I’ve been getting ready to go for months—years, actually. I’ve been buying odds and ends as I think of them, little three-ounce bottles, new underwear (as you don’t want customs officials to see your old underwear), a sunhat, travel clock, and all the other weird gear listed in the travel agency’s “must have” list.
I’m going to Egypt to see the pyramids, the trip of a lifetime. I thought I was all set. I put all my junk into plastic zip-lock bags and dragged my suitcase out of the attic so I did not have to look for it when it was time to pack. I was prepared—prepared, I tell you, ready to go.
So, last weekend was the last weekend before the big trip. I was adding a few last-minutes items to my collection when I realized that my suitcase looked rather large. I went to the Delta website to check allowable sizes—22 x 14 x 9 for a carry-on, it said.
I had already been through the “carry-on vs. checked luggage” debate. I favored checking. Honey favored carry-on. I finally relented. It did seem faster and more practical since we had to travel light anyhow.
I measured my red suitcase—25 inches! How could that be? I took it on the plane to California. Did it grow? Then I remembered that we had checked luggage on that trip and ended up scurrying all over the Los Angeles airport trying to find baggage claim.
I had a smaller size, 17 inches. No way could all my plastic bags fit in that. I thought of the old standby suitcase. The outside pocket is torn and it looks like the baggage handlers played volleyball with it. I began to think “new suitcase.” Honey has a shiny black Samsonite spinner. I hated to think of carrying my old torn clunker.
The gift certificate for Macy’s that I got for Christmas would come close to buying a new one if I could find one that didn’t require robbing a bank to pay for it. The last thing I wanted was to spend my mad money on a suitcase instead of miniature pyramid statues and camel rides.
I might as well tell you that I don’t like shopping malls. Malls used to be a fine thing when I was younger and could walk from one place to another. But now, malls are aggravating. They are too big. Bigger is better when it comes to some things, but not malls. Macy’s, of course, is in the mall.
I made the ultimate sacrifice and went to the mall. It was my lucky day; luggage was on sale dirt cheap. But even dirt can cost an arm and leg. I looked at everything and found a cheap black one, but it was naturally available in only king and queen size. We even bribed the salesperson to check the stockroom for something smaller.
This is what happens when you wait until the last minute to buy a suitcase. If I had been a wise owl, I would have looked for luggage months ago, not at the last minute. I had to settle for what was available. Finally, I narrowed it down to two choices that were the right size, the right price, and, most importantly, in stock. I didn’t have time to go chasing around all over the city looking for a suitcase.
The trouble was that the choices available were purple and magenta. I eventually decided to buy the purple one since the magenta one was even more ugly. What does it matter what color it is? At least I could tell my suitcase from all the other suitcases at the airport. Purple should practically glow in the dark.
And that’s the story of how I came to have a purple suitcase.
I’m actually beginning to like it. Purple grows on you after a while. I never thought I’d see the day when I would not only travel with a purple suitcase, but travel with a purple suitcase and like it.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

[Editor’s note: This column was supposed to run last month. Pretend it’s December.]

Mrs. Claus, we know you are very busy at this time of the year. We would like to ask you a few questions to help people know you a bit better. It has been said that behind every great man is a great woman.

*Do you believe you contribute anything special as a woman?

I have a bit of women’s intuition, but it is difficult to anticipate which toys will be the hot toys of the season. I’d need more than ESP to figure that out.

*Do you prefer to be in the company of others?

I must admit that elves can wear on a person’s nerves, always wanting raises, holidays off, and threatening to strike during the December rush. But for the most part, we all get along.

*Do you tend to avoid social relationships?

I don’t think Santa would like it much if I didn’t. However, I have been known to post on social networks like Facebook or do an occasional Tweet. Does that count?

*Do you think you take advantage of the elves or use them?

I beg your pardon. All our elves are here because they want to be and they can leave at any time. Where else can they get cooking like mine as a side benefit?

*Are you suspicious that people may be doing things behind your back?

I wouldn’t last long if I was the suspicious type with Santa out cavorting all over the country all night.

*Do you tend to choose jobs that are below your skill level?

Heavens, no! It takes a lot of management skill, business knowledge, and human relations skill to be an Assistant CEO. I could stand up to scrutiny by anyone, even Donald Trump.

*Are you considered a bit “eccentric” by other people?

Well, how many other people do you know, not counting Taylor Swift and Santa, who are running around in boots and red velvet?

