You know what purse lint is--that stuff that collects in the bottom of your handbag, just sticking around until you have to scoop out all your nickels and dimes from its depths when you are desperate for a coke and nary a dollar bill is in your wallet. Darn those ATM cards, I never have cash on hand anymore.
Sometimes things that I think about could be categorized as "purse lint". It's things that aren't really worth much in the grand scheme of life but at the same time it's the stuff that has hung on relentlessly in the gray matter of my cognitive filing cabinet just waiting to be cleaned out on a nickel-hunting expedition.
I know cigarettes are bad for us; statistics have proven this over and over. I'm glad that there are laws on the books now so that I don't have to eat, shop or fly on a plane next to someone with a jones for a Kool. My lungs and the lungs of both those I know and love as well as the lungs of those I don't know but love still (gotta love, don't have to like) thank the people who created those laws and those that keep them. Cigarettes are bad for us, I am in total agreement. But, at the same time, there's this tiny place in my heart that feels a slight pang of wistfulness every time I pass by a Waffle House late at night when all of the "regular people" are home in bed safe from the smoke rings of an unfiltered-Camel- crowd and it looks, well, so "sanitized" in there as if all the life had been sucked out of the place by one huge smoke-clearing vacuum cleaner. Every time I've frequented my own neighborhood Waffle House establishment over the past several years there has been a dearth of Steinbeck-esque characters lounging around the corner booths wearing their world-weary aires as close as a Texas Ranger's duster. They can't smoke there any more so they've taken their lounging ways somewhere else, and the where is a mystery to me.
Cowboys and drifters and good-time Charlies will always be with us but where they are gathering now eludes me because we took away their last bastion of comfort in the middle of the night when we took away their smoking rights at the Waffle House. One of the most interesting evenings that I ever spent was in a 24-hour sandwich shop akin to a waffle place many more years further back than I care to think about. It was back in my single days when 3:00 am meant nothing to me when I didn't have to be to work until 10:30 am (youth is wasted on the young you know) and I found myself sitting in a corner booth with a friend listening to two old drifters saddled up with back packs, guitars and Marlboro's. As they sat there and ate and smoked they played their guitars for us as long as we cared to listen. And even as young as I was that night I had sense enough to realize that I would probably never pass that way again and that what I was experiencing in that small capsule of time was to be savored along with the ketchup and french fries on my plate. It's not often that you get free concerts at 3:00 am with a hamburger steak special. I don't know if the old guys were heading out by bus or foot after they ate I just know they were headed somewhere along with the rest of the pack of Marlboro's to a tune only they knew how to play.
Would it be so wrong if we allowed 24-7 places to allow smoking between midnight and 5:00 am for those that wanted it? I know we'd have to put warning signs up for those who can't stand to be around smoke (normally me but at a Waffle House I'd make an exception) And of course the people who worked there would have to understand the dangers and that they too would be around second hand smoke. Heck, they might even be smokers too. I miss the old ladies who used to work at the Waffle House who probably had a smoke on their break or when no one was looking; the ones whose faces practically screamed of a thousand stories just looking at the lines around their eyes; the ones whose hairdo was a hair-don't at least from this decade and the ones who treated you nice whether you looked like a big tipper or not. I miss the smoke and the ash and the crud and the interesting people that the Waffle House drew in like a magnet. If I wanted a 4-star meal served on a white tablecloth I'd go to a restaurant where crud gets Lysoled daily and "characters" get a table near the kitchen. Sometimes I'd just like to hear the tread of a worn-out pair of boots and the sunny sigh of a waitress (not a "server") named something like Darlene welcoming in a person of interest and showing him to a corner booth at the all night Waffle House.
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Thursday, January 26, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sears...Where Santa Shops
Sometimes the best Christmas memories of gifts received aren't the ones where we were the recipient of the gift at all but instead were among those privileged to witness the exchange.
I would be hard pressed to name a specific Christmas that was "the best" for me growing up as a child in the days where toys pretty much were only displayed in stores for two months out of the year and where children only received toys twice a year at Christmas and on birthdays. No one that I can even think of in our large, kid-filled neighborhood got toys in the middle of the year unless somebody was lucky enough to maybe have an aunt or uncle come to town bearing gifts like the 3 wise men in June but even this was pretty rare. There was just something so exquisite about the day when the Sears Christmas catalog arrived and each of us kids would take turns at the breakfast table for the next month or so turning the pages and marking our "wants" from Santa. Those wants changed as the days drug by; President Andrew Jackson's "Kitchen Cabinet" never made any more important executive decisions than we did if we decided to change one of our "big" presents on the list. It never occurred to any of us as to the reason that we had to circle stuff in the catalog anyway; after all we always sat on the old man's knee down at the Roebuck Shopping Center (except for my sister who was scared to death of Santa although she claims not to have been but that is another story for another day) and recited our well-rehearsed and multi-bullet-pointed verbal list of what our hearts desired for him to load on the sleigh that year. Somehow the explanation that Sears had a direct line to the North Pole sufficed and we wore that catalog out, each dutifully taking our turn with it at the breakfast table with care not to rip any of the pages.
