Thursday, March 31, 2011


I've been wracking my brain this morning trying to come up with the perfect April Fool's Day prank to pull on Big Bore tomorrow. All I've come up with so far is a bathroom scenario involving an irregularity issue--too much information, I know, even for a blog.

The main problem is: I am not a very good liar. I either start laughing before the punch line or I start feeling guilty and spill the beans all over myself. 

The first lie I ever recall telling was out of sheer necessity. I accidentally wet my pants while playing outside one fine day, unable to "hold it in." I was probably six or seven, well beyond toilet training years, and mortified with myself. When I went inside to change clothes and encountered Mama Bore in the hallway, panic set in. "There was water in the seat of the lawn chair from the rain yesterday and I sat down before checking it," blurted out of my mouth without hesitation. Mom seemed to believe me, but a few decades later I 'fessed up about lying to her. I think there's something in the Holy Bible that sort of goes like: "Thou shalt not lie to your mother about peeing your pants," so I wanted to set the record straight with Mom and God and clear my conscience.

The absolute worst lie I ever told was when I was 23 and Dr. Maureen and I were working as KODE-TV news girls during our "Lost Year" in Joplin. This one was a doozy. When I wanted to join a group of friends on a boozy float trip in the Ozarks rather than go to work all weekend, I told a co-worker that my father had had a heart attack. Now, mind you, I hadn't even seen him in several years. What did I know? Why not just say I was sick---of the job? Well, the co-worker had such a nose for the news that he could smell a stupid story anywhere within the 4-state area, mainly because he was the biggest bullshitter at the station. I was had. Not good and never again. A lesson was learned. Lying and the workplace do not mix.

Most of my lies are of the "little white" variety said to keep the peace and avoid hurt feelings. You know what I mean? Haven't they just rolled off your tongue in moments of good judgment? "Oh, your baby is adorable!" instead of, "My god, that's the homeliest child I've ever seen!" (that last line is borrowed from my late great aunt Ethel who pretty much had disdain for all little kids except me, of course). Or, "Your new hairstyle is fabulous!" instead of, "What the hell happened to your hair?" I am often the recipient of such lies, and that is all right with me. "You're looking great!" my friends say when we get together. Sure, great for a lousy bag of prunes maybe. Overripe ones. Go ahead and tell me another one.

Anyway, once I've finally figured out the grandest of all grand April Fool's jokes or fibs, or conspiracies to pull on Big Bore tomorrow, I'll have just one more problem. How am I going to say it with a straight face?  Especially one that's so damned wrinkled? I'd better start practicing now.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


Bless my bulging behind, it's three months and -20 pounds on the "No Diet," and I can finally zip up my skinny jeans without lying down. Granted, I can't walk around in them comfortably and sitting down is totally out of the question. Five more pounds, maybe?

I didn't reach my goal of losing 25 pounds in three months. In fact, I've only lost two pounds this entire month, but I guess that's better than gaining two pounds. I've been under lots of stress watching KU basketball games, you know. The good news is, I can wear all my old elastic-waist pants comfortably and without the fear of a butt blow-out. I shouldn't have to spend the entire summer wearing sweatpants like I did last year. Although what am I wearing right now? Sweatpants!!!

Part of me wants to celebrate the weight loss with a big box of Cheez-Its, but I guess I'll behave myself for a little bit longer.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011


Even though it's freezing here, Spring must be in the air because I had a prom dream overnight. Oh, I wasn't back in Fredonia in high school schlepping off to the dance with Windy Wayne or Boyfriend of the Month with the Chevy Bel-Air. Nope, I was living right here in E-town in Casa de la Flaming Bore, with Mama Bore, and she was trying to get me ready for the big dance.

My date was some blonde foreign exchange student, name unknown. Good grief! I don't think I ever once dated a blonde in my life. Or a foreign body. I'm not into blondes, although I did think the blonde wrestler on "Dancing with the Stars" last night was light on his twinkly Quick-Step toes, thus my inspiration for the warped dream, I summise.

Well, most of my vivid dreams have a conflict, of course, and this one was that I couldn't worm my way out of my granny gown in order to take a bath and get into my prom gown. I have this paisley granny gown with enough elastic in it to allow several people to wear it at one time, but in this stupid dream I could not pull it off. "My shoulders are too big!" I cried to Mama Bore. We got into a hell of a struggle, but it finally wriggled off.

