Not By the Hair of my Chinny-Chin-Chin!

Any other women my age out there battling the thick, wiry, mutant, colorful whiskers of female middle age? Let's break it down:

1. THICK - Know that "click" sound you hear when you cut wire with wire cutters? Yeah. That one.
2. WIRY - They protrude straight out from the face - no smoothing along the skin. Straight. Out. Seriously, watch out for direct light on the chin.
3. MUTANT - If I didn't have actual stuff to do during waking hours, I could WATCH THEM GROW. Seriously, desired hair cannot hold a candle to this hormone-enraged scourge.
4. COLORFUL - My hair is brownish blond. I can genetically account for the red, although the red in my hair is just barely. But BLACK? What? Someone is going to have to help me understand this.

What to do?

1. Pluck? NO. Why? 1) too many; 2) EFFING hurts.
2. Wax? Been there, done that. Never again. Why? EFFING hurts. Doesn't last. Hairs are thick enough that the ripping off of the wax feels like mass simultaneous plucking.
3. Nair? Tried it. Doesn't touch them.
4. Clipping? I guess this is it. At least 2, sometimes 3, times per week. Why? See #3 "MUTANT" above.

#TheStruggleIsReal

Uncle Jim

To know my Uncle Jim was to love him. When I think of him, I think of two things that I could always see in his eyes: his love for and pride in his family -- wife, children and grandchildren; and his (sometimes ornery) sense of humor, accompanied by his smile and chuckle of amusement. When he would call, I was always amused at how he began. Even before caller ID existed to give him away, I would recognize his voice anyway; nevertheless, he always started out with, "Kelly?" [Yes, I'd say] And then, declaratively, "Jim Wiegert."

My husband quickly came to love and respect Uncle Jim, and their mutual love for sports (K-State for Uncle Jim and Alabama for Ben) made them fast friends. Uncle Jim would call Ben on the big 'Bama game days, and Ben would call Uncle Jim on the big K-State game days. Now, during every K-State and 'Bama game that he watches, Ben starts many sentences with, "I bet Uncle Jim is thinking...."

Only through history lessons and Hollywood depictions can I begin to imagine Uncle Jim's experiences in Vietnam. I believe I only asked him once about his job in the Army, and I could easily see in his eyes that there was "more there" than his benign description of his specific duties. His framed print of Lee Teter's "Reflections" hangs prominently in his home, a clear expression of his family's pride in -- and his personal memories of -- his service. As adults, his children had honored him and his service with this beautiful gift.

It is hard to comprehend that Uncle Jim lived over forty normal years after his military service before becoming a casualty of the Vietnam war. In addition to raising a beautiful family with his lovely wife, I am sure his sincere, easygoing nature touched many other lives during that time.

I pray not only for a cure for ALS, but also for development of and widespread, unfettered access to devices allowing ALS patients to continue to communicate throughout their illness.

I pray for all past, current, and future United States service men and women.

And I pray for God's comfort, peace, and healing for my mother (Jim's sister Jerilyn), Aunt Cheryl, Jamie; Holly, Neil & family; and Sarah & Mike; and all others who knew and loved Jim Wiegert.

Brain vs. Body

1982: (actual)

BRAIN: Serve the volleyball to their back left player.

BODY: Cool. Now What?

BRAIN: Assume defensive back right position.

BODY: Done. Now what? Bring it on, bitches!

(Time elapsed: 00:00:02)

2014: (hypothetical)
BRAIN: The serve is low, powerful, and coming right toward us -- drop to your knees, QUICK!

BODY: You want me to do WHAT?

BRAIN: Quick! Hurry up! It's our ball! Knees -- NOW!

BODY: LMAO -- Dude, you crack me up!

BRAIN: GO! NOW!!!!

BODY: Yeah. Uhhh.... Not happening.

BRAIN: Too late -- DIVE!

BODY: Whoa! What a spike! Man, that would've HURT!

BRAIN: Body, NEVER MIND. Too late. Go get the ball. It's in the stands behind us. Mouth, say, "Sorry -- my bad," to our teammates. Oh, and, Body, you SUCK.

