Super Bowl Survival Guide

Posted on February 4, 2017 by Sheila Moss

superbowl

Here it is that weekend again, football’s “last hurrah” for the season.  The whole county will be glued to the boob tube and you hate football.  Face it, if they like football, and probably even if they don’t, they are going to watch the Super Bowl.  No use trying to stop ’em or they will resent you until next football season.

If you can get away with it and don’t mind being out of “the know” completely, it is a great time to shop.  The malls are nearly empty during the Super Bowl because everyone is home watching the game.  But, if you spent all your money at Christmas and need to stay out of malls for a while, then you are probably stuck with the BIG GAME.

Prepare ahead of time. The leftover snack crackers from New Year’s eve are probably on sale at the local discount mart. Pick up a box or two. Also, don’t forget some diet soda for yourself. He will probably remember his own beer, but you might want to pick up some lite beer before he gets a chance to buy the regular, fattening kind.

Don’t count on ordering a pizza during the game. Pizza places are very busy during the Super Bowl and it will take forever to get your order. A pot of chili is an excellent idea and goes with the crackers. You can make it early and have it ready before game time. No point fixing a big meal to be gobbled down or ignored.

Super Bowl parties are a lot of fun. If you owe invitations from the holidays, it is a quick and easy way to pay back. Sit up TVs in various rooms of the house and ask everyone to bring a snack.  You can talk and visit and the guys can do what they do best – i.e. watch sports.

If, however, you are stuck watching the game, here are a few helpful hints.  If you can stand to watch the pre-game show, you will understand a little bit about what is going on.  After the kickoff, you can read a book, do needlework, surf the net, or whatever other solitary activity you enjoy. Do not, however, miss the commercials.

The commercials are the most important part of the Super Bowl.  Companies introduce their newest and best and put mega bucks into marketing for the Super Bowl.  Everyone will be talking about such-and-such commercial and you will be out of the conversation if you didn’t see it.

Secondly and equally important: Watch the last 5 minutes of the game!  That will be all anyone talks about anyhow. As long as you have seen the last few minutes, you can be a savvy participant in any post-game discussions. In the event the game goes into overtime, you will, unfortunately, have to watch that too. Any spectacular plays will be re-run a dozen times immediately following the game, so don’t worry about missing something important.

Now, these are football widow survival secrets that I’ve known about for years.  Actually, the “watch the last 5 minutes rule” works for most any sport, but is especially useful at Super Bowl time.

So…Go team!  Rah, rah and all that kinda stuff!  Just remember that the best part is that football season is nearly over, and you will soon have back your significant other – at least until pre-season for next year.

©1999 Sheila Moss
Posted in Entertainment, Humor, Sports | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Misery Loves Company

Posted on February 2, 2017 by Sheila Moss

woman with a cold or allergy

I had a sore throat. I tried to deny it at first and hoped it would just go away. It didn’t. I tried to doctor it myself with menthol cough drops and salt-water gargle. Finally, I had to admit that it was too serious for cough drops and I needed to go to the doctor for real medicine.

I don’t know why I seem to be writing every year about colds and sore throats. It seems to be my destiny to get a good one about the time the seasons change. I hoped this was my official cold of the season. I really hate being sick.

Martyr that I am, I went into work anyhow. Can’t let a little thing like a sore throat get me down, can I?

My daughter called later. “Can I speak to Sheila?”

“It’s me,” I squeaked.

“Oh, I didn’t recognize you – you sound terrible!”

Good grief, my own daughter didn’t recognize my voice. It must be worse than I thought.

“You need to go home and get some rest,” everyone told me. I knew what they were really thinking: “You need to go home before you give that crud to us.”

Wonder where I got it in the first place? I didn’t remember anything viral going around. Guess I was the first victim of the season. My co-workers probably all thought I was loafing or slacking off. Later this year when they get the bug, however, they will understand.

Right after work, I went to the local convenience clinic to see the doc. He looked at my ears, and throat, and listened to my chest. I was a little worried when he asked if he could pray for me. However, there was no fever, so he didn’t think I had strep throat, just a regular run of the mill upper respiratory and sinus infection. He wrote me a prescription for his favorite drug, guaranteed to zap any germ on the first try.

