Thank you

I’m thankful on this Thanksgiving Day for so many things, but I must say I’m particularly thankful this year for being alive.  The heart attack September 12^th makes me realize how close I came to not being able to type this today.  I’ve been alive for nine weeks longer than I might have been.  That’s pretty darned scary.

If my co-worker hadn’t traded me shifts that morning, I might not have woken up.  Thankfully, I was awake early that Wednesday morning to get ready for work so I noticed each symptom as it happened.  And, if I hadn’t worked at the hospital Emergency Room, I might not have gone in to the hospital ER to get checked because the pain was not that bad, and yet I ended up as a Code Stemi.   If some instinct hadn’t prompted me to tell Matt to go to the nearest facility rather than the one which I knew dealt with heart attacks, I might not have made it.  If the RN hadn’t been finishing her night shift and instructed the staff to do the second EKG after the first one didn’t show anything, I might not be alive today.  So many factors came together that morning that I am truly humbled. 

Death isn’t a topic we ordinarily discuss, and to me, it sometimes seems surreal in the sense that I don’t realize how close to death some people truly are until too late.  People are here one minute and gone in a split second.  I’m never ready for it.  I wish I would have told them how much I loved them and how much I cared. 

 I keep thinking I’m only 60, so how could I have been so close to death.  I certainly don’t feel that old, but if I’m 60, I’m definitely not as young as I must think I am.   I feel like I have so many more things to do, and I don’t want my son and daughter to have to deal with loss.  I’d like my grandchildren and future grandchildren to know me, too.

I know that sounds selfish, but I never really knew my grandfathers (one died before I was born and the other one died when I was only six), and there was never enough time with my grandmothers.   So, I would like to develop a wonderful relationship and rapport with my grandchildren, as well as be there for my children as they start on their journeys through adulthood, as my parents were for me.  I like the concept of family.  I think family can be a wonderful and supportive part of life.

 

Was it coincidence or just a fluke I survived that day?  Does God have more plans for me?  Have I been given the chance to improve and become a better person?  What direction do I need to go?    I stop every now and then, and remind myself, I need to be even more appreciative of all the wonderful things in this life.  As so many others have discovered and said, “Live each day to its fullest,” and “Stop and smell the roses.”  Mankind has been trying to tell all of this for decades and centuries.

So on this Thanksgiving 2012, thank you to all the wonderful people in my life, everyone from family to friends, and people whose paths cross mine..  You are all a special part of me, and I am glad I can be a part of your lives.  You are what makes the sun shine for me.  And, thank you, God, in all your infinite wisdom, for all of your guidance and care.  Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone.

Has He/She/It Gone Too Far? A Rose by Any Other Name Smells as Sweet!

This past month the University of North Carolina -- Chapel Hill has deemed, in their infinite politically correct wisdom, that the term "freshman" is now banned from use on their campus.  All staff at UNC-CH are now required to use the term "first year student."  I think they've taken one step too far and crossed the proverbial line.

The term "freshman," used since 1590, was never intended to be used in a derogatory way, nor was it intended to be used to reflect gender-bias.  No one should take offense over the word used for centuries to describe a novice or beginning student.  Historically, mostly men attended university at one time, but don't modern day women realize they are equal, and can do whatever they wish, without all the hub bub?

People who have nothing better to do with their time but look for and create problems where none exist need to be sent to soup kitchens to work or should volunteer at such places like hospitals, schools, and community organizations so they can better use their time to be productive and help others in need.  If you find the word "freshman" so demeaning, you are appalled and offended, you have issues, and frankly, I'm tired of your whining over such trivial matters.  Get over it.

Perhaps we should use the term "freshwomanman" so it includes both sexes?  No?  You think it should be "freshmanwoman" as woman is the main word and you want to split hairs over who goes first?    Maybe we should just refer to them as "freshes."  As in grammar, we use the masculine form as it's simply easier than being so wordy with the whole he/she thing each time a writer uses the third person singular.

Why then don't you call these beginning students "novices" as that is one of the definitions for the word?  No, it sounds feminine and reminds you of a nunnery?  Oh, dear.  Since they are rather young students, should we call them "puppies"?  No, you don't like calling someone a dog?  Then how about a "luck," as a beginning student needs lots of luck to finish?  No, it's not luck but hard work and determination that makes a difference?

