Food Police

I'm eating a York ice cream bar.  It's my newest favorite thing...I'm kinda like Oprah that way...I have many favorite things.  Except I don't have the $$$ to share my favorite things with a whole studio audience full of strangers who love me.  Wouldn't it be great to be Oprah for a day and give shit away to people?  Not shit literally, only someone with a freakish psychological disorder would literally want shit, but stuff, you know, they'd love?  I think Oprah should start a new show like the old "Queen For A Day" ...I know I'm dating myself...and call it "Oprah For A Day".  Might boost ratings on that new network of hers. I'd watch it.

The York ice cream bars are wonderful, but they should have a stick.  They're round, and you have to hold them in the wrapper when you eat them so the chocolate doesn't melt all over your hands, so you kind  of have to keep turning them around in the wrapper so you can get an edge to bite off.  Not a well thought out design if you ask me, which obviously they didn't, but they're soooo good I struggle through.

I'm eating after The Husband has gone to bed.  I've become a closet eater...not that I'm actually eating a closet, I mean, how could someone eat a closet???  It's just an empty space for putting stuff...mostly stuff you throw in and close the door so it looks like the rest of the room is neat and orderly. No, I'm hiding in the dark so The Husband doesn't see what I'm eating.  I waited until he went to bed before I started chowing down.  I feel guilty but I'm really not doing anything wrong, so I don't know why I feel guilty.  I guess I feel guilty because I'm eating all the things The Husband can't eat...ice cream, M&M's, cookies...the good stuff.

The Husband’s doctor put him on a diet.   I am now the Food Police.  It's not a job that I asked for. I don’t want to think about what I eat let alone monitor the food intake of another human. I now find myself measuring a quarter cups of trail mix into baggies for The Husband to take in his lunch. I  have to buy whole grain bread instead of the soft white of my childhood that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Labels now have to be checked for calorie, fat, and sodium content...and the print is so small that it's really hard to read.  All through the grocery store, I have to put glasses on and off, on and off...all in an effort to make The Husband's road to Skinnyville as painless as possible...for him at least.

The older we get, the easier the weight goes on...and the harder it is to take off. Lately I’ve actually been thinking about trying to shed some lbs, but I haven’t really got past the thinking part to the doing part. So maybe this is a good thing for both of us. I mean, if I have to fix him healthful things to eat, maybe a little healthy lifestyle will rub off on me and with little or no effort on my part I’ll magically lose lbs too. It could happen.

Old men, for some reason, refuse to acknowledge they’re getting old and keep trying to do things they used to be able to do when they were younger. Like work outside in the sweltering heat digging ditches. I know it’s probably wrong to generalize, and I’m sure there are some men out there who acknowledge that old age is wreaking havoc on their bodies and act accordingly, but I’ve just never met one. I’m sure there was a time when The Husband would be able to spend the one day off from his sedentary job digging ditches in triple digit heat without nearly suffering heatstroke and keeling over, which he did weekend before last,...but those days are gone... forever.

Fortunately, The Husband had a regularly scheduled checkup with the doc the very next day. So I called the doc’s wife who just so happens to work in her husband’s office and told her about The Husband’s little heatstroke episode...thinking that the Good Doctor, who’s the same age as The Husband by the way, would tell The Husband “don’t do that”. Wrongo bongo...Becky, that’s the doc’s wife, said “my husband did the exact same thing”. Great, I’m thinkin’...the Good Doctor, despite being a highly educated and trained health care professional, has no more common sense than my goober of a husband. What is it with these old men?????

The whole diet thing’s been a long time coming. For a while now, I’ve been threatening to buy The Husband suspenders to keep his pants up. He doesn’t want to wear suspenders because that’s what old men wear. Hello???...Dude, you’re old...and I don’t want to see you embarrass yourself in public with a bad case of plumbers butt..(this is what I say to myself...). Every time I threaten to buy suspenders, The Husband tells me that the older he gets, the more his butt shrinks. I just don’t have the heart to tell him that no, your butt isn’t shrinking, your stomach is growing...but the butt is still the same size as it always was.  The only reason you can still wear the pants is that you button them up under your stomach.  I've said this to myself many, many times.  Why is it anyway, that men's butts don't grow like women's butts do?  You don't see too many men around with fat asses unless their body is morbidly obese, but there's plenty of small to average size women out there with gigantic asses.  They like to call it "pear" shaped.  Sounds much more pleasant, but all it really means is that you have a gigantic ass in proportion to the rest of your body.

