Citation from the Fashion Police

fashionNOTE FROM AUTHOR: I received a warning from the Fashion Police this week. Apparently, I am not up to codes with my fashion choices. I really must shape up before the Fashion Police drag me away.


Greetings: This is a citation to appear before the Fashion Police to be criticized.

It’s fashion week in New York, the only reason needed for the Fashion Police to be out in full force. The clothes you think are cool are not cool at all. “Comfortable” is not a word in our vocabulary. Comfortable does not make a fashion statement. Your must learn to value being fashionable over being comfortable.

Starting at the bottom, you should wear high heel shoes. These flat shoes that you find comfortable are unacceptable. You’ve been seen at a store buying shoes with rubber bottoms like a tennis shoe. Next thing, you will be at the shoe store trying on Naturalizers.

If you must wear jeans, they should be tight, and slim to show off your derriere, not loose in the seat to because you have a fat bottom. Jeans with elastic tops should be avoided like a Goodwill store. Just because a stretchy waist is comfortable does not mean it is in style.

Remember the golden rule of fashion: Thou shalt not forsake a designer label for the sake of comfort.

That swimsuit with a little skirt attached gave us Fashion Police a good laugh. Don’t worry, we will not tell anyone about it. Designers would not believe that anyone would be caught dead wearing a granny swimsuit anyhow. Wear a two-piece or stay off the beach.

Tops that are long and loose are not in style. Blouses and sweaters that are belted are in fashion now. If you were not wearing those (cough) elastic waistbands, you wouldn’t have to worry so much about covering them up.

Wearing longer skirts and dresses so you can sit down and not have to worry about what’s showing is ridiculous. Even more ridiculous is thinking that if you wait long enough, hemlines will go back down. You should know by now hemlines will only go down after you to cut off all your skirts and make them short.

Fashion week in New York brings out all the designers, models and beautiful people. You should pay more attention to what’s hot and what’s not. Who designed what is in all the media. Convincing people to wear over-priced clothes and make designers rich is what fashion changes are all about.

Clothes have become so revealing that CBS had to issue a “dress code” to keep women from showing too much at the Grammy Awards. Isn’t that the job of the Fashion Police? Many ignored their suggestions and barred it all anyhow. From now on, let the Fashion Police decide what is appropriate.

Ladies purses are getting larger. Women need a $500 purse with a designer’s name written all over it. Never mind if they are so big and heavy they need luggage wheels. You need to impress people. Otherwise, your friends will think you are too cheap to splurge on a good purse

What about coats and jackets? Don’t get us started. Warmth might be a consideration, but not necessarily the first consideration. Those bulky coats that zip up and have a hood are just plain tacky. You can do better. The little black jacket is this year’s fashion hit. Get one if you hope to be at all chic. Black is in, black, black, black.

Warning: Failure to heed this fashion citation can and will be held against you. We will humiliate you on Yahoo OMG by showing someone else wearing the same outfit, and looking better in it.

Fashion Police are everywhere, just like cheap designer knock-offs. You can try to avoid us, or ignore us, but you cannot escape the unsolicited opinions of the Fashion Police.

Copyright 2013 Sheila Moss
Posted in Fashion, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Water, Water Everywhere


The hurricane coming towards the East Coast reminds me of the “vacation” we took several years ago to Myrtle Beach, one of the target cities mentioned in the current weather reports. It was about as close to being in a hurricane as I ever want to be.

Due to rain, the entire vacation was almost a washout, and we had only two clear afternoons to do anything other than drive in the rain and wade through puddles. When we started the vacation, we were looking forward to dry weather and sunshine like the vacations you see in the travel brochures.

As bad luck would have it, the weather forecast said a hurricane was headed for South Carolina. The good news: It would not be a direct hit. The bad news: It would travel along the eastern coast and cause a lot of rain. We decided to go anyhow. With the hurricane not even coming ashore, how bad could it be?

