tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49477949876814265312024-03-05T02:46:42.401-08:00Pretend You're NormalI write about humorous everyday happenings.Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-5891883948841586242017-05-10T08:41:00.000-07:002017-05-10T08:42:16.315-07:00My Left Foot<br />
<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-ab2340a0-e38f-59af-1ec2-484fe92e6037" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38;">I'm not a boy scout, but I've borrowed their motto, "be prepared," and have made it my own. My car has a Ziploc bag tucked under the floor mat in case of an upset stomach. I keep a pen with duct tape wrapped around it in my purse. And lately, I've been practicing driving using my left foot. I refuse to be one of those people who's driven to work every day while a break or a sprain heals. I want to be prepared. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It's funny how "left-footing it" can make an experienced driver feel like a newbie. My left-footed stops are stuttery and my starts both crawl and lurch. When a policeman merged in front of me, my right foot ached to take over, but my left insisted it could do it. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My left foot isn't starting entirely from scratch. For years, before I was old enough to drive, my dad let me slide up next to him on the bench seat of our Rambler station wagon to practice. From the near middle of the car, I guided the steering wheel and later punched at the pedals until I perfected my skills. Crossing a snowy, crusted wake during a highway lane change was much easier with Dad smushed against the car door beside me. I was so used to steering from the middle of the car that I could have gotten a job as a rural mail carrier. When I finally turned 16 and took my rightful place in the driver's seat, I had trouble figuring out where I was on the road.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My left foot remembers a lot of what it learned 40 years ago and is coming along nicely. Every day my stops are easier, and my starts are smoother. I'm happy. I've got my duct tape, my Ziploc bag, and a prepared left foot that is ready to drive me wherever I want to go.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-41941239400135449572016-11-20T12:00:00.001-08:002016-11-20T12:00:42.435-08:00Ann Baumgardner, MD<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm7W_qhOdFK7B6iD3IryxkuFczhjn-Hh-Jd6Mih5nXqP0HSfZplGMcuhRufWYvISltdFFOFWdidJhQP1LYHs_OXR9VIAgLIXdAtmEmht4MgIEBVQDvY342V9dmRlum9H69b5PvIpFVRlv5/s1600/Rice+Krispy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm7W_qhOdFK7B6iD3IryxkuFczhjn-Hh-Jd6Mih5nXqP0HSfZplGMcuhRufWYvISltdFFOFWdidJhQP1LYHs_OXR9VIAgLIXdAtmEmht4MgIEBVQDvY342V9dmRlum9H69b5PvIpFVRlv5/s400/Rice+Krispy.jpg" width="215" /></a><span id="docs-internal-guid-d849c49f-8329-75ec-eb25-94a50215ba64"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm not a classically trained doctor. The initials MD after my name actually stand for Mystery Diagnosis. It's a TV show I watch where medical conundrums are revealed and resolved symptom-by-symptom. It feels a lot like going on rounds with your attending, as you hear patients' medical histories unfold. I know what rounds are like, because in addition to my 10 years of Mystery Diagnosis, I'm also training with world-famous surgeons on Grey's Anatomy - another medical TV show. There are eleven seasons of Grey's that I'm speed-watching to try to finish before the next class of residents take their boards. When I think of all the hours spent in surgery and the time away from my family, I can sometimes resent my calling. But - oh the rewards when bumps bulge and rashes rage, and I am the first to diagnose my officemate's ganglion cyst. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was home with a stomach bug, watching Grey's Anatomy. I had to fast forward through any mention of food, but had no trouble removing spleens, finding blood clots and re-sectioning colons. After a full day of surgery, I was unable to fall asleep and checked out my niece's Instagram. She had posted a photo of what looked like mesenteric ischemia with massive abdominal adhesions where the bowel stickily grew onto itself. I wondered, "Why would my niece be posting pictures of mesenteric ischemia on her Instagram?" I found my glasses and read her caption "Just made a fresh batch of Rice Krispy treats. Yum!!" My stomach churned. I had to look away.</span></span>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-454101152753172762013-12-14T20:36:00.001-08:002013-12-14T20:51:55.532-08:00ALL BY MYSELF!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS-E94QEk16h_4ow4EW-UD5s_kttM9r6lMK2pFKhxry2GDWxJTnNqOkyym3UkM-XMnV0vBxjxKthaxJ2Y9OeGfBp86FSBLIsi4wKoFlydaHIGatp9vrDBDEwWOcEQbJaKlskktUCQUGoR/s1600/73063S.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUS-E94QEk16h_4ow4EW-UD5s_kttM9r6lMK2pFKhxry2GDWxJTnNqOkyym3UkM-XMnV0vBxjxKthaxJ2Y9OeGfBp86FSBLIsi4wKoFlydaHIGatp9vrDBDEwWOcEQbJaKlskktUCQUGoR/s200/73063S.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Even though I'm 50, I'm like a 3-year-old, always wanting to do things "all by myself!" I'm defiant, independent and impatient. </span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I rail when the minister tells us to bow our heads, so I look up, out and sideways rather than dip my chin. Instead of asking for help with a too-tight lid, I vice-grip the pickle jar between my legs, and use a strap wrench to turn the top. I even lotion my own back by rubbing up against a shower tile I've strategically squirted with moisturizer to hit that itchy spot just under my left chicken wing.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span id="en-editor-last-insertion-point"></span></span><br />