The Husband is having a much easier time with the whole diet thing than I am...probably since I’m the one counting the calories, sodium, and fat content of everything he eats. All he has to do is eat. Or not eat, as the case may be. “Don’t eat that much” I’ll say when he gets out the strawberries and a plate to put them on. “You can have a cup of strawberries...not a platter of strawberries”...I get a scrunchy face in reply.

Yesterday I found the zip lock bag holding the Nilla Wafers unzipped. Since I never, I mean never, leave zip lock bags unzipped...and since there’s only the two of us living in the house...I didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure out who the culprit was.

“How many Nilla Wafers did you eat?” I asked...because inquiring minds want to know...along with the Food Police.

I got a scrunchy face look from The Husband before he said “five”.

“Why? Did you count ‘em?” he continues accusingly...making me wonder if I should have taken on this job of Food Police and...leading me to believe he had way more Nilla Wafers than the admitted five.  Just a hunch...

“No” I snap back at him...a little testier than I intended “you never zip the damn bags up when you get stuff out of them”.

My hope now is that even if he doesn’t lose a pound he’ll finally learn how to close a zip lock bag properly... if only to hide his snackage sneaking ways. Of course, there’s probably as much chance of this happening as there is of my lbs magically disappearing because The Husband is on a diet...it's the stoopidist thing...

The Impostor

Who’d a thunk it??? Somewhere, somehow, someone switched my OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) with an impostor. I think the real OF who, like myself, was a card carrying member of the Invertebrate Club, may have been abducted by aliens. Left in her place is this unknown creature who looks like OF, walks like OF (tripping and stumbling into holes) and even talks like OF, but who doesn’t slink away on her belly at the slightest hint of confrontation. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.

A couple of months ago, OF & the Sister Wives, Mini & Maxi,(newly named...by me) bought a patio boat together. The boat stays parked at OF’s house and they all come & go from there, hauling the boat to what ever lake they decide to spend the day on. Sometimes the whole gang goes, i.e., kids & grand-kids of the Sister Wives, sometimes just a few go. This past weekend, OF was staying on dry land and just one of the Sister Wives, Mini, was taking the boat. Mini was going to meet one of her boys and one of the grand-kids at the dock.

I found this out because, in addition to my keen powers of observation noting OF’s truck hitched to the boat, while we were hanging gates and moving horse panels I asked her...

“Are you going out on the boat this afternoon?”

“No, Mini’s coming to get it” she said “I thought Maxi was coming too, but she decided not to go so it’s just Min” by her tone, I could tell OF was clearly not okay with this scenario. She was worried about Mini trying to unload the boat herself...and more worried about her truck and/or Min's driving skills.

While we were tying baling wire around the last gate, in true hobo's ass fashion I might add, Min shows up and starts bustling around, putting stuff in the boat and walks down to the barn...

“Where’s the keys to the truck?” Min’s obviously not talking to me, so I keep my mouth shut...so does OF. I wonder why she doesn't answer...did she really not hear her?  If I heard it, OF had to have heard...so why doesn't she say anything?

I’m sure Min thought OF hadn’t heard her so she asked again “Hey, OF, where’s the keys to the truck?”

“Just a minute, I’m almost done” OF says trying to tighten up the baling wire...

Sounding a little exasperated, Min said “I need to leave” “I’m supposed to be at the dock”.

“I’m going with you” said OF still tightening wire “I don’t want you to have to do it by yourself”.

Clearly as surprised as I was by this revelation, the ball was back in Min’s court...

“Why? I can do it” “I need to leave...I’m going to be late”...punctuality had suddenly become vitally important and it appeared  Min was none too thrilled thinking someone was questioning her abilities... “They’re going to be waiting.”