Okay, Okay, I've got it.  Let's simply call a first year student by the more modern term "noob"?   Or better yet, what about "abtaq"?  What?  That doesn't make sense?  Well, neither does all the complaining over a word that simply describes a beginning student, no matter what their sex is.  

Right-Left Brain Power

My son and I think differently.  It's the logical, engineering mind meets the creative, sociable mind.  When I started to open the dishwasher this week to unload it and do my share of kitchen-related tasks, my son piped up, "All the utensils are grouped together in the baskets so you can put them away easier." 

Sure enough, all the forks were hanging out in their own little baskets, all the large spoons were together, and so on.  The pre-planning made the putting-away a little easier.  There was no chronological order, however, in the sense that the utensils go in according to "arrival times," which enables the kitchen help to see when the dishwasher should be started because the last basket is full of dirty utensils.  I would never have thought of organizing them before I put them in.  His method would never have occurred to me.

I still prefer the chronological method with the sorting at the end rather than the beginning.  But isn't it amazing how differently we think to solve the same problem.  Different mindsets for different minds.  Who would have "thunk" it. 

Wild Irish Hair

Bad Hair Days exist; there's no denying it.  Many females have spent countless hours trying to quell their rebellious locks on any given day, particularly rainy ones.  I, however, happen to have the unruly, wild Irish hair, and so, am better-acquainted with Bad Hair Days than most, as 94.8% of days are Bad Hair Days for me.  I'm not scared, and I no longer fight it.   I've learned to live with the wild hair.  But it wasn't always so.

In my younger, teenage years, I tried to tame the thick, wavy locks by using such tricks as putting my hair up on orange juice cans (I'm sure that looked other worldly!), and even ironing my hair on the ironing board with my mother's iron (you put a towel on top so as not to catch your hair on fire!).  At one point, I tried a product called Curl Free which did not uncurl my hair in the slightest nor rid me of the waves --the product just made my hair greasy (I was a Greaser!).  Nothing made much difference -- my hair went in where it was supposed to go out, and out where it was supposed to go in...as usual.

My brothers used to joke my hair style should be called "wind-blown."  They would sometimes put their hands in my hair and stir it up (the way only brothers can!), and laugh because it looked the same.  While doing a show at the theatre (Sleeping Beauty) in which I played Trollarina, a naughty fairy, the theatre hairdresser decided for the show to rat my hair out, all over, as far as it could go.  I explained ratting it wouldn't matter as it would look normal again in a short time. The hair dresser just grunted at my naivete. During Dress Rehearsal, the hair dresser ratted my hair, and by intermission, most of the rats had disappeared (just as when St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland) and  I again sported my normal wind-blown do.  Surprised, the hair dresser promised bringing in a super weapon, Extra-Hold Rave, the following night for combat with the wild Irish hair.

Several years ago, my daughter, in an attempt to help me subdue my hair, showed me a product she uses that supposedly perfects curls and banishes frizz.  I found it helped immensely on days when I was running behind and headed to school.  I'd jump out of the shower, spritz my unruly wet locks, and dress quickly before running out the door.  I used my secret time shortcut.  I'd turn the heater on in my car as I drove to work, roll down the window, and as I was driving, hang my head out the window, rather like a dog, to get my hair mostly dry before I arrived at school.  Then I would just stir my hair up with my fingers! Voila!  Poodle hair!

I've rather gotten used to my uncontrollable, wild Irish hair.  My hair does what it wants to do and no one can order it not to do so, although I think a good hair cut by an excellent stylist makes all the difference in the world. Several weeks ago, as I was heading out the door to go to work, my son's fiancee stopped me.  "Cindy, your hair has some major dents in the back you need to fix before going to work."

Faith and Begorrah!  The view in the mirror was astonishingly wicked.  I should have known that I can't shower and expect my hair to look good in the morning, even if I do dry it before bedtime.  Despite the fact I had used my heated curling brush on it, my hair stuck out in multiple directions with major dents in the back.  I should know my hair's surly attitude by this time.  That's why I usually shower in the morning if I want to have any chance at looking presentable.

So, when others are complaining about frizz and such, I can just smile.  Weather doesn't make my hair any worse.  Let the winds blow.  Let the rains come.  My hair is dependable, and unaffected by weather or any hair dressing instrument.  It has the courage to stand up for what it believes, defying all who attempt to control it.  Perhaps it does belong on the head of the person who's kissed the Blarney Stone one too many times.  May your Bad Hair Days grow fewer and far between.

