Humor Columnist Blog

Say, Can You See?

Posted on April 13, 2016 by Sheila Moss

glasses Is anyone else half blind without glasses, or is it just me? I’m telling you, I just can’t see a thing any more. I’ve been using contact lenses – but I finally decided I am tired of fooling with poking my cold finger in my eye every morning.

I’m not a candidate for lasik surgery, so I decided to get out of contacts and go back to bifocals. They make them without lines, so you can’t tell they are bifocals and old coots don’t look quite so much like old coots, at least we hope not.

I was past due for my eye check-up anyhow. My doctor has this thing going where he refuses to refill your disposable contact lens order unless you come in for an annual eye exam. But last time I went the contact company had a two-for-one deal of their own, so I got an extra large supply.

Anyhow, I went for my eye exam, and afterwards the doctor conveniently tired to hard sell me eyewear in his office by making me listen to a technician’s sales pitch. Finally, I just said, “I want my prescription.” I found out later that if you ask for your prescription, they have to give it to you. It’s the law. Doctors need to stick to doctoring, in my opinion, and stay out of the eyewear business.

My eyes were dilated and I couldn’t find the door of the doctor’s office – much less pick out glasses! I figured I’d probably be able to get a better deal by shopping around for glasses. Eyewear has become a high fashion business and a highly competitive industry.

I asked my friends, but everyone had a different opinion of the best place to get glasses. Finally, I called around and found a store with a “buy one, get one free” deal, which is what I wanted since I have a tendency to forget where I left my glasses and an extra pair helps me avoid panic.

The latest fashion seems to be the frameless style, so that’s what I wanted – no expensive designer frames for me. Naturally, when I asked about “no frames” they led me to a “special” collection, which was special mostly because the glasses in that group cost too much. But I wanted them. Why get something you don’t want, I reasoned to myself.

Who knows whether you are getting a good deal or not, though, by the time they finish adding on all the extras you want like anti-glare, anti-scratch, and shatter-proof lenses – not to even mention the extra charge for bifocals. By the time the sales person finished adding it all up, the calculator was smoking.

They did give me a second pair free, however, not the expensive frameless ones, of course, but some from a different “special” collection. This collection was “special” because the glasses were all cheap. I didn’t care. I picked out a nice pair with spring hinges and once again the sales person used the red-hot calculator to add on the extras which made the free pair not exactly free.

I was beginning to think I might as well have bought the over-priced glasses from my greedy eye doc – who will soon be my ex eye doctor as I’ve decided to change. Doctors and medical specialists are a dime a dozen in this town. The consumer always wins because we have the option to take our business elsewhere. Will they never learn?

How do I like my glasses? Well, to tell the truth, I don’t have any. Seems the frameless ones could not be made on the spot in an hour and had to be done elsewhere. That figures. I will supposedly get them in a week to 10 days if nothing goes wrong. But what could possibly go wrong?

I don’t know why I have this nagging feeling that I might be writing this story before it’s over.

-0-

Do you wear glasses or contacts? Do you get them from your doctor or some place else?

Posted in Fashion, Health, Humor | Tagged bifocals, Contacts, Designer frames, Eye doctor, Eye exam, Eyewear, Frameless glasses, glasses, Lasik, Prescription, Second pair glasses | 6 Comments

The Mad Dash

Posted on April 12, 2016 by Sheila Moss

I-24 I am excellent at remembering where I left things, which means I am at least of normal intelligence, mental illness does not run in my family, and I nearly always know where I left my purse. Occasionally, however, I find myself having a rare and unexplainable lapse of memory. This morning was such a morning. I was getting ready for work, running late, as usual and in a great hurry to get out the door and on the road.

I hate to be late for work, mostly, of course, because I’m such a dedicated employee, but also because it’s impossible to find a parking place when I’m late. I skillfully maneuvered my car onto the roadway, causing only one driver to swerve into a different lane. I was already in the fast lane when I realized that I had forgotten my parking card.

A parking card is electronically scanned at the entrance to the garage like a credit card. It magically raises the wooden arm that lets you into the parking garage. When I glanced at the sun visor, I was startled to see that my parking card was missing and was not where it was supposed to be behind the garage door opener.

Clearly this was impossible given my impeccable record for remembering detail. I had my purse, my lunch, my ID card, and even my coffee mug – but the card was missing. It could not be found on the seat under my lunch bag, or by digging around in my purse with one hand while driving with the other, a highly developed skill belonging only to women.

