closets

Walking into my husband's closet on some days is almost a surreal experience. It reminded me of a Salvadore Dali painting the other day. There was a pair of pants that appeared to be climbing over the rod. There was a shirt draped over the hamper, as if it was trying to climb in or out, one sleeve in the rest out. Shoes were sitting on the floor with socks lazily hanging out the top. Sometimes I think I've come upon them by surprise and they now have to pretend to be lifeless, when in reality, they aren't. It kind of creeps me out. And I wonder why it is so difficult for him to hang up the pants and put the shirt all the way in the hamper. But where would the fun be in that? Next month I am going to offer a course in the correct usage of a hanger. There is still time to sign up a loved one.

shopping for deodorant

I was shopping for deodorant the other day and stumbled across 'clinical strength' deodorant which comes packaged in a box, not just sitting on a shelf with cellophane around it. It gave me pause. Exactly what does this mean? Do people in clinics sweat more? Can everyday ordinary people use this without permanent damage? Can you only use it in a clinic? Maybe it's the stuff you use after a mammogram. You know, they always tell you to not wear deodorant on the day of your mammogram. Maybe it's special mammogram deodorant. I threw caution to the wind and bought some of this special stuff and tried it today, even though I wasn't in a clinic, and wasn't getting a breast Xray. So far so good. I'll keep you posted.

skeletal remains

We live in Minnesota, land of the truly hardy. However, we have experienced some unseasonably warm weather, or we did last week. As I was driving home I passed the skeletal remains of a sad sad little snowman. His happy days were gone. His little stick arms were dangling crazily off his indented body, and all he had left of a head was this pock marked monolith. The next day his head fell off. We will miss your jaunty smile.

But today it is snowing again. Last week there were those goofy individuals who were bopping around saying spring was here. We, the experienced, just smiled knowingly. It may SEEM to be here, but it's not.

pajama jeans

Do you chortle along with me at the various infomercials on TV, mostly later in the evening? Then you go to You Tube and laugh at the spoofs. The newest thing is the Pajama Jeans they are selling. You know, they look like jeans, but they are soft and cuddly like sweat pants, so you can wear them to bed and then to a party. They must appeal to those people who walk into restaurants at the crack of 1 pm, wearing pajamas. This way you could do that, and no one would know, except for the fact that you didn't comb your hair, and the flip flops don't really speak to Minnesota in January. I was intrigued. Interestingly enough, there was a write up on them by a columnist in this Sunday's paper. She says that no matter who tried them on in the office, they fit. It sounds like the Traveling Pants. Do you suppose the books were prophetic? Still, pajama pants do sound interesting. What's next, pajama evening clothes? It might end up in those collections of Walmartians.

Revision from yesterday and more

I got the eye roll today, after Mr Science read the entry yesterday and he said something like, "That would NEVER have occurred to me." Well, sweetie, your explanation would have NEVER occurred to me. He says PSI stands for 'pounds per square inch', which is even more disconcerting than a prostate diagnostic. I suppose this is for those OCD dieters who must know their averages minute by minute. It disturbs me to know this is on my display.

But today I went out to lunch with 2 friends. It seems I was invisible, at least to our intrepid waiter, Pecan John. And that begs the question if he is really named Pecan, which isn't a far cry from other recent baby names I've been exposed to. The manager came by our table and asked my 2 dining partners if everything was fine with their meals, didn't ask me. When Pecan came by to offer refills, not only did they get coffee refills, but extra glasses of water. Was I offered a Coke? No-o-o-o. I got to the register, and both of them were asked if everything was okay, but not me. And people wonder why I'm paranoid.

So, the only conclusion I can draw here is that my PSI has gotten so low that I am undetectable to the naked eye.

a different car

I am driving a different car. I say different, because it's not a new one, except to me. It's orange because I can't find my car in a parking lot if it's white, or red, or black. Orange I can find. I am acquainting myself with all the new features, one of which is an information button that will scroll through all sorts of interesting things, such as temperature, presumably the outside temperature, odometer, the condition of my oil, approximately how many miles I have left before I sputter out of gas on a back country road, and my PSI. Now, I always thought PSI was a test you took to determine the condition of your prostate, and I'm pretty sure I don't have one of those. But it sort of alarms me to think that by sitting in the driver's seat, the car is able to determine my prostate health. I suppose the next thing will be an in car mammogram. The mind reels.

Stupid things

I am pretty sure I'm not the only person in the universe who has done this particular stupid thing, but sometimes I am overwhelmed by something I do. I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened too. I was jamming too many pots and pans into the drawer underneath the stove. A handle got wedged in, in such a way that I couldn't open the drawer anymore. I suppose I could have taken this as an opportunity to eat out more often. Wayne is sure we will have to get a new stove and a new set of pots and pans. But all it took was a call to the repair shop. I fixed it soon after. I know, miraculous.

And life goes on.