‘Nothing, precious,’ she said; ‘they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her children.’”
—Peter Pan
You may have wondered why you haven’t heard from me in awhile. I have been in a blue funk. Appears this is a yearly phenomenon as you have seen two past March entries of similar post-winter doldrums. And given the winter we recently survived in Chicago, I must say I am amazed that I am still standing at all.
My last post was the beginning of my downward spiral, talking about back aches, stiff knees and hip replacements rearing their ugly heads. No, life beyond our forties, ain’t for the faint of heart. And it’s downright exhausting. Just rolling out of bed in the morning (something for years I arrogantly took for granted) is an event in itself and getting through the day in one piece becomes an accomplishment.
So much to my surprise, my turn around from poor pitiful middle-aged me was a simple thing. Most of life’s “ah-ha” moments are seemingly nothing moments and often unexpected.
But in the flick of a wrist, I am back.
I swatted a fly mid-air and killed it. And believe me, the fly was as stunned as I was.
It was one of those huge black and green-striped things that spontaneously combust from every crevice in your house right as spring is springing. God knows where they lurk all winter but first warm day with a hint of above sixty and out they pop, the size of small dive bombers, flying in frenzied circuits all over the house and then dopily banging into windows as they run out of gas.
Mine, of course, was in its first rush of post-hibernation exuberance which made my victory all the more satisfying. I was walking toward the computer to actually attempt a post on a completely different subject, which now escapes me. Another sign of being “on in years.”
Anyway this fly, or small bird, was wildly circling the office, the roar of his buzzing louder than the tinnitus in my ears (don’t even get me started) and in a flash, I knew my moment had come.
I dashed to the kitchen and returned armed with my swatter. I had a few failed attempts at ensuring his demise, using perfectly precisioned swats on his ADD intermittent touch downs, but missing.
Then, I felt a burst of confidence. A return of my youthful devil-may-care entusiasm and throwing caution to the wind, I smacked at him mid-flight and with that, he fell to the ground. No buzzing. No irritating attempts at another take -off. Dead. Done.
After a few victory laps around the room, my warrior weapon thrust proudly in the air, I sat down with the swatter swinging lazily from my fingers. A sort of a post tennis match pose the pros use when their opponant is dripping in sweat and the victor is calmly pondering his racket in mock humility.
And I thanked that fly. I thanked him for helping me get my mojo back. He was a sign of spring, rebirth, renewed energy and in spite of the fact that I squelched all that good stuff for him, my moment of athletic prowess was just what I needed to reemerge myself. To remember that there is more juice in this engine and plenty of miles to cover on the road ahead.
I fell asleep quickly and slept soundly, for the first night in weeks. New hope welled in my chest and other than the bag of ice I have tied to my game point elbow this morning, I am a new woman.
Tonight, I am sleeping with my swatter by my bed.
Next victory, I might start that novel.
I had a birthday last week. Not a hallmark year just a regular garden variety getting older year. I celebrated surrounded by family. My favorite way to spend an evening, birthday or not.
I would venture to say, no one loves their birthday more than I do. Especially no adult I know. I have always loved it. My kids tease that I have a “birthday eve” and a “birthday week” and we talk about it for days before the actual event.
I don’t love my birthday for the gifts and the cake and the special attention but for the fact that it’s just my day. A day where I kick back and let whatever happens come without my planning and stewing and most of all, me not controlling any of it. It doesn’t matter if it rains or snows or is dark or bleak or cold. My birthday always feels warm and full of love and I am happy.
But this year–I am sure you could feel me inching toward an epiphany–my birthday was different. First of all, it was the number. Not a bad one, and we all are thankful for every year we reach in good health and have those we love here to celebrate another year together.
It was just the number that jolted me into the realization that I have lived more decades than I have to look forward to. I don’t feel like I am peddling along in the middle of the pack anymore, but drifting back toward the group that gets the applause just for finishing.
I don’t mean this in a “woe is poor little me” sort of way but more as a shift in my perspective that “tempus is fugitting” faster than I am peddling and it is time to realize, if I ever am going to, that these really are the days to make each moment count.
What is becoming increasingly more poignant to me is something my father said to me before he died. He was a good Christian, church every Sunday kind of guy who never strayed from the straight and narrow and dutifully did eveything with the best of intentions and a clean conscience. If anyone was going to walk through the Pearly Gates with no questions asked , it was Dad. But in spite of that, I’m sure he was just a little unsettled about that huge unknown of what really happens after all this.
