Fashion Forward

Clad in Star Wars finest - Vintage Hand-Me-Up BB8 TShirt.
Not pictured{Black pants, flowered Skechers, no socks, dog making fun.)

I hoped that by the time I reached the seasoned age of 65, I would have plucked the fruits of wisdom, experience, and knowledge from the Tree of Life. Instead, what I have plucked is a situation where a husband who can’t tell stripes from plaid is in charge of my wardrobe. How hard can it be to see if the lines cross?

Remember when Daddy dressed the kids and their teacher thought they’d run away from home? It’s like that, but with the added adventure of foundation garments.

I’m not man bashing. I’m fortunate to have a husband who has taken over every household chore now that walking to the bathroom has turned into an Olympic event for me. He’s not only mastered all of my secret recipes, he has cracked every excuse I ever invented for ordering pizza instead of peeling potatoes.

The trouble comes when I need to wear matching clothes for, say, a trip to the specialist of the day. The time has come when I collect doctors like a lumberjack collects splinters. Neurologist, orthopedist, cardiologist--I’m looking for two more ists to make a full house. Each one wants to feel my ankles and tell me to drink more water. I considered contacting Aquaman for a consultation, but Jason Momoa thwarted that plan when he took out the restraining order.

I don’t mind the clothes adventures as much as the comments from passers by when we go out. Here in the South, we have a saying, Bless Your Heart, that means everything from “I’m sorry to hear about your mama,” to  “dumb as a sack of hammers.” I’ve been blessed enough times in the past year to earn me the favored spot in grandaddy’s toolbox.

Getting ready for a doctor’s appointment, I allow an extra 4-6 weeks to allow for searching for clothes that have got lost in the laundry or have been donated to charity due to unfortunate bleach or spaghetti sauce incidents.

The following interaction may or may not be true:

Bill: “How about these pants?”

Fashion Victim: “They’re yours.”

Bill: “That’s good. Everything goes with khaki.”

FV: “And they’ve got those handy cargo pockets to hide problem thighs.”

I won’t go into the difference between navy and black (there is none) or socks that match (they don’t) and have sacrificed all claim to jewelry that can’t be clamped on or stuck on with adhesive. Two-sided tape is no longer a luxury.

Shopping online, I purchased a navy and white striped top that could be worn with any of the ten pairs of navy blue pants hanging in my closet at any given time. Last Tuesday I sallied forth to the doctor in a black and tan shirt, blue pants, and school bus yellow socks festooned with pictures of racoons.

The receptionist smiled sweetly and spoke.

“Bless your heart.”

That’s it. No more doctor trips for me. But when you call for Emergency Responders, tell them to bring extra socks.

Cartwheeling

Just when you thought it was safe to go down the cereal aisle.

*Cue Jaws music*

Little Debbie may never be the same again. Come on over to An Army of Ermas and let me tell you how my "8 Simple Rules of Grocery Shopping" can change your life. . .just like it did for Uncle Ben.

Crime Scene Christmas

I thought it be would tough Christmas shopping for the boys once they got past the Toys R Us stage. I used to be able to mark the days until Christmas by how many pages were left in the big toy catalog. Most of the pictures had long been shipped to the North Pole for use as instructional material by elves specializing in sophisticated foam weaponry.

The boys are now in their second decade of intense and dedicated toy shopping. These days they want electronic games that feature goal-oriented ninjas, indiscriminate assassins, and more than a few species of vengeful undead.

Nothing says Happy Holidays like a man in black greeting passersby with a six inch throwing knife and a hearty handgun.

When I was a kid, we’d strap on holsters with six shooters and clap cowboy hats made of felt on our heads. You’d have to chase the bad guy clear down to his front porch before he’d admit that he was dead. These days you’re a virtual assassin who can wipe out a planet with a rapid fire Remington and a hamster wheel of death.

As the guys rent newer and more sophisticated video games to see which ones they want for Christmas, the sounds of the season fill my house: swords ring out in duels, gunshots ricochet through quiet villages, gleeful laughter meets the brother who triumphs in the zombie apocalypse.

It reminds me of lunch with the relatives.

It’s never safe to venture into Uncle Joe’s airspace after he’s had his fill of giblet gravy. Even the Labradors avoid crossing into enemy territory at half past pumpkin pie.

So this Christmas we’ll deck the halls with a turkey leg fired high tight toward a platoon of retreating relatives. And if anybody tries to get away with the pumpkin pie, they’d better watch out. I’m a killer with an assault drumstick.

