Saturday, February 28, 2009


The Kansas state high school wrestling tournament started yesterday and I’ve been checking out the results periodically on the Internet to see how the local boys are doing--in spite of my extreme dislike for the sport. I became "anti-wrestle" during my teaching days when I’d assist yearbook students taking sports pictures at mat-side. Our vantage point was way too up close and personal for my taste, but duty called.

Anyone who has ever had back surgery just automatically cringes while watching these boys being twisted into human pretzels. And to be body slammed or have a hundred-plus pounds collapse on top of me...forget it. I can't even tolerate the cats leaping onto my belly. But the agony doesn’t end there. During my tenure, there were nose bleeds galore, and once I recall a wayward tooth sliding my way. There’s a waste basket at the corner of each mat to collect various body fluids. Ah, athletics at its finest.

One of our school’s big bruisers, for some reason, would almost always have his matches interrupted with a pseudo medical emergency. I always knew that when he was wrestling, I’d have time for a bathroom break because he’d have to recover from a head injury or busted leg or an insult to his inflated ego. Another kid was well known as a bleeder. It got to where he’d just show up for each match with wads of cotton sticking out of each nostril.

The worst part of attending the wrestling meets for me, though, was "deadly gym stench." Wrestlers must have some rule that deodorant is for sissies. The air pollution level increased with the size of the tournament. Two or three teams wasn’t so bad, but an invitational was a doozy, and regionals and state were murder. Entering the arena, one could take a knife and cut right through the sweat. There were times I thought I’d need an oxygen tank to breathe.

Now that I’m retired, though, I don’t mind reading the wrestling results from the safety of a personal computer. There’s no assault of the senses from my semi-trusty Dell. I don’t have to hear the grunting and groaning or see the grimacing inflicted by the painful agony of defeat. And if there’s any body odor piercing the air, well, sniff-sniff, I'll only have myself to blame.

Sunday P.S.---We have a state champion in our fair burg! Devin Frye won the 125-pound division in 3-2-1A.

My favorite paragraph from the newspaper wrestling coverage this morning was about a Wichita kid who lost the 6A, 112-pound title by one point. "He threw his headgear as he lay in pain after separating a shoulder. He then ran off the mat and kicked over three trash cans." I hope his coach made him shoulder his responsibility and sent him back to clean up the mess he left. Believe me, no custodian deserves to wrestle with all that toxic waste!

The best names listed as medalists were Tim Wrestler from Chanute and Tank Burns from Columbus. Tank was a 4A state champion in, of course, the 285-pound division.

Friday, February 27, 2009


Whenever Mama Bore introduces me to someone, her phrasing is typically, “This is my Nancy Beth, my middle child” and I chime in with an addendum: “That’s maladjusted middle child.” She never corrects me on that one. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. Of her five kids, I won the title of Number One Brat, hands down.

I was too young to act grown up like Big Sis and Beans and too old to act like the babies who were eight and nine years younger than I. It didn’t help that the older sibs were nitpicky neat freaks and the little ones were gosh-darn adorable. “Oh, look at Little Jon smearing his face with chocolate frosting! Isn’t he cute?”

Mom probably disciplined me more than the other four put together, and rightly so. I just never knew when to shut up. The mouth raged on and on and on. When I got too old for paddlings, she started using threats with me, like: “You’re going to drive me crazy, and when I’m sent off to Osawatomie (the mental hospital upstate) you’ll have to go live with your father!” or: “Arthur Anderson (the school principal who worked across the street from our house) is going to hear you and call the police!” My standard response to the latter threat was to throw open the window and yell, “Do you hear me, Arthur? Call the cops!!!”

I always thought I was the prototype for the following ditty:

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very good indeed
And when she was bad
She was horrid

But, eventually Mama Bore got wise. When I was around 14, she finally got the better of me. I was having another rant about something…I can’t remember what…she probably wouldn’t let me go out with my friends until I cleaned the landfill of dirty clothes from underneath my bed. Anyway, I was in my room hollering, when she calmly walked in and dumped a large glass of ice water over my head and said, “Here. Cool off.” She smiled and walked back to the kitchen, leaving me drenched.

I was dumbfounded….and very wet and stupid looking. She was a genius. Ever since that defining moment in my life, I was a changed child. I highly recommend the ice water method of behavior modification for all parents. It’s totally effective--cheaper than hiring a child psychologist and safer than a spanking. The only bruises left are to the ego!

Thursday, February 26, 2009


Oh, how I love being an old, weak, helpless woman who can’t fend for herself!

Yesterday Big Bore decided he wanted some sand to add to his vegetable garden soil, so he toodled out to ALCO to buy some. He came back sandless and fuming.

“No sand available yet?” I asked, as he stormed in.

“Oh, they had some but they wanted ME to do THEIR work for them!” he boomed.

