“I paid $18.00 for that salmon and I’m taking it home with me,” my Grandma informed me. 

“Uh, Grandma,” I stuttered envisioning security guards surrounding her wheelchair at the airport demanding that she surrender her salmon, “I think there’s a rule that any food you bring on a plane has to be prepackaged.” 

“It is prepackaged,” she replied implacably.  “I cut it up when I was at your Aunt’s house and wrapped each piece individually.  There were 8 pieces, but we only ate 4.  Your Aunt doesn’t care for fish so I decided that I’m taking it home.  It cost me $18.00 and it’s really good salmon.” 

Deciding that this was a battle I wasn’t going to win, I stored the salmon, pieces individually wrapped, stuffed into 3 plastic freezer bags and compacted with a couple rubber bands in my freezer and pulled out the insulated lunch bag in my cupboard for her to use the next morning in the hopes that the salmon wouldn’t defrost too badly as she traveled from Texas to Florida.  Since my Grandma is a remarkable woman who tends to have her way, I’d lay odds in her favor that she’ll slide through airport security with her frozen salmon. 

If you happened to travel on a Continental flight last weekend between Texas and Florida and noticed a strange fishy odor on the plane, don’t blame the airline.  It was probably my Grandma and her salmon that cost $18.00.


Apparently, mud wrestling didn’t cut it for the local Elks Lodge.  The sign this week invites folks in for Professional Wrestling.  So I’m wondering if one week the guys put on their thongs, mud wrestled, and charged for the entertainment, does that make them professional?  I really should call the Lodge and get the scoop, but I’m having way too much fun speculating.


My son works for a dry cleaner.  One person owns several stores so when one store is short a worker; they call on another store to see if they have someone available to help out.  Last week my son worked a different store for a couple hours filling in.  He introduced himself to the husband and wife working the store and the man remarked that Morgan reminded him of Chris Tucker the comedian.  He then proceeded to mix up Morgan’s name for the rest of the evening calling him Tucker off and on.  For reasons known only to her, the wife called him Nelson a couple times.  Now my son is an easy going kid and he answered to all three names.  However, during the evening the husband overheard his wife calling Morgan, Nelson and proceeded to chastise her saying, “Don’t call him that.  He won’t want to come back and work again.”  Apparently, he didn’t realize that he’d been calling Morgan, Tucker.  Highly amused, my son listened to their bickering and answered to whatever they called him deciding that Morgan/Tucker/Nelson was better than being called, “Hey you.”


It wasn’t my fault that I knew details about his love life.  I was just sitting there quietly pretending to read my book while I eavesdropped.  The man next to me in the waiting area of the hair salon unabashedly held an intimate conversation on his cell phone with a lady friend discussing why he’d never pursued her or tried to get her into bed in a loud conversational voice.   Finally, I gave up any pretense of reading because this guy was way more entertaining that my book.  I kept my eyes trained on my book trying not to laugh in disbelief at his flirtation.  The guy his girl pal on the other end was currently dating wasn’t good enough for her.  The flirt guy had wanted her all along but he didn’t feel it was fair to tell her because she was broken up over some other guy who also treated her badly.  Did she want to meet him later at Hooters so they could discuss their relationship more seriously?  And this was my favorite line that forced me to stand up and turn to face a display case so he wouldn’t see me laughing.  “I’ll be honest here.  I don’t go to Hooters for the food.  They don’t have good food.  I go to Hooters for the Hooters.”  It was the ideal time for him to be called back for his haircut because I seriously felt a need to snatch his cell phone and ask the lady on the other end if she was buying into the hogwash he was spreading so thick. 

Right after he was called back, it was my son’s turn for his haircut.  A short time later the man-on-the-make paid for his haircut and hit on the girl at the register who rolled her eyes at him as soon as he turned away.  Maybe he was on his way to Hooters to look at women with fine Hooters ‘cause he sure wasn’t interested in the food they were serving and to hook up with the fine babe he’d wanted all along but was too noble to ask out before. 

Moments later my son came up to the register and he and the lady who’d cut his hair were cracking up.  It seems the man had been in the chair next to him and he’d worked the entire time it took to trim his already short hair to ask the lady cutting his hair on a date.  When she declined he moved on to the lady cutting my son’s hair.  Apparently, the guy is recently divorced fireman who thinks he’s a gift to all womankind.  Each week, he comes in for a haircut and tries out his pick up lines.  The ladies alternate between eye rolls and outright laughter at him.  However, in his arrogance he has no clue that he’s become a source of entertainment at his own expense. 

I’m more grateful than ever to be married.  Because if that guy is an example of a fish swimming around in the singles gene pool, I think that pool must be a very scary place.}


“Did you know that my Mom got her toe cut off?”  

Startled, I turned my full attention on my little neighbor girl who’d delivered her information in a calm tone, like she’d heard the story on the evening news.  “Really?  How did that happen?”  I asked cautiously. 

“She was pushing the lawn mower and it fell on her foot.” 

I turned to her older sister for confirmation who nodded in agreement.  The evening before, my neighbor decided to mow her backyard.  Barefoot.  The mower hit a snag and stopped but her foot didn’t.  The mower landed on her foot, cut off her big toe and a big part of her second toe.  Calm in a crisis, she asked one of her kids to bring her a towel, wrapped her foot and then sent them out to see if she could find a ride to the hospital.  Since I was at Wal-Mart at the time, I missed all the drama.  My other neighbor was home and she rushed her to the emergency room, big toe in a plastic baggie on ice.   

Unable to reattach the toe, the hospital sanded down her bone, stitched the skin closed and sent her home within a couple hours with some high class pain medication.  Just like that.  One minute she was a normal person with ten fully functioning digits and the next she was missing a toe and might still lose a second one.   

It’s a reoccurring theme with me, but I re-realized that I need to look around and appreciate every moment.  I need to live my life giving thanks even during the difficult times.  Because one minute I could be living life with ten toes and the next instant, I could be down to 8-1/2.   

I intend to try harder to absorb and appreciate my life.  I also plan to always wear shoes when mowing the lawn! 


Driving home in the cool rain with my children a couple nights ago, I saw an unusual sight.  As we waited in the left turn lane for the light to change a guy on a motorcycle rode by wearing a coat with a backpack on his back and jean shorts.  I idly wondered if he was on his way to work, work clothes in his backpack, hence the odd outfit.  Thinking that he wasn’t in for the most pleasant ride of his life because of the pouring rain, my gaze wandered over him.  That’s when I realized that he was riding barefoot.  Did I mention the pouring rain?  It was like he dressed his top half and then forgot to dress the bottom half.  I hope he remembered to put his shoes in his backpack.  Ah well, at least he was wearing a helmet.


Civilization 101 or 2 or 3

Finding My Senses 

Wrestling, Garlic and Weddings 

Treading through Emotional Quicksand

E-mail Kathy