Hell’s TV

Posted on May 18, 2020 by Sheila Moss

tv

One of the worse things about staying home with nothing much to do has been watching daytime TV with it’s various reruns of previously popular shows. 

What has happened to television?  I remember a time when we could hardly wait for Monday night and “I Love Lucy” to come on. There were funny shows on television, “sitcoms.” We watched the likes of Dick Van Dike, Mary Tyler Moore, Lucille Ball or Carroll O’Connor and laughed like hyenas.

Somewhere over the rainbow television went haywire.  We have satellite TV now, zillions of channels to flip through, but, there is nothing to watch. Reality television has taken over the air waves, like a quarterback with the football.

We watch chefs prepare food in the kitchen while ducking vicious curses thrown at them like pots and pans. We watch “teams” on a deserted island connive, scheme, and lie to survive a game of elimination to win a million dollars — and a lifetime supply of mosquito repellent, I assume. We watch singles form emotional liaisons and coldly eliminate the competitors to come up with the perfect match, whom they dump as soon as the show ends.  And worst of all, we watch guts and gore as crime scenes assault us like scenes from Steven King’s worst nightmare.

I try to watch TV while a Nanny teaches parents how to take care of their own kids. They are fighting, jumping, biting and screaming little monsters until the parents find out about “time out” and declare war on Sippy cups. Have these people never heard of Dr. Spock? After 30 minutes, I cannot stand listening to screaming kids any longer as my eardrums might burst and send me flying around room like a balloon losing its air.

Hell’s Kitchen, aptly named, is hell for TV viewers as well. It used to be that restaurants had front stage and back stage. Front stage was where the patrons were, and we were never subjected to the goings-on involved in the preparation of food.  If we wanted to see food prepared, we would go  to mom’s house for dinner.  Now we get to see chefs overcook or under cook steaks, throw away enough food to end world hunger, curse like pirates with a toothache, and sweat like sumo wrestlers.

Contestants on game shows now have no questions to answer but only numbers to choose. No skill is involved, merely chance. Enormous amounts of money are turned down as contestants say “no deal” to try to get even more.  It’s like an addiction. More often than not, they end up as runaway racecars that can’t quit trying to win until they crash on the wall.  Greed in all it’s glory. Not a pretty sight.

And those crime scene investigation shows — what can I say? You’ve all made the mistake of turning on the boob tube to the grizzly site of human remains, battered, slaughtered, burned beyond recognition, drawn and quartered and all on display for our entertainment and amusement. Almost worse than the shocking display of carnage is the indifferent attitude of the police and doctors who are as cold and cynical as a homeless person in January. When crime scene investigators stop caring, it’s time for them get out of the business.

Well, I could go on and on describing how television has gone south and there is nothing on it to watch. I wish we could have more comedy shows, television that makes us laugh like we are wearing fuzzy slippers. Maybe those days are gone forever. Viewers are now more sophisticated. What used to be funny isn’t as funny when we see it in a rerun. Networks are unwilling to pay comedy writers and want unscripted reality shows that can make the payments on their executive mansions.

How much more of this type of entertainment can we take before there is  mass hysteria in our living rooms? Is this actually considered interesting entertainment. No wonder so many no longer watch broadcast television and only stream movies or series. We can only hope that the pendulum swings back and viewers eventually get the last laugh.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
Posted in Entertainment, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

One Day at a Time with AT&T

Posted on May 7, 2020 by Sheila Moss

networkThinking of changing network providers? This is my experience based on the 12-Step Program. Hopefully, your “improvement” will go more smoothly.

Step 1 – Admit you are powerless over your cable company. What used to be a mere pittance for broadband computer connection has continued to rise until it has become a money -sucking monster.

Step 2 – Come to believe that a power greater than Comcast can restore you to your sanity.

Step 3 – Make a decision to turn your life and your computer over to the care of AT&T, as you understand them and the advertisements.

Step 4 – Make a searching and fearless inventory of your home and count all the computers, including laptops, disregarding old computers and old computer parts
in the attic.