Really bad we found out when we came to the first roadblock where the Interstate was closed due to flooded roads and washed out bridges. We were rerouted by the highway patrol to another road, which also was blocked. From there, we were sent to another road, and another, and another, about five times. Each road was smaller and, sooner or later, barricaded.

South Carolina law enforcement did a great job of getting barricades across roads and redirecting traffic. By now we were running out of gas and there were no gas stations open. We were worn out and what should have been a 5 hour trip turned into a 10 hour nightmare.

Trying to get through Columbia, SC, was terrible. We saw abandoned cars with water up to the roof. Homes and businesses were flooded, and the rain was coming down in buckets. My sister screamed as a tree fell on top of a restaurant, a transformer exploded with a flash, and the stop lights shot sparks like the Forth of July and shorted out.

I’ve never seen so much rain – ever – and apparently neither had South Carolina, as we found out later on the news. It was a disaster movie. Somehow it is so much worse when you see it with your own eyes and know you are helpless against the forces of nature. We decided that every road to the coast was closed and we couldn’t get there. We called ahead to the resort office to see if the roads there were flooded and were told they were not. Liars.

Nothing like a vacation in a disaster area.

Eventually we accidently stumbled onto an out-of-the-way highway that was passable and were able to reach our rain-soaked destination. After a few liquid days, the rain ended. Most roads were reopened, and we were able to leave the condo. “Don’t drive around barricades.” and “Don’t try to drive through water over a road.” tourists were told. Really? People actually do that?

Trying to salvage what was left of our “vacation”, we decided to check out a botanical and sculpture garden which my sister and I remembered from our childhood. After a tour of the well-watered gardens, we took what was supposed to be a wildlife tour on a boat. We didn’t see much wildlife, only flooded rice fields. We did see a black log in the grass that the tour guide said was an alligator. It didn’t look like an alligator to me, but by the time we came back, that log had crawled about 30 feet through the grass along the bank.

Eventually, the sun came out and we had two entire days of good weather. We had almost forgotten what the sun looks like.

BTW, if you are planning a trip to the ocean anytime soon, don’t go.

Copyright 2015-2018 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Weather | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

In the Pink


I’ve never understood people’s thing with cell phones. I don’t care what kind of cell phone I have. I don’t care if it is a smart phone or a brick. I don’t care if it can take pictures or access the Internet. I only have a cell phone for emergencies, in case I break down on the interstate or need to call home when I’m late.

I’ve never had any patience with people who have to stay on the cell phone all the time just because they have one. They talk in the car while driving, in the grocery store while shopping, at work while supposedly working, in restaurants, airports, and everywhere else where phones are not strictly forbidden.

I have a phone not because I especially want it, but because it was a leftover that my honey no longer wanted after he got his ultra-thin, deluxe model that can do everything but tap dance and play the fiddle.

Then it happened. My old phone died. I thought it was the probably the battery, but regardless, I needed a phone. It isn’t safe to be out these days without one of some sort. I figured that I would go to the phone store and get it fixed.

My honey, bless his little heart, volunteered to drop by the phone store for me since he was out and about and going in that direction anyhow. I should have known better, but I figured he could get it fixed just as well as I could. The technicians are the same as they
would be if I went. What could go wrong?

Later he called me. “It isn’t the battery,” he said. “It’s the phone. So, I got you a new phone. You are going to like it.”

“I am going to like it?”

I was worried. With his addiction to gadgets, no telling what sort of phone I would end up with. But what did it matter as long as it worked? Probably he got another one like his? I was NOT going to like it. I knew already that I didn’t like gadgets.

When he came home, he put a cell phone box on the table. I was afraid to look, but curiosity got the best of me and I opened it. It is pink. A tiny PINK phone! A HOT PINK phone! All my I-don’t-care values went out the window and I instantly become a cell phone addict. I love it! It’s CUTE! It is tiny, thin, and hardly weighs anything at all. Plus, it takes pictures and has all the other bells and whistles that they can load on a cell phone.

I carry my new phone everywhere and try to think of excuses to use it so other people can see me. I look at other people’s ordinary phones and wonder why they don’t upgrade to a newer model.

