Fifi is Julie's standard size French poodle. Together they look like a walking 1950's ad for an exclusive couture fashion house. Both chic, confident, and graceful. Do you know the song that does, "Have you ever seen a dream walking? Well, I have" ? People hum it when they go by.
You would think by looking at them that they'd be high maintence. You'd also think "But they're worth it." And you'd be right on both counts. Although Fifi loves a good romp in the park and Julie is quite comfortable in blue jeans and bare feet, they both adore pampering.
Fifi is now leading our Scrabble rankings after only a few games. She has attained such a high ranking score that I dispair of ever attaining the top position so I have banned her from futher play.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Bugging Out
Bill was sitting at home one evening when the doorbell rang. When he answered the door, a 6 foot tall cockroach was standing there. the cockroach immediately punched him between the eyes and scampered off.
The next evening, the doorbell rang again. When Bill answered the door, there was the cockroach. This time, it punched him, kicked him and karate chopped him before running away.
The third evening, the doorbell rang, and when Bill answered the door, the cockroach was there yet again. It leapt at him and stabbed him several times before running off.
Badly injured, Bill managed to crawl to the telephone and summon an ambulance. He was rushed to intensive care, where they managed to pull him through.
The next morning, as the doctor was doing his rounds, he asked Bill what happened.
Bill explained about the 6-foot cockroach's attacks, culminating in the near fatal stabbing.
The doctor thought for a moment and said, "Yes, there's a nasty bug going around.
[This story came from an irreverant site for seniors: http://www.suddenlysenior.com/jokeslatest.html]
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Only the Lonely
Yesterday, I heard a strange story on one of those daytime TV talk shows that specialize in the weird and ridiculous. This story may be true.
The guest of the day, an attractive older lady named Madeline, had lost her husband about a year earlier and was very lonely. She missed him much more than she could ever have imagined and visited his grave almost daily,staying for hours at a time. Madeline claimed that during one of her visits, a frog hopped up to her feet and seemed to say "I'm lonely. Please take me home with you."
"Oh, why not?", she asked herself. "I may be losing my mind, but it will be something to talk to besides myself."
So she scooped him up and put him in the car. The frog sat on the back of the seat at her shoulder at she drove. She thought she heard him whispering in her ear, "Kiss me. You won't be sorry".
The old lady figured "What the heck? Maybe you'll turn into the proverbial prince".
At the next stop light, she lifted the frog from the back seat and laughingly kissed him. Immediately, the frog turned into an absolutely gorgeous, sexy, and handsome man. To say the least, she was speechless at seeing this Adonis sitting at her side.
"Thank you! Thank you!" he exclaimed, over and over. "A nasty, ugly witch put a terrible curse on me for refusing to kiss her. I thought I would never find someone to release me. How can I ever repay you?"
Then the handsome young man kissed Madeline right on the lips, right in broad daylight at the corner of 53rd and Vine. And the lonely old lady turned into ...
the first motel she could find.
Brad
I have been told that I am mistaken. Brad was not murdered. Some don't even believe he's dead. These people don't know Brad and probably don't care if he's dead or not. They just know Julie wouldn't, couldn't, have murdered him. They insist that I'm wrong. That I don't know what I'm talking about.
I know Brad is dead. I don't know yet who he is or why he had to die, but I know that Julie knows and I'm going to uncover the truth.
I need to know that I'm right about Brad. It's disconcerting to be told you're wrong. Especially when other people are telling you you're wrong about your imaginary friends.
I know Brad is dead. I don't know yet who he is or why he had to die, but I know that Julie knows and I'm going to uncover the truth.
I need to know that I'm right about Brad. It's disconcerting to be told you're wrong. Especially when other people are telling you you're wrong about your imaginary friends.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Nothing to say
I've nothing to say. Oh, all right, I have plenty to say. I'm just too lazy to write about it. This isn't easy you know. It cuts into my doing-nothing-at-all time; and I think I have a blister on my index finger from typing.
I'm taking two on-line courses this term. One on Technical Writing and one called "Listen to Your Heart". There is a lot of homework in both, a lot of typing and, worst of all, the instructors expect you to actually think. Not just think up an answer, but to think about things.