Then, I remembered I hadn't ordered the nameless, faceless date a boutonniere. How could I be so forgetful?? So, we jump to a flower shop, closed, but I've broken in and am rummaging through carnation rejects trying to put together a decent little flower for him.

Jump to my friends, who are telling me not to worry about the boutonniere because said date has body odor and will stink to high heaven, anyway. "No he won't!" I shout. "Just because he is a foreigner doesn't mean he has b.o!!" I'm such a defender of him that I should be given an award for international diplomacy.

"Good lord! What have I done with my purse?" I can't leave any money for the flower I've just made off with. I've left it at the cafeteria where I worked, and it is closed, too. "Oooooh. I need a pedicure! My toenails are grimey!" You know how dreams just bounce around? Well, my prom dream was on a big bouncy ball, for sure. Next thing I know, my neighbors are in their van--off to catch me in the promenade and I'm not even there. I haven't even taken my damned bath yet.

Well, thank God I woke up and I wasn't in a nubile, teen-aged body worrying about prom pettiness. But I sure had one hell of a headache. I'm going to go take that hot bath I never got around to having in my dream, soak away my aches and pains, and get ready for the day. Nothing on my dance card agenda--yet.

Monday, March 28, 2011


Well, today I'm trying to think of the "fringe benefits" of KU losing yesterday so I can kick my butt out of its doldrums. Big Bore has already told me I'll be calmer, will swear less, and won't be talking to the TV quite so much. Points well taken. I will have more time to do housework--like I'm going to devote much to THAT one, although if I don't sweep up under my computer table soon I do believe strange little gigabytes may start popping out of the floor. I will also have more time for shopping---which means I'm headed out to Dollar General to buy up some of their KU souvenir gizmos. I need a new key ring, and a Jayhawk one will be just what I need to remind me that the new season begins in only eight months! Onward!

Sunday, March 27, 2011


Oh, woe is me! Not only did Kansas lose today, but so did North Carolina. Double woe. And to make my day even worse, it's snowing outside! Triple woe. What is going on with the world? I've put away my red and blue Mojo necklaces until next season. We WILL be back!! As the great literary heroine and Jayhawk fan Scarlett O'Hara once said, "As God is my witness, I will NOT go hungry again!"

Friday, March 25, 2011


The Jayhawks eased into the Elite Eight tonight! I didn't even have to swear or have an anxiety attack. Flying high all the way! Next game is Sunday. Wear your red and blue and keep on rock chalkin'!!

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


The Bores are off to Pittsburg for a few days but wish you a chirping fine day from this yellow-headed bird visitor (Big Bore calls it a golden finch, but I'm not as technical.) We're flying outta here!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


Yesterday the newspaper ran a photo feature article about fencing, which Big Bore pointed out to me.

"Oh, I once took fencing lessons," I told him, the article jogging my mind about 44 years back.

"Really?" he sounded impressed. "When?"

"Back in college. We had to take two phys. ed. credits, and I took fencing and square dancing."

He laughed. "You, the hippie girl, took square dancing?"

"I was terrible at it. All the tall girls had to be the boys, so I never learned how to dance it as a girl. (This was during the archaic period in time when p.e. classes were segregated by gender.) All I remember is allemande left, whatever the heck that means." The teacher was Dr. Evelyn Tripplett. She was a tank of a woman but light on her feet.

"How were you at fencing?"

"Not much better. We wore these lightly padded chest protectors--nothing like what is worn nowadays--and one time I got touched with the sword underneath the protector and directly into my belly button. I doubled over and fell down. Hurt like hell."

I can still remember more about fencing skills than square dancing, though. Give me a foil and I bet I could fake my way into a role as an extra in a Three Musketeers movie. --An extra what, I'm not quite sure.

Monday, March 21, 2011


Every spring Big Bore and I cut back our three ornamental grasses in the backyard. It's simple. First, I stand around and watch. Then he gets out some rope to tie around each one at the base, ties another rope around about a foot higher, binding all the grass, then he saws it down. I pick up the bundle of grass and toss it in the pick-up truck for disposal. It takes about three minutes each. So, today I volunteered to cut back the two ornamental grasses at the Garden Club's downtown garden. How hard can that be?

Well, I found out that BB makes it look a lot simpler than it really is...for me. I did a lousy job of tying the grass into a bundle--since I was never a Boy Scout--and my sawing job was even worse. Call 9-1-1 is more apt. Mainly because when I finished sawing down the smaller of the two grasses I noticed blood dripping all down the middle finger of my left hand. Yes, folks, I had managed to saw right into it.