And I’m sitting next to Uncle Joe.

Jingle Bill$

Now that Thanksgiving is tucked conveniently away in freezerbound Tupperware and I’ve sewn the button back on my accidently expanding waistband, I can look forward to my favorite December pastime; counting down the days until Christmas. There is a complicated formula involving a calendar and a red marker that I could use, but I prefer the new math method. I count the number of sales flyers in the newspaper and divide by how many gifts I have left to buy.

Many of the area retailers have been infused with a generous helping of the Christmas spirit since the eve of the autumnal equinox, but I’m very firm about leaving the Christmas goodies on the shelves until the last of October’s candy corn is gone and the turkey leftovers have disappeared into the Dachshund. There’s something about toting red and green wrapped gifts home in a Frankenstein Trick or Treat bag that takes away the festive air of the whole project.

So I’ve been out this week, taking in the sights and sounds of Christmas. I noticed that “Debit or Credit” is the greeting of choice around town. Waffle House must be the only place left that still takes cash. They have to have something to give the folks behind the mask during the twelve days of armed robberies.

I got all my Christmas shopping done at a store that advertised cut-rate sale prices on all the merchandise. A perky sales clerk in a Santa hat rang up my purchase. When she hit the Total button, the machine started flashing like a jackpot winner on a slot machine. I guess a long list of cheap stuff still turns into a big bill. Especially when they add the state’s share at the end.

As I looked around the store, my eyes reflecting the soft glow of the cash register’s LEDs, I saw the walls were festooned with greetings for every holiday from Christmas to Kwanzaa. Now that we’re all celebrating different things this time of year, there’s only one greeting that still applies to everybody.

Peace on Earth.

Plus Tax.

Swine Dining

“Let’s hit the feed trough.”
Recently I ventured out on a shopping expedition with Laudy and Quirky, my dear sisters whose lives are devoted to my best interests. In the name of fellowship, and because at least one of us exhibits the beginnings of unladylike behavior when hungry, I suggested we stop on the way for a bite at one of the all-you-can eat buffet restaurants that have spread across the country like heat rash on a baby’s behind.
“I guess we’d better,” Quirky rolled her eyes at Laudy. “Remember last time we waited too long for lunch and she called the saleslady that ugly name.”
“Yeah,” Laudy giggled. “Procreating Peanut Head.”
“I meant procrastinating,” I answered huffily. “She took forever at that cash register. You’d think there were cheese soufflés under those keys.”
“That’s because you made her check every price by hand when she accidentally charged you the extra dime for that chipped dessert plate. I’d make a mistake too, if I had you looming over my cash register like a buzzard on a dead possum.”
“Are you comparing me to an unsightly scavenger whose main goal in life is to seek out helpless prey?”
“If the beak fits. . .”
“Let’s go eat at the buffet.”
Calming words for troubled charge cards.
We whipped an emergency buffet turn, and in barely the time it takes to say mashed potatoes and gravy we were headed to our table lugging a tray covered with enough plates and bowls to serve everyone at the Kennedy family reunion.
An hour and a half later, I laid down my dessert fork, which had also served handily as my salad and dinner fork, and glanced around the table. Quirky was licking the cellophane from her coconut pie and Laudy was napping face down in her salad plate. I leaned back in my chair, caressing my stomach like it was a freshly baked creampuff. Luckily I had on trousers with an elastic waistband and did not have to resort to unorthodox clothing alterations.
“I’m glad you wore those pants.” Quirky observed. “Last time when you tried to unfasten your top button, it shot across the table, popped me in the eye and dropped into my iced tea. “I almost swallowed it and the busboy had to perform the Heimlich maneuver to get it out of my throat.” She rolled her eyes, an unbecoming character trait designed to draw attention to herself.
"You're a fine one to talk." I shot back. "Remember when you and that lady with the cane both went after the last yeast roll?" When I tried to break up the fight, you poked me with your salad fork and she whacked me with her walking stick."
“Yeah,” Quirky smiled fondly. “That was a good one. Did you see that lady in green?”
“Sure did. I used to date a man with a mustache like that.”
“Well she tried to bump me at the roast beef. I gave her a look and turned my back.”
“I’m sure you won that battle. Nobody can beat your backside."
We sat quietly for a moment, digesting our lunch and picking food from our teeth.
I belched delicately. “Wanna go to the mall?”
Quirky snorted. “I don’t even want to walk to the car.”
Laudy’s head rolled to the side as a snore echoed across the table, rattling coffee cups against their saucers. Her cheek was freckled with poppy seed dressing and a radish was stuck in her ear.
"I hate to wake her up," Quirky said wistfully, casting a longing glance toward the doughnuts.
Just as I was about to reply with an invitation for a short stroll to the dessert bar, a large woman waddled past us clutching a loaded plate in each hand. Thousand Island dressing cascaded down the side of a mountain of greenery and dropped in large dollops down the side of her housedress and puddled into her house slippers as she walked.
“You are what you eat,” Quirky observed, licking her finger to pick up the last of the coconut on her plate.
“You know, some people should take better care of themselves,” I agreed, brushing cookie crumbs off my chest.”
We watched the woman as she made the tedious journey back to her seat. She lumbered to a stop at a table in the corner where sat a man whose body was the size and texture of a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Placing the overflowing dishes carefully in front of him, she dropped with a thud opposite him where sat a delicate dish of fresh fruit.
Quirky and I exchanged glances. “Care for dessert?” I asked.
“Your plate or mine?”

