Tuesday, May 31, 2011


I'm reading a book for Friends of the Library right now, Little Heathens, an autobiography about growing up in rural Iowa during the Great Depression. The author devotes a chapter to popular expressions used in her family, such as: "It's easier to keep up than catch up," "She's got a tongue that's loose at both ends," and "I was glad to see you come and I'll be glad to see you go." This got me to thinking about the little sayings I grew up hearing. Here are a few:

"Four on the floor." We kids had a tendency to rock back on chairs that weren't made for rocking. Mama Bore feared we would end up breaking a leg off one of them, especially as we got bigger and heavier, so she instituted this rule. All four chair legs had to stay put.

"Watch out for quiet guys. You never know where you stand with them." Mom thought the Louds Mouths were much safer to be with. If a guy couldn't make conversation, he'd just want to make whoopee--and that was a huge no-no and would give "Four on the floor" another meaning altogether.

"If you can't say anything nice, then don't say it at all." What kid hasn't heard this one growing up? Since I was the middle of five kids, I was constantly verbally sparring, name-calling, tattling, etc. with the siblings. In this case, being a Loud Mouth was not good. Geesh. Growing up can be so confusing.

"Well, you're not (insert name of some privileged friend of mine.)" This was usually the response I got when I wanted to do something a friend got to do, or go somewhere a friend got to go, or have something a friend of mine had--and there was no way in hell I was going to get my wish to come true. And I knew what Mom's answer would be before I even asked. Some dumb kids never give up. ("If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.")

This gem was plastered on the refrigerator door: "When I am right, no one remembers. When I am wrong, no one forgets." Boy, ain't that the truth. I can't remember anything of much good I did as a kid, but I can sure remember all the trouble I caused. "That's the way the cookie crumbles."

Monday, May 30, 2011


I only knew my great uncle Jobe as a farmer, but before he settled on his 80-acre spread near LaFontaine, Kansas, growing wheat and veggies and milking cows, he was a career Navy man, serving form 1925 to 1947. He spent eight of those years on the USS Arizona, and had the good fortune to get transferred off it shortly before it was sunk at Pearl Harbor. While ships were getting bombed in Honolulu, he was sailing off the Aleutian Islands.

My uncle never talked much to me about being in the military service...maybe because I was just a little girl who was more intrigued with the farm. The only visible reminder of his stint at sea was a lamp in his living room made out of a torpedo shell. Other than that, and his salty language, you'd never know he'd dedicated much of his life to the United States Navy. He'd much rather talk about his cows and the weather, and I rarely saw him out of his trademark outfit: Big Smith overalls.

It has only been since his death and the much later death of his wife that I came into possession of his military records, medals, pictures, and other memorabilia--many of which are now in a framed box. My great uncle wasn't a military hero of any sort, but like many others he quietly did his duty, served his country, returned home safely, and lived an ordinary life. But he will always be an extraordinary person in my eyes.

Sunday, May 29, 2011


I've told Big Bore I'm sticking to the No Diet for one more month and then I'm going off the wagon to celebrate my birthday and the fact that I can now zip up the "skinny jeans" without lying down, sucking in, or losing my breath. Six months without anything truly yummy and decadent is long enough. There are three delicious food items that I plan to have...but maybe not all on the same day, lest I go into a calorie coma, and here they are:

#1: Chicken Mediterranean Pizza from the Wichita Pizza Company. This place has the BEST pizza EVER! Besides being loaded with chicken, it also has plenty of mushrooms, artichokes, and black olives, and the crust is perfection. Magnifico!

#2: Walnut Blondie from Applebee's. A chewy, gooey light brownie, scoop of vanilla ice cream, topped off with a hot walnut sauce, served on a warm plate. No meal. Just dessert, a cup of coffee, and taste bud heaven. The picture above doesn't do it justice.

#3: Cheez-Its-regular. Mixed in with a big glob of cottage cheese. I can probably go through a pound box in two or three sittings. Cheezies are pretty much my all-time favorite crunchy snack, and I miss them like crazy. Come July, I'm busting open a box and diving in.

Until then, it's the No Diet or no reward.

Thursday, May 26, 2011


I typically stay up later at night than the little man of the house. He's usually in the sack between 9-10 PM, while I'm an 11-midnight kind of girl. I try to be semi-quiet, turning down the TV and shutting the bedroom door. I'm a considerate person--most of the time. But last night was an exception.