Now, normally all you have to do is tell the checkout person what you want to purchase from the outdoor display area, he or she looks it up in a little booklet, scans the picture to find the price, and then the buyer can just drive his car up to the item and load it. Easy. But...yesterday the check-out gal was clueless and asked Big Bore to haul in a 50-pound bag of sand himself and she’d then scan it. He was having nothing of it and huffed out.

I laughed and laughed. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” I said as he continued to let off steam. Now, he is perfectly capable of having loaded up a bag of that sand in a shopping cart, wheeling it back in, and having the gal scan it, but he was fixed on the idea that it wasn’t HIS job to do so. Nothing would convince him otherwise. He was the customer and should be royally treated like one. I stuck out my lower lip and gave him some mock sympathy.

Well, I have the easy solution to this goofy consumer dilemma. I’m going out to ALCO to buy the sand. I will tell the checker I’ve had back surgery and cannot lift over 15 pounds, so I will need someone to load 10 bags into the car, please and thank-you. The manager, or some other manly person wearing a hernia belt, will be called to take pity upon me and will provide me with ace customer service with a smile, whether he wants to or not. I’ll stand by and watch in admiration, overjoyed that I'm not the one who's developing a case of back strain. Problem solved.

Ahhhhh. Big Bore will be playing in his sand pile in no time. All it takes is...True Grit!

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


Yesterday my great nephew Bo called me to ask a favor.

“Aunt Nancy, can you judge at our school’s forensic tournament March 6th and 7th?” He said he would earn “lots” of points for every person he rounded up to help out with the big affair.

Now, we all know how full my social calendar isn’t, so I told him to sign me up. I well remember my own sorry days as a struggling debate and speech student and the quest for earning points toward the tiny, silver National Forensic League (NFL) pin and the coveted “gems” (as in, glass) that went with them. We’d start out with an emerald, then go for the sapphire, ruby, etc. Teachers were also awarded points, based on how many their students won. Our instructor, The Bat, (see May 2, 2008 blog) had been working on the Grand Poobah Award, the double diamond, since the invention of dirt.

My first year on the team, I earned enough points for a pin and emerald, thanks to being paired with a stellar debate partner, also familiar in fine blogging circles as the razor-sharp Literary Diva. The second year out, I had just reached the sapphire level when tragedy struck. I’d been having fainting spells, thanks to a case of what is now popularly known as anorexia nervosa, and a blackout chose to hit me at a debate tournament at Wichita Heights High School--the one-time academic home of Big Bore, when he wasn't busy skipping classes.

I light-headedly approached the lectern to deliver a rebuttal when the lights went out. “I can’t see!” I freaked. Someone escorted me back to a desk, but I never recovered composure enough to continue, so we had to forfeit the round. The Bat was not happy, and she became even more furious the following week when I told her I was quitting the team, orders from my doctor and Mama Bore. I’d gone from 150 to 96 pounds, was having chest pain, and I had to get well. I sacrificed receiving the sapphire, since I was a "let the team down" has-been on The Bat’s Black List, but that was a small price to pay for getting back my health.

Fast forward 30 or so years, and I’m telling a high school speech-teaching friend about my lowly, abbreviated career as a public speaker, joking about my dismal experience.

“I knew that woman!” he said of The Bat. “When she retired, I was hired to replaced her! It was hell!” He explained that he was fresh out of college and ill-prepared to step right into the steely spike heels of God’s Gift to High School Speech. The Bat delighted in his failure, he said, and he was not re-hired to return for a second year.

A few months after our conversation about my crisis from 1966, my teaching pal came into my classroom with a little box in his hand. “I have something for you,” he said. Unbeknownst to me, he’d contacted the office of the National Forensic League. My name was still on its registry and lo and behold, I was listed as a sapphire recipient. “Here’s the pin you should have been given 30 years ago.” He made the belated formal presentation, I gave a dramatic acceptance speech, and we had a great laugh.

Come next weekend when I go to Bo’s school to judge at the speech tournament, I’m going to attach that fake silver and sapphire pin to whatever I’m wearing and strut my sassy stuff. It’s somewhere in the bottom of one of my jewelry boxes in the bathroom. I just hope it doesn’t take me another 30 years to find it.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009


Big Bore did the unthinkable last night. He dozed off during the first quarter of the KU-OU basketball game! He’d worked the early morning shift the previous two days, so I forgave him but not enough to spare him a 4:30 AM conversation.

“Guess who won the basketball game,” I said, my tone of voice making it obvious that I was pleased with the outcome.

“Oklahoma,” he said, just to piss me off.

“Oh, you!”

“That’s what I said. OU.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“So, did Oklahoma win, or was it Ohio?” he asked.

Well, I proceeded to give him the back-and-forth lowdown of how KU won--hooray, hooray. Of course, Oklahoma played without their star center, Blake Somebody, who was sitting on the bench in his street clothes nursing a concussion from OU’s Saturday night game with Texas. The television camera kept zooming in on the poor guy squinting, wincing, and holding his head in his hands. I wasn’t sure if his brain was still aching or he was in misery from watching his teammates’ losing effort.