Dear Dog-Loving Dog Walker,

I know you love your dog, and I know you care enough to walk your dog so not only can you two have bonding time, but also some exercise time.  As an animal lover and former dog owner, I tried to be considerate; you are not.  Yes, dogs poop; everybody poops. I, HOWEVER, DO NOT WANT YOUR DOG POOP IN MY YARD.

I do not want to step in dog poop when I walk to my mailbox.  I do not want to step in your dog's poop when I am working in my yard.  I do not want my company to step in your dog's poop while they are visiting me or while we are sitting outside on a pleasant summer evening.   I do not even want to smell your dog's poop.

Maybe you don't realize it, but there is nothing more disgusting than stepping in dog poop. It  squishes up around the edges of your shoe, gluing itself to all the crevices in the sole, and the stench can easily gag you.  Cleaning the shoe is difficult and the odor lingers.  If you are in a hurry, focused on something else, and have stepped in dog dung unknowingly, it can also smear across your car's floor mats or even the carpet in your house before you make the grisly discovery. 

So, dear Doggy Lover, if you weren't selfish and obtuse, and if you really cared about other people, you would not walk your dog past anyone's house, allowing it to take a dumper in someone else's yard.  If you have no control, walk your dog in your own yard.  (By the way, you can train a dog to take a dumper in a specific area of your property, and yes, you could walk your dog after he pooped so he hopefully wouldn't need to go again on the walk, but for whatever reasons, you choose not to do so. Here's a novel idea -- you could even scoop it up, like responsible dog owners in NYC do.)  Perhaps, though, you blatantly hope your dog poops somewhere else other than your own yard.  Maybe you're just unthinking. Whatever the thinking, or non-thinking, stop the dumping in someone else's yard unless you're armed with a pooper-scooper and use it.

I think it's only fair to invite all the property owners who have your dog's poop in their yards to scoop it up and dump it back in your yard.  Or perhaps we should all just go to your yard and poop all over your property for you to step in it and smell it so you would understand how we feel.

Not So Smart!

After purchasing a new Android (Samsung Galaxy Skyrocket II) phone two weeks ago, I thought I had moved into the 21st Century.  My son showed me how to work everything, and if I ever needed help, I knew I could always ask him.  I, however, certainly needed his assistance when I ran into a smart phone snag earlier in the week.

As Boy Wonder and I waited together in the car while his fiancee ran an errand, I decided to check my voice mail messages.  Since he was sitting right there beside me, I figured, I could make sure I knew how to do correctly check my phone's voice mail.  Sure enough, I had two, new voice messages.  Matt, once again, went through the process with me step by step.

Pleased with myself that I could access my phone messages correctly, I began listening to the first message.  I couldn't hear it too well, so I said, "Matt, I can't hear my messages very well -- how do I turn up the volume?"

Matt, turned, looked at me, and smirked as he replied, "Mom, it's a phone.  Hold it up to your ear." 

Heart-felt Thoughts

*For those of you who may not have heard, I had a heart attack in the early hours of Wednesday morning. 

Looking back on everything, my co-worker Bernie saved my life by switching shifts with me.  If she hadn't asked me to work her day shift, I probably wouldn't have been up at 5:00 A.M, and I don't know what would have happened.  Since a fair number of heart attacks occur in the early morning hours, many people sleep through the heart attack symptoms, or wake up but decide to try and "sleep it off."  I was lucky because I was awake.

I woke up that morning before my alarm was scheduled to go off, meandered to the bathroom and the kitchen, making coffee and feeding the cat.  I headed back to the bathroom to fix my face and try to corral my hair before getting dressed, but after brushing my teeth, I noticed all of a sudden I felt a little dizzy.  Since I have Chronic Venous Sufficiency and can't stand in one place for long periods, I didn't think much of it.  I noticed a few seconds later as I pulled my comb from the drawer and turned on my hair curler, that I was sweating and still felt light-headed.  I'm a fainter so I know the symptoms, and I decided it might be in my best interest, since I was 15 minutes early,  to lie down in the recliner for 5 minutes, and then hopefully, I would feel better.

The cat came out to see why I wasn't following routine and hopped up on my lap, purring.  Before I knew it, I had sudden chest pain that hurt more than any chest pain I had experienced before.  I just waited for another minute or two, trying to figure out what this pain was.  I argued with myself that I probably had an anxiety attack, or maybe angina, or possibly it was my acid reflux acting up.