My mind wanders when I try to think and it's not really safe to let it out alone like that.
I'm taking two on-line courses this term. One on Technical Writing and one called "Listen to Your Heart". There is a lot of homework in both, a lot of typing and, worst of all, the instructors expect you to actually think. Not just think up an answer, but to think about things.
My mind wanders when I try to think and it's not really safe to let it out alone like that.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Halloween Stories 2
Like my grandfather before him, when my father was a teenager, he would often play practical jokes on Halloween. One year, Dad and his best friend decided it would be hilarious to put a goose in the local highschool. Unfortunately, they had just got inside the building with the large goose when they heard a group of men circling the school, looking for the pranksters. The teens waited till the men were around the corner, then climbed out a window and came up behind them to join in the chase.
Round and round the building they went, with the boys yelling, "Let's get 'em!" right along with the rest of the men. At one point, they were even leading the chase. Eventually, the adults all gave up and went home, never knowing how they had been fooled.
Round and round the building they went, with the boys yelling, "Let's get 'em!" right along with the rest of the men. At one point, they were even leading the chase. Eventually, the adults all gave up and went home, never knowing how they had been fooled.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
A young boy, an old man, and the wisdom of the ancients
One day last week, Josh told me a story about his son, Matthew.
Matthew had become enchanted by a leaf he had found on the sidewalk. Just a simple leaf. The kind of thing that adults can step on everyday without a second thought, but Matthew and his father spent some time conducting research to determine what type of tree it had fallen from as well as admiring how perfect, how handsome a specimen it was.
Josh finished the story by talking about the enjoyment he gets out of seeing the world through his young son’s eyes, “It’s too bad adults can’t keep that sense of wonder, that they stop seeing how beautiful everyday things can be.”
That story about Matthew reminded me of a patient that I cared for years ago. The old man spent a lot of time staring out the window. Because his room was on one of the upper stories of the hospital, his view was limited to the abandoned facilities plant at the college next door. One day I asked him what he was looking at. He pointed out the window and replied, “At the smoke stack. Some people may not be able to see it, but it is beautiful, you know.”
Against a striking blue sky and soft white clouds, rose a slender, red-brick cylinder, broader at the base, tapering to a graceful silhouette. It was probably older than the old man. Built during an age when aesthetics was considered an integral part of form and function, the chimney still stood straight and tall, no longer utilitarian, but as proud as the day it was first built. The old man was right, it was beautiful.
A young boy, an old man. Look down, look up. Just look.
Matthew, As the song says, I hope you never lose your sense of wonder. And I hope you always share it with your father. He's an adult; he needs all the help he can get.
Matthew had become enchanted by a leaf he had found on the sidewalk. Just a simple leaf. The kind of thing that adults can step on everyday without a second thought, but Matthew and his father spent some time conducting research to determine what type of tree it had fallen from as well as admiring how perfect, how handsome a specimen it was.
Josh finished the story by talking about the enjoyment he gets out of seeing the world through his young son’s eyes, “It’s too bad adults can’t keep that sense of wonder, that they stop seeing how beautiful everyday things can be.”
That story about Matthew reminded me of a patient that I cared for years ago. The old man spent a lot of time staring out the window. Because his room was on one of the upper stories of the hospital, his view was limited to the abandoned facilities plant at the college next door. One day I asked him what he was looking at. He pointed out the window and replied, “At the smoke stack. Some people may not be able to see it, but it is beautiful, you know.”
Against a striking blue sky and soft white clouds, rose a slender, red-brick cylinder, broader at the base, tapering to a graceful silhouette. It was probably older than the old man. Built during an age when aesthetics was considered an integral part of form and function, the chimney still stood straight and tall, no longer utilitarian, but as proud as the day it was first built. The old man was right, it was beautiful.
A young boy, an old man. Look down, look up. Just look.
Matthew, As the song says, I hope you never lose your sense of wonder. And I hope you always share it with your father. He's an adult; he needs all the help he can get.
Another Country Life Story
Have I told you this story about my grandfather before? A lot of younger people probably won't get it at all, but my geriatric patients have all thought it was hilarious.
