Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Flaming Bore has returned from Colorado and will be posting vacation pictures this week. At the top of Pike's Peak, the temperature was 26 degrees, wind chill 17 degrees. We rode the cog rail train to the summit--none of this "driving the car up and biting nails at every switchback business" for the Bores. (Do you notice what's wrong with me in this picture? First person to correctly guess wins a Popsicle stick.)
Here is a picture taken from a window of the cog rail train on the way up to the summit:
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Now at first I figured this was just another one of Chelsea’s gags, but she insisted this was a bare fact. So, I got on the ol’ Internet to do some scientific research and, lo and behold, Subtle Butt is a new product on the market, brought to you by the geniuses at Garment Guard. For $9.95, buyers can get five “disposable gas neutralizers.” According to the website, “Simply stick it in the right place and you’re ready for a chili cook-off.” Each 3-inch pad, complete with adhesive strips, is filled with activated carbon, which traps bad odors. No longer do you have to worry about entering a crowded elevator and offending the noses of those sharing your air space.
Well, I’m sure not going to rush out to my neighborhood Walgreen’s to be the first one on the block to stick a Subtle Butt down my drawers. In fact, I’m pretty upset about the whole concept. Quite frankly, it stinks! Why didn’t I think of it myself??!! It’s probably going to sell like hotcakes and make a millionaire out of some gassy goofball. I could just kick myself in the…butt.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
We have the smallest yard in town, plus now that we’ve converted so much of our lawn into the patio and gardens, we have very little left to mow, so the human-powered mower made sense. In fact, we’d been contemplating getting an old-fashioned mower before we read the article last week. It does require more manpower, for sure, but I’m enjoying all the stares from passersby…and it’s not because I’m wearing a skimpy little mowing outfit like the one in the clip art above, which would likely result in a citizen’s arrest. (Don’t you love the chic mowing high heels?) I think people are just shocked that anyone would want to return to the Dark Ages method to cut the grass.
If I ever decide that this new purchase of an old idea is no longer feasible, I promise I will never go back to the air polluting gas-operated lawn mower. No way. I’m getting a goat!
Monday, September 15, 2008
In order to achieve the glam straight-ish look to my hair, though, I had to roll it up in giant pink plastic rollers that were hell to sleep on, but back then I would willingly endure discomfort for beauty. Once I got married, though, the hair started to get shorter…and shorter. Good looks was no longer a priority. I had my man. Yeah, right. Short hair was easier to deal with than the long. I could just wash it and go.
Well, when I decided to retire, going on three years ago, I also decided to let my hair grow long again just to see if I could. But this time around, I’d be damned if I was ever going to sleep on can-sized pink rollers again. The results haven’t been too successful. My hair is naturally one big, wavy mess of fuzz. Most days I just end up putting it in a pony tail to keep it out of my face.
The other day I walked into a beauty shop and asked, “Anyone here just dying to work with long, thick, tangled, frizzy hair?” I want an inch or two trimmed and a hot iron used to straighten and tame my mop before going on vacation. (Now, I have my own hot iron, but I don’t have the patience or know-how to use it.)
A gal who wasn’t working at the shop this particular day was volunteered by the rest of the staff. When she sees me walk in on Saturday, well, I expect a pained expression on her face--at which point I will burst out into the Cowsill’s big hairy hit song and hope for the best. “….There ain’t no words for the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my hair!”
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Yesterday when I went home to visit Mama Bore, she had a new project for me. It’s Clean-Up Week in her burg, a great time to start unearthing what’s in her garage! Music to my ears. Bring out the garbage bags and let’s get with it!
She had already scoped out a maze of garden hose she wanted me to pitch but after that things got complicated.
“What’s in this bag?” she asked.
“Old sponges,” I said.
“Don’t throw those away. I might need them,” said Mama Bore decisively.
Oooooookay. I won’t question that one. After all, she was game about tossing out the next bag, filled with the always-important plastic lids to butter containers.
"Why in the world was I saving those?" she laughed.
My eyes moved on to an item I was sure would get the ol’ heave-ho…a rusted basketball hoop with tattered net.
“How about this?” I pointed to the metal piece of junk.
“Oh, no,” she answered. “That’s got sentimental value. It was your little brother’s.”
Now, my younger brother was no Michael Jordan growing up. He never played high school hoops, having made his swan song in 8th grade when he came off the bench to commit five fouls in less than two minutes so he could be put out of his misery and sit back down. There was no sentiment lost here. But the basketball museum piece stayed.
I had more success getting rid of a heavy lawn edger contraption.
“Yes, that can go. Your father bought that 53 years ago. He never did get it to work.”
Yep, I’d say it’s time to toss it. A busted pair of hedge shears, a good 30+ years old, was not chosen to join the edger at the dumping grounds, though.
“Somebody might be able to repair it,” she speculated.
Uh-huh. She also thought my big sister’s husband could paint something crafty on an old rolling pin and a rusted saw. And the rotten card table that’s top is peeling…perhaps it could be painted, too. I returned to it several times, but, no, she was adamant on keeping it.