<div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Last night, after 3 weeks of waiting for someone to help me carry up the recliner, I couldn't wait any longer. I went to the basement, turned the chair upside down and laced my leather belt around the metal underbelly; now I had a good strong handle. With my elbow looped in the circle of the belt, I dragged that dumb chair to the bottom of the steps. Regrouping for a minute, I assumed a sumo wrestler pose and a gave a hearty grunt to gather my strength. Then I rolled that chair end over end up each cluster of stairs until I was at the top step where I had a rug waiting. Gliding on top of the carpet, the chair slid effortlessly across the hardwood floor as if it were polished ice. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With the recliner positioned in front of the TV, I sat down, popped out the signature footrest and enjoyed my evening with a steaming mug of hot water. I watched a show about Alaskan homesteaders who do absolutely everything for themselves. This 3-year-old was very proud of herself indeed!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-54132309612970075692013-10-26T13:31:00.002-07:002013-10-26T13:31:38.928-07:00Breaking the Poncho Barrier<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I wore a sweater poncho to work. It was a big step for me. I practiced wearing it around the house, trying to feel normal in it. </span>A sweater poncho touches that same "fashion nerve" as wearing a hat. It takes guts to do in public, and it feels sort of glamour shot-ish. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 0px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 0px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Two people complimented me on the sweater poncho, but I wasn't </span>sure if they meant it or if that's simply what one says when an elephant walks into the room. </span><div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Later in the day I started to hit my stride with the poncho. The window by my desk didn't suck the heat out of me the way it used to on non poncho days. It was like wearing a blanket. I felt so "Clint Eastwood" when I threw the front poncho panel over my shoulder, so I wouldn't get pulled into the office copy machine. I could almost hear "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly's" haunting theme song whistling past me as I walked cowboy style down the halls. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">It wasn't long until I saw more ponchos making<span id="en-editor-last-insertion-point"></span> their way to the office from the back of their owners' closets. </span>I'd broken the poncho barrier. It made my day.</span></div>
</div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-74245366585505683532013-10-26T12:31:00.000-07:002013-12-14T20:53:28.779-08:00Mon Dieu<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I took French in high school but didn't keep up with it in college. I never had a reason to use it aside from my husband's occasional scrabble question, "What's a four-letter French word for cat?"</span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With no one to converse with <i>en francais</i>, I decided I'd keep up my language skills by praying in French. In the early years I had a very rich vocabulary and had much <i>parlez</i> with God. But now 30 years later<span id="en-editor-last-insertion-point"></span> with my shriveled French lexicon, my prayers speak of <i>amou<span id="en-editor-last-insertion-point"></span>r</i>, <i>merci</i>, and a lot of <i>mon Dieu</i>. I guess this reduction in vocabulary makes me a more mature Christian. Instead of asking for lots of things, I speak of love, say thank you a lot and my God, my God. C'est magnifique!</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-66985254405455859202013-09-15T06:00:00.000-07:002013-10-26T12:29:14.479-07:00Pharmacy Pick-Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwWwpsltFX5DBNvTJPVlHJ1Y1gwymOpnu7cCjR9Ku4V_6SQBhw4t3NS5UK5yidvzq1KyOvBE1qrg7aLoFWfvfExuUpgFPYCCw8CjAWoXM_6AxEAChEH_wArkz-_1E-97htNd9qFV4OVXs/s1600/prescription_bottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwWwpsltFX5DBNvTJPVlHJ1Y1gwymOpnu7cCjR9Ku4V_6SQBhw4t3NS5UK5yidvzq1KyOvBE1qrg7aLoFWfvfExuUpgFPYCCw8CjAWoXM_6AxEAChEH_wArkz-_1E-97htNd9qFV4OVXs/s200/prescription_bottle.jpg" height="200" width="175" /></a></div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I stepped up to the outdoor pharmacy window at our Kroger grocery store to pick up my prescriptions. The system outside was not equipped with one of those keypads where you swipe your Kroger Rewards card or type your phone number in to receive your purchase credits. </span></span><br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The pharmacy technician was a young woman in her early 20's and appeared to be new at the job. We had a little friendly cashier-to-customer banter where I told her I had a daughter in college, and she told me she was taking classes at UC. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We were at that moment where my technician was beginning to ring up my bill. All of a sudden, I realized I had no keypad outside to enter my phone number for my Rewards points. I interrupted her saying, "Wait! Do you want my phone number?" Seeing the stricken look on her face, I instantly realized how she had interpreted my request. W</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">ide-eyed-and-horrified, she drew back in disgust and said, "No!" </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I quickly responded with, "No. No. No. It's not like that. You need my phone number for the Kroger Rewards credit." </span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm 30 years older than she is, am straight, and have been happily married for 25 years, but I can't help feeling a little bit rejected by the whole thing. I thought I was at least kinda cute.</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-91567319270925548322013-09-13T03:52:00.002-07:002013-09-13T04:28:06.363-07:00Camp Damp<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
<br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBd89Obma5h7cwGVqmvXfS5n8MUXzvQJTO9O_I3fNrPMWbuJ3CDYRIOii5eHe1T4GZfXEBU5whDtTeZEZQ7yypleX9ouOAkLZUhggAKcFCfUO1zuAqHJkFaQjvV1yZFbLiXNlc4svbflI/s1600/marmot-ajax-3-tent-3-person-3-season-in-pale-pumpkin-terracotta~p~4034u_01~1500.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBd89Obma5h7cwGVqmvXfS5n8MUXzvQJTO9O_I3fNrPMWbuJ3CDYRIOii5eHe1T4GZfXEBU5whDtTeZEZQ7yypleX9ouOAkLZUhggAKcFCfUO1zuAqHJkFaQjvV1yZFbLiXNlc4svbflI/s200/marmot-ajax-3-tent-3-person-3-season-in-pale-pumpkin-terracotta~p~4034u_01~1500.3.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">I’ve spent a lifetime camping across the United States with my parents and sister, and I married a man who loves to camp. I’ve taken showers with spiders and have expertly dried off while standing on top of my shoes. I’ve blown out my hair with the wall mounted hand dryer. I’ve used earplugs to drown out the nighttime swells of katydids and the campers next door who keep breaking out into song and laughter. I have my ways of adjusting to all the major and minor inconveniences of camping, but camp damp is too much for me. It’s all I can think about. Camp damp!</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 19px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I made up this phrase during our most recent 3-day camping weekend with my sister and brother-in-law. It’s this pervasive “cold sweat” that dews all over everything, soggying up all forms of paper and fabric. Camp damp! I repeated the phrase all weekend like a Polly who wanted a cracker. It’s the only part of camping I cannot abide.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 19px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My sister tells me I just need to embrace it and forget about it, but I can’t. Every 10 minutes I’m standing by the fire again to rotisserate and re-dry all my wet places. Nighttime is the worst. The sleeping bag’s once silky lining is now a wet skin. I’ve tried wrapping my sleeping bag in a plastic tablecloth hoping to seal in some freshness, but it too succumbs to camp damp.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 19px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 19px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I came home from this past weekend determined to solve this problem. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I went</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> to the computer to look up hydrophobic materials that naturally do not absorb water, and I found it - polyethylene terephthalate.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> It comes in various thicknesses and goes by the common name of polar fleece. My solution to camp damp. On my next camping trip, I’m simply going to swaddle in fleece. The only problem is that it’s terribly flammable, so my days of rotating on the spit are over.</span></span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-59374648834847892013-09-09T03:46:00.002-07:002013-09-09T03:46:53.512-07:00Man Soap
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>145</o:Words>
<o:Characters>829</o:Characters>
<o:Lines>6</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>1018</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>11.1025</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:DoNotShowRevisions/>
<w:DoNotPrintRevisions/>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I don’t like the way women smell.