The chest pain lightened up a little as I continued to debate with myself.  I really needed to be clocked in at work by 7 A.M.  Should I call the Nurses' Line?  No, I already knew what they would tell me -- to go into the Emergency Room and get checked out.  Could I possibly take my work clothes with me so that I could work after the ER checked me out?

Then I remembered Rosie O'Donnell's interview several weeks ago when she stated on television that taking an aspirin saved her life.  I figured I should go take one just in case this pain was something more.  So I swallowed a baby aspirin, not that I really needed it, but I always take one anyway, along with the rest of my meds, before I eat my breakfast.

The chest pain did not seem to be going away, but it was up high and in the center of my chest.  If I were really having a heart problem, it would be on the left side, wouldn't it?  If it were something serious, wouldn't I have left arm pain or pain in my jaw?  Surely it was just anxiety, or my acid reflux gone bad.

By this point, I sensed maybe I should go to the ER.  I remember thinking that if a patient came into the ER with these symptoms,  I knew exactly what to do -- put them in a wheelchair and call the Charge Nurse for a Straight Back.  

Okay.  Since I seemed to have decided to go in and get checked out, I had to make a decision whether I should wake up Matt or call the squad -- once again, I knew from work that the right answer was to call the squad.  I would have to wake Matt, and Lauren, either way, so I walked unsteadily down the hall and knocked on his door.

When Matt said he would take me in because he would be faster than having a squad come all the way out to get me and then go back into town, I agreed even though I knew that wasn't the right choice -- it just sounded good.  I only had on a nightgown, and no underwear, and I knew I couldn't go into the ER with no undies.  So I went to my bedroom, but couldn't pull out my clothes as I was having shortness of breath by this time.  I knew what that meant, yet I called Lauren and asked her to get my undies and bra out of the drawers as well as some sweats.  When she handed me the sweats, I told her the shirt didn't match, but there should be a matching one right there.  She just shook her head and said, "Oh, Cindy." Obviously, she thought I shouldn't be worried about matching at a time like this.

As we were driving in, I had to make another choice about which hospital.  I knew all heart patients went to Good Sam but that we tell patients in a medical emergency to go to the nearest facility.  At the last minute, I told Matt to pull in to Bethesda.  I must have sensed it was a medical emergency, and another mile and a half could make a big difference.

Lauren and I got out of the car at the ER door, I walked in and put myself in a wheelchair, and instructed Lauren to roll me to the front desk.  I gave Jon Booth my symptoms, and he immediately wheeled me to the back and the Charge Nurse, Joyce Kelso, who sent me into Room 7.  The nursing staff arrived at once, and surrounded me, each one doing their part of the team work.

I knew the Charge as well as each member of the nursing staff, and I felt safe and comfortable.  They were experienced, excelled at their jobs, and made it easy for me. My matching clothes had to come off (not really a surprise!), and they put me in a lovely hospital gown and started attaching leads.  I didn't feel worried by anything.

I remember the staff telling me I was having a heart attack, but to be honest, it was hard for my brain to grasp.  I was lucid, I didn't feel all that bad, and it didn't seem real.

They prepped me for surgery.  Joyce shaved.  Brandon Rexroad started an IV in the right arm, Courtney Grant hooked me up for an EKG, and got a line going in my left, and Sally Jackey manned the computer. Joyce asked me questions, helped the others, organized everyone, and made sure the MIC-U was on the way, and that the Cath Lab and Dr. Albirini would be waiting on me at Good Sam.  Even the new Techie found the schedule I directed her to in the front desk drawer under the white basket, and called Michelle, my boss, to let her know what was going on.  Everyone in that room was awesome, and I hope I didn't forget to mention someone; if I did, I apologize but time was spinning at a blurry, fast pace.

I can't say enough good things about the staff at Bethesda's ER.  Fabulous!  All of them!   Our community is so blessed to have such staff with such expertise and skill!  A million thank-you's to all at Bethesda's ER that morning.

At one point, Joyce asked me if I had taken any aspirin, and when I said yes, a baby aspirin, I was surprised when she asked if I chewed it or swallowed it.  Of course, I swallowed it -- I always do.  She told me I should chew, not swallow, as chewing will help get the aspirin into your system sooner.  She also explained as they were giving me 3 more, that a patient should chew 4 baby aspirins or 2 regular aspirins.  I'd never heard this before, and I've been around a long time.