At 10 PM I needed to take a spazzy ear pill, and the pill bottle was in my big ol' denim feedbag in the bedroom. So, I tippy-toed in, not wanting to wake up Big Bore, grabbed the bag off the bed--and proceeded to open it upside down. ALL the contents (and there was LOTS) spilled out--loudly. Ooops! I fumbled for the pills. Then I started laughing. Then I had to pee. Badly. Then I ran to the bathroom, barely making it on time.

Meanwhile, somebody woke up. I can't imagine why. BB mumble-jumbled some words; I'm not sure what he said. I apologized, still laughing. "I'm a goof. Sorry. Go back to sleep." Then, as I walked back through the bedroom, I tripped on the denim feedbag and stumbled out. By the time I got back to the TV program I'd been watching, I had no idea if I'd ever taken the blasted pill!

Wednesday, May 25, 2011


Library Director and I have been off exploring Kansas the past few days. Most of day one was spent in Kansas City, where we saw the Princess Diana Exhibit at Union Station, had high tea there, and then took the Hallmark Cards tour. The most exciting part of the day, however, was trying to get out of downtown KC. Our astute driver, Ms. LD, was quite confident she knew how to wrangle the busy streets and make it to the Interstate. "I used to live here," she said confidently. In another lifetime, maybe. It didn't help that street work and detours impeded the way out. As well as some other drivers who have never heard of the word "merge" before.

After 45 minutes of driving dizzily in various circles, we finally made it out of the maze and on to Topeka for the night. This morning we headed to Wamego, a nifty little town near Manhattan. There we toured the Wizard of Oz museum, a restored theater, and the county museum. The Oz visit was super. Library Director and I are great fans of the movie (both of us have often been mistaken for the Wicked Witch of the West), so we had great fun taking pictures and singing along with the background music during this sentimental journey. "Ha-ha-ha. Ho-ho-ho. And a couple of tra-la-las." ---That's exactly how we laughed the day away in the merry old land of Oz.

Monday, May 23, 2011


The tornado that ripped up a quarter of Joplin, Missouri yesterday is especially sad news since I once lived there with Dr. Maureen before she was ever a doctor and I a teacher. We were both young, struggling TV-radio news reporters who didn't much care for the bad news end of the business. In fact, we just mainly excelled in socializing and took pride in being "10-per centers" for a company that demanded "110 per cent." Needless to say, we only stayed around for a year, but it was fun, nonetheless.

We had two key hangouts: Frank's Lounge and Denny's. Both are located towards the south end of the city, so they may have been damaged by the tornado. Frank's is where our station's senior reporter Mr. Phillips held court with us younger minions. A bachelor with an unusual fascination for German Nazi history (Maureen and I made him a Swastika-shaped cake for his 40th birthday and he was thrilled), he was the only one of us, I think, who actually knew Frank and who had been a customer since the place opened its door. The rest of us were just barely past the legal drinking age. The picture above is from one of our many Frank's outings, a reunion visit in 1977. Maureen is interviewing me with a pool stick and Mr. Phillips, rest his soul, is peeking out between his favorite girls, "Murph" and "Squeaks."

Trips to Denny's were strictly between Maureen and me and were always late at night. Coffee runs. Sometimes we'd liven up the visits by pretending we only spoke a foreign language. Other times the waitresses would (wisely) totally ignore us and Maureen and I would just sit at a table and laugh the whole time. Whatever. It made no difference. Denny's was just a comfortable place to be.

I have an old high school classmate who lives near Joplin, so I think I'll ask her to check on Frank's and Denny's to see if they survived the storm. I sure hope they did. I'd hate to see some mighty fine memories blown away.

Sunday, May 22, 2011


"Saturday Night Live" was a hoot last night. Host Justin Timberlake was adorably hilarious and even the musical guest, Lady Gaga, was fine since she didn't try any over-the-top spectacle like playing the piano while standing on the bench, then bending over in her thong underwear. Thank god for small favors.