He looked at me one of the last times I saw him before he died and said, “I just don’t want to miss how it all turns out.”
And now twelve years later, I know exactly what he meant. If I do the math, I will be using a walker when my oldest grandson graduates from college and will definitely need assistance getting into the stands when his younger brother plays fullback or goalie for the Hawks.
I know Matthew McConaughey has gotten some flack for his Oscar acceptance speech, but I liked it, rambly and slightly egotistical as it was. (Or maybe I am just a sucker for a hot guy in a white dinner jacket.) But what I saw and heard in him on that stage was a man hitting his stride and spouting out some pretty good goals.
“Someone to look up to. Something to look forward to. Someone to chase.”
Until now, I have always been a rear view mirror sort of girl. Living in the now but always second guessing my decisions and the paths I took to get here. Letting my regrets and “what ifs” overshadow some of the best “nows” that were sitting in my lap. So I am hoping to take this little meaningless number birthday and try to switch my perspective from looking backward to forward. Only.
As for who I look up to, that would have to be my children. They are all taking brave paths with confidence and determination I either didn’t have or lacked the chutzpah to exercise.
And with or without that walker, I’m going to chase this little dream of being a published author some day.
And my grandsons while they still squeal with joy when I catch them.
I had to laugh just writing that title. I am a little ashamed and a lot relieved to say, I don’t clean my own house. Well sometimes, but I have help. I am very fortunate. And appreciative I am able to have someone else do what I hate to do. I can be a whiz in the kitchen, love sparkly countertops (Parsley Plus All Surface Cleaner a favorite) and rarely leave dishes in the sink unless it is a stubborn skillet that needs to soak and even then, never overnight. Nothing worse than waking up to last night’s spaghetti noodles floating lazily in tomato-tinged soapy water.
So what got me on this subject this morning, it’s Wednesday and my “person who helps me” (I refuse to call her my cleaning lady) is here. I was walking into the living room to sit down and read the paper with a hot cup of tea and tripped over the vacuum cleaner that was lying across the entrance to the room. I know, there is so much to needle me about here. Yes, I was in my PJ’s. Yes, I was going to repose with some tea and the morning news while someone else dusted and vacuumed around me and yes, I might have been looking at my cell phone when I fell instead of looking where I was going. Only checking weather and headlines, of course.
Anyway, I twisted my ankle on the bad foot I had surgery on two years ago and as I went down, the contents of my tea mug went flying across the room and splattered all over the taupe linen chair I was headed toward. In my scramble to right myself and get at the tea stains ASAP, I set my warm mug on a lovely old–like in antique old–desk my husband’s father gave us.
First things first, I addressed the brown tea splats that were quickly soaking into my chair with a bottle of club soda that I sprinkled rather dumped all over the stained areas and began quickly dopping the extra up with a terry cloth rag I grabbed from “the person who helps me’s” supply caddy. Club soda is a known helpful hint for most any stain–anywhere–but the dopping motion (a term my mom taught me) is key. Dopping is a quick patting, not rubbing,motion in a press/release sort of wrist action. It’s hard to explain in words, but you get the picture. Don’t rub the soda and stain in, pat it out and up and away from the fabric in fluid quick motions.
If you can picture that, you should see my jump shot.
Anyway, as the wet spots on the chair were drying and hopefully disappearing, I turned in triumph to see a huge white circle growing on the desk top at the base of my mug. I grabbed the cup and thought as my dad used to say, “You have really done it now, Nancy Noble.” Not to be deterred, I ran/limped to the computer and googled very articulately, “how to get white moisture rings out of varnished wooden furniture” and voila! What to my wondering eyes did appear not one but several solutions, and I tried them all. Here is what I found:
–First tip was cover the area with a thin cloth and iron, yes iron, the spot on low heat to hopefully remove the moisture. Did that, worked sort of, but pale white ring still remained. Was surprised though that one: the heat didn’t hurt the not spotted surface and two: I knew how to turn on the iron.
–Second plan of attack was mayonnaise. I only use Hellman’s, even love it over Duke’s, but for furniture repair, I doubt it matters. I was instructed to rub the mayo gently into the wood in a circular motion for five minutes. Being a bit ADD, I did this for about three minutes and then wiped the surface clean. Gave the desk an awesome shine, but still had a pale white ring.