When the MIC-U guys showed up, I remember wondering why the ER called them instead of one of the regular squads.  Even when they hoisted me into the ambulance and I realized we were running "hot," I remember thinking why are they running with the lights on.  I still didn't realize how serious my situation was.  I still could talk and the pain wasn't much.  It just didn't sink in at that time that I might not make it.

Mike and the MIC-U guys immediately took me into Good Sam's Cath Lab upon arrival and Dr. Albirini was waiting. The nurse explained they were going to do a heart cath, numb my groin area where they would go in,  and I wouldn't feel anything, but I wouldn't be all the way out either.  I don't remember anything else until I looked at the clock in CCU around 8:30 A.M.

Once again, I had wonderful nurses and MST's in CCU.  The arterial bleeding in the groin didn't want to stop, so they effectively dealt with that.  Even then, I didn't realize the severity of what had happened to me. My nurse explained I'd had a heart cath, but that the branch artery was too small for a stent, so the doctor had used a balloon to open it up.  I still didn't realize I had suffered a serious heart attack.  My cardiac enzymes were 29 when I arrived, and cardiac enzymes are supposed to be below 5.  I kept receiving IV's and oral meds in CCU as my blood pressure and pulse seemed to have lives of their own.

After a day and a half, I was moved to CVIU, a step-down unit.  My blood pressure still didn't behave itself and neither did my pulse, and I ran a slight fever at one point, but my cardiac enzymes had dropped to 8.9.  When a Code Blue was called during the last night of my stay, I finally realized I was like many of the others here -- not all of us make it.  This realization was scary and sobering.  One minute you're planning on getting dressed and going in to work, and the next, you realize how lucky and grateful you are just to be alive.

A heart-felt thank you to all the wonderful medical staff, as well as my son and future daughter-in-law, my family, my boss, my colleagues, and my friends for all the help you willingly gave me.  I appreciate you all more than I can say.

(Some of you have asked me many questions about symptoms, and such.  By writing this entry it is my hope that maybe I will be able to help one or two of your or your family and friends by describing what happened to me.  If you have other questions, or need to know about other heart-related things, such as how much sodium should be in your diet, for instance, let me know.  I'll be glad to explain what I've learned.  May you all stay heart-healthy.)

Dear Fly

Dear Fly,                                                                      

Why do you bother me?  Do you have nothing else to do? 

I don’t wear hair spray, I’ve used my Sure antiperspirant, and I’m allergic to most perfumes and body lotions, so I shouldn’t interest you.  I’m sure there’s plenty of doggy fecal matter in yards scattered from here to Seattle for you to crawl over, plus cow pies and meadow muffins, as well as lots of road kill along the highways calling your name.  Can’t you find some trash to excite you?

If you think I intend to go to sleep while you’re around, you’re fruity.  I know what you do at night.  You delight in waiting until innocent people fall asleep so you can take sadistic pleasure in walking on their faces with your poopy fly’s feet. 

What’s your purpose in life?  Be honest and admit it – you don’t have any.  There’s absolutely no reason for your existence.  Ogden Nash even wrote a poem about you entitled simply, “The Fly” --  “God in his wisdom made the fly/ And then forgot to tell us why.”

So, Mr. Fly, why don’t you buzz off?  You’re not welcome here.

                                                                                    Cindy

Penn State Fallout

A short time has passed since the horrific problems hit the headlines at Penn State.  People have been justifiably appalled by the actions of Jerry Sandusky, and have rightly demanded justice.  Sandusky is in the midst of legal proceedings and awaits sentencing.

In addition to sympathy and compassion for the victims, I am likewise saddened by all the pain and suffering Joe Paterno and his family have had to endure.

Yes, that's right.  I think JoePa has been unfairly treated and made a scapegoat.  I am angry at all the people plus the Penn State Board of Trustees who did not stand up and defend a good man, who rightly reported what he learned to his boss. 

Some folks say JoePa should have done more.  These people seem to be full of righteous anger, but seem to be looking for anyone they can to shoulder part of the blame.  Additional blame should possibly involve the Athletic Director and the Vice President or President of the University rather than JoePa.  And, yes, the AD and a university VP have already been charged with not reporting suspected child abuse and then lying to the Grand Jury.  They face court appearances in January. 