*Have people accused you of being cruel to animals?

Oh, those PETA people are always saying we abuse the reindeer by keeping them up all night and making them fly too far. But we could never do it with a helicopter.

*Are you prone to bouts of anger?

What has Santa told you, anyhow? If those stupid elves would remember their responsibilities instead of playing with the toys, I wouldn’t have to yell at them.

*Do you consider yourself as having a strong need for approval?

Who doesn’t like approval? People can be contrary and like to complain, especially if the elves forget to include the batteries.

*Do other people accuse you of being manipulative?

Santa can be stubborn as an ox at times. The only way to manipulate someone like that is with a two-by-four.

*Are you very afraid of being alone?

I sort of enjoy Christmas Eve when Santa is gone and I can have a night without listening to him snore. Nothing around here to be afraid of but polar bears and they only come around when they want a handout.

*Have you ever done something that you could be put in jail for?

I did hit the eggnog a bit hard one year and tried to drive the sled, but the Mounties didn’t press charges. Seems they have kids too and felt like they owed us one.

*Do you have a big fear of rejection?

Not unless kids start rejecting toys, and that isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. As far as Santa rejecting me, who else would want a fat old elf with a beard?

Well, we are out of time now. Thanks again for the interview, Mrs. Claus. Here’s my Christmas list. Would you mind passing it along to Santa? I’ve highlighted the most important things. And thanks for the cookie.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

Like Goldilocks and the three bears, we tried out all the chairs for size. This one was too big, this one too small, this one too stiff, this one too hard. Finally, we found a chair that was “just right.” The way my luck usually runs, I figured it would be out of stock, but, no, they had one left in the back—unassembled.

Yesterday was my honey’s birthday. I wanted to get him a new leather computer chair since his old one was getting pretty shabby. I thought he should help pick it out since he would be the one using it. We went to the local computer superstore where they have all kinds of fancy computer accessories and furniture.

There was nothing really wrong with his old chair except the leather had holes in the elbows where he had banged it against the desk. I got my chair at the same time he bought his and it is still good. Go figure.

I was going to get the old chair reupholstered, but the upholstery guy said leather is $200 a yard. “Are you sure you want real leather? What kind of chair is it, anyhow? Why don’t you just get a new one? Can you come back Monday? I don’t feel very good today.”

I couldn’t deal with it, so I decided to take his advice and get a new one.

I noticed the box seemed awfully small when they brought it out from the back of the store. They would assemble the chair for only $7.99. But how hard could it be to put a chair together? Stick the top in the base and that’s it. I wanted it now and did not want to wait.

“Easy Assembly,” said the box. We could do it ourselves.

The instructions were so simple there were no words, only pictures: step 1, step 2, step 3, etc. In the box were a base, a back, a seat, casters, arms, the swivel thing, and a metal bracket for the bottom. They even had all the bolts prepackaged and marked for each step.

Men are better at this kind of thing. Honey could put it together. My 10-year-old grandson could help.

“Where is the Allen wrench?” said honey. That should have been my clue.

My grandson found the wrench in the package with the bolts, and things went along pretty smoothly for a while. Then I heard panic. “There’s a part missing! See the picture? This metal thing sticking out isn’t there.”

A part missing? Didn’t he check for parts first? Apparently not.

“But there are two holes on the bottom bracket and two holes on the back. They have to go together.” Finally, I convinced him to try the bolts. They fit… nothing missing after all.

After the back and seat were together, we had to attach the arms. By then honey was getting fed up with the whole thing. After taking the arms off that were backwards and putting them back on the right way, we finally managed to get everything tight enough not to wobble.

By then I was beating myself over the head for not paying $7.99 to get it assembled. What was I thinking? For a lousy eight bucks I could have had them do it.

We sat the chair right-side up and honey sat down. The casters came off and flew in all directions. Back to the assembly line. I should have known there is no such thing as “easy assembly” regardless of what the manufacturer says.

It does look great now that it is finished, and honey loves it. We are still trying to figure out what to do with all these extra bolts, though.

* * *

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

I became a girl who wore glasses when I was just a little thing, about seven years old, if my memory serves me correctly-and it’s possible that it doesn’t as that was a long time ago.

I always had to go to Charlotte to an eye specialist as my vision problem was not something that could be treated by the doctors in the small North Carolina town where I lived. They were so bad that I even had surgery on my eyes at one point.