Survivor: College Loans

“I’m desperate,” Laudy insisted, knocking back black coffee the way a Cadillac guzzles premium unleaded. “I’ve got one kid in college and one scattering and smothering at the Waffle House to pay back student loans. I have two more who think the Tuition Fairy is going to pick up the tab for collegiate aerobics classes. It’s time for drastic measures.”
Laudy took a close-up look at the American dream and found out the silver lining is made of promissory notes. A savvy mother of four, she surveyed the situation, consulted her checkbook, and collapsed in a state of cardiac arrest. Recovering quickly, she realized the obvious. She would either have to come across a pair of spare Hannah Montana tickets to sell on e-Bay or win some quick money. Since our family’s luck doesn’t tend toward surprise acquisitions of valuable property, Sis decided she would grab some easy money from one of the reality shows on T.V.
“You would have to eat something live and squiggly,” I winced.
“Have you ever eaten french fries off a toddler’s plate?” she patted my hand. “Caterpillars are nothing after that.”
She had a point. I have two boys. I’ve palmed chewed gum in church and plunged my fingers into slimy mouths to chase semi-digested cigarette butts.
“You have to form secret partnerships to outwit the others playing the game,” I reminded her.
“Easy enough. I’ve orchestrated surprise birthday parties that actually turned out to be surprises, and supervised four children on Christmas shopping trips where nobody found out what the others bought.”
I whistled. “How did you manage that? I can’t buy control top pantyhose without my two revealing the size and color to everybody on the Eastern seaboard. Usually if they’re talking to strangers, they throw in my age and weight for free.”
Laudy nodded and patted my hand. “All I know is that after raising one child that ate only baked beans and pizza, one that ate potato skins and ranch dip, one that ate the chicken out of her sandwich and rolled the bread into dough balls, and one that survived for ten years on a diet of macaroni and cheese and Fruit Loops, Survivor would have to be as easy as scraping egg off the ceiling.”
“That easy, huh?”
“It’s all in knowing how to do things the simplest way. Like spraying the ceiling with no stick-spray. Besides, I’ve been practicing.”
“How do you practice surviving on a deserted island?” My idea of roughing it is buying salad by the head.
“I’ve been foraging for food. Just yesterday I cut up a chicken. I bought corn with the hair still on. And I’ve been cooking on the grill instead of in the microwave. It’s just like cooking over an open fire.”
“How did it go?”
“Great. I didn’t realize what a quick response time we had with the fire department around here. Did you know that you don’t need lighter fluid if you use propane?”
“Okay, you’ve got mealtime covered. What about laundry? Ready to beat your clothes clean on river rocks?”
“Well, I’m still using that old washing machine Mama gave me when I got married. It doesn’t spin by itself any more. You have to grab the tub and whirl it around like one of those little merry-go-rounds at the park. I lose weight every time I do the wash.”
“Sounds like you’ve got what it takes all right,” I said, edging toward the door. There’s just one thing that could get in the way of success.”
“What’s that?”
It was cruel, but I’m her sister. I had to let her know. “On Survivor, they don’t have toilets.”
She looked at me with innocent doe eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s just you in the outback becoming one with nature.”
“You know, there’s something honest and noble about working for a living.”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s a lesson these kids will just have to learn.”