Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

For the past 8 years or so, I’ve had an unofficial summer uniform for around the house, shorts and a sleeveless cotton 1-pocket blouse. I have the blouse in 5 colors. I planned on wearing them forever or until they disintegrated, whichever came first. The only downside of the blouses is that they require ironing, which is a hot, unpleasant chore in the summer even with the A/C running and the ceiling fan on. The color of the shirts has faded from vibrant to bordering pastel, but I don’t care. They’re the perfect summer blouse, cool and comfortable in a classic style.

When I took the white blouse out of the wash the other day, I was horrified to discover that the collar is separating from the shirt. Disintegration day had snuck up when I wasn’t looking. I may be able to mend the blouse, but much as I hated it, the time had arrived to start looking for replacements. It’s not as if I haven’t had my eye out for a while, but nothing had approached the perfection of the blouses I already owned.

Then I found these ridiculous looking sleeveless tops at Belk. They’re nothing like what I had in mind. They’re bright, bordering on 60’s flower child-style, and they have ruffles. I definitely wasn’t looking for ruffles. When I first caught sight of them in the store, I couldn’t believe anyone in their right mind would buy the things. Then I took a second look and saw the possibilities.

They are bright, but the patterns are so distracting that they disguise a multitude of flaws. They’re slightly gathered at the neck in front, again, nice camouflage. They’re a longer length and looked full enough to cover the hips, definitely a plus since my shorts stretch and when I first put them on after laundering, they’re skin tight until worn for a few hours. I grabbed a handful in assorted patterns to try on.

I now own 6 of the silly things. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them in public, other than dog walking on the Canal Trail, but for around the house, they’re perfect. They’re cool and comfortable and the bright floral patterns are actually kind of fun. They remind me of the cotton housedresses that women used to wear at home in the summer. Best of all, they hang-dry in an hour or so and don’t require ironing. Of course, the front decorative stitching did sort of draw up after the first wash, so the top now has a ruched effect in front, but that’s in style at the moment.

I doubt these tops will last as long as the blouses they’re replacing, but they’ll do for now. I suspect they were designed for someone much younger than I, although they were in the womens department. There's nothing classic or even vaguely tasteful about them. Too bad. I’m in love all over again. Dad is looking for his sunglasses.

Good boy!

Wednesday is laundry day at my house. Once you get Dad on a schedule, you have to stick to it. When I was taking his dirty clothes out of the hamper, I noticed that once again, jeans were suspiciously absent. Given that he wears jeans every single day, you would expect to find a pair in the weekly wash. I swear, I have to practically threaten his life or physically wrestle them off of him.

I marched out to the den where he still sat reading the morning paper. “I haven’t seen any jeans in the wash for a while,” I began. “I haven’t been doing too much work,” he replied. “Just wearing them is enough to make them need washing periodically,” I answered. Then I walked off and waited to see what would happen. I just wasn’t up to fighting about it this morning.

About 5 minutes later, he went back to his bedroom and I heard drawers opening and closing. He came out with the jeans in his hand, complaining, “I just want you to know that I took them off too soon. I tried to stand them up and they just fell down. They’re not ready for the laundry yet.” “I’m sure if you’d waited another 10 minutes they’d have passed the test,” I assured him. He walked off down the hall still muttering.

I started the next load of laundry and let Dillon out in the backyard. He disappeared for a few minutes and when he came back, he had something dangling from his mouth that looked a lot like it should be on Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone’s head. There was definitely a tail hanging down. “Oh, my goodness,” I said in dismay.

Dillon is such a good dog. I would have had to physically wrest the dead thing away from Katie. It would have been an awful, disgusting process and she probably would have rolled in it before she ever brought it out to show me, so there would also have been a bath involved to try to delouse her. The minute I said, “Oh, my goodness,” Dillon dropped the thing on the ground and came running to me. I promptly ushered him into the house, telling what a good boy he was and rewarded him with a big dog biscuit.

Then I went out to the garage in search of Dad. “I made you give up your jeans too soon,” I began. He looked at me suspiciously. “Dillon just came up with a big, dead creature dangling from his mouth. He dropped it by the butterfly bush. I need for you to go dispose of it.” He looked at me. “I know, I made you give up your work jeans,” I said. “How am I supposed to work without my jeans?” he grumbled. Like one pair of his jeans isn’t exactly the same as the next.