I always hated these doctor trips as they included a lot of waiting, which was pretty boring to a kid, and eye drops that made my vision blurry so that I couldn’t even see to walk, much less read an eye chart.

After the eye exam, I always got a new pair of glasses. Kids’ glasses in those days came with pink or blue plastic frames. For some reason, I always had to get the ugly pink ones and could never have blue ones like Jean Landers had.

I went through childhood in pink plastic glasses, trying to be careful because glasses in those days were expensive and easy to break. If my glasses were broken, it meant wearing them fixed with tape until my parents could take me for another appointment in Charlotte.

Regardless of being careful, accidents seemed to happen. Once a kid threw a wallet at me (of all things) and hit my glasses. I cried and cried, not because I was hurt, but because of the trouble I knew I would be in for breaking my glasses.

As I became older, I eventually graduated to brown glasses that went with my hair and the dreaded pink plastic ones became a thing of the past. After that, my eyes changed every year or two and there were many styles of glasses, even cat-eyed glasses, which were all the rage at one point in time.

As a teenager, I hated glasses more than ever. I was called “four eyes,” “nerd,” and “cat-eyes.” As everyone knows, “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” Ironically enough, it was at about that time that the doctor decided I really didn’t need to wear glasses. It wasn’t that I could see any better; it was just that the problem with my vision was not correctable with glasses.

Too bad they could not have figured that out sooner. It would have saved a lot of childhood trauma-not to mention a lot of trips to Charlotte.

I didn’t wear glasses at all until I became older and my eyes began to change. By then, this wonderful thing called “contact lenses” had been invented, and glasses sort of went the way of the dinosaur.

Things went along pretty well for a while with the contacts, until I needed bifocals. I tried bifocal contacts, and tried, and tried. Finally, I gave up. Regardless of how many adjustments were made, I just couldn’t see.

I wore both contacts and reading glasses for while. Finally, I gave up on contacts and just went back to glasses. I was wearing glasses half the time anyhow, so why fool with contacts? When laser eye technology came along, I thought about it, but my doctor said that it was not an option for me. So it seems I’m doomed to forever be a girl who wears glasses.

Everyone was a bit shocked when Sarah Palin came into the national spotlight wearing glasses and not apologizing for it. Sales of frameless glasses increased dramatically. I had already discovered frameless glasses, but what difference does it make whether glasses have frames or not? They are still glasses.

And so time marches on wearing glasses.

As far as boys, it doesn’t matter anymore. Most of the guys are also wearing glasses at this age.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

We’ve been hearing a lot in the news about a disease called swine flu. Laughter is always the best medicine for flu or any other illness. From the funny farm, these are the symptoms:

YOU MIGHT HAVE SWINE FLU IF. . .

* You always pig out at food bars.

* You got a traffic ticket for being a road hog.

* You only go to work to bring home the bacon.

* You call your bathtub “the wallowing hole.”

* Looney Tunes offered you a movie contract.

* You are worried about whether pork is the real white meat.

* People think you’re snooty.

* You have a jar for bacon drippings on your dresser.

* You keep your valuables in a lard bucket.

* Your breath smells like bacon frying.

* You sizzle when you suntan at the beach.

* You’re married to a male chauvinist pig.

* You sleep like a pig in a blanket.

* The butcher asked to take your pulse.

* Your favorite movie is Babe.

* Your favorite book is Olivia the Pig.

* Barbeque restaurants make you nervous.

* Your mother’s name is Miss Piggy.

* You keep the baby in a pigpen.

* Your vehicle of choice is a Harley Hog.

* You like to ride piggy-back.

* You’re developing a sizable pot-belly.

* You believe in a high-fat diet.

* Your hair is braided into pig tails.

* Your favorite pastime is mud wrestling.

* Your favorite sports team is the Razorbacks.

* You refer to your kids as “the three little pigs.”

* Jimmy Dean wants to adopt you.

* You are exercising to get rid of your ham hocks.

* You speak perfect Pig Latin.

* Your fur coat has a curly tail.

* You snort when you laugh.

* You buy your groceries at Piggly-Wiggly.

* You wear a ring in your nose.

* You are living too high on the hog.

* Your kids are named Portia and Porky.

* Your kitchen looks like a pig sty.

* You actually went shopping for pig in a poke.

* You call your shoe rack the family tree.

* You eat mash for breakfast instead of cereal.

