Rich Women Wear Thongs

A Nordstrom's Rack opened up near us last week. Nordstrom's is an upscale department store, and the Rack is their outlet store. Much excitement.


Of course I went.  While I'm not the Thrift Queen, I can say with conviction that I qualify as a Thrift Princess. There were lots of women's pants suits (good if you work) and nothing fit to wear to a morning wedding (needed for March). What there was, was beautiful underwear. (Faint of heart, cease reading now.) I selected two beautiful bras, the kind with lace and ruching, bows and little jewels. *great sigh of satisfaction* I thought how nice it would be to have pretty underpants that, if they didn't match, at least coordinated with my new under splendor. That's when I made my discovery.

There were racks of lovely, pastel pants, again with ruffles and bow and tucks and lace, but, BUT there were no briefs. I thought surely, surely somewhere, hidden on a bottom rack or hanging against the wall, would be some briefs, beautiful or not. Nope. None, nada. The only conclusion I can draw is that wealthy women, the kind of women who regularly shop at Nordstroms before their clothes make it to the Rack, wealthy women wear only bikinis and thongs.  Their bodies are no slimmer and trimmer than mine, yet the evidence leads me to believe that skimpy, belly-cutting panties are their undgraments of choice.  What's up with that?

If you're retired, you have time to ask such deep, meaningful questions. (See how cleverly I tied this topic in to the theme of my Blog?) And then you drive over to Sears.

Reflections on a Bad Egg

In regards to the current recall of a bazillion eggs, can anyone explain to me how the salmonella gets INSIDE them?  We lived in Moscow during the bird flu epidemic, and all we had to do was wash our eggs off before cracking them in order to prevent the bacteria on the shell from entering the insides. With the current recall, it seems that the bacteria is in-born (or in-unborn, poor little yolks). How does it work its way through the hen's system and end up inside the egg? At least, that's what I'm assuming is the problem, or else wouldn't "they" simply advise us to scrub our eggs before cooking and eating?
I heard on NPR not serve eggs with runny whites, but, in fact, they are recalling all those eggs.  Taken together, it seems to me to mean that the eggs are already bad on the inside.  Also, you have to deny yourself raw Toll House Cookie dough. That's terrible!

And what are the implications for humans? Plenty of women eat junk food and smoke and, I dunno, eat dirt until they get pregnant. They may show exemplary behavior once they know they're about to blow up like a blue whale, but not beforehand. This doesn't seem to affect human embryos. Oh, wait, maybe it explains a lot about the human race. No, no, I don't think so.
The eggs seem to be pre-infected.  Can anyone explain it to me?

The Hindenburg

One of the dancers took photos at the reception after my mother's funeral. She kindly e-mailed them to me. At least, she thought she was being kind. Now, I have a thin, small face. I have wide shoulders and rather large, um, accoutrements. I wore the skirt to a black suit and a grey, white and pale pink, sleeveless blouse I that goes under the suit jacket although it was waaaay too warm to wear the jacket. Well, those pictures let me see how wrong I was to wear that blouse by itself.

Yes, there I am: a pinheaded blimp. Okay, okay, it's not quite that bad, but, I won't be wearing THAT combination again. Still, it got me thinking how stupid people look with their heads balanced up there on top of the whole shebang. Wouldn't people look more balanced, more elegant with their heads placed somewhere else?
I envision humans with their heads tucked neatly between their shoulder blades. That makes so much more sense. You'd avoid a lot of those nasty concussions that way, you know. The hard knocks would be taken up by all that surrounding bone and tissue. I guess we'd have to have some sort of swivel mechanism, or else we couldn't turn our heads to look over (or under) our shoulders.
So here's my question. Where do YOU think people's heads should be situated? (Oh, and when the comments question asks for "account," all you have to put is your e-mail address. It's your e-mail account, see? Really, what were they thinking?)  (Oh, and if you sign up to be a follower, I think you can get an e-mail informing you when I post.  Isn't that what everyone needs to make their world complete?)

Everything In Its Place

I was in Mom's condo today, continuing some of the clean up. The size of the empty space she used to fill began to hit me. And all this stuff left behind, added together, doesn't approach the size of the woman who lived among it.
I was amazed at the funeral that she fit into such a small pine box, she of the giant personality. Well, the personality wasn't there, of course. Many of her "girls" wrote to us of the image that Mom was teaching the angels to tap. My certainty was that, in one form or another, she is now with my father where she belongs.

A Big Hole

My mother thought churches and synagogues were wonderful places to build community, find friends and enjoy activities. They were places where a person could be included, and she was very big on  everyone being included. However, she wasn’t much for actual religion.
When my brother visited my Mother a couple of days before she died, he had a question for her. Although he was pretty sure he knew the answer, he felt he should ask it.