It’s all flowery and fruity and high pitched perfumey. I like the way men smell
- with their low note baritone fragrances of woods and water and wonderful. My
man is gone all day, and by the time I see him (I mean smell him) in the
evening, most of the woods and water and wonderful have blown off of him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Since I enjoy male scents so much,
I decided I should stop waiting to run into manly smells and simply lather
myself in them so they’re with me all day. I’m using an Old Spice High
Endurance deodorant that’s simply yummy. I found a hand soap in a woodsy green
bottle called Stress Relief Eucalyptus Spearmint. It smells not only like a man
but a rich man! Rich men wear scents that have both high and low notes. I guess
they can afford to smell a bit girly - and they seem to enjoy girly things like
shoes, clothes and jewelry. I don’t want to be married to a rich man, and their
smell makes me weary eventually, but I sure do enjoy the occasional whiff of
one. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-34429418291074328712013-05-12T08:22:00.004-07:002013-05-12T08:22:46.842-07:00Look Alikes<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The nose is all mine, </span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But my eyes look just like my sister Jennifer's. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When I'm missing her I stand at the mirror, </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">blocking the bottom half of my face with my hand, </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And I am with her. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There she is looking back at me, </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With our big brown eyes. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Amazing...</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">To bring her to me when I need her most </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">With just a wave of my hand. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The curve of her eyebrows, </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Her freckles here and there, </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Even the laugh lines at the corners of our eyes.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She starts to cry;</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I wipe her tears.</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-47271276954638091932013-02-16T12:31:00.000-08:002013-02-16T12:31:05.420-08:00A February Miracle<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>270</o:Words>
<o:Characters>1540</o:Characters>
<o:Lines>12</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>1891</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>11.1025</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:DoNotShowRevisions/>
<w:DoNotPrintRevisions/>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>90</o:Words>
<o:Characters>514</o:Characters>
<o:Lines>4</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>631</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>11.1025</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:DoNotShowRevisions/>
<w:DoNotPrintRevisions/>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfG19DFdDyi5jYIbmvvXmaNFRL1VzIGt_bDkoTLgAI4wdCOM_20lJ4TOCEin8mqvp9B56ueUNTJiOlIpL7_PvO92G5pU7K7xPiTPyPsn5ZTy5KBuP0Z2nXboL7u2olD5vn_PISMBOVb3M/s1600/fireplace+smoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFfG19DFdDyi5jYIbmvvXmaNFRL1VzIGt_bDkoTLgAI4wdCOM_20lJ4TOCEin8mqvp9B56ueUNTJiOlIpL7_PvO92G5pU7K7xPiTPyPsn5ZTy5KBuP0Z2nXboL7u2olD5vn_PISMBOVb3M/s200/fireplace+smoke.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">All 3 bathrooms are clean at the same time; it's a
February miracle. I can't remember when this happened last. Normally when
guests ask to use the restroom, I struggle to direct them to one without "ring around the
collar" at the toilet bowl's water line. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
I know on the "miracle scale" this shouldn't
rank very high, but I find myself wanting to text the special people in my life
