The person, you know, that crispy fried Asian noodle that called me the other day and told me that someone would call? Well, he did - this morning. I -- was -- ready. A man started realing off a bunch of words that couldn't be separated with a sharp knife and I stopped him flat.
"Stop. Don't talk LOUDER, talk SLOWER.
He did.
Well, I want'ch to know, I was blown away. He was NICE. He ruined my whole grouchy attitude. I couldn't do anything but listen and answer his questions - in monotone - low monotone. I was ready to be tacky and he pushed that tacky plumb out the door.
Now, guess what , I don't have to go pick up my blood testing suplies anymore, plus, I get a new meter. He even wished me a good day. I sat there like a dry, day old, Southern biscuit. All I could think of to say was "thank you" and "good by". He left me with a huge, huge hairlip.
Somestimes it is hard to change instantly from wanting to chew someone out and spit them in the trash, to being civil. Especially when they have no idea that you've been gnawing on them for two days.
I think what I had better do is give myself a serious attitude adjustment. And I'm not talking about the way people on the phone upset me. There's others that send me into outer space too, like drivers.
I don't have time, and should not worry about people throwing me into a tizzy. I'm old enough to know that they can't do that if I don't let them. So, from now on, I'm going to try to control myself. I shall take the high road and let others have the gutter, thank you.
To begin, I've got a whole pot of fresh coffee in my kitchen, and I'm gonna go drink it. May even have a piece of cake - or chocolate. Shoot, I might even have both. If you want a cup, come on by. I promise to be nice.
Don't let anybody get'ch down - OK?
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I Do Not Understand Asianeze
Just got off the phone with someone from China, Japan, Korea, or somewhere on this earth that speaks Chineze, Japaneze, Koreaneze or some kind of Asianeze, and I've got a world class headach. Why do companies/organizations use people that do not speak English? These people yell and speak so fast that my head feels like my brain has been assaulted by a word machine gun.
I think the first person - the voice was high pitched, but I'm not sure it was a lady. That's OK, I'm afraid I wasn't one either. However, I yelled back slow enough for it to understand, and after I yelled back about four times, it said - at least I think it said - that someone else would talk to me.
I waited. Sure enough, another person came on the phone and yelled in the same Asianeze and our conversation continued. I yelled in Southern and she yelled in bullets, high pitched bullets.
As near as I could tell, I was being called about a new meter to check my blood sugar. I already have the testing equipment. I am on Medicare. I do not want to cause Medicare any more costs than necessary. I think I understood her to say she was calling from the American Diabetes Association. Why do they not get someone that we can understand, that speaks English in a moderate tone of voice. I had to hold the phone six inches from my ear to understand anything. I'm not hard of hearing, but if you have to ask what was said again, they just yell louder. I asked her to please slow down and not speak so loud. Didn't help.
At the end of the second persons spiel, or rather after she got tired of us yelling back and forth, I think she said that someone else would call. I have no idea who, why, or when.
Whoops, the phone just rang. I answered and when he said "Hello" I asked if he was calling from the American Diabetes Association. "No", he said, he was calling from the "&%&*(#&^ government grants". I asked "WHAT grants" he repeted "@#$)(*&E^ grants". I asked him to spell it. He did - "@)(&*$#". I hung up. It was another telephone person speaking Asianeze. At least he wasn't yelling.
Now, I have completely lost my train of thought, and have no idea of what I intended to say. I'm going to stop and go take a pill.
I do hope you will have a good day, and if I get another call and it's someone speaking Asianeze, I'm just gonna hang up. Take Care, will ya?
I think the first person - the voice was high pitched, but I'm not sure it was a lady. That's OK, I'm afraid I wasn't one either. However, I yelled back slow enough for it to understand, and after I yelled back about four times, it said - at least I think it said - that someone else would talk to me.
I waited. Sure enough, another person came on the phone and yelled in the same Asianeze and our conversation continued. I yelled in Southern and she yelled in bullets, high pitched bullets.
As near as I could tell, I was being called about a new meter to check my blood sugar. I already have the testing equipment. I am on Medicare. I do not want to cause Medicare any more costs than necessary. I think I understood her to say she was calling from the American Diabetes Association. Why do they not get someone that we can understand, that speaks English in a moderate tone of voice. I had to hold the phone six inches from my ear to understand anything. I'm not hard of hearing, but if you have to ask what was said again, they just yell louder. I asked her to please slow down and not speak so loud. Didn't help.