Now this is the dilemma: Do I continue on to work and pay five dollars to park all day or turn around at the first exit and go back home for the card? Of course, there is really no question here. As soon as I arrive at the first exit, I execute a U-turn and head back home.

I could visualize my parking card on the kitchen table where I last remembered seeing it only moments before my mad dash to the car. “I know exactly where it is, so it will only take a minute to get it.”

Screeching my brakes in the driveway, I ran into the house to grab the card and get back on the road. The dog was delighted to see me again so soon, undoubtedly thinking I must have worked the shortest day in history. “Out of the way, dog! I need to get my parking card.”

It wasn’t there! I could scarcely believe it as I looked under the table on the floor. I cast suspicious eyes on the dog, but finally decided he couldn’t have reached it and wouldn’t like the flavor of parking cards anyhow which taste nothing like doggy treats, a good thing since I could never fit him though the card scanner if he swallowed it.

I finally concluded that it had to be in the only place left. I yanked everything from my purse. Wallet, checkbook, makeup, loose change, all the objects of necessity that a female needs to maintain life flew into the air as I dug through my purse with both hands, in spite of the fact that I could have done it with one.

There in the very bottom of my purse was the elusive parking card. Obviously, my purse has a secret compartment perfect for concealing small objects. In fact, it is so secret it is unknown even to me. So, you can see, I am not really forgetful at all. I had the card with me the whole time!

Now if I can only figure out what I’ve done with my car keys, I can go to work.

@2003

Posted in Humor, Work Humor | Tagged access card, electronic scanner, forgetfulness, garage, in a rush, losing items, misplaced items, parking, parking card | 3 Comments

The Yellow Door

Posted on April 11, 2016 by Sheila Moss

yellowdoor Although few people are aware of this, I could have been a painter if I had not accidentally become a humor writer instead.

Recently, I acquired a new front door for my house. “I can paint a door,” I
thought. “Why pay someone else to do it?”

I went to local hardware super store and bought a can of antique white
paint. I was pleased with myself for remembering to buy semi-gloss for trim instead of regular flat wall paint. I even bought a new paintbrush, further confirmation of my artistic abilities.

“That paint is really yellow,” said my honey.

“No, it isn’t. See, it says “antique white” right here on the can.” I
pointed to the words. Great painters do not need the advice of amateurs.

Back home, I expertly laid plastic sheeting down to prevent drips, stirred the paint, donned my imaginary smock and beret and began my artistic endeavor. Amazingly, the more I painted the less antique white the paint was and the more yellow it became.

“What do you think?” I asked my honey. All great artists like their masterpieces to be appreciated.

“It’s yellow.”

Maybe it’s only the way the light hits it?” I suggested.

“It’s yellow.”

Ha, I will ask my daughter. She may have inherited some of my artistic genes.

“It’s yellow.”

If I squinted enough to bend the light waves, it looked almost white to me. How could they call it yellow?

Finally, I had to admit it. My masterpiece was merely a yellow living room door. Furthermore, it totally clashed with my décor. Maybe I could add some yellow accessories, cushions for the couch, and a yellow throw rug to make it blend in. Only because I was afraid that it might glow in the dark and keep us awake, I decided to repaint it.

On the way back to the hardware store, I wondered why my do-it-yourself projects always have a way of going wrong. Life is so difficult for the artistically inclined.

This time around, I took a sample of my idea of “antique white” to the store with me. It was blatantly obvious by then, even to a talented painter like me, that all antique white paint is NOT created equal.

“I can match anything,” bragged the lady at the paint counter, eyeballing my color sample. What she meant was her computer could match anything.

She whisked the sample out of my hand and into a scanner that analyzed it and computed exactly how much of each color tint to mix with which base to create the correct color. Gee, paint mixing has sure come a long way since the olden days of matching up paint chips.

At the next station, she opened a can of paint, put the color code in a computer and I watched as it automatically spat out exactly the right mix. You can make any color you want and it doesn’t even cost extra? If only Picasso could have had high tech.

Back home, the yellow door flashed me when I walked it. I adjusted my beret and wondered if sunglasses would help reduce the glare.

The new antique white matched the wall perfectly. I let the first coat dry then gave it a second coat just to be sure any radiation from the yellow paint could not escape. I wouldn’t want to set off any fuzz busters in the neighborhood.

