Category Archives: Uncategorized

I Got Satisfaction

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For nearly four years now, I’ve been “chauffeuring” My Favorite Domer to and from Notre Dame — for his moves in and out, vacations, and so forth.

And for the entire time, I’ve had to travel along the Indiana Toll Road, which, according to Wikipedia, is a 156.28-mile east-west roadway spanning northern Indiana from the Illinois state line to the Ohio state line.

Had I known from the get-go, I’d have signed up for one of those E-ZPass things. You get a transponder on your car and zoom right through the toll booths, while they deduct the toll amount from your E-ZPass account.

Cool.

But I didn’t know about all that, and now that he’s a senior it seems moot. Most times I’ve succumbed to what the E-ZPass folks say they prevent — pawing through my purse, or hitting up Domer, or scratching around in my glove box, for change.

Three dollars each way adds up to a pretty hefty amount over four years!

On our most recent trip after Thanksgiving, we came to the toll booth at South Bend, and I handed Domer a twenty for the tab.

No attendant was on duty, so we inserted the bill and had a great laugh over the clanking gold dollars that appeared — much like a slot machine — as my change.

I didn’t count it until we drove off, but quickly realized I’d been shorted.

Three dollars and twenty-five cents, to be exact.

Now that might not sound like a great deal of money, but the toll one way is $3.30.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Domer advised.

Easy for him to say. He didn’t lose $3.25.

On my return trip, I asked the attendant about making up the difference. She gave me a receipt with the toll road’s number and advised me to call them.

I did after I got home, explaining that I had no receipt verifying my story and apologizing for being so cheap as to complain about three measly dollars.

The woman took down my information/complaint and said it could be 60 to 90 days before I heard anything. They had to audit the machine and see if it really had shorted me.

Well, wonder of wonders. Two days later, another woman called to announce the machine had confirmed my story!

And she needed my mailing address so they could send me my $3.25.

Sometimes it pays to complain. But I’ve got to know — what would you have done, if you’d been me??

Terrific Tuesday

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The switch from Daylight Saving Time back to regular time has my Darling Doggie Dallas a bit confused.

These days, when he first goes outside to greet the morning, it’s not stars and nighttime sky we’re seeing. It’s the beginning of a sunrise.

Even though we’re getting out about the same time as previously.

Monday morning’s edition was a doosy, too.  Just see for yourselves:

Between 6:15 and 6:30 a.m., Nov. 5, 2012

Just a few minutes later, same date

I know red skies in the morning are supposed to signify the approach of bad weather, but who wants to think about that?

Not when there are such beautiful colors, all painted together and offering the promise of a new day.

Maybe we’ll try getting up a wee bit earlier next time, so we can catch the whole show!

Somebody Thinks My Blog is Inspiring!

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My friend Kathy recently included me in her list of seven bloggers to receive The Inspiring Blog Award.

Kathy, you’re a treasure, and I thank you most sincerely!

Now, this award brings a few “regulations,” including:

  • Share seven little-known facts about yourself
  • Pass the award on to seven other deserving bloggers

(What is it about the number seven and these awards??)

Anyway, before I expound on how prevalent “seven” is in the Bible, or in nature, or music, or whatever, let’s get to the facts about moi —

  1. My first car was a sea-foam green color.
  2. My first dog was a smooth-haired dachshund.
  3. I still have a scar on my knee from where I was trying to manually raise my bicycle’s sticky kickstand as a kid.
  4. I hate stupidity. And cauliflower.
  5. I find much peace being near water, though not in it.
  6. I was twenty-one before I got my ears pierced (just the lobes, thank you very much).
  7. I got my first drivers license on my sixteenth birthday.

Whew, that wasn’t easy. I probably should’ve added that I consider myself a very private person, so making lists for public consumption isn’t exactly a stroll in the park!

Let’s turn the page and get to my nominees for The Inspiring Blog Award. Here they are, in no particular order:

  1. Odd Loves Company. Katybeth never fails to make me laugh. Or think. And I admire that she blogs every day (sometimes more than once!).
  2. The Water Witch’s Daughter. Suzicate offers spectacular photography, poems, and inspiring words of wisdom.
  3. JannaT Writes. And write she does. Plenty of short fiction, poems, and entries into the Trifecta weekly writing challenge. Where does she find the time?
  4. My Inner Chick. Kim writes openly and honestly about the love she has for her sister, who was murdered going on three years ago. Love that deep is inspiring.
  5. These are Days…You’ll Remember. Terri works full time, has practically grown kids, and recently added a second dog. She’s also an organ doner. How inspiring is that?
  6. Marc and Angel Hack Life. These two offer “practical tips for productive living.” What that means is, you’ll find sensible suggestions for lots of things plus inspiration galore.
  7. God Speaks I Listen. Tanya is the wife of a minister and writes of her deep Faith and Love for God. Her writing inspires and educates.