Now before I had left home to go to the downtown garden, BB told me, "Don't forget to take your heavy work gloves."

"I already have them in the car," I answered proudly. I knew he thought I'd forget them.

So where were the damned gloves when I was cutting alway at the grass and my finger? Still in the car, of course.

As I was running water over the bloody mess, showing my Garden Club co-horts my battle wound, who should happen to drive up but Big Bore, who was leaving me his truck to use for hauling away the grass and other "stuff" we gals were clipping and snipping away to get the garden looking spiffy.

"I need your help," I said as he approached.

"What do you need?"

"A tourniquet, I think." I showed him my finger, blood still pumping out.

"Weren't you wearing your gloves?"

"Well, I sort of forgot to put them on. They're still in the car." Another genius moment in my life, where he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me.

He went home to fetch me the first-aid kit. Another Garden Clubber helped me chop down the other, larger grass, although we both failed at bundling it up nicely. I think we left about half of it laying there, hoping that it will blow away down Main Street overnight.

Next year I'm doing things differently. Like volunteering someone else to cut back the ornamental grass.

Sunday, March 20, 2011


Here's how I spent a glorious first day of Spring!!

1. Expanded a flower bed. (Love the massive quantities of dirt under my fingernails)

2. Assisted Big Bore in re-aligning the porch posts (that the ace carpenter left crooked after our water leak disaster from last fall.)

3. Went over to the neighbor's house to complain about one of their dogs. (The one that barked and yapped non-stop while I was gardening. This must NOT continue or I will be stark raving mad by April.)

4. Walked two miles

5. Did a load of laundry

6. Called Mom

7. Cleaned out the litter boxes

8. Started working on my new bowling ball art project (It's going to be a classic!)

9. And best of all: cheered the Jayhawks on to victory and the Sweet Sixteen!!! (BB was hoping that it was the last game of the season, so my mania would be gone until next season. Hey, I'm just getting started, baby!!! My spring has sprung!!)

Saturday, March 19, 2011


I have a serious accusation to make that may have dire worldwide consequences. Hold on to your computer chair. I think the current American Idol judges, Randy "Dawg" Jackson, Jennifer "J-Lo" Lopez, and Steven "Just how high and loud can I scream?" Tyler are showing favoritism towards the male contestants. The poor women don't stand a chance.

Case in point #1: Randy recently dogged a cute little gal named Haley for singing a country song last week and a contemporary pop song this week. "I don't know who you are," he moaned to her. "You need to establish an identity." Meanwhile, a bearded contestant named Casey has jumped around from jazz, to pop, to grunge rock (he assassinated a Nirvana hit this week) and the judges declare him a versatile genius who can do it all. "You're willing to take risks," the judges admire. So, it's okay for the guy to switch musical genres, but not the gal?

Case in point #2: Jo-Lo whines at Haley that her body motions don't seem natural. She tells her she sings okay but she looks uncomfortable on stage. But when Paul, a Rod Stewart wanna-be
with a 10,000 megawatt smile, performs, he gyrates around like Frankenstein on speed and the judges rave about his unique movements. "You look like you're having so much fun," J-Lo gushes to him.

Case in point #3: Naima sings a bit pitchy and the judges are all over her case about it. "You need to really work on this problem," she's told. But Jacob hits some sour notes, too, and it's, "You were a little pitchy in some places, Dawg, but man do you ever own a song! Wow!"

Is it any wonder that of the six people "on the chopping block" the past two weeks, all have been female?

(I have to admit, though, that the contestant who got booted off this week, Karen Rodriguez, needed to go. Anyone who wears a metallic silver mini dress, thigh-high boots, earrings the size of dinner plates, AND a beehive has no business being in a singing competition--even if she is trying to look like J-Lo.)

Stay tuned. If this prejudicial treatment continues on American Idol, then my idle mind may take this complaint all the way to the top. Of Karen's beehive.

Friday, March 18, 2011


(Me with Maureen and Scott a few years ago in Kansas City during a respite from their March Madness)

Dr. Maureen and her Southern gentleman husband Scott checked in with me last night from their hotel room in beautiful downtown Shah-lot, North Carolina. Today and Sunday they will be camped out at the Time Warner Cable Arena (what the heck ever happened to venues with cool names like Madison Square Garden?), along with six of their sportiest friends, attending Rounds Two and Three of the NCAA tournament. Not only does the good doctor talk the talk, but she walks the walk, as well. If she can smell a basketball game going on within a few hundred miles of her country home, she'll be there--and so will her trusty sidekick, Scott.