My Christmases past are filled with achingly exquisite wonderful merriment and adventure of growing up in Sherwood Forest along with a bunch of other kids just like myself who wanted and got a Barbie doll, a three-speed bike, a skateboard or maybe Rockem-Sockem Robots at some particular time in some unnamed year and there was much peace on earth and good will toward men. By noon on Christmas we were all out in the street sharing our loot, showing off whatever the "best" prize (in our opinion) happened to be that was under our tree that morning and playing together like it was any other day of the year because by noon on Christmas well, it pretty well was.
Growing up in Birmingham the smokestacks of Southern Electric Steel cast a long shadow. Steel was King and if your daddy didn't work for a public utility or in insurance he pretty much worked in a steel mill. Daddy was a foreman over the melt shop. This meant that he never worked a 9:00 to 5:00 job and the work shifts meant that he wasn't at home with us a lot during our waking hours growing up. He had to miss out on a lot to make a living for the five of us. But on this one particular Christmas Eve morning he was at home in bed. As a matter of fact we were all still in bed because it was very early when there was a knock at the front door. I don't remember who got up first, mother or daddy, but one of them did. And there followed an exchange of voices at the door and with my mother becoming as vocally animated as a school girl while she and daddy and this unknown third voice all talked excitedly together (at least from what I could hear from the bedroom) and then I heard something being huffed and puffed in to the house. I knew it was for her because I could never ever remember my mother being so downright giddy before; she was far too sensible and a good Baptist besides. But there it was, I could hear it in her voice. I rolled over in bed just letting the excitement of whatever it was that involved my mother being so happy wash over me like bubbly, swishy Seven-Up. She and my daddy were like two kids in the kitchen along with this unnamed third person. I guess I must have finally gotten up to see what the fireworks were all about and ran in to the kitchen to find the Sears delivery man rolling in a brand new portable dishwasher. You know, the kind with the hose attachment that affixed to the kitchen faucet (built-ins were still for the idle rich back then) and as big as bulky as a small chest freezer but for us as fine a work of art as the Taj Mahal--no more washing dishes in the sink! My mother was mouthing those sweet exchanges with my daddy about how he shouldn't have spent so much money on her and my daddy, who at that particular moment appeared to be ten-feet tall in my eyes was whispering back that he wanted her to have it and that he'd been saving his money for it and that he loved her--I actually have no idea what they were saying but it all appeared to be what I've just written or something close because she was hugging him and we kids were all dancing around our new dishwasher and we were so happy because they were so happy! This was going to be something to brag about to my friends in the neighborhood--"my daddy got my mother a dishwasher for Christmas...oh don't worry about using a clean plate, it's ok, we'll just put it in the DISHWASHER when we're finished..."
It's hard to surprise a mother at Christmas. And after having been one for many years I know this even more to be true. We are the orchestrator of so much at Christmas that it's sometimes very hard for our loved ones to truly pull off a surprise. But on that one special morning, the day before Christmas, my mother was as surprised as any child would ever have been when they woke up to find that Santa had brought them something magical. And she loved that dishwasher. And we loved our daddy for buying it for her.
I would be hard pressed to name a specific Christmas that was "the best" for me growing up as a child in the days where toys pretty much were only displayed in stores for two months out of the year and where children only received toys twice a year at Christmas and on birthdays. No one that I can even think of in our large, kid-filled neighborhood got toys in the middle of the year unless somebody was lucky enough to maybe have an aunt or uncle come to town bearing gifts like the 3 wise men in June but even this was pretty rare. There was just something so exquisite about the day when the Sears Christmas catalog arrived and each of us kids would take turns at the breakfast table for the next month or so turning the pages and marking our "wants" from Santa. Those wants changed as the days drug by; President Andrew Jackson's "Kitchen Cabinet" never made any more important executive decisions than we did if we decided to change one of our "big" presents on the list. It never occurred to any of us as to the reason that we had to circle stuff in the catalog anyway; after all we always sat on the old man's knee down at the Roebuck Shopping Center (except for my sister who was scared to death of Santa although she claims not to have been but that is another story for another day) and recited our well-rehearsed and multi-bullet-pointed verbal list of what our hearts desired for him to load on the sleigh that year. Somehow the explanation that Sears had a direct line to the North Pole sufficed and we wore that catalog out, each dutifully taking our turn with it at the breakfast table with care not to rip any of the pages.