(Time elapsed: 00:00:12)

See? There is no time for this kind of conversation on the volleyball court. That's why, for our school district's staff volleyball tournament Saturday afternoon, I kept score for the north court. I enjoyed it. And I had a back ache Sunday morning. From being a scorekeeper.

Turtlenecks and Toadstools

Seven years ago, when my younger son "Little G" was 10, I submitted a version of the piece below to Reader's Digest. I am not aware that it was ever published -- probably too long or not quite right for inclusion in one of their regular spots such as "Life in These United States" or "Laughter: the Best Medicine."
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The first time I noticed my younger son replace new, unfamiliar words with conceptually similar (but familiar) words, we were doing his second grade reading homework. He'd encounter a new word, and he could tell from the context what the meaning of the word should be. Without even thinking, he'd "fill in the blank" with a synonym he already knew.

Another time, still in his early elementary school years, he casually requested some new "frognecks," in some different colors, to wear under the button-down shirts (which the cool kids wore unbuttoned, of course). At the time, I thought it was just a cute slip of the tongue.

Then, one morning when he was 10, we discovered several HUGE toadstools in our back yard near our patio. I had never seen any this big, so I called to my son to come and see them. This is when I found out that the boy had somehow reached the age of 10 without hearing of the word "toadstool" before.

I don't know how he could've missed that particular noun; nevertheless, he was duly impressed with our HUGE ones.

Before mowing the yard later, for whatever reason, my husband and older son chopped down the toadstools and put them on the patio table.

Even later, "Little G," in an unusually helpful mood, went out on his own and gathered the cups etc. that were on the patio table and came in the door with his arms loaded. As earnest as he could be, he announced to me, "Mom, I got everything off of the patio table except the turtle seats. I left them there."

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One of these days, maybe I'll figure out how to be a "real blogger." Until then, I hope you'll follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for Tweets, Re-Tweets, and notification of the occasional new blog post.

Female Wardrobe Issues

I've really just about had it with bras and zippers.

Seriously, hook-and-eye? How 1400's is that? There has to be a better way to fasten the ol' brassiere. If the hooks are in the front, they don't stay hooked, and if they're in the back, my fellow spatially-challenged holsterers and I deem impossible the upside-down, backwards, and -- frankly unnatural -- contortion necessary for success. The resulting sprained wrists and stretched rotator cuffs have gone undocumented for far too long. I'm telling you, it's a feat designed for the double-jointed (and I mean every joint from the shoulders down to the fingernails).

And do not even talk to me about sports bras. First, I've yet to see a sports bra made in my ample size (One size does NOT fit all.), and, second, I think I'd rather wrestle myself into a pair of panty hose at 6:00 in the morning -- and I refuse to do that.

Evidently there's an industry rule against having straps that stay put and any other desirable feature both in one model. If the straps stay put, something else is terribly wrong with the design; if everything else is fabulous about the design, the straps are constantly slipping off the shoulder. I am just about ready to have Velcro surgically installed on my shoulders.

Now the zipper: there's no question in my mind that the same gender responsible for the high heel also brought us the side and back zippers to afflict women the world around. Somewhere, a descendant of this particular sadist is secretly recording video of these fasteners in action while snickering wickedly.

As for the side zipper, the successful user simply has to be a mutant with one arm far longer than the other and no boobs. "That's all I have to say about that."

When it comes to a back zipper, first there is the issue of the missing third hand. Especially for the back zipper in pants, one hand is needed to hold the top two ends of the zipper together. I know of no exception. Second, the longer the back zipper is (as for a dress), the more unnatural the contortion. The first contortion (elbows down, hands wrapped around back) gets the slider into the exact position on the back that has historically been unreachable, requiring a panicked plea for someone nearby to scratch that itch. Then it's time to switch to the second contortion (elbows up, hands over shoulder and down to current slider position). It is in this situation and at this point that the third hand again becomes necessary -- to hold the bottom of the zipper down so that the slider can move upward efficiently along the zipper track.