–Bachelor number three was the most aggressive and much to my amazement, did the trick! I was told to mix white toothpaste (not gel and no whitening agents) with baking soda and water to make a thick paste. I was lucky to have Tom’s natural toothpaste on hand so I mixed that with the soda I keep in my frig for odors, a helpful tip but everyone knows it, and rubbed away at the stain. At first, I thought I had ruined the desk as the surface seemed sort of dull but after rubbing the paste off with the mayo cloth, it looked brand new!
Bingo, bango, bongo, as my husband likes to say, mission accomplished.
Maybe I will have a weekly helpful hint. Or maybe that will go the way of my weekly recipes that show up more monthly or quarterly. But I will sign off with a few of my favorite stain/spot averters, just as a teaser for future posts:
Cream of Tartar with water paste to clean small stainless steel appliances. Wipe in circular motion and buff dry with clean cloth. Microfiber cloth and water is simplest and best to remove fingerprints from large stainless surfaces like frig, stove or dishwater. Damp cloth to clean and dry to buff.
Carbona Stain Devils are amazingly good for wine and tea stains on clothing. Even if the piece has been washed and dried. Use as directed. Shallow bowl of hot water and soak with Carbona granules. Works like magic. In laundry section of most grocery stores or in bulk on Amazon.com. Comes in many different stain solutions: oil, crayon, ink, etc.
Wine B’ Gone for red wine stains on carpet or table cloths. What is a party without a spill? I purchased at a wine store and it is also magic. Spray and it goes away.
So until the Heloise part of my brain reappears, happy Wednesday, happy cleaning and happy hump day. Hopefully that Geico camel won’t lump through here and tip my replenished tea mug.
But if he does, I am now fully armed.
My son-in-law did me the honor of tweeting about the delicious “1970’s” meatloaf I dropped off at his kitchen door yesterday around dinner time. Since he is thirty years younger than I, 1970 would seem like antiquity to him and a pretty “old fashioned” food.
I, on the other hand, think of meatloaf as a 1950’s dinner staple. It certainly was in my house growing up. Similar to other recipes I have posted, my recipe is a family one I have used for years and copied from my sister. It is by far the best meatloaf you will ever taste.
But after the “tweet”, I started wondering just how far back meatloaf goes as a dinner table food. I sort of put it in the southern weekday dinner category or roadside diner menu stuff. I guess what I am saying, I don’t think of meatloaf as a sophisticated food but a warm and fuzzy, Leave it to Beaver kind of dinner meat.
Comfort food.
So I decided to do a little askmrsmom.com research on this country cook delicacy and I was a bit surprised. Fact is, meatloaf has European origins and dates back to Roman cookery as early as the 5th Century. It is a traditional German and Belgian dish and a not-so-distant cousin to the Dutch meatball. It appeared on American tables as early as Colonial times but did not show up in cookbooks until the 19th Century.
So there you have it, more than you will ever need to know or care about the history of meatloaf. So on to the good stuff. Perfecting the art of meatloaf.
Having made it since I was first married, I have learned some tricks of the trade. First, since it is a loaf, it involves some kneading and squishing not unlike mixing dough for a loaf of bread. Until recently, I always did this with my bare hands (freshly washed, of course), something I sort of dreaded. I’m not sure there is anyone who relishes working with raw ground meat but the result is such a crowd pleaser, I always forged ahead. Until recently when said son-in-law’s nanny commented, as I was whipping up a couple loaves for dinner, that she always uses thin rubber gloves.
Duh.
So now I keep thin rubber surgical gloves on hand, pun intended, and they work perfectly. Some folks use pork or lamb mixed with beef for their meatloaf and you can often find that mixture in meat departments by the pound ready to go. I am a purist and only use beef, in fact, I use grass fed these days for my organic kids. Recently discovered an organic grocery delivery service https://chicago.doortodoororganics.com/shop-good-food that arrives fresh on your doorstep for no extra charge. Not just local but in larger cities across the country. But that is the subject of another post.
So without further ado:
Kay’s Best Meatloaf Recipe
Preheat oven to 350 degrees
Ingredients:
2 1/3 lbs. ground sirloin, round or chuck
2 eggs
1 c. quick Quaker oats
1 pkg. Lipton or Knorr dried onion soup mix
1 1/4 c. whole Carnation Milk (Sorry, not hip or chic. In a red and white can near baking goods.)