He went out to get rid of the carcass. He came back in a few minutes later. “I want you to know, I’m having to make an extra trip because when I took the keys to the shed out of the pocket of my other jeans, I forgot to transfer them to this pair of jeans.” “I know, it’s all my fault,” I said attempting to placate him. Anything to avoid having to deal with the dead thing myself.

After making the trek down the hall to the bedroom, he went back outside, got the shovel, and tossed the thing over the fence. “What was it?” I asked when he came back inside. “A dead squirrel.” “I gave Dillon a big dog biscuit as a reward. Would you like a big dog biscuit?” He gave me a dirty look.

I was going to make him a chocolate pudding pie except I need to go to the grocery store for more Cool Whip. The Cool Whip I intended to use for his pie got sacrificed to topping the chocolate pudding and jello I’ve been eating. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Open wide

I love weekends and holidays when I’m off work and can do whatever I want. Unfortunately, doctors and dentists are also off on most weekends and holidays. So naturally, that’s when I have medical issues arise and get to spend the rest of the weekend worrying and running through every worst case scenario. I’m the Queen of Murphy’s Law, what can go wrong will.

This past Saturday, I was having breakfast when I bit down on a nut in my chocolate chip pumpkin bread and practically fell to my knees. I thought the top of my head might come off. I spent the rest of the weekend making very sure not to chew anything on that side of my mouth. Dad asked why we were having soup for supper on Sunday. Usually I only fix soup in the winter. “Because it doesn’t require chewing,” I replied.

Up until that point, I hadn’t enlightened him about my tooth problem. Dad’s a worrier and he always chooses to look on the dark side, so I wait as long as possible and only tell him what I absolutely have to. When I told him about my painful tooth and how I was afraid a crown was in my future, his reply was, “Let’s hope that’s all it is.” How was that comment even remotely helpful? I had already been mentally replaying the videos the dentist used to show of the dental implant procedure and praying I wasn’t going to need one. See why I chose to keep my father in the dark whenever possible?

I presented myself at the dentist first thing Monday morning. The dentist took a look and said I have a cracked tooth. Luckily, it hasn’t progressed to the point that a root canal is required. I’m scheduled to get a crown this afternoon. So I’ll be sitting in the dental chair, sweating and praying, while try to outwardly look calm and maintain my composure. When I had crowns in the past, my former dentist gave me nitrous oxide before we started. After that, I felt pretty happy and didn’t really care what happened. I don’t know my new dentist’s position on laughing gas.

Just the sound of the drill puts my nerves on edge. Plus, the joint on the right side of my jaw has a tendency to want to lock, and I live in fear that it will someday get stuck locked in the open position and I’ll look like that singing fish that was so popular a few years back, Billy the Wide-Mouthed Bass. The hygienist assured me that they could pop my jaw back in, should it come to that. I assured her that it would be better for everyone involved if we didn’t have to put that to the test.

Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean. I’m not sure my usual calming mantra is going to work with the fish fear. And it’s a little dangerous to take deep breaths when someone is working in your mouth with power tools. This afternoon is going to seem like an eternity.

Happy Father's Day

"A man's children and his garden both reflect the amount of weeding done during the growing season". – Unknown

Don't play with your food?

Dillon is a real chowhound. He inhales his food. I swear he doesn’t even chew if he can help it. I needed to find a way to slow him down. I have a buster cube treat dispensing toy from when Holly was a puppy. I put Dillon’s breakfast kibble inside the cube and set it down on the floor.


He looked at the cube in confusion then tried to stick his tongue down into the hole. He looked back at me for help. I rolled the cube and a few pieces of kibble fell out. He gobbled them up and looked back at me. I rolled the cube again. He ate the next few pieces of kibble and then looked back at me. This wasn’t working out quite as I had planned.

I figured I’d done enough demonstrating, I went to the computer and left him to figure out how the cube worked. He had a hard time with it. Instead of rolling it, he kept pushing it across the floor until it banged into something. Then he waited for me to come move it. He finally barked at me in frustration because his breakfast was trapped in the cube and he wanted it now.