Attending these games is the social event of the year for Maureen and Scott. They will be attending all six games, I do believe, wearing their finest KU shirts, scoping out other Jayhawk fans and responding to jeers from the Duke and UNC fans, of which there will be many, in the crowd. This is like the Mardi Gras for them. In between games will be bar stops--more opportunities to show off their Rock Chalk attire and pick up new friends along the way. Maureen adheres to the Will Rogers theory of goodwill: "I never met a sportsman I didn't like." (with the exception of anyone remotely associated with Missouri, Kentucky, and Duke)

I don't know if the good doctor plans to see patients come Monday morning, or if she'll spend the day recovering from the weekend. I suspect she may need some assistance from her live-in medical assistant, Nurse Sheila Jane, also a KU fan of uber-the-top proportions. Let's hope Sheila gets back from the Southwest Regionals in Tulsa in good shape and no emergency care is required. Have fun, you crazy kids!!!!

Thursday, March 17, 2011


Since I've been car blogging the past few days, I have to show off my favorite set of wheels. If I had $50,000 to blow, I'd buy myself a Chevy Bel Air--preferably a 1957 maroon over white. Although this one is a convertible, I'd prefer the white hard top. Oh, be still my heart. I LOVE the Bel Air, from 1955-1957. Whenever I hit up a car show, I head straight to those Bels and just stand there and salivate, wishing I could get inside and "pretend-drive."

When my boyfriend of the month broke up with me in 1967, I didn't miss him as much as I missed riding around in his custom-painted, metallic light green Bel Air, 1955 model. It was the epitome of cool. From the moment it arrived at my driveway to whisk me away in the sunset, I was in love (with the car). I wonder whatever happened to that beauty.

Oh, if I only had a snazzy Bel Air, I'd be happy as a grasshopper hitching a ride on a windshield wiper during a hot summer day. Perfection!

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


(My restricted driver's license, 1963)

The summer of 1963 I enrolled in an 8-week driver education class, and Mr. Lawrence Hall, (Larry to his friends, but Mr. Hall to his class), embarked upon trying to teach me how to become street legal. I was a challenge.

I did not have the experience that many of my friends already had received. All the farm kids had been driving for a year or more, and even most of my townie pals had been driving around with their parents. Not I. Until I begged and whined and cajoled Mama Bore into taking me out into the country with our 1958 silver and turquoise Pontiac Chieftain 9-passenger station wagon. "I'm gonna be the ONLY one in driver's ed. who's NEVER driven before and I'll be at a BIG disadvantage if you don't take me driving!!"

The guilt trip worked. A week before class started, she took me out on the country roads northeast of town in the Pontiac. And I don't think we'd gone a mile before MY driving was driving HER to a nervous breakdown and her teaching/criticism was totally pissing me off. I finally skidded the car to a stop, swung open the driver's door, stormed out, and dramatically slammed the door---on my right hand. Sonofabitch!! Hell, I couldn't even shut the car door correctly, let alone drive the damned thing. (Can you sense that I'm still a bit upset about this, 48 years later?)

So, it was up to Mr. Hall to put his life on the limb and teach me to drive. Remember, this is before seat belts and air bags. All he had to defend himself with was a passenger brake. And to make matters extra tense, we took lessons in groups of three or four, so a backseat full of so-called friends were always along for the ride to make fun of the driver.

And I gave them a lot to make fun of. During my first attempt at making a right turn, the inside tires jumped the curb. Then there was the time a dog came dashing across the street in front of the car, and Mr. Hall had to apply his passenger brake because I was just going to mow over the dumb mutt. The backseat gang lurched forward and practically ended up in the front seat. I was usually afraid of doing something wrong, so I'd stop at stop signs about a half-block before I got to them and wait around until there were no cars in sight before I took off again. No confidence at all.

Somehow I got through the class. The bookwork was a cinch, but my driving continued to be hesistant. Still, I had a slip of paper that said I could "pass go" and mosey down to the driver's license office to get my restricted license. So, that's what I proudly did. --And I promptly failed the vision test. "What??!!! I can't see?? How can this be?? Well, maybe that explains why I'm such a lousy driver!"

