Humor Columnist Blog

In Pursuit of a Purse

Posted on March 1, 2016 by Sheila Moss

unsp-purse.htm As all ladies know, we must have a purse to haul about our “stuff.” The amount of stuff needed depends on the individual lady, but all of us need something to carry it in, whether large or small.

I once decided I didn’t need a purse. I could get by just fine with keys and a cell phone, I declared. It didn’t work out. I needed things at home and things at work, and what if I was not at either place or needed something both at home and work? You can see the problem.

My pockets and lunch bag became fuller and fuller until I finally relented and decided I needed a pocketbook, as long as it was lightweight with bare necessities inside. If I have to carry a handbag around, it might as well be a nice one, I thought.

That meant buying a new purse.

Ladies will pay in the hundreds for this most important of fashion accessories. Designers turn $20 worth of leather into big bucks with only a signature or brand name. Personally, I can do without a designer purse, I decided.

I only need something functional, something functional and leather. I do like leather as it lasts longer. So, as long as it is functional, leather, and pretty, I’m okay with it — and lightweight, of course. I want something functional, leather, pretty, and lightweight. That is all I need.

I do not want to pay hundreds for a designer’s name.

I wanted a purse that would go with everything for daily use. So, I did a quick search online to see what was available as I have not shopped for purses for a while — a longer while than I want to admit.

The purse I use now is rather pitiful, made of quilted fabric. It wasn’t too bad until I decided to wash it in the washing machine. Even my daughter says it is pathetic now. I have leather purses in the closet, old ones, but I want something new, something that will make a statement.

Searching online for multi-color purses, I found some. My, gosh, they are beautiful, and leather, and functional, and light weight. The bags I found were hand-painted leather. They had flowers growing out of them, birds flying over them, peacocks spreading their tail feathers, and butterflies flitting around them. They were almost too gorgeous!

I narrowed the vast designer collection down to four hobo-style handbags and finally to two choices, Henna Rose and Flying Jewel. The prices wilted my credit card. Yes, I know I said no designer purse, but that was before I saw these. Besides, I’m not buying for the name, I rationalized, I am buying because I need a purse.

Maybe it is too gaudy? Maybe other people will think it is tacky. Another woman’s opinion might help. I’ll ask my daughter. I showed her the picture on the computer. “Oh, that’s pretty,” she said. We agreed on the Henna Rose design. “That looks like you, mom,” she told me. I had to order it now. How could I not order it when it looks like me?

I had a credit with Amazon, compliments of some promotion codes I had been saving up, so the hit would not be quite as severe if I ordered it. Darn the precautions, full speed ahead. I clicked the “purchase now” button and the purse will be mine in 3-5 days with free shipping.

My credit card had a nervous breakdown. But, women will understand.

Posted in Humor, Shopping | Tagged bag, designer purse, leather goods, pocketbook, purse | 3 Comments

Home Alone

Posted on February 29, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Day 1 – I come home from work and find the garage door partly open. “What’s going on?” I wonder. I go inside to check and find a strange dog in the garage. Whose dog is that? “Get! Go away! Shoo!”

I guess I will just leave the garage door open until it decides to leave. I’ve seen him around here before, but I’m not sure whose dog he is.

Day 2 – My daughter informs me that the black lab belongs to the neighbors. “They are gone for the weekend. Something could happen to him.”

Yeah, like he could get reported to animal control for not being on a leash. But, she makes him a bed in our garage and closes the garage door so he will not get cold.

“Okay, he can stay in the garage until they get back, but he absolutely cannot come in the house. He is not our dog.”

Day 3 – I walk into the kitchen and the dog is sleeping on the rug by the door. “What is that dog doing inside?”

“Smokey was cold outside.” Smokey? Now it has a name. “He is too afraid to get off the rug. See him shaking?”

Probably afraid the dogcatcher will find him. “Okay, he can sleep on the rug in the kitchen, poor thing, but he absolutely cannot go in the rest of the house. He is not our dog.”

Day 4 – My daughter says, “I checked the neighbor’s yard. Smokey’s leash is broken; he chewed though it.”

“He has food and water and a warm place to sleep. But you are not going to make him go outside in the cold rain, are you? They don’t ever let him run loose.”