If I’ve nominated anybody who’s already been selected, I apologize. The rest of you know what to do. Get busy!

Going for that Young Look

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Recently while walking the Sheltie, I had a chat with an older man along our regular route.

He told me about his time serving in WWII, how he and his three brothers all were in service simultaneously. Then he asked me how old I thought he was.

Well, I stammered, you served in WWII, so you’d have to be at least eighty — right?

Give me a hug, he exclaimed, before telling me he’s ninety-five!

I don’t know about you, but I don’t know too many folks who are ninety-five. And this man certainly didn’t look like I expected a ninety-five-year-old person to look.

Probably because he didn’t have a wrinkle on his face.

Not one!

It was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. No brown spots from the sun, no dryness, no whiskery stubble.

I wanted so much to ask him how come he looked so young. I mean, I’m pretty sure he hadn’t bought into the sunscreen craze, hadn’t “had work done,” hadn’t exfoliated and creamed and moisturized and all the things we’re told to do to protect our skin.

A few days later, my sister called and said her dermatologist mentioned that the reason elderly men’s faces look so much younger than elderly women’s is that they shave.

Shave??

Yep, apparently shaving is a natural exfoliant, ridding the skin’s topmost layer of dead cells and revealing the “good stuff” underneath.

Who knew?

I’ve been going to dermatologists for decades, and not a one has told me that.

They probably don’t think women need to be shaving their faces.

But I’ve been in hair salons where female customers regularly come to have their mustaches bleached. And I’ve seen plenty of fair-haired women with tons of “peach fuzz” on their cheeks and jawlines. And lately I’ve been seeing TV ads for “discrete” hair removal products aimed at women as well as men.

So maybe there’s something to it. What do you think? If you’re a woman, would you consider shaving your face if you could waylay the appearance of wrinkles in your old age?

Teachers Union Strike in Chicago

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You’d have to be Rip Van Winkle not to have heard of the strike — currently entering its second week — by some 26,000 Chicago Public Schools teachers.

The walkout was supposed to have been resolved over the weekend, and 350,000 kids were supposed to be back in class today. That didn’t happen.

So once again, parents are scrambling to find child care, juggling their own work schedules, bringing kids to work, working from home, etc. — all because these teachers who say they want what’s best for the kids really want what’s best for themselves.

Now, I don’t live in Chicago. I don’t have a dog in this fight. I’ve never been a teacher, nor a union member. I’ve never had teachers in my area go on strike, either when I was a kid or when My Favorite Domer was in public school.

So while I’d like to be fair to both sides, I’m finding my patience stretched to the snapping point.

On what planet does the CPS Teachers Union exist?

Statistics show Chicago teachers currently average $76,000 a year, for nine months of work. By contrast, the average Chicagoan makes $40,000 a year, for a full year. Yet teachers want a 16 percent pay raise over four years.

You’ve gotta be kidding. In this economy?? When the parents of the kids they teach are cutting way back and scrimping on everything but necessities?

I don’t deny teachers have a tough job, especially in Chicago. And I’d never be one to withhold wages from anyone who does his/her job.

But it’s one thing to get paid a fair wage and another to demand more, more, MORE!

Chicago doesn’t have a money tree in its back yard. And Illinois, frankly, is flat broke. So where do CPS Teachers Union members expect this kind of money to come from?

Of course there are other sticking points, too many to go into here. But there’s a bottom line, too — teachers say they want to go back to work.

Well, if that’s the case, they need to concede on some points. Stop acting like greedy brats. Be grateful they have good jobs. Accept that no job is perfect, no working conditions are ideal.

That’s what it means to negotiate. You give a little, you get a little.

Every school kid learns that in Kindergarten, assuming their teachers aren’t carrying a picket sign and they get to go to Kindergarten.

Where’s Waldo? Or Debbie?

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Today I’m over at my friend Oma’s Blurt blog, doing a guest post.

