The Therapeutic Massage

I have seen massages on television, usually in comedy skits. The masseuses always look like sumo wrestlers and throw a towel across your bottom while they knead you like a hunk of dough and then beat you to a pulp with karate chops.

No, I didn’t think I needed that.

I was a bit afraid to have a massage. I wasn’t sure what they would do to me. I didn’t want a fat wrester twisting me into a pretzel. Besides, it seemed silly to pay money to have someone to rub my back.

Still, I did have this stiff neck and shoulder pain that nothing seemed to help, regardless of how much BenGay I slathered on or how long I slept on a heating pad. I couldn’t help but think how heavenly it would feel to have someone who knew what they were doing work on those neck muscles.

Tension and stress are epidemic these days and I read that massages are terrific for arthritic pain too. I almost had myself talked into it when, as luck would have it, the beauty shop where I was going began to provide massage services.

Still, I was hesitant.

Then, one day when I was complaining about my neck, my honey said, “If you are hurting, why don’t you get a professional massage?”

Ha, if he thinks it is so great, why doesn’t he get one?

Since he brought up the subject, I decided to get him a gift certificate. Let him become the Pillsbury Doughboy.

I think he was a bit nervous about it too. He insisted on going at the same time I went to get my hair done. But afterwards, he raved about how good it felt.

I was envious. Wait a minute; I’m the one that needs a massage! Why is he the one going? I hoped he would take the hint and get me a gift certificate too. He didn’t. Men do not take hints. You have to spell it out.

“If anyone wants to know what I want for my birthday,” I said, “I would like a gift certificate for a m-a-s-s-a-g-e.”

Once I had a gift certificate in my sweaty palms, however, I was again afraid. I couldn’t very well ask him to go with me. Finally, I took a deep breath and called and made the appointment.

The lady massage therapist took my medical history and explained all about what she would do.

The room was dimly lit, and had some of that weird relaxation music playing as well as the sound of trickling water coming from somewhere. She used aromatic oil that smelled wonderful.

The white table was just a comfortable as I thought it would be. I was covered with a nice soft sheet for the entire time to protect my modesty. She massaged my scalp, my shoulders, and back. It was even more relaxing than I had imagined.

I suffer from back pain and could not stand the deep massage like she used for my shoulders. So, she simply worked on pressure points to help relieve the pain, and then massaged the aching muscles in my legs.

I didn’t get kneaded like a wad of dough or spun like a pizza crust. No body slams or judo punches. It was perfectly safe and a soothing relief for sore muscles and relief of tension.

I left with a bottle of water to help rid my system of toxins and prevent soreness. It was wonderful.

By the way, she didn’t resemble a sumo wrestler at all — not even a little bit.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss

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New Car or New Toy?


There is no point in arguing with a man when he gets that “I-want-a-new-car” gleam in his eye.

My man got that gleam in his eye nearly two months ago. By now, it is no longer a gleam, but more like a laser beam.

All the usual excuses came up as to why he had to have a new car now, right now, today – yesterday — if possible.

“It needs new tires.”

Not good enough, I thought.

“The inside light doesn’t work right.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

“The mechanic said that the only way he could fix the noise is with a $3,000 repair.”

That one got my attention. Of course, it was running just fine anyhow, and we were still driving it every day like always.

Finally, the clincher: “It has over 100,000 miles on it!”

Oh, my goodness, 100,000 miles? It could explode into a cloud of hot gases any day now and leave us sitting on the road in a puddle of oil.

As I said, there is no point in arguing when a man wants a new car. To make matters even worse, his brother works at a car dealership and can get him a “deal”.

There were numerous automotive conversations with his brother on the phone. The kind of new car we were getting changed with every conversation, depending on what was in stock. Each time we saw a car on the road that was similar to the “car of the hour,” he would point it out.

“It’s like that one, except it is blue.” Or “It is like that one, except it is bigger.”

“Don’t you want to help pick it out?” he asked.