But, wouldn’t you just know it? I found out that my old phone can be fixed after all. I can give up my new phone and go back to the old one. I don’t think so. Who wants to use an ordinary phone after having a snazzy, hot pink model?

I’m just as bad as the rest of them, showing off my status symbol as frequently as possible, looking for reasons to use it and hoping everyone will notice how cute my pink
phone is.

Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve just remembered something and I have a call to make.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Technology | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Mad Elevator Ride


I was in a hurry. The office building was large and I need to go to another floor. I hopped on the elevator and pressed the button for the 5th floor. The elevator went to the 4th floor and opened. “No, I want the 5th floor,” I insisted, pressing the button again. Stupid elevators. Why can’t they work right? I don’t have time to play elevator games.

This time the elevator went to the 15th floor. What is going on here? I looked out to see if I saw anything unusual, but all was well. I suppose I should have stepped off right then and waited for another elevator, but I’m the die-hard type.

Thinking hard, I decided maybe the elevator was stopping one floor below where it was supposed to stop. I would trick it. I pressed the button for the 6th floor, but the elevator didn’t do anything.

Now I’ve confused it, I thought. I pressed the 5th floor button again, nothing happened. I pressed the “open door” button. Nothing. “I’m stuck!” I looked for the red emergency button, but there wasn’t one.

About that time the elevator started moving. “Oh, good,” I thought. I didn’t care what floor it stopped at by this time — I was getting off. It went to the bottom floor and stopped. But the door didn’t open. I was still stuck. By now I was starting to feel a bit of panic.

“Stay calm,” I said to myself, but obviously, I was anything but calm. I tried to make a deal with the elevator. “Okay, elevator, if you will just open up I will get off and never ride you again.” Nothing happened.

I pressed every single button and they all lit up, but the elevator didn’t move an inch. I banged on the door and yelled hoping someone would hear me.

All the buttons suddenly went out.

I pressed the 5th floor button. The elevator started moving, but it didn’t stop on five. It went all the way to the top and then all the way to the bottom, again and again. I was feeling a little dizzy.

“Okay, elevator, you win. Just take me to whatever floor you want.” I banged on the door and yelled, “Let me out!” The elevator went to the basement.

Okay we are all the way at the bottom. At least it won’t fall. But the elevator kept going down, or at least it felt like it. Down, down, down, down. This is impossible, I thought. We can’t go past the basement. There are no more floors.

Finally it stopped. Where am I? This time I was glad when the doors didn’t open. I pressed all the buttons again. “Please, elevator, get me out of here! Please, I want to go UP, not down.” The elevator shuddered and then shot upwards like a rocket being launched.

I jerked and woke up in my own bed. It took me a moment to realize that it was only a dream. What a relief! It must have been an elevator anxiety dream. I hate elevators anyhow.

When I got on the elevator that morning, I felt a bit nervous, but the elevator went right to my floor and opened, just like it always does. “It is all in my mind,” I thought. “It doesn’t know. It’s only a machine.”

But, I’m wondering if maybe I should just walk down the stairs from now on?

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Work Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Another Year, Another Reunion


Wheadon Family FInal copy!-2

It was the weekend for our big family reunion in Tennessee. My mother’s family and my aunts and uncles from around the country meet in a town so small that the population is probably doubled by our presence. I get lost every time I try to find it. Did you know there are still actually towns that do not have an Interstate?

Anyhow, we only got lost once when we turned at 2.5 miles like the GPS said instead of going to the next corner where there was a large sign saying to turn right. So much for getting directions.

All my kinfolks were there. I think I must be getting old as I actually enjoyed seeing them. I used to hate going to these things. Now it is the next generation that whines and refuses to come instead of mine.

All my children and grandchildren were there. We are almost a family reunion without any other relatives. It was the first time all my grandchildren have all been together that I can recall. I was in grandma heaven.

My parents don’t travel much any more, but they had driven down with my sister from St. Louis, so it was a rare opportunity for all of us to be together. My mother is always hyper when around her relatives and had just realized that I write. “Watch what you say or it will end up in one of her columns,” she told everyone. That was really conducive to conversation.