How long does it take these antibiotics to start working anyhow? My voice was getting raspier and raspier. I sounded like a frog that’s been smoking cigars and my nose was red from blowing it so much. I had a mucus factory in my head.

I went home and tried to take everyone’s well-meaning advice to get some rest. There is only one good thing about illness. It is the perfect excuse to conserve energy and not do anything much. Obviously, I couldn’t clean house because it might make me feel worse. Forget yard work, much too strenuous. I was forced to lay around and watch television. “Where’s the remote control?”

Why is it that when you want to rest the telephone won’t quit ringing? After the sixth call, I gave up trying to rest. “Hello”, I managed to get out. I could hear a hesitance on the other end. My voice was so deep they were not sure to whom they were talking.

So, I was living from pill time to pill time thinking surely sooner or later this medicine would start working.

The next day I decide to go to work in spite of feeling like yesterday’s Kleenex. I had already taken off one day that week. I would just keep spreading my germs around. Maybe if I had held my breath on the elevator and stayed in my cubical with my box of tissue nearby, it would have helped.

My co-workers avoided me. Chickens! Were they worried about a little cold? I was starting to hear sneezes from other cubicles already. They needed to take vitamins like I did. They can’t expect me to take off every time I sneeze.

Besides, don’t they know that misery loves company?

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor, Work Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Registration Renewal

Posted on January 31, 2017 by Sheila Moss

paperwork

Just in case you wonder, I’m writing from the insane asylum.  I had my auto emissions test today. Here in pollution paradise, we must have our autos tested yearly before we can renew our automobile registration. Every year I get in a dither over renewing my vehicle registration. It isn’t the emissions testing — I can deal with that. The problem I have is that I can’t figure out how much money I owe to renew my license plate.

I do not, for the life of me, understand why such a seemingly simple thing must be so complicated. We receive two pieces of paper in the mail. Mine, for example, says $49 on the white auto registration sheet, plus $2 to renew by mail. Don’t try sending $51 or you will be laughed out of the vehicle registration office. Send the amount on the other sheet, which includes wheel taxes. Now this second sheet gives eight total amounts, and it is up to me to decide which is correct according to the county I live in.

I’m not sure why they give the amounts for counties other than my own because all it does is make me mad since my county has the highest wheel taxes. But, it would be worth paying the taxes if I could just get the deed done. The problem is I have an ego car with a specialized plate, so the amounts on the second sheet are not correct either.

My method to renew by mail is to send the wrong amount, wait for it to be returned with the correct amount figured and re-send it. Drastic, for sure, but it works!

Last year I decided to beat the system and call the motor vehicle office. I had tried it before and it didn’t work – but I figured I’d try it again. So, I called. “Take the amount it says you owe on the second sheet, and instead of the regular renewal amount, substitute the amount from the first sheet and add the mail renewal fee,” said the clerk.

Simple, huh? I don’t understand why there is room for fees for four counties, three of which I don’t give a whit about, but no room for instructions. I finally got my license plate — even though I sent the WRONG amount. Seems the clerk failed to mention that I should add an extra dollar because I needed a plate, not a sticker. Now I would be perfectly happy with a sticker, but for some incomprehensible reason I needed a plate. Neither paper explained why. Some unintelligible law, I’m sure.

This is absolutely ridiculous! I have a college degree and I can’t figure out how to renew my car tag? Why can’t we just be billed for the correct amount? Or, if that is expecting too much, why not at least have cohesive instructions explaining how to figure what you owe so the average person can understand it without a CPA?

Last year I became so irritated that I wrote my State Congress Person a letter about it. She never replied. Probably she was too busy trying to renew her own motor vehicle registration. Anyhow, I think I’ve finally got this thing figured out after years of trying. I’m sending in what I believe to be the correct amount. I’ll let you know what happens.

I understand a registration can now actually be renewed online. Now that’s an idea worth considering. Next time my auto registration is ready to expire, I think I may try it. If you see me walking or hitchhiking instead of driving, you’ll know that’s an idea that didn’t work either.