“Min...they can wait. It’s only going to be a few more minutes. I don’t want you to do it by yourself.” It was a tone of voice I’d never heard coming out of this person I thought was OF.  It was...forceful...

I immediately want to disappear because there’s obviously going to be more of this unpleasant confrontation brewing and even when I’m not involved I get all sweaty just thinking about it...and we were already all sweaty from moving gates and panels and stuff...I didn’t need to get any sweatier...

The final wrap done to the baling wire and OF starts heading inside the barn...but Min’s not giving up so easily...

“OF, what is the problem?” “I’ve driven the boat & trailer before...”

“Not by yourself” OF said getting more and more agitated “One person can’t do it alone”...she’s actually kind of yelling...I’ve never heard her talk like this before...I'm in shock...

“My son’s going to be there, I won’t be alone”...the shrink part of Min is starting to take over and she’s now becoming deliberately calm...in the way that some people have of talking when they’re trying to reason with a kid throwing a tantrum or talk down a crazy person...each word becomes over enunciated and they try to make their voice very monotone and soothing...and which, unless you’re a crazy person or a kid throwing a tantrum, only sounds patronizing. “Do you think my son can’t help get the boat unloaded?”

I instantly become engrossed in everything on the barn floor. I start kind of walking in itty bitty circles, idiot like, I know, but I don’t know what else to do. I look at little bits of hay on the floor, pieces of dirt, more hay...I just want the earth to swallow me up... What if one of them asks me what I think? What do I do then? Do I answer? Can I answer? I don’t think I could even formulate a word, let alone a complete sentence at this point. Whose side would I take? I’d have to side with OF...she’s my friend...but from the little I know of Min, I’m sure she wouldn’t forget the taking of sides. I give a little glance toward Min feeling like a deer in the headlights and give the universal Oh Shit What Happens Now look (which to the unknowing consists of having one’s mouth stretched in a straight line as far across the face as possible causing the cords in the neck to pop out and eyebrows to raise simultaneously).

“Just humor me on this Min” came the loudly...with ...each...individually...enunciated...word...

"Okay" says Min...being a shrink, she’s pretty practiced at knowing when to say Uncle. I don’t think it makes her like it any better, but it makes her smarter.

We all start heading up to the house and not knowing what else to do I ask OF if she wants me to pick her up at the dock and give her a ride home. She did, and I don’t think I was ever so happy to get in my car...lest war break out again and forcing me to choose sides.  It was the stoopidist thing.

Strawberry

Will somebody please help the Strawberry Patch people with their signage?   I'm not just referring to the uneven hand painted lettering.  It's the spelling...

Every year around strawberry time, I secretly hope the Strawberry Patch people will by some miracle get new signs.  I know they have kids in school who must know how to spell...so why all the horribly misspelled signs?

You know the ones I'm talking about...Farm Fresh Strawberry For Sale...really...only one?  Who wants just one strawberry?  It's Strawberries...plural...as in more than one...

We Are Close.  I know you're close...if you were far away, I wouldn't stop at your strawberry patch stand.   (That's probably not true...I might drive many miles to get fresh strawberries...please note I said strawberries...plural...not just one.)  Attention all Strawberry Patch people...Closed is the word you want here.  Unless it was meant to be Close...as in close the door or We Close At Six.  That would work...in a different sentence.  Come on Strawberry Patch Kids...fix the signs.

It's easier to translate a live performance of Strawberry Patch lingo than it is to read their signs.  How much you want...thees wan good...you take thees wan...we ahh crows...I get this...accents are understandable and even when they're not, the accompanying smiles and nodding by all parties make it seem like everyone understands each other.  Most of the time I walk away wondering what I've been smiling and nodding about.  They probably told me I'm a fat old bitch who's not fit to eat their strawberries (plural) and I smiled and nodded like I knew what they were saying while they were looking at each other and laughing their asses off.