At the end of the second persons spiel, or rather after she got tired of us yelling back and forth, I think she said that someone else would call. I have no idea who, why, or when.
Whoops, the phone just rang. I answered and when he said "Hello" I asked if he was calling from the American Diabetes Association. "No", he said, he was calling from the "&%&*(#&^ government grants". I asked "WHAT grants" he repeted "@#$)(*&E^ grants". I asked him to spell it. He did - "@)(&*$#". I hung up. It was another telephone person speaking Asianeze. At least he wasn't yelling.
Now, I have completely lost my train of thought, and have no idea of what I intended to say. I'm going to stop and go take a pill.
I do hope you will have a good day, and if I get another call and it's someone speaking Asianeze, I'm just gonna hang up. Take Care, will ya?
Sunday, September 18, 2011
I Got A Problem, You Got Ideas?
It's Sunday. I go to church on Sundays. And I have a problem. I have a nose - that runs. Believe me, that is a problem, especially when it runs while I am sitting in the choir. I have taken over the counter medications to stop the flow, but they don't seem to help. So I always have a tissue handy.
When I was young, back in the dark ages, I remember noticing that quite often older men, the age of Santa Clause, would have moisture seeping from their noses down to their upper lip. They never seemed to be aware of it, and I always wanted to tell them about it. I never did. And now I'm glad I didn't.
Around the age of way-past-middle-age I began to have a runny nose. It can be embarrasing. When I'm next to someone - anyone, anywhere, I usually look at them and explain that I don't have a cold. They sort of grin. Does that mean they think I'm lying? Are they showing pity? What? I don't know and I can't do anything about it. So I wipe my nose and hope they understand.
This morning, sitting in the choir loft, before the service started, I had a brilliant thought. My nose acts just exactly like one of the faucets in my house. As faucets go, the one in my bathroom is old and it drips. It needs a new washer. I have no idea how to put a new one in. So it keeps dripping.
Now for my idea. I am old, and my nose drips, so it needs a new washer, or at least some apparatus to stop the oozing or torrent, which ever it happens to be at any given moment. I am positive there are others who would welcome an answer to this dilemma also.
Some people wear glasses because they can't see well, others wear hearing aids to help them hear, and there are those who take medications to control all sorts of medical problems. A question I'd like an answer for is, what is this problem called. Is a runny nose a medical problem, a deficiency problem, or possibly a generational problem. Hummm.
I have no idea about how to solve this, but dang, I'm sure glad someone came up with something besides handkerchiefs that you have to wash and iron. That's what my grandmother used.
Do you know how much a case of kleenex costs at Sam's? I'm not talking about one of those packages that holds about ten or twelve boxes. I'm talking about a whole case of those suckers. You got any idea?
When I was young, back in the dark ages, I remember noticing that quite often older men, the age of Santa Clause, would have moisture seeping from their noses down to their upper lip. They never seemed to be aware of it, and I always wanted to tell them about it. I never did. And now I'm glad I didn't.
Around the age of way-past-middle-age I began to have a runny nose. It can be embarrasing. When I'm next to someone - anyone, anywhere, I usually look at them and explain that I don't have a cold. They sort of grin. Does that mean they think I'm lying? Are they showing pity? What? I don't know and I can't do anything about it. So I wipe my nose and hope they understand.
This morning, sitting in the choir loft, before the service started, I had a brilliant thought. My nose acts just exactly like one of the faucets in my house. As faucets go, the one in my bathroom is old and it drips. It needs a new washer. I have no idea how to put a new one in. So it keeps dripping.
Now for my idea. I am old, and my nose drips, so it needs a new washer, or at least some apparatus to stop the oozing or torrent, which ever it happens to be at any given moment. I am positive there are others who would welcome an answer to this dilemma also.
Some people wear glasses because they can't see well, others wear hearing aids to help them hear, and there are those who take medications to control all sorts of medical problems. A question I'd like an answer for is, what is this problem called. Is a runny nose a medical problem, a deficiency problem, or possibly a generational problem. Hummm.
I have no idea about how to solve this, but dang, I'm sure glad someone came up with something besides handkerchiefs that you have to wash and iron. That's what my grandmother used.