He would get what he wanted anyhow.

He came home with something entirely different from anything we discussed, loaded down with every toy ever invented by a demented Detroit engineer. Besides the usual CD player, heated seats, and automatic everything, this electronic marvel had a Global Positioning System (GPS), and a DVD player.

“Don’t you love it?” he asked excitedly. “Look what it can do!”

We got in and went for an ego trip. GPS is another word for NAG I found out.

“Turn left at the next corner,” said the GPS digital voice.

“Go one quarter of a mile, stay right, and merge onto the highway.”

“I said stay RIGHT.”

“Make a legal U-turn and turn around!”

“You missed it!”

“Make a right turn at the next corner. Now make another right turn. Now turn right again and go left at the next corner.”

“What is the matter with you? I said turn LEFT!” The system is recalculating. “At this rate you will never get where you are going!”

He just wanted to see what it would do. Men and their toys.

I wish it could say something like: “Don’t stop at this gas station. There is one with a lower price in half a mile.” Or, if it could give us the location of all the Cracker Barrels, that would be useful. But that stupid GPS won’t even let you pull off the road for a rest stop without going into a tizzy.

Who needs this stuff? Now that we have it, he seldom uses it. We don’t go many places that we need directions to find.

And the DVD player? Well, we didn’t have any DVD’s to play. Besides, you can’t sit in the back seat and watch a movie while driving anyhow.

But, he has his new toy and he is happy. His brother is happy. The salesman is very happy.

So, why complain?

I’ve learned at least one thing from the GPS. If things don’t go your way, just recalculate and go on.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
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Who? Me? Addicted to the Computer?


Addicted to the computer? Who? Me? I’ll admit that I’ve been reading email when I should be mopping the floor, browsing online auctions when I should be doing laundry, surfing websites when I should be fixing dinner, but that doesn’t mean that I’m an addict.

Computer addict? I looked at myself in the mirror. I don’t look like an addict. I look pretty much like any normal person, I think. Maybe a bit more pale from lack of sunlight. But I’m not spending that many late night hours in the flashing blue light of the computer’s monitor.

Addict? Not me! I’m actually getting things done these days that I never had time to do before. I have blisters from doing yard work instead of carpel tunnel from too much time at the keyboard. I finally got around to trimming that grass along the driveway last week.

My carpel tunnel hardly bothers me at all these days.

How could I be addicted to the computer? I’m doing mending instead of hiding clothes in the back of the closet. I’m using the sewing machine instead of the computing machine. Instead of grabbing the first thing I can find in the closet to wear in the morning because I stayed up too late on the computer, I plan ahead – at least part of the time.

I don’t have time to be addicted! I’ve just painted a room, something I haven’t done in years. I even went to the hardware store and picked out the paint from real samples instead of looking it up on the Internet. The pictures on the monitor may not show the true color. Besides, I hadn’t really noticed how awful the paint looked before. It had nothing to do with how much time I spend staring into the computer screen.

I’m not a computer addict. I go shopping at real stores instead of ordering on the Internet. I like to try on clothes and see if they fit. Looking for bargains at thrift stores is much more fun than using a search engine to find them. Can I help it if we don’t really need stores too much anymore as everything is available online anyhow, and you don’t have to look for a parking place?

How could I be addicted to the computer? I don’t feel guilty when I take a nap instead of replying to email. It’s true that I spend a lot of time apologizing to my online friends for not answering email sooner. But, a little power nap helps a lot and I can think of much better excuses for being late than I could before.

I couldn’t be addicted to the computer. I spend too much time watching television. With some of the programs that are on now, I’m not sure that is such a good thing. But at least I can relax while watching the boob tube, and I don’t have to think too much. The programs are already planned and I don’t have to update them, interact with them, or reply to them. It almost seems too easy. No challenge like there is with a computer.

I may stay on the computer more than I have to at times but that doesn’t mean I am addicted. It is just that there is sometimes nothing else interesting to do except use the computer.