Actually, I don’t remember anyone saying much that was worthy of repeating. My cousin reminded me that when we were in high school, he had to do a book report on “Lord Jim”. He didn’t read the book, but I apparently did and told him what it was about. He got an A and “Well Done” written on his paper in red. Don’t tell anyone.

I didn’t remember that incident, but I did remember that I never could do math, especially word problems, and I always had to go to his house for help with homework. We both went to the same high school. He also had a little sports car that I thought was cool because it turned corners at high speed without leaning.

A different cousin mentioned that we only live 50 miles apart but see each other only at the family reunion. That’s true. If it were not for reunions I wonder if we would never see each other at all, or if we would make the effort to get together more often?

There was a good turnout this year, probably over a hundred people. My grandparents sure did their share to create a population explosion. Most of the people there I didn’t know. They were children or grandchildren of distant cousins. Sure makes you feel old. We started a new tradition this year, name tags.

The cousins of my generation remember when we were all little children and went to my grandparents’ house for the reunion. We slept on featherbeds or quilts on the floor and thought that was a great thing. There was also the proverbial outhouse, which we didn’t think was so great. Later my grandparents moved to a house with a real bathroom and an attic to sleep in with peeling wallpaper and a curtain on a string for a door.

Big Papa and Big Mama are long dead now and two of the older aunts are in nursing homes. We used to talk of not having a reunion any more due to age, medical conditions and distance, but the reunion just keeps on happening. I didn’t used to care one way or another, but the older I become, the more it seems to matter.

Like I said, I know I must be getting old when I start to actually enjoy seeing relatives.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Fashion, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

I’m Not Big Enough


I’ve just returned from Dollywood for a brief visit to introduce my grandson to the joys of theme parks. We waited until we felt he would be old enough to enjoy it and big enough to ride most of the rides.

They have this wonderful device there and at most other theme parks I’ve ever visited. It is a stick with a yellow strip at the top that lets kids know whether they are big enough for a particular ride or not. If the child is not as tall as the yellow stripe, they are not big enough to ride.

This was a point of contention with some children. However, yellow rules. I saw one or two children, who were overly-tired and whiney anyhow, crying and declaring they were big enough regardless of what the yellow stripe said.

Like the little kids, I didn’t think the yellow stripe knew much, but for a slightly different reason. The yellow stripe thought I was tall enough to ride some of that stuff, but I knew better. I only had to take one look at the twisted tracks of metal and the loops and twists to know that I was definitely not big enough.

You should have seen the face on my chiropractor when I told him we were going to Dollywood. “That won’t be good for your neck and back,” he mumbled. I didn’t really need a doctor to tell me that. Or a yellow stripe.

I did stand on my toes and reach the yellow stripe to ride the wooden roller coaster. I suspect that I’m probably not big enough to ride it either, but I rode it in the front seat with my hands up most of the way anyhow. There’s this code among roller coaster enthusiasts that you must keep your hands up and not hold on.

I probably should have bought the picture to prove that I did it, but, oh well, you will just have to take my word for it. Wooden coasters are one breed, steel monsters another. I am not big enough to ride anything that turns me upside down. Enough is enough!

We met one family of coaster enthusiasts there who belong to an association of coaster riders. They go park to park just to ride the coasters. Dollywood is not especially known to this group like some other parks with the biggest, fastest, or largest number of coasters. I don’t know what they were doing there.

I’ve seen all the TV specials about thrill rides. The thrill has something to do with pushing yourself to the limits of endurance, facing fear and surviving, and all that kind of stuff. I don’t really need to ride a roller coaster to do that, thanks. I do that every day out on the Interstate. Talk about thrill rides! Too bad there is no stick with a yellow stripe to keep people off the Interstate who are not big enough to know how to drive.

There are all sorts of other yellow stripes, though, come to think of it. There is the yellow stripe in the middle of the road that tells you which side to drive on and when you can pass. Those yellow strips are becoming obsolete along with two lane roads. Interstates have only white stripes, which do nothing to help people know how to drive, apparently.