Now that my project is finished, I may go back to the hardware store just to hang out with the other artistic types and watch the computer mix paint. I wonder if they have ever considered serving espresso?

Do you do your own painting for small projects? Chalk paint is the latest rage, I understand. Any suggestions on a new project, maybe something yellow? (I already have the paint.)

Posted in Home, Humor | Tagged antique white, artist, hardware store, masterpieces, paint, semi-gloss, yellow door | 3 Comments

What’s in a Name?

Posted on April 10, 2016 by Sheila Moss

babygirlsnamesheart I don’t know why, but I don’t have a nickname. Names and nicknames are said to have a powerful influence on our lives. I’m not really talking about social media nicknames or even CB radio handles, as we used to call them, names like “Motor-Mouth” and “Roadrunner.” I’m talking about the colorful nicknames given by friends or family because they seem to describe looks or personality, names like Sparky, Curly, Stubby, or Buzz. These nicknames have more individuality than real names, which often come from literature, favorite movie actors, or rich relatives whom parents wanted to flatter.

Now some purists will tell you such names are not nicknames at all but “pet names.” Nicknames, they say, are those that are a shortened version of a real name or derived from the original given name. This sort of nickname makes sense in a way. Calling a person Beth instead of Elizabeth is much quicker and easier than saying the entire name. I’ve never quite figured out some nicknames, though. Bob for Robert or Rita for Margaret makes a little bit of sense, but Dick for Richard makes none at all.

Some families seem to be more into the tradition of nicknames or “pet names”than others are. My late husband’s family always favored nicknames. His name was “Dumps” until he was almost grown. That was a shortening of the pet name “Dumpling” given him as a baby His brother was Bubba. His sister, whose real name, Florene, could have been easily shortened, was instead called Sis. My husband’s older brother, Gerald, never became Jerry, though – probably because he was so big and mean that nobody dared give him a nickname.

Come to think of it, what sort of nickname could be given to shorten a name like Sheila? I looked on several lists of nicknames to see what I could find, but the only suggestion was Cecilia. That is not a nickname at all but simply another form of the same name. So much for that idea.

The trend nowadays is just to name the child what you are going to call them. My mom was ahead of her time as she named my sister Patty instead of Patricia. When Patty was a child, she always got mad if anyone shortened her name to Pat. Now she likes to be called Pat and doesn’t want to be called Patty. Go figure.

You must be careful about what you call your kids as childhood nicknames can stick. If the trend to name kids what you call them continues, there will be a lot of kids called “Be Quite,” “Go Play,” and “Don’t Spill It.”

Some nicknames seemed to be simply a way to keep from getting two people in the family with the same name mixed up, like Junior when a son is named after dad. At my house we had two Davids, Big David and Little David. When Little David became bigger than Big David, Big David had to become Dave. Now Little David is called Dave. It all gets very confusing.

Some people say that when they were a kid and their mother called them by their real name instead of their nickname, they knew that they were in trouble. “Come here, James.” instead of “Come here, Jimmy.” meant serious stuff was brewing. Maybe that’s why I don’t have a nickname. I was always in trouble.

At least social media has given us a chance to recycle those forgotten nicknames or to acquire one that we never had. I only wish that I could think of a good nickname for Sheila. One online friend who will go unnamed sometimes calls me “Shesh!” But, what sort of nickname is that? On the other hand, I suppose I’ve been called worse things.

Maybe I should just be happy to be who I am and not worry about being one of the few people in the world who never had a nickname.

What about you? Do you have a nickname? Do you like nicknames or think they are silly?

Posted in Family, Humor | Tagged alternate name, first names, given name, handle, I.D., moniker, names, nicknames, pet name, surname, user names | 8 Comments

The Truth about Husbands

Posted on April 9, 2016 by Sheila Moss

glassesman

There are two sides to every story, the way he tells it and the way it really happened.

A husband has the solution for any problem. It may not work, but he has a solution.

Only ask your husband to do something once, he won’t hear you after that anyhow.

Your husband knows you best, but you know him better.

The more you pay for a new dress, the greater the probability you will forget to remove the price tag before hubby sees it.

The most powerful motivator known to man is the smell of a steak on the grill.

The more you nag him, the greater the probability that you are wrong.

