Alas, wherefore art those glorious orbs of my youth?

Those splendid melons that once sat so perkily upon my chest?

Lovely, round and perky then . . . sad, oblong and droopy now. . . 

They perch precariously upon the lumpy fault line known as my waist. 

Recently, I had the opportunity to use the word “agog” in a sentence.  Naturally, I leapt at the chance.  After all, how often do you get to use such a delicious and expressive word? 

Ever since I said, “Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.  In fact, I am somewhat agog,” I have thought almost obsessively about the word. 

I’ve wondered, “Was Miss Ima Hogg ever agog?”  Can you see the headlines?  “HOGG AGOG”  What would cause a world traveler and sophisticated collector like Miss Ima to actually be agog?  (Well, once she was old enough to realize her parents had named her Ima Hogg, I mean.)  Come to think of it, her name alone had to have her agog pretty much all the time! 

And what if Lady Gaga’s real last name was Agog?  Gaga Agog.  Now, there’s a mouthful.  And if you say it over and over and over, faster and faster, you, yourself will be agog.  It sounds like gagaagoggagaagog…. all Gaga all the time!!!

Have you ever been really, truly agog?  Besides being agog at meeting the person mentioned above, I have only been agog a few times. I was agog when my dinner date sent another man in his place.  I guess I was agog when I was dumped from the job I had held for 35 years, and I suppose there was some agogment when I first learned that money did not grow on trees.  All in all, though, I have led a pretty “agog free” life.

How about you?

 

Let’s face it.  February has a lot going against it.  First, there’s that “r” that comes right after the “b” in the word February.  Who ever pronounces that R?   Nobody, that’s who.  When was the last time you heard anybody say FebRUary?  We all know it’s FebUary.  So, why screw around with that extra R?

Then, there’s the whole dilemma about the number of days in that month of FebUary.  Sometimes, it’s 28 – sometimes it’s not?  All the other months are 30 or 31.  What’s so special about February?  I know that the people who make up calendars were trying to accommodate something – I forget what – but I find it confusing.

February comes at a crappy time of year, too.  Right after January, which is also pretty crappy.  The holidays are really, really over by February.  The weather sucks.  It’s ugly outside.  I’m sick of the short days.  (While I don’t quite long for summer, by February, I AM looking forward to spring.)

To make matters worse, February is the month for two of my least favorite events.  Nationwide, there’s the Super Bowl.  Here in Houston, there’s also the Rodeo.  You may think I should just ignore these two events.  Believe me, I would if I could.  But there’s no way!  I might have to go to Outer Siberia to get away from the coverage of these “All American” activities.

However, I do get a perverse pleasure from hating these two events.  I delight in the puzzlement on others’ faces when I respond, “I couldn’t care less,” when asked which is my favorite team.  Better yet, I sometimes answer, “Who’s playing?”  People seem thunderstruck.  The only acknowledgement I give to Super Bowl is to talk with my friend, Arthur, every year to discuss our favorite bean-dip-game-day appetizer.  Here it is, in case you want to make it sometime:

Bean Dip Football Appetizer

Take some bean dip – quite a lot actually.  Fashion it into the shape of a football.  (Use your hands.)  Make the football laces with shoestring potatoes.

The great thing about this dip is that, when someone across the room at your Super Bowl party wants more dip, you simply throw the whole football/dip thing to them.  How’s that for convenient?

Go Yardman Day: A Rodeo Tradition

Back when I had a regular job, in an office full of other people, Rodeo season was even harder to ignore than the Super Bowl.  That’s because management deigned to let us poor employees have a Western Wear Day.  We could wear denim!  Wow.  As if my fondest wish was to show my butt around the office in a pair of faded old jeans.  Over the years, the definition of Western wear apparently lost some of its traditional meaning.  Things deteriorated to the stage where everyone started wearing T-shirts, blue jeans and sneakers on the Big Day, prompting one human resources executive to declare: “This is Go Western Day, not Go Yardman Day.”

The magnanimous higher ups at the office also gave away free ($10) tickets to the Rodeo.  It might as well have been gold the way some people got excited!  Wow – free tickets!!!  That certainly makes up for not having had a raise in three years.  Our management is so generous.  (They – management – of course, kept the sky box/company suites to themselves.)

The idea of actually going to the rodeo is equally as abhorrent to me as the thought of going to the Super Bowl.  The crowds, the shoving, the parking, the noise, the rudeness, the drunkenness, the screaming, the weather, the tiny little figures on the huge screen in the arena, and the very good old boyness of both celebrations sounds about as much fun as a colonoscopy — but without the great drugs!

(I hope I haven’t offended anyone who loves both these February festivities.  I do realize I’m in the minority!)

 

Today I passed a Sonic without stopping to grab a grilled cheese sandwich.  Hooray for me.