Eventually, Mama Bore rounded up the money for some eyeglasses, and I was totally amazed at the new world before me. I'd never realized how horrible my eyesight was. Still, even with the glasses, I rarely got to drive the Pontiac and depended on friends for rides all through high school. Anyone who had been my driver's ed. buddy obviously preferred it that way. We were all safer. And so were the curbs.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011


The first family car I can remember was a green Oldsmobile, my guess a 1951 model, that we took all the way to Aberdeen, Washington when I was three years old. My father's older half-brother lived there, and Mama Bore says she found out when we arrived that my father had failed to tell him we were coming. Just a minor omission. She says every time she's seen the movie National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, the unannounced arrival of Cousin Eddie and his crew at the Grisswald home reminds her of our own family escapade of the summer of 1952. Surprise!!!

Although I have no memory of the trip, I do remember later rides in the car. In the days before belted car seats for kids, I had my own special roosting spot. It was a bicycle basket with a padded seat hinged on top, which served two purposes. I could see out the windows when I sat on it, and Beans and Big Sis could stash their comic books in the basket part. This was a homemade number--not one of the fine "extras" that Oldsmobile offered.

I can also recall sitting in the Olds with Beans and Sis when Mom would take us downtown at night. While she was in a store, we kids would play Boogeyman. The basic idea was that every car that drove by had a boogeyman inside, and we'd have to duck down so he couldn't see us. Kids had to be creative with their game playing back in those days.

We went through a few more cars when I was a kid: two Pontiac station wagons, a purplish-brown gawd-awful something with winged back fenders that we called "The Batmobile," and a few VW Beetles. Beans once tried to teach me how to drive one of the VW's, an event that ended six blocks from our house with him laughing at my hopeless attempts at shifting the gears. I blew up into tears and cuss words. Not a pretty sight. I shall continue my driving adventures tomorrow.

Monday, March 14, 2011


"I've never met a girl quite like you," Big Bore said to me last night. I thought this was his opening line for singing my praises and sucking up big time. Tell me more. Tell me more.

"How so?" I asked, fishing for a compliment of grand proportions.

"Well, you like sports so much," he answered.

"Is that bad or good?"

"It's scary," he laughed. So much for my fishing trip.

"How so?"

"Your turn into a different person. If I walk by the TV, it's: 'Get outta my way! I'm missing out on the game!' You go crazy." He failed to mention that I also slap the coffee table, jump totally out of my seat on a 3-pointer made by my man Tyrel, tell the coach what to do, and give a running commentary, which sometimes drives him outdoors even when it's raining.

"Well, I'm sorry if you get upset with my behavior, but I'm not gonna change."

"Oh, I know. I don't want you to change. I'm just not used to being with someone who knows so much about sports."

"Just be glad Dr. Maureen lives in North Carolina and isn't here to watch the games with me. Her little pinky knows 500 times more about sports than I I know, and she can drop an F-bomb that will blow you out of your socks."

Gee, I sure wish Dr. M was back in Kansas so she could treat my case of March Madness and we could go ballistic together.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


KU's basketball team rocked the court in Kansas City tonight and won the Big 12 Championship, beating Texas. This picture shows off my Jayhawk Mojo: a T-shirt from the 2008 National Championship and my red and blue peace and love beads. I also always wear a rubber band Jayhawk bracelet that Dr. Maureen gave me. She called me after the game and we got to watch the award ceremony on together. We are kindred sisters when it comes to KU basketball, which basically means we are total maniacs during the games. This is what March Madness is all about!

Friday, March 11, 2011


A belated Happy March Birthday shout-out here for two beloved family members. Great neph Boomer hit #5 on Tuesday, and Little Bit turned Sweet 16 last Sunday. I think that's 80-something in human years, but who's counting. The above picture is not from his birthday party but was taken a few years ago during a male bonding session with Big Bore. Bits is also a big fan of yogurt, preferably peach.

My favorite 5th birthday story dates back to when my nephew Brandon, Boomer's dad, celebrated his #5 on Channel 7's Fun Club back in the 1970s. The Fun Club was a 30-minute cartoon and music show, live, that had a peanut gallery of kids hosted by The 49'er, some grizzly old gold miner type of guy who sang off key. Kids celebrating birthdays at the Fun Club got the pleasure of receiving a cardboard crown and an up-close and personal interview from The 49'er himself. At which point, Brandon's birthday was spoiled and his self-image ruined for life:

"What's your name, little girl?" The 49'er asked him. Oh, my god! Did he just call Brandon a little girl?

My nephew's facial expression quickly went into pissed-off mode. The camera zoomed in on him, the microphone stuck in front of his face.

"I'm not a little girl," he mumbled.

"What?" The 49'er asked. Ya had to speak up for the ol' guy.