who will rejoice with me. I'm so pleased with myself that I expect papal smoke
to unfurl from my chimney and I'm not even Catholic. Now that would be a REAL
February miracle!<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-50814244669871726372011-11-04T19:09:00.000-07:002013-02-16T12:19:26.843-08:00Pulling the String<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6sHhuOLF3vZfT6m8ffsg7Exx37ycu1B-c5hvKp1oJsmwYAAvcGkZljXiOX8USy6nnqUHfqiqR8jsYrBF7IE-T0rIphx2o_pKQ5CLt1UhopBLVP_fJ5u-CFTOadLBhHXV_w5WZvRATzgK1/s1600/Bozo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6sHhuOLF3vZfT6m8ffsg7Exx37ycu1B-c5hvKp1oJsmwYAAvcGkZljXiOX8USy6nnqUHfqiqR8jsYrBF7IE-T0rIphx2o_pKQ5CLt1UhopBLVP_fJ5u-CFTOadLBhHXV_w5WZvRATzgK1/s320/Bozo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As I get older, I grow younger. I find myself longing for our old pal Bozo the clown doll who is surely 30 years buried in a landfill. I want to hear his comforting words parroted back to me in his untroubled tones. I picture him in his aqua spotted clown tunic with his orange-yarn hair in clumps going east and west. With each pull of the string our Bozo belted out hilarious phrases one-after-another. “Keep on Laughing” and “Whoop-dee-do-dee-doodley-doo” were two of his favorites. Occasionally you’d hear a “Now that’s a ding dong dandy” or “I’m your old pal Bozo” as if we could ever forget our old pal Bozo. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">These were the glory days before screenwriters brought clown dolls to life to kill everyone in the neighborhood. With Bozo nestled between us at bedtime, my sister and I took turns pulling his string to hear his ever-cheerful chorus of spirited phrases. Now I find myself calling my dad looking for the same kind of encouragement. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> “Hi Dad. It’s Ann” I say into the phone. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Dad quips back his speedy response, ‘Well Hello ‘Dad-its-Ann!’” </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He says this every time, and sometimes I find it annoying, but today I pull the string wanting to hear what I know will come next. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> “I love you Dad,” I say. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> “I loved you first” he chimes back.</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-39833670153950881462011-10-21T04:23:00.000-07:002011-11-04T07:06:03.090-07:00Grandma Love<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bFLdTYknYmr7KujUKes6NK9kZf_w9itp8oWBhUGnyQQDpm5KFx_8KLNSoJ5GVi-9QSbCU4cgwUk9U3a6UpHHUtlNPmfltowzRVBhDoPSw10GbL0doq8JdKtz7kW813J1WL4uyHofJZig/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bFLdTYknYmr7KujUKes6NK9kZf_w9itp8oWBhUGnyQQDpm5KFx_8KLNSoJ5GVi-9QSbCU4cgwUk9U3a6UpHHUtlNPmfltowzRVBhDoPSw10GbL0doq8JdKtz7kW813J1WL4uyHofJZig/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There were 62
newspapers to deliver after school and neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor
dark of night would stop me from carrying the <i>Alliance Review</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to each and every doorstep. At 8 years of age, I was the </span><i>Review’s </i><span style="font-style: normal;">youngest paper carrier. I wore my yellow slicker and sloshed
through soggy yards in bare feet. I was careful to place each newspaper inside
storm doors to protect it from the rain.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My grandparents’
home was the exact halfway point on my paper route making it the perfect pit stop
for fueling up on snacks and soda. If I walked fast and didn’t stop to visit, I
could complete the route in half an hour, but of course I never skipped
Grandma’s house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Grandma leaned out
her screen door waving and “you-hooing” me over. She wasn’t wearing a raincoat,
but was sporting a plastic bonnet to protect her just-home-from-the
beauty-shop-curls. Despite the rain Grandma remained at her post gesturing
wildly like an airplane flagger guiding me safely into her warm, dry hangar.