Copyright 2002-2017 Sheila Moss
Updated
Posted in Automotive, Humor, Rants | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Wanda and the Catfish

Posted on January 28, 2017 by Sheila Moss
littlefish

Little Fried Fish by Arnold Inuyaki 2015 cc-by-2.0 Flickr

Wanda is a dumb blond, to put it kindly. She is not the sort of person I would normally choose as a friend, but we came to know each other through a mutual acquaintance. She is a good-hearted person, but intelligence is just not one of her qualities.

On the particular day under discussion, my friend and I were going to visit his mother who was in the hospital in a nearby town. Wanda was a perfectly capable driver, but being Wanda, was afraid to drive on the Interstate. She asked to go with us since she knew my friend’s mother too.

Naturally, it was impossible to refuse to let someone go along to visit someone in the hospital, so we agreed to take her with us. Wanda was the sort who talked incessantly and told rather amusing stories, more by accident than by any deliberate intent.

We had previously decided that after the visit to the hospital, we would stop and eat dinner at the nearby Catfish House. Southerners are connoisseurs of catfish, and passing right by one of the best fish restaurants in the area without stopping to eat was just an impossibility.

Besides, what could go wrong, even with Wanda along? After all, it was only a Catfish House, not an exclusive eating establishment by any means.

Catfish Houses are noted for their food, not for their fine dining atmosphere. Usually somewhat rustic in appearance, a Catfish House is nevertheless the epitome of fine country eating. Catfish Houses serve fried fish on heaping platters with all the “fixin’s” – hush puppies, French fries, white beans, and coleslaw, preferably made with vinegar. This is washed down with gallons of sweet ice tea. I don’t know why this is the standard, it just is. All Catfish Houses know the rules and serve the same thing.

Now to really enjoy catfish, it is necessary to order “all you can eat,” “All you can eat” means all you can consume at the food establishment and does not include doggy bags or taking home any leftovers, another established tradition of the Catfish House.

Everything went well on our little outing as we ate beans and hushpuppies and pigged out on catfish. Waiters continued to bring out additional platters of fish as long as we could empty them.

Wanda enjoyed the catfish even more than we did and kept us amused with true stories of her ex boyfriends and her less than perfect love life. When we were ready to leave, there were fish left on the platter. Wanda looked at the leftover fish with longing eyes and said, “I’m going to take that leftover fish home.”

We explained “The Rules” to Wanda, that you are not supposed to take food out, and that it’s against the policy of the restaurant. “They won’t even bring you a box to put it in,” we said, sure she would change her mind.

“I know,” said Wanda. “But I’m going to take that fish home!”

Nothing would change her mind once it was made up. We were horrified as Wanda proceeded to wrap the leftover catfish up in napkins and slip it into her purse. We were sure we would be busted by the management for stealing catfish.

Well, either the management didn’t notice or didn’t care. We paid the bill and left without getting caught and once outside were actually able to laugh about Wanda’s catch of the day. That would have been the conclusion of the great catfish caper, except for one more item. It seems that catfish pilfering has it’s own particular kind of self-inflicted justice.

The next time I saw Wanda, I asked her if she had eaten her leftover catfish. “Oh,” said Wanda, “The catfish was great – but my purse smelled so fishy that I had to throw it away.”

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Food, Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

My Friend Jenny

Posted on January 25, 2017 by Sheila Moss

lunch

While I wasn’t looking some overly zealous calories sneaked up behind me and overcame my willpower. Why is it that modern women are expected to be skinny anyhow? Actually, I’ve never seen a woman with a beer belly, although I have seen a few that looked as if they spent a bit too much time grazing at the local food bar.

“NOT ME,” I vowed. “I’ll never let myself get THAT out of shape!”

I said that right after emptying my bank account to spend a year of my life in the company of my new chum and best friend, Jenny. Jenny and I were bosom buddies as long as I was spending money. I bought her prepackaged frozen dinners, her mini granola breakfast bars, her tiny cans of soup, and her tasteless packages of snack food.