While we're on the subject of Strawberry Patch people...don't act like you've never heard the rumors of how the strawberries are "really" fertilized...just like back in the old country, right?  OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) once told me that the Strawberry Patch people are pretty closely monitored by the health department...but she tells me rotten food is still good to eat too...  Because she works at a health department with the food inspectors OF knows how long food can be rotten and still be safely consumed.   Did I mention that OF's job is inspecting septic tanks???  Now if she were to tell me exactly how much "fertilizer" from the old country could safely be put on strawberry plants leaving them fit for human consumption...that I might believe...since it's truly her area of expertise.

I really don't believe the vicious rumor about how the plants are fertilized.  If I did, I wouldn't start chowing down on them right out of the basket on the way home...like a starving Armenian, would I? Does anyone remember your parents telling you about all the starving Armenians when you were a kid?  I always had to clean my plate because of the starving Armenians...I didn't even know what an Armenian was.  No, if I believed the vicious rumors I'd wait until they were properly washed...like you're supposed to, right?  But nearly every time I buy strawberries (plural) I start eating while I'm driving, pitching the little green tops out the window.  So I must not believe it, right?  It's not littering when it's plant matter your chucking out the window, is it? I tell myself I'm feeding the birds and bugs.

One of the reasons I continue to stop at the Strawberry Patch stand is the owners work their asses off. Every day, seven days a week, they're bent over in the hot sun taking care of their gardens.  I am completely humbled by their work ethic. I don't know how they do it.  They earn every penny they make.

Maybe I should just paint a sign with correct spelling and grammar and in the middle of the night, switch the signs at my favorite Strawberry Patch.  But if I did that, other patch patrons might think the original Strawberry Patch People were gone and that cheap impostors had taken over and stop patronizing their little stand.  Then how would I feel???  Guilty... because I pretty much feel guilty about everything in the world.  The Strawberry Patch People would lose business because of me and my need for correct signage when all they want is to sell their strawberries...note I said strawberries...because nobody can eat just one.

It's the stoopidist thing...

They're Everywhere

OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) has a sister who's a lesbian...with a wife...they were among the fortunate few who managed to tie the knot during the brief time it was legal for same sexers to marry.  I call them the Sister Wives...not to be confused with the polygamous gang on the reality TV show of the same name.  It just seems to fit...

BS & LS, Big Sis & Little Sis...shortened to eliminate keystrokes, really are big & little.  BS is about 6'15" and her wife is about 4' 2.  I think of LS as the Mighty Morphin.  I don't know why the Mighty Morphin thing pops into my head every time I think about LS.  I know there's a cartoon about Mighty Morphins but I've never actually seen one so they could be the complete opposite of what I picture in my mind...what I picture is sort of a little whirling dervish...maybe the Tasmanian Devil would be a better fit for LS...at least I know what that looks like.  The weirdest part is I don't even like cartoons, but cartoon characters pop into my head all the time.  Every time I see a group of old people, which would be my friends and I, I see a Far Side cartoon in living color.  OF thinks we're not old...she's wrong.

I could probably ask LS why cartoon characters pop into my head...she's a shrink...but I'm always secretly worried that she's analyzing everything I say...and if she's not, I don't want to encourage it. The first time I met LS she was sitting across from me on the couch and said these exact words to me..."I don't chit chat"...I didn't know how to respond...I can't even remember what I said...probably something brilliant like "oh".   Being a chit chatter, I didn't know if I should say "nice meeting you" and leave or just stare silently at her.  But if I stared silently, being a shrink, she might start asking me questions about why I was staring silently at her and try to analyze that.  If I deliberately tried not to look at her, she might want to know why I was avoiding looking at her and try to analyze that...either way, I lose.  I don't really need a shrink to tell me why I'm a chit chatter...I already know...I'm shallow...and perfectly content to remain shallow.  I'm much happier making fun of myself and others than trying to be Serious Sam all the time...especially with people I don't know.  It seems kinda rude and creeps me out when complete strangers ask me personal questions.  Why do they, "they" being strangers, want to know personal things about me? Ewwww...

BS is the complete opposite of LS...she's easy going, laughs at stoopid shit, and...chit chats...thank God! They're like night & day.   Even in the world of Lesbos, opposites attract...who knew?  BS calls the world of Lesbos "the church"...she'll look at someone and say "she's a church member".  I went to a horse clinic with OF & BS and there was a woman sitting next to us with a dog.  OF looked at me and said "she belongs to the church"

Being something of a doubting Thomas, I said "no she's not...how do you know"?