If you think you have any secrets from your husband, remember why he buys you negligees.

Never tell your husband you have nothing to do. He will ask you to bring him a beer.

If you want him to give up golf, learn to play it.

If you need an item you can’t find, ask your husband. He won’t have it either, but he will know who to borrow it from.

If you want something new, your husband can always figure out why you don’t need it.

You can’t out procrastinate your husband; don’t even try.

Your husband can always come up with a better way to do something, especially after it’s already done.

Never complain about the movie until after he buys the popcorn.

If he offers to take you out, his good suit will be in the cleaners.

No matter how long you’ve been on a diet, your husband will still take you out to an Italian
restaurant.

Never forget who puts up with your faults. That’s something else to worry about.

Never say you can do it yourself, unless you are planning on it.

The more expensive the gift he gives you, the more you will wonder what he’s been up to.

A husband’s “honey do” list has no beginning and no end.

His turf is always the exact spot where you need to vacuum the rug.

You will always need to use the car before he does when the gas tank is empty.

The older your husband becomes, the more he acts like a child.

The longer it’s been since you cleaned house, the more likely it is that he will invite company for dinner.

No matter how big he is, he is never too big to wrap around your little finger.

The more you detest the plaid shirt, the more often he will wear it.

The longer the story he’s telling, the more likely you’ve already heard it.

Husbands always know everything – they just sometimes have trouble remembering.

The grass gets mowed on two occasions, when it needs it and when you want him to do something else.

Your husband is the only person that knows you better than the bathroom mirror.

Women’s intuition is the only thing more mysterious than the male ego.

The reason your husband won’t turn down the TV is because he can’t hear you asking.

The more you try to stay on his good side, the harder it is to make up the bed in the morning.

If you can’t remember whether your husband told you he would be home late, he will.

Never criticize your husband about anything that involves a hammer, saw, or screwdriver.

Okay, gals, does this remind you of anyone you know? (I won’t tell.)

Posted in Family, Home, Humor | Tagged complaints, criticism, excuses, forgetfulness, honey do list, husband, intuition, listening, men, nagging, procrastination | 9 Comments

All About Grits

Posted on April 8, 2016 by Sheila Moss

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“What’s that white stuff on my plate? I didn’t order that!” observes any Northerner who goes South and orders breakfast in a southern restaurant for the first time. Northern folks don’t understand grits. Grits come automatically with breakfast in the South whether you order them or not, like butter with bread or cream with coffee.

Seasoned travelers nod knowingly, and offer advice, “It’s sort of like cream of wheat.” Well, not exactly. Grits are normally thicker – not to mention the obvious fact that they are made of corn, and cream of wheat is made from another grain. If you want to really irritate a Southerner, just compare grits to cream of wheat – or anything else in the world.

Grits are a mystery food. We can always spot a Yankee by their reaction to grits. They are the ones picking at the white lump with a fork while politely tying to avoid gagging for the rest of the meal. The Yankee will make a mental note to be sure to tell the waitress not to serve any grits next time. The waitress will make a mental note to bring more grits. Something has to be wrong with the first batch if they are not being eaten.

Grits are a regional food of the South. In the situation of eating grits, I’m rather inclined to side with the North if it won’t start another war. I can eat grits with enough sugar and determination; however, a good ol’ boy will eat them with only a bit of salt and butter and a smack of the lips – or will pour bacon grease on them. Of course, Southerners will eat about anything with bacon grease on it.

If you know how grits are made, you will probably be even less inclined to indulge in their ingestion. They are made from mashed up hominy. What’s hominy? Well, it’s dried corn that is soaked in lye water until the husks come off and the kernels puff up. The lye is drained and the puffed corn rinsed to remove the lye. It sounds a lot like a death wish to me.

Folks in the South don’t worry much about getting poisoned from things like lye. They like lye so much they even used it in their homemade soap in the olden days. Some claim it is the best cleaning soap there is. The lye soap my grandmother used to make would clean dishes, laundry, hands, and possibly remove your eyebrows if you used it on your face. Maybe they eat grits to keep the lye away from the soap makers.

Southerners like living dangerously, though, and eat other poison foods as well. Pokeweed, for instance, is a traditional Southern dish cooked in spring as greens, something like spinach. Again, it involves much rinsing to remove the poison and much bacon grease to make it eatable. I really don’t advise trying it unless you know what you are doing, have a Southern mama to advise you, or have a husband you’ve been wanting to get rid of anyhow.