Meanwhile, the dog is in the garage scratching on the kitchen door. Next thing I know, he will want to bring 20 canine friends inside with him.

“Okay, he can sleep here until they get back, but he has to stay outside except at night. He is not our dog.”

Day 5 – The door to my grandson’s bedroom is closed. I knock on the door and the dog answers, “Woof!”

“What is that dog doing in the bedroom? He is supposed to stay in the kitchen! He is not our dog!”

“He is sleeping on the floor, grandma! He likes it in here better than in the kitchen. He is lonesome.”

Am I the only one that suspects a conspiracy? “Okay, he can sleep here, but just on the floor, and just until the neighbors get home! He is not our dog.”

Day 6 – The dog is in my grandson’s bed, stretched out on the bedspread, snoring.

“What is that mutt doing in the bed? Lonesome? How can he be lonesome? Why isn’t he outside? No, you can’t keep him! He is somebody else’s dog!”

Day 7 – The neighbors are home! Yippee! I see their car in the driveway. I immediately give the dog his walking papers and put him out the back door without any luggage or spending money.

The dog walks through the wet grass, slowly drags himself to the neighbor’s house and scratches the door. No doubt he is pretending that he was locked out the whole time, is cold and hungry, and was chased by wild cats. He had to chew through his collar to escape, and is lucky to be alive.

I have not seen the dog since they came back. I’m sure they have no idea that their mongrel was sleeping in the neighbor’s bed, dining on the neighbor’s dog food, being petted by the neighbor’s daughter and spoiled by the neighbor’s grandson.

They are probably so happy to have their dog come home unharmed that they will lavish him with affection and promise never to leave him home alone again.

Actually, there is no point in leaving him home alone. The next time they go somewhere, they might as well just leave him with us. We wouldn’t want him to be lonesome.

Posted in Creatures, Home, Humor | Tagged black lab, dogs, frightened dog, lonesome dog, lost dog, spoiled dog | 6 Comments

February Wary

Posted on February 28, 2016 by Sheila Moss

frost Thanks goodness the month of February is almost over. It has been a clunker of a month. To be so small, February can surely be a horror. All the worst weather seems to hit in February. Hopefully, the month had its “last hurrah” with that last spell of snow.

Snow at rush hour is enough to freeze the blood and create terror in the heart of any southerner. The best thing about snow in the South is it seldom lasts very long. I used to live in the North and drive in it all the time. But I’m getting warm blooded like the rest of ’em now. A mild climate sure spoils you fast.

What kind of month is February anyhow with not enough days for a decent calendar page and then an extra one thrown in every four years just to confuse us more? It’s a month that is just destined to be a troublemaker – born with meanness written all over it. Most people can’t even spell it right without using a dictionary.

At the beginning of the month, there is all that groundhog stuff – varmints predicting weather and how long the winter is going to last. Of course, something that silly would have to be in February. When else?

Besides that, we have not one, but two President’s birthdays in the same month. Two favorite sons should be enough to dignify any month – but it seems to be just a bit too much for most people to have two famous folks to celebrate so close together – overkill, if you’ll pardon the expression.

Some people celebrate the official Presidents’ Day to get both days over at one time, but others stubbornly bake their cherry pie and celebrate on Washington’s Birthday. He was the father of our country, after all. Illinois totally refuses to conform and celebrates Lincoln’s birthday, insisting he is from Illinois even though everyone knows he was born in Kentucky. Figure that one out.

Even though the short month is already overloaded with holidays, Valentine’s Day also comes in February. That is convenient as it gives everyone the opportunity to use up all the red candles left over from Christmas, and also a chance to get romantic and cuddle since it is too dog-gone cold to do much else anyhow. What if Valentine’s came in August? It would totally ruin the mood – not to mention melting all the chocolate!

If you were born in February, please accept my sympathy. I was born in April, which the poet called “the cruelest month of all”. But what do poets know? February is definitely raw, cold, bitter and more preferable when its snow scene is turned over backwards on the calendar. Happy Birthday to all you leap year babies who have a birthday this year. February 29th comes only once every four years, another strike against this unpopular month.

I’m glad that March is almost here. The bulbs are practically vibrating the ground; they are getting so anxious to bloom. Frankly, I’ve never believed all that that stuff about March coming in like a lamb and going out like a lion. What would make lambs and lions any better predictors of weather than groundhogs?