"You can just tell"  BS said, adding "look at her hair, it looks like she went to a barber shop".

With that comment OF said "you can't really tell like that when they're horse people." Looking down at the frayed hem on my jeans and filthy boots I  was inclined to agree with OF.

Still BS insisted this woman belonged to her "church".  So then I find myself looking at women with crappy haircuts and wondering if they're all lesbians.  They couldn't all be lesbians just because they have a crappy haircut, could they?  Have I been surrounded by lesbians all my life and just never knew it?  Are they everywhere?  What about all those years of being taught not to judge a book by its cover?  Should I have just assumed that all women with short hair that looks like they chopped it off themselves, dressed in work clothes and boots belong to the "church"?  Or that all men with girly man voices and flitty hands who dress immaculately are gay?  Okay...if I'm being honest, I may have assumed it about the men...but probably not about the women.

On a side note, BS may be on to something about the hair...every time I get my hair cut really short, one of the Old Chix always says to me "I don't know why you do that...it just makes you look like an old lesbian."  I don't know why I like her.

I wanted to ask the woman with the dog if she was a lesbian just to see if BS was right.  But really, how do you walk up to a stranger and ask something like that?  Guess I'll never know about barber shop chop lady.

OF said she's never sure how she should introduce LS to people...should she call her BS's partner...wife...what?  I'd probably wonder too.  What's the right thing to say?  Because in these politically correct days of easily offended masses it's hard to find something that won't offend someone.  I'm now worried that I'll slip up and call The Husband's car the Homobile in front of BS & LS.  I really like them both and wouldn't want to offend either one of them.  Would they even be offended?  I don't think BS would.  I think she'd think it was funny...not so sure about the Mighty Morphin though...she might want to analyze why I felt the need to name the car in a way that may be derogatory to certain persons.  Oh God, please don't let me slip and mention the Homobile around the lesbians.  Like Lucy, I'll have some 'splainin' to do.  (Remember Ricky & Lucy???...I Love Lucy???...get it???)  I hate having to be careful about what I say.  Maybe that's why I don't like being around strangers.  Yet another thing for me to worry about LS analyzing....it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.
I think OF should just introduce LS as her sister in law...problemo solved.

P.S.S.  Note to self...must remember to eliminate the term "lesbos" from vocabulary when lesbians are present.

A Cause For Celebration

I need to mark this day on the calendar.  It's definitely a cause for celebration...maybe not for everyone, but for me, it's a day to shout "hallelujah".  I went in to the bathroom tonight and there was a new roll of toilet paper on the roller...unused...the end still glued down.  I'm still kind of in shock about the whole thing.  Hard to believe, I know, but this has never happened before.

So, what happened was, The Husband went to bed early and a little while later, I went in to the bathroom to pee.  Lo and behold, the new roll of toilet paper was placed on the roller...with the paper, still glued down, coming over the top of the roll like it's suppose to. I'm fairly certain this last part was an accident.  I couldn't even wait until after I peed before checking to see if The Husband was sick or something.

Not caring that he was sound asleep I threw open the bedroom door.

"Are you okay" I asked The Sleeping Husband loudly enough to rouse him...okay, I shouted...(he's a little hard of hearing which he refuses to admit...which is a whole other story).

"Yeah, why?" came the startled reply...in hindsight, I probably scared the old guy and made him think I noticed he'd stopped breathing or was having a seizure or something.

"Because" I said  "you put a new roll of toilet paper on the roller".

The Husband made sort of an unintelligible grunting noise from the bed in reply...he doesn't think I'm nearly as funny as I do...it's the stoopidist thing..


P.S. Sadly, this is the sort of thing that I consider a highlight in my life....

The Old Guy

From as far back as I can remember I've been in love with horses. When I was a kid I lived and breathed Walter Farley and Marguerite Henry books. I've never met a horse I didn't like and to this day I can find something good about the worst of them. If money were no object I'd take in as many abused, neglected and old broken down horses as I could just to let them have a little peace and comfort...but unless I happen to win the lottery, it's probably not gonna happen. The old broken down ones tug at my heartstrings the most.