3/4 c. catsup
Fresh pepper
BBQ sauce, Kay’s personal favorites are Masterpeice or K.C. Original
In a medium-sized mixing bowl (I use stainless) whip eggs with a fork unitl smooth and then combine with all other indredients except BBQ sauce. Add meat and mix well using bare or glove-covered hands. Split mixture in half and shape into two loaves. Can put in two separate glass or metal loaf pans or side by side in a 9×13 baking pan. (I rub either with oil or butter to make for easier clean up.)
Top each loaf with BBQ sauce, spread evenly over loaf. Catsup will do if you don’t have any.
Bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees. Remove and let cool a bit. Tastes better warm than hot and is great leftover next day on a sandwich, slathered with mayo and my brother adds left-over baked beans.
I know, so un-PC, but so much better than quinoa and kale.
I resolved long ago never to resolve. This was not an impulsive decision but a well thought out reversal in my thinking after years of failed New Year’s resolutions. This idea, not unlike my daughter’s comment that my ramble about the holidays blurring together https://askmrsmom.com/?m=201311, is not original and is even perhaps “cliche” as I believe she labeled that Halloween post.
But this year, I am inspired to get back to a reasonable sort of resolving so I added a twist to my resolutions. I am going to try to do things that will alleviate stress, improve my personal relationships with others and maybe even increase my life span. No giving up stuff that only improves my heath or happiness rather than improving the world around me like many Christians do at Lent. As in, giving up chocolate (not for Jesus but to lose weight), stop drinking (not for Jesus but to give your liver a rest), reducing salt intake (not for Jesus’s blood pressure but for yours),etc. This time, I tried to think of things that would make me a better person not a better looking person.
Really hard for me to conceptualize, but I’m gonna go for it.
In keeping with my Christmas shopping list, I’ll simplify these perhaps preposterously lofty ideas into list form. Just share my aspirations and let you know which one, or few, I can actually keep longer than a week or day or five minutes. I’m hoping to give it the ole college try and if I fall flat on my face, well at least that, too, does nothing for my personal appearance or selfish interests.
This 2014, I, Nancy Noble Peck, resolve to attempt to:
1. Make amends with an estranged friend.
2. Commit to any sort of exercise that raises my heart rate, even if it is running up and down my front steps once a day.
3. Talk less and listen more. Stop interrupting or finishing others’ sentences. Those actions seem motivated to prove you are smarter than everyone else or have ESP. Or both.
4. Let my adult children fend for themselves and make adult decisions and live with the consequences without my opinion, suggestions or intervention. I have realized at last that I can’t help them avoid pain and they certainly can’t learn from my mistakes.
5. Do things out of love, not obligation. Hoping for genuine, not guilt-driven, kindness.
6. Judge less and accept more.
7. Do something everyday I am afraid of. Even if it is as simple as leaving the house not wearing mascara.
8. Learn to fly without the confidence boost of drugs and alcohol.
9. Stay in the moment; be present. It’s all we can be certain of really.
10. Take care of me and let everyone else figure it out. Finally accept that I can’t change others but changing me forces them to change their reactions to me.
Overly ambitious? Sure. Self- serving? Hopefully not. Banal? Have to ask my eldest.
And if you don’t like them? Tough. You are not my friend. And don’t say you are. I know better. I am going to drive, not walk, to the grocery store after, of course, I apply two coats of mascara. But first, I have to stop at my daughter’s house and tell her my blog is my blog and her opinion is one of thousands and if she doesn’t stop feeding her youngest, he is going to explode and to let her three-year-old watch some TV and have a hot dog while doing it, for God’s sake. I’ve got so much to orchestrate for my son’s wedding, I have no time to run her life and his. And my youngest, I need to fly out to see her and help her juggle all she has to accomplish this year. Do I have to be everywhere at once and chug a glass of wine to get there?! Man, there aren’t enough hours in the day.
11. Start tomorrow.
Yesterday’s post got some great and grateful responses but one alerted me that the hyperlinks did not connect to the items. All fixed now, (I hope!) so you are back to one-click shopping. Falalalala!!
My thought a week ago was to create a twelve days of Christmas list of stocking stuffers and under-the-tree gift ideas for sons, boyfriends and husbands but alas, my days like everyone else’s, slipped away as quickly as my needles are falling off my “fresh” tree.
So with less than twelve days of shopping left before Santa slides down the chimney, all covered in soot, I thought I would give you guys some last minute gift suggestions for your special someone where you don’t even have to leave your house, much less get your coat all sooty. And, of course, any ladies can simply print out this list and tuck it in a briefcase pocket, outer not inner, or tape it to the remote for the TV. Or the milk carton he swears he never drinks from. I definitely don’t advise a snow shovel or vacuum handle, if the chore division at your house is anything like mine.