Before he went to bed, Big Bore had a comment about Blake Somebody’s interesting appearance. “Why is he wearing two earrings?” he asked. “Is he gay? Don’t gay guys wear two earrings?”

“Beats me,” I answered. “Maybe he likes earrings.”

Although the earrings looked somewhat out-of-place with his appliqu├ęd western wear jacket, sort of in the fashion style of a Porter Waggoner, I’ll give Blake Somebody credit. At least he wasn’t text messaging like that goofball from K-State who was benched for a game last week due to unsportsmanlike conduct, slapping a KU player in the face. If I’d been his coach, I would have made his butt sit out a second game, just for looking like a moron in his uniform texting during a game.

Oh, well. So much for my ace basketball commentary. The best thing about the win last night is that the ‘Hawks don’t play again until Sunday. I can now wash my KU 2008 National Championship shirt that I’ve been wearing "24-7" for the past three days. It’s getting a bit ripe. As in P-U.

Monday, February 23, 2009


Saturday Big Bore and I went to Pittsburg to see my great nephew Bo make his theatrical debut in his high school’s production of Grease. He’s just a freshman and didn’t have one of the speaking roles; he was a nerdy student in the chorus and dance numbers. But, we were still happy to see him in the spotlight and to be his number one fans in the audience.

After three months of long rehearsals, Bo was psyched up and ready to “break a leg,” as they say for good luck in the acting world. There was just one HUGE problem: his dance partner got in a car wreck Thursday night and broke not a leg, but her neck, for god’s sake!! Fortunately, she survived and is not paralyzed but, of course, she couldn’t perform from a hospital bed. What to do?

Well, the show must go on, so Bo did all the dance routines solo…except for the big dance party scene where he ended up being a wallflower and had to sit on the gym bleachers with a few other rejects. Boo hoo. Can I ever relate to that!

I took his picture and had him autograph his picture in the playbook. I told him when he’s famous some day, I’ll sell it for big bucks.

It’s important to make fun memories out of one’s high school days. They go by so quickly. Years from now Bo can look back at the time he survived try-outs, slicked down his hair, took to the big stage, pretended to be a student at Rydell High, circa 1959,--and then got stood up!

Sunday, February 22, 2009


Get all gussied up and roll out the red carpet in your living room! The Academy Awards presentation is set for tonight, and I have a date with the television.

Now, I went to a movie house a grand total of two times last year (Batman: The Dark Knight, only because I was with a teenager, and Tropic Thunder, because my car was being worked on and I had some time to kill), so I consider myself a theatrical expert. I have the subscription to Entertainment Weekly to prove it.

With those credentials, I’ve entered an Oscars contest sponsored by the Wichita Eagle, submitting my predictions for the winners, and, come tomorrow, I expect to receive an email that I have won the grand prize, which I think is a movie pass good for the rest of the year. With what it costs nowadays to get into the theatre and buy a box of popcorn and a soda, this should be worth millions!

In my younger days…much younger…I used to get together with Library Lady and some other pals for an Oscars Watch Party. We had an official code of attire: dress like a character from the Oscar-nominated menu. My memory sort of escapes me, but I think pretty much every year I dressed as a hooker because loose women roles have always won raves with the Academy, and I owned this great, tight, pink and purple satin hooker dress that I could only wear for special occasions.

The party guest who showed up with the best costume won our Oscar (a bowling trophy.) I never went home a winner, but one year Library Lady took top honors for Gandhi. There’s a picture in one of my photo albums to prove it, but it isn’t accompanying this blog because Library Lady is a reader of The Flaming Bore and we wouldn’t want to lose her friendship by giving her a heart attack.

If I was to dress up for tonight’s big event, I’d probably pick the movie The Wrestler for my costume theme. I’d pull on a pair of tights and shorts, slip on a ripped-up T-shirt, rat my hair into a nest, pull out a few teeth, and be ready to make the scene. But wait!! The wrestler guy has a stripper girlfriend who is a nominee for Best Supporting Actress! And I still have the satin hooker dress somewhere in my closet! I may have to drag it out tonight just to see if I can still shove my body into it. If the buttons don’t burst off from the strain, “The Oscar for Best Costume Special Effects goes to: The Flaming Bore!!”

Friday, February 20, 2009


Last night I had dinner with some former job mates. It’s always fun to get together with them, especially because it reminds me how much I do not miss grading papers, making lesson plans, giving state assessments, writing curriculum standards, and refereeing Junior High Girls Gone Wild. Another plus was the 10% senior citizen discount on the meal.

Because I am retired, today I was able to sleep until 8:30 AM, slowly eat breakfast while reading the morning paper, go to the library, do the laundry, write some book reviews for the newspaper, make home improvement project plans with some contractors, attend the Garden Club luncheon, walk four miles, and piddle at the computer.