After two days of this, I was the one that was frustrated. A friend gave me an Omega ball tricky treats dog toy when I adopted Dillon. He hadn’t shown much interest in it then. After he tried to eat his way through a heavy rubber Kong, I didn’t force the issue. I had visions of bowel obstructions when he decided to destroy the rubber toy to reach the food. I decided with supervision, it would be safe to give it another try.


I filled the ball with kibble, put it on the floor, and gave it a roll. Dillon gobbled up the food and nosed the ball. It rolled and dispensed more kibble. He spent the next 15 minutes rolling that ball all over the house, eating his breakfast, tail wagging furiously. The ball is terrific. It doesn’t get stuck against a wall and he can roll it easily. He’s even figured out that he can pick it up and carry it into another room when he wants to follow me. Dad gets a big kick out of watching him.

Folks, we definitely have a winner. Now I just need to find a funnel to get the kibble into the ball faster. This morning, Dillon barked and whined and bounced and groaned while waiting for me to fill the cube with his breakfast. As soon as I dropped the ball to the floor, he was off, tail wagging, rolling the ball all over the den. Dad just shook his head and laughed.

I love a sale

Talbots is my go-to store for clothing. It takes some work because I buy on sale. They're currently having a purse sale. A really big, secret, purse sale. All regular price purses, except their Beacon Hill line, are $49.00 through Sunday. The catch is, it's in store only. Same purses on-line aren't marked down. You can get around that by clicking on the purse on their website and then using the find in a store search feature to find a store that has the purse you want in stock, call them, do a send/sale, and they'll ship it to you for $6.

Yesterday I bought the haircalf slouch tote, regularly priced at $179, for $49. I'm thinking it will be great for fall/winter. It also comes in basic black leather.



I understand these pink hobos have been flying off the shelves as well. It also comes in faux raffia and dark basket. It's really pretty, but really big. Regular price, $199, sale price $49. I'm still thinking.


To give you a size reference. You could pack for a weekend in that bag.



If you prefer something a little more classic.


It also comes in leather in a sweet almond color. $199 now $49.

No, I'm not getting a commission. I just love a sale.

Don't talk with your mouth full

My father can come up with a negative comment to make in almost any situation. He’s definitely of the opinion that the glass is half empty and probably smaller than anyone else’s glass. I swear to God, if he won the lottery, he’d complain about the inconvenience of having to go claim his prize.

The library called yesterday to say that the books he requested had arrived; he grimaced because they all came in at the same time. I pointed out that if he didn’t want the books, he shouldn’t ask for them or else he should stagger his list. No, he prefers to find fault. Apparently, that’s how he amuses himself. I find it wearisome only when I’m not downright annoyed.

I carefully review any story before I share it to insure that it should only elicit amusement, not yet another superior, disparaging response. Recently even seemingly innocuous stories haven’t proved safe from his critical analysis. I’ve about decided to stop talking to him at all except to say, “Your sandwich is ready.” If I rattle the ice loudly enough and slam his plate down on the table, I don't even have to waste my breath saying that.

It’s amazing how someone who thinks he’s so smart can’t see the results of his own attitude. He’s the one who loses when I’m unwilling to share my latest funny story or interesting anecdote. I have plenty of other people with whom to socialize. He doesn’t regularly see anyone except me. And given that I can eat really fast, especially when I don’t waste time with conversation at the dinner table, he’s seeing a lot less of me.

Sugar and Spice

Dad’s been on a strawberry shortcake kick. He buys the strawberries at the farmer’s market. I bake the sugar-free Pillsbury yellow cakes. Every night, after I make his sandwich, I cut up strawberries and make his strawberry shortcake. I pointed out that anyone capable of cutting up a banana on his cereal every morning was quite capable of cutting up strawberries for his own cake. “But it tastes so much better when you do it,” he replied. “My food tastes better when someone else makes it too!” I snapped back. He’s so damn lazy and flattery doesn’t make up for it.

I baked myself a pan of Ghirardelli double chocolate brownies on Monday. After they cooled, I put the pan of brownies into a plastic bag and took them back to my study so they’d be handy next time I wanted a snack. Yesterday at lunch, Dad wanted to know what happened to the brownies. “They were for me, not you,” I informed him. Occasionally I bake him sugar-free brownies, but come on, how many desserts does he think he’s entitled to at one time? The correct answer would be one or less if I’m the one who has to make them.