Then there is the imaginary yellow stripe down your back, which tells you whether you are brave enough to do something. Come to think of it, maybe that is the yellow stripe that told me whether or not I was big enough.

I had plenty of time to watch other people getting on rides while I waiting for my group to get off. I heard some people mumbling that they wanted to ride the big coasters once just to say they had.

Personally, I have nothing to prove. I’m brave enough to admit I’m yellow. But when it comes to riding a steel roller coaster upside down at 70 mph, I’m not big enough.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Entertainment, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

School Daze


It’s almost September and the kids are going back to school. Wait, let me look at the calendar again. Its August — not September! Why do the kids have to go back to school when summer is still in full force, it’s hot as the blazes outside, and the water in the pool is just now beginning to feel nice?

They can’t seem to leave anything alone. Now they have even spoiled the beginning of school. I seem to remember that back in the olden days, school started after Labor Day and went to Memorial Day, after which kids might go back to school, but just to pick up report cards and turn in books.

Who is in charge of school calendars now anyhow? Has some bug caused mass insanity by biting every school board member in the entire country? Kids now are going back to school while it is so hot that they have to wear shorts.

Where are the plaid dresses and plaid shirts that used to always mark the beginning of school? It is so hot that wearing a plaid dress would be like committing suicide by heatstroke. Where are the squeaky new penny loafers? Kids now wear athletic shoes that don’t even cause blisters.

Worst of all, they have taken away metal lunch boxes. When I was a kid, if we were lucky, our metal lunchbox might even have a matching thermos bottle with a glass lining. We carried this until the glass liner broke from either dropping the lunchbox or hitting another kid with it.

Of course, we didn’t really need a thermos bottle as we could purchase little boxes of milk for a few cents per day. This was probably part of a school nutrition program of some kind. Now nutrition programs consist of removing the soft drink machines from the school cafeteria.

Kids would probably die if we even suggested such a thing as a metal lunch box. They carry nylon lunch boxes with Velcro fasteners. Gone too are the book satchels of olden times that we carried until the plastic handle broke off. Kids now have nylon backpacks to match their nylon lunch boxes. I don’t know how they get rid of bullies without a metal lunchbox to hit them with.

I suppose I’m just an old fogy who doesn’t understand. In fact, I’m sure I am. There is probably some very good reason why school has to start in the middle of summer when kids ought to be out riding bicycles and swimming while they relish the last few weeks of freedom from responsibility.

Maybe kids retain more knowledge with a shorter break and stay out of the trouble that they might get in from having too much free time. I don’t know. Maybe the earlier school beginning allows kids to get out of school earlier in the spring. Why that is better, I’m not sure.

I supposed educators could explain all of this in a very logical manner. But to my way of thinking, school should not start until after Labor Day. Kids should wear plaid dresses or plaid shirts and carry metal lunch boxes instead of iPods and cell phones. Sending kids back to school in the middle of summer is an atrocity of American tradition!

All I can say is it’s a good thing I don’t have kids in school any more. I would, without a doubt, embarrass them to death in front of their friends by making them wear plaid shorts to school if they absolutely have to go back in the summer.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Education, Humor, Rants | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Strawberry Shortcake


Most people don’t know this, but I’ve always had a secret yearning to be a famous cook like Betty Crocker, Sara Lee, or Mrs. Smith. Only one small thing has prevented this, I can’t cook. I discovered this at about the same time I decided that I didn’t like cooking anyhow. What a happy coincidence.

Nevertheless, my homemaker genes have been titillated recently, and I’ve decided to share one of my favorite recipes — strawberry shortcake. The grocery stores are filled with red, luscious strawberries at this time of the year creating a craving for strawberry shortcake, which is immediately squelched in my case by thoughts of cooking. The best thing about strawberry shortcake, however, is that you don’t have to cook — another happy coincidence.