Although Grandma’s starched cotton housedress was already severely polka dotted
with raindrops, she pulled me in close for a hug. Next she set Grandpa to work drying my feet with a bath
towel and hanging my slicker on the shower curtain rod where it could drain
into the tub.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As usual, Grandma
had arranged a sampler platter with junk-food delicacies on her gold-vinyl-foot
stool in the family room. She sat behind me in her lazyboy rocker drying my wet
hair with a hand towel. Grandma pointed to the obligatory orange I must eat
first. Grandma always pre-peeled it and wrapped it in wax paper. The orange was
to appease my mother who didn’t want me filling up on junk every time I was there. Once the orange was downed, I was free to sample the
finer snack foods like cheese curls, root beer and ginger cookies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Where are your
galoshes?” Grandma wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Nobody wears
galoshes in the rain, we just go barefoot.” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Grandma
would have none of that. She was not going to allow her granddaughter to walk
through wet grass in bare feet. “What if you were to step on something sharp?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As
Grandma dug in her clothespress (her name for closet) to find some boots, I
enjoyed the final pleasure of the last cheese curl dissolving in my mouth. The
boots Grandma presented were made from clear plastic. Unlike Cinderella’s
elegant glass pumps, these clear overshoes fastened with an
elastic-figure-eight band around a button at my ankle. My naked heel fell into the pre-pressed
hole that was made in anticipation of an old lady’s wide-heeled shoe. My toes
wiggled up at me through the clear plastic. It never occurred to me to disobey
Grandma or to fuss about not wanting to wear those things. I simply whispered a
desperate prayer hoping no one would see me as I sprinted through my paper
route delivering to the last 31 houses in record time.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-89094824635145382292011-10-18T19:20:00.000-07:002011-10-18T19:20:07.171-07:00Telegrams from college<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: left;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Telegrams from college</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My neighbor friend and I sat
on our front stoop battered and bruised from the truncated phone conversations
we’ve been having with our 18-year-old daughters away at college. We shared
stories of loveless phone calls that sound more like 1930’s telegram messages
sent over a wire when each word cost money. </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Can’t talk– STOP
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m at lunch –
STOP</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The phone call
ends. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When my daughter Emily came home
for spring break, I sat on the closed lid of her toilet seat and began my
lecture about phone manners while she curled eyelashes, plucked eyebrows and
put on makeup. I employed a phrase we used in her early teens when negotiating
friendly relations between our age-related cultures. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“In MY country....” I said in my
best hoity-toity voice, “We speak to each other on the phone with SMILE in our
voices and we begin with a pleasant sing-song ‘helloooooo.’” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I acknowledged that when Emily is
communicating with those from HER country she can follow the customs of that
“teen tribe.” Although they speak to one another in grunts and mumbles between
incoming text messages - when she’s talking to anyone over 40 - she needs to
learn the language and customs of MY people. I demonstrated the art of placing
a soft and fluffy word here and there to dress up an otherwise blunt and
hurtful-to-me conversation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I summarized the exercise saying,
“What I’m basically asking you for is to fake it. Just raise your voice a
couple of octaves into the sweet and loving registers and drop a couple of soft
words here and there and I’m good.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My daughter felt it was wrong to
fake cheerfulness, “Isn’t it dishonest?” she said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Right or wrong I assured her that