Yes, February is finally over. Good riddance. Let’s go fly a kite!

Posted in Humor, Weather | Tagged February, Groundhog, Holidays, Lincoln, President's Day, Valentine's, Washington | 8 Comments

High School Reunion

Posted on February 27, 2016 by Sheila Moss

stairs

My high school reunion! When I received the invitation I thought it would be fun. I could see all the kids I used to know “way back when,” find out what ever happened to so-and-so.

It’s been years since I graduated. I’ve never been back to a reunion in the past, always too busy having babies, moving from one side of the country to the other, or in the middle of some other life activity.

I went to high school in another city, another state. This is a true story of how things happened. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent from what I’m gonna say.

With much trepidation, I was off to the big reunion weekend. The first planned event was a reception – okay a happy hour, at a local restaurant. I knew where the restaurant was, right across from the high school – I thought.

When I drove up, however, the restaurant had magically changed into an Auto Zone store. “Where’s Charlie’s?” I had to ask for directions. “Oh, it’s down by the bowling alley, near the racetrack.” Racetrack? What racetrack? I don’t remember any racetrack. Anyhow, I finally found it. Seems it moved years ago. Why didn’t they just say Tony’s Restaurant is now Charlie’s Restaurant?

I wandered around the bar for a while trying to recognize people and introducing myself. I didn’t remember them and they didn’t remember me. We smiled and pretended to know each other, no one wanting to admit their senility. My God, I thought, they are all so OLD!

Then I finally spotted someone I knew. She used to be a cheerleader, I think. Fat! She was FAT! How could she do this to us? It was awful!

Backing away, I thought I recognized somebody at the bar. “Are you Curly?” I asked. “Sure, who else,” he replied, pointing to his curly hair. Well, at least he still had hair. He was on the football team and never had the time of day for me in school. He quickly blew me off, as usual. I knew it! People never change, I thought – except they are all so OLD!

Next day was the grand tour of the high school. Seems the old high school burned down some time after I graduated and was rebuilt. It was all different. The only thing we recognized was the main stairway. We used to always wish the school would burn down, but could not believe it really happened.

The new school does not have a library; it has a computer-learning lab. Computers everywhere. No wonder kids are so smart nowadays. It was sure completely different from the high school days I remember. “We don’t buy encyclopedias,” said the principal. “The kids do their research on the Internet.”

The school tour is where I saw Harry – school stud, captain of the football team, heartthrob of all the girls. Life had been hard on him. He was an ancient, wrinkled old man now. I was secretly a bit happy that he looked so bad. Harry actually came up and said hello and pretended he remembered me. Jerk! I remembered him too. Oh, well, it’s been years. Who cares any more? Poor thing – he is so OLD!

Finally, the big event came, a dinner-dance. It was in a convention center that did not even exist when we were teenagers. I was wearing a sexy red dress and had been on a diet. I felt like I looked pretty good. In my heart I still feel 18, of course.

We arrived late, as usual, and could not sit with the new friends we made at the happy hour, so we sat at the nurses’ table. They all seemed to know each other from nursing school or the hospital or some place medical. We tried to talk to them and made polite conversation for a while. Finally, we gave up and decided just to dance, have a good time and forget ‘em.

Curly caught me in the lobby and tried to make amends for blowing me off earlier at the restaurant. “I was thinking that do I remember you,” he said, calling me by the wrong name. Wonder if he saw me driving my Vette when I left the restaurant the other night, I thought.

I’ll never come to another one of these things! It’s like being dead and waking up in senior citizen hell. I’ve lived my whole life without ‘em, so who needs them now?

They are all so FAT, I thought, and so OLD!

You don’t suppose they could be thinking the same thing about me, do you?

Posted in Humor | Tagged high school, memories, reception, reminiscence, reunion, senior citizens | 8 Comments

Life is a Bowl of Cherries

Posted on February 26, 2016 by Sheila Moss

“If life is a bowl of cherries, why am I in the pits?” asked humorist, Erma Bombeck. I know what she meant, literally.

Every time I open the refrigerator, beady little cherry eyeballs stare up at me. I slam the door quickly. I’ve never liked cherries. In spite of their sweetness, they always seem to have a tart aftertaste to me.