I'm not in the horse rescue business because horses are expensive to keep.  God forbid I should end up being like one of those hobo's ass rescuers who show up in living color on the Fugly blog.  I have three of my own and I don't need any more equine mouths to feed with the price of hay being as ridiculously high as it is. Not to mention vet bills...I cringe every time I have to call the vet. 

There's a couple of different roads I can take to get to and from work.  The flow of traffic usually determines which way I go which means I always choose which ever way the booberdoober in front of me isn't going.  I just don't have the patience to follow someone who wants to drive ten miles per hour under the speed limit.  The first way is definitely shorter in distance but the other way offers me peace of mind and keeps me from intentionally ramming the poor schmuck in front of me who has no idea he's become the target of my road rage.  The long way led to the old guy.

Like most horse owners, I always look at horses pastured along the road when I'm driving.  I do try not to drive off the road while I'm doing this.  Does anybody really keep their eyes "on the road"?  I don't think so.  Anyway a local rancher has a barn and corrals alongside the road and I always look to see if horses or cattle are in the pens.  The first time I noticed him there weren't any cattle in the corral, just a big ol' gray horse munching on a pile of hay.  The next couple of times I drove by, I could see that he was a little ribby, but since he always had a pile of hay in front of him, I never thought too much about it. 

For the next month or so my life was relatively booberdoober free so I didn't have to take the long way by the barn.  When I finally saw the old gray horse again, all I could think was "holy shit he sure went downhill fast".  He looked like a walking skeleton...munching on a pile of hay.  I immediately wished I hadn't seen him. 

The following day was booberdoober free but I drove by the barn anyway, mostly to see if the old guy was still alive, silently praying I wouldn't see him laying there dead. To be honest, I'd really rather have the Disney version of life where everyone lives happily ever after and the little rabbit always makes it to the hole in the nick of time leaving the bobcat scratching his head and finding his chow somewhere down the road out of my sight.   I prefer to avoid the harsh realities of life whenever possible.  Until I felt myself sigh when I saw he was still standing there I didn't know I'd been holding my breath.  On the rest of the drive to work I start wondering if the guy who owns the barn would give the old guy to me.  I know the barn owners last  name but what would he think about some strange woman calling and asking he'd give away his horse? 

As soon as I got to work I called my friend, D, who's pretty fearless, knows everybody, and more importantly, is a fellow horse lover.  (She has ten by the way...not that she's a hoarder or anything...really.)  I asked if she'd seen that old gray horse by the barn.  D said she hadn't really noticed him so I told her how he'd gone downhill pretty fast and asked if she thought the owner would give him to us.  Notice how I said "us"...I pretty much guilted her into helping by telling her how pathetic the old guy was and in the end, I think she agreed to call the owner just to get me off the phone, probably thinking the owner'd tell her to go pound sand.  Bless her heart.

(FYI, I wanted to call the Barn Owner, BO, but it made me think of stinky body odor, then I thought about calling him BM, for Barn Man,but it obviously made me think of bowel movements, so I simply left him an unnamed "he" most of the time....just thought I should clear that up.)

D called me back after she talked to the barn owner who said he'd be happy to give us the horse but he'd have to clear it with his dad.  The next day when he called her back he asked D if we were sure we wanted the old buy?  He said the old guy was twenty-nine, couldn't be ridden, and was pretty much on his last legs.  Since the younger horses were pushing him around, the old guy ended up in the corral by himself so he could eat as much as he wanted without being run off from the feed.  He wondered why would we want him?

"We're just a couple of crazy women who like old horses" D told him.  He didn't get it.  Most people wouldn't.

Yikes!  Now I had to call OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) and ask her if I could put an old horse in her barn.  OF said sure...we could put him in what she jokingly calls the "medical unit"...which is basically a stall with mats and a gate.  Bless her heart.