I've been a fan of SNL since its inception in the 1970s, laughing at the Grade A skits and suffering through the bad ones. Which leads me to the main topic of the day: My Favorite SNL Skit Of All Time (and that's 36 years for those of you counting):

Flash back to 1988. Clueless Lawrence (Martin Short) and his serious brother Gerald (Harry Shearer) star as Olympics synchronized swimmer wannabes coached by Christopher Guest as their way-too-swishy coach. Never mind that there is no male's synchronized swimming competition in the Olympics and Lawrence can't swim. He wears nose plugs and water wings because "I'm not a strong swimmer." That's an understatement. Gerald has a smidgeon of talent--enough so that he's given up his job as an accountant to dedicate himself to men's synchro "for the rest of this century." His long-suffering wife supports them as a door-to-door saleslady.

The brothers practice their pool moves in a dance studio that has water waves painted across a mirrored wall. Their synchro coach, once a director of "Shakespeare in the Park--and if I ever have to do that again I'm just going to kill myself with a Veg-a-matic," pushes the guys through their paces. Lawrence doesn't know up from down or left from right, but he's joyfully game at trying. And this attitude impresses the coach. "They're thinking gold. I mean, who would want to wear bronze, anyway?"

Finally, the the guys are ready to move to actual water. They jump into the pool to the musical strains of the "Raiders of the Lost Ark" theme song, Lawrence wearing a life jacket and swim cap and Gerald resplendent with thick chest hair and rouged cheeks. Lawrence is usually about a half-step behind his brother; it's more of a follow the leader exercise. But in the end, they are triumphant and ready to take on the world---or at least their local pool, preferably in the shallow end since Lawrence is still "not that strong a swimmer."

I could watch that skit over and over again....along with nerdy teens Todd and Lisa (Bill Murray and the late Gilda Ratner), the singing Sweeney Sisters, the Chippendale's Dance-Off between the late greats Patrick Swayze and Chris Farley, the "More Cowbell" song rehearsal with Christopher Walken, Church Lady, star-struck Catholic student Mary Catherine, the Coneheads, the Widettes, Will Ferrell and Shari Oteri's cheerleader wannabes, Eddie Murphy's spot-on delivery of James Brown.....the list goes on and on and on. Thanks for all the laughs, SNL.

Friday, May 20, 2011


Yesterday Big Bore called me to the front porch. "There's someone cute here to see you." I thought maybe it was the sweet neighbor girl, but he pointed to the yard, where I saw a little bunny, scared and motionless. We talked to it a while, and then BB got bored and went inside. I continued to get closer and closer to the bunny, still baby talking it, until it finally scampered away.

But that's not the end of this story. Shortly after that, as I was weeding, our neighbor The Farmer got my attention. He was not a happy person. Guess who has been eating off the tops of the green beans in his wife's vegetable garden? I told him I'd seen the likely culprit hopping into another neighbor's yard. Oops.

Before I could say Jack Rabbit he had out his BB gun, and his wife and Big Bore and he were all plotting against the "wascally wabbit." It was straight out of an Elmer Fudd cartoon. All they needed were the goofy hunters' hats.

Well, as much as I don't like critters in the garden, I couldn't stay around for the big game hunt, so I retreated inside the house while they lay in wait for the critter to show up again....which it did, of course. Big Bore didn't go into detail, other than to say it took about 20 misses and a lot of wrangling, but he said that he doesn't think the bunny will be back. At least not THAT one.

Thursday, May 19, 2011


Well, The Flaming Bore's Saturn is in the hospital today, and the prognosis is going to shut down our plans to hit up Glacier National Park this fall. I didn't understand all the technical jargon, but I did figure out that it's going to cost about $1,100.00 to fix the automatic gear shifting computer system, yada, yada, yada. The new computer wasn't even in stock, so we had to leave the car in Wichita and take a rental back home. It's a roomy Toyota Camry with all the bells and whistles that impress people like Big Bore but are pooh-poohed by the auto-phobic like me. I refuse to drive it. I'm afraid I'll mistake "drive" for "reverse" and slam it into the nearest concrete wall. If I need to go anywhere between now and tomorrow afternoon, I will walk or ride my bicycle.