My grandparents lived in rural Indiana. They had running water in the kitchen, but they didn't have an indoor bathroom until I was about 6. Like all of their neighbors, they had an outhouse. They were so far back in the country, that a trip to town and back was a day long trek over mostly unpaved roads. When possible, they would order supplies through the mail.
Once my grandfather wrote to Sears Roebuck asking about the price of toilet paper. He received a brief form letter telling him that information about toilet paper was on page 96 of the fall catalogue.
Grandpa wrote a polite reply, "If I had your catalogue, I wouldn't need the toilet paper."
My grandparents lived in rural Indiana. They had running water in the kitchen, but they didn't have an indoor bathroom until I was about 6. Like all of their neighbors, they had an outhouse. They were so far back in the country, that a trip to town and back was a day long trek over mostly unpaved roads. When possible, they would order supplies through the mail.
Once my grandfather wrote to Sears Roebuck asking about the price of toilet paper. He received a brief form letter telling him that information about toilet paper was on page 96 of the fall catalogue.
Grandpa wrote a polite reply, "If I had your catalogue, I wouldn't need the toilet paper."
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Sharing
I have a cold. Needless to say, I am not a happy little camper. (I know. It was "needless to say" but I like to whine when I'm ill so everyone can suffer along with me.)
I know it's a cold and not seasonal allergies because I know where I got it. I am not happy with those people right now.
It's the weekend. If I'm going to catch a cold I prefer to do it on Monday so I don't waste a perfectly good weekend.
It's not a bad cold. I'm not stuck in bed building a mountain of used tissue. It's the kind where you think you feel OK so you start to do something and then you realize you don't feel that good so you have to go sit down and think about the people that gave you the cold in the first place.
I don't like taking cold medicines. They make me feel ickier than the cold so I'm just drinking - NO, not that kind of drinking, let me finish - I'm drinking plenty of fluids. Pineapple-orange juice, Pepsi, water, hot tea, soup with cayenne pepper, green chilis, and chili powder. (That'll put the sparkle back in your eyes.)
I tried taking zinc tablets once because I read where a clinical study had proven zinc would shorten the life span of the common cold by about half. They didn't work for me. The taste was so bad I decided I'd rather be sick so gave up after one dose. Well, actually, I couldn't even finish the first dose. (Other people have told me they aren't that bad and I should just suck it up and stop being a whiny baby.)
This time I'm trying zinc swabs that you stick up your nose. The amount of zinc is miniscule compared to the tablets, but they are supposed to work even better. I'll be the judge of that.
You'll know if they work. I'll stop whining ... about the cold.
I know it's a cold and not seasonal allergies because I know where I got it. I am not happy with those people right now.
It's the weekend. If I'm going to catch a cold I prefer to do it on Monday so I don't waste a perfectly good weekend.
It's not a bad cold. I'm not stuck in bed building a mountain of used tissue. It's the kind where you think you feel OK so you start to do something and then you realize you don't feel that good so you have to go sit down and think about the people that gave you the cold in the first place.
I don't like taking cold medicines. They make me feel ickier than the cold so I'm just drinking - NO, not that kind of drinking, let me finish - I'm drinking plenty of fluids. Pineapple-orange juice, Pepsi, water, hot tea, soup with cayenne pepper, green chilis, and chili powder. (That'll put the sparkle back in your eyes.)
I tried taking zinc tablets once because I read where a clinical study had proven zinc would shorten the life span of the common cold by about half. They didn't work for me. The taste was so bad I decided I'd rather be sick so gave up after one dose. Well, actually, I couldn't even finish the first dose. (Other people have told me they aren't that bad and I should just suck it up and stop being a whiny baby.)
This time I'm trying zinc swabs that you stick up your nose. The amount of zinc is miniscule compared to the tablets, but they are supposed to work even better. I'll be the judge of that.
You'll know if they work. I'll stop whining ... about the cold.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Julie
I first met Julie at a book store while perusing the Fiction - Mystery shelves. Just as I was about to reach for the newest book from my favorite author, someone slipped a paperback into my hand and, with a slightly exotic accent, said, "I'm sure you'll enjoy this much better."