Step 5 – Admit to AT&T, yourself, and Comcast that you are stupid for paying more money for cable just to keep your free virus protection, an unused home page,
and eight email addresses, seven of which you’ve never used.

Step 6 – Be entirely ready to have AT&T remove your cable connection.

Step 7 – Humbly ask the phone company to reconnect you.

Step 8 – Make a list of all the email contacts you will have to notify and be willing to accept that you will lose about half of them.

Step 9 – Make a direct wired connection to your computer whenever possible, except when to do so involves a remote computer or laptop — for those you need to go wireless.

Step 10 – Continue to take inventory of computers and printers and to work endless hours with AT&T support people to get your computer up and running.

Step 11 – Seek through meditation to forget your aggravation with AT&T as you thought you understood them, praying for an understanding of why you cannot connect to the Internet, regardless of what you do.

Step 12 – Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of three endless days of being on the phone with support techs, frayed nerves, no sleep, lost time, and nothing working right, try to carry the message to others.

Step 13 – Crawl under the desk, find the old computer cable and plug yourself in. Kiss your computer. Check email, update your website, and check out Facebook. Sooner or later your new company will get their act together. Until then, remember…

Relapse is a part of improvement.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss

 

NOTE: I don’t know what went wrong here. Maybe I don’t have enough patience. Eventually things were worked out and we’ve been happy since. However, I’m still not convinced that one service is much different than another.

 

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The Sky’s A-falling

Posted on April 27, 2020 by Sheila Moss

sky“The sky’s a-falling, the sky’s a-falling,” said Henny Penny when she was hit on the head by an acorn in the classic fable. I know how she felt. I thought the sky was      a-falling too this week when my central heating unit went out. It had already been one of those weeks when everything that could go wrong did.

This time it started Sunday when I set the thermostat down just a bit. During the night it seemed to become colder and colder. Finally, some time during the early morning hours, I crawled out from under the covers and turned up the heat. Then I jumped back in bed for a final snooze.

When I eventually woke up, the house was freezing. “What’s going on,” I thought. I put my hand over the vent and the air blowing out was cold. “Maybe I was half-asleep and turned on the air,” I thought. I tried to adjust the thermostat, but nothing happened.

I shivered as I slipped into my warmest jeans and sweater and tried to remember the name of the company that put in my furnace. I called. They promised to send someone that afternoon at one o’clock, which worked out well as I had to take my daughter to the doctor in the morning.

When we got back from the doctor, I decided to run errands and pick up a few items at the discount mart. My daughter wanted to stay home in spite of the cold and would call me when the furnace guy arrived.

It was after one o’clock when I finished and my cell phone had not rung. When I checked it, I found that it was turned off.

“Oh no! I hope I didn’t miss them.”

But when I got home the service truck was in the driveway and my daughter was on the steps. “I’ve been trying to call you for an hour,” she said. “They came early.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the phone must have turned itself off.”

“Wait until you hear the news,” replied my daughter, as the guy got out of his truck.

The furnace burner was rusted and disintegrating. The cost to fix it left me flabbergasted. Furthermore, the entire unit was in terrible shape. He recommended that I replace it. “It’s 15 years old,” he said, “that’s about as long as they last.”

“I looked at it, Mom,” said my daughter. “It’s rusty inside and falling apart.” The pipe that carries the gas was split open. If it didn’t have an automatic shut off, we would have died from carbon monoxide.

I could feel the pieces of sky a-falling around me like stars.

I picked out what seemed like the best new unit for the money, while pieces of sky continued a-bouncing on the ground around me. They would put it in the next day — unless it rained.

The next day turned out to be the day after the next day. We were entirely without heat. We brought in the little electric space heater out of the garage and turned it on. Shortly afterwards, the living room went dark. Overloaded circuit.

What next?

We decided to build a fire in the fireplace. We were snug and warm as long as we sat near the fireplace. By the third night, I was beginning to sort of enjoy the cozy fire. Maybe we didn’t really need a furnace?