I try to take surprises like this in stride. There are so many more worse problems one could have than a car with a bum shifting system. Grin and bear it, pay the blasted bill, and keep on truckin'--as we used to say in the old days. This, too, shall pass until the next repair bill comes along.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011


Well, it looks like Arnold, "The Terminator" Schwarzenegger has split with his wife of 25 years, Maria "She's a Kennedy! What the hell is she doing wasting her time with this guy?" Shriver, and The Flaming Bore is hoping the she will terminate this sham of a marriage and get on with her life. "Hasta la vista, baby!" She can do better than marrying a movie star/governor who can't keep his junk in his trunk and behave himself AND who sucks on cigars all the time. Yuck!

I have a special affinity for wives who are married to (pardon my bluntness) assholes because my own dear Mama Bore once had a husband, my sperm donor, who was a bum. The break-up didn't upset me, in that I was never a Daddy's Girl, but I felt sorry for mom being stuck with five obnoxious brats, a crappy liquor store, and a pittance for child support. I will give my father credit, however, because at least he had his affair and love child in another state and wasn't employing his mistress in the home for 20 years like Arnold did! What a total jerk! He makes my father seem like a saint.

Women have been accusing Schwarzenegger of lewd and lascivious behavior for years, but he always made excuses. "Oh, it was just innocent flirting. That's just the way I am." It seems that in our sick society some men of stature (as in actors, athletes, politicians) think they are entitled to extra "privileges." We read about it over and over again, ad nauseum. They can be married to the most beautiful, intelligent, famous women and they STILL dump on them. Maybe I am just a very unforgiving person, but I hope when Arnold starts apologizing and whining and confidently swearing, "I'll be back!" that Maria will answer with a firm, "I don't think so," and will seek happiness elsewhere.

Monday, May 16, 2011


Ahhhhh! If these pink babies lasted for months instead of just a few weeks, I'd be in heaven. I would like to suggest that Blogs come with "smell-a-rama" so you could suck in the sweet aroma of peonies and enjoy. Have a great day, anyway!


Recently, I did the unthinkable and watched a show on Oprah Winfrey Network. What would ever possess me to scrape the bottom of the TV barrel? "Becoming Chaz," a documentary about Sonny and Cher's daughter Chastity undergoing "gender reassignment," which is the politically correct term for a sex change. Seems cute little blonde girly-girl Chastity grew up to be the masculine Chaz, thanks to testosterone injections and a breast-ectomy, or whatever you want to call it.

Lending moral support to Chastity/Chaz was lesbian/bisexual significant other Jennifer, who seemed to have a more difficult time with the GR (gender reassignment....have you forgotten already?) than the recipient. She misses the sweet side of her partner that has vanished due to the testosterone overload. Chaz is suddenly short-tempered, critical, self-absorbed. Just like a man! "You don't have the same sweet smile," Jen laments. A recovering alcoholic, she even goes off the wagon as a response to her partner's new attitude. The program ends with one wondering if the 6-year relationship will survive the GR, but I recently read that the two lovebirds are engaged, so maybe there is hope.

I don't write this to find fault with Chaz but to make a statement about how interesting it is that men and women ARE so chemically different. No wonder Big Bore can't understand why my feelings get hurt so easily when his voice raises one-half decibel. No wonder (when I was teaching) 9 out of 10 kids sent to the detention room were boys. No wonder I always got along better with female supervisors than the ones who were males. No wonder the prison population in the United States is approximately 90 percent male. If that's the case, then why are women even attracted to men? Hmmm. Well, I suppose I know the answer to that one. Never mind.

Sunday, May 15, 2011


I suppose by now no one hasn't heard about Botox Girl, the 8-year-old beauty pageant contestant in California whose mother gives her monthly Botox treatments. She needs the competetive edge, darn it, and what's an ancient 8-year-old supposed to do with all her wrinkles? Give that little prune face a break. If she wants her body poked with needles full of something that's derived from botulism, then who's to say no? Her mother? Of course not. That might require being a responsible parent, god forbid.

Granted, Botox is not for everyone. I'm 61 and my face has more wrinkles than a week's worth of laundry waiting to be ironed, but would I try Botox? Hell, no!! First off, I'm a cheapskate and would rather my money go toward something more worthwhile, like buying gasoline so I can hit the road, or getting more flowers for the yard. My face is beyond hope. Why bother pumping $$$ into something that is a lost cause?

Second, I'm not too keen about injecting foreign liquid into my cheeks, even if it is to plump and smooth out the crevices of my years. Knowing my luck, I'd be the dumb ditz who is allergic to it and my head would blow up...literally.