Do you know how much a case of kleenex costs at Sam's? I'm not talking about one of those packages that holds about ten or twelve boxes. I'm talking about a whole case of those suckers. You got any idea?
Friday, August 26, 2011
Grow Old Gracefully - You Gotta Be Kiddin'
What do you mean grow old gracefully? There's no such thing. To do something gracefully takes practice. Therefore, to grow old gracefully, we must practaice growing old. Tell a teenager that they need to practice growing old, and see how far that gets ya. Besides, there's no way to practice getting old.
The other day I met a lady while walking my pups. She was dressed the part, shorts, tee shirt, walking shoes. She was acting the part too, walking fast, pumping those arms, breathing deep (either that or panting, I couldn't tell which). Anyway, she looked at me as we passed and said "I'm trying to stave off sixty." Shoot, sixty, for me that was a looong time ago. But I can still breathe and walk at the same time.
Then again, I am not old - yet anyway - I don't have time to be. I have waaay too much to do to get old. I have to take care of business, Robbins Grips (I've harped about that to everybody), a book to sell, a book to write, roads to travel and mountains to climb. And people want me to grow old gracefully? I'll do that when I win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes.
Right now, it's people driving cars that make me wave my arms and scream. I would appreaciate it if all you slow drivers would get out of my way. I do not have time to wait behind you at stop signs so that you can finally look both ways. You need to be lookin' both ways before you ever stop. It is easy to see that the car a block and a half away is not gonna hit you if you cross the street. Surely, you can travel to the other side at twenty miles an hour, before that car drives the length of three football fields. Do the math.
Also, it does not help me to grow old gracefully when the light turns green, for you to finish your text or whatever it is you are looking down at, before you decide "OH, the light has changed, maybe I should go, but I had better look both ways first." Yes, I'm the one behind you that's honking. Pay attention.
Automatic doors are another thing I don't have time to wait for, unless my arms are full or broken. They open too slow. Have you noticed how lazy people are though? If there is a button to punch to open the door, they seem to think it's necessary to punch it. Do they not realize that if they open the door themselves, their arms will stay stronger a little longer? Maybe not much, but any excersize helps.
There's really no way a person can get ready for old age. It just slipes up on ya. Like after youve cleaned house. The place looks spotless, and then a few days later you notice dust all over everything. It just sort of appears out of nowhere.
Years do the same thing. You're lookin' good. Skin, hair, weight all are fine until one day you look in the mirror, and there staring back at ya is your mom or worse, your grandmother. For all you young folks out there, if you don't think that's gonna happen, just stick around, and I'll say "I told ya so."
Anyone under fifty isn't gonna believe me. That's OK. I was the same way. But then one day I looked in the mirror and sure enough, Grandma was starin' back at me with a grin on her face. Don't know how, but I skipped plum over Mama. Not only us girls, but fellas have problems this way too.
Now, at this age, I should be tryin' to grow old gracefully. But I'm trying to get everything done that I didn't do earlier. All I know to say is, just stay outta my way. I don't have time to fool with slow pokes, especially in cars. Besides, I didn't practice for old age, but I'm planning to be a race car driver in my next life and I'm practing for that. The other day a friend was ridin' with me when I told her my plans. She said "Well, you'll make a ton 'o money at it". I looked down and her knuckles were plumb white. Bless her lill' ol' heart.
The other day I met a lady while walking my pups. She was dressed the part, shorts, tee shirt, walking shoes. She was acting the part too, walking fast, pumping those arms, breathing deep (either that or panting, I couldn't tell which). Anyway, she looked at me as we passed and said "I'm trying to stave off sixty." Shoot, sixty, for me that was a looong time ago. But I can still breathe and walk at the same time.
Then again, I am not old - yet anyway - I don't have time to be. I have waaay too much to do to get old. I have to take care of business, Robbins Grips (I've harped about that to everybody), a book to sell, a book to write, roads to travel and mountains to climb. And people want me to grow old gracefully? I'll do that when I win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes.
Right now, it's people driving cars that make me wave my arms and scream. I would appreaciate it if all you slow drivers would get out of my way. I do not have time to wait behind you at stop signs so that you can finally look both ways. You need to be lookin' both ways before you ever stop. It is easy to see that the car a block and a half away is not gonna hit you if you cross the street. Surely, you can travel to the other side at twenty miles an hour, before that car drives the length of three football fields. Do the math.
