Eyeing the Eye Doctor

Posted on October 13, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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Once a year I go through the nuisance of going to the eye doctor. Oh, the aggravation of it all, not to mention those awful drops that dilate your pupils and make everything fuzzy for hours.

My appointment is always made a year ahead so the doctor will be sure to get my repeat business without interruption.

It happens as we get older. The eyes go first. One day you notice you can’t read the small print on medicine bottles anymore. “Why don’t they print this stuff larger?” After all, isn’t it mostly older people that are trying to read medicine bottles?

First you get contacts. And then the day comes when contacts are not enough, and you need reading glasses, bifocals, or (God forbid) trifocals. For a while I had both contacts and reading glasses. Finally, I realized I was being ridiculous. I was going to have to wear glasses, vanity or not.

And so, here I am in the eye doctor’s office again with the nurse calling my name. “How are you today?” she asks.

“Fine,” I reply, but what I’m thinking is “old and going blind. Why do you think I’m here?”

I go in the darkened room with the tall black chair that reminds me of an old fashioned dentist chair. I climb up in the monstrosity and hold on tight. The assistant takes my health history again. I don’t know why I had to fill out all that paperwork before since apparently no one looks at it.

She turns on the eye chart that reflects in the mirror on the wall and has me read it. “Yes, I can see the big E,” I tell her. Then we go down the chart until we get to the row that looks like ants instead of letters.

The silver arm with the big binoculars swings toward me and it’s time to try different lenses. “Which is best? This or this?” She flips different lenses in front of me. Actually, they all look pretty much the same, but I pick number one or number two and she is satisfied.

Finally, she put drops in my eyes that feel like sand and shines the bright blue light in my eyes while I try hard not to blink, or scream. Then the dreaded dilating drops go into my eyes and she shows me to the waiting room in the hall, where I wait and read the doctor’s certificates, licenses and diplomas on the wall. Funny, how they are all displayed where everyone has fuzzy vision.

Eventually, the doctor comes and we go back in the dark room and repeat the entire procedure. This time the lights are even brighter as he plays laser tag with my throbbing eyeballs.

“I think we need to change your glasses,” he says. Oh, really? I thought my eyes were already as bad as they could get, but apparently they can always get worse.

He smoothly guides me into the convenient glasses shop in his office — as if I am going to pick out a pair of glasses while I am half blind. I know my rights. “Could I just take the prescription with me?” I somehow have the idea that eye doctors should be in the business of doctoring, not selling glasses that they have prescribed.

I’ll get my glasses at the mall where they are open evenings and weekends and have designer frames. Designer frames? Now that’s a paradox for you — as if there is anything anyone can do to glasses to make them look good.

“There is only one good thing about this entire experience,” I think, putting on the  disposable, dark, cardboard glasses that are supposed to prevent sun blindness.

I don’t have to come back until a year from today.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss
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The Somalia Pirate Dog

Posted on October 10, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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When Obama was in the White House, he had a pet dog called a Portuguese Water  Dog. Joe Biden also has his eye on a pet dog. It is an unusual dog known as a Somalia Pirate Dog. The new dog could be named “NO”, which is a world that will probably be heard a lot in the dog’s new home.

This new dog is not a pedigree dog. He is a mongrel who grew up in the streets of Scranton, PA. Abandoned by his original owner, he learned to do whatever he had to do to survive. Eventually he ended up in an animal shelter, where he did hard time until he was rescued.

You probably thought that all puppies are “water” dogs, at least when they first come home. The Somalia Pirate Dog might be considered a water dog in this respect. He will need to be watched closely around the White House carpets or he may decide to mark his territory.

While the Portuguese dog has to be taught to swim, the Somalia Pirate Dog is born knowing how to dog paddle. For a pirate dog, it is sink or swim. He has learned everything though survival of the fittest. The dogs excel in fighting and burying bones.

Interestingly, both kinds of dogs have hair instead of fur. While a pedigree water dog goes to the groomer on a regular basis to have his hair groomed and trimmed, the pirate dog wears his hair in a pony tail, as is traditional with Pirate Dogs.

Portuguese Water Dogs are historically work dogs. They were called water dogs because they worked on the boats of Portuguese fishermen in the olden days, where they were considered part of the crew. It was their task to guard the boats in port, to swim and herd fish into the nets, to fetch items that fell overboard, and to even take messages from one boat to another.