Third, I'm not big into beauty pageants, anyway. When I was Botox Girl's age, I was not wearing competitive eye shadow or evening gowns. My idea of a contest was playing softball marathons with the neighbor kids and engaging in orange juice can stilt racing with Beans. Forget being a grade school femme fatale.

But times change, I suppose, and maybe little girls are now more concerned with appearance and trophies than getting their hands dirty and scuffing up their knees. Just because I took pride in all my war wounds doesn't mean that everyone must walk my battered path into wrinkle-hood. But Botox? For a child? In my shriveled up opinion, someone needs to Botox that mother's brain and straighten out her mind!!

Saturday, May 14, 2011


I'm a fan of iris. "Flags," as my great aunt Ethel used to call them. The garden above is the pride and joy of Big Sis and her husband Ken, who've given me some "starts" of a few of them. The beauties below come from both our gardens. Let the evening gown competition begin!

I've declared #2 the Best of Show. At least that's the one on my computer screen saver for now.

Friday, May 13, 2011


When we were hiking Tuesday in Arkansas, we saw deer and all sorts of birds, but the only critters that stayed in one place long enough for me to get pictures were the reptiles. I almost speared this garter snake with my walking stick but saw it just in time to leap over it and warn Big Bore, "Snake!!" Poor creature didn't want to be bothered...just laid there sticking out its tongue at us until we moved on.

This lizard was more elusive. I don't know how BB saw its butt end in the first place, but it was sure intent on finding something in this hole. It quickly scampered off when figuring out it wasn't alone on the trail.

There are supposed to be black bears living on Magazine Mountain, but the odds of seeing one are remote, at best. They try to avoid people. I overheard one man say he'd lived in the area for 45 years and had yet to encounter one. That news was a relief since we left our "anti-bear spray" back at the campground. Kind of like an umbrella. You never have bear spray when you need it.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011


We just got back home from spending a few days/nights camping at Magazine Mountain State Park in Arkansas. This is the tallest spot in the state and many of the overlook areas are windy, including the hang gliding launch zone above. The Flaming Bore has a strict policy that feet must be touching terra firma at ALL times, and when I peeked over that launch zone, I knew there was a good reason that I'm such a wuss. Those hang glider folks must be totally mad.

Our main purpose of the trip was to hike some trails we'd not had time to cover during our last trip there in November. After walking five miles, across a ridge and up and down and all around Bear Hollow, we made the mistake of stopping at an overlook for a lunch break--good ol' Beanie Weenies--and our joints stiffened up so much that the last two miles were a challenge. Didn't help that it was one mile up a rocky trail and one mile back down on the same type of terrain. No permanent damage, though. Nothing that a hot shower and a great campfire couldn't cure.

Here's an old Beanie Weenie grizzly bear I met in the woods.

More tomorrow.

Monday, May 9, 2011


The Flaming Bore has gone camping for a few days. Back May 12.

Sunday, May 8, 2011


Long before there was the perfectly-coiffed June "Leave it to Beaver" Cleaver wearing her dressy dress and fake pearl necklace, there was my mother. (And notice from the picture that I am once again topless but have on some great shoes.)

Actually, I don't recall Mama Bore ever getting gussied up like she is in this 1950 photo. Around the house she usually wore a cobbler apron over her bra, Bermuda shorts, anklets, and tennis shoes. If we brought home friends, we had to give her fair warning so she could put on a blouse. This "outfit" was Mom's standard cooking and cleaning ensemble. And she cooked and cleaned a lot because she had five hungry kids who made lots of messes, especially me. I was notorious for leaving the refrigerator handle sticky. "Nancy Beth, get in the kitchen right this minute!"

I was the difficult, maladjusted middle child, but she recognized the position I was in and tried to cope with me the best she could. I had a smart-alecky mouth that antagonized my older brother and sister and corrupted the younger two. What surprises me now is that Mom acts like raising five kids pretty much alone was a total blast---constant fun, a real laugh a minute. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world," she always says. I think she's nuts and must be remembering the wrong five kids, especially the third one. But she hung in there and never gave up and I thank her for that. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You beat June Cleaver, hands down.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


Let it be known that May 6, 2011, will forever be known as a day of celebration on our block because the young gal who lives across the street finally moved all her crap that's been rotting on the curb for the past two months into the back of her truck. Progress, at last!