Actually, I was supposed to be over there last week while he was keeping the streets safe during the DNC, but technology had other ideas.

I was crushed hurt disappointed when all the popular kids got to “play Oma for a day” and I didn’t.

Despite my having a popular name like Debbie.

But life goes on.

Eventually, Oma saw the error of his ways and relinquished his digs to me, providing I don’t leave pumpkins around.

Or slugs.

So won’t you please drop by and leave a comment? Not that I’m begging or anything, but we bloggers are a needy bunch.

We can chat a bit. Get to know one another.

Maybe share a pizza and a cold drink.

Shoot, let’s us have a party on Oma’s dime!

Wouldn’t want him to think I wasn’t as popular as my name indicates.

Take a look around while you’re at it and catch up on some of his past posts.

He has a way with words. You’ll probably learn something. And enjoy yourself.

I’ll see you back here next week.

Now get clicking, friends!

Look What They Did to our Trees!

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I call it the annual “Raping of the Trees.” Here’s what it looks like:

What happens is some tree service — probably under contract with a utility company — arrives at your neighborhood early in the morning and starts “trimming” the branches from trees located beneath or near power lines. The service stays all day, hacking off branches and grinding them up, then moves to the next site.

I understand the reasoning behind this — eliminate anything that could possibly interfere with the operation of utilities, thereby saving crews the headache (and danger) of having to make repairs during stormy weather.

But the tree service obviously doesn’t have a designer on staff. I mean, look at the mess they made of these once-lovely trees:

And this one:

Limbs have been chopped off at random, without regard for the tree’s former symmetry. Gaping holes remain where thick, leafy branches used to shade yards. Skeletal sticks poke their spindly fingers up to the sky.

If the tree was in the way, why didn’t they just chop it down, rather than gouging its branches out?

Trees are living, breathing creations, many of which were lovingly planted and tended by someone from a past generation. Their arms cradle birds’ nests, provide shelter for squirrels, and offer a spectacular show in spring and fall. They shade pedestrians and parked cars while increasing property values.  Trees absorb carbon dioxide and pollutants while giving off oxygen.

We need trees. Our communities are kinder, friendlier when we have trees around. And I suspect many of these trees were there before the utility lines were even put up.

So while it’s bad enough this “Raping of the Trees” takes place during good weather, I find it reprehensible for it to happen this year.

When the trees are already stressed out by the heat. And the drought.

I don’t look for fall to be its customary colorful self, nor can I see these spindly specters withstanding the ravages of winter.

They can blame that on the weather all they like. But I think the “Raping of the Trees” will be a contributing factor.

Do they do this in your neck of the woods?

Back From Vacation

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I just got back from a ten-day “vacation” along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and I’m eager to share some of the sights that caught my attention.

Before I do, I’ll bet you’re wondering why I put vacation in quotation marks, aren’t you?

The simple answer is that I don’t really consider it a vacation. To me, vacations involve going some place you haven’t been before, seeing scenery and people you haven’t seen before, perhaps sitting on a beach or poolside with a tall, cold drink decorated by a paper umbrella.

And resting. Lots of lazing around, resting.

This trip wasn’t like that.

First off, it was Mom’s trip. She wanted to go south to visit relatives and check on her other home.

Problem is, Mon doesn’t drive. She needed a chauffeur, and I drew the short straw.

Actually, I drew the only straw — Domer had to stay here and work at his internship; the Sheltie elected to stay with Domer.

Now driving Mom on long trips is an exercise in patience:

  • she has a bladder the size of a Lima bean, necessitating frequent potty breaks
  • she’s reached the age where she can’t lift heavy things like suitcases
  • she insists the trip be broken into two days with a motel overnight stay
  • motel room must be lit and warm for her comfort
  • she snores!

There was LOTS to do once we arrived — clean the house, visit kith and kin, buy groceries and supplies, make sure everything is working the way it’s supposed to (call repairmen as necessary), etc. I did manage to post a few blogs and work on my novel, as well as address my company Christmas cards (really!), so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.

Anyway, you wanted to see pictures, so here you go:

Turtle

1) I found this turtle hanging around the front yard one morning. He stuck his head out long enough to peek at me, then promptly retreated to his shell. When I returned from my walk, he was gone!

Heron

2) This is a heron of some sort. I couldn’t get close enough to determine whether he was a blue heron or another variety. Nevertheless, he spent a lot of time perched on this dock, probably looking for food. Wonder what the Sheltie would do with long-legged birds to chase?!