Somalia Pirate Dogs have a somewhat different background. They worked on the ships of pirates in historical times where they helped to seize ships from the crews on the high sea. It was their task to swim to the other ship, and to viciously hold the crew at bay while the pirates boarded the ship and robbed it of its cargo of valuables. The favorite part of these raids for the pirate dogs was looting the galley.

People who own Portuguese Dogs have reported that they are high energy dogs and if not kept busy, will find their own ways to amuse themselves. They are said to like chewing up paper and may have been the source of the phrase, “The dog ate my homework.”

The Pirate Dogs are also eaters of paper. The pirate dog is likely to sneak into the Oval Office and chew up any unsigned Congressional bills or Presidential Orders that are left laying around. Pirate dogs are especially fond of chewing up treaties, which pirates historically have never liked anyhow.

The Somalia Pirate Dog is a handsome dog. He usually has a black patch of fur over one eye and is especially cute with a red bandana tied around his neck. Many activist groups strongly favor shelter dogs and believe they make excellent pets when adopted into good homes.

There have been many interesting pets in the White House other than dogs. Other Presidents have had pets, from alligators in the bathtub and white mice, to hippo’s and tiger cubs. George Washington even had a parrot, which might have been the first pet in the White House that historically belonged to a pirate.

The addition of the Somalia Pirate Dog to the White House would be a great political achievement for the administration. There is nothing like the success story of an underdog to get the nation’s attention off of other problems.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
Updated 2020

Disclaimer: Although based on facts, this article is SATIRE (fiction) less anyone take it seriously.

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Fun at the Faire

Posted on October 7, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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Every year I say “not again” and every year I find myself there again. It isn’t that I can’t resist the advertisements, or that I actually want to go, or even that my arm is being twisted or I’m suffering from undue influence.

Somehow, when the time comes around for the local renaissance festival, my memory plays tricks on me. I think maybe they put something in the water that makes me forget. The weekend comes, I forget that I’m not going, and there I am again.

My grandson loves to go, that probably has a lot to do with it too. What kid wouldn’t love it? Magicians, escape artists, sword-fighting pirates, fire eaters, dueling knights in armor, it’s the kind of storybook place that lets fantasy go wild.

I like these things too; don’t get me wrong. It’s just that after a while; well, I’ve seen it all before and it’s always pretty much the same. Of course, they do have this really good food. I’m partial to the “leg of fowl”, or as we common folk call it, fried leg of turkey.

Besides turkey, they also have kettle corn. I can’t resist kettle corn. Even though the popcorn smell blends with the smell of dung from the camels across the path, I can’t stay away from the kettle corn booth. I take my popcorn elsewhere before eating it, however.

In addition to the strange medieval wearing attire and crafts that are featured in the booths, they also sell a lot of unusual trinkets and baubles that I have a hard time resisting. I told myself, “No jewelry this year.” But, I could look, couldn’t I? It doesn’t cost anything to look.

And that’s how I ended up with the tiger-eye necklace… just looking. But it was really an unusual piece and such a good deal! Besides, I had to do something to pass the afternoon besides watch the laundry wenches frolic, and it wasn’t time for the fire eater yet.

Okay, so I went to see the fire-eater. I don’t know how he does it without burning his insides out, but he does. Not only do I not know how, I also don’t know why. He must have a recessive pyromania gene that makes him want to play with fire. Don’t try this at home, kids.

My grandson kept returning for additional funds until I found out he was spending the money on renaissance versions of games of chance, not hotdogs. He really wanted a stick tossing game, which they did not have. They did have a bow and arrow set, however. Good grief! And I was worried about stick tossing games being dangerous?

By the time the knights were ready to duel, I was ready to go home, but I didn’t want to miss out. Unfortunately, the fire walker’s show was at the same time. Decisions, decisions. Who could resist knights in shinning armor participating in games for the honor of the queen? Violent as it may be, it is still probably the most interesting event there.

Now I’ll grant you that there are some very weird folks running around in the woods in very weird costumes. Not all of them are festival reenactors either, many of them are supposedly the audience.

However, I’m not sure they look a whole lot more bizarre than the gentle folks at the steeplechase race with their silly sundresses and hats — all horsed up for the horse races, with white flesh hanging out everywhere, making pictures for the social section of the newspaper.

But I digress.

At least the people at the Renaissance Faire know they are acting strangely.

knights Continue reading →

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The Hospital Experience

Posted on October 5, 2020 by Sheila Moss

surgeryYes, even surgery is something to laugh about after you know you are okay. 