My Christmases past are filled with achingly exquisite wonderful merriment and adventure of growing up in Sherwood Forest along with a bunch of other kids just like myself who wanted and got a Barbie doll, a three-speed bike, a skateboard or maybe Rockem-Sockem Robots at some particular time in some unnamed year and there was much peace on earth and good will toward men. By noon on Christmas we were all out in the street sharing our loot, showing off whatever the "best" prize (in our opinion) happened to be that was under our tree that morning and playing together like it was any other day of the year because by noon on Christmas well, it pretty well was.
Growing up in Birmingham the smokestacks of Southern Electric Steel cast a long shadow. Steel was King and if your daddy didn't work for a public utility or in insurance he pretty much worked in a steel mill. Daddy was a foreman over the melt shop. This meant that he never worked a 9:00 to 5:00 job and the work shifts meant that he wasn't at home with us a lot during our waking hours growing up. He had to miss out on a lot to make a living for the five of us. But on this one particular Christmas Eve morning he was at home in bed. As a matter of fact we were all still in bed because it was very early when there was a knock at the front door. I don't remember who got up first, mother or daddy, but one of them did. And there followed an exchange of voices at the door and with my mother becoming as vocally animated as a school girl while she and daddy and this unknown third voice all talked excitedly together (at least from what I could hear from the bedroom) and then I heard something being huffed and puffed in to the house. I knew it was for her because I could never ever remember my mother being so downright giddy before; she was far too sensible and a good Baptist besides. But there it was, I could hear it in her voice. I rolled over in bed just letting the excitement of whatever it was that involved my mother being so happy wash over me like bubbly, swishy Seven-Up. She and my daddy were like two kids in the kitchen along with this unnamed third person. I guess I must have finally gotten up to see what the fireworks were all about and ran in to the kitchen to find the Sears delivery man rolling in a brand new portable dishwasher. You know, the kind with the hose attachment that affixed to the kitchen faucet (built-ins were still for the idle rich back then) and as big as bulky as a small chest freezer but for us as fine a work of art as the Taj Mahal--no more washing dishes in the sink! My mother was mouthing those sweet exchanges with my daddy about how he shouldn't have spent so much money on her and my daddy, who at that particular moment appeared to be ten-feet tall in my eyes was whispering back that he wanted her to have it and that he'd been saving his money for it and that he loved her--I actually have no idea what they were saying but it all appeared to be what I've just written or something close because she was hugging him and we kids were all dancing around our new dishwasher and we were so happy because they were so happy! This was going to be something to brag about to my friends in the neighborhood--"my daddy got my mother a dishwasher for Christmas...oh don't worry about using a clean plate, it's ok, we'll just put it in the DISHWASHER when we're finished..."
It's hard to surprise a mother at Christmas. And after having been one for many years I know this even more to be true. We are the orchestrator of so much at Christmas that it's sometimes very hard for our loved ones to truly pull off a surprise. But on that one special morning, the day before Christmas, my mother was as surprised as any child would ever have been when they woke up to find that Santa had brought them something magical. And she loved that dishwasher. And we loved our daddy for buying it for her.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remembering
9-11, 2001, found me in Gulf Shores with my family and it was there that we watched in horror as the tragic events of the day unfolded like pages in a guest book at Jefferson Memorial. I think being away from home made it seem even more surreal, more cold (as if the killing cold could have been any more bitter) almost like it was happening someplace else and not here in "you can't touch this" America. There's just something about being in your own home with its familiar intimacies that make things seem more, well, "real". I think that must be why so many people feel the need to get away after suffering a personal tragedy, maybe somehow the impersonal-ness of a hotel room in a strange city must give some a temporary respite from the pain of reality? (God never said that there wouldn't be pain, He promised that He would be with us during it.)
Since we didn't come home from the beach until late that next weekend it wasn't until I went back to work on Monday that I was finally able to talk to friends about what had happened that past Tuesday, about where they'd been when they heard the news and about how their own lives had been affected. I think that God created in us an innate desire to bond, to cling, to share those common experiences with fellow human beings. You might say that we unconsciously create our own unofficial group therapy sessions as the need arises as part of the mechanics of coping. (Women, I must say, seem to have more of those bonding genes than men and we aren't afraid to call a therapy session in a heartbeat.)