For strawberry shortcake, you need only three ingredients: cake, strawberries, and whipping cream. In the olden days, before I discovered that I was not Betty Crocker, I would actually try to bake a dry, yellow cake of some type. Now, I’m no longer hampered by that illusion, so I just buy a plain pound cake, which serves the purpose perfectly and doesn’t set off any smoke alarms.

Strawberries are easy to prepare, just pinch or cut off the tops and wash the berries. Throw away any strawberries that look too green or too ripe. Presuming you have shopped wisely and not done too much taste testing, there should still be at least half a package left, which is plenty.

Cut the cake into squares or slices, it doesn’t matter which. The cake is not the most important thing, the strawberries are. In fact, you could probably leave out the cake entirely — but why?

I’ve never been a connoisseur of strawberries. I once knew a lady who grew fresh strawberries. When serving dessert, she asked, “How do you like your strawberries?” I had no idea what she was talking about until she enlightened me. “I like mine mashed, my husband likes his sliced, and some people just eat them whole. You can also eat them sugared or not.”

I like them plain and whole. Why ruin a good thing? However, if you must have them sugared, slice them first, generously sprinkle with sugar and allow to set for a while until the sugar dissolves and makes a sticky syrup. Then spoon the strawberries over a serving of cake.

I might interject here that some people use angel food cake. This is not the way to make strawberry shortcake in my book, but if you want to use something else, go on and I’ll just pretend not to know. There is also a biscuit-like thing called shortcake, which is where the name came from in the first place. No thanks! I don’t want strawberries on a biscuit unless they are in jam.

The second most important thing is whipped cream. Of course, real whipped cream is the best, but that would require whipping it. This is too close to cooking. Why take chances? I just buy the phony stuff that is in the freezer case. Frozen whipped topping is supposed to thaw in the refrigerator for 4 hours before using. That’s a long time to wait when your cake is in the dish and your strawberries sliced and sugared, so this means remembering to thaw it ahead of time.

Some people substitute ice cream for the whipped cream, but that is not actually strawberry shortcake either. It is another dessert entirely. I suppose if you forget to thaw the topping and have company waiting at the table, it could be substituted. Of course, peaches could also be substituted for the strawberries.

Now we are eating angel food cake with canned peaches and ice cream and calling it strawberry shortcake? What a travesty! For a recipe with only three ingredients and no cooking, strawberry shortcake can certainly become complicated.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Pie In Your Face


The other day I received an email about something I’ve just been dying to know more about – pie. It seems that a large hotel chain decided that pie would be the perfect touch to make guests feel more at home away from home and they hired a company to do an annual survey. After all, what could possibly be more comforting than a pie in the restaurant oven, or a cinnamon scented lobby?

In order to make the survey more interesting, they came up they came up with the creative idea of asking what kind of pie people like. To no one’s surprise, apple pie is still the all-time favorite of those surveyed. I looked eagerly for my personal favorite, but found berry pie is at the bottom of the list. Blackberry pie is apparently one of the big losers and didn’t get a mention. After all the blackberries I’ve picked while fighting chiggers and briars for every berry too.

One of the “runner-up” pies was chocolate. I always thought the second most favorite was cherry. Didn’t you? Things have apparently really changed since George Washington’s days. To try and explain chocolate’s popularity, the survey said chocolate pie is considered romantic. So, next year look for Cupid to arrive with a chocolate pie in your face.

Other than apple pie and chocolate, people in the survey favored pecan. That’s just nuts, if you’ll pardon the expression. What about good old coconut cream like my grandmother used to make? Just show me a southerner that doesn’t love coconut cream pie and I’ll show you a Yankee!

The survey says that 30% of women feel they bake a better pie than their mother or grandmother. People actually bake pies? Who wants to heat up the kitchen in the summer baking pies? I think we should leave pie baking to the bakeries, myself. I can do enough smoke damage to my kitchen just trying to brown a frozen one.

The trouble with making homemade pie is this horrible substance involved that is called pastry. Pastry is made from a combination of flour, shortening, and liquid. Notice the resemblance to children’s play dough. The filling, on the other hand, is incidental and can be almost anything, fruit, nuts, pudding or even something as unsavory as rhubarb. I do not understand why pastry has to be what makes a pie a pie.