After all that, it's over, right? NO -- because what is at the top of almost every back zipper? We're back to that damnable hook-and-eye.

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Props to High School Reunion Committees Everywhere

I’m happy to say that of the 161 classmates on my high school class's list, 82 belong to our class Facebook group. Of the remaining 79, we have recently-confirmed e-mail addresses for 39, and confirmed snail-mail addresses for about 10.

I knew pretty much everyone I went to school with, and I want to see every single one of them at our upcoming 30-year reunion. I want to see them, visit with them, celebrate life’s “ups” with them, commiserate with them about life’s “downs,” and just generally have a good time. I am helping with the reunion (and have helped with the 20- and 15-year events as well). We didn't do a 25-year but had an unofficial 26-year gathering, mostly of classmates still living in the area (although -- and I think this is REALLY cool -- the event was initiated and attended by a classmate who lived several states away).

If you did the math above, you noticed it is off by 30. We have no confirmed contact information for those thirty. When it comes to getting reunion information out to classmates, having current contact information is critical, but please remember that every class member (including those on the reunion committee) is equally absorbed in life. No one has time to track people down; nor should we have to.

FOR THE LOVE OF COMMON COURTESY, PEOPLE, no matter where you went to high school or what year you graduated, please do your class reunion committee the favor of providing your current contact information and updating them when it changes.

And we really don’t want the postal address. In the time since our 20-year reunion, the continuing computer revolution has caused practically everyone to acquire at least an e-mail address, if not a membership in an online social network such as Facebook. Even those who don’t have internet, computers, or smart phones of their own can access e-mail at the local library, a friend or relative’s house, or in some cases at work.

On the subject of postage, I refuse to snail-mail information to an unconfirmed postal address. With a fresh, crisp dollar bill in hand, we can’t even mail three forms out! I feel very strongly that, in this day and age, nobody (not even the reunion fund itself) should have to incur the cost of the paper, printing/photocopying, envelope, stamp, and PREPARATION TIME it takes to snail-mail class reunion information. For the 15- and 20-year events, we mailed out an information sheet to every address we had kept from before. MANY came back undeliverable. That's a lot of money and time wasted.

And please don't be so pitiful as to believe that you're "not invited" or that nobody from high school is interested in seeing you after all these years. First, you are a member of the class, so you are automatically invited. Our reunion committee absolutely does not send out invitations -- only information, and only to those for whom we have confirmed contact information. And second, YOU'RE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE, and neither are any of the people you went to school with. Go to your high school reunion. You will most likely come away from the event with a different perspective regarding many of your classmates, not to mention valuable new or renewed friendships.

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This blog is a new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and notification of future blog posts.

Learning the Body Parts

Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! NOW I get it!

In the case of an adorable little eight-year-old buddy of mine, one such moment, in the subject of biology, actually arose from a misunderstanding on his part. We don't know what he thought a testicle really was, but we are sure that he had been a little mixed up before this conversation....

Family riding in car....

BUDDY: But Mom! There is only one. I only have one testicle.

MOM: (thinking, "How did we get on this subject?!?!") No, Bud, all boys have two testicles.

BUDDY: Nope. There's only one. I. only. have. one!!!

MOM: (exasperatedly turns to husband, who is driving) "Dad," please tell your son he has two testicles, that all boys have two testicles.

DAD: (driving, looking at son through rear view mirror) Son, you have two testicles. All boys have two testicles.

BUDDY: But Dad! Really! I promise! There's only one!

DAD: (deep sigh--how and whether to try to explain this) Son, there's a sack. Boys have two testicles in a sack.

Contemplative silence....

BUDDY: Oooooooooohhhhhhh! You mean that wrinkly thing with the beans in it?

Dad manages to keep car from going off road....

I know I tweeted that my next blog post would be about my husband, "The Great Pontificator." I am still working on that one -- but in the mean time, this one just had to be shared....
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This blog is a brand new endeavor for me. Comments below are appreciated. Also please follow me on Twitter @JustAsWellLaugh for daily thoughts and future blog posts.