Joe Paterno built a wonderful football program, and helped so many young men over the years.  JoePa was a great football coach and a good man.  He did not deserve to have his reputation tarnished and everything he built through the years destroyed.  The mob demanding his statue be taken down, and anyone involved in this decision, are nothing more than blood-thirsty, finger-pointing vultures.

Put the blame where it belongs on one man -- Jerry Sandusky.  Blame the AD and anyone he may have told as accessories.  The NCAA should not blame the team -- they were too harsh with their sanctions.   Neither Joe Pa nor the team need to be stripped of 14 years of records -- the current young men on the team were only four years old when this happened.  Let them play football, and let Joe Pa have the records that are rightfully his.  He is the most victorious coach in major college football.

Don't strip Joe Paterno of his dignity.  Let his achievements and name stand for themselves.  Feel compassion for everyone involved.  Bring back the statue.

Where, Oh, Where Have My Eyelashes Gone?

This "getting old" business is for the birds!

I noticed the other day my eyelashes weren't quite as lush and lavish as they used to be.  Really?   What happened to those beautiful, dark, unmascaraed lashes I used to have? 

Alas!  I saw a commercial on tv advertising a product to create longer, thicker lashes for women.  I did not know thinning lashes was part of maturing.  I've never seen a magazine article on this, nor has my mother, or probably any other mother, ever mentioned this to their daughters.

 Couldn't we at least have thinning hair on our legs or even in our armpits so we didn't have to shave so often?  I think that's a much better alternative.

Actually, after thinking about aging, I've come to the conclusion it would be much nicer if we all just stayed 49.  Nobody would age beyond that.  There would be less hair thinning, fewer worn-out body parts, and not so many wrinkles.  I wouldn't need bifocals, and I wouldn't need mascara.  Heck!  I could even bat my naturally luscious and thick eyelashes if I needed.

Scientists, you need to get on this.

Favorite Ice Cream Flavors

Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry?  Ice cream flavors used to be so simple.

This week when I had to select ice cream for a birthday party, I could not believe the array of dazzling choices by the basic ice cream companies in the grocery store.  Breyers, for instance, boasted 28 flavors in the original (I'm like a kid in a candy store viewing them), PLUS the sugar-free, fat-free, no carb ice creams.

But surprise!  Breyers, like other ice cream companies, has added an upgraded, specialty line.  Theirs is called Breyers Blast, and my mouth dropped open when I saw the additional flavors available.  Drool probably pooled on the grocery floor.

We're not talking your usual upgrades like mint chocolate chip or cookies and cream.  No!!!  Flavors called Oreo Birthday Blast, S'mores, and Whoppers Malted Milk Balls flaunted their ice cream cartons at me, smiling in the freezer at my amazement, along with another 16 flavors.  I'm overwhelmed by the choices -- 47 in all from only one of the companies.

 Even excellent store brands, like Kroger's Private Selection brand, boast amazingly new and delectable flavors.  Right now, I'm a devoted fan to Moose Tracks and New England Blueberry Cheesecake.

When did ice cream expand to become such a big business?  How do marketing wizards choose such delicious names?

Even the high-priced, specialty ice cream companies, like Ben and Jerry's and Haagen-Daz, have unique offerings.  I love some of Ben and Jerry's names -- Chocolate Therapy, Chunky Monkey, Cherry Garcia, Everything But The..., Late Night Snack, Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz!, Phish Food, Lemonade Stand (a sorbet), and the newest ones, frozen yogurts, called "Greek."  Incredible!

There's ice cream for everyone.  How can anyone choose?  I'm so dazzled that I don't know where to begin. 

Any favorites?

Afternoon Delight

Yes, I've just indulged myself in a little "afternoon delight."

I've been lounging in my OSU chair on the back deck, reading a book, and amusing myself with Hippie Dude. 

Oh, don't get me wrong -- I've never spoken to Hippie Dude.  I only yield to a little Hippie Dude watching, now and then, which has been going on for close to a decade now.  And that's exactly what happened today.  Engrossed in my book, a raucous crow interrupted me.  When I glanced up, there was Hippie Dude swaggering around his lawn.

Hippie Dude earned his nickname from me as he used to sport long hair and a bandana. He's quite entertaining, and sometimes, like today, it's difficult to miss Hippie Dude when he's outside.