So, why do I have cherries in the fridge? It’s my son’s fault. They probably looked good in the produce section, so he bought them. Unlike the seedless grapes I usually buy, cherries have pits. He remembered this important fact the first time he bit into one.

I need to get rid of them. Maybe I’ll make a cherry cobbler, I thought, in a domestic moment. I used to bake when had to cook for a growing family. In later years, I’ve grown complacent. Cooking is no longer a challenge, no longer fun like it used to be. Or, maybe I’m simply too lazy.

Regardless, I am determined to get rid of those beady-eyed cherries. I remember having a recipe somewhere, I think, flipping pages in the cookbook. On the third flyby, I find it, Magic Peach Cobbler — but you can use any kind of fruit, it says in the directions.

The first order of business is to cut the cherries in half and remove the pits. Cherry in the bowl, pit in the trash, cherry here, pit there, cha, cha, cha, one cherry at a time. “This could take all day,” I thought, shifting from one foot to the other. Persistence paid off, and finally they were finished.

“One and 3/4 cups of fruit,” said the recipe. I knew from experience that a few cherries, more or less, would still work. “Don’t want to waste them,” I thought, looking at my red, cherry-stained fingers.

“One cup flour, one cup sugar, one and 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder and ¾ cup of milk.” I can do that if I can find the baking powder. I found it at the back of the top shelf. As I removed it, a box of chicken bullion cubes tumbled out and fell on the floor. Where did those come from?

“Melt one stick of butter.” I will turn on the oven and melt it while I mix the rest of the stuff. I know I have a mixing bowl somewhere. Hope the flour doesn’t have mites in it. I can’t remember the last time I used flour. What’s that hard lump in the flour? Oh, my measuring spoon. I wondered where that went.

“Pour the flour mixture over the melted butter and do not stir.” While I removed the butter from the oven, the spatula fell out of the mixing bowl onto the floor making a gooey mess to clean up.

“Sprinkle the fruit over the top.” I carefully picked out a pit that I missed. Now, “Sprinkle with a cup of sugar.” I hope I have enough sugar, I thought, turning the canister upside down and shaking out barely enough.

This thing must have a zillion calories in it. Now I remember why I don’t bake any more. I add some cinnamon whether the recipe called for it or not. I want it to smell good baking.

I put it into the oven at 350 degrees and turn unhappily to the sink full of dirty mixing bowls and spilled sugar. The timer! I forgot the most important part. “Bake for 30 minutes.”

I was barely done cleaning up my mess when the alarm went off. I smelled something burning. Oh, no! I ran to the oven, but the cobbler had only cooked over and juice was burning on the bottom of the oven. The crust had risen to the top and the fruit was on the bottom. That’s why it is called “Magic Cobbler.”

In spite of sticky spills, a dirty oven and being red-handed, I’m no longer in the pits.

Erma would be so proud.

Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged baking, Bombeck, bowl of cherries, cherries, cherry pits, cobbler, cooking, fruit recipes, recipes | 9 Comments

Speaking of Starbucks

Posted on February 25, 2016 by Sheila Moss

coffeeshop Since Starbucks has been in the news lately, I decided to give them another try and do a bit of field research for a column. I’m not a gourmet coffee person. My idea of gourmet coffee is buying a cup at Mapco when I stop for gas.

I really don’t understand the Starbucks craze. I know, they have a lounge chair or two and try to make their chain restaurants have a coffee-house hangout look. But, I’m always amazed at the long line of cars at the drive-thru. Is it really that good, or are people just too lazy to put water in a coffee pot?

I confess I did go there once to buy a gift card for my older daughter and her hubby. They are among the coffee elite. But, something about a coffee-house menu intimidates me. Why can’t they make the menu in English? Is not being able to understand the menu part of the appeal?

I decided that I would do research so I would not be a complete coffee idiot. I started with Espresso. It sounds like express. Instant coffee? Hardly, at least not in the powdered form. Espresso, I found out, is very strong coffee. It is brewed quickly under pressure. I thought of my old pressure cooker that could cook a whole chicken in 20 minutes flat.

Espresso seems to be the base of most of their stuff. Nobody could drink espresso and like it unless they are a liar, so it is diluted in various ways. Latte is coffee and milk – we non-elites would call it half and half. I don’t know why they have to call it latte.