* You love mudpack facials.

* You have gravy stains on the front of your clothes.

* You refer to leftovers as pig slop.

* You keep your money in a piggy bank.

* Your dream is to live in hog heaven.

* Your house is mortgaged with Frosty Morn.

* You think of vacations as, “When pigs fly.”

* You’ve gone hog-wild on MySpace.

* Your favorite quotation is “That’s all folks!”

I always figured I would end up on the orthopedic surgeon’s operating table sooner or later, but I thought it would be for a knee replacement, not for a cervical disc fusion in my neck. But here I was, asking-actually begging-to have my neck slashed.

Shows what pain can do to you.

On the big day, I checked into a tiny room that was as cold as a freezer locker and received a backless hospital gown and a blanket so thin I could see through it. Eventually, a stretcher arrived for me and I watched the ceiling squares fly by as I was wheeled down long halls and into an elevator.

The anesthesiologist put an IV hookup in my arm. I was given meds that were supposed to relax me, but didn’t. “Don’t worry, you won’t wake up during surgery, we monitor your brain waves,” he said. What a relief. I hadn’t considered the possibility before that.

I wished they would turn up the drugs.

I was wheeled into what I recognized from TV as an operating room where masked figures in blue garb hovered over me, fiddling with various monitors. I felt a hot sensation in my arm and my wish for drugs was granted.

“Where am I?” I asked.

My eyes burned like fire. I had a large collar around my neck to support my head. Various medical people came in and out, checking monitors and doing whatever it is that medical people do to see if you are still alive.

My chest was congested and I couldn’t breathe. “Cough,” they told me. So, I coughed and coughed and nothing happened except it made my sore throat even sorer.

When I eventually woke up completely, I felt great except for blurry vision. I was ready to be discharged and go home. It wasn’t until later that I found I felt great because I was receiving morphine in my IV. The sneaks.

Breakfast was served-bacon, eggs and a biscuit. I wondered why they didn’t realize my throat was too swollen to eat.

The nurse’s aide came and bathed me with what smelled like Lysol. I wondered if she was using mop water. I was too weak to protest the burning disinfectant, but if there is ever a next time, I intend to be a hippie and refuse baths.

By evening, it was time for my first walk. I was afraid my head would fall off and go rolling down the hall. Two nurses dragged me and the IV stand down the hall and wheeled me back quickly when I nearly passed out.

By the following day, however, I would be able to walk up and down the hall with assistance and without mooning anyone.

I continued to cough. I’m not sure how long you can go without sleep until you become delusional, but given a choice between breathing and sleeping, sleep does not seem very important.

I wanted to go home. Finally, on the third day the doctor came and discharged me. A mere five hours later, I was able to leave. I was much weaker than I realized and fell on my knees trying to get into my house.

Welcome home.

The bad news: the doctor forgot to put a date on the prescription he wrote for pain meds, so the drug store wouldn’t fill it. The good news: I had pain meds left over from pre-surgery.

I slept sitting up in a chair for the first week after surgery, if you can call it sleeping. Nights were hell, coughing all night and trying to breathe. I called my primary doctor for an appointment, and found that I had bacteria in my lungs transmitted by the tubes in my throat during surgery.

I wondered why someone didn’t think of that sooner.
Not fully coherent, I took pain pills along with other medications, which must have been too much sedation as I dreamed of being three people, one who slept, one who floated around the room on sparkling fireworks, and one who coughed.

The doctor ordered a neck monitor to electronically stimulate my neck and make it heal faster. I call it a high-tech witchdoctor necklace and have threatened to decorate it with chicken bones and feathers.

Surgery is gross. I do not recommend it. Pain is worse and I recommend it even less.

Next time, I intend to find an easier way to get material for a column.

Sheila Moss, Humor Columnist

www.humorcolumnist.com

Day 1-I come home from work and find the garage door partly open. “What’s going on?” I wonder. I go inside to check and find a strange dog in the garage. 

