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?

©2000

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

Life is a Bowl of Cherries

Posted on February 26, 2016 by Sheila Moss

cherries“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.

©2012

 

Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Speaking of Starbucks

Posted on February 25, 2016 by Sheila Moss

coffeeshopSince 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.

©2008

Posted in Food, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Enough is Enough

Posted on February 24, 2016 by Sheila Moss

computersBang! 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-AppliancesMy 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!

©2009

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Fifty Questions

Posted on February 23, 2016 by Sheila Moss

paperworkAny 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.

©2009

Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , | 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.

©2009

Posted in Automotive, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

I Want to Go Back to the Fifties

Posted on February 21, 2016 by Sheila Moss

1950sI 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.

©2000

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The Blue Sequin Jacket

Posted on February 20, 2016 by Sheila Moss

2300KFDPRW=0.00 GW=0.00 BW=0.00 RB=9.99 GB=9.99 BB=9.99Topaz2

Oh, that’s pretty,” I thought. In Smyrna, Tennessee, anything blue that isn’t denim is pretty. I checked the price tag. $7? It must be a mistake. But that’s what the tag said. The price marked is the price, isn’t it?

“What would I do with a blue sequin jacket?” I thought. I could not very well wear it on Saturday to Walmart, and it would cause too much gossip at the First Baptist Church. They would think I had been out all night partying. So, I passed it by and didn’t try it on.

Why is it that the thing we didn’t buy is the thing that haunts us later? I had visions of me in the sequin jacket going to the Swan Ball — or at least the Swine Ball. I imagined going on a dinner cruise on the General Jackson Showboat, or to a fund-raising charity dinner dance, or to a New Year’s Eve party at the Opryland Hotel. It would also be perfect for Tunica – the redneck Vegas near Memphis.

Unfortunately, I never go to any of those places, and if I ever was invited to go through some sort of clerical error, I could dust off some of the formal stuff I already own from the olden days when I was involved in politics.

The blue sequin jacket taunted my dreams. I fanaticized about the jacket and how great I would look in it, like Reba McEntire or Princess Di. I could wear it with a little navy skirt and glitter in style at the theater. We do have theater in Nashville, despite what people think.

I was becoming obsessed.

I mentioned the fancy duds to my honey. “Why didn’t you get it?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t need it. I’m not going anywhere to wear it.”

“You could get it and you would have it if you ever did need it.”

Somehow his logic made sense. I should have bought it, especially for the price. Maybe I could go back and get it. But that never works with thrift shops. If you see something you like, better buy it right then as it will not be there when you go back.

I could run by there after work and check. But it’s been three whole days. It would certainly be gone. Maybe I could call and ask them to hold it for me? No, no, a thrift store will not do that. Besides, what if I get there, try it on, and it doesn’t fit?

If I don’t get it, it doesn’t really matter. I have nowhere to wear it anyhow.

Wait a minute! What am I thinking? This is Nashville. We practically invented sequins. If the country music stars can do it, so can I. I can wear it with jeans and go to the Opry. Watch out Porter Wagoner! That’s me in the first balcony with the flashy blue sequins and cowboys boots.

Well, I went by the store after work. I stood staring at the empty space where the jacket was hanging before. I looked through all the other jackets. It was gone, gone, gone, just as figured it would be. As many big-haired ladies as we have in Smyrna, one of them is probably wearing it down at the Assembly of God church right now.

Would whoever bought my blue sequin jacket, please return it? I have a lot of places that I’m dreaming of going, and you probably didn’t need it anyway. You probably just bought it so you would have it in case you ever needed it.

©2007

Posted in Fashion, Humor, Shopping | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Getting Nails

Posted on February 19, 2016 by Sheila Moss

handsJust call it a passion for fashion, but I recently bought into the acrylic fingernail craze, a vanity industry that has rapidly taken the nation by storm. Nail shops have sprung up like mushrooms in shopping centers, malls, and discount marts everywhere, making artificial nails available and affordable for the average woman, like me.

Now, these shops give regular manicures too, but most women, like me, go for the acrylic nails — beautiful, long plastic nails for those of us who have brittle nails that break easily — beautiful, long plastic nails for those of us who are nervous and chew their nails — beautiful, long plastic nails for those of us who have never had pretty fingernails before.

The manicurist approaches me: “New set or fill?”

I didn’t know the lingo.

After I became wiser in the language of nail salons, I found that “new set” means acrylic nail tips. It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand. She took one look at my ragged nails and knew I was a newbie.

“New set!” she observed.

“Fill in” is done after the nails grow and leave a space between the cuticle and the base of the acrylic nail. I had no idea when I started that I would be returning every two weeks for a follow-up process, or that these nails come with a life-time commitment.