She enthusiastically encouraged me to continue to lose weight and to take vitamin supplements, purchased from her, of course. I lived in dread of the day I could not swallow another guiltless chicken sandwich or consume another soy-laced ground beef patty without choking.

Actually, the food didn’t seem THAT bad. I was so determined, and so fat, and so HUNGRY. I actually began to like broccoli without butter or cheese and to imagine that yogurt was even better than ice cream. Shows how desperate I was to be skinny, I guess.

It was easy, TOO easy, to lose weight with Jenny and her diet plan. As long as I stayed on her diet, the pounds just melted away. I tried to forget about my bank account that was also melting away and just to think of the positive result of some day reaching my weight goal.

It’s a nutritionally balanced, totally controlled diet, and you don’t really get THAT hungry. You only get hungry for greater variety, for sweet foods, for thick juicy steaks and restaurants.

Why is it that the body craves the foods that are not good for us instead of those that are? And why are supermarkets so full of the wrong stuff instead of the right stuff? Just try to find rice cakes! And why, oh, why are all the commercials on TV for sizzling fast food that practically makes your stomach growl just looking at it?

The theory is that when you reach your goal weight, and bid Jenny farewell, you will have developed a new eating style based on healthy choices and proper portions. You will continue to choose tasteless, low calorie selections. Should you (heaven forbid) happen to gain a few pounds, you will come running back to Jenny for emergency counseling and a few weeks of recover with her overpriced, cardboard, gourmet selections.

That’s the theory. Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way. Oh, it did for a while. I was  a mere wisp of my former self. I could get back in all my clothes again and zip the zippers. But how sick I was of lettuce with diet dressing and all the other fat-free selections. I continued to eat my daily servings of fruit, yogurt, and vegetables and to take my vitamins. Trouble is, I began to sneak a sweet dessert, or a bun with butter, or maybe a snack after dinner. Little by little I slipped back into my old fattening ways while I continued to think I was thin.

Then one day I could no long zip my jeans. Funny how all my garments suddenly seemed to shrink while hanging in the closet. But the final embarrassment was when I realized that even my underwear was getting too small.

So, do I learn to love my fat and accept myself the way I am, 20 pounds over my ideal weight? Or do I go on another diet and lose it – this time forever, of course – never to be gained back again. Do I continue to gain weight until I can no longer fit into the rest of my clothes and simply puff up and float away like the Goodyear blimp, or do I diet until I lose enough to be able to stand myself again? I get hungry just thinking about it.

“Jenny, old friend, have you abandoned me in my hour of need?” Of course not! She sends me cards all the time so I won’t forget her. I can visit her just as often as my checkbook wants to. I gotta think about this one. Either it’s buy more clothes or buy Jenny’s food. I’m afraid either one will be an investment of gigantic magnitude.

I know there are other, less expensive alternatives – but Jenny makes it SO easy! Get my food bags ready, Jenny! Open the door wide and warm up the digital scales! I’m on my way!

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss
Posted in Food, Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Did the Grinch Steal Winter?

Posted on January 23, 2017 by Sheila Moss

manshorts

So, what’s with this crazy weather we’re having?  It’s suppose to be winter around here, but I guess Mother Nature didn’t get the word.  People are wearing their Bermuda shorts.  Somehow it just doesn’t seem like much like December.  Fall came on time, though there was less color than usual.  Frost cooperated in time for the pumpkins.

Isn’t the rule still that winter follows fall?

Okay, now I know that part of the country is used to warm weather.  Those lucky folks in California and Florida are accustomed to hanging their stocking on palm trees and decorating with poinsettias instead of snowflakes and tinsel.   Most of us, however, are accustomed to the four seasons and expect something a little more traditional.  We are not asking for snow and ice, mind you, but these balmy temperatures in the middle of the winter just don’t seem natural.

The weather people are, as usual, yelling,  “Global warming! Global warming!”  But the politicians don’t want to consider the possibility of anything like the polar ice caps melting and the ocean level rising.  Wouldn’t want to alarm anyone.  Well, sure hope they know what they are talking about… but I doubt it.