Most of these items can be purchased on Amazon.com. I advise using Prime so sign up for it if you don’t already have it. It has some great perks such as free two-day delivery, but more often overnight, instant movie streaming and free Kindle books to “borrow.” Your membership can also be shared with family members so the sign up fee goes a long way. Zappos.com, my personal favorite, is exactly what the name suggests and their customer service makes Amazon look like the big dominant oaf that it is. But a necessary online shopping oaf, nonetheless.
In no particulare order, my hot picks are:
All -Clad 10 inch fry pan- The perfect size for scrambled eggs, grilled cheese or heating up left overs. Stay cool handle and All-Clad’s signature even heat distribution. Does everything. Probably the only pan I would take to the moon. At Williams-Sonoma, Macy’s and of course, Amazon!
Lorien Ugg Boot- Warm and waterproof and not to mention very cute. Great for everyday in the snow or cold and perfect for apres ski which for me is all day, as I don’t ski. Comes in black, brown and midnight blue. Full and half sizes. Runs pretty true to size. If you don’t know her size, look in her shoes. Just not running shoes because most of us size up.
http://www.zappos.com/ugg-lorien-stout
Rodin Lip Balm- Great lip treatment for any season. Moisturizing shea butter and scented with jasmine and orange blossoms keeps lips soft with a subtle shine.
Chanel Rouge Coco lipstick in color “Boy” #54- My favorite lipstick and I don’t wear lipstick. More of a tinted gloss in a lipstick tube. Very emolient thanks to more shea butter and stays on for hours. Color “Boy” works for everyone and can be paired with another lipstick or a shiny gloss. My favorite gloss is also by Chanel. Comes in a stick. Color: Glaze.
glo-minerals undereye concealer in beige- Two tones/two sides. One for dark circles and one for mornings after a good sleep. Never creases, gunks up or highlights wrinkles you thought were invisible. Comes in several colors but I think beige is good for most skin tones.
http://www.amazon.com/GloMinerals-GLO3500-glominerals-gloConcealer-Under-Eye/dp/B000TD0UW6
Hanky Panky Signature Lace Boyshort- A gift for both of you! Adorable, comfortable and flattering to any figure. Sizing runs extra-small (0-2) small (4-6), medium (8-10) large (12-14) extra large (16). Some people prefer their undies bigger so if you go up a size, don’t worry. These are all pretty skimpy. Favorite part she will love, they don’t make elastic dents on thighs or hips. She’ll undertand that, if you don’t. All colors are great.
Peppermint Bark- Nothing says Christmas like Peppermint Bark. Chunks of dark and white chocolate sprinkled with candy cane crumbs.Williams-Sonoma is most famous for it. But I think Plow and Hearth has them beat. Williams-Sonoma’s is thinner with more peppermint and Plow and Hearth’s is thicker with less. So pick your poison. You can’t go wrong.
http://www.plowhearth.com/productform.asp?q=peppermint+bark+tin&search_type=normal
Thymes Frazier Fir Scented Candle – For those of you who have gone the way of an atificial tree, this is a godsend. Smells better than the real thing and doesn’t need water or drop needles. Burns slowly. Last forever. Several sizes. My favorite is the large three wick. Comes in soap and spray, too.
Ray-Ban Wayferer Classic original size- Made famous in old Hollwood by Grace Kelly and Paul Newman. Tom Cruise in Risky Business sent them viral and their popularity has outlasted his three marriages. I’m partial to classic black. Looks great on all face shapes and sizes.
Bumble and bumble thickening full form mousse – I realize the gift of a hair product seems sort of lame but after years of research, my sister shared this volumizing product with me and think it is the best ever. And it fills practically a whole stocking! Fluffs, puffs and keeps hair perky for at least two days. Virtually eliminates bed head.
Ballistic iPhone 5 cover- The lightest, most protcetive iPhone cover out there. Has the front bumper that saves the face from shattering when dropped but thin enough to fit in a pocket easily. Doesn’t slip on the dashboard or seat either. Comes in great colors. Also made for the 4.
So there you have it! You can probably pound out this list in less than twelve minutes, much less days. And I assure you, she will love you for it.
Well, at least until 2014 or you get your January Visa bill.
Charlie is praying…
…that William gets a shirt from Santa!