Also, it does not help me to grow old gracefully when the light turns green, for you to finish your text or whatever it is you are looking down at, before you decide "OH, the light has changed, maybe I should go, but I had better look both ways first." Yes, I'm the one behind you that's honking. Pay attention.
Automatic doors are another thing I don't have time to wait for, unless my arms are full or broken. They open too slow. Have you noticed how lazy people are though? If there is a button to punch to open the door, they seem to think it's necessary to punch it. Do they not realize that if they open the door themselves, their arms will stay stronger a little longer? Maybe not much, but any excersize helps.
There's really no way a person can get ready for old age. It just slipes up on ya. Like after youve cleaned house. The place looks spotless, and then a few days later you notice dust all over everything. It just sort of appears out of nowhere.
Years do the same thing. You're lookin' good. Skin, hair, weight all are fine until one day you look in the mirror, and there staring back at ya is your mom or worse, your grandmother. For all you young folks out there, if you don't think that's gonna happen, just stick around, and I'll say "I told ya so."
Anyone under fifty isn't gonna believe me. That's OK. I was the same way. But then one day I looked in the mirror and sure enough, Grandma was starin' back at me with a grin on her face. Don't know how, but I skipped plum over Mama. Not only us girls, but fellas have problems this way too.
Now, at this age, I should be tryin' to grow old gracefully. But I'm trying to get everything done that I didn't do earlier. All I know to say is, just stay outta my way. I don't have time to fool with slow pokes, especially in cars. Besides, I didn't practice for old age, but I'm planning to be a race car driver in my next life and I'm practing for that. The other day a friend was ridin' with me when I told her my plans. She said "Well, you'll make a ton 'o money at it". I looked down and her knuckles were plumb white. Bless her lill' ol' heart.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Two Dogs Plus One Poop Bag Means Poor Planning
Just got back from taking my two pups walking around the south lake at Medipark. It is five minutes until ten pm, and eighty nine degrees HOT.
We started this journey at eight thirty and it was eighty nine degrees HOT then, but it was sort of cloudy and I figured it would get cooler and there would be a slight breeze so it wouldn't be too bad. Evidently, the heat we've had recently has fried my brain. It didn't get cooler and there wasn't much of a breeze.
First off I'd left the double leash at home leaving me with only one retractable leash and another strap with a catch on both ends. Well, this old lady wasn't gonna let a little thing like that stop her, so I hooked the retractable leash to a loose little round metal thingie in the middle of the strap and fastened each end of the strap to a dog. OK, what if one pup had to be chocking a little, part of the time, I thought we could handle that.
When I found I had only one poop bag I thought I could handle that too. Olie usually waits until we go walking to 'go', but Blossom doesn't usually 'go'. She just marks her territory all the time, like every fifteen feet. Of coarse then Olie has to mark his right on top of hers. It gets embarrassing.
One problem, was that I hadn't planned on meeting up with 90% of the dogs in South Amarillo. Blossom doesn't like other dogs besides Oliver. She thinks she can take down all the hounds, so every time I saw one in the distance I grabbed her by the collar and she had to walk on her hind legs. Not fun to explain to everybody you pass that she's aggressive and I'm trying to teach her not to be. I got a lot of sideways looks - yeah right, you're not trying to choke her to death, you are just being mean. I'm gettin' used to that.
Naturally, before we hardly get started, here comes the poop. But it wasn't Oliver. Blossom squatted before we got to the first crossover bridge. I had to pick it up because she 'did' it where kids play. When I bent down, a lady, with one of the dogs Blossom didn't like, came by and let's just say I had trouble getting everything put back together. We had 3/4 of a mile to go and here I'm carrying a used poop bag. Decided I'd try to pick up Olie's with the same bag, which meant I'd be hauling that smelly sack until he did his thing. When he finally decided to 'go' it was in an area where kids don't usually play and few people walk so guess what - in this heat it'll dry before morning.
Finally, I'm back home, tired, hot and sweaty. But before I sat down to write this I put the regular double dog leash in the car and opened the car trunk to get more poop bags. Guess what again? You're right, there weren't any in the trunk, nor any in the house. I'd better get some tomorrow, or at least before it cools off and I try to take them walking again. Right now, I think I'm gonna go get me a 'green thing' and sit down. If you don't know what a green thing is, don't worry, it'll just help me sleep better. Have a good night.