Or maybe some carbon monoxide had leaked after all and damaged my brain. What would we do this winter when it became really cold? Maybe I had been hit in the head by a piece of falling sky — or an acorn.

They finally came and installed the new furnace.

The sky’s a-falling. I know it. Henny Penny knows it too. But no one else seemed to notice.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

 

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Turtleneck Sweaters

Posted on April 23, 2020 by Sheila Moss

markus-winklerDid you ever try to find a turtleneck top in the summer? I’m here to tell you folks, it isn’t easy.

Last winter the Land’s End catalog was full of them, all colors. They even came in tall sizes with long sleeves that are a few inches longer than the average turtleneck like you find in stores.

Lately, I have found that I have a legitimate need for turtleneck tops. I had no idea they were so hard to find. I had surgery on my neck. The incision healed, but it left a nasty looking scar on my neck, hard to hide with anything other than a turtleneck.

I have several turtleneck sweaters in my closet. But they are too hot for summer. Even the cotton ones with the high rolled-over necks are too hot for summer. But mock turtlenecks would be nice — maybe with short sleeves instead of long.

Guess, what? There is no such thing.

I already am the proud owner of exactly one mock turtleneck, and it is actually an acrylic knit sweater, not a cotton top. It’s brown. After a while, I had worn my brown pants, my brown printed skirt and was totally out of things to go with brown.

Yesterday I went to the doctor for my post-op checkup. How’s the incision doing?” he asked, checking out my scar.

“Boy, your neck is a mess,” he joked, as if I didn’t know. My doctor has a warped sense of humor. He’s a fine one to talk about my ugly neck since he is the one responsible for making it that way.

“You can just hide the scar with a turtleneck,” he quipped, as if I didn’t have one on at the time, a heavy blue turtleneck with log sleeves. I was sweltering, but it covered the scar. Why didn’t he do the surgery from the back of my neck where the scar wouldn’t show? I supposed there is some medical reason to do it from the front instead.

“Why don’t you just not worry about it?” suggested my honey. “It’s just a scar, it will fade.”

Men, honestly, they do not understand a woman’s vanity.

“I don’t know why you are making such a big deal about it,” he said.

Neither do I. But somehow I just can’t make myself go out in public with that big red scar showing.

I tried a package of scar therapy patches that are supposed to make scars fade faster, but the incision became inflamed. “Do not use until the wound has healed completely,” said the package.

I think maybe I better wait a while.

So, it’s back to wearing turtlenecks.

I decided to go shopping. I looked through all the racks and found a dozen or so mock turtlenecks. A few of them fit. Most had long sleeves, though. I managed to find a few sweaters with short sleeves that were in a lighter fabric. At least I will not have to wear brown every single day now. Or swelter in heavy, long-sleeve sweaters intended for winter.

Vanity, what a terrible thing to be cursed with. But I suppose everyone worries about how they look to some extent, unless they are complete slobs. Sometimes I think it would be easier just to be a slob.

Anyhow, I have a new plan. Scarves. I could wear a scarf on my neck to cover the scar. They come in all colors and are lightweight.

Now I need to go shopping again.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

 

Posted in Fashion, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

What Color is Brown?

Posted on April 18, 2020 by Sheila Moss

hair

Who is that person in the mirror looking back at me? I don’t even know her. I can’t believe she did it, but she did.

Like most women, I enhance the color of my hair to something that better represents my image of who I am. Trouble is, I got tired of the mixing, waiting, dripping, messy goop. I hate the stained towels and spatters on the wallpaper, not to mention repainting the bathroom after the big accidental spill.

I decided that I would let my hair go natural. Be myself. Problem is that it looks really awful while your hair is growing out. So… I decided to use a different color, one closer to my original color so the brown roots wouldn’t show.

I went to the Walmart and tried to pick the color out myself. That was my big mistake.

Why is it that what is says on the box is never the color that is inside? I thought it would be perfect, “Light Golden Brown,” it said on the label.

They call THIS light golden brown? I thought, looking in the mirror. “Dark Putrid Brown,” they should have called it, or “Mousy Messy Surprise.”