We should be used to abnormal weather by now.  Most of us just figure we can chalk up another one for El Niño and the strange weather phenomena it brings.  El Niño is said to be Spanish for “boy child” or “Christ child” because it often occurs around December.  The experts – and we all believe the experts, don’t we – say, however, that it is not El Niño or the atmospheric pressure in the Pacific this time.

The problem is the mass of cold air over the polar region, which normally tilts our way and brings us our usual seasonally cold weather.  Instead of tilting toward North America, it seems to have tilted in the other direction.  So, say the weather folks, this warm weather is a temporary condition that can be expected to change very shortly.

Well, guess I better see if I can find those shorts and T-shirts I packed away.  These sweaters are getting mighty uncomfortable.  Guess I’ll hang tight and wait for the polar air to tilt again.  All this tilting is getting pretty hard to keep up with.  If it doesn’t tilt before long, though, I’m  gonna need to mow the grass.

Think I’ll throw out those spray cans before that hole in the ozone gets any bigger.  If the tide comes in and doesn’t go out, somebody let me know.

Copyright 1998-2017
Updated
Posted in Humor, Weather | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Face Fixing

Posted on January 21, 2017 by Sheila Moss

makeup.jpgMother would be proud of me. I “fixed” my face today. Lately I’ve become a little lax about girl things like makeup and hairdos. It isn’t that I don’t like these things. It’s only that it doesn’t seem as important to me as it once was. Maybe we spend too much time worrying about appearance and not enough worrying about the things that really matter.

When I was a child I used to stand wide-eyed watching my mother sit at the dresser putting her makeup on, and I could hardly wait until I was old enough for the mysterious chemicals of beauty that transformed ugly ducklings into swans. Occasionally, mother would let me have a bit of her lipstick on my lips just to pacify me, and I pranced around feeling very grown up.

As an adolescent, I could hardly wait to start wearing makeup. I would sneak and use mother’s liquid makeup long before I was old enough for mascara. Mother only used drug store makeup. “Use the best makeup you can afford,” mother would say. “The cheap kind from the Five and Ten will break out your face.”

It didn’t seem to make much difference, however, whether I borrowed mother’s drug store makeup or used the cheaper kind. My face still broke out. I think acne had a lot to do with hormones and not much to do with makeup.

What we call “blush” nowadays was called “rouge” back then. It came in a small red cake in a tiny round box and was rubbed on the cheeks with a tiny power puff. Mascara was even stranger. It was a cake of black stuff in a square box, which was applied with a tiny brush combed through the eyelashes. The way to apply mascara was to spit on the brush to wet it, then rub it on the black cake and apply to eyelashes.

Eyebrow pencils were wooden and trimmed with a sharpener or a knife to reveal the black pencil. Mother had thin, light eyebrows, which were always darkened with a pencil. This was an important part of the makeup application routine. I used eyebrow pencil for years until a professional make up person told me my eyebrows were dark and I didn’t need it.

Mother always did the makeup routine like a movie star going on stage and would not consider being caught in public without makeup. She could never go any place until her face was “fixed.”

I read all the glamour magazines and conspired with girlfriends about which makeup was best and the correct techniques to use to apply it. We thought we were very glamorous in those days, in spite of the acne underneath our camouflage. I became an artist at application, trying all colors and shades. My eyelids were green one day and blue the next. My lashes were thick, velvety and non-smearing. My lips were pink and dewy or later, frosted as the style of makeup changed.

It isn’t that female things don’t matter to me any more. I like to dress up and wear makeup for special occasions, but I’ve become less and less concerned about it. It seemed to fall by the wayside and other things in life took priority. First the lipstick went, then the eye shadow, and mascara. I’m down to foundation now. Somehow, I just can’t seem to get past the need for some camouflage, but probably it isn’t going to be long before I’m going totally barefaced.

Is something wrong with me? I don’t hot curl my hair any more; much less use the old fashion rollers. Remember those pink foam ones that were such an improvement over hard plastic because they were soft to sleep on?

Somehow, I’m sure that mother is some place right now with full makeup on, a bit of cologne behind her ear, and her hair perfectly curled whether she is going out or not.

