my life I have ever had it, so I'm sure I have had it worse than anyone else ever has. Besides having a throat that feels like you are swallowing shards of glass, I also have glands the size of golf balls protruding from my neck, making me look like a monster from a horror movie. (Ok, maybe they're not really the size of golf balls, but they feel like it.)
Anyway, I got up again this morning feeling yucky (did I mention my head has had a small tribe of bongo players in it?) with a screaming headache, sore throat and massive glands. (Yes you better call the WAH-mbulance) My saintly husband had bought me some liquid-filled gel caps of ibuprofen the night before, so I decided I would give it a try. (I mean even if it killed me, I would only feel better, right?)(I know, totally overdramatic.) Unbelievably, a half hour later I was feeling like a human being again, albeit a sick one, but not a horrible feeling sick one.
Not only did it get rid of headache, fever and somewhat releive my throat, but even my feet feel better!
I'm thinking about buying it in bulk now. If it gets rid of all pains, maybe it will get rid of that annoying neighbor!
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Directions
First of all, I will say I have the sense of direction God gave a crowbar. I have kind of adapted by completely ignoring my "gut feeling." If it feels like I should go right, I go left. Usually, this is effective, but of course, not always. I have also found there is really no way to improve your sense of direction. You can try to look for landmarks, but frankly (at least for me), they are no help. (turn by the Quik Trip--there's what, 200 Quik Trips in town? Every corner has a Quik Trip)
My husband gives what I call "country directions." Example: "You go out on old highway 25 and keep going until you see the big rock. Turn east and go another one to nine miles until you pass where the old silo used to be. Turn north there until you see where the Smiths used to live and it's about two to eight blocks from there."
I want street names. Go to Main Street. Turn left. Go 1.5 miles to Hampshire. Turn left. Proceed 2.3 miles. Get out of your car. Walk 19 steps to door. Open it.
My son is always telling me he is going to get me a GPS system. While that sounds nice, I'm a little afraid. What if it's mean to me? What if I plug in the information needed and don't do exactly what it says? Example: GPS says, "Turn left in 2.5 miles." I get to talking and forget to turn. GPS yells at me, "I said turn left, stupid! How can anyone as dumb as you even have a driver's license? We'll try it again. Go to the next block and turn right." Yelling again, "Turn here, moron!!!. I give up. There is no hope for you. You are too stupid to be on this earth. I have set this vehicle to self-destruct with you in it to insure you are no longer driving the streets. This car will self-destruct in 3, 2, BOOM!!
Maybe I'm better off just being lost all the time. I mean, I eventually find my way home, right??
My husband gives what I call "country directions." Example: "You go out on old highway 25 and keep going until you see the big rock. Turn east and go another one to nine miles until you pass where the old silo used to be. Turn north there until you see where the Smiths used to live and it's about two to eight blocks from there."
I want street names. Go to Main Street. Turn left. Go 1.5 miles to Hampshire. Turn left. Proceed 2.3 miles. Get out of your car. Walk 19 steps to door. Open it.
My son is always telling me he is going to get me a GPS system. While that sounds nice, I'm a little afraid. What if it's mean to me? What if I plug in the information needed and don't do exactly what it says? Example: GPS says, "Turn left in 2.5 miles." I get to talking and forget to turn. GPS yells at me, "I said turn left, stupid! How can anyone as dumb as you even have a driver's license? We'll try it again. Go to the next block and turn right." Yelling again, "Turn here, moron!!!. I give up. There is no hope for you. You are too stupid to be on this earth. I have set this vehicle to self-destruct with you in it to insure you are no longer driving the streets. This car will self-destruct in 3, 2, BOOM!!
Maybe I'm better off just being lost all the time. I mean, I eventually find my way home, right??
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