I guess they wouldn’t sell much hair color that way.

I should have known to pick a color lighter than what I actually wanted. I went though this once before. After the initial shock was over, I changed right back to the color I was accustomed to.

“You just have to get used to it,” says my daughter. She is trying to be nice.

Maybe I can wear a hat. Or maybe I can cover it with a scarf? Or maybe I can put a bucket over my head.

It’s no use. This is not going to work. I am going back to the old color.

I have to wait a while for the roots to recover. Re-coloring too fast could cause my hair to fall out. Bald would be very bad indeed.

“You dyed your hair,” friends say to me.

“Yes, I dyed my hair. I hate it.” I reply.

“Oh, you just have to get used to it,” they chime in chorus.

I will never get used to it. I don’t even want to try to get used to it. But it doesn’t look quite as awful today as it did yesterday. Maybe it is fading already?

Tonight I’m going back to the old color. It doesn’t usually work to put a lighter color over a darker one, but maybe it will lighten it enough. Maybe it will be closer to “Golden Brown” than to “Trash Pit Brown.”

I hope.

We’ve all heard the tales of horror: Women who try to lighten their own hair and turn it orange. Women who try to darken their own hair and turn it purple.

I don’t have time to deal with a hair color disaster right now. I must have been crazy trying to change my hair color. Who wants to be natural these days anyhow?

If only they would name the colors what they really are and stop trying to make them sound better. If it’s “Mousy Mud Puddle,” call it that, or “Bitter Chocolate Moose,” or “Yo’ Mamma’s Biggest Nightmare.”

They need to let me start naming these things.

“Rich Darden Dirt” I would have called it! Or “Cow Manure Brown,” or “Scorched Coffee Bean,” or “Scarab Beetle Dung.”

“Light Golden Brown?” Liar, liar, pants on fire!

I could put them out of business in a week with my names. Let them wait for their roots to recover for a change.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

 

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Invisible Dust

Posted on April 10, 2020 by Sheila Moss

unsplash

You may find this hard to believe, but it is absolutely true. I have invisible dust at my house. I know it is invisible because no one can see it except me. The furniture can have enough of the stuff to rival a hazardous waste dump, but my family continues in their daily activities, simply ignoring it as if it was not there. Surely, if they could see what I see, someone would say, “I think it’s time to clean,” and run full speed for the feather duster.

I don’t know why it is that I am the only one that can see the dust. Perhaps I have supersonic vision, like Superman. Perhaps they think I can leap over a dirt pile in a single bound. All I know is that I seem to be the only one who ever cleans house.

Strangely, this special ability to see the invisible includes not only the dust on the furniture, but also the fingerprints on mirrors and glass doors. I should work for the FBI. It is amazing how I can see those smudges and prints, but no one else knows they are there. Fingerprints at my house could overwhelm the national criminal data base and still no one would mention that it might be time to clean.

Kitchen floors are the same. No one can see the footprints, black marks, or the mud that has been tracked in. I know I have missed my calling. With my amazing ability to see invisible footprints, I should have been a scout for the military or a guide for big game hunters. It is truly amazing how I can see tracks on the floor while everyone else just walks right over them.

Even my carpets are polluted with the incredible invisible dust. I can see the dust bunnies and foozles holding wild parties under the living room coffee table. But the other members of the family are entirely oblivious to the fact that we are being terrorized by filth. Never in a million years would someone actually volunteer to run the sweeper.

I don’t know what it might take to get others in my home see that housework must be done. The bathroom could be oozing green slime and no one would acknowledge it. They might grudgingly agree to help if I pitch a big enough tantrum. But they do not have a clue what it is they are cleaning as it is entirely invisible to their eyes.

You name it and I am the only one in my house that can see it. The list includes greasy appliances, sticky countertops, dust explosions, landfills, tar pits, horse manure, or anything else on the planet that might requires any effort whatsoever to clean up.