I’m sorry, mom. I know I should do better. But at least you can be proud of me today. I’ve “fixed” my face.

Copyright 2002 Sheila Moss


Do you (or wife) wear makeup or prefer the barefaced natural look?

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

Dishwasher Disaster

Posted on January 18, 2017 by Sheila Moss

dishwasherWell, it finally happened. My poor old dishwasher died in a poof of smoke. The last couple loads had an unusual smell. I optimistically attributed it to something plastic touching the heating coil. Funny, I never could find anything. I attempted to give it one last chance, but the old dishwasher rebelled. Smoke bellowing from the vent in the door made it apparent that it had seen its better days.

I briefly considered calling a repair service person. But water had been leaking out from under the door onto the floor for some time. The dishwasher and I had reached a compromise about the water ages ago. I put a dishtowel on the floor to catch the drips, and it continued to wash the dishes just as good as ever. Counting back the years until I ran out of fingers, I realized just how old this particular appliance was and wondered that it was still working at all. No wonder it was ready for Depends.

Time to visit the friendly local appliance store. But the store no longer sold appliances. Shows how long it’s been since I bought anything. Another appliance store, however, had gleaming rows of all sorts of items: refrigerators, stoves, and washing machines. It was an appliance jungle. The salesmen stood around like vultures waiting for raw meat. As soon as we entered the door, they descended.

“How can I help you?” asked a salesman with teeth even shiner than the appliances.

Err… I need a dishwasher,” I admitted, looking for the emergency exit in case I needed to make a fast escape.

“What kind?” he quizzed, naming off about a dozen brands.

Figuring my old one had lived far past its normal life expectancy, I opted just to get the same brand again.

“Those are down at the end,” he sneered, proceeding to show me the top of the line models instead. “These have stainless steel interiors, water at the top and bottom, and a dozen cycles.”

Those dishwashers had more buttons and gadgets than an airplane’s dashboard. I only wanted to wash and dry dishes. I figured with that sort of price tag, it should cook dinner, clear the table, put the clean dishes in the cabinet, and give me a neck massage.

“My appliances are tan,” I said. “Do they come in tan?”

“Oh, you mean biscuit,” he said with a pained expression, acting as if I had asked for avocado or purple.

“Black is the standard color. You can get white but it costs extra.”

White costs extra!? Gosh! It’s been a long time since I shopped for appliances, I thought. I really need to get out more.

I finally selected one of the lower end models, which came with few extra buttons – whether I needed them, or not. Why a dishwasher needs to do anything but wash and dry I never could figure out – just more gadgets to break down, I surmised.

With a flash of his gleaming teeth, the sales clerk entered the sale into the computer, gave me a delivery date, and whisked me and my checkbook out to the cashier. It was all over in a couple minutes. Boy, doesn’t take long to spend money, does it?

So, I am now the proud owner of a shiny new, black dishwasher. I think I will go push some buttons. Let’s see, where is the one for the neck massage?

Copyright Sheila Moss 2001
Posted in Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Are You a Nerd?

Posted on January 16, 2017 by Sheila Moss

nerdIf you would rather play with your e-devices than watch football,

You might be a nerd.

If you own more than one cell phone,

You might be a nerd.

If you buy extra cartridges for your printer before you need them,

You might be a nerd.

If you spent your vacation at a electronics trade show,

You might be a nerd.

If the trade show was the most exciting vacation you’ve ever had,

You might be a nerd.

If you sometimes forget to leave work at quitting time,

You might be a nerd.

If your tie and socks match,

You might be a nerd.

If you like programming more than you like people,

You might be a nerd.

If you have a spare pair of horn-rimmed glasses,

You might be a nerd.

If you have more than one desktop computer and use them at the same time,

You might be a nerd.

If you spell check your “to do” list.

You might be a nerd.

If you sleep with a smart watch on,

You might be a nerd.

If you save your brown paper lunch bag and reuse it,

You might be a nerd.

If you work for the government, an accounting firm, or a bank,

You might be a nerd.

You think accuracy is more important than speed,

You might be a nerd.