Well, this game went on for about an hour and then Mama Bore was ready to stop for “Jeopardy.” I offered to return later for some more excavating on my own, but she didn’t have that much trust in my ability to separate trash from treasure. And I didn’t argue. After all, a small copper pot she tossed out was rescued and has been transformed into yard art at Casa de la Flaming Bore. I can’t wait to go back to that garage to see what else I need.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
In spite of our impossible differences, though, we took off for Dallas in my ‘68 VW, grabbed the first furnished apartment and first jobs we could land, little Kansas girls in the big city. Sandy was determined to live large, however. Her employer had a credit union, so she immediately bought a slick ‘72 Olds Cutlass Supreme…in spite of the fact that we were rummaging through the Dallas Morning News each week looking for store grand openings that offered free food so we could save on our grocery bill.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Later, when she was relating my "mess-capade" to my big sis, they got a nice laugh at how I hadn’t changed over the years. Old habits die hard. Growing up, I was the slob child. My sister was a neat freak, forever cleaning the room she was forced to share with me, and Beans was meticulous about his appearance. He refused to wear the same outfit twice in a row unless it’d been laundered in between wearings. Me…my clothes either got “hung” on the door knob or stuffed under the bed for another day or two or three.
Having neat-niks for siblings was a big disadvantage because yours truly was always getting the blame, rightly, for disasters left behind. This was often in the form of a sticky refrigerator door handle or lids only halfway replaced on food cartons, an accident waiting to happen for the next person who happened to have the misfortune to follow me. “Oops! Sorry.”
Just now, Big Bore gently informed me that I forgot to screw on the cap to my peach water bottle. He bumped into it and the kitchen cabinet top took a soaking. "Oops! Sorry." seems to have become my mantra. I think it’s safe to say that the Clean Gene must have skipped right over me.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
We’ve found some pretty surprises that we didn’t plant that are now growing in the yard. There's some coleus scattered under the zebra grass, morning glory among the green beans, and a lone purple petunia in the pumpkin patch. All three are annuals, so we have no clue how they managed to pop up. We have other varieties/colors of the three elsewhere in the yard but nowhere near where these have bloomed. Nature’s little gift to us.
What is your earliest memory? One of my nieces claims she remembers the trauma of being born and squeezing out her mother’s birth canal. Hard to top that.
I’ve settled on age 3 when I had my earliest memory. I had measles, felt like hell, and Mama Bore was rocking me in a red vinyl chair in the dining room. I had a pencil in my right hand and was poking holes in the vinyl. Why that stands out in my mind is beyond me, but she has confirmed it. It’s so insignificant. I also have other early memories of throwing up at Christmastime and losing my two front, lower teeth, at age five, by biting my father’s hand. I recall crying at kindergarten class after a boy pulled my hair and then sitting in the large lap of the teacher, Auntie Hazel, with another cry baby, who is now the president of one of the banks back home.
My memory becomes much more vivid and positive in nature when I was in first grade, which I loved a lot more than the three days I lasted in kindergarten. I sat at a table between two 6-year-old hotties, J. L. and Monty, neither of whom pulled my pony tail, so I adored them. Now, I don’t remember what costume I had for Halloween, but Monty was a tiger. These guys became such good friends, I’d sometimes go to their homes to play after school. The light switch in J.L.’s bedroom was a clown’s nose. What an oddball memory to have.
What stays with the brain over the years confounds me. Some piddly events are permanently imprinted. Others are fleeting thoughts that fade, never to return. I can understand why we might easily recollect significant occasions in our lives, but why the minor ones? Why can I still watch myself chewing on Big Chief tablet paper, listening to Mrs. Hull, my 3rd grade teacher, read from Little House on the Prairie after lunch recess? Why can I recall going through my teen-aged big sister’s scarf box and falling in love with the blue scarf that had silverish keys on it? It makes no sense to have all these old, useless pieces of information on my mind when I should be shoving new, important facts into my head.
I think I may need to have my brain washed!
Monday, September 1, 2008
The good news was: the Supers' children had flown the coop into adulthood. The bad news: it was a two-story house, with five upstairs bedrooms connected by a long hallway, all hardwood flooring that I had to attack with the dust mop, PLUS I had to take a dust cloth to ALL the baseboards. Downstairs I dusted furniture and the staircase. Maybe vacuumed.
There were also miscellaneous jobs, like polishing the silverware (at the Bore household, we were “stainless steel only”). I once had to do the Super laundry but couldn’t figure out how to get the damned washing machine turned on. I should have called the Mrs. at work to ask for instructions, but I feared her wrath and ridicule so much that I washed everything by hand. What a blockhead!
The absolute worst task assigned, however, was ironing…not so much the idea of ironing but what I had to iron that was the real turn-off here…Mr. Super’s boxer shorts! Hell, my brothers wore briefs and those went straight from the dryer to the dresser drawer. I’d never touched boxers before, let along ironed them. Why would they need to be ironed in the first place? Who was going to see them anyway? What a waste of my precious energy! And, I was certain that if Mr. Super knew a teeny bopper was ironing his undies, he would flip. After that day, I could never look him straight in the face…all I could do was stare at his crotch and envision those goofy checked boxers!
I can’t recall how long I lasted with this job. I think maybe I forced Mama Bore to call Mrs. Super and tell her I was needed at home…to count clothespins or something else of equal importance. I am happy to report that I have never since polished silverware, washed clothes out by hand, or, praise God, ironed boxer shorts. In fact, boxer shorts are not even allowed in the Flaming Bore household. There are no ifs, ands, or butts about it!