There is also something called Americano. It’s coffee diluted with hot water to make it like regular coffee. Why bother? Cappuccino is another foreign word ending with “o”. I don’t know what it means, but it is part espresso, part milk-o and part foam-o. Foam-o is not whipped cream-o, by the way, or at least not whipped cream that has been sweetened.

Then there are added flavors, vanilla and mocha being the main ones. You’ve probably heard of vanilla ice cream. Mocha is chocolate. Yes, chocolate coffee. I would call it another word.

I thought I was ready now.

We went to Starbucks. The menu covered an entire wall and made no sense, just as I remembered.

“Can I help you?” The barista asked. Barista is a fancy word for coffee bar server.

“Er… your menu is rather complicated,” I stuttered.

“Take your time,” she replied. I thought maybe she would offer to interpret, but apparently you are on your own unless you bring a menu translator.

My daughter, whom I brought along for moral support, said, “I’ll have a tall vanilla latte with whip.”

“What’s frappuccino?” I asked, starring at the wall.

“That’s cold coffee, mom.”

Cold coffee? I decided to skip that category.

Tall means small, grande means medium, and venti means large, in Starbucks’ lingo.

Other people spouted out orders in a foreign tongue as if they had been speaking Starbucks forever. I had not the faintest idea what they were ordering.

Finally, I decided to try a tall cappuccino. Bad choice, as I like sweet coffee, but I didn’t know. My daughter got me some Sweet and Low. I stirred it in the foamy stuff the best I could, but it didn’t help much. I drank it anyway. After paying almost four dollars for a small coffee, I was going to drink it if it killed me.

Oh! My! Gosh!

The caffeine hit my veins with a jolt! My eyes may never close again. Wow! That’s some powerful stuff. I won’t sleep for a month! Maybe never!

The next time I go, I think I will get the latte.

Next time? Did I actually say next time? No wonder the drive-thru line is so long.

Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged caffine, cappuccino, coffee, coffee-house, expresso, gourmet, latte | 6 Comments

Enough is Enough

Posted on February 24, 2016 by Sheila Moss

computers Bang! Pow! Take that, you good for nothing box of bolts!

My friend Cathy has a story about getting angry with her computer and shooting it. Cathy tells some wild tales and it is hard to know when it is merely fantasy; however, she declares that she is telling the truth and that she has the receipts to prove it. Unfortunately, the bullet went through the wall and shot her dryer also, which worked just fine and didn’t need killing.

I guess everyone has felt frustrated enough at some point to kill an appliance that wouldn’t work. There is a famous story about Elvis shooting his television set. I’m relatively certain it is true as the television set is on display at Graceland and I’ve seen it there with the screen broken.

I once saw a guy on the Tonight Show that had pulled out a gun and shot a vending machine that cheated him out of his money. I can relate to that. Nothing makes me madder than a thieving vending machine that keeps my money. Do you put in more change or do you give up before it cheats you again?

I can think of lots of things to shoot.

My old refrigerator certainly deserved being shot when it quit cooling. I guess it didn’t really need killing, though, since it was already dead. I got a new side-by-side out of the deal and the old refrigerator is resting in peace somewhere. I have a feeling that old appliances do not go to dead appliance heaven.

My computer would certainly be long gone. I have had the urge to shoot it numerous times. Nothing is more aggravating than the blue screen of death, a program that freezes, or turning it off and having it boot up in safe mode. My blood pressure goes over the top. I hate having to spend a day trying to fix a contrary computer when I have other things to do.

POW! So you want to crash, huh? I’ll show you how to crash –permanently.

Broken-Appliances My dishwasher also went the way of the dead appliances. Unfortunately, it too died before I had an opportunity to shoot it. Somehow shooting an appliance that is already dead just doesn’t seem like much of a sport.

The big screen TV died a few weeks ago. I was sort of enjoying the peace and quiet, but my honey had the stupid thing fixed. My fantasy is to shoot it and get my living room back. One of these days… POW! If anything has a contract out on it around here, it is that big screen TV.

My cordless phone with the static needs to go… POW!

My poor old dryer wouldn’t suffer much if a bullet went through the wall and put it out of its misery. The button that changes the temperature from high to perm-press is long gone and the handle on the door is broken. It would actually be better off dead… POW!