it’s what I want. “Do it for your mother,” I instructed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I recall having similar
conversations with my mom many years ago while I primped as a teenager in the
bathroom mirror. From that closed-lid-porcelain-mother’s perch, I too received many important
life instructions. What I call ‘faking it,’ MY mother – in HER
country – called it being polite. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt; text-indent: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-9838613871051831722011-10-10T19:14:00.000-07:002011-10-10T19:26:13.906-07:00Bugsy and Lady<br />
<h1 align="left" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQG6pKzodOD6ydhwUYPjhgdKTXvsDxX8ZSTDJilu4flGGIZgDSeeGmH2BfMjhogScnkQaqrVFN1TxaWQgyRqs3jTWwd5tRwWZjChLZKEV6yqVVtbHRkEKG0BLROlmfCdC0v9o_3sLlE8K/s1600/ladybug3_56234454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQG6pKzodOD6ydhwUYPjhgdKTXvsDxX8ZSTDJilu4flGGIZgDSeeGmH2BfMjhogScnkQaqrVFN1TxaWQgyRqs3jTWwd5tRwWZjChLZKEV6yqVVtbHRkEKG0BLROlmfCdC0v9o_3sLlE8K/s200/ladybug3_56234454.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="195" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;">Bugsy and Lady</span></h1>
<h1 align="left" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Emily had a stomach bug while away
at college and called me from her bed one night looking for comfort and joy and
a bedtime story from her dear old mom. I’m not a Munchhousen by Proxy mother
who gets some sort of thrill from having a sick child, but I must admit I did
enjoy this brief visit to the glorious “Mommy” days.</span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As Emily and I lay cozied up in
beds 250 miles apart with phones to our ears, she gave me my requisite story
characters – a dog and a ladybug and I was off! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The story evolved over the next 30
minutes to one of epic-soap opera proportion. Lady, our ladybug, lost her wings
in a painful scotch tape incident – narrowly escaping being wrapped alive into
the colorful accoutrements of a birthday present. Bugsy, the dog and Lady’s
love interest, sadly developed macular degeneration. Over their 10 years
together, these 2 unlikely “love birds” came to depend on one another. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Lady, perched in Bugsy’s ear,
guided him through the perils of the house instructing,“Left. Left. Left! There
you go. Now turn just a little bit to the right.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 22.5pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Together the pair regularly watched
the TV program <i>Mystery Diagnosis</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> hoping
to discover tips that might stave the progression of Bugsy’s blindness or cure
Lady’s scotch-tape-tattered wings. The story ended in dramatic fashion with
Bugsy’s eyesight gradually diminishing until the only thing he could see at the
center of his pinhole vision was his Lady. But after all - what’s more
important to a fella than his lady? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And - what's more important than a good laugh and a story when one is nauseous and miles from home.</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-74431738007873285762011-09-30T05:24:00.000-07:002011-09-30T05:24:09.899-07:00Name Game<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjiLi2D49bCpi4s2efOQ96qKmDmRcqyiwf6eKWc46HEkQfKJ17Qc-gMMTD64XzfZ8kMW_conHIyxWMduiq6fHTHJOKVIaMA8u8-l7P_ip-e01aNDiAefUdF4-2V4QUQZPYoQGfTxVX_Ck/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpjiLi2D49bCpi4s2efOQ96qKmDmRcqyiwf6eKWc46HEkQfKJ17Qc-gMMTD64XzfZ8kMW_conHIyxWMduiq6fHTHJOKVIaMA8u8-l7P_ip-e01aNDiAefUdF4-2V4QUQZPYoQGfTxVX_Ck/s200/images.jpeg" width="136" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>Name Game</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Just as one day we will run out of names to describe various
shades of red in lipstick tubes, I imagine housing developers will one day run
out of themed-street names for their new boulevards, avenues and drives. In the
old days, streets were named after presidents, types of trees, or were given
numbers –Lincoln Avenue, Sycamore Drive and 2<sup>nd</sup> Street.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">These days, developers seem compelled to create wonderlands
from tangles of streets named after berries, fruits and stones. Boysenberry,
Huckleberry, Blueberry / Plum, Peach, Cherry / Stonemaster, Millstone,