In a few hours I’m meeting up in Wichita with my Best Ex-Sister-in-Law, Nurse Barbara, to see a musical revue at Oldtown Cabaret. Barb earned her Best title for two reasons: she doesn’t take it out on me that her ex-husband is one of my brothers PLUS she held the barf bucket for me in the hospital two years ago after I got my gall bladder removed. That’s definitely going above and beyond the call of ex-in-law duty, in my book.

I’ve been going to the Cabaret for almost 12 years. The first time was when I joined some gal pals for a night out to forget about the fact that my marriage had gone kaput. We saw “Pageant,” a drag queen show of sorts, featuring six guys/gals competing for the title of Miss Glamouress, including Miss Deep South, Miss Bible Belt, and my favorite, the roller-skating accordion playing Miss Industrial Northeast. I laughed myself silly and knew that night that I would survive divorce and be okay.

I have also managed to survive retirement so far. The aches and pains of getting older are no fun, I admit, and I miss jogging like I used to do all the time, but the benefits of freedom are nice. As I grow older and wiser, it doesn't take much to get me excited. I'll be turning 60 in a few months, and I'm already looking forward to more senior citizen discounts. Bring 'em on!!

Thursday, February 19, 2009


Late last night as I was channel surfing, my eyeballs stuck on a tuxedo-ed man who was serenading a baby, probably between 1-2 years old, with Elvis’s “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.” The man, who looked to be about 40, was squatting down, practically nose-to-nose with this dressed-up little doll, and she was gaping back at him like a deer in the headlights.

What the hell is this? Well, it was some sort of beauty pageant for little girls. I forget the name…Little Miss Perfect Southern Charmer, or some such nonsense. There were three judges, two women and one man who was the head judge, proclaiming that he was looking for beauty and personality. Yikes! As if he wasn’t creepy enough, one of the women had a Chihuahua attached to her. She’d take notes with her right hand, while her doggie friend lived in the crook of her left arm.

The mothers of the mini contestants, who were ages 1 through 4, were mostly pathetic pageant rejects of years gone by. They’d sit in the crowd and mimic all the gestures they wanted their little darlings to perform on stage…shimmying, strutting, throwing kisses, and the like. Scary. One mother said that she’d spent $1,000.00 for each of her daughter’s three competition outfits…sportswear, party dress, and western wear.

It’s hard for me to relate to this kind of absurdity. I didn’t wear make-up until I was 14, and the most I’ve ever spent in my life on any one outfit is $118.00. Growing up, I might have been a good candidate for Little Miss Perfect Tomboy. I could run and jump and climb and get dirty with the best of ‘em. And if any weirdo in a tuxedo had tried to romance me with an icky Elvis song, he would have been slugged. That’s about how much beauty and personality I had!

Wednesday, February 18, 2009


Big Bore didn't have to work yesterday, so we decided to head southwest on the country roads and gander at the hazy views. He wanted to find a cave south of Silverdale, in Cowley County, he'd been to about 20-25 years ago. So...we took the 90-mile scenic route. Above is a pic of Pioneer Road. It was windier than windy outside and I was glad we were in a car and not a covered wagon.
Here's a stone bridge we stumbled onto somewhere along the way. When we crossed it, we dead ended at a farm so had to make a quick return trip.

If you look closely behind this old windmill, you'll see the new-fangled versions from the Elk River Wind Farm south of Beaumont.
Remarkably, Big Bore found the cave for which he was searching. He says the legend goes that Belle Starr hid criminals there once upon a time. There was so much graffiti on the entrance of the cave, that I decided that the only hooligans who had ever been there were those with cans of spray paint.
We took a different, haphazard route home for the return trip, more country roads. The car looks like it's been through the Dust Bowl, but we sure had fun.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009


A revelation came to me yesterday while I was watching my favorite TV show, Jeopardy. Alex Trebek, the host, needs a chick helper. Years ago Bob Barker started the trend on The Price of Right with his Barker’s Beauties. Vanna White is practically synonymous with Wheel of Fortune, and Howie Mandell has his 26 “ladies” opening briefcases on Deal or No Deal. So, it only stands to reason that Alex needs a sexy assistant to bring a little excitement to the show.
When I told Big Bore about my brilliant idea, he was skeptical.

“What would she do?” he asked.

I sashayed next to the TV set and demonstrated, making various exotic hand gestures around the categories.

“Below each dollar amount would be a button, and she’d press it to show the answer,” I explained.

“I’ll have Obnoxious Presidential Nicknames In Other Words for $600.00, Alex,” the contestant would say.

“Press the button, Jeopardy Girl,” Alex would dramatically order.

The assistant would follow his command. “Another name for Slippery Bill,” she’d reveal, eyes wide, licking her lips.

“Who is Slick Willie Clinton?” the contestant would respond, Jeopardy Girl clapping her hands enthusiastically.

Big Bore doesn’t think Alex will go for having a chick helper with whom to share the spotlight, after having gone solo after all these years, but he thinks having his own button pressed is a mighty fine idea, no question about it.