Me? Addicted to the computer? I’m getting ready to get off the computer right now — just as soon as I finish this column, and check my email, and update my website, and order a book, and check the latest news and weather, and look up a recipe, and check my auction bids, and download my pictures, and look up a phone number and print out some directions.

I’m not addicted. I only do the things online that are totally and absolutely necessary.


Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
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Hand Painted


It must be my age. After I finish one project, I can’t seem to remember how much trouble it was. I look only at the results and next thing I know, I’m planning another.

I’ve had my eye on our mailbox for a while. It is — or should I say “was” red. But the color faded. I already had a can of red spray paint, so it was just a matter of spraying it. One day when I already had on my “painting clothes,” I figured I might as well do this small job and get it out of the way.

Meanwhile, my daughter had a cold and wanted to go to the local convenience clinic to see a doctor.

“Call and I’ll pick you up when you are done,” I told her when I dropped her off. I figured it would be a couple of hours, plenty of time to do my small project before she was done.

I went out to the street where the mailbox is with my can of red paint and a piece of cardboard, which I planned to hold over the parts not to be painted to shield them from the spray. This worked pretty well, except I forgot that while holding the cardboard, my hand would also get sprayed.

By the time I was done, the mailbox looked great, but my hand was a brilliant red. I figured I’d get out the paint thinner and clean it off.

About then, honey yelled out the door that my daughter was on the phone.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Already?” It’s only been half an hour.

“I was the second patient today,” she explained. “They are not very busy.”

So, I figured that I would go get her and then come home and clean the red paint off.

“They want a co-pay,” she said when I got there, oblivious to the fact that I looked as if I had been in finger-painting class.

Good grief, I have to go inside. I hoped no one would notice my scarlet hand. I kept it behind the counter and used my other hand. No one said anything.

“I have to get medicine,” said my daughter.

“Okay, we can drive thru and drop off the prescription and come back later.”

“I need to wait for it,” she said. “The doctor said to get started on this right away.”

So, off we went to Wal-Mart, where we went inside to the pharmacy. I hadn’t figured on all this when I left home.

“You give it to them,” I said. “I don’t want them to see this painted paw of mine.”

While were waiting, I remember that I was out of my medicine. Might as well get that since I’m here anyhow. I tried to hide my hand-painted hand under the counter again as I bought the medicine. They must have wondered what was wrong with my pitiful arm that I couldn’t move it, but no one said anything.

Then I remember seeing some flowers in the garden shop that I’d like to have. “Do you think I’d have time to buy flowers before they are done?”

I selected a pot of flowers and tried to hide my hand behind my purse as I paid with a debit card. However, it took two hands to pick up the plant and carry it out. Maybe if I just act as if everything is normal, no one will notice that I have a lobster claw, I thought.

“It’s paint — not blood. Have you never seen red paint,” I thought. No one said anything.

Funny, you could probably walk around with a paper sack over your head and everyone would ignore you and pretend not to notice.

I went back and got the medicine, which was ready by then. Concealing the red hand was automatic by now. No one mentioned it.

I’ve had some strange experiences in my lifetime; however, this the first time that I can ever remember being literally caught red-handed.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
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The Hoarder


Some people find their niche in writing, some in teaching, some in computers, and so on. I’m afraid my niche is in hoarding junk. I am blessed, or cursed, with a large attic. The idea was that some day it would be finished into extra bedrooms. It never happened. Instead it gradually filled up with junk.

Need a place to put the TV that doesn’t work? Put it in the attic. We can get rid of it later when we have more time. Changing around the living room? Just store the extra furniture upstairs. The kids don’t have a place to store their extra stuff? Put it in my attic. No point in paying for storage.

And so it went. Years of accumulation: The shelves from the den that were too good to throw away; the Christmas decorations; the clothes that were too small right now, but that might fit again when I lose weight; the outdated set of encyclopedias; and miles of extra computer cable. All found the way upstairs, and soon became coated with a thick layer of dust.