“Mom, would you like to see a Rabbi?”
She opened her tired eyes and looked at him with a sardonic expression on her face. He leaned down to hear her soft words. “Dig a hole.”

Final Breath

My mother died peacefully at 4:30 today. 

A Better Sandwich

11 tedious hours
Fast food, heavy
Wheels droning
Scenery passing
Entering Muncie where factories are closed and dollar stores abound, where we are met with enthusiastic shrieks of (all one word), “Nana/ Papa! Nana/Papa!”

And where, early in the morning, watching a TV cartoon of Spiderman’s shooting webs, I am seated between Pumpkin and Pie Boy. I am the filler in a love sandwich.

Even When They Cry

Twenty-four hour nursing care began for my mother this morning. That is how you can tell how ill she really is -- in any state of wellness, she would not accept help. Today she became bed-ridden and drifted in and out of lucidness.

Her two dance demonstrators came to see her one last time, and she was able to carry on a short conversation with them. They came out in tears and told us how much the "girls" (you have to be over 55 to take the class) loved her.

"They love her so much. Even when she yelled at them. Even when she made them cry."

She made them CRY? That didn't stop the flood of cards and letters (I can only describe them as love letters) every birthday and Christmas.  They love her devotedly.

She didn't make anyone cry today. All the tension gone from her face, she was incredibly beautiful.

Pumpkin and the Pie Boy

Early tomorrow morning we are headed westward to see our Perfectrr Grnadchildren, aka Pumpkin and the Pie Boy. I have always used the endearment Punkin for Suzannah (6) but was corrected last visit when I asked Alan if he was my Punkin.

He shook his head vigorously. "I no Punkin."

"Are you my Cookie then?" I asked endearingly.

Emphatically, "No! I no Cookie!"

"What are you then?"

A moment's thought. "I Pie Boy." (He's two. How much pie has he ever eaten?

Pumpkin or Pie Boy, they are so declicious, I could eat them up!

Bookends

Bookends: two sides of something in the middle. I am one of the things in the middle. My sister instructs me that I am not truly in the middle of a sandwich because I’m only in between because our mother is soooo old. However, I say that anyone in the middle of generations counts as being in the middle of a sandwich. She posits that, in that case, it must be a club sandwich as our children (not hers and mine together, but hers and mine in separate sandwiches) are between us and their own children. On second thought, there can be more than one item inside a sandwich. It could be that our children are the main sandwich ingredient while I am merely the mayonnaise. I often feel like the mayonnaise.

Anyway, on to the outsides, bookends. My mother has a successful ploy for getting her own way. It involves digging her heels in. Granted that her own way is often a good way, but she attains it through pure stubbornness, with, occasionally, a dollop of guilt and shame thrown in. Well, she’s a mother, after all; we have our ways.
My grandson at two and a half has already learned that charm works better than obstinacy for getting what he wants, better than , say, screeching at the top of his voice or throwing himself on the floor and crying. Instead, he turns on a little half smile, the one that shows off his dimples to such good advantage, and asks sweetly, “Pleeeease?” If that proves unsuccessful, he says whimsically and persuasively, “Hey, don’t say no.” Damn, the kid’s good.

My friend, author Austin Camacho, asked me to write for his blog about beginning a new blog.  (This feels a little like the mirror-in-mirror effect!) I begin a little obliquely, and I’m not sure I got to exactly the final destination, but I have included an anecdote about my Perfect Grandson, so for that alone, you’ll want to read it. Instead of an entry today in my own blog, you’ll find the entry at http://ascamacho.blogspot.com/ Austin write entertaining mysteries and thrillers which you’ll enjoy, too.

Moo

    Sometimes I have difficulty getting to sleep at night.  I limit myself to Ambien once a week at most as I don't want the habit nor the addiction.  I try to direct my mind away from obsessive looping of disturbing topic to more relaxing ones, like my Perfect Grandchildren.  A couple of nights ago, I just couldn't focus, and it popped into my mind to think about cows. 
     What?
     Cows.  Now, I have no connection to cows whatsover.  Hmmm, not exactly true.  I eat beef, and I love ice cream, but on a personal level?  No.  Wait, wait!  I have one sentimental connection to cows.  When I was a little girl, if we drove through the countryside and saw cows, my Dad would moo.  My Dad had the best, loudest most authentic moo you ever heard outside of an actual cow.  It was wonderful!  Other than that, there is no reason I would think of cows as a relaxing, neutral subject.
     Cows aren't bad tyo think about.  I went to a sort of Ben and Jerry place in my imagination with black and white cows resting in the meadow, following sweet grass and chewing contentedly.  It's not something you can think about for very long, but it did break the more neurotic loop and allowed me to drift off. 
     Do you think there's some commercial application to this?