This dump site has been a sore spot for the rest of us in the 'hood (along with her barking dogs and a boundary battle). There were a lot more boxes in the pile at one time, but they blew down the street into someone else's yard one windy day. We kept hoping the rest of the clutter would somehow magically disappear...perhaps a visit from the Garbage Fairy at night, but every morning when we went out on the front porch we were greeted with the same ol' mess across the street.

When I returned from my walk last evening and saw that the trash had been moved, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. "Tell me I'm not just hallucinating," I told Big Bore. "Is it really gone?" Had I been home to witness the removal, I swear I would have stood on my front porch and applauded. Maybe even thrown in a cartwheel, if I knew how to do one.

Now, mind you, the broken toilet is still in the yard, and old mattresses bulge from the open storage area next to the house, but at least they are not at the curb, so I will take whatever small victories I can get. Sadly, Big Bore and our neighbor The Farmer will be lowering their cannons and dropping their plans to blow up the mess if it had still been there by the 4th of July. Of course, there's plenty of time for a new pile to start growing, so you just never know. They may want to hold on to that explosive idea just a bit longer.

Friday, May 6, 2011


The Flaming Bore-real 1967 version and 2011 Yearbook Yourself edition

There's a fun Internet website called Yearbook Yourself, which allows the user to insert his or her current picture into a faceless hair-do representative of certain years out of the past. Most of the results are wacky, but one of my depictions from the 1960s looks exactly like I did when I was a sassy teenager/young adult. Surprise!!!! Watch out for that helmet hair!

Back in my freshman year of college. I actually HAD this hair. It was poofed up by a fake hairpiece that sort of looked like road kill, ratted and bobby pinned on the top, then sprayed down to the max and combed over my real hair to symmetrical perfection. Sometimes I wore a headband to conceal the line of the fake attachment. I thought this "in" hairstyle was highly attractive and would lure droves of campus hotshots my way, which it didn't.

Fortunately, my hair grew quickly and this bouffant nightmare was gone by second semester. And it's a good thing. The cost of hairspray was killing my strapped budget. During my remaining college years, my hair was long and straight or frizzy--depending on the weather--much like it is now. If I had a current yearbook picture taken, there wouldn't be too much of a difference from 1971--nothing that a facelift and some heavy duty air brushing couldn't cure. Just a few minor details.

Thursday, May 5, 2011


Here's proof positive that The Flaming Bore (age 11 in this pic) has been eradicating weeds and dressing like a slob for 50 years. It's my Golden Anniversary for dealing with noxious overgrowth and looking noxious. Hooray! I can still recall when I yanked up these gigantic bad boys in the backyard and asked Mama Bore to photograph the evidence. I do not recall, however, being so skinny.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


Big Bore and I got into another row the other day when we were working on a yard project. All went well during the ground breaking portion...mainly because I stayed inside. (After excavating every inch of the backyard, solo, six years ago, I no longer dig.) So, he got all the digging done, we went to the lumber yard to find a nice 16-foot board for a garden border, got home, and then the fun began.

We had polar opposite ideas about how to lay the rock. It didn't help that I was having one of my famous ear buzzy spells and had difficulty explaining how I thought the job should be done. He was having one of his famous stubborn spells and wouldn't listen. His way or the highway. Rather than get into an argument with me, he quietly walked off while I dramatically announced, "I'll finished the freakin' job myself!!"

Which I did--after I took a pill to calm the buzzes. A back-bending hour later, I got the dirt and rock laid to perfection--about the time the two hilarious neighbor boys, 3 and 4, came by for inspection.

"Hey, Nancy!" the older boy yelled. "Watcha doing?" Anything involving rocks and dirt and water intrigues them, of course.

I let them lay some rock and throw some in the tub of water. Then, it was time for me to play on their male egos. "I sure would like some big, strong boys to help me put all this stuff away." I was exhausted by this time, but sure as heck wasn't going to ask Big Bore for sympathy. I'll take what I can get, toddlers or not.

"Race ya!" the boys would yell every time we made a trip around the house and back to the garage with the supplies--buckets, wood, shovels, etc. They'd dash off, leaving me in the dust. I had no remote inclination to give them even a smidge of competition.