It came to the point that we could no longer find things that we needed. It was easier to go buy a new item than to look for it in the attic. I needed a shelf in my closet. I knew exactly what I needed was up there — someplace. But I couldn’t face the mess, so I bought a new one. That was the last straw.

In one of those surges of hormonal energy that women occasionally get, I declared that it was time to clean the attic. I donned old clothes and determined that I would reduce the unsightly accumulation. Junk would go to the junkyard. Usable stuff, no longer used, would go to charity. Only the cream of the junk crop would be saved.

Boxes of books were opened while silverfish scattered in every direction. Furniture was scooted around. Bags were unpacked. Trash was thrown down the stairs. Dust flew. It was disgusting! How could anyone let things get into such a state?

I’ve read that people hoard things that they don’t need because they are afraid of throwing away something that they might use later. Am I becoming a hoarder? Will they find five hundred empty mayonnaise jars in my attic when I die? I found five dozen canning jars that hadn’t been touched since the vegetable garden of 1990.

I’ve heard that the difference between a collector and a hoarder is that collectors keep things because they give them pleasure, not because they are afraid to throw them away. Also, they are somewhat organized with their collectibles.

Organization definitely did not enter the picture where my attic was involved. Am I becoming one of those people that you read about in the paper? Neighbors complain about the smell and police find 100 cats inside someone’s house.

Time to clean before the cats find me. Out, out, junk! Be gone from me!

After two days and numerous trips to the junkyard with disintegrated cardboard boxes, I began to feel hope. After untold trips to the local charity collection site with reusable items, I began to think positively. Funny, though, as I looked around the attic, I could not miss a thing. The attic was still full. Is the junk mating and multiplying?

Yes, unbelievable, but after two days of hauling stuff away, it looked exactly the same.

I want my attic back. I want the junk out of my life forever. I want only one Christmas tree, no extra tires that don’t fit any automobile that we own; no boxes of used clothes to store, no computer chairs with cracks in the leather, no fodder for dust mites.

Someday I will finish the task. Someday I will clean the attic until it sparkles. Someday the dust mites will no longer have parties over my head. But, I just can’t face it today.

However, if there were one bright spot to all this ungodly mess polluting my life, it would have to be that I didn’t find any cats up there at all.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Home, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

The Death of Old Leaky


Several months ago, I decided to replace the leaky icemaker in my fridge. I hesitated about it for a long time as the refrigerator was old, and I was afraid a new icemaker might be more than it could handle.

Sure enough, a few months after the new icemaker and the ice cubes were melting. “This is it,” I thought. However, the fridge seemed to still be working. I noted that it was crammed pretty full and decided that the problem was because the freezer door had popped open.

Then last weekend it happened again. However, honey and I had errands to do and didn’t have time to stay home and babysit a refrigerator. We made sure the freezer door was closed and went on about our merry business.

It wasn’t long before my cell phone rang. “Mom, the ice cubes have melted. I think old leaky has really died this time.”

It was the weekend; we had a refrigerator full of frozen food. What to do? I had tried getting a repairman on the weekend the first time it acted up and found that voicemail doesn’t call back after hours.

I began to calculate how old the refrigerator was. Best I could figure out, it was about 24 years of age. It had outlived two or three normal refrigerators already. What could I expect?

“We might as well get a new one,” I told my honey. “But where can anyone buy a refrigerator at 9:00 o’clock at night?”

Fortunately, we were close to an appliance store at the time, so we wheeled in just before the clock struck 9:00 and the doors were locked. We were greeted by a salesman, smiling like an alligator poacher.

“How can I help you folks?” he hummed, his eyes fixated on the row of gleaming new stainless steel refrigerators.

“My refrigerator died tonight. I need something new — something cheap.”

He looked pained “We do have some dented and scratched models that are reduced,” he confessed, with obvious disappointment.