Today in church we watched a short video of remembrance about 9/11/2001. And as I sat there and watched it I realized that almost all of the young children who had been in the early part of the service to share in a second-grader's baptism were not even born then, that the only thing that they will ever know about that day will be through the media and whatever we who were here then, tell them. It made me think about Pearl Harbor and my generation. We weren't around then. I've only read about it or watched film clips of it. My parents lived it as children. 9/11 is my own "Pearl Harbor" and the middle schoolers who sat in those seats at church will unfortunately have to wait on theirs. And it will come. Actually, I think it happens each day that any soldier loses his life on the battlefield but another event such as that which happened on 9-11 will probably happen again during the lives of those innocent children. I say this with the sincerest regret that I can give you but also with a truck-load of confidence because as sinful man living in a sin filled world we are doomed to repeat our own bloody history until Jesus comes back to take His children out of it. As long as sin exists we will keep hurting each other with a vengeance but Hallelujah, what an Answer we have for the hurting and the incredible pain that we bring on ourselves. Thank you Jesus, our very Balm in Gilead.
Kiss your loved ones today. Tell God thank you, for everything, and I mean everything. Never take tomorrow for granted. Those who perished at the World Trade Center had absolutely no idea that their last tomorrow was already in the history books.
Since we didn't come home from the beach until late that next weekend it wasn't until I went back to work on Monday that I was finally able to talk to friends about what had happened that past Tuesday, about where they'd been when they heard the news and about how their own lives had been affected. I think that God created in us an innate desire to bond, to cling, to share those common experiences with fellow human beings. You might say that we unconsciously create our own unofficial group therapy sessions as the need arises as part of the mechanics of coping. (Women, I must say, seem to have more of those bonding genes than men and we aren't afraid to call a therapy session in a heartbeat.)
Today in church we watched a short video of remembrance about 9/11/2001. And as I sat there and watched it I realized that almost all of the young children who had been in the early part of the service to share in a second-grader's baptism were not even born then, that the only thing that they will ever know about that day will be through the media and whatever we who were here then, tell them. It made me think about Pearl Harbor and my generation. We weren't around then. I've only read about it or watched film clips of it. My parents lived it as children. 9/11 is my own "Pearl Harbor" and the middle schoolers who sat in those seats at church will unfortunately have to wait on theirs. And it will come. Actually, I think it happens each day that any soldier loses his life on the battlefield but another event such as that which happened on 9-11 will probably happen again during the lives of those innocent children. I say this with the sincerest regret that I can give you but also with a truck-load of confidence because as sinful man living in a sin filled world we are doomed to repeat our own bloody history until Jesus comes back to take His children out of it. As long as sin exists we will keep hurting each other with a vengeance but Hallelujah, what an Answer we have for the hurting and the incredible pain that we bring on ourselves. Thank you Jesus, our very Balm in Gilead.
Kiss your loved ones today. Tell God thank you, for everything, and I mean everything. Never take tomorrow for granted. Those who perished at the World Trade Center had absolutely no idea that their last tomorrow was already in the history books.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Saved From a Life of Crime by Mississippi Power
This morning I saw a beautiful sight...the power company setting a new pole in my neighborhood. I threw on my sensible Birkenstocks and headed down the hill just as fast as my chubby legs would carry me, (never mind that I still had on pajamas, by this time I was past caring what I looked like--you try putting on makeup by flashlight and see if your lipstick doesn't wind up looking like something out of Sunset Boulevard) and all but kissed some young man from Mississippi Power who'd come to save me from being sent to Julia Tutwiler. I had been just this close to shooting out our neighbor's generator (with my imaginary gun) because they had power for the TV and microwave and I didn't. I have my priorities and electricity is high on the list. Don't get me wrong, I know that I have been extremely blessed. God is so good and I could never thank Him enough for the blessings that He has given me. Too many times we forget to thank Him for the simple things like electricity and if you've been without it for a couple of days He'll bring you right back on track with what you ought to be thanking Him for!
Our power was off for two long days almost to the minute and I think if I'd had to walk around with a flashlight one more night I think I'd have thrown my "Little House on the Prairie" books straight through our still-blank TV (the power may be on but you know the cable company hasn't gotten with the program yet.) Camping is not a favorite hobby of mine nor is anything that involves flashlights or porta potties. A lack of electricity makes me claustrophobic, like I've moved to Laura Ingalls Wilder-ville. I can feel a panic attack wanting to start churning up my diaphragm every time I watch LHOTP and snow starts falling thicker than Eaglebrand and Halfpint is whining because she can't walk that 5 miles to school (it can't be up hill both ways because they lived on the prairie for pete's sake and the prairie doesn't have any hills.) I could not have been Ma Ingalls; I'd have killed Charles or Mr Edwards or Mr Olson or anybody else who'd driven up with a wagon full of beef jerky and a sack of meal telling me to throw another log on the fire, that it was time to start dinner. It's a good thing that God didn't leave it up to the likes of me to populate the United States because I'd have never left "back East" where people had neighbors and stores and gas lights and half-off sales.