Southerners are as proud of grits as they are of cornbread. There are other ways to make grits without the lye process, but they don’t seem nearly as fun or challenging. You can grind white corn and use the fine part as white corn meal and the larger particles for grits. Some folks have actually made grits into a specialty item, adding cheese, frying grits pancakes, and making grits casseroles. No matter what you do to grits, however, they are still grits.

I hope I won’t lose my membership card to Southern culture over my distaste for grits. Lord knows, I’ve eaten enough cornbread and can whip up a fine crockpot of black-eyed peas with ham hocks should the need arise. Surely that and my southern drawl should be enough get me through any Mason-Dixon identity check.

But, please don’t get me started on okra or I’m sunk.

Any thoughts on grits? Like ’em? Hate ’em. Never seen ’em?

Posted in Food, Humor, Southern Humor | Tagged bacon grease, breakfast, corn, cream of wheat, cultural foods, greens, grits, hominy, lye, lye soap, regional food, southern food | 21 Comments

Mammogram Morning

Posted on April 7, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Photo by Anna Demianenko / Unsplash

Mammogram Morning

By Sheila Moss – Humor Columnist Blog

I talked rapidly as my doctor looked over my chart, hoping that he would not notice that I’d not had a mammogram in two years.

“How long since you had a mammogram?” he asked. I had to admit to the truth since he had it right there in front of him anyhow.

“The nurse will make you an appointment,” said the doctor, knowing I’d probably never get around to it.

“Do you perform monthly self exams?” he asked. It seems you can’t just go to the doctor any more and get a checkup. They always find something else that needs testing or checking, so you have to go back.

I arrived at the women’s clinic on the appointed morning feeling a bit like a watermelon before a Gallagher performance.

“I don’t have you down for today,” said the receptionist. Oh, good, maybe I can get out of this after all. “But we will work you in,” she continued. Just my luck. I don’t know how I got mixed up about the day. Selective memory, I suppose.

I filled out the mountain of paperwork that they required, answering all the highly personal questions again, even though I had been to this clinic before, and even though I was there only two weeks prior to this. Why they need to know how old I was when I had my first child, or whether I’m allergic to latex? I’m still trying to figure it out.

Anyhow, they finally called my name and I went in the little dressing room and put on the little cape, in preparation for my grand entrance. I’m sure I looked fabulous in the latest designer medical attire.

“No history and no specific problems? Just a routine exam?”

Yes, I nodded dumbly, wondering why I just filled out all that paperwork since apparently nobody looked at it anyhow.

As I went into the room with the torture machine, my brain told my body to run away, out through the waiting room, past the other grim-faced women, and out the front door screaming, with my cape clutched tightly around me. But all I did was bravely step up to the machine and wait for Nurse Gallagher to perform her sadistic duties.

What man invented the mammogram machine anyhow? It had to be a man. No woman would invent a machine that feels so much like medical malpractice. No, I don’t want to have cancer, and I know about all the women whose lives have been save by a simple mammogram. So why am I afraid?

“Do you perform monthly self-breast exams?” asked Nurse Gallagher, as if I could think of anything other than being smashed with a giant mallet.” This will only take a few minutes,” she promised, as the machine hummed and I held my breath, waiting to pass out.

At last the ordeal was over and I gratefully returned to the dressing room to check out the damage.

“We will call if there is a problem,” said the receptionist. “Your doctor will have the results by tomorrow.”

So, I’ll return to my normal routine feeling a bit black and blue in unspecified places but otherwise none the worst for my ordeal. But not every woman will. Of the eight women in the waiting room, statistics say one of us will have breast cancer at some time in her life. About 40,450 women were expected to die from this disease in 2015.

As I strolled smugly out the door, I was very pleased with myself for taking care of my health. I felt a slight twinge of pity for the women in the waiting room diligently recording the history of their life, which will most likely never be read.

Now that it is all over, I can’t imagine why anyone would feel embarrassed or afraid. Why are we silly women so nervous?

Copyright 2003-2016 Sheila Moss
http://humorcolumnistblog.com

Permission is granted to copy, re-blog or republish this article without asking for further permission. Please include my name or byline as the author.

Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged breast cancer, checkup, mammogram, self-breast exams, women's health | 5 Comments

Cooking with Garlic

Posted on April 6, 2016 by Sheila Moss

GARLIC

We had garlic for dinner last night. My daughter has taken over the kitchen and is perfecting her culinary skills by cooking the evening meal. Ordinarily this is fine with me. I’m tired after working all day and coming home to a good hot meal is a welcome treat.

The problem is that she likes to use a pinch of garlic for seasoning. She has become a bit heavy-handed with it in the past – to the point that it became a family joke. The minute we walked in the door, the garlic scent would hit us.

“I see we are having spaghetti and garlic sauce for dinner.”

She learned to lighten up a bit with the seasoning and all was well – that is until tonight. It seems that she was going to sneak in her usual pinch of garlic that no one would even notice. But, as she sprinkled the garlic power out of it’s shaker, the lid fell off and, well, you can imagine the rest.

Did she throw out the entire dinner and say, “Let’s order a pizza tonight.”? Of course not! She did what any cook would do. She tried to remove as much of it as she could, stirred the rest into the sauce and said nothing.

Of course, garlic is one mistake that is difficult to conceal. Even if we could not smell it, we could see the waves of fumes floating down the hall from the kitchen. Luckily, we do not own a canary or it certainly would be dead.

“I see we are having garlic sauce again tonight?”

Not wanting to offend the cook, since she might quit cooking if we criticize her too much, we proceeded to attempt to eat it anyway. Actually, it didn’t taste nearly as bad as it smelled and hardly peeled the wallpaper off at all except near the stove. I think when we have the carpets cleaned, wash the curtains and air out the house for a month or two, you will hardly notice the garlic scent at all.

Julia Childs says you should never ever use garlic power, only the real thing. Unfortunately, Julia Childs wasn’t doing the cooking. I can only wonder if she adopted this policy due to the taste of fresh garlic or due to a garlic disaster such as ours.

Now this is the part of the story where I get in trouble. All the garlic lovers are going to write to proclaim the virtues of garlic. “It kills bacteria, is good for colds, fights cancer, improves male impotence, and cures sinus problems.” Garlic activists will fill my comments area with hate mail, and write snide comments in their “cooking with garlic” blogs.

Okay, okay, I don’t know whether it does all these things or not, and I certainly don’t want to get close enough to the garlic enthusiasts to argue about it. We will just presume for the sake of my sanity that they are correct.

Actually, though, I don’t know if I want my sinus problems fixed, at least not for a week or two until my eyes stop watering. As for other cures, I’m just wondering what good it would do a man if the aphrodisiac he uses is garlic? Even my sinuses are not that bad!

Maybe it does kill bacteria, cure colds and such, but I’d just as soon not tie any around my neck, not to cure a cold or even to ward off vampires. I’ll settle for alternative treatments, thanks – unscented alternative treatments.

I know what they are going to say already. The scent of the garlic can be removed leaving only the medicinal properties. Somehow, I can’t quite comprehend it. I have a feeling that when the scent is removed a whole barrel of garlic scent remains and only a tiny speck of unscented garlic is removed with tweezers.

Besides, what good would it do? Julia Childs would most certainly never touch unscented garlic!

Posted in Family, Food, Humor | Tagged cooking, culinary skills, garlic, garlic for health, garlic powder, spaghetti, unsented garlic | 10 Comments

The Door-to-Door Sales People

Posted on April 5, 2016 by Sheila Moss

door-to-door-salesman The warmer weather has brought out the solicitors in my neighborhood like the dandelions. I can’t remember ever having so many people selling door-to-door. I don’t know if it is the economy, or some other phenomenon that I’ve not figured out yet.

Just the other day someone came to the door wanting to sell me new windows for my house. I have windows, of course, but theirs were some fancy kind that you can wash from the inside. “Your neighbor down the street just bought new ones from us,” he said.

Keeping up with the Jones’ – the neighbors got new ones so I should too? “Guess I’ll just plug along with the ones I have.” They have been good enough so far. There are many things I’d rather have for that kind of money than new windows, new carpeting, for instance.

A couple of my windows are moldy. I think when I had the house painted, they put back the storm windows before the paint had fully dried. But, good grief, wood can be cleaned and repainted. I don’t need to replace all the windows in the house over a little mold.