Monday, February 16, 2009


I’ve been hesitating to say anything snippy about that single mother of six out in California (aka: “Octo-Mom” on the Internet) who gave birth to octuplets via in vitro fertilization last month, but I can no longer contain myself. What in the hell is she thinking???? She lives off her parents and the government, already. Now, eight more? Fourteen kids seven and under? Someone needs to report her to the Planned Parenthood Patrol.

She’s started her own website, and I’ve checked it out, of course. All it has on it, though, are pictures of the litter she had, plus links to send donations and make comments. I decided to spare her of both.

I don’t usually criticize anyone who has children since I have none. I did have a dream one time, though, that I had a baby. I put it in a cat bed in my closet and went on to work, so I guess that little sleeping escapade pretty much spells out my maternal instinct. I woke up in a cold sweat, sooooooo relieved that I wasn’t really having my cats acting as day care providers.

Playing with other people’s babies is fun, but I’m always ready to hand them back when the going gets rough. You know the scenario: crying, upchucking, diapers gone bad; I have those little bundles of joy back into the arms of their parents in zero seconds. I cannot imagine, even in my absolute worst nightmare, trying to keep up with the pooping and peeing of eight babies all at once. --I can’t afford that much kitty litter!

Saturday, February 14, 2009



Here are some words of wisdom about love that I found on the Internet, written by some grade school kids. Perhaps we could learn a few tricks from them:

"The person is thinking: Yeah, I really do love him. But I hope he showers at least once a day." --Michelle, 9

"You learn it right on the spot when the gooshy feelings get the best of you." --Doug, 7

"It might help to watch soap operas all day." --Carin, 9

It's never okay to kiss a boy. They always slobber all over you...that's why I stopped doing it." --Jean, 10

"Spend most of your time loving instead of going to work." --Tom, 7

"Don't forget your wife's name...that will mess up the love." --Roger, 8

"Be a good kisser. It might make your wife forget that you never take out the garbage." --Randy, 8

"Most men are brainless, so you might have to try more than once to find a live one." --Angie, 10

"I think you're supposed to get shot with an arrow or something, but the rest of it isn't supposed to be so painful." --Manuel, 8

"No one is sure why it happens, but I heard it has something to do with how you smell. That's why perfume and deodorant are so popular." --Mae, 9

"On the first date, they just tell each other lies, and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date." --Mike, 10

"It gives me a headache to think about that stuff. I'm just a kid. I don't need that kind of trouble." --Kenny, 7

My Valentine is calling. Kenny and I have to go grab an Excedrin...extra strength. :)

Friday, February 13, 2009


Tragedy at Casa de la Flaming Bore. Yesterday as I was grabbing items to return to the public library, I was mortified to discover that one of the cats had barfed a big ol’ hairy hairball all over one of the People magazines I’d checked out. And this wasn’t just any ol’ People magazine. This was the once-in-a-lifetime Presidential Inauguration Special Edition People. Yikes! One of my cats is a Republican!

Well, I stuck my tail between my legs and moseyed on down to the library to turn in my magazines, 'fessing up to the one that I’d tried to clean, sort of unsuccessfully. You could still tell that something disgusting had once been on the cover. Library Lady and I agreed the magazine looked unsuitable to be back on the shelves, so I apologized, paid the fine, and left in disgrace.

On the walk home, I came up with the brilliant idea that perhaps I could create a reasonable facsimile to replace the cover so as not to deny would-be readers the chance to see the special magazine. I figured I could draw two dancing stick figures on some construction paper, pass ’em off as Barack and Michelle at one of the inaugural balls, and People readers would never know the difference. Or at least care. They’d just be so glad not to have to handle a magazine with kitty barf all over it. So what if the first few pages were sort of plastered together in a few places.

My consideration of this possible resolution was interrupted when I got about a block from home and saw Big Bore sitting on the porch steps, his right hand moving toward his mouth. I stopped dead in my tracks. Holy crap! He’s not sucking on a cigarette on his one-month anniversary of not smoking, is he? Say it isn’t so!

I approached him, disappointed, and shaking my head side to side, so he could easily tell that something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?” he asked as I got to the driveway.

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?” I questioned, looking for a cigarette in his hand but not seeing one.

“Eating a cookie?” He grinned. I could see chocolate smeared onto his two front teeth. False alarm.

“Oh, thank god! I thought you were smoking!”

For the second time in a 15-minute time span, I had an apology to make. I’d jumped to conclusions and was ready to rip into an innocent, still nicotine-free Big Bore who was merely getting his sugar high.

I decided to get DNA test results back on the hairball before I lay blame to which cat is guilty of barfing all over the Obamas (and switching political parties from the Demo-Cats). None of them admitted to the vandalism, and I don’t want to point the finger at an innocent pussy. Besides, two apologies are the Flaming Bore’s maximum for one day.