I always figured I would end up on the orthopedic surgeon’s operating table sooner or later, but I thought it would be for a knee replacement, not for a cervical disc fusion. But here I was, asking — actually begging — to have my neck slashed. Shows what pain can do to you.

On the big day, I checked into a tiny room that was as cold as a freezer locker and received a hospital gown and a blanket so thin I could see through it. Eventually, a stretcher arrived for me and I watched the ceiling squares fly by as I was wheeled down long halls and onto an elevator.

The anesthesiologist put an IV hookup in my arm. I was given meds that were supposed to relax me, but didn’t. “Don’t worry, you won’t wake up during surgery, we monitor your brain waves,” he said. What a relief. I hadn’t considered the possibility before that. I wished they would turn up the drugs.

I was wheeled into what I recognized from TV as an operating room where masked figures in blue garb hovered over me fiddling with various monitors. I felt a hot sensation in my arm and my wish for drugs was granted.

“Where am I?” I asked.

My eyes burned like fire. I had a large collar around my neck to support my head. Various medical people came in and out, checking monitors and doing whatever it is that medical people do to see if you are still alive.

My chest was congested and I couldn’t breathe. “Cough,” they told me. So, I coughed and coughed and nothing happened except it made my sore throat even sorer.

When I eventually woke up completely, I felt great except for blurry vision. I was ready to be discharged and go home. It wasn’t until later that I found I felt great because I was receiving morphine in my IV. The sneaks.

Breakfast was served — bacon, eggs and a biscuit. I wondered why they didn’t realize my throat was too swollen to eat. The nurse’s aide came and bathed me with what smelled like Lysol.  I wondered if she was using mop water. I was too weak to protest the burning disinfectant, but if there is ever a next time, I intend to be a hippie and refuse baths.

By evening, it was time for my first walk. I was afraid my head would fall off and go rolling down the hall. Two nurses dragged me and the IV stand down the hall and wheeled me back when I nearly passed out. By the following day, however, I would be able to walk up and down the hall with assistance and without mooning anyone.

I continued to cough. I’m not sure how long you can go without sleep until you become delusional, but given a choice between breathing and sleeping, sleep does not seem important.

I wanted to go home. Finally, on the third day the doctor came and discharged me. A mere five hours of paperwork later, I was able to leave. I was much weaker than I realized and fell on my knees trying to into my house.

Welcome home.

The bad news: the doctor forgot to put a date on the prescription he wrote for pain meds, so the drug store wouldn’t fill it. The good news: I had pain meds left over from pre-surgery.

I slept setting up in a chair for the first week after surgery, if you can call it sleeping. Nights were hell, coughing all night and trying to breathe. I called my primary doctor  and found that I had bacteria in my lungs transmitted by the tubes in my throat during surgery. I wondered why someone didn’t think of that sooner.

Not fully coherent, I took pain pills along with other medications, which must have been too much sedation as I dreamed of being three people, one who slept, one who floated around the room on sparkling fireworks, and one who coughed.

Surgery is gross. I do not recommend it. Pain is worse and I recommend it even less. Next time, I intend to find an easier way to get material for a column.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
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Here Come the Mules

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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“So, what’s the big deal about mules,” asked my grandson, as he skated in circles balancing himself on the heels of his wheeled tennis shoes, a new skill he was  beginning to master.

We were trying to get ready to go to Columbia, Tennessee, for the annual Mule Day parade. Not that I’m crazy about mules, or anything else equine, but it was something different to do, and a chance to get away from the omnipresent computer games that consume a child’s mind these days.

We were running late again. We always seem to run late. It was further than we remembered and we didn ‘t know our way around town. The streets were closed for the parade and the police flaged us away. Finally, we followed a group of motorcycle riders that seemed to know where they were going and ended up about a block from the parade route.

At first my grandson ignored the endless procession of mules and wagons, still more interested in endless stretches of sidewalk where he could test his balance by doing wheelies in his tennis shoes. But eventually curiosity got the best of him and he turned his attention to the reason we were there.

We pushed him through a crack between people in the crowd, up to the front where a kid could see. Later on, I sneak through to the front myself and set on the curb where I snaped pictures and pondered his question, “What is the big deal is about mules?”

Mules are a big deal to the people that own them and apparently to a lot of other people too. About 125,000 people, from all over the South turn out for the parade and festival. Tennessee folks like things plain and simple and what could be less pretentious than mules?