We looked them over. At this point, I didn’t much care, but I figured I might as well get something flashy if I was going to have to spend that sort of money.

“When can we get one delivered?”

“These have to be moved to the warehouse and then delivered. Do you have a truck?” In the South everyone has a truck because, “You never know when you might need one.”

Not being a good redneck, I don’t have a pickup. I didn’t much like those dents and scratches anyhow. I might as well just fix old leaky.

We looked over the new ones, which could be delivered right away. I would settle for a black one, but I really liked the looks of the stainless steel models better.

Finally, we picked one out, and I wrote a check out of my rainy day account. If this isn’t a rainy day, I don’t know what is.

Old leaky continued to chug along, cool, but not really cold. Melted popsicles ran under the freezer door and down the front, making a sticky mess.

Finally, the gleaming new one arrived. It slid perfectly into the old spot in the kitchen.

“Looks like you’ll be getting a new stove next,” said the deliveryman as they carried old leaky out the door. He would have to mention that. I hope my stove didn’t hear him. It might get ideas.

The next day when we came in from work, there was a big puddle of water in the middle of the kitchen floor in front of the new fridge. I thought I was going to cry. As it turned out, however, it wasn’t the refrigerator’s fault. We had put the water filter in wrong.

Hopefully, my refrigerator problems are over, at last. Now if the stove will just suck it in and last a bit longer, maybe I can breath for a while.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Home, Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Call Me Curly


You are not going to believe me, but I have naturally curly hair. “You’re lucky!” everyone tells me. Lucky? I don’t think so. I have to work really hard to make it look naturally straight.

Why is it that people with straight hair wish it was curly and people with curly hair envy long, straight hair?

I had a perm years ago, but I grew tired of the curly look and started wearing it straight. By now, people have pretty much forgotten about my curly hair, or else they didn’t know me then.

When we were out of town on a mini-vacation a month or so ago, I spent a lot of time outside in the humidity. I worked so hard to get my hair “fixed” in the morning, only to have it go frizzy within an hour or two.

I began to wonder, since it seems so determined to curl on its own, would it curl like a perm without any chemicals?” I decided to give it a try. I washed it and dried it at low speed on the dryer. I jelled it and scrunched it, resisting the urge to comb it out straight and “fix” it.

Guess, what? It worked! All those years of perms and if I didn’t comb it straight while wet or blow it straight with a hair blower, it was curly all on its own. It would fix itself if I would just leave it alone.

So, the frizzy look won. I gave up entirely on straight hair and just went to a natural style.

When I returned to work, everyone said in unison, “You got a perm?”

“No, I said, “It is naturally curly.”

Naturally curly? Oh sure, they replied. I could tell no one believed me. Why would I lie about it? If I had a perm I would say so, but what could I do?

“I wish I could do mine like that,” said one co-worker. “I really like that look, but I can’t resist the urge to “fix” my hair.”

So, I went on about my life being asked by everyone that knew me if I had a new perm, and replying that it was naturally curly. I guess what threw them off was that they had only seen it straight before.

“It looks lighter too,” they observed, eyeing me suspiciously.

“No, I didn’t change the color either. It must just reflect the light differently.”

Everywhere I went, it was the same story:

Co-worker, “I like your hair. Did you get it permed?”

Boss: “I see you have a new perm?”

Receptionist at doctor’s office: “When did you get a perm?”

Even the chiropractor, “You got a perm, huh?” Or did you stick your finger in a light socket? Guess he wanted to adjust it and make it straight again.

Anyhow, after I while, I got tired of answering the same question. Besides, if they really think it is a perm, why do they have to ask me if it is and then deny the truth when I tell it to them? They could just assume it’s a perm, and not ask an obvious question.

Last night even my daughter-in-law asked, “Did you get your hair permed?” “No,” I explained again. “It’s naturally curly.”

Maybe I should just go back to straight hair. I thought it would be less trouble to have it natural. But having to explain it over and over is a lot of trouble too.