If you never forget to charge your cell phone,

You might be a nerd.

If you download online crossword puzzles,

You might be a nerd.

If your favorite TV program is the Weather Channel,

You might be a nerd.

If you wear your work ID card at home.

You might be a nerd.

If you have any friends that are auditors, programmers, or embezzlers,

You might be a nerd.

If you always remember to floss when you brush,

You might be a nerd.

If you understand the metric system, quantum mechanics, and HTML,

You might be a nerd.

You have a dozen electronic gadgets and actually know how to use them all,

You might be a nerd.

If you have a picture of your mother as computer wallpaper,

You might be a nerd.

If you are allergic to cats, plants, mold, dust, and latex,

You might be a nerd.

If your emergency supplies include an Allen wrench and a tiny screwdriver,

You might be a nerd.

If other nerds envy your taste in pocket protectors,

Might as well admit it, you’re a nerd!

Copyright 2000 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Work Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Daily Commute

Posted on January 13, 2017 by Sheila Moss

I-24

One of the best things about being retired is I no longer have to commute to work everyday of my life. I did it for a long time. Sometimes when I think back about it, I remember it as if it is happening today, instead of in the past. This is what it was like:

I’m spending too much time commuting to work. One day I looked out the back door and began to wonder how my driveway could suddenly become 20 miles long and six lanes wide. Actually, I don’t spend too much time at home, because with traffic what it is, by the time I get home, it’s time to turn around and start back to the office.

I know more about what happens on the Interstate than the local traffic copter. I am beginning to like the smell of exhaust fumes, and that really worries me. The other commuters are my only friends. I am starting to recognize them on the Interstate and memorize their license plates.

I have personally paid enough gasoline tax to resurface the entire Interstate between my home and office. In view of this, I do not understand the highway department’s negative attitude about giving me a designated driving lane of my own. The gasoline station down at the corner holds a second mortgage on my home, and I think the truck drivers are beginning to know me too as they always wave when I drive by.

I have an assortment of coffee car mugs for all occasions. Who needs a radar detector? I know all the Smokey’s hiding places. There are only so many billboards and bushes they can hide behind. I know all the exits and how much distance between each one in miles and metrics. I change lanes before I even see the road sign. If it rains, I know where every puddle in the road will be.  I think I may be developing a racing strip down my back from spending so much time on wheels.

NASCAR driving would be a piece of cake after fighting the traffic on the Interstate every morning. Actually, I can’t imagine anyone getting a speeding ticket because the traffic creeps along at 30 miles per hour. I have driven through snow, rain, hail, and wind and still managed to make it to work five minutes before the boss. My recurring nightmare is not being able to get into the right hand exit lane and having to circle the city for days on the inner loop. I carry a road map just in case I’m forced off at the 440 bypass and end up in Memphis. I could show up at work five years late one morning mumbling, “The commute was really hell today!

I keep snacks in the car for traffic jams, and I know all the DJ’s on the radio and their call letters.  I keep my driver’s license close to my heart, and a picture of my family on the dashboard so I don’t forget what they look like. I probably should have my vehicle registration matted and framed. My car is actually my next of kin. It has a name and my honey accuses me of loving it more than him. I should probably mention it in my will, perhaps leave it a set of jumper cables or an oil change or two for loyal service.

I don’t have to check the gas gauge as I know how many trips I can make before I have to fill up again. If cars had automatic pilot, it could drive itself.  Like a faithful horse, I’m sure it knows the way. I don’t measure distance in miles, I measure it in commute time. I am a daily witness to road rage, accidents, breakdowns, and stupidity. I see women putting on their makeup and men shaving at 70 mph. There are more single driver cars using the HOV lanes for passing than carpoolers using it for commuting. I have learned to cope with traffic frustration because there is no place to get off the road and have a nervous breakdown. If I did, I’d never be able to get back on.

Well, I better leave and start driving. If you need me just call me on my cell phone.  I gotta turn on the radio and get the traffic report.  Wave if you see me on I-24.  My car is the one with the vanity license plate “COMMUTER.”

Copyright 2001 Sheila Moss
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