Columbia is widely known in these parts for its celebration of everything associated with mules. In early times, the story goes, Columbia was a commercial center for the mule market trade. The mule, produced by cross-breeding a horse and donkey, has traits from both animals but cannot reproduce, which creates a constant market for mules by those who appreciate this animal. This mule market eventually evolved through the years into a week-long celebration.

Mules are as varied in type as horses, but show the donkey side of their breeding with their long expressive ears, donkey tails, and quirky traits. Mules are often believed to be stubborn, but those in the know believe they are actually highly intelligent. They sometimes arouse the ire of their owners who say to handle them they must first learn to out think them.

Mules have a strong sense of self-preservation and refuse to endanger themselves by continuing to work when tired, sometimes a source of great aggravation to owners. Mules are especially known for their great strength and endurance, which made them popular with pioneers and farmers in the early days before machinery took over agriculture and wheelies took over sidewalks.

My grandson was getting into the spirit at last and adjusted his baseball cap to watch as the mules clopped by. There were all types of mules, from miniature animals bred for their tiny size, to huge magnificent animals with fancy tack and flamboyant riders in dusters. The wagons that were pulled by the animals were decorated in their parade finery.

I don’t know how impressed my grandson was, but usually kids like almost anything that is outside of their usual routine of life. Amusement parks and computers are okay to a point, but kids need to see and do different things and to have a variety of experiences, especially in this time of electronic everything. At least that’s my theory.

However, my grandson was back to doing wheelies by now, whizzing across the asphalt, hands in his pockets and toes pointed upwards, carefully avoiding the deposits left in the road after the parade was gone.

“How did you like the mules?” I asked hopefully.

“They’re okay,” he responded, “Can we get pizza now?”

I guess kids nowadays just can’t understand a form of transportation that doesn’t do wheelies.

DSCN0016DSCN0034DSCN0028Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss

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Call Me Later

Posted on September 28, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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I am amazed when people try to stop teenagers from talking on cell phones while driving. No talking on cell phones? Why you might as well try to stop them from downloading music. Who in the world can stop a teenager from talking on the phone, or doing anything they’ve got their mind set on doing?

It makes you wonder if some adults were ever teenagers or if it has just been so long ago that they no longer remember?  The best solution these days seems to be a hands-free option for phones — but cell phones can still be a distraction.

Back when I was young, cell phones and even cordless phones did not exist. (I’m telling my age here, so just forget this part after you read it.) We had only the good old, standard telephone fastened to the wall with a 15 foot cord so that it could be stretched to the closest closet or bathroom where the door could be closed and we could engage in our private conversation away from the prying ears of parents or (ug!) siblings. We spent marathon hours talking on the phone to friends and it was all part of becoming socialized, feeling accepted, growing up.

Maybe some people never had the thrill of talking on the phone for hours unending, while lying on the floor with feet on the furniture. Maybe they never spent infinite hours just waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe they never called a friend and then held on to the phone for ages talking about nothing, just because they wanted to feel a connection.

The love affair between teenagers and telephone is a long-standing, time-honored tradition. Of course, phones in past times were not mobile and did not have the option of texting. Cell phones are the modern day replacement for the 15-foot cord.

Try to take away the kids cell phones? Why they might as well take away the senior prom, rock music, or the Friday night football game.  We try to teach kids to use responsibility. What sort of mixed message do we send when we hand them the car keys with one hand, and take away the cell phone with the other?

If you want to be fair, admit that adults on cell phones are not safe drivers either. So let’s not pick on adolescents and blame them for the ills of the highway. If the kids are considered old enough to drive a motor vehicle in the first place, then they should be considered old enough to have the responsibility that comes with it.

I’m not opposed to safety on the roads. If we really want to be safer, why not lower the 70-mph breakneck speed limit? Why not crack down on the driver’s license test that, as every one knows, is scarcely a test at all. Why not post some public service messages to educate the general public on how to drive without tailgating and how to using signal lights.

Why not encourage courtesy to other drivers on the roads instead of a competative “watch out for the other guy” mentality. Why not install a hands-free option for the cell phone? Like everyone else, teenagers may not always be able to pull to the side of the road or re-enter traffic safely when the phone rings. How many people have never used their cell phone while driving?

Phones are a convenience, a way to keep in touch when we are away, a way to get information, a way to say we will be late for an appointment, a way to let people know where we are, a way to be available if someone needs us.

The absurdity of saying someone is responsible enough to have a license to drive a high-powered, fast-speed machine but not responsible enough to use a cell phone safely is simply ludicrous. Does anyone besides me see the paradox?