Maybe I should just agree with the inquisitors and say that I did get it permed. That way everyone could be happy, everyone but me, that is.

“We knew it!” They would say. Why did it take so long for you to admit it?

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss


Posted in Humor, Work Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Battle of the Lightbulbs


Instructions for adding additional lighting to your home:

  1. Decide that the dark space in your attic (or basement, or garage) could be better utilized with additional lighting.

  2. Go to local discount store and, buy an easy-to-install-just-plug-it-in, florescent workshop light and two florescent light tubes.

  3. Find pliers and put together the easy-to-assemble hanging apparatus for light fixture.

  4. Put band-aid on finger that didn’t know assembly was supposed to be easy.

  5. Install the two light tubes and twist 90 degrees according to package instructions.

  6. Plug in fixture. One light works and one doesn’t. Curses!

  7. Spend a minimum of one hour wiggling, switching, and turning light off and on.

  8. Decide fixture is defective – cheap, inferior merchandise. Unassemble fixture and return to original carton.

  9. Return fixture to store, get a refund, and purchase a deluxe, more expensive, less- likely-to-be-junk, model.

  10. Take it home and remove fixture from box. Do not assemble hanging apparatus until you are certain that it works this time.

  11. Re-install light tubes and find that one works and one doesn’t — again. Curses! — again. Find the wrapper in the trash and rewrap the best you can, freely utilizing transparent tape.

  12. Make a third trip to the stupid store to return the stupid lights. Who ever heard of a light bulb not working?

  13. Purchase a replacement set of lights and return home. This is beginning to get old. Install the second set of stupid lights in the stupid, deluxe fixture.

  14. One light works and one doesn’t. That figures! Spend a minimum of one hour wiggling, switching, plugging and unplugging the light. There must be a surplus of defective light bulbs on the market this week.

  15. Rewrap the lights in the wrapper that you cleverly saved this time. Return it to the store. Ignore appalled look of Customer Service clerk and ask for a refund.

  16. Purchase a third set of stupid, inferior, no-good, lights. Why can’t these stupid things be packaged separately instead of in stupid twin packs? That probably makes too much sense.

  17. Return home and install third set of new lights in the new deluxe fixture. Three is a charm, isn’t it?

  18. Yes, an unlucky charm. This time neither light works. Spend only 15 minutes wiggling, switching, plugging and unplugging light fixture – not that it does any good.

  19. Briefly obsess about how good it would feel to smash the stupid, idiotic, worthless, good-for-nothing, mess into smithereens. Unfortunately, the store will not return money on damaged merchandise.

  20. Rewrap third set of demon-possessed lights and put the cursed-by-hell light fixture in the box.

  21. Return to store for fifth time and drag the junk to the Customer Service counter. “Still doesn’t work, huh?” says clerk. Lucky for her that you want your money back or you’d smack her over the head with a defective light tube.

  22. Get money back and flee from the den of light-fixtures-made-in-hell before the store revises their return policy and refuses to return your money. Enough is enough.

  23. Go home and find a handy-dandy, heavy-duty, 10-year-old extension cord that you had out in the garage.

  24. Throw the extension cord over rafter in the attic and screw in a plain, old-fashioned light bulb.

  25. Voile! Let there be light! God is good!

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss
Posted in Home, Humor, Rants | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dust of an Unlucky Moon

shelby-miller-653561-unsplashI don’t know if she was born in the dust of an unlucky moon, sneezed at the wrong time, or was under the rug when God passed out the good luck genes. Bad luck seems to follow my daughter around like a cloud of dust follows Pigpen in Peanuts cartoons.

It happened again yesterday. I was wheeling home from work, dead tired after a long day at the office, and just as I turned into the garage my cell phone rang. I missed it, but before I could get inside, the home phone was ringing.

“Mom, it’s me. My car broke down on the Interstate and quit. Can you come and get me?”

“Where are you?”