We started this journey at eight thirty and it was eighty nine degrees HOT then, but it was sort of cloudy and I figured it would get cooler and there would be a slight breeze so it wouldn't be too bad. Evidently, the heat we've had recently has fried my brain. It didn't get cooler and there wasn't much of a breeze.
First off I'd left the double leash at home leaving me with only one retractable leash and another strap with a catch on both ends. Well, this old lady wasn't gonna let a little thing like that stop her, so I hooked the retractable leash to a loose little round metal thingie in the middle of the strap and fastened each end of the strap to a dog. OK, what if one pup had to be chocking a little, part of the time, I thought we could handle that.
When I found I had only one poop bag I thought I could handle that too. Olie usually waits until we go walking to 'go', but Blossom doesn't usually 'go'. She just marks her territory all the time, like every fifteen feet. Of coarse then Olie has to mark his right on top of hers. It gets embarrassing.
One problem, was that I hadn't planned on meeting up with 90% of the dogs in South Amarillo. Blossom doesn't like other dogs besides Oliver. She thinks she can take down all the hounds, so every time I saw one in the distance I grabbed her by the collar and she had to walk on her hind legs. Not fun to explain to everybody you pass that she's aggressive and I'm trying to teach her not to be. I got a lot of sideways looks - yeah right, you're not trying to choke her to death, you are just being mean. I'm gettin' used to that.
Naturally, before we hardly get started, here comes the poop. But it wasn't Oliver. Blossom squatted before we got to the first crossover bridge. I had to pick it up because she 'did' it where kids play. When I bent down, a lady, with one of the dogs Blossom didn't like, came by and let's just say I had trouble getting everything put back together. We had 3/4 of a mile to go and here I'm carrying a used poop bag. Decided I'd try to pick up Olie's with the same bag, which meant I'd be hauling that smelly sack until he did his thing. When he finally decided to 'go' it was in an area where kids don't usually play and few people walk so guess what - in this heat it'll dry before morning.
Finally, I'm back home, tired, hot and sweaty. But before I sat down to write this I put the regular double dog leash in the car and opened the car trunk to get more poop bags. Guess what again? You're right, there weren't any in the trunk, nor any in the house. I'd better get some tomorrow, or at least before it cools off and I try to take them walking again. Right now, I think I'm gonna go get me a 'green thing' and sit down. If you don't know what a green thing is, don't worry, it'll just help me sleep better. Have a good night.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
It's Been A Loooong Time Since I graduated High School
Recently went to Slaton, Texas, because it was celebrating it's 100th birthday. I graduated high school there, way way way back in 1949. Each class had get togethers, so BJ, a friend, and I drove down on Saturday morning, watched the parade. Floats, with people throwin' candy, lots of tractors, old cars, and the high school band playing Hold That Tiger ('cause they're the Slaton Tigers).
Afterward, BJ and I headed to the Slaton Bakery. I was not about to try out the Port-O-Potty, and the city hall was closed. Ever tried to find a rest room in a town you don't know and there aren't any fillin' stations around? Wasn't time to eat so we didn't look for a restaurant. My grandmother used to buy me cookies at the Slaton Bakery when I was just a kid. Then I got big enough to buy them for myself, so at least I'd been in the bakery before. It's still in the same family so I figure I'm a customer. Normally I would've bought something but BJ bought enough for both of us. Outside some men were selling homemade ice cream and I bought us some of that. It was good ice cream, and they even put a cookie on top.
First we checked out her class - 1959. She's a lot younger than I am. Didn't recognize anyone. They didn't recognize me either, but they did ask about my brother when they found out my maiden name was Peebles.
Finally we went to Alton Kenn's, where my class was meeting. Shoot, I didn't recognize many in there either. Names sounded familiar though. When asked, I used my given name - Johnie Peebles. They would look at me and then almost yell "Johnie Pearl". I want'ch to know, I dropped that Pearl part the minute I hit Texas Tech, fall of 1949. Here I've had one first name for all these years and suddenly I'm a two first name Texas girl again.
I did recognize a few though - Nancy, Joan, Forrestine, Alton, Waylon. For a few more there was a slight resemblance to people I had seen sometime during my life, and then there were those that I had no clue who they were.