Being somewhat use to people frequently mistaking me for someone who likes to talk with strangers, I politely accepted the book and read the blurb on the back cover. Amazingly, it did indeed sound like the type of mystery book that I enjoy. I looked up to thank her and saw flaxen hair framing laughing green eyes and a mischievous smile. At least, that’s what I had just read under the picture of the author. I looked down at the picture again, then up at Julie, then down, then up. Yep, the author of “Girl’s Don’t Always Play Nice” was standing in front of me. She was drop dead gorgeous and talented, too, if having a book on the New York Times Best Seller’s List is any indication.
We talked for a few minutes and I learned that she had grown up in Australia, but gone to school at Indiana University and fallen in love with the American people. I’m sure the American people fell in love with her, too. She has a way of looking at you when you talk that makes you feel like the center of the universe.
The story should end there, but now comes the “Gee, it’s a small world” part. My friend, Jim, whom I’ve known like forever, wanted me to meet a woman he had met on the golf course where he coaches. He said we had a lot in common. And so he brought Julie back into my life.
We don’t really have any thing in common. She’s beautiful, talented, charming, athletic, forever young – you know, the type other women usually hate. Fortunately, she’s also funny and sensible and has a good personality. Although she looks haute couture, she’s slightly bohemian and a lot wacky. She snorts when she laughs.
When she’s in town, we play Scrabble and talk about books. I ask her about the men in her life, but she just laughs and says, “It’s hard for a goddess to get a date in this town.”
I answer teasingly, “Well, Jules, if you weren’t so conceited, I’d fix you up with a friend of mine. Mike’s dying to meet you.”
She smiles and says, “Maybe, some day”, but she has that sad, far away look in her eyes she gets when she's thinking of Brad. I think Julie murdered him, but that's not something you can easily ask a friend.
Being somewhat use to people frequently mistaking me for someone who likes to talk with strangers, I politely accepted the book and read the blurb on the back cover. Amazingly, it did indeed sound like the type of mystery book that I enjoy. I looked up to thank her and saw flaxen hair framing laughing green eyes and a mischievous smile. At least, that’s what I had just read under the picture of the author. I looked down at the picture again, then up at Julie, then down, then up. Yep, the author of “Girl’s Don’t Always Play Nice” was standing in front of me. She was drop dead gorgeous and talented, too, if having a book on the New York Times Best Seller’s List is any indication.
We talked for a few minutes and I learned that she had grown up in Australia, but gone to school at Indiana University and fallen in love with the American people. I’m sure the American people fell in love with her, too. She has a way of looking at you when you talk that makes you feel like the center of the universe.
The story should end there, but now comes the “Gee, it’s a small world” part. My friend, Jim, whom I’ve known like forever, wanted me to meet a woman he had met on the golf course where he coaches. He said we had a lot in common. And so he brought Julie back into my life.
We don’t really have any thing in common. She’s beautiful, talented, charming, athletic, forever young – you know, the type other women usually hate. Fortunately, she’s also funny and sensible and has a good personality. Although she looks haute couture, she’s slightly bohemian and a lot wacky. She snorts when she laughs.
When she’s in town, we play Scrabble and talk about books. I ask her about the men in her life, but she just laughs and says, “It’s hard for a goddess to get a date in this town.”
I answer teasingly, “Well, Jules, if you weren’t so conceited, I’d fix you up with a friend of mine. Mike’s dying to meet you.”
She smiles and says, “Maybe, some day”, but she has that sad, far away look in her eyes she gets when she's thinking of Brad. I think Julie murdered him, but that's not something you can easily ask a friend.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
I call him Lucky
I have a cricket on my hearth. Actually, he's about two feet to the right of the hearth, hiding among the plants in my indoor garden. A cricket on your hearth is suppose to be lucky.
As I sat trying to watch Rosemary and Thyme on PBS last night while listening to the little bugger get louder and louder, I began to question if "two feet to the right" was close enough to the hearth to count. Honestly, he must have been using a mini Mr. Microphone. I've never heard a more obnoxious cricket in my life. Death became a viable option.