I know there will be times ahead when the power will go off again and I'll get just as jumpy. But we're going to invest in a generator. I think I've convinced Larry that the expense would be well worth it when you compare what it would cost in gas these days to drive to Wetumpka on visitation weekends (the home of Julia Tutwiler Women's Prison for those that didn't already know) versus buying a generator that will run a television and a microwave. It's really his civic duty to keep a potential criminal off the streets!
Our power was off for two long days almost to the minute and I think if I'd had to walk around with a flashlight one more night I think I'd have thrown my "Little House on the Prairie" books straight through our still-blank TV (the power may be on but you know the cable company hasn't gotten with the program yet.) Camping is not a favorite hobby of mine nor is anything that involves flashlights or porta potties. A lack of electricity makes me claustrophobic, like I've moved to Laura Ingalls Wilder-ville. I can feel a panic attack wanting to start churning up my diaphragm every time I watch LHOTP and snow starts falling thicker than Eaglebrand and Halfpint is whining because she can't walk that 5 miles to school (it can't be up hill both ways because they lived on the prairie for pete's sake and the prairie doesn't have any hills.) I could not have been Ma Ingalls; I'd have killed Charles or Mr Edwards or Mr Olson or anybody else who'd driven up with a wagon full of beef jerky and a sack of meal telling me to throw another log on the fire, that it was time to start dinner. It's a good thing that God didn't leave it up to the likes of me to populate the United States because I'd have never left "back East" where people had neighbors and stores and gas lights and half-off sales.
I know there will be times ahead when the power will go off again and I'll get just as jumpy. But we're going to invest in a generator. I think I've convinced Larry that the expense would be well worth it when you compare what it would cost in gas these days to drive to Wetumpka on visitation weekends (the home of Julia Tutwiler Women's Prison for those that didn't already know) versus buying a generator that will run a television and a microwave. It's really his civic duty to keep a potential criminal off the streets!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Wherefore Art Thou Bobby Sherman?
Dear Cheryl Tiegs:
It's me again, forever the faithful fan of you and Summer Blonde by Clairol (although at this age I've had to resort to the professional stuff and let my hairdresser do the heavy "lifting" to get that sun-kissed look.) I hope you are doing well today. In my imagination you're still skipping down the beach in that famous pink bikini while the likes of guys like Moondoggie and Bobby Sherman are falling all over themselves just itching to hoist you aloft like some life-sized Barbie doll. Work it honey, because in this blog you won't have a single wrinkle and those pesky spider veins won't ever appear in the city limits of the Malibu that's in my mind. You're safe here, Cheryl, I've got your back (now if I only had those long legs!)
About this weight loss gig that I've taken up. You know, the one I told you about in my last blog where I needed to lose 90 pounds to get back down to my lowest high school weight that I can remember? You know, so I can create my OWN Cheryl Tiegs kind of Summer Blonde commercial because I absolutely adored you in yours where the cute guys were holding you up like some freshly-cut pine tree in the lumberjack Olympics? Now you remember. Well, I've lost a whole pound since we last "spoke" so I've just got 89 more to go. Oh, don't get me wrong, I know it's too early to start looking for 4 or 5 cute young guys who'd be willing (or persuaded for a fee) to hoist me up like some prized heifer at the County Fair but I'm a pound closer than I was when I last blogged.
One whole pound...I'm nothing if not optimistic. Are my bifocals lying or is that Bobby Sherman way down at the end of the beach looking my way? Just 89 more pounds, Cheryl, just 89 more pounds...oh yes, and the pony tail is still a project in the works, more like a pony's thumb. I've been sweatin' like a field hand today while I cleaned out the basement but I didn't take the scissors to it even though I wanted to. I just kept thinking "what would Cheryl do?" I figure what you'd do is pay someone to clean out the basement while you and your beautiful hair sat on the couch upstairs and read movie magazines but unfortunately that is where my fantasy and cold, hard reality slapped each other like two divas fighting over a cocktail dress at a two-for-one sale.
Bobby Sherman, please see if you can dial up Moondoggie on the hot line and tell him that mama's comin in 89 more pounds. And Cheryl, keep that hair swishin' and stay perky!
Sincerely, your biggest fan (and I do mean your biggest fan)
Modine Gunch
See Yoo in Mala-Boo
It's me again, forever the faithful fan of you and Summer Blonde by Clairol (although at this age I've had to resort to the professional stuff and let my hairdresser do the heavy "lifting" to get that sun-kissed look.) I hope you are doing well today. In my imagination you're still skipping down the beach in that famous pink bikini while the likes of guys like Moondoggie and Bobby Sherman are falling all over themselves just itching to hoist you aloft like some life-sized Barbie doll. Work it honey, because in this blog you won't have a single wrinkle and those pesky spider veins won't ever appear in the city limits of the Malibu that's in my mind. You're safe here, Cheryl, I've got your back (now if I only had those long legs!)