"I'm not a girl," Brandon said louder.

"Ohhhh!" Chuckle, chuckle. Apology, apology.

But the damage was done. Everyone in the 4-state viewing area had heard it. We haven't let Brandon live down that story in, hmmmm, let's see, about 35 years? He had longish, beautiful blonde curls back then, but he was sturdy as a tank and there was no way, in my eyes, he looked like a girl. The 49'er must have had one too many Bloody Marys before the show.

It's a wonder Brandon didn't rip up his Fun Club crown right there on the spot and shove all the pieces in The 49er's face, but the royal headwear survived long enough for the picture below. He may have later torched it with the birthday candles, though. I'm not sure.

Anyway, that's my birthday story for today, and I'm sticking to it. Here's to being 5 and always having fun, whether you're a girl OR a boy!

Thursday, March 10, 2011


Well, it looks like child care experts, of which I am NOT one (unless you're speaking of kittens), have their diapers all in a wad because poor little rich girl Suri Cruise was recently seen walking her stuffed teddy bear with a binky in her mouth. She's almost 5-years-old, which those in the know think is waaaaaaay too old to be sucking on one of those yummy plastic pacifiers. Suri's habit could cause bucked teeth and make her the object of ridicule, they say.

Personally, I don't see the problem with it. If I had herds of stalking photographers following my every move, I'd need more than a pacifier to calm me down, starting with a bottle of valium. We should be glad that sweet Suri isn't a wigged-out, pre-school drug addict in need of an intervention. Let her slurp on the stupid binky all she wants. Her parents can easily afford to have braces put on her teeth later on, should they become bucked. As for coping with the ridicule, well, she's already had plenty of experience dealing with that dilemma. Tom Cruise IS her father, after all.

There's actually a bright side to this sad story. I predict that Suri will make pacifiers fashionable and they'll become all the rage. Designer binkies in an array of colors and styles. They'll become a must-have accessory, like handbags and hairbows. Every gal will want one. You just wait and see. They'll come in assorted flavors, regular and sugar-free. Why, I would invest in their production today and be a millionaire by tomorrow, if I had scads of money. But I don't. Which sucks. Where's a binky when I need one?

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


4:35 AM----CRASH!!!!

"What was that?" Big Bore asked.

"A cat just knocked over something in the plant room. It can wait till morning." I'd been up 10 minutes earlier to take a pill and was halfway back to sleep.

"I'll go see what it was," he said. ------"Fluffy knocked over your bamboo plant."

"Crap. I'd better take care of it." It's one of those lucky bamboos in a blue and white vase and lots of little rocks in it...that were now all over the floor, along with water. The plant, fortunately, looked none the worse for wear. So, I put it all back together again and went back to bed.

"What was it I was saying last night about how we were so lucky to have such sweet cats to keep us entertained all the time?" I asked BB as I threw the covers back over me.

"That's kids for ya," he said. "Now try to go back to sleep." "Try" being the operative word.

I love you, Fluffy.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011


"With age comes fashion invisibility" the headline shouted out from the newspaper one day last week. That sounded familiar. The article detailed the horror story of Baby Boomer gals who are no longer concerned with wearing make-up or dressing stylishly--like that was EVER a concern of mine. "They've decided there's no sense in continuing to try to look young, so they give up," wrote the author--no doubt some glamour queen who knows the difference between eye liner and lip liner and owns every shade available in the universe.

After finishing the story, I took a good look at myself. Sweatpants, check. T-shirt, dirty, check. Make-up, none. Hair, swept messily back into a ponytail. "Hmmm. I do believe this article is about me." Except I've NEVER dressed stylishly or worn much make-up. I can't really say I've given up on myself as I've gotten older, though. You can't lose what you never had in the first place. Right?

Now, don't get me wrong. I would LOVE to have a wrinkle-free face, but there are better places to put my money than make-up and cosmetic surgery--like trips to the mountains, flowers for the yard, and cat litter. Plus, I am lazy. I don't want to waste time messing with something that's a hopeless case anyway, no matter how much effort is taken on a makeover. Hiding all the mirrors in the house is a heckuva lot easier.

Monday, March 7, 2011


The other day on Facebook, one of my ol' neighbor boys from F-town mentioned our high school dress and appearance code back in the days when teenagers actually had the audacity to follow rules. Or stupidity. Lots of comments followed. It seemed everyone had his or her own horror story of trying to buck the code and being shot down by the powers that be, AKA: our principal.