Whose dog is that? “Get! Go away! Shoo!”
I guess I will just leave the garage door open until it decides to leave. I’ve seen him around here before, but I’m not sure whose dog he is.
Day 2-My daughter informs me that the black lab belongs to the neighbors. They are gone for the weekend. “Something could happen to him.”
Yeah, like he could get reported to animal control for not being on a leash. But, she makes him a bed in our garage and closes the garage door so he will not get cold.
“Okay, he can stay in the garage until they get back, but he absolutely cannot come in the house. He is not our dog.”
Day 3-I walk into the kitchen and the dog is sleeping on the rug by the door. “What is that dog doing inside?”
“Smokey was cold outside.” Smokey? Now it has a name.
“He’s too afraid to get off the rug. See him shaking?”
Probably afraid the dogcatcher will find him. “Okay, he can sleep on the rug in the kitchen, poor thing, but he absolutely cannot go in the rest of the house. He is not our dog.”
Day 4-My daughter says, “I checked the neighbor’s yard. Smokey’s leash is broken; he chewed though it.
“You are not going to make him go outside in the cold rain, are you? They don’t ever let him run loose.”
Meanwhile, the dog is in the garage scratching on the kitchen door. Next thing I know, he will want to bring twenty canine friends inside with him.
“Okay, he can sleep here until they get back, but he has to stay outside except at night. He is not our dog.”
Day 5-The door to my grandson’s bedroom is closed. I knock on the door and the dog answers, “Woof!”
“What is that dog doing in the bedroom? He is supposed to stay in the kitchen! He is not our dog!”
“He is sleeping on the floor, grandma! He likes it in here better than in the kitchen. He is lonesome.”
Am I the only one who suspects a conspiracy? “Okay, he can sleep here, but just on the floor, and just until the neighbors get home! He is not our dog.”
Day 6-The dog is in my grandson’s bed, stretched out on the bedspread, snoring.
“What is that mutt doing in the bed? Lonesome? How can he be lonesome? Why isn’t he outside? No, you can’t keep him! He is somebody else’s dog!”
Day 7-The neighbors come home! Yippee! I see their car in the driveway.
I immediately give the dog his walking papers and put him out the back door without any luggage or spending money. The dog walks through the wet grass, slowly dragging himself to the neighbor’s house, where he scratches the door.
No doubt he is pretending that he was locked out the whole time, is cold and hungry, and was chased by wild cats. He had to chew through his collar to escape, and is lucky to be alive.
I have not seen the dog since they came back. I’m sure they have no idea that their mongrel was sleeping in the neighbor’s bed, dining on the neighbor’s dog food, being petted by the neighbor’s daughter, and spoiled by the neighbor’s grandson.
They are probably so happy to have their dog come home unharmed that they will lavish him with affection and promise never to leave him home alone again.
Actually, there is no point in leaving him home alone. The next time they go somewhere, they might as well just leave him with us.
We wouldn’t want him to be lonesome.
Sheila Moss, Humor Columnist
www.humorcolumnist.com

Have a bad year and wishing for better luck next year? Try eating some black-eyed peas. Black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day are a southern tradition. There seems to be little agreement on how this custom began, though, or why a food as humble as black-eyed peas might be considered lucky. Read the rest of this article »

A few weeks ago we had a gasoline crisis in the area. The media reported that we are on a major pipeline that brings oil from the Gulf. The report mentioned there could be about 25% less flowing because some oil refineries still are not back to normal since Gustav.

Immediately phones started ringing, people started calling other people, and everyone jumped in their car and sped to the gas station-just in case there might be a shortage.

PANIC!
Lines grew; other people saw the lines and figured something must be going on. So, they got in the line too. After all, if there was going to be a gas shortage, they wanted to be sure their tank was full.
Read the rest of this article »

My honey has some excellent qualities, but keeping up with his cell phone is not one of them. He has misplaced his phone so often that I have lost count of the number of times.

The other day it happened again. We were in the car heading home after work when he reached for his phone and it wasn’t there.

“My cell phone is gone!” he exclaimed, as he scrambled around in his pockets while still trying to drive.
“Call the number from my phone and maybe someone will answer.” But it only rang and rang. Either no one found it or whoever found it intended to keep it. Read the rest of this article »

We went to a breeder and picked her out even before she was old enough to come home. She was cute, I must admit, really cute.