The microwave still works, but the light inside no longer comes on… POW! That will teach it to conk out on me.

While I’m at it, I might as well shoot the stove… POW! The oven light quit working so long ago that I don’t even miss it any more. And the stove is that ugly beige color that once matched the refrigerator before I got the new one. Is it fair to shoot something just because it is ugly?

I guess I’ll have to keep putting up with these half-dead appliances or start my own appliance cemetery. It was probably just as well that they did not have appliances in the days of the Old West, or Boot Hill would have been a landfill.

If they come and haul me away in the padded wagon, you’ll know its because I went postal.

Come to think of it, I might as well put this column out of its misery too… POW!

Posted in Home, Humor | Tagged absurdity of guns, computer rage, going postal, gun control, gun stupidity, guns, irresponsible gun owners, shooting television, shootings, wild west mentality | 3 Comments

Fifty Questions

Posted on February 23, 2016 by Sheila Moss

paperwork Any sort of physical pain, whether sharp or dull, severe or slight, recent or chronic, actual or imagined, serious or funny, can only be ignored for so long before a person realizes it’s time to see a doctor. One of the worse things about doctor appointments, as far as I’m concerned, is the foolish questionnaires you inevitably have to fill out to theoretically help them diagnose your condition.

First, there is the list of medical questions about catastrophic diseases to which you must check “yes” or “no.” Have you ever had cancer, diabetes, heart disease, stroke, gout, body odor, halitosis or hangnail? You dutifully go down the list checking “no” beside each box and wonder if people with some of these conditions would really be able to fill out these forms.

Then they go on asking all about your pills, medications, and what sort of chemicals you are putting in your body. Accustomed to the prodding questions, I carry a list of medications, dosage, and how often I take them. Actually there are only three since they don’t count coffee or breath mints.

Any allergies? This is important because giving a medication that you are allergic to could cause you to end up leaving the office with a halo and wings. Thank goodness they don’t care about allergies like dust, pollen, mold and being allergic to watching football on TV.

Any surgeries? They love to ask about surgeries. Unfortunately, you can’t deny having been under the knife because your body carries the scars forever. I finally thought this all out one day, the best I could recall, and wrote it down under my list of medications. The year may not be right, but at least I will be consistently wrong without having to figure it out each time.

Finally, my favorite part, the nude drawing of a person on which you are supposed to mark where the pain is and what kind of pain, using x’s, o’s, arrows and such. The figure is, of course, devoid of any anatomical parts and is either a man or a bald woman. I wonder where you would put the x if the pain is in a private part. Fortunately, mine is not, so I dutifully mark the x’s and resist the urge to draw hair and earrings on the figure.

Eventually the nosey questions are all answered, your next of kin, emergency phone number, and whether you have a living will is marked. You wonder just what exactly it is that this doctor plans to do to do today that might require a living will and wish you had remembered to kiss your honey goodbye and say “I love you” to all your children, pets, and plants.

Now it wouldn’t be so bad if you could answer the questions once and be done with it, however, the entire process is repeated every place you go. If you are referred for X-rays or an MRI, you must answer the fifty questions again. By the end of the day I am putting “writer’s cramp” in the blank space for other diseases.

I wonder what would happen if I checked “yes “ to all the catastrophic diseases and gave my next of kin as Mickey Mouse? Actually, I don’t think it matters as long as you get the name of your insurance company right. I am fairly certain that no one ever reads or even looks at any of the other information that they ask for.

In spite of the surgeries I so carefully wrote down, the technician still asks, “Have you ever had any surgery?” And the first words out of the doctor’s mouth are always “Where does it hurt?” regardless of how carefully you have drawn x’s on the nude figure.

“Are you allergic to any drugs?” the doctor asks.

No, only to pain – and mountains of useless paperwork.

Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged diagnosis, doctor's office, medical evaluation, paperwork, questionaire, useless questions | 5 Comments

Donuts To Go

Posted on February 22, 2016 by Sheila Moss

donuts
After my sister read a column I wrote about bad luck, she sent me an email. “I have my own story,” she said.