About this weight loss gig that I've taken up. You know, the one I told you about in my last blog where I needed to lose 90 pounds to get back down to my lowest high school weight that I can remember? You know, so I can create my OWN Cheryl Tiegs kind of Summer Blonde commercial because I absolutely adored you in yours where the cute guys were holding you up like some freshly-cut pine tree in the lumberjack Olympics? Now you remember. Well, I've lost a whole pound since we last "spoke" so I've just got 89 more to go. Oh, don't get me wrong, I know it's too early to start looking for 4 or 5 cute young guys who'd be willing (or persuaded for a fee) to hoist me up like some prized heifer at the County Fair but I'm a pound closer than I was when I last blogged.
One whole pound...I'm nothing if not optimistic. Are my bifocals lying or is that Bobby Sherman way down at the end of the beach looking my way? Just 89 more pounds, Cheryl, just 89 more pounds...oh yes, and the pony tail is still a project in the works, more like a pony's thumb. I've been sweatin' like a field hand today while I cleaned out the basement but I didn't take the scissors to it even though I wanted to. I just kept thinking "what would Cheryl do?" I figure what you'd do is pay someone to clean out the basement while you and your beautiful hair sat on the couch upstairs and read movie magazines but unfortunately that is where my fantasy and cold, hard reality slapped each other like two divas fighting over a cocktail dress at a two-for-one sale.
Bobby Sherman, please see if you can dial up Moondoggie on the hot line and tell him that mama's comin in 89 more pounds. And Cheryl, keep that hair swishin' and stay perky!
Sincerely, your biggest fan (and I do mean your biggest fan)
Modine Gunch
See Yoo in Mala-Boo
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
It's True Blondes Have More Fun...
Dear Cheryl Tiegs:
You probably haven't given a whole lot of thought to that commercial you made back in the late 60's, early 70's for "Summer Blonde" by Clairol but I certainly have. As a matter of fact, just about every summer that rolls around I think about that commercial and how doggone much I wanted to be that long haired beautiful blonde ("now your hair can have that summer look all year long, with Summer Blonde by Clairol") with legs from here to Tuesday, horizontally perched across the chests of half a dozen baby-faced, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled Adonises in Malibu.
I used Summer Blonde on my hair religiously. By the age of 13 that dreaded puberty phase had set in like a pair of pantyhose with a run right up the front. My naturally blonde hair had begun its nose dive in to the spectrum somewhere between "mousey brown and dishwater blonde". A dishwater blonde was practically no blonde at all so something had to be done to bring back that youthful cotton-top look of my babyhood. Clairol promised me that sun-kissed look, maybe not the hot guys on the beach just waiting to hold me like a human surfboard but blonde locks anyway. Though somehow, Cheryl, I never quite got the look I was going for. I wanted to look like you. Never mind that you were about 5 inches taller than me and probably 40 pounds lighter (and believe you me, being a size 12 back in the Twiggy era was like being a size 22 today.) Back then a girl's weight had to be in double digits only and her dress size in a single one or else you were destined for eating potato chips with the sweat hogs on date night, or at least that's what I was afraid of. It never quite got that bad but at times I did think that unless my hair grew down to my shoulders over night and I grew legs the length of a lamp post that I'd have been relegated to sensible pumps and clothes from the "chubby" department for size 12's. I can't say that the horrible, misguided opinion about a girl's weight has really changed much since I was a teenager but at least now people are more aware of its consequences.
So Cheryl, how are you these days? Had any hunks pick you up like a big catfish on Hillbilly Handfishin' lately? Is your hair still long and blonde? I hope so because in my mind you're still hanging out in Malibu putting Summer Blonde on your hair and spinning old Beach Boys tunes on a Hi Fi. Lately I've decided to let my "inner Cheryl Tiegs" and I'm growing a pony tail. Yes, a pony tail. I know I'm awfully old for one and during this steamy, hot Alabama summer I've threatened to whack this hair that's grown down below my ears off but I keep thinking "what would Cheryl Tiegs do?" and I put the scissors back in the drawer. I've never had one, a pony tail that is, not a real one anyway, in my life. But I'm going to have one and it's going to be blonde.