Sorry, Charlotte

I was in the middle of doing my exercises on Tuesday when I noticed a dark blob on the floor against the bookcase. Since it’s gotten so hot, Dillon’s shedding and leaving behind clumps of dark hair, but this didn’t exactly look like one of those. Upon closer inspection, it was a big, big spider. I don’t like spiders.

I stopped exercising and started running through my options. Calling Dad to come kill it was out of the question. Not because I’m too proud to scream for help, but because the spider would be long gone before I ever got Dad’s attention. If I stomped on it, it was going to leave an icky blob on the carpet and the bottom of my shoe. I didn’t like the thought of having to clean up spider guts.

Plan B had me grabbing a handful of Kleenex, one definitely wasn’t going to be enough, and turning on a light so I could get a better look at the spider since it was in a dark corner of the room. It had been still until that point. It must have sensed danger because it suddenly started running for the wall. There was a basket and two picture frames on the floor, leaning against the chest of drawers. The spider went between them. By the time I had moved them, it had disappeared from sight.

The only thing worse than seeing a huge spider, is losing sight of the same huge spider. Moving the chest wasn’t an option and I wasn’t about to start poking around underneath it. I decided it was time to adopt a live and let live attitude and hope the spider did the same. I went back to exercising, trying not to think about when or where I might see the spider again.

At lunch, I complained about the really big spider in my study to Dad. He rounded up a spray can of Terro spider insecticide that he’d used on the ants on the back porch. While I appreciated the gesture, I wasn’t thrilled about spraying insecticide around Dillon. Last night I kept scanning the room, searching for the spider, while I watched tv. Every time I spotted a new clump of dog hair on the carpet, my heart skipped a beat thinking it was a spider.

This morning, I was getting ready to exercise again. I caught sight of a big black blob in the middle of the floor in my study. Darn if it wasn’t a really big spider. I didn’t worry about cleaning up spider guts. I took off my flip-flop and whacked it twice. It curled up and looked dead. Just to be on the safe side, I grabbed a couple of Kleenex, scooped it up, tried not to think about what I was holding in my hand, headed for the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

I hope it was the same spider that interrupted my exercises the day before. I hope it didn’t have a mate. I really hope it didn’t leave behind a family in my study. When I told Dad at lunch that I’d killed a big spider in my study, he laughed and informed me, “You know, most spiders don’t bother anybody.” I informed him that his statement was not accurate. “Most spiders may not hurt anybody, but they definitely bother a lot of people, including me.”

The heat is on

When I sat down to eat lunch yesterday, I thought it was rather warm. I looked up and the ceiling fan was already on, so I just assumed that the oven had heated up the kitchen. A little later, I walked down the hall and glanced at the thermostat, which was registering 81 degrees. Given that it was set at 79, that wasn’t a good sign.

I went to the nearest vent and stuck my hand in front of it. Nothing was coming out of the vent. I went to the back door. The fan motor and unit outside were running away. Still no air coming out of the vents. Wonderful. The hottest day of the year and my A/C wasn’t working.

Thank goodness, I noticed it before I went to work. Dad would have just sat there and done nothing about it until I came home, when it would have been too late to call for service. I turned off the unit and quickly called my A/C contractor. I schedule a call for routine maintenance as soon as it gets warm every spring, but for the past couple of years we go from warm to hot so quickly that Rudy doesn’t have time to get here before he’s on no service calls.

Joyce asked if I’d be home all afternoon. I told her no, but Dad would be here and if Rudy went around to the door on the porch, Dad would hear him. I left Dad with strict instructions to listen out. If Rudy came and couldn’t get in, I was going to be very unhappy. The temperature had risen to 83 degrees in the house before I left.

At work, it was nice and cool. I gave some thought to coming back with a sleeping bag and air mattress and camping out for the night. But what would I do with Dad and Dillon? I also worried about Dad sitting in that hot house. They stress hydration, particularly for the elderly, and Dad is bad about not drinking water. He can be really dumb about some things.

When I arrived home, I was thrilled to hear the A/C running. Rudy had already been and fixed it. You can’t beat that for service. It pays to be a long-time customer. Dad didn’t ask what was wrong, he figured it didn’t matter as long as it was fixed. I always like to know what the problem was. It was still 83 degrees in the house, but it’s amazing how much cooler 83 feels when the temperature is falling instead of rising.