Copyright 2001 Sheila Moss
Edited 2020
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Fleeing the Flu

Posted on September 22, 2020 by Sheila Moss
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Photo by CDC on Unsplash

Are you as tired of hearing about seasonal flu shots as I am? All right already, enough is enough. For some reason, everyone seems to be concerned about getting flu shots. We have flu every year, but this year the pundants are going into overdrive about it.

“The most important way to keep from getting any virus is to wash your hands, wear a mask, avoid crowds and remember to social distance,” say the health experts. So, why are we being beaten over the head with helpful hints about staying healthy? Because getting flu and the Coronovirus together would be a double whammy. But, habits are hard to change. People pretty much want to do what they always do.

This year’s panic is because of the pandemic, or Covid-19 if you want to be technically correct. Because of Covid, suddenly everyone has become aware of how dangerous seasonal flu can be. Maybe it took being hit over the head with a pandemic baseball bat to wake people up to the flu risks.

Funny, I don’t remember flu ever being called seasonal flu until this year. Suddenly plain old regular flu has gone fancy. They don’t want us to get the two mixed up and get the ridiculous idea that regular flu shots will protect us from that nasty old Covid-19 bug.

Hello, operator … the message isn’t getting through. Because of the Coronovirus people will get shots who never, ever had a flu shot before. There are many official statements saying the seasonal flu shot does not protect anyone from Covid. We will need to get two shots, not one — maybe even more, depending on what they come up with for Covid-19.

Due to the lack of availability, the government could set priorities on who can have the Coronovirus vaccine. Kind of scary when the government starts saying who can be protected from an epidemic, isn’t it? But obviously health care workers have to be first in line when/if a Covid vaccine is available.

I presume there will eventually be sufficient vaccine for all who want it to get it. Meanwhile, I will get my seasonal flu shot as usual this year at my friendly neighborhood drugstore.

Some people, however, have decided that the flu shot is more dangerous than the flu. And they are probably the same people who will think a vaccination is more dangerous than Covid. Lucky for them, if the rest of us get the shot, we are not spreading germs around to infect the protesters who don’t; thus, the infamous “herd immunity” we hear so much about.

Personally, I’m a believer in getting vaccinated. If everyone decided they didn’t need to be immunized, we would still have horrific preventable diseases like polio — diseases long ago abolished thanks to wide-spread vaccination programs.

So, all you folks that don’t want the vaccine get out of my way. I’m not in one of the priority groups, but when it is available for me, I’m darn sure going to get it. Call me brainwashed, a cow following the herd, a lemming, but I still think shots are a good thing.

You can wear your tin foil hat as far as I’m concerned and wait for the mothership. I’ll take my chances with the vaccine. Maybe, just maybe, there will be enough people that think like me to get this pandemic under control.

Now excuse me while I wash my hands again, put on my mask, go get my seasonal flu shot, avoid crowds and remember to social distance.

Copyright 2009-2020 Sheila Moss
Revised and Updated

Dear peeps, Remember I am supposedly a humor writer, not a healthcare expert. Please check the CDC Website for the latest information on Covid-19 and/or seasonal flu. I love all my readers and want you to stay healthy and alive. 

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Remembering Autumn

Posted on September 18, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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I want to go backwards to the autumn of my childhood. I want to see piles of pumpkins at roadside stands.  I want to drink apple cider that doesn’t come in plastic jugs.  I want to feel crisp air in the morning as I walk to school. I want to see a hint of frost on the ground that tells me the season is changing.  I want to observe the glorious riot of color as trees try to outdo each other. I want to gather leaves in hues of red, orange, and yellow.

I want to visit a pumpkin farm and select an orange pumpkin to carve into a jack-o-lantern. I do not want to go pumpkin farms that have turned into commercial enterprises with hayrides, corn mazes, and petting zoos. I believe the selection of a pumpkin should never be a secondary thing.  An artificial pumpkin from Walmart with a plastic smile that lasts forever can ever replace the real thing.

I want to celebrate Halloween the wat it was before it lost its innocence. I want to play pranks, soap windows, ring doorbells and hide without ending up in Juvenile Court. I want to dress up like a ghost or a scarecrow instead of a Disney princess or a superhero. I do not like store-bought costumes where creativity isn’t necessary and there is an endless selection of the same thing.