Yesterday, I threw a temper tantrum.   It reminded me of the great “Hair Clip Blowup” of ’95.  You might not have heard of it.  I scared people with that one.  Most friends had gotten used to seeing me as a usually sweet, non confrontational, people pleaser – which I generally am.  But, every once in a while, I get irrationally mad about something and go completely ballistic.  It’s never about anything important or serious.  Those things I let ride, which is, of course, why I subsequently throw these inappropriate wall-eyed fits.

Take the hair clip blowup.  It happened on a hot, muggy summer day in Texas sometime in 1995.  I was visiting friends, and we were preparing to go out, do some sightseeing, and pretend that the weather wasn’t as awful as it really was.  Suddenly, sometime between the time I got up that morning and the time we headed out the door, my hair got too long.  I couldn’t stand it.  It was touching my face.  This was untenable!!  This was outrageous!  I simply could not go on.  Never in the history of woman had anyone suffered this kind of pain, this kind of assault.  “I have GOT to get a hair clip, ” I suddenly announced to my friends.  “Do you hear me?  I can’t go out without a hair clip.  You cannot ask me to go anywhere without a hair clip.  Does anyone have a hair clip?  Quick, get me a hair clip.” I swept my half inch bangs off my forehead dramatically and felt I was about to swoon.  “Is anybody else hot,” I asked?  This hair is making me so hot.  My God, I’m melting.”

I had not brought my own car that day, so I was at the mercy of my friends, none of whom seemed to realize the magnitute of my discomfort.  None seemed willing to make a trip to the drug store for a measly old hair clip.  What was wrong with these people?  I began to cry.  Just a little at first.  I was about to go into heavy wracking sobs when someone finally took mercy on me, raced to the drug store and came back with an asssortment of hair clips, hair bands, hair nets and shower caps. (They weren’t taking any chances.)  As soon as I grabbed a big old hunk of hair (hard to do with hair as short as mine), I was my old self.  It was an amazing transformation.  Even I was dumbstruck with how quickly all that temper and indignity resolved itself.  It left me with the vague unsettling feeling that I was just a tiny bit unstable.

But, I digress.  Back to yesterday afternoon, when I had my most recent temper tantrum.  This one started outside a doctor’s office, where I had gone to retrieve some medical records.  As soon as I turned the office door handle and realized it didn’t budge, I was outraged.  “Incredible,” I thought to myself.  I had called ahead just that morning to make sure the records were ready and to find out if the office was closed for lunch.  (I felt so efficient.)  The receptionist told me the office was closed between 12 and 1, so I made plans to get there before noon.  Here it was – a quarter to 12 and these dastardly fiends were closed! 

I just knew there was someone inside.  Some receptionist, some secretary or medical assistant, just sitting there, eating a bad sack lunch.  They’d hear me knock and come to the door, for sure.  Who am I kidding?  What alternate universe am I living in? 

I knocked on the door, not too loud at first, but loud enough to be heard. Nothing. No response.  I knocked louder, then louder, then louder. Then way loud. I mean really loud. And my knocking had taken on a fast, staccato pace that surprised even me. I noticed that my knuckles were beginning to hurt just a little. 

I switched strategies then and called the office.  “No kidding,” I screamed when a recording informed me that the office was closed.  I was given a string of options about what to do if I were in a medical emergency, if I were a doctor or hospital, if I needed directions to the office, etc., etc.  Finally, I was able to leave a message.  My first message was relatively calm.  “I’m outside,” I explained sweetly to the impersonal machine.  “I came to get my medical records.  Please let me in.”

Subsequent messages (I left five) became less and less polite (although I am proud to say that I did not resort to profanity).  Further knocking became more and more frantic.  Heads popped out of office doors up and down the hall.  My knuckles were beginning to bruise and swell slightly.  Sweat was running down my back, and my face was starting to flush.  “Wow,” I thought.  “What the hell am I doing?” 

I decided it was time to get out of there, before somebody called the police. I mustered all the dignity I could find (which was precious little, I must admit.) I pretended not to see the small group of people on the first floor who undoubtedly heard my lapse of composure. This was only a two-story, atrium style office building, after all.

When I made it safely to my car, I realized that it was now 12:45. If I waited 15 more minutes, I could go back in and get my records. I decided against that, though. I was mad, and I wanted to stay mad.

My lies started small.  You know:

“Yes, I’ve done my homework.”  ”No, I didn’t take the last cookie.”  ”I would never hit my little brother.”

Then, they became lies to save face (mine or someone elses’).  As in:

“I did not know my hose had a run in them.”  ”No, that dress doesn’t make you look fat.”  ”Of course, I RSVP’d.  I don’t know why you didn’t get it.”