When I taught high school decades after my own experience in hallowed hallways, none of my students would believe me when I said the girls of the 1960s were not allowed to wear jeans/slacks unless it was a "special day." I had to drag out my old yearbook to prove it to them. Skirts and dresses everywhere and none above the knees, god forbid. Get out the ruler and measure.

Another old neighbor Facebook-ed in complaining about the hair rules for boys. Hair in back could not touch shirt collars (since boys were not allowed to wear T-shirts to school back then, all shirts had collars). Another was sent home and told to shave away what looked to be a mustache growing in. I asked him if he had mistakenly thought it was a special "Puberty Day" at school. No such luck. Out came the razor.

I can recall my senior year when the Student Council tried to repeal a rule about not being allowed to wear a tennis shoe that we called "joggers." They looked sort of like a track shoe without spikes. We thought it was absolutely ridiculous that we couldn't wear them---but the principal shut us down. No discussion. Period. End of idea. Shoes had to have a defined heel. Aye, aye, sir.

Seeing how school appearance rules have relaxed over the decades, I'm now not too sure that the old timers were all that off the mark. Recently while dining out with some current teaching friends, one said, "The last day I teach before retiring, I'm going to school showing cleavage, bra straps, a tramp stamp leading to my butt crack, and my flabby midriff sticking out. When my students ask why I'm dress liked that, I'm gonna say, "It's payback time for having to look at you for the past 30 years!"

Now, that's what I call a "special day!"

Sunday, March 6, 2011


Hell hath no fury like basketball fans scorned!! Yesterday during the last four minutes of the exciting, butt's-on-the-edge-of-my-couch game between Kansas and its most despised rival of all time Evil Missouri, a number of CBS affiliate stations across the nation switched to other games that were just getting started. Even people in Kansas City missed seeing the finale of what is known as The Border War, although The Flaming Bore was lucky to get to see the entire game. (Had I not, you would have heard me roaring naughty words into neighboring countries. Yes, Tara, even Canada!)

"We were told by CBS that the problem was caused by sun spots," twittered the KC station manager. "The problem will not happen again."

Well, the fans weren't buying it. Hundreds of comments poured into in no time, and some were so funny that I just had to share. Fasten your seatbelt, because this is a bumpy one:

"Gee, did the sun spots tell (sportscaster) Greg Gumbel's brain to have him say, 'We're now cutting to the start of the Michigan-Michigan State game.'?"

"I hear the BS train a coming!"

"I must be at a cattle ranch. I smell bullsh**t!"

"I can only assume that the idiot at the station's controls is named Sun Spots."

"A better excuse would be: 'My dog ate my satellite feed.'"

"I used sun spots as an excuse once before. She dumped me."

"Sounds like a Men in Black explanation."

"Damn sun! I'm never staring at it again."

"It beats watching a re-run of Moonstruck."

"Sun spots? As Jon Lovitz used to say on Saturday Night Live: That's the ticket!"

"If it was sun spots, why didn't we hear Katie Harmon (KCTV-5 weather gal) get on there and warn us, 'Sun spots! We're all gonna die! Get your helmets out of the garage and head for the basement!'"

"Why didn't they just blame it on Dolly Parton's boobs or Adrian Brody's nose?"

"This opens up a whole new world of excuses. Whenever I screw up my job and generally fail in life, I can blame sun spots!"

"No wonder Charlie Sheen is whining about CBS."

(from WilburNether): "Kansas City deserves this."

"Wilbur, you deserve leprosy."

Oh, it went on and on and on and got pretty vicious. And I did feel sorry for poor Dr. Maureen, who had driven hours to join other KU alums at an establishment in Charlotte (better know as Shah-lut) NC, to watch the game together. What a flippin' bummer!

The actual March Madness, aka: NCAA basketball championship tournament, begins on the 15th. The Flaming Bore hopes CBS can sign a deal with the sun to get it to cooperate. We don't want anymore spotty coverage.
Go 'Hawks!!!

Saturday, March 5, 2011


Yesterday at the Saturn customer's lounge, the lady next to me opened up a big fat can of worms when she asked me: "What are you reading?" and for the next hour we discussed books and libraries and travelling and teas.

I was reading Deep South by Nevada Barr. Dr. Maureen got me turned on to her Anna Pigeon series of books, of which there are 16. Anna is a middle-aged, independent national park ranger cop who is always, and I mean ALWAYS with a capital A, butt-deep in danger. At one time I thought it would be fun to have such a job, but after reading a good number of these mysteries I am convinced that being a national park ranger is riskier than being a nude taste-tester at a plutonium plant.