"Don't run!!!" You'll hurt yourselves if you fall!!!" Well, that fell on deaf ears. Selective hearing is a dominant trait in males, you know.

Finally, we were down to a load of dirt to haul back in my handy-dandy cart. It was HEAVY, so we agreed to move it together. No running this time. Push for 1o seconds, rest 10 seconds. Push ten, walk ten, etc.

Eventually we made it to the garage. "Low fives all around! Thanks, guys! See ya later." Off they went to some other adventure, preferably one that didn't involve heavy labor.

Big Bore came back outside when the coast was clear.

"The border looks great. I understand what you were getting at now. You were right," he admitted. "I was getting the cart (rocks) before the horse (dirt)."

That's one thing I'll say about Big Bore. If he's wrong about something, he'll take full credit for being such a total louse. Still, I couldn't have done the job without all his digging, so we'll share credit this time and pat ourselves on the back for a job well done. More or less.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


Lately I've been finding old pictures at Mama Bore's home, more than a few that show me with Big Sis and Beans, and Beans and I are always shirtless but wearing dress shoes and socks. What's the deal with this? I don't get it. Did we not have enough money for a full wardrobe? Were we mini exhibitionists who preferred going topless? Why weren't we just bare footed if we were going bare chested? Poor Sis must have been mortified being seen with us. Why, I' m even mortified looking at this picture, wondering why it has been kept for almost 60 years. We look like escapees from the wagon train. Next time I visit with Mama Bore, I'm going to demand answers. I hope she can give me a reasonable explanation without laughing.

Monday, May 2, 2011


Big Bore and I got into a bit of a row the other morning. It went something like this:

Me: Guess why I couldn't sleep well last night.

BB: Your ear was buzzing?

Me: No. Because I was freezing. You wanna know why I was freezing?

BB: Because somebody left the windows open?

Me: That, plus somebody turned off the heat. Hmmm. Who could that somebody be?

BB: (silence)

Me: Don't you know that one of the Ten Commandments is: "Whosoever turns off the central heating and opens the windows shall turn the heat back on and close the windows before going to bed." ?????

BB: Thou should put-est on more clothes.

Me: Look at me! I have on sweats! And I was still freezing! "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." If you open 'em, close 'em. If you turn it off, turn it back on. That's not too much to ask. Amen.

No since arguing with me when I have God on my side. Everyone around here will be MUCH happier when warmer nights finally arrive. And they'll sleep better, too.

Sunday, May 1, 2011


The biggest buzz about the Royal Wedding two days ago is all about the Hat Freak Show put on by the guests. The Flaming Bore has chosen the Top Three Best of the Worst for your viewing pleasure. This first hat was the one I mentioned in my April 29 blog, the one that Big Bore mistook for cat whiskers. It is taking a nap on the head of Claudia Bradby, whose husband is about to have an eye gouged out. How she ever managed to get in and out of a limousine while she was wearing this hat is beyond all comprehension. A tip of the hat to your effort, Claudia.

Next we have the lovely Tara Palmer-Tompkinson wrapped up in a royal blue blanket and sporting a matching hat that defies gravity. I'm not sure how she managed to keep it afloat, but my guess is that there is a large plastic suction cup inside it. Ms. Palmer-Tompkinson just applied water, saliva, or her other favorite liquid and pressed it onto her forehead to get the hat to stay in place. Removing it may have required a tire jack. I'm not sure.

My top choice for butt-ugly hat belongs to Princess Beatrice, daughter of Prince Andrew and the now ex-communicated Fergie. Straight out of the Wonderland Mad Hatters Collection, this stunning bow on steroids looks all the more hideous because she has chosen to line her eyes with sticks of coal. The Flaming Bore is concerned that this misguided girl will never find a husband of her own unless he is from the raccoon family. How would you have liked to have been the poor soul sitting behind her at the wedding? "Madam, will you please remove your antennae?"

Actually, I think I prefer her wedding headgear to the one she wore below to a prior auspicious occasion, most likely an insect convention. I'm adding it to today's blog specifically because my friend Library Lady totally digs butterflys and will want to try to find a knock-off hat for herself during her next adventure in shopping. On second thought, perhaps this one should just return to the cocoon. "Off with your head, Princess Beatrice!!"