“It all started when I decided to run a few errands before picking Mom up for a doctor’s appointment. I had been to the bank, and then made my next stop at the jewelry store to have my jewelry cleaned. Before I left, the clerk laughed and said, ‘Now don’t have an accident while admiring your shiny clean wedding band.'”

“That must have been the curse.”

Sis said that she checked in the mirror and thought the way was clear as she started to back out. But, “I heard a loud CRUNCH as I hit a car behind me.” It had pulled behind her while she was backing up. She decided to pull forward as her car was against the door of the other car and there were passengers inside.

“As I put the car into drive, I went into some kind of panic mode. My car careened forward and I crashed right through the plate glass window of the doughnut shop next to the jewelry shop. All I saw was falling glass.”

Now, I have to interject here that my sister is normally a very careful driver and has probably never had an accident before in her entire life, much less committed terrorism against a donut shop.

“Everyone came rushing up to see if I was OK. I was fine, but I sure felt stupid, with the front of my car sticking into the doughnut shop. Miraculously, nobody was injured.”

It gets worse…

“Suddenly sirens started sounding, and police, fire trucks, and city officials started zeroing in on the place. I had destroyed the best doughnut shop in town, so naturally the police were concerned.”

“People with cameras started stopping to take pictures. I prayed I would not be on TV. Someone joked that I had created my own drive-through.”

“My car was dragged away to the body shop. Luckily, I did not receive any type of citation. I’ve been getting lots of phone calls from insurance people today. The doughnut shop got the window boarded up and was back in business in just a couple of hours.”

“I’m not telling anyone I know about the whole thing, because I feel like a major idiot. I’m the crazy old lady who ran through the store front,” said my sister.

To help her out, I decided I’d put the story on the Internet where her secret would be safe.

After the accident, she called Mom to tell her to cancel her doctor’s appointment as she had a wreck and couldn’t make it. Mom was hysterical, as usual. “I knew you had a wreck before you even called,” Mom said. Mom always imagines the worse possible explanation for being late, so finally she got to be right.

“Mom decided that my new car had been jinxed from the start, and she always thought it didn’t sound right.” If you can’t blame anyone else, blame the car, I guess.

“So that’s my bad luck story for this week,” says my sis. “Can you top it?”

No, I don’t think so, but probably the reason she didn’t make the evening news was that someone else crashed an SUV into the bedroom of a house on the same day, stealing her thunder.

Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged accident, bad luck, car crash, car wreck, curses, donut shop disaster, jinx | 5 Comments

I Want to Go Back to the Fifties

Posted on February 21, 2016 by Sheila Moss

1950s I want to go back to the fifties. I want to turn back time to when the world was a simpler place. I want to put my hair in a ponytail and roll up the legs of my jeans. I want to play music on a turntable and dance to rock and roll. I want to wear penny loafers and bobby socks and big skirts with can-can petticoats.

I want to have a slumber party and giggle with my friends. I want to cruise down Main Street and wave at the boys. I want to go to a drive-in restaurant and have a hamburger and fries without worrying about cholesterol. I want to drink root beer from a real glass mug. I want my biggest problem to be whether or not Elvis wriggles too much when he performs and whether Suzie really fell asleep at the drive-in movie.

I want to go steady. I want to wear a fellow’s class ring and put tape on the back of it to make it fit. I want to worry about homework and final exams, acne and after school activities. I want things to be simple like television in black and white.

Funny, how I thought the teachers were all too hard, that I’d never graduate and that only my parents and a high school diploma stood between me and living happily ever after. I worried about things like college scholarships and if I’d ever get married or whether I would be an “old maid.” I didn’t know about women’s rights, or civil rights, or right to life, or right to death.

Then I grew up.

There were riots, demonstrations, and rockets to outer space. There were babies and bills. There was social movement and political awareness and something called responsible citizenship. Cold wars became memories and real wars became headlines. I found out about lies, political assassination, and buying on credit.

I want to default on the problems of the world. I want to live in a time before designer drugs, credit cards, and computer viruses. I want to renege on the present and go back to way things were.

We have come so far. We have gained so little.

I want to go to a football game and cheer for the home team. I want to turn in my marriage license, my driver’s license, my voter’s registration, my social security card, and my cell phone. I want to return to the malt shop, to drive-in movies, to virginity, to an age of innocence.

I want to tease my hair and watch American Bandstand.