I've also done a quick analysis of my vital statistics and found them to be sadly lacking in several areas as far as you are concerned and unless I can grow about 5 more inches, lose about 80 or 90 pounds, bob my nose to a perky little button and change my eye color to blue I'll never have anyone stop me and ask what Cheryl Tiegs is doing here in Trussville, Alabama. But you've given me hope, Cheryl Tiegs. I may not can grow vertically but I can lose horizontally and I'm doing it all for you. Well, that's not really true, but you have definitely given me a goal. I'm going to lose 90 pounds to get me back to my high school weight (hard to believe that in 40 years I've put on 90 pounds but if you do it slowly enough it'll creep up like kudzu on a telephone pole.) And you can bet your bottom dollar that when I get my pony tail all out there and I've got it "blondeened" to the proper hue that would make Clairol proud, I'm going to round me up 6 of the cutest young hunks I can find (or rent, for a nominal fee) at the beach to hoist me up just like you were in that commercial. My sweet husband will just shake his head and laugh I'm sure, but he'll be a good sport and take pictures. (my friends can be counted on to play some Beach Boys tunes on their iPods while I pose.)
I'll keep you posted on my progress, Cheryl. I may not be a California girl but I've got a great hairstylist that can give me that summer look all year long!
Yours very truly,
Modine Gunch
See you in Mala-Boo
You probably haven't given a whole lot of thought to that commercial you made back in the late 60's, early 70's for "Summer Blonde" by Clairol but I certainly have. As a matter of fact, just about every summer that rolls around I think about that commercial and how doggone much I wanted to be that long haired beautiful blonde ("now your hair can have that summer look all year long, with Summer Blonde by Clairol") with legs from here to Tuesday, horizontally perched across the chests of half a dozen baby-faced, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled Adonises in Malibu.
I used Summer Blonde on my hair religiously. By the age of 13 that dreaded puberty phase had set in like a pair of pantyhose with a run right up the front. My naturally blonde hair had begun its nose dive in to the spectrum somewhere between "mousey brown and dishwater blonde". A dishwater blonde was practically no blonde at all so something had to be done to bring back that youthful cotton-top look of my babyhood. Clairol promised me that sun-kissed look, maybe not the hot guys on the beach just waiting to hold me like a human surfboard but blonde locks anyway. Though somehow, Cheryl, I never quite got the look I was going for. I wanted to look like you. Never mind that you were about 5 inches taller than me and probably 40 pounds lighter (and believe you me, being a size 12 back in the Twiggy era was like being a size 22 today.) Back then a girl's weight had to be in double digits only and her dress size in a single one or else you were destined for eating potato chips with the sweat hogs on date night, or at least that's what I was afraid of. It never quite got that bad but at times I did think that unless my hair grew down to my shoulders over night and I grew legs the length of a lamp post that I'd have been relegated to sensible pumps and clothes from the "chubby" department for size 12's. I can't say that the horrible, misguided opinion about a girl's weight has really changed much since I was a teenager but at least now people are more aware of its consequences.
So Cheryl, how are you these days? Had any hunks pick you up like a big catfish on Hillbilly Handfishin' lately? Is your hair still long and blonde? I hope so because in my mind you're still hanging out in Malibu putting Summer Blonde on your hair and spinning old Beach Boys tunes on a Hi Fi. Lately I've decided to let my "inner Cheryl Tiegs" and I'm growing a pony tail. Yes, a pony tail. I know I'm awfully old for one and during this steamy, hot Alabama summer I've threatened to whack this hair that's grown down below my ears off but I keep thinking "what would Cheryl Tiegs do?" and I put the scissors back in the drawer. I've never had one, a pony tail that is, not a real one anyway, in my life. But I'm going to have one and it's going to be blonde.
I've also done a quick analysis of my vital statistics and found them to be sadly lacking in several areas as far as you are concerned and unless I can grow about 5 more inches, lose about 80 or 90 pounds, bob my nose to a perky little button and change my eye color to blue I'll never have anyone stop me and ask what Cheryl Tiegs is doing here in Trussville, Alabama. But you've given me hope, Cheryl Tiegs. I may not can grow vertically but I can lose horizontally and I'm doing it all for you. Well, that's not really true, but you have definitely given me a goal. I'm going to lose 90 pounds to get me back to my high school weight (hard to believe that in 40 years I've put on 90 pounds but if you do it slowly enough it'll creep up like kudzu on a telephone pole.) And you can bet your bottom dollar that when I get my pony tail all out there and I've got it "blondeened" to the proper hue that would make Clairol proud, I'm going to round me up 6 of the cutest young hunks I can find (or rent, for a nominal fee) at the beach to hoist me up just like you were in that commercial. My sweet husband will just shake his head and laugh I'm sure, but he'll be a good sport and take pictures. (my friends can be counted on to play some Beach Boys tunes on their iPods while I pose.)
I'll keep you posted on my progress, Cheryl. I may not be a California girl but I've got a great hairstylist that can give me that summer look all year long!