I want to go to a party in the high school gymnasium, bob for apples, take part in a cake walk, and enter a contest where the costumes that win are homemade. I want to be able to call a Halloween party a Halloween party instead of a harvest festival.  I want Halloween to be fun instead of being associated with evil.  I do not want to watch horror movies that are way too realistic in their depiction of guts, gore and death. I want to be afraid of imaginary spirits and not even know that there is such a thing as devil worship.

I want to go back to the time before razor blades in candy took the fun from little goblins who run from door to door to trick or treat.  I want popcorn balls and peppermint sticks.  I want to live in a world where candy is not eyed with suspicion, checked for tampering, and often thrown in the trash.  I want to live in a world where kids don’t have to worry about falling victim to some sick person’s idea of a joke.

Somewhere in time I grew older and wiser and society became hardened.  What used to be fun is not any more. I want haunted houses where guts are spaghetti and spider webs are fish nets.  I don’t want houses of horror of  where the depiction of violent death and untold evil is way too real and imagination is no longer challenged.

I want October the way it used to be. I want chrysanthemums to bloom. I want to jump in piles of withered leaves. I want to go on a hayride, have a bonfire, and roast wieners on a wire coat hanger.  I want to burn my marshmallow and eat it anyhow.  I want to have a real jack-o-lantern on the doorstep with a real candle burning inside.

I want to know what happened to take the innocent joy out of the fall season. I cannot help but believe that it is not fall that changed, but people.  Like the leaves of autumn, we have lost our vitality, and now have only our withering memories to carry us backwards in time.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
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Luv a Clown

Posted on September 12, 2020 by Sheila Moss

levi-saunders-m_PB-FYlR_Q-unsplash Continue reading →

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Battle of the Bush

Posted on September 9, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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The holly bush grew larger and larger, the wild sprouts taller and more difficult to reach. Each time I seemed to have to climb to a higher step on the ladder until there were no steps left, at least none that could be navigated safely.

It started a few years ago when I had new landscaping done around my house. Most of my bushes were old, overgrown, and not the right kind of shrub anyhow. The new shrubs were small and beautiful. My house looked like new again. But the landscape guy left a few of the older shrubs that were established and fit into his plan.

One of the older shrubs was a large holly bush at the corner of the house. The shrub guy trimmed it and it looked very nice with the new ones – except for one thing. After being trimmed back, it developed the tendency to get unsightly tall branches springing straight up out of the top. These sprigs seemed to have a mind of their own and developed much faster than the rest of the shrub.

The holly bush became my nemeses. I would get the trimmers and cut off those shoots – in a month or less, they were back and had to be cut again. They were worse than weeds.

But the really terrible thing about this bush was that it was a holly bush and had thorns. If I get too close while trimming, it bites back. Every work session became a cat fight. Regardless of gloves and sweatshirts to protect me, I came inside after a gardening session with claw marks all over me.

In the battle with a thorn bush, the bush always wins.

The bush grew wilder and I became more depressed. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I got out my sheers and duct taped broom sticks on the handles so I could reach the tall sprigs. I’d show that bush who is boss!

But when the shears opened, the sticks were so wide apart I couldn’t manage them. I got my daughter to hold one pole while I held the other. It didn’t work. We couldn’t see the top of the bush and coordinate enough to trim off the sprigs.

Finally, my daughter had to tell me, “Mom, this isn’t going to work. Let the landscape guy come trim them.” She was right. I put away the stuff and went inside, hating to admit I’d been beaten by a bush.

But the lawn guy thought the weather was too hot for bush-trimming and suggested we wait until fall and do all the shrubs at once. That made sense, but what about the ugly bush?

I thought on it for a while, then I remembered – tree pruners. I needed a tree pruner! I checked online and Home Depot had one that was lightweight and 12 feet long. That should do it.

The next day I was off to the hardware store to buy the tree pruner. It was twice as much as I wanted to pay, but I justified it to myself by saying the bush is an ongoing problem and I would be using the pruner often.

The thing was so big it barely fit in my car, but I put part of the pole between the front seats and finally got the hatch to close.

“You are going to love my new trimmer,” I told my daughter.

“Mom, I thought you gave up on that idea,” she said.

“Give up? Me? I never give up. I refuse to be beaten by a bush.”

So, we went outside and tried it. The new pruner worked great. I lobbed off those ugly sprouts in no time, and didn’t get close enough to be scratched by the holly thorns.

So, I now have a new weapon in my arsenal of lawn tools.

Don’t ever tangle with a determined woman, especially when she is armed with a tree pruner.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss
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