Before you ask, she is a Shih Tzu, a small frou-frou dog from a breed originating in China.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a puppy at my house. I’m not quite sure what to do with her-housebreaking, chewing, and all those horrible things that puppies do.
But she is really cute. Read the rest of this article »

I’m so tired I can’t hold my eyes open, but I can’t fall asleep. I might miss my final bid on eBay. It all started about a week ago when I decided that a turquoise-and-silver necklace would be a nice accessory to have.I put “buy turquoise necklace” in a search engine and eventually found myself on eBay. I was a bit familiar with eBay as I’ve bought a few things there before; but I always lose when I bid, and it seems to be too much trouble and easier just to buy things elsewhere. Read the rest of this article »

School days, school daze—it’s almost all I hear at this time of the year. Kiddies are all excited about their new backpacks crammed with number-two pencils, three-ring binders, wide-ruled notebook paper, football trading cards, yo-yo’s, and whatever else they can sneak in. Yes, I’ve had those calls from the school about the rubber snake too. Read the rest of this article »

There is no point in arguing with a man when he gets that “I-want-a-new-car” gleam in his eye.

My man got that gleam in his eye nearly two months ago. By now, it is no longer a gleam, but more like a laser beam. Read the rest of this article »

I was practically certain that I was too old for amusement parks.

My spouse loves amusement parks. He is a big, overgrown kid who still wants to ride on the rides. I tolerate them.

We heard about an amusement park in Chattanooga. It is not too far away and it seemed like a good weekend adventure. We took my grandson along for an excuse, though my honey really didn’t need an excuse.

This place turned out to be a kiddy park, which was okay since my grandson is a kiddy and so is honey. They had a few adult-type rides, but for the most part it seemed to be more like the place where old amusement park rides go before they die.

I agreed to go on a ride called the Tilt-A-Whirl. Silly me.

“Isn’t this fun?” yelled honey, as it slung us around in circles.

“I feel sick! I think I may throw up.” I groaned, as I staggered away, feeling like I’d been inside a blender.

While I recovered, honey went on another whirly ride. I don’t know what it did as I was too nauseated to watch. My grandson was also chicken at first, though he recovered and rode it later—no hands.

“Let’s ride the paddle boats!” exclaimed honey.

“My knees! My knees!” I was finding body parts that I had long ago forgotten about.

“How about the Scrambler then?” asked honey.

“How about the swings?” I replied in desperation, immediately sorry I had mentioned it.

As I flew round and round, I was certain my shoes would go flying off my feet and end up somewhere in the lake. My eyebrows twitched as I tried to figure out how close to death I was.

“Baby stuff,” grumbled honey.

I knew we were headed towards the roller coaster as we worked our way to the back, and sure enough, there it was. I used to love roller coasters, so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

We inched up the first hill and I held on with white knuckles. “Wheeeee!” yelled honey as we hit the first dip.

“Help! Let me offffff!” I screamed as my internal organs turned inside out and my backbone crackled. I couldn’t remember what it was that I used to like about a roller coaster as I staggered away holding my back.

“Does this place have first aid? Call the paramedics!”

After that, it didn’t really matter, as everything that could be broken was already broken and my brain was jelled.

I got on their newest ride, fool that I am. I forget what it was called. Actually, I’m trying to forget the whole day.

“You know what happens, don’t you?” asked my honey, seeing my pale face and clenched teeth.

There was a kid about five years old sitting next to me. How bad could it be? As we reached the top and plunged back fourteen stories to earth, I found out. My hair stood straight up, my glasses nearly jumped off my face, and my stomach is still up there somewhere.

The little kid next to me was crying, as I unbuckled my seat and honey helped me wobble to the exit.

“I’m going to kill you for that!” I mumbled to my former honey…

After two hours, I was ready to go home. It took another six hours before my grandson was convinced.

I crawled to the closest picnic table, wishing I could take a nap.

I stared at the carousel. “See the pretty horses go round and round, up and down,” I gurgled.

By the end of the day, I was sunburned and brain-dead but managed to make it home without losing my glasses, my teeth, my camera, my shoes, or my lunch.

But, I am absolutely certain now that I am too old for amusement parks.

How do you know when it’s going to be a bad day? For starters, it might be a bad day if you wake up to the sound of the smoke alarm going off at 5 AM in the morning like I did the other day.
With the alarm screaming, I hit the floor and ran down the hall to see what was going on. I couldn’t see anything because in the excitement I forgot all about putting on my glasses.
FIRE! FIRE! Read the rest of this article »

One of life’s most useful but least discussed items is toilet paper. We take the existence of toilet paper for granted and have pretty much forgotten about the days of catalogs, newspapers, shucks, leaves, corncobs, and other alternatives used by our ancestors. Who had the idea of making this product and how did it come to be one of the items we consider as a necessity? Read the rest of this article »