Yours very truly,
Modine Gunch
See you in Mala-Boo
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Just Call Me Big Maude from "Convicts at Large"
If you asked me if I was a law-abiding citizen in good standing with the local constabulary I believe I would quickly tell you that, yes, I am, other than the occasional breaking of the speed limit; and even then I am prudent with my decisions. I love animals and trees and anything else that one might could hug and still be legal about it. I want to save the dolphins and the whales and polar bears. I even have a heart for those little tiny little snail darters which, for some unexplained reason that only God knows the answer to, have found themselves to located in only like 4 places on the entire earth and two of them happen to be in a pond near Roebuck Recreation Center and in Turkey Creek. I've been to both of these places on more than one occasion and I can attest to the fact that they've got some hard living going on there.
However, and you knew there was going to be a "however" didn't you, those who know me well, there is a place where this law-abiding citizen will draw the line and quicker than you could say "satan's handpuppet" I'd become the Bonnie Parker, Ma Barker, Belle Starr, you name her and I'd be it, of crime, and this is concerning an article that I saw in the Birmingham News yesterday where the Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake is being put on the endangered species list and that it will become law that they can not be killed. I'm getting out my imaginary six-gun right now and loading it up with enough virtual ammunition that would rival anything that was ever seen in the wild wild west on a hot Saturday night and would blow away the first one that I saw with nary a thought (actually, if I really saw one, I'd probably set a new land-speed record for a fat girl in a pair of flip flops.) I am not saving rattlesnakes from extinction nor snakes of any kind. There. I've said it. I will break the law, officer get out your handcuffs and take me away, I just don't care. If I happen to have the bad luck of driving through somewhere that Eastern Diamondback rattlesnakes lurk (because I surely don't want to be on foot) and see one crossing the road you can bet your sweet Aunt Fanny that I'm not going to put on the brakes for it to get to the other side (I've stopped more than once while driving through our neighborhood to give some silly squirrel enough time to make up their mind about which side of the street they really wanted to be on.) I don't care that the paper went on to say that the snakes keep the rodent population down, bring on the rats, that's what we have cheese for.
I am all about conservation, preservation, the Sierra Club, Auntie Litter and even the tiniest fraction of a smidgen of Al Gore when it comes to keeping things "All Things Bright and Beautiful". The Father indeed "made them all" and left us in charge of keeping this earth clean, green and healthy. But I'm falling back to Genesis on the snake bit (oh, a pun!) and I'm going with the cursing of anything that crawls on its belly and has fangs. Snakes don't belong in my world and I'm giving them fair warning that if they come around my house (please please don't) I'll be looking for something in my virtual arsenal where weapons only exist in my imagination or, for my very real and trusty hoe with which I'll show you some extinction! Sorry, you snake lovers, if you're out there, you can put 911 on your speed dial and send a squad car after me if I encounter one of the new "endangered species" because I'll be going to jail.
However, and you knew there was going to be a "however" didn't you, those who know me well, there is a place where this law-abiding citizen will draw the line and quicker than you could say "satan's handpuppet" I'd become the Bonnie Parker, Ma Barker, Belle Starr, you name her and I'd be it, of crime, and this is concerning an article that I saw in the Birmingham News yesterday where the Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake is being put on the endangered species list and that it will become law that they can not be killed. I'm getting out my imaginary six-gun right now and loading it up with enough virtual ammunition that would rival anything that was ever seen in the wild wild west on a hot Saturday night and would blow away the first one that I saw with nary a thought (actually, if I really saw one, I'd probably set a new land-speed record for a fat girl in a pair of flip flops.) I am not saving rattlesnakes from extinction nor snakes of any kind. There. I've said it. I will break the law, officer get out your handcuffs and take me away, I just don't care. If I happen to have the bad luck of driving through somewhere that Eastern Diamondback rattlesnakes lurk (because I surely don't want to be on foot) and see one crossing the road you can bet your sweet Aunt Fanny that I'm not going to put on the brakes for it to get to the other side (I've stopped more than once while driving through our neighborhood to give some silly squirrel enough time to make up their mind about which side of the street they really wanted to be on.) I don't care that the paper went on to say that the snakes keep the rodent population down, bring on the rats, that's what we have cheese for.
I am all about conservation, preservation, the Sierra Club, Auntie Litter and even the tiniest fraction of a smidgen of Al Gore when it comes to keeping things "All Things Bright and Beautiful". The Father indeed "made them all" and left us in charge of keeping this earth clean, green and healthy. But I'm falling back to Genesis on the snake bit (oh, a pun!) and I'm going with the cursing of anything that crawls on its belly and has fangs. Snakes don't belong in my world and I'm giving them fair warning that if they come around my house (please please don't) I'll be looking for something in my virtual arsenal where weapons only exist in my imagination or, for my very real and trusty hoe with which I'll show you some extinction! Sorry, you snake lovers, if you're out there, you can put 911 on your speed dial and send a squad car after me if I encounter one of the new "endangered species" because I'll be going to jail.
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