Then yesterday morning someone else banged on the door trying to sell landscaping. It was 8:30 in the morning. Who in their right mind would come around doing solicitations at that hour of the day? Besides, I already have someone that does lawn work. If I were going to plant nursery stock, I would not get it from a door-to-door sales person that is here today and gone to tomorrow.

Actually, I do need a couple of trees. I lost two trees last year, trees that had been there for years. I don’t know if it was the hot and dry summer or what happened to them. But I will have the company that removed the old trees come and replace them. I’ve had a hard time keeping trees alive. I need someone to plant trees that knows what they are doing.

Last night right at suppertime, someone rang the doorbell again. Can you believe it? It was someone selling windows and home improvements again. Two solicitors in one day? That’s really a bit much. I still don’t need any new windows, thanks. Actually, I’ve been thinking about how nice it might be to add a patio room on the back, but I certainly wasn’t going to mention that. I made the mistake of looking at them one time and the company nearly drove me crazy calling.

Attention solicitors: I’ll give you a clue on how to get my business. Don’t knock on my door unless I called you. Don’t call me on the phone unless I ask you to. The way I find people to do work is to look in the yellow pages and find someone who is bonded, insured, and has been in business for 20 years or more. If they have been in business that long, there is usually a reason.

Here is what I want: First of all, be dependable and show up when you say you will. Do good work that does not have to be redone a few months later. Charge a fair price. I don’t expect someone to work for nothing, but I hate being overcharged. Don’t try to tell me I need stuff that I do not need, like new windows. If you had asked me about painting the trim, replacing the broken storm window, and repainting the molded windows, I might have let you do the job. I would still want references since I don’t know you, though.

So, unfriendly as it may be, I’ve put a “No Solicitors” sign on my door before the guy with the vacuum cleaner arrives. These sales calls are making me nuts. Leave a brochure in my mailbox, advertise in the yellow pages, or leave a card. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

Posted in Humor, Shopping | Tagged home improvements, home repairs, sales, sales calls, salesmen, solicitors | 7 Comments

I Don’t Do Mornings

Posted on April 4, 2016 by Sheila Moss

I’m not a morning person, never have been, never will be. I just don’t seem to be able to wake up in the morning. Here is the way a typical morning goes at my house:

Alarm clock sounds:

He: Woke up before alarm went off and is already in shower running water.

Me: “Groan”… Hit snooze alarm and turn over.

He: Continues to run water. It sounds like Niagara Falls in the bathroom.

Me: Alarm goes off; I hit snooze alarm again and put pillow over my head.

He: Runs electric razor and electric toothbrush. It sounds like a chain saw massacre in the bathroom.

Me: I give up and get out of bed.

He: Finishes with personal grooming and gets dressed.

Me: Drag myself to the bathroom, put head on bathroom counter and go back to sleep.

He: Goes to kitchen for coffee. Alarm that I forgot to turn off buzzes.

Me: Brush teeth, consider taking a shower.

He: Goes to computer to check email.

Me: Decide I really have to get wet if I want to take a shower. Try to get over it.

He: Does mysterious things with the faucets that cause my water to run hot and cold in the shower.

Me: Look for anything to wear that doesn’t need to be ironed – anything.

He: Turns on television. It sounds like a rock music festival out there.

Me: It’s too early. Oh my head. I need coffee and aspirin.

He: Changes channel on TV and starts laughing. How can anyone laugh at this hour of morning?

Me: Crawl around on closet floor looking for two shoes that match.

He: “Your coffee is ready in the kitchen.”

Me: Open tuna cat food and feed screaming cat that sounds like a mountain lion in heat.

He: Watches more TV and waits for me to get ready.

Me: Look for hairbrush and fix hair.

He: “Are you ready to go?”

Me: “Go??? I have to put on makeup!” I don’t know why. No amount of makeup can help at six o’clock in the morning. It’s inhuman to be up so early.

He: “Hurry up! It’s time to leave!”

Me: “If you can’t wait for me to get ready, just go on!”

He: Gets his lunch out of fridge that he made the day before.

Me: Look in fridge and try to find something without mold to take for lunch.

He: Puts dogs outside.

Me: Can’t find purse.

He: “We have to leave or we will be late.”

Me: “Have you seen my purse?”

He: “It’s on the chair where you left it.”

Me: Drag lunch and purse to car.

He: Turns on radio to a too jolly-in-the-morning DJ.

Me: Drink coffee from car mug and try to keep eyes open.