I went to the barn that afternoon to pick up the old gray horse.  D was supposed to meet me and she wasn't there yet, but the barn owner was there.  I recognized him from riding with him years before, shook his hand and introduced myself.  He's a really nice guy who figured either nature was gonna run its course or he was going to end up having to shoot the old gray horse.  He kinda laughed when he asked again if I was really sure we wanted to take him.  I laughed and told him I was sure.  He still didn't get it.  Most people wouldn't.

When I led the old guy to the trailer he seemed a little stiff and wobbly on his feet.  Holy shit, I thought, what if he can't step up into the trailer???  He sniffed the trailer floor...another holy shit moment...it never occurred to me that the old guy might not load well.  This was obviously not a well thought out plan...I mean, how much pressure do you put on an emaciated horse to get them to load?  At what point is he better off with a bullet?  Thank God I didn't have to find out.  After a little sniffing, he managed to haul himself up and in.  After I got him loaded, D showed up and we both thanked the barn owner for giving us the old guy.  On to OF's place...with another mouth to feed.

Please God, don't let him die in the trailer.  That's what I'm thinking all the way to OF's place.  I didn't want to leave the old guy loose in the trailer because I was afraid he might need something on each side to lean on.  I tried to go really really slow around the curves in the road.  D followed me and was probably shocked at how slow I was going.  How come I never noticed this many curves in the road before?  Jeeez...can't they build straight roads?  Why do they have to have all these curves?  I finally hit a straight stretch and got to speed up a little.  I just wanted to get there before he died in the trailer.  I started to relax a little in a short straight section of road.  It was a brief respite.  I shouldn't have sped up...up ahead was a four way intersection with a traffic light and the intersection had a giant hump in it.  I knew this hump was there because many a time I've felt like my car was going to go airborne trying to make it through the intersection before the light turned red.  Yellow light...go very fast (Remember Starman?) This was a fairly new intersection, and you'd think they could have done a better job leveling it before the final paving, but nooooo, they left that giant hump in it.  I know it sounds like I'm exaggerating here, but really, I'm not.  The light at the intersection turns yellow.  Please God, the prayers continue...don't let him die in my trailer.

I was in a quandary...do I stop or do I go?  There's nobody to tell me what I should do.  D's the one who I'd usually ask about all things driving related but she was in the truck behind me.  I didn't know if I should slam on the brakes and throw the old guy against the trailer wall or speed up and make a mad dash through the intersection?  I didn't know what to do.  Which would cause him more problems?  I had no idea.  If I went flying over the hump in the road will the trailer go airborne?  Will the horse go airborne inside the trailer?  Would all four feet go in the air and, more importantly, would he land on all four when he touched down?  I'd never thought about this.  I'm guessing it'd be the horsey version of an E Ticket ride.   "Please God", I prayed, "just don't let him die in my trailer"...as I gunned it through the intersection.  Why?  Because I just wanted to get there before he could die in my trailer.  I know...it's a stoopid reason.  But it worked.  He didn't die in the trailer...although he was a little wide eyed and sweaty when we got to OF's place. So was I...

God love her, D laughed about the intersection debacle when we got to OF's house.  "I didn't know if you were gonna go for it or stop"..."and then you went".  Looking back, it was pretty funny.

After a couple of days, OF said "I think we should call him Earl"..."it fits him".  And so the old gray horse got new name.  At first he didn't seem interested in soaked pellet mush, until we started adding a sweeter senior mix to it.  Seems old Earl has a taste for the sweet stuff...don't we all.  The first time I heard him nicker for his food was a couple of weeks later.  It made me smile inside.

I'm so friggin' grateful to have friends like OF and D who, without any hesitation, said yes to some scatterbrained idea to try to help an old horse out.  They get it.   Most people wouldn't. 

Most people would think it was the stoopidist thing.


P.S.  Before & after's of Old Earl.  He's now 29 and lives entirely on a diet of soft senior pelleted feed. 