My fingernails are matched up with artificial tips of the right size. My natural nails are trimmed to the skin and new tips super glued on. With the precision of an artist, the technician dips a small paintbrush in acetone and uses acrylic powder to overlay the nail.

After the nail hardens, there is much grinding to shape and buff the nails. The tool too closely resembles a dental drill for comfort. I quickly learn to sit still and not to try to assist by offering a finger. The wheel buzzes. I close my eyes and hope she knows what she is doing and won’t grind off the end of my finger.

“Wash now.”

She motions to a sink in the back and I oblige by scrubbing my nails hard with the brush, being certain to wash off all the oil she has brushed onto my cuticles. I don’t want to get sent back to do it over again like the lady before me.

“Pick a color now.”

This means select the color of polish I want from the dozens of bottles of enamel. She waits, wanting me to hurry so she can go on to the next customer. Eventually, I will learn to choose a color ahead of time while I’m waiting and she isn’t.

The polish comes in a rainbow of colors. It amazes me what some women do to their nails, making them long and red, or putting tiny designs on them under clear polish. I pass on that look and go for French nails, which are natural with white tips.

“Pay now.”

I wonder why I have to pay before she finishes. If I fail to give an adequate tip, will she still do a good job? I put a buck or two in the tip jar, just for insurance. Later, I learn that I am paying ahead to avoid messing up the new polish by digging in my purse.

The manicurist deftly applies several coats of polish, motioning for me to hold my hand in front of a small fan while she works on the other one. And I thought the fan was just there to keep me cool.

“Nice set.”

This means she is finished and admiring her work. I am then motioned to sit with my hands under a heat light to bake the nails dry.

Another customer, another set of nails.

I’m hooked and will spend every other week here for years to come. If anyone misses me, just say that I’m getting nailed.

©2007

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

Never Feed a Stray Cat

Posted on February 18, 2016 by Sheila Moss

catA stray cat began hanging around our house this week. Actually, it is more of a kitten that has reached the stage when you realize that, like other kittens, it will eventually become a cat. It was wearing a pink collar.

I had to run it out from under the car to be sure we didn’t run over it. I thought it would go home. “Scat, kitty!”

I later caught my grandson playing with it. “You can’t have that cat,” I said. “It has on a collar. It belongs to someone.”

It spent the night on the patio on top of the gas grill. “Don’t you dare feed that cat,” I told my grandson. “It will never go home if you feed it. It must be lost.”

We checked with the neighbors, and no one claimed it. “Maybe it belongs across the street. They have cats.” It had to belong to someone; it had on a collar.

“I don’t want another cat. We have a cat, not to mention two dogs and a fish,” I said.

The next night it was again on top of the gas grill crying. “It can’t come inside. It belongs to someone and they will be looking for it.” It would not stop crying. It was driving me nuts.

I noticed my big guy continuing to make trips to the kitchen during the evening. Every time he came back there was a cat report.

“It’s really getting hungry.”

“It’s crying to come inside.”

“It’s afraid.”

“It is going to starve to death.”

“Do you want to be responsible for starving an animal to death?”

Finally, I could stand it no longer. “All right, let it inside but it’s going to be YOUR cat!” He couldn’t get to the door fast enough, and soon the kitten was inside gleefully drinking a saucer of milk.

When my grandson could not find the cat outside, he was upset. “Have you seen…. the CAT!!??” The cat was sitting on the back of the sofa smiling.

“What’s that cat doing inside? Can we keep it? Can it be my cat? Can I name it?”

I still held out hope that it belonged across the street. Fat chance. When we checked, the neighbor said it had hung out at his house for a day or two, then got in a fight with his cat and he hasn’t seen it since. Of course not, it lives on my gas grill now.

Maybe we could put up a sign, “Found, gray and white cat with pink collar.” We made the sign, but no one called.

The cat has moved in lock, stock and barrel now. It climbs on our laps and purrs. It gets in the beds at night. It finds cat toys like pens, string, paper wads and anything that dares to move. A scratch on its lip from the neighbor’s catfight makes it appear to constantly be smiling. I’m sure that it is just the scratch.

“Did you ever think that cat would be inside when we couldn’t find it?” my grandson asked. No, I didn’t think so, but that was wishful thinking.

The cat now owns the house, chasing its own tail, climbing on the furniture, eating us out of house and home, and tormenting the dogs. It has catnip toys, a name, and an appointment with the vet for a checkup and shots.

And that’s how we ended up being adopted by the stray cat. But it has on a pink collar – it must belong to someone.

©2004

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