With each book Anna is assigned to a different national park, and she hasn't even unpacked before she stumbles onto some lifeless body--or her own life has been threatened at least a half-dozen times. I've lost track of how many near-death experiences she has had while on the job. She's been stabbed, shot, fallen off cliffs, attacked by a bear, nearly drowned, been caught in a firestorm, poisoned--you name it and Anna has had it happen to her. Plus, even worse, a lot of the men she works with are slobs.

Well, fortunately, the nice lady at the Saturn joint is fond of books so she tolerated my lengthy explanation of what I was reading and even took down a few notes. Next time she may think twice before asking.

Friday, March 4, 2011


I came across this collage on the Internet yesterday, and the following burning question came to mind: If these were the last three pairs of shoes left on earth and you could only pick one pair, which would it be? (Yes, I have WAY too much time on my hands to ponder such dilemmas.)

I chose the pink higher-than-high tops because I think they are probably the ones I could actually walk around in, provided the material is really stretchy and could be forced over my hips. They'd sure be hell to lace up, though. By the time it'd take to get them all tied on, I'd be ready to go back to bed.

I've seen Lady Gaga weaving around on the animal print spikey mittens. I'm not sure what they're called: hooves, crab boots, pinchers. Who knows. These have GOT to be the most uncomfortable shoes of all time. Which means they are wildly popular and sell for about $5,000 a pair.

Great to see that platforms are making a comeback. I once had a strappy white pair back in the early 1970s. I pretended that I looked really fab teetering on them, although I had some close calls almost losing my balance and falling on my face. I searched The Flaming Bore Archives trying to find this groovy photo of me wearing them, but, alas, I could not find it, so here is a different footwear picture of me from out of the past to take its place. Don't lose your balance laughing.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


Well, my Midwest Living-inspired project was thrown together yesterday in a matter of seconds. Step 1: open umbrella Step 2: tie bow around umbrella Step 3: stuff flowers inside umbrella. Hooray! I did it! On the first day of spring I will hang it outside on the porch and admire.

While I was sweating over the umbrella, Big Bore built me a porch rail planter...bless his little heart. The ones on the Internet were just toooooooo expensive, so BB made me one from some scrap wood our neighbors gave us when they had their garage torn down. I'm in the process of painting it and decorating it, then come warmer weather I will plant some cascading vinca inside. Ahhh. Lovely.

Now I have to think of another project to keep me from having to do housework. All ideas welcome.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


Two months and sixteen pounds down with the "No Diet." I still can't get the jeans buttoned. Every Wednesday morning I try them on--or try to try them on, which is actually a better way of putting it. On a brighter side, my khaki slacks and black cords are no longer in danger of suffering a blowout (split butt seam), so that's progress.

I have a range of jeans taking up space in my closet, from size 8's to 14's, slim-leg to bell-bottoms, overalls, holes, paint stains, you name it. The ones I'm trying to get back into are size 10 Faded Glory Classic Fit. I'm not exactly sure what a Classic Fit means, other than No Breathing Space Available.

I think one more month on the "No Diet" and I'll be able to get them zipped and buttoned if I lie down on the bed and suck in my gut. Getting into a standing position may be a bit tricky. I have visions of an old "Seinfeld" episode when Kramer wore such a tight pair of jeans that he walked around like Frankenstein since his legs couldn't bend.

Trying on jeans can be a frightening experience.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011


Boomer is making his way through the alphabet at pre-school AND getting to try out his skills at fashion design with this queenly paper sack gown and tiara. Lovely. Besides QUEEN, his worksheet had several other Q words: quilt, quail, and quetzal. Quetzal? What's with that? In spite of being a mediocre Spanish student for two years in junior high, I was baffled. So was Boomer. No habla espanol en prescolar, I guess.

The picture that accompanied the word was obliterated with blue crayon, compliments of you-know-who, but the quetzal looked to be something long and slender, like a belt or rope. Later, I got on the Internet to find the definition. Seems a quetzal is the national bird of Guatemala. Definitely a tidbit of knowledge that all fine pre-schoolers in Kansas should have so they won't be "Left Behind."

Twelve or so years down the road, I sure hope Boomer is as enthusiastic about school as he is now. He was just overjoyed at showing off his paper sack queen. But something tells me that coloring sacks will probably not be in the curriculum when he's in high school, darn it. La escuela no es divertido when students get older. Es muy dificil. Bummer, Boomer.