Four of us started first grade together, and made it all the way through high school to graduation - Freddie England, Daunita Dowell, Jimmy Porter and me. Jim showed up. I hadn't seen him since 1949. A person can change in sixty two years. Daunita wasn't able to come, but I did see her about twenty five years ago. Freddie was at the last reunion I attended and said he'd be at our very last one. I spoke up saying I would be right there with him. He didn't make it. He's gone now, and I really missed him. Freddie and I were in the Cradle Roll at the First Baptist Church together, when we were babies.
BJ and I drove around town before we left to take a look at places that had meant a lot to us growing up. The house where she lived is now run down, and the trees her dad was so proud of are gone. She kept saying "Daddy would just have a fit." The one where I lived is gone completely. I was been born in that house. Lived there all my life and then got married in it. Now all that is left is a vacant lot full of weeds.
Buildings around the square are the same, different names, different stores, some have been sort of re-done, but are just older. The court house was torn down and a new one built years ago. Focal point on the square when I was growing up was the gazebo. That's where I played a violin solo on a program one Saturday night, when I was about 8 years old. It was either torn or fell down, but towns-people wanted it back, so now there is a new one. It's the brightest spot in all of down town. The old Harvey House down by the Santa Fe Railroad was vacant ever since I can remember. It has been restored and is now a bed and breakfast. That's where BJ's class met.
It was July 3, 2011, a bright sunny day. BJ and I enjoyed it. However, talking on the way back to Amarillo, we agreed - you can go back, but you really can't go back home again. Home is where you are living now. Enjoy it.
Afterward, BJ and I headed to the Slaton Bakery. I was not about to try out the Port-O-Potty, and the city hall was closed. Ever tried to find a rest room in a town you don't know and there aren't any fillin' stations around? Wasn't time to eat so we didn't look for a restaurant. My grandmother used to buy me cookies at the Slaton Bakery when I was just a kid. Then I got big enough to buy them for myself, so at least I'd been in the bakery before. It's still in the same family so I figure I'm a customer. Normally I would've bought something but BJ bought enough for both of us. Outside some men were selling homemade ice cream and I bought us some of that. It was good ice cream, and they even put a cookie on top.
First we checked out her class - 1959. She's a lot younger than I am. Didn't recognize anyone. They didn't recognize me either, but they did ask about my brother when they found out my maiden name was Peebles.
Finally we went to Alton Kenn's, where my class was meeting. Shoot, I didn't recognize many in there either. Names sounded familiar though. When asked, I used my given name - Johnie Peebles. They would look at me and then almost yell "Johnie Pearl". I want'ch to know, I dropped that Pearl part the minute I hit Texas Tech, fall of 1949. Here I've had one first name for all these years and suddenly I'm a two first name Texas girl again.
I did recognize a few though - Nancy, Joan, Forrestine, Alton, Waylon. For a few more there was a slight resemblance to people I had seen sometime during my life, and then there were those that I had no clue who they were.
Four of us started first grade together, and made it all the way through high school to graduation - Freddie England, Daunita Dowell, Jimmy Porter and me. Jim showed up. I hadn't seen him since 1949. A person can change in sixty two years. Daunita wasn't able to come, but I did see her about twenty five years ago. Freddie was at the last reunion I attended and said he'd be at our very last one. I spoke up saying I would be right there with him. He didn't make it. He's gone now, and I really missed him. Freddie and I were in the Cradle Roll at the First Baptist Church together, when we were babies.
BJ and I drove around town before we left to take a look at places that had meant a lot to us growing up. The house where she lived is now run down, and the trees her dad was so proud of are gone. She kept saying "Daddy would just have a fit." The one where I lived is gone completely. I was been born in that house. Lived there all my life and then got married in it. Now all that is left is a vacant lot full of weeds.
Buildings around the square are the same, different names, different stores, some have been sort of re-done, but are just older. The court house was torn down and a new one built years ago. Focal point on the square when I was growing up was the gazebo. That's where I played a violin solo on a program one Saturday night, when I was about 8 years old. It was either torn or fell down, but towns-people wanted it back, so now there is a new one. It's the brightest spot in all of down town. The old Harvey House down by the Santa Fe Railroad was vacant ever since I can remember. It has been restored and is now a bed and breakfast. That's where BJ's class met.