Lately, though, I’ve started telling lies about really stupid stuff.  Here’s an example.  My neighbor started raising chickens so she could get fresh eggs.  Months ago, she brought me five or six of these recently laid eggs.  For some reason, I never ate them.  But when she asked me how they were, I just waxed poetic about their fresh taste.  Of course, she started bringing me eggs all the time.  Soon, I had an ice box full of eggs, which I never ate and which I would throw out under cover of night.  Why?  Why don’t I eat the eggs?  I don’t know.  Why do I say I like them?  Again, I don’t know.  But, due to my early lie, I’ll be getting fresh eggs until every last one of those hens goes to its heavenly reward.

I’m in a quandry about dog bones, too.  Some friends once babysat my dog, Jake, and fell in love with him.  They gave him some bones, and, of course, he was ecstatic.  So, my friends brought over more bones.  Then more bones.  I can’t see these people without them giving me a bag of bones.  Here’s the problem.  I don’t want my dog eating bones.  He drags them through the house and always hides at least one bone to enjoy during the dead of night.  He feels he must bring the bone into my bedroom and chomp on it so I can’t sleep.  I’ve read that small slivers can get stuck in the dog’s throat and hurt him.  Why did I thank my friends so heartily for filling my house with bones?

But, here’s the real corker.  A really stupid lie.  Even stupider than the eggs and the bones. It started with my dentist.  His office called one day to remind me of my appointment the next day.  Even so, I forgot!  So, the office called when I didn’t show up.  The call went something like this:

(Me.)  Hello.

(Office:)  This is Dr. Smith’s office.  Is this Kitty?

(Me.)  No.

(Office:)  This is the only number we have for Ms. McKinney.

(Me:)  Hum . . .

(Office:)  Do you know how to reach her?

(Me:)  Uh, no.

(Office:)  Why are you answering her phone.

(Me:)  Because it rang.

Mercifully, the office representative finally gave up asking questions.  Now, you know as well as I do that she knew I was the party to whom she was speaking.   So, now, I am too embarrassed to go back to that dentist.  I’m going to find a brand new dentist.

All of this brings me to my New Year’s resolution, which is to think carefully before I tell a lie.  I will always ask myself this question:  How long will this lie haunt me?

 

 

 

 

 

I know it’s too late to have a nice holiday this year, but you can save these tips for next year.

1.  Try to pretend the holidays aren’t happening;

2.  Wear blinders and ear plugs from mid-October through mid-January;

3.  Drink heavily in moderation.

4. Never underestimate the power of forgetfullness, as in:

a.  Sorry – I forgot to get you a gift

b.   OMG, is it Christmas?

c.    OMG – I was supposed to cook Thanksgiving dinner?

5.  Eat heartily before you go to a big buffet or other holiday food event.  This will prepare your stomach to overeat at the dinner.  It’s important for the host/hostess that you enjoy your food.

6.  Drink heavily in moderation – again!

7.  Have a baby around the holidays.  (I don’t mean have a baby yourself, but arrange to have a baby around for the holidays.)  You can watch them ignore their pricey gifts and focus on the cardboard box it came in.  It’s fun.

8.  Don’t send holiday cards.  This will cause you not to get any in return.  Thus, you will miss all those “My Year In Review” letters tucked into holiday cards.  You can skip all those lies people tell about their overachieving kids, their lavish lifestyles, and their exuberant sex lives.

My list could go on and on, but this list will get you started on your own ideas for enjoying the holidays in 2012.

I’m going through a dry spell.  I don’t think I could be funny if my life depended on it.  (Thank God, it doesn’t.) 

Usually I can think of something that strikes me as absurd and worthy of a good laugh.  Something in the news will catch my eye, or a friend will tell me a good story, or I’ll find something amusing on the internet.  But, right now, it’s like a vast wasteland of unfunniness out there.   I guess I’ll just have to wait for this famine to pass and for life to cycle back to where even the most serious of matters gives me a chuckle!

Why does it end up costing $60 at Wal-Mart every time I head out “just” to get dog and cat food?

I should be doing things.  I started the day with a list of 11 items I needed to complete.  I’ve done three of them:  I exercised;  I checked to make sure I am up to date on my COBRA payments; and  I put in a payment request to the Texas Employment Commission.  

Other than doing the three chores mentioned above, though, I haven’t been able to do a darn thing except sit here at my computer and stare out the window at a tree.  Seven years ago, when I moved into this house, somebody gave me this tiny little sapling.  It stood about two feet tall.  Now it has grown higher than the roof of the house and its branches spread out about eight feet.  I don’t know what kind of tree it is.  My sister called it a “trash” tree, and my friend swears it’s an oak. 

I don’t really care what kind of tree it is, I just like looking at it.  It gives me a sense of calmness, even if it doesn’t get the chores done!