I tried to ignore him, but his singing drowned out the dialogue between Rosemary and Mrs. Thyme as they attempted to solve yet another murder mystery.
I don't know why crickets sing. Are they looking for love? Do they just love the sound it makes when one rubs one's hind legs together?
Since I couldn't follow the plot on TV, my mind began to wander. Although the cricket was more like the teenager next door with a new set of drums, I pictured him in top hat and tails (ala Jiminy Cricket), and I saw him strutting to the tune of "Hello, My Baby" as he practiced for a part in an upcoming Broadway revival. When he began "Singing in the Rain" and tap dancing in a puddle from a flower pot, I began to believe he was going to make it. He was going to be a STAR.
I let him live, of course.
I get free tickets for the dress rehearsal.
As I sat trying to watch Rosemary and Thyme on PBS last night while listening to the little bugger get louder and louder, I began to question if "two feet to the right" was close enough to the hearth to count. Honestly, he must have been using a mini Mr. Microphone. I've never heard a more obnoxious cricket in my life. Death became a viable option.
I tried to ignore him, but his singing drowned out the dialogue between Rosemary and Mrs. Thyme as they attempted to solve yet another murder mystery.
I don't know why crickets sing. Are they looking for love? Do they just love the sound it makes when one rubs one's hind legs together?
Since I couldn't follow the plot on TV, my mind began to wander. Although the cricket was more like the teenager next door with a new set of drums, I pictured him in top hat and tails (ala Jiminy Cricket), and I saw him strutting to the tune of "Hello, My Baby" as he practiced for a part in an upcoming Broadway revival. When he began "Singing in the Rain" and tap dancing in a puddle from a flower pot, I began to believe he was going to make it. He was going to be a STAR.
I let him live, of course.
I get free tickets for the dress rehearsal.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
This and That
It has been a while since I had time to post anything so I will make a few short notes today for those who have mentioned the lack of reading material.
FiFi now has a higher rating in Scrabble than I do. I have always thought poodles were intelligent dogs, but that's ridiculous. I will write more about Julie this weekend when I have time to do her justice. She's worth waiting for.
Holly organized a pitch-in at work today. To say the least, that was some mighty fine eating. I'm still feeling good and smacking my lips.
Monday is Labor Day. This is our holiday. The laborers. The workers. The heart and soul of America. The supporters of the American way of life. So how do we spend "Labor" Day? We take the day off work, of course, and play.
Holly started college this week. Monday she was displaying her new school supplies which started a discussion among some of the staff of favorite binders. It reminded me of a little boy I knew in Florida. As a home health nurse, I visited his home weekly to see his grandmother. During the summer he developed a crush on me. I still have the seashell he shyly placed in my hand one day. When it was time to go back to school, he insisted on getting a blue binder "just like the nurse has". Sweetie, I hope you found a real love and have children of your own now.
Did you know that the first Sunday after Labor Day is National Grandparents Day and has been since 1978?
Enjoy the last 3-day weekend of summer. I'm sure you've earned it (and even if you haven't, your Grandma will swear you did.)
FiFi now has a higher rating in Scrabble than I do. I have always thought poodles were intelligent dogs, but that's ridiculous. I will write more about Julie this weekend when I have time to do her justice. She's worth waiting for.
Holly organized a pitch-in at work today. To say the least, that was some mighty fine eating. I'm still feeling good and smacking my lips.
Monday is Labor Day. This is our holiday. The laborers. The workers. The heart and soul of America. The supporters of the American way of life. So how do we spend "Labor" Day? We take the day off work, of course, and play.
Holly started college this week. Monday she was displaying her new school supplies which started a discussion among some of the staff of favorite binders. It reminded me of a little boy I knew in Florida. As a home health nurse, I visited his home weekly to see his grandmother. During the summer he developed a crush on me. I still have the seashell he shyly placed in my hand one day. When it was time to go back to school, he insisted on getting a blue binder "just like the nurse has". Sweetie, I hope you found a real love and have children of your own now.
Did you know that the first Sunday after Labor Day is National Grandparents Day and has been since 1978?
Enjoy the last 3-day weekend of summer. I'm sure you've earned it (and even if you haven't, your Grandma will swear you did.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)