Thursday, February 12, 2009


I had to be in Fredonia yesterday, so I took some afterthought pictures of the old Mound School grounds that I blogged about. The steps look to be in a crumbly state of disrepair, but the Run Horse, Run corral/cedar tree is bigger and better than ever. The new owners of the grounds have trimmed it up so it no longer looks like a hideaway for wayward horse girls.

An old classmate who now lives in Oklahoma emailed me to say she’d read the blog, which threw her back to the terrible time she broke her leg during one of our famous Mound School recess periods. We were in 6th grade playing softball in the flat area east of the school building. (Look at the cedar tree picture, and the scene of the crime was in the area between the first two sandstone walls in the foreground.) Barbie was up at bat and hit a grounder down the 1st base line, which wavered between being fair and foul. Like a trooper, she ran it out. No one would want to be caught standing still at home plate hoping for the ball to go foul, after all. Well, as she approached 1st base, the damned ball still wasn’t sure which way it was going to go….fair or foul, and it suddenly rolled right into the base path. She tried leaping over the ball but, instead of clearing it, she made contact with one of her feet and she went tumbling down. Ouch!!!! Time out!!! Somebody go get the principal!! Quick!!

Now it’s what happened next that I’d either totally forgotten or wasn’t aware of, but Barbie, bless her, had full recollection. Back in those days, there was no 911 to call for emergencies. When you got hurt, a parent was called (and not on a cell phone) and you sucked it up. Yes, the principal made poor Barbie and her broken leg limp all the way to his office to call her mother. We’re talking two sets of steps up the sandstone walls, then up a set of stairs into the building, then up the curved stairway to the office. Good lord! It’s a wonder the leg didn’t fall off by the time she made it to the phone!

I asked Barbie if any of her caring classmates helped her maneuver all those steps in her broken down condition, hoping so, although I had a sick feeling to my stomach that none of us did. Back then, all we cared about was getting in our full amount of recess time. There was probably a call to “Play ball!” again before she ever made it off the field. That’s about how long sympathy lasts with 11-year-olds. I’m still awaiting her response, but I think I know the answer to my question: “Hell, no!”

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


The other day I was driving by a grade school just as recess was beginning. How did I know? Because a group of boys came bursting out a side door, racing to the basketball court as if there was no tomorrow. I well remember the feeling. Heaven forbid if a nano-second of recess was wasted on the idle.

Now, our playgrounds at Mound School were the absolute best ever. Even by adult standards today, I marvel at its immensity. The school, built in 1880, was set upon the side of the South Mound in Fredonia. Just to get up to it, we’d have to walk up a steep series of maybe 25 steps, then a wider series of larger steps. Once in the building, there were more steps to get to the first floor, and kids in the upper grades had another stairway to use to get to the second floor. It was a decent workout just to get to class.

But we weren’t there to learn. We were there to play!!!!! Mound School had layers of fun. The smooth sidewalk encircling the building was great for roller skating, jacks, and jumping rope. There was a basketball court behind the building and a big sand pile on the southeast corner. Steps adjacent to the sandy area led up to an unused door. We had strict instructions NOT to jump from the steps onto the sand pile, but as soon as a teacher moved to patrol another area, you can guess what went on. Bombs over Tokyo!!!

There were scads of other playground rules to be broken. “No running down the steps--you might trip and fall!” “Don’t cross the bridge to the trash bin--snakes!” “Don’t jump off the walls--you’ll break a leg!” “Don’t slide down the south hill to the swings and teeter totters. A boy once did this, a stick went up his butt, and it killed him!” The teachers felt we were stepping onto a booby-trapped land mine with every recess period, but we didn’t care!

This leads to the worst rule ever created at Mound School--the one that banished playing Run Horse, Run. Our version of this rowdy chase game was for the girls to be the horses and the boys to be the ranchers trying to catch the horses and then take them to the corral--a large cedar tree in the central playground area that had an opening, which sort of created a teepee effect. Once put in the “pen,” a horse (girl) had to stay there until freed by another horse.

Well, the problem with Run Horse, Run was that it developed into too much of a contact sport, in the eyes of the teachers and principal. We horses did not just roll over and whimper when a rancher caught us. Oh, no. All hell would break loose. We would kick up a storm like a regular wild stallion, neighing and snorting and fighting to break free. Our 6th grade body parts apparently co-mingled too closely for adult comfort. The game was banned and, for a while, girls and boys were segregated on the playgrounds. Man, were we ever chapped about that one!

So, the other day when I saw those boys dashing out the school door, memories of my own playground days flashed before my eyes and I had to chuckle. I knew that when the bell rang for recess to end, those speedy, little legs would suddenly go into slow mode. No way were they going to race back into the building to eagerly start on a math lesson. They’d barely be moving and then they’d have to stop for a drink and to wipe down the sweat. I know the routine all too well.

Mound School was torn down many years ago and a nice home was eventually built in its place, so the grounds are no longer public property, which is a crying shame. I’d do anything to sneak back up all the steps and to jump off the sandstone wall--not to irritate a teacher but just to prove that I could!