When I finally explode, the family is amazed. “If you need help, all you have to do is ask!” they say, flipping channels with the remote control. Ask? Of course, how could I possibly forget; they cannot see the problem. Only I am capable of seeing dust with my supersonic, high-power, infrared, Technicolor vision. No one can possibly volunteer to clean what they don’t even know is there.

It is sad but true. I am cursed with the uncanny ability to see invisible dust. Only I am capable of cleaning without instructions or being asked.  Only I know when it is time to get out the dust mop, disinfectant, household cleaners, and other weapons of mass pollution destruction. Only I will not ignore it and pretend it isn’t there.

One day, I may stop seeing dust too. One of these days I may stop my war on dust long enough to let the invisible dust settle — not that it would do any good. It could block out the sun and destroy the ozone layer, but it could never become dusty enough for my family to clean without prompting unless it obscures the screen of the TV set.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

 

Posted in Environment, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Girls Who Wear Glasses

Posted on April 4, 2020 by Sheila Moss

glasses

I became a girl who wore glasses when I was just a little thing, about 7 years old, if my memory serves me correctly — and it’s possible that it doesn’t as that was a long time ago.

I always had to go to Charlotte to an eye specialist as my vision problem was not something that could be treated by the doctors in the small rural town where I lived. They were so bad that I even had surgery on my eyes at one point.

I always hated these doctor trips as they included a lot of waiting, which was pretty boring to a kid, and eye drops that made my vision so blurry that I couldn’t even see to walk, much less read an eye chart.

After the eye exam, I always got a new pair of glasses. Kids’ glasses in those days came with pink or blue plastic frames. For some reason, I always had to get the ugly pink ones and could never have blue ones like my friend Jean Landers had.

I went through childhood in pink plastic glasses, trying to be careful because glasses in those days were expensive and easy to break. If my glasses were broken, it meant wearing them fixed with tape until my parents could take me for another appointment in Charlotte.

Regardless of being careful, accidents seemed to happen. Once a kid threw a wallet at me (of all things) and hit my glasses. I cried and cried, not because I was hurt, but because of the trouble I knew I would be in for breaking my glasses.

As I became older, I eventually graduated to brown glasses that went with my hair and the dreaded pink plastic ones became a thing of the past. After that, my eyes changed every year or two and there were many styles of glasses, even cat-eyed glasses, which were all the rage at one point in time.

As a teen-ager, I hated glasses more than ever. I was called “four eyes, “”nerd,” and “cat-eyes.” As everyone knows, “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.”

Ironically enough it was at about that time that the doctor decided I really didn’t need to wear glasses. It wasn’t that I could see any better; it was just that the problem with my vision was not correctable with glasses. Too bad they could not have figured that out sooner. It would have saved a lot of childhood trauma — not to mention a lot of trips to Charlotte.

I didn’t wear glasses at all until I became older and my eyes began to change. By then, this wonderful thing called “contact lenses” had been invented, and glasses sort of went the way of the dinosaur.

Things went along pretty well for a while with the contacts, until I needed bi-focals. I tried bi-focal contacts, and tried, and tried. Finally, I gave up. Regardless of how many adjustments were made, I just couldn’t see.

I wore both contacts and reading glasses for while. Finally, I gave up on contacts and went back to glasses. I was wearing glasses half the time anyhow, so why fool with contacts?

When laser eye technology came along, I thought about it, but my doctor said that it was not an option for me. So it seems I’m doomed to forever be a girl who wears glasses.

Everyone was a bit shocked when Sarah Palin came into the national spotlight wearing glasses and not apologizing for it. Sales of frameless glasses increased dramatically. I had already discovered frameless glasses, but what difference does it make whether glasses have frames or not? They are still glasses.

And so time marches on wearing glasses.

As far as boys, it doesn’t matter anymore. Most of the guys my age are also wearing glasses.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
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Dear House Guest

Posted on March 29, 2020 by Sheila Moss

guestbookDear House Guest,

We are really looking forward to your visit. Here are a few things you might want to know about our household before you get here:

The big screen TV is not working. Because of this, Honey is spending a lot of time in the bedroom watching reruns of game shows. When the TV does work, I spent a lot of time in the bedroom to get away from reruns. Feel free to do the same.