“At the gas station near the mall.”

“Where’s the car?”

“It’s still on the side of the Interstate. I’ve been stranded for two hours.”

“Did you call a tow truck?”

“Yes, but they didn’t come. I saw you go by on your way home.”

Well, it’s an emergency. Nothing to do but turn around and go back. Why didn’t the tow truck come? I need to call them back. I forgot to ask who she called.

Halfway back to the mall, my cell phone rang again. “Mom, they are sending another tow truck. The first one broke down on the way to get me.”

Good grief! Not only can they not make a car that runs these days, they can’t even make an emergency vehicle that will!

I made it to the gas station at about the time the towing company called again to say the second truck was on the way and would be there in 25 minutes.

She had called the roadside assistance that came with the car warranty. That was good thinking. I never would have thought of them. Of course, with her luck she has plenty of experience with tow trucks. I wondered if the truck that broke down was made by the same company as her car.

“Where did you tell them to tow it

“They will only tow it if you take it to a dealership.”

We just spent a thousand dollars on repairs to that stupid piece of junk a month ago, so that’s where it needs to go anyhow.

“What did it do?”

“It just started making a noise and not going anywhere. I had to pull over to the side. I sat there for an hour before the emergency assistance truck came by, but they couldn’t get it started. Then the police finally came, and gave me a ride to the gas station. They said it was too dangerous to stay there.”

What a nightmare! The newly dispatched tow truck was coming from the car dealership. We waited a while at the gas station and then went to meet the tow truck on the side of the road.

It was the middle of rush hour traffic, and not a good place to be on the side of the Interstate in the dark. The traffic sped by at 70 mph only a few feet from where we were. I looked in the rear view mirror, hoping each passing car would be the tow truck. I was scared to death we would be hit, but finally I saw the beautiful flashing lights of the tow truck.

My daughter called the dealership today to see what the problem is with the car. She waited on hold for an hour, but apparently everyone was too busy to talk to her. I guess the service center has a lot of business.

Finally, they called back to say the car needed a part and a new battery. Naturally, the dust cloud poured out its usual unlucky grunge and they didn’t have the part in stock. So, she is without a car over the weekend and, maybe longer.

If you see a dark, dusty cloud floating by, it is not Pigpen. That will be my daughter in her car heading for her next disaster.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cupid’s Reply



Subject: RE: Urgent Request

Thank you for your inquiry via email. I always make my utmost effort to respond to clients, especially with circumstances as desperate as those you describe. I am indeed known through out eternity for my intervention in matters of the heart; however, the request you make is a most serious one.

By the way, while it’s true than some matches have been better than others, remember that except for me, they would never have fallen in love at all. It is better to have loved and lost, and all that stuff, you know.

One shot from my arrow will give anyone a romantic way of thinking. Your beloved will forget about TV and his computer and shower you with love and affection. Do you like flowers, chocolates and perfume? How about a pair of diamond earrings or a red silk nightie?

I am the ORIGINAL “love doctor” — way before Dr. Phil or Dr. Ruth. I don’t waste time on analysis — just one arrow and ZING! It a sure shot for a sagging relationship every time with no Cialis needed!

All men have a tender spot somewhere. It only takes the right woman and a little incentive for him to become love struck and hopelessly head over heels. I would suggest a word of caution, however. Be sure — very sure — that this is the man of your dreams. Once my arrow smites him, he will be under the power of the greatest motivational force known to mankind. Wars have been fought for the sake of love.

I will look forward to being at your service and will plan to arrive early on February 14th. No human being should live without love. Don’t worry about me finding him, I have my methods and always get my prey.

By the way, if you should feel a tiny sting yourself, do not be alarmed. Love works best when it is mutually shared. So, just enjoy that warm, loving feeling and do not attempt to resist letting your heart melt. I have just checked my records and it seems that I have received an email concerning you also.

Men can also write letters to Cupid, you know.

Copyright 2006 Sheila Moss
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