Tuesday, February 10, 2009



Monday, February 9, 2009


Today when I was settling in at the computer, I discovered on the floor a wayward “P” tile from my Scrabble game. I don’t know how in the world it got there…perhaps from the eruption of the nearby walk-in closet where I stash old board games, among other “valuables.”

Scrabble is probably my all-time favorite board game, although our long-ago family entertainment nights also included Sorry, Clue, and Monopoly. My closest sibling in age, Big Brother Beans, was hard-pressed to find a way to cheat in Scrabble, which may have been why I preferred it over the other games. It required a bit of skill, more than just rolling dice, so the playing field was equalized. In fact, Beans rarely played Scrabble, probably because he feared I could whip up on him with my amazing command of the letters.

Now, he was his most devious when playing Monopoly--since he always insisted upon being the banker. Mr. Sticky Fingers would reward himself with extra money every time he’d passed GO. He would hide his stolen stash underneath the board, and just when it looked like he was about to go bankrupt, hordes of $500.00 bills would miraculously emerge to pad his account. I’d get pissed off, and before you knew it houses, hotels, Community Chest/Chance cards, and the entire banker’s cash drawer were flying across the room.

Probably 10-15 years ago, Beans, Mama Bore, and I had a 3-way Scrabble battle going on at his place. He would challenge practically every move we made, while making up his own wacky rules and creating his own non-existent words. Mom finally got so irritated with him that she ejected him from the game and banned him from family Scrabble competition for life. Yes, Beans was officially de-lettered. He’s never bothered hiring a lawyer to appeal her ruling, nor has he sought Scrabble amnesty with some other family. It’s just as well. Everyone knows that mothers ALWAYS have the last…word!

Saturday, February 7, 2009


Well, within four hours after Big Bore returned home from his wood cutting expedition yesterday, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes again. Back to work for the Flaming Bore. I must admit, though, that the raspberry sherbet smoothies he made were outstanding!

BB saw a cat in the backyard last night, so I went out to investigate--hoping it might be Annie, Mama Bore's missing-in-action darling that I am supposed to be fostering while she's in the nursing home. It wasn't. I did, however, make a friend for life with a gray, short-haired cuddly puss. When I went back inside, BB's first words were, "Well, what did you name it?"

When I mailed back the old Tracfone (Crapfone, Trashfone, you name it) to its headquarters in Miami a while ago, I included a copy of my Feb. 5 blog rant. It made me feel soooooooo much better!

I was thumbing through a catalogue last night and saw a back-supporting bra that I might want to order, as it claims to improve slumpy posture like mine. I got out a tape measure to see if I'm still a 32-A, like the store clerks at Victoria's Secret and Dillard's claim I am. 34-C. So there!

It's another gorgeous, warm winter day! Time to quit clowning around, go for a long walk, and then get ready for the KU basketball game. Have a wonderful weekend!

Friday, February 6, 2009


Big Bore has been gone the past few days helping a friend cut wood and, if the truth be told, probably downing a few beers. He’s practically become a teetotaler in his old age, but I’m sure he could put away a few tomato brewskis if an arm was twisted.

The cats miss their master. My lap is not as soft and roomy as his, nor am I as generous with table scraps. What table scraps? I also don’t carry on lengthy, world-shattering discussions with them, like he does. I miss his conversation, too, awake or asleep, whichever.

There are two bonuses to his absence, however. Number 1: No washing dishes!!! There are none in the sink right now. Other than a cup for tea and a spoon for yogurt, everything I’ve eaten at home since he left has not required cooking, or even plates or bowls. The kitchen is in Rest and Recuperation mode whenever BB is gone. Ahhhhhh.

Number 2: I get sole custody of the TV remote. Big Bore is a channel surfer, which sometimes makes me go ballistic. Even if we’re both watching a show we’re totally absorbed by, when a commercial comes on, he’s gotta be cruising the airwaves to see what else is on. He thinks perhaps he'll find an episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants that he hasn't seen at least a dozen times. And then he never seems to get back to the program at hand on time. God forbid if I miss a syllable of Desperate Housewives or a breath of Jeopardy. I get downright desperate and my sanity is put into jeopardy, while he thinks my little snits are slap-happy hilarious.

Well, Big Bore will be back later today from his manly, wood-splitting adventure. His hair will be disheveled, his clothes filthy, and he’ll smell like he hasn’t bathed in two days. It's a guy thing, you know. And guess what will be the first thing out of my mouth besides a little smooch: “I missed ya.” ;)


Thursday, February 5, 2009


(aka: The cell phone that makes you insane.)

I have recently decided that there are not enough swear words in the English language (press dos para espanol) to describe how much I hate my semi-new Tracfone.

Last month it just quit working…shut down with 16 minutes of quality conversation left. No amount of charging would help. Thinking perhaps I was wrong about having time remaining on it, I went online and purchased 60 more minutes for $19.95. Stupid move. The phone remained dead.