Hippie Dude lives two long fields away from me in an apartment that looks like a house, amidst the regular apartments.  He has his own garage, and the apartment people do not.  He owns a white pickup truck, bigger than his last white pickup truck, as this one has an extended cab.  He also owns two motorcycles which he must revere, as he always washes them in the front yard (for me to watch) as soon as he returns from a ride.  He must love them.  One is an unusual light yellow color.

Sometimes, it's hard not to miss Hippie Dude when I am outside doing yard work or on the deck.  He tends to be a little rough around the edges, and his voice carries easily across the two fields.  On one occasion, two Girl Scouts had the audacity to knock on Hippie Dude's door.  He opened the door, and although I could not hear exactly what was said, I did hear him growl, "Get out of here!" and the two Girl Scouts left in a huff.

On another entertaining occasion, he evidently got into a domestic dispute with his current "honey" (they all appear to be blondes).  They squared off with each other on the front lawn, looking like two boxers sparring, interspersed with the sounds of mumbled trash talk and incoherent yelling. The disagreement evidently climaxed when I heard Hippie Dude snarl loudly, "Go ahead -- hit me, Bitch!"  She stomped off, jumped into her car, and was never seen again.

Two men in a van came to my yard sale a few years ago.  They introduced themselves and told me they were maintenance men for one set of the apartments, but I should make sure not to confuse them by associating them with the trashy apartments. Through their conversation, I learned Hippie Dude's name is really Jeff, and he's a brick layer.  No wonder he's so buff.

I can't say I object to the eye candy.  I mean, after all, it's right in front of me.   As a matter of fact, Hippie Dude goes beyond the normal eye candy.  Not only is he bronzed like a God from hours probably working outside, but he usually sports shorts and either a wife beater or no shirt at all. 

Hippie Dude is a man-child in his early 30's probably, and from what the maintenance men said, he's a neat freak.  No one is allowed in his apartment unless they take their shoes off.  He's a hard worker. I'm not interested in any more than gazing from afar, and amusing myself as I do with all people watching. If the eye candy comes home from work after the maintenance men have mowed his grass, however, and he re-mows on the same day to make diagonals in his lawn, how can I not look? 

Besides, women of all ages deserve a little eye candy now and then.

Mechanical Differences

Yes, as I've stated before, I'm mechanically challenged and know little about the internal workings of a car engine, but I've always found amusement and delight in "car words." I had forgotten about my earlier discovery of  this jargon so unfamiliar to me until posting a Facebook comment today.  Maybe I simply have a vivid imagination, but the automotive jargon can certainly be entertaining.

Did you realize there were so many "naughty" terms used in car words?  Some of my favorites involve actual parts.  I have no idea what these parts are or do, but they definitely heat up my engine, I mean imagination.  I particularly like  crankshaft, head gasket (especially when blown!), pistons, camshaft push rod, heater, drive belt, tail pipe, heat shield,  fuel injector, turbo charger, shift lever, ball joint, and even smaller things like o ring and screw.  Heck!  Muzzle, tie bar, pinion, and slave cylinder even sound like something from 50 Shades of Grey.  This list of car words is obviously not complete as you can include terms like rack and chassis or even lube and combustion stroke.

A number of women complain when their significant others only want to jabber about cars.  I think there's another way to look at the situation, a more positive view.  So, no, I don't mind when a guy babbles mechanical car words once in a while;  I'm smiling inside at all the delicious, sexy words he's murmuring to me.

"Tis the Season...

Summer Evening Prelude

          (A Haiku)

                                    ~cs

Dancing Breezes flirt,

Caressing Petals and Leaves

Before Dew kisses.

"Color My World"

If you look at the vehicles on the road, you will notice the majority today are variations of red, white, blue, black, and silver.  Take your own survey and you will see the preponderance of these colors.

Why can't cars and trucks be different colors?  Why aren't there a multitude of purple or teal or orange cars blending in with the others?  Occasionally, I will see a unique color.  Once in a blue moon, a sunshiny yellow car or a teal blue car will be visible.  Where are the plaid cars of the world?  Do the majority of folks simply like the five basic colors best, or do they simply accept what is offered?  


Where are the unique and artsy folks?  Has anyone else pondered why there are no striped or polka-dotted cars?  Where are the trucks painted with blue camouflage or decorated with a painted seascape?  Where are the flowered vehicles?  I'm sure the auto designers take into account people's preferences. Couldn't each car company offer a unique design or two?   Maybe some day I will find vehicles painted like turtles, with musical notes, or even a carnation pink car.