You will have to sleep in my grandson’s bedroom. The goldfish does not make any noisy and the hamster only makes noise at night. When my grandson is home, he will want to use his computer in that room. If he asks for your credit card number, he is probably subscribing to something that you can only stop by canceling your bank account.

We have two rescue kittens that my grandson brought home. They are now wild cats and jump to the  top of the hutch, table, and everything else. It is not a good idea to leave food unattended as they might decide to sample it. Maybe you can get them to stay off of you, but I doubt it.

We also have two dogs. One dog belongs to my daughter. It lives under her bed and is neurotic. You probably won’t see it at all. The other dog will jump into your lap and lick you in the face. It will sleep on your feet at night. Be sure to keep an eye on anything you do not want chewed up, and if it has an accident, just clean it up.

We will be happy to let you help with cooking and cleaning as well as doing the yard work, buying groceries and paying the bills so you will feel at home. Honey will vacuum if you remind him several times, and take out the trash if you set the trash bag in front of the door. If you want to buy some groceries, he will help by following you around and telling you to hurry up.

You can only do two loads of laundry a day as it floods the septic tank and causes the plumbing to make gurgling sounds. Honey washes on Saturday, so you can do your clothes any other day. Be very careful with the commodes. If you put too much paper in them at one time, they tend to clog. We keep a plunger by the commode in case you need it.

My daughter lives with us. She will not give you any problems as long as she has cigarettes and books from the library. She spends most of her time in the garage smoking and reading. She cleans her own room, does her own laundry and feeds the animals. She has a lot of health problems, but she can show you the way to the emergency room if necessary. Do not let her use your car or you may never see it again.

Honey makes his own lunch, so we will not have to worry about that. Do not use any of his lunch food out of the refrigerator or he will get mad. Honey gets up at 4:30 so he can use up all the hot water for his shower. He will leave for work at 6:15, so you can go back to sleep if all the noise he makes wakes you up.

We do not have parties or invite anyone over as the dogs will bark and jump on them and the carpet smells too bad. Honey will not clean up his junk pile around his computer desk or the shoes under the bed, so don’t even bother asking about it. Also, don’t go in his bathroom unless it is an emergency for reasons I won’t go into.

If you want to get out and see the local sights, we can go for a drive to the pet cemetery or go bargain shopping at the Goodwill store.

I hope you will enjoy your stay.

Copyright 2009-2020 Sheila Moss
Revised
(Previous title TV’s ‘Wife Swap’)

 

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When You Snooze . . .

Posted on March 26, 2020 by Sheila Moss

grocery

My honey wanted to buy groceries tonight.  The stores will be too crowded tomorrow, ” he said. “We might not want to go out.”

So, I looked through all the cabinets to see what was needed and made a grocery list. I wouldn’t dare let him go buy groceries without a list. No need to put down any junk food. He will get that anyhow.

“It isn’t junk food,” he said. “It’s snacks.” Usually we end up with more “snacks” than food when he goes to the store. He buys the large bags of potato chips and cleans out the store’s ice cream case. I have to shop just to be sure we get some real food.

I think that maybe he has “stock-up panic.” But, who cares? He is the one that is going to fight the crowds buying bread and milk.

“If you think of anything else, just call me,” he said as he stepped out the door.

I was cooking supper and getting ready to enjoy a quiet evening at home when I noticed there were no pickles in the fridge. Well, he said to call if I needed anything.

“I’m not even to the store yet!”

Are pickles junk food? Maybe that’s why I forgot to put them on the list. Or maybe I was just too busy with supper.

Later on, I began to wonder where honey was. Surely he can’t be buying that many snacks. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m. Maybe I should call and check on him. Do we need anything else? After all, I don’t want him to know that I’m calling just to check up on him.

He likes to shop. I hate it. If I am buying clothes or something pretty, that’s one thing. But, groceries just don’t excite me. Usually, I’m in and out just as fast as the wheels will roll on the buggy without me getting a speeding ticket or running over a little old lady.