So, it was off to the 1-800 service number. After being on the line with Ramon for an hour, still nothing, so his stumped supervisor told him to send me a replacement phone. I’d keep the same number and 76 minutes would be transferred to it. Okay. Problem solved. So I thought.

The replacement phone arrived within a few days but, of course, I’d have to call back the service folks to get it “activated.” According to the cheery chick on the Tracfone recording, this process would be “quick and easy.” Yeah, about as quick and easy as lancing a boil on my butt. You get the picture?

It took four calls over the course of three days, totaling 3-½ hours, to get activated. I lost track of how many times I was put on hold by Manual, Cyril, Martha, and Anthony. But I’ll give ol’ Anthony credit. He finally got me up and running, even though he had to give me a new number.

The goofy end to this story is that in the course of Cyril dinking around with trying to change the existing phone number to the replacement phone, the old phone magically came back to life! It still has the 16 minutes left on it, but I’m returning it to the Tracfone Headquarters, as I’ve been directed to do. They can jam those minutes through the Customer Service Manager’s headset, for all I care--as long as the process is not “quick and easy.”

Wednesday, February 4, 2009


My jr. high school classmate Niner is off bra shopping today, which got me to thinking about the last time I dared to do the same. Bra shopping, for me, is like entering the vast realm of the unknown. Scary.

A few years ago I was at Towne East Mall in Wichita purchasing new eyeglasses after my cataract surgery, had some time to kill, so I mustered up the courage to stroll over to Victoria's Secret, the top of the line in looking slutty, to check out the latest in sexy lingerie. The key to a good fit would be to get an accurate bust measurement, I was told by the young store clerk, so she grabbed the tape measure, I raised my arms, and she went about her work.

"32-A," she announced to the store after wrapping the tape around me in several strategic places.

I laughed. "You've GOT to be wrong! I haven't been a 32-A since I was in 7th grade. I've been wearing a 34-C for years."

"Well, that's what the tape measure says your bra size should be," she said, reluctant to get into a shouting match with me over such tiny, trivial tits.

So, I selected some lovely, lacy 32-A bras just to prove her wrong and headed to the dressing room. I was right. My breathing/laughter was restricted as I checked the mirror and found bulging boob blubber hanging out over the bra and shoved up into my armpits. It was too disgusting to show the sales clerk.

"Trust me," I told her, returning to the rack, "I'm NOT a 32-A."

Everyone else in Victoria's Secret appeared to be about 1/2 my age or younger, so I decided I should mosey over to Dillard's, where perhaps bras were sized for the modern, mature gal. I located a sales clerk and kindly asked her to measure me.

"32-A," she said.

"What?" I was incredulous. "That can't be right!" Surely she must have been in cahoots with the Victoria's Secret clerk. It was a conspiracy against me.

I gave her the same song and dance about how a 32-A was way too small for me but went ahead and grabbed a few bras in that size, just in case Dillard's boulder holders fit differently than the foxy ones at Madame Secret.

They didn't. The mirror revealed the same tight fit, squishing boob fat everywhere.

I decided that the scientific process of breast measuring must be affected by the mysterious "Sag Factor X" that comes with advancing age. It's a variable that the sales ladies are not taught in lingerie school. For every three years over 50, add one inch and one letter to the bra size...regardless of what the tape measure indicates. That should compensate for the attempt to uplift all the middle-age droop.

I'm happy to say that I did end up making a bra purchase that day. At Wal-Mart. No measuring allowed. Size 34-C. Since retiring, however, my favorite bra size is no size at all. Pull up a stretchy tube top and away I go. No straps, no snaps, no overflow issues that cause alarm. It's the official Flaming Bore's Secret, so don't tell anyone.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009


One of my biggest winter challenges has been trying to keep my two honkin’ Boston ferns alive and well until spring gets here. I’ve been spraying them daily, trimming their sorry fronds, and watering them once a week, hoping to keep them halfway happy at least two more months, but it’s been a big strain on them. Every day I sweep away more brown, dried leafy debris beneath them and sniffle just a little bit more. :(

Monday, February 2, 2009


“Lady, you can’t have that!” Big Bore said loudly in his sleep last night. Our chatty snoozer was at it again, and I couldn’t resist talking back.

“Can’t have what?” I asked.

“That can of soup. It’s mine.” He was adamant about it, his voice strong.

Now, I know BB loves to grocery shop but I never knew his purchase power would reach subconscious, competitive levels.

Of course, when I told him about our brief overnight conversation, he had no recollection of this dream. But Big Bore, in his waking hours, is a soupy kind of guy. He buys the stuff by the case whenever it’s on sale. He also frequently buys the ingredients to whip up homemade vegetable soup, chili, and chicken noodle soup. On rare occasions, I’ll go grocery shopping with him, but I find it easier and safer to stay out of his way and let him have at it alone. I suggest all the ladies in his dreams do likewise.