It was July 3, 2011, a bright sunny day. BJ and I enjoyed it. However, talking on the way back to Amarillo, we agreed - you can go back, but you really can't go back home again. Home is where you are living now. Enjoy it.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
My name is Sweetie
Yep, my name is Sweetie. It didn't used to be, but I got old and people have changed my name. They don't even ask me what my name is. It is taken for granted. They look at me and out of their mouth comes "Sweetie".
Except at the doctor's office where I am called by my first name, Johnie. There I used to be Mrs. Not any more. I understand Congress has passed laws to protect my privacy. I wish they wouldn't do that sort of thing. I'll bet if I stripped necked in the mall, my full name would be printed in the newspaper in bold type in the middle of the front page. Besides, someday there might be someone, who I would like for them to know my name.
But back to the subject. Waiters, waitresses, salesmen, salesladies, grocery clerks, car wash people, you name it, where ever there are people that need to address me, I am called Sweetie. Policemen - no, they just start right in asking for a driver's license. At least that's what happened the last time I got stopped, thirty years ago.
I was complaining about this to my daughter the other day. Told her that it irks me just a tad to always be addressed as Sweetie. Why not call me Beautiful, Good Lookin', Cute. Well, now there's something I'll never be called. I wasn't even cute when I was cute. But people could call me somthing nice. Just don't ever call me Maam. That's not gonna fly, but daggers might. My brother did that once - only once.
Suzanne got to thinkin' and had another take on why older women, (including me) are called Sweetie. Her thought is that people won't say what they really would like to say. "Don't get me wrong," she said, "but some uh, uhmmm --- experienced women ( she swallowed hard and took a deep breath) can be rather trying at times, especially to service people, and what they would really like to tell them is that they are a pain in the a--"troturf, (I know that is spelled wrong, but I am trying to be nice - again.) I have to do that a lot lately, try to be nice that is.
I have a question though. Am I the only person that is fed up with people thinking I'm old, when I do not feel old at all? I know I look it. ,my mirror says I do. But looks can be deceiving. My brain says I'm only - oh, maybe forty five, no more than fifty. Then again, sometime, yeah, all of the time, when I stand up I creek a little.
Well, that's life, and I intend to dance while I can still dance. When someone calls me 'Sweetie', I'l look at them, give 'em a big smile and think you think I'm a pain in the but. We'll just see about that. Do what I want and I'll be a Sweetie. Don't, and I can sure be a PITA.
Except at the doctor's office where I am called by my first name, Johnie. There I used to be Mrs. Not any more. I understand Congress has passed laws to protect my privacy. I wish they wouldn't do that sort of thing. I'll bet if I stripped necked in the mall, my full name would be printed in the newspaper in bold type in the middle of the front page. Besides, someday there might be someone, who I would like for them to know my name.
But back to the subject. Waiters, waitresses, salesmen, salesladies, grocery clerks, car wash people, you name it, where ever there are people that need to address me, I am called Sweetie. Policemen - no, they just start right in asking for a driver's license. At least that's what happened the last time I got stopped, thirty years ago.
I was complaining about this to my daughter the other day. Told her that it irks me just a tad to always be addressed as Sweetie. Why not call me Beautiful, Good Lookin', Cute. Well, now there's something I'll never be called. I wasn't even cute when I was cute. But people could call me somthing nice. Just don't ever call me Maam. That's not gonna fly, but daggers might. My brother did that once - only once.
Suzanne got to thinkin' and had another take on why older women, (including me) are called Sweetie. Her thought is that people won't say what they really would like to say. "Don't get me wrong," she said, "but some uh, uhmmm --- experienced women ( she swallowed hard and took a deep breath) can be rather trying at times, especially to service people, and what they would really like to tell them is that they are a pain in the a--"troturf, (I know that is spelled wrong, but I am trying to be nice - again.) I have to do that a lot lately, try to be nice that is.
I have a question though. Am I the only person that is fed up with people thinking I'm old, when I do not feel old at all? I know I look it. ,my mirror says I do. But looks can be deceiving. My brain says I'm only - oh, maybe forty five, no more than fifty. Then again, sometime, yeah, all of the time, when I stand up I creek a little.
Well, that's life, and I intend to dance while I can still dance. When someone calls me 'Sweetie', I'l look at them, give 'em a big smile and think you think I'm a pain in the but. We'll just see about that. Do what I want and I'll be a Sweetie. Don't, and I can sure be a PITA.
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