Dock

3) Beautiful, isn’t it? Living in a land-locked area the way I do, I find being next to the water restful (just not during Hurricane Season!)

Tell me, have you gone on vacation yet this summer? What interesting things did you see and do?

Here Comes The Clown

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I’ll be the first to admit I’m not an art critic.

But even somebody who does good to draw stick people is able to recognize what she likes.

Or doesn’t like.

Take a look at the following picture, for example:

Clown figurine

This little statuette depicts a clown (or mime) kneeling on a stand of some sort, holding a parasol in one hand and a bird in the other. If you turn the circular base, it plays a somewhat scratchy version of Stephen Sondheim’s “Send in the Clowns” from the Broadway musical A Little Night Music.

Lovely song. Sad. A song of regret and the disappointments of life.

But as people who know me realize by now — Clowns. Creep. Me. Out.

Mimes, too.

I don’t have a true phobia (panic attacks, heart racing, etc.), but I don’t like them. And if I have to bypass attending the circus when it comes to town, well, that’s okay.

Fear of clowns, called “Coulrophobia,” is actually more common than one might think. Some say it’s because clowns — with their made-up facial expressions — are able to mask what they’re really feeling.

That works for me.

Others blame it on scary novels about killer clowns like Stephen King’s “It,” or on real killers like John Wayne Gacy.

That makes sense, too.

There’s a ginormous word for fear of mimes — Metamfiezomaiophobia. That, too, is supposed to be related to their blank expressions, monochromatic wardrobe choices, and pantomiming expressions.

Whatever.

Psychologists can theorize all they want as to the reasons people fear clowns or mimes. And they can try every trick in the book to eradicate it in those who find such fear paralyzing.

Doesn’t matter. Clowns and mimes are still creepy.

I found this statuette lurking in one of my mom’s closets during a trip to her Gulfport, MS, house. By the looks of it (and the dust clinging to it), it’s been in there for a while.

Don’t say I told you so, but my guess is Domer put it in there when he was a child (or had me stash it there for him).

He, too, doesn’t like clowns. Or mimes.

Somebody well-versed in objects like this (Antiques Roadshow, perhaps) might consider it a gold mine, but I don’t want it.

I don’t want anything to do with it!

So, Sis, if you’re reading, start looking for a place to exhibit Mr. Clown one of these days when you inherit him, okay? Because as far as I’m concerned, he’s got your name written all over him!

The Neighborly Thing to Do

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Several years ago, an older lady and her husband moved into my neighborhood.

They kept pretty much to themselves and soon earned the description “unfriendly.”

‘They won’t speak,’ one neighbor told me.

‘They’re not very neighborly,’ said another.

I’m ashamed to admit we were judging prematurely. For the husband was ill — terminally ill, to be exact — and the wife was his only caregiver.

She didn’t have time for over-the-fence gossip sessions. Or chatting on the phone. Or inviting other ladies in for coffee.

About the only time she left the house was to get groceries or transport her husband to a doctor’s appointment.

I know first hand what that’s like, how stressful full-time care giving can be. Especially for someone untrained in that area, someone who doesn’t choose to be a caregiver. Someone like my mom, who was Daddy’s only caregiver because he refused to have strangers in the house.

Life takes on a different appearance when you’re faced with a loved one’s grave illness. Besides the ever-present cloud of death, there are medical specialists to deal with. And procedures. And pain. And fear and worry.

The upside is you have a chance to bond, to spend quality time reminiscing, to selflessly give to another in imitation of the way God has given to us.

Still….

Earlier this month, my neighbor’s husband finally succumbed to his illness. True to form, he didn’t want any notice to appear in the daily newspaper, didn’t want to bother anybody. Most of us found out by word of mouth.

But did we convene on this poor woman’s porch, casseroles in hand, to mourn with her? No, we opted to “respect her privacy,” to give her time to grieve.

Taking the easy way out.

Was it the right thing to do?

Probably not. People need each other, and I for one felt great comfort by the kind, sympathetic things people did for us after Daddy passed on. We should have done the same for this woman.

I saw her the other day, and she’d gotten a little dog. Someone to take for walks, keep her company, and amuse her with its antics.

We chatted a bit, and she didn’t seem at all “unfriendly.”

Just lonely. And still grieving.

She’ll be that way for a while, but at least she’s trying. Can her neighbors afford not to try, too?