I'm A Moron

Like many people my age (oldsters), I'm forced to wear reading glasses.  Anymore, I can't read anything without them.  I used to try.. okay, sometimes I still do... reading a number out of the phone book sans visual accouterments.  Mostly I just get annoyed that I've wasted time trying because I end up needing the glasses after all.  I don't know why I still try this but I do...and yes, I do know the definition of insanity.  Sometimes it seems like if I hold the book at a certain angle in direct light, I can still make out the numbers I need.  So there I'll be holding the book in front of me, angled away from me, with my head tilted up, looking down my nose at the book...trying to decipher the blurry print.   It's kinda pathetic that I still feel the need to try, isn't it?

I used to have reading glasses everywhere.  Being a sucker for a good deal, or at least what seems like a good deal at the time, I've purchased several sets from TV shopping networks.  How I manage to lose them is a mystery...they're like socks...they just disappear.  Am I unknowingly putting them in places so I don't lose them?  Am I going to move a carton of ice cream in the freezer and find a pair of glasses that I don't remember putting there?  Who would put glasses in the freezer anyway?  Old people, that's who.  Why?  So they wouldn't get stolen of course.  Who would want to steal reading glasses anyway?  Oldster burglars?  Please God, don't let me find reading glasses in the freezer.

So far I've managed to avoid the dreaded "old lady chain" that holds the glasses around my neck, but I know it's coming.  The problem with my aged eyes is that I have to use the readers to see print, but I can't walk with them on.  Oh sure, I can leave them on the bridge of my nose and walk around with my head down looking over the top of the glasses but they always feel like they're going to slip off, and besides, it looks weird.  If I put them on top of my head they get stretched out.  I need a chainless solution.

Yesterday I had to take a packet of papers to a woman in another office.  I'll call her "J".  I know when I get there I may have to read something so I throw a pair of glasses in my jacket pocket. Always be prepared...that's my motto...I have many mottos...I get them from The Husband who has a motto for every occasion...his favorite is "A working woman's a happy woman"...technically I'm not sure this qualifies as a motto.  Anyway, back to my journey of delivering papers...J is on the other side of the building so I have to wind my way through aisles of cubicles, a maze of hallways, and locked doors that need a magnetic badge pressed against them to open. I like to call them magic keys...I know they're not really magic.

I'm thankful I had the foresight to put the glasses in my pocket since I had to try to actually see what J was showing me on the wad of papers I shoved in front of her.  After we talked about work, we started chatting about non work stuff...killin' time on the government dime.  While we're talking my glasses fell out of my pocket.

Me:  "Oh no, my high dollar reading glasses just fell under your chair".

J:  "Well I don't want to move 'cause I'm afraid I'll roll over them"...I think she thought I was serious about them being "high dollar"...which they aren't.

So I bend down and start looking around but can't see them.

J:  "Maybe they went under the drawers".

I look but the drawers sit flat on the ground.  I see a metal clip under her chair and start to think maybe that's what I heard fall.

J:  "Let me get out of the way so I don't roll over them" as she eases out of her chair with a move that would make any contortionist proud...and the chair doesn't move...I'm impressed.

We're both hunched over and can now see under her chair, and plainly, there's no glasses there.  I can't figure out how they could have bounced so far away when J turns to me and says:

"What's on your face?" as she busts up laughing.

Okay, so I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer...but really???? I'm wearing the glasses that I've been searching the floor for.  Yep, right there perched on the end of my nose.  I look at J who I've only recently met and who now, rightly so, thinks I'm a moron and start laughing.   There's no reasonable explanation for what just happened other than the fact that I'm now "officially" an old fart. I expect bright orange pin curls are just around the corner.

All the way back to my office I keep laughing.  Then I start to notice that strangers are looking at me as I walk along the halls laughing.  I'm sure I looked like a crazy person hearing voices in her head and laughing at what they were telling me.  People avoided me and got out of my way.  Nobody wanted to make eye contact with me and I could see some of them elbowing their partners and not so subtly nodding their head toward me.  "Watch out for the crazy lady" was written all over their faces...which started me thinking...

Next time the grocery store's crowded I should try looking at the food in my basket and laughing out loud, all by myself, as I push the cart toward the checkout stand and see if people move to another line to get away from the "crazy lady".  I wonder if it would work?  Never in a million years would I actually do this, but I really want to.  I know...it's the stoopidist thing.