Anyhow, if you stay at the hotel, you will not have to make pie. They will give you free pie and room service pie afterwards. Obviously, the price of the room is incidental as long as we don’t have to bake. I’m not sure where the hotel gets their “award-winning” pies but probably they have a pastry chef who speaks French and makes children’s play dough at home in his spare time.

In case you are wondering, I really have nothing against the number two, pecan pie. We have many pecan trees in the south, so it doesn’t cost a fortune for nuts as it would if you had to buy pecans at the store. However, you will have to crack them and pick them out of the shell without getting the bitter part in the nuts. We also have a pie in the south called chess pie, which is sort of like a pecan pie without any pecans. After picking nuts one time, you will know why it is popular.

After re establishing that apple pie is the all time America favorite, the survey went weird with details we would rather not know, like how many men eat pie in their underwear and what percentage of people eat pie in bed, or with their hands. Are they worried about the extra laundry?

My dilemma now is that I just keep wondering how many of the respondents to the survey filled it out in their underwear?

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

No Ice


My refrigerator is ancient relic from pre historic times, but it works just fine. The icemaker, however, has been on the blink for quite some time now. Oh, it makes ice just fine: the water kicks on with a little whirring sound; the purr of the ice maker motor is heard, and the crash of ice cubes being dumped into the bin echoes in the freezer compartment.

Yes, it makes ice just fine, but it also leaks. Water runs down into the bin where the ice cubes are and freezes. Soon, instead of individual ice cubes, I have one large block of ice. I have become accustomed to not having any ice except maybe a few cubes that have not yet frozen together. It is annoying, but why have it fixed? How much longer can the old refrigerator last?

I have already been scoping out the new ones, the stainless steel models at over a thousand bucks, the phony stainless steel ones, and the black ones that match the dishwasher that I bought a few years ago. The prices make me dizzy.

I periodically remove the block of ice and put it into the sink to melt while the old icemaker tries to make new ice faster than the leak can freeze cubes together.

A person can only go without ice for so long. Oh, sure, I could buy ice or make it in ice trays, but I’ve been spoiled like the rest of the world. I want an icemaker! I finally become disgusted with the whole mess. “I’m getting that thing fixed regardless of how old the fridge is,” I decide. I check the yellow pages. “We fix all makes and models,” the ad says. So, I call. He will come tomorrow.

I need a new icemaker the repairman determines the next day. What a surprise. However, it seems that nothing can be fixed in one trip these days. He makes an appointment to come back next Monday. I won’t be here, but my daughter will — I believe.

When I get home from work on Monday, the repairman’s card is in the door. My daughter had car trouble, and wasn’t here when he came. No icemaker. I call and apologize and ask him to come back on Friday. He agrees. Friday comes and I wait and wait, but no repairman. “He is getting even with me for not being here when he came before,” I think to myself.

I call, but get no answer, so I leave a message and continue waiting. I wait until noon and call again. The line is busy. I wait another 10 minutes and call again. This time he answers. “Ah, ha! I’ve got him now!”

“This is Ms. Moss,” I explain. “It is after noon and you said you would be here in the morning.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about you. I’ll be there in about 30 minutes.”

He forgot? What a professional! I am beginning to wonder if he even knows how to fix refrigerators.

An hour later he finally shows up at the door with a new icemaker. He tracks some kind of black stuff all over the kitchen floor and tells me about his problems with online banking while working. He finally finishes, charges me an arm and a leg, and leaves.

At least the icemaker is finally fixed. The refrigerator is still as ugly as ever, but it runs like new. I have more ice than I know what to do with. The ice bin is full and overflowing. I practically own a glacier.

I’ve been thinking that I could get the fridge sprayed black and it would look brand new. But, why bother? I don’t know how, but I know — I just know — that since I’ve spent all that money to fix the icemaker, the refrigerator is bound to conk out any day now.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Mos
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