Finally, I gave in and called. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m just now at the frozen foods.”

“What’s taking so long?” I was actually getting concerned.

“I’m having a hard time. I can’t find stuff. What kind of frozen French fries do you want? ”

“What kind? Who cares! Any kind!”

“Do you want an eight-pound bag?” He must be planning on having French fries with every meal.

“No, just a small size will be enough.”

Thank goodness, I called. He is getting stuff that won’t even fit into the refrigerator. He didn’t understand the list. He stayed on the phone walking up and down the aisles. It’s funny how the store is always sold out of everything when he goes alone.

I thought he was going to hurry. At this rate, he will be there all night. I should have gone with him. I don’t have to spend two hours checking out the snacks when I go.

I finally fell asleep on the sofa watching TV, thinking I would help put groceries away when he got home. When I woke up, he was home in his chair, the weatherman was on TV, and the groceries were put away.

“Did you find everything?” I yawned.

“Everything except the pickles,” he replied.

I felt a little guilty for not helping. “That’s all right,” he said, “It wasn’t that hard.”

He had managed to sneak all the junk food by me and put it away, of course. For some weird reason I have a feeling he may have planned it that way all along.

Copyright 2005-2020 Sheila Moss
Revised

 

Posted in Food, Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Little Boy Lost

Posted on March 19, 2020 by Sheila Moss

dollywood_park_map

When I the grandkids found out that I had been to Disney World — without them — well, what could I do except try to make it up to them?

So that’s how the weekend at Dollywood — with grandchildren — came about.

I’m too old for that. If I wanted to go to amusement parks, I should have stayed young. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option on the menu.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I could keep up with people. But somehow my honey seems to keep getting himself lost. Of course, to hear him tell it, it’s everyone else that is lost. He knows exactly where he is.

He reminds of a time when my kids were small and my son got lost at an amusement park. We all got on a ride, and when we looked around to count noses, my son was missing.

A lost child is a parent’s worse nightmare. I imagined all sorts of terrible things, but there was no way to get off the ride and search until it was over. We found him at the “lost children” center, eating an ice cream cone.

Ever since then I’ve been nervous about being separated from people in a crowd. My kids are the ones with tags pinned to their shirts with their name, address, and phone number on them, just in case.

Now I have to worry about losing my honey, who is a grown man. Thank goodness for cell phones so we can call each other if we become separated.

At Universal Studios in Florida, we were all walking along together when honey stopped to take a picture. The logical thing would be for him to continue walking down the street until he caught up with everyone.

He didn’t.

When we realized he was not with us, we stopped and waited. We tried to call his cell phone, but his battery was dead. Well, he’s a grown man. Surely he would realize that he was lost, find a phone somewhere and call us.

He didn’t.

Since the place was closing down for the day, we decided to go to the gate and wait. We wondered if there was a place for lost grownups to go. Surely he would know not to leave the park without us.

He didn’t.

He waited for us outside the gate. Finally, he saw us inside. “Where did you guys go?” he asked.

So, you can imagine my panic when we walked into the park at Dollywood and honey disappeared the moment we were inside the gate. Surely, after the Universal Studios incident, he remembered to charge his phone this time.

He didn’t.

When he eventually found us again, we made emergency plans to meet at the fountain if we became separated. We spent a lot of time at the fountain.

I don’t know why it is that he can’t seem to remember to charge his phone and can’t seem to stay with the rest of the group. Maybe he hopes that someone will find him and give him an ice cream cone.

I’ve had other people tell me stories of becoming separated from children in department stores or crowds. Usually, it is one problem child that seems to have a knack for getting away from them.

Did I mention the time honey jumped on the transit subway at the airport just as the door slammed, leaving me standing on the platform? I didn’t think so. I try to forget that little fiasco.

All I know is that the next time we go anywhere with large crowds, my honey will be the one wearing the name tag with his name, address, and my cell phone number on it.

Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss
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