May all your prayers and wishes come true. Have the best of holidays and I hope someone you love surprises you…
Love to you and yours,
askmrsmom
So, I am going to share a “girl thing” and if you “boy things” are not interested, you should be. Because your wife or significant other or future significant other or your cross-dressing significant other has or will feel this.
Ok, so deep breath. I am going to pour this all out there, grain and chaff together and hope that a faithful friend will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping and blow the chaff to the wind. (Isn’t that a sweet quote? My mom always said that to me, but not in this context. But I worked it in, nonetheless.)
Last week, I was switching all my summer to winter clothes to my guest room closet (summer out/winter in) and I decided to try on my last year’s winter’s clothes, just for shits and giggles.
Bad idea. First of all, some of the the pants did not zip (those that did not were quickly ferried off to my eldest daughter) and on the jackets, oh my beloved jackets, the darts for the boobs had moved. Yes, the seam in the front around the chest area of the jacket that used to point upward toward my breasts were now pointing upward toward my chin. Yeah, picture it. That means my breasts are inching toward my waist.
So, not to panic, I went to the women my friends have affectionely called the “Bra Nazis” and forged ahead, head held high, hoping my bustline might rise with it. The store was empty. Just me and Hildegaard. First she took a pink measuring tape to evaluate my size, shape and front or back clasp preferences–tilting her head side to side, stepping back and quinting one eye, pulling out everything but a slide rule to surmise the gravity (pun intended) of the situation. The dressing room had a peep window that my comrade started handing me bra after bra through, like her measuring tape, a pink seersucker curtain. At first, the trades through the magic curtain went smoothly, bra in, try on, bra out, another option until the bra outs outweighed the bras in and Hildy ( we were on nickname basis by now) stepped in to get this show on the road.
Standing between me and the mirror, she suggested I was not perhaps bending over properly to get “the girls” in place and giving my options a proper chance. My girls live with my grandsons in suburban Chicago and in LA respectively, so the reference to my drooping body parts as some sort of sorority sister set me slightly on edge.
Then the dreaded words slipped from her bright red lip-sticked lips, the words that will be indellibly etched in my mind for eternity, “Perhaps we should go up a cup size for the loose skin.” Huh? Did she say go up a size because I am a perfect 10?! I have this ringing in the ear thing that sounds like someone left on five tea kettles at simmer in the background of conversations all day long, so words get muffled.
“Excuse me?” I asked as politely as my naked half-upper body could muster. “Yes, the lose skin. We all have it. Especially in the back as we get older. We need to accomodate for it when we measure for the cup size. Let me get some more options.”
With this turn of events, the options went from something to harness “the girls” to something resembling small matching hammocks or the bras I used to see on the sale table when shopping with my mom that looked deep and nestlike; something I wanted to curl up and take a nap in.
Needless to say, the “girls” and I were not in a happy place, worse than the one we started in at my closet.
Waiting between curtain-surprise options, I looked in the mirror and realized my mother had secretly attached her hands to the ends of my arms. My once slender fingers had developed rather gnarly joints that were surrounded by small islands of spots that floated on the tops of my hands like tiny brown inkblots. I thought of the horror of my image on Face Time with my kids and understood once again why they are only allowed to see an empty couch or my unmade bed rather than me during these sessions.
Seriously, if I look like my image on my phone on Face Time, it’s time for a face lift.
So when option fifteen popped through the curtain in all its slightly-padded parachute back strap glory, I was no longer in the mood for a bra. I wanted the last twenty years back and a stiff drink.
Rather than run out topless in a blur of tears, I gathered what was left of my ego off the floor, picked up the three maybes on the chair in the dressing room and walked out $200.00 poorer with, of course, a pink plastic bag filled with mammoth-cupped bras stuffed with pink tissue.
Onward and upward, I stopped off on the way home to pick up the Thanksgiving turkey. I do this messy but worth it brining bag thing that takes 24 hours of ice and herbs to seal in the juices and pop out a golden brown bird everytime. I was busying myself in the kitchen with turkey prep, pulling out the bag of gizzards and rinsing the old girl, patting her dry and it hit me. This bird and I had a couple of very obvious things in common.
Loose back and neck skin. And rather large breasts, I thought, as I stuck an apple and an onion in her now empty chest cavity.
And better still, I could have saved myself all that undergarment agony if I had just done the same with my bra. Round fruits and veggies stuffed in my bra could make for some pretty perky “girls.”
And I’d only have to shop at the grocery store where nothing is bagged in pink.