Stonebridge. My brain doesn’t work that way. All I remember is that to get to
Marie’s house, I’m supposed to turn right on some street called
Stone-something. I’m a scientist. Why can’t they make a neighborhood with
medical or sciency street names that are easier to remember? Who could forget
to make the turn onto Pulmonary Edema from Congestive Heart Failure Avenue? And
let’s not forget that cute little park by Kidney Stone Way. During rush hour
you can get there faster if you take the Coronary By Pass and follow the
shortcut onto Diarrhea Drive. Why am I not consulted on these matters?</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-18189125831793726282011-09-23T10:14:00.000-07:002011-09-23T13:02:11.279-07:00I'm such a child<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPTB6OVm95wczs0vOL6xKFZIlEt8DD23bRLjQYgtm436HiZBrr8hKMKTBKZAkR65IdzWv3u_8pwZ1NeRLXo68mXsQix6Z0Q8lD_B2DJCQjLzXqpovVk2eNd3SFtYjqSUmh9kOUL9QM_Ht/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhPTB6OVm95wczs0vOL6xKFZIlEt8DD23bRLjQYgtm436HiZBrr8hKMKTBKZAkR65IdzWv3u_8pwZ1NeRLXo68mXsQix6Z0Q8lD_B2DJCQjLzXqpovVk2eNd3SFtYjqSUmh9kOUL9QM_Ht/s200/DownloadedFile.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m such a child<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I will do almost anything for a fresh stick of gum. I
suspect this fascination with a brand new piece comes from my days as a real
child in the 60’s. Either we were poor or my mother was just “gum stingy”
because we had to nurse a piece of Wrigley’s Spearmint for several days before
we were allowed to open a new one. We had designated safe places to store our
precious gray wads to keep them from getting stuck on the back of some magazine
or tragically thrown away prematurely. Between meals it was OK to place our gum
on the edge of our dinner plate. With the milk downed and the veggies cleared
out of my teeth, I’d pop it back in for another tumble. Overnight the chewed
gum could be stored in a special place on the counter. My sister had her spot
and I had mine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Now I live large and buy spearmint Orbit in bulk at Sam’s
Club like a doggie treat to reward myself when I complete a heinous grown-up
task. Like a spoiled dog grown fat for simply doing what a dog should do –
come, stay, pee somewhere that’s not on carpet – I’ve come to expect a fresh
stick of gum whenever I fold a load of laundry, clean the hair out of the drain
(I get 2 for that) or when I’m able to finish reading 10 pages of something
boring. I started this trick in college to get through countless chapters of
Physics and Physiology, but was on a budget then and was stingier with my
treats. Now I have more disposable income and home ownership affords me lots of
opportunities for self-treating; there are countless yucky things to do when
you own a house. Last week we were remarkably proactive and caulked a
silly-putty-like substance between the squares of cement in our driveway. We
also filled each and every pockmark in our pavement BEFORE the driveway
crumbled into ruin. I was so proud that I almost forgot to freshen my blow. I’m
such a child.</span></div>
Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-14818929139863579562010-12-05T21:07:00.000-08:002010-12-05T21:07:38.478-08:00Empty Nest<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRd_KMT8we1dx4Obf00NHnYjoCnOEKEh9vBIqImczCmv40Nru3RXOgNdhBUEG0tx49Tczc7M-1EQArzURQF_BJx-k-4YGUIf8o8flU7MTo-w3k-olDAEFW9rL6Eztf6QMGHAQSfLryUfd/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRd_KMT8we1dx4Obf00NHnYjoCnOEKEh9vBIqImczCmv40Nru3RXOgNdhBUEG0tx49Tczc7M-1EQArzURQF_BJx-k-4YGUIf8o8flU7MTo-w3k-olDAEFW9rL6Eztf6QMGHAQSfLryUfd/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There are the usual comments and things empty nesters notice when their children are gone from the house, the solitude - the peculiar way the way rooms and bathrooms stay tidy. But I’ve noticed some interesting new habits my husband and I have picked up since our only child has gone off to college.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We’ve reverted back to Cro-Magnon behaviors of sniffing and studying our food before we eat it. We never simply open the milk jug and pour as we used to do when Emily was home. Instead, we cautiously swirl what’s left of the gallon and sneak a whiff to save us the horror of pouring a coagulated sour mess over a bowl of Cheerios. As the weeks go by and the bread bag gradually grows emptier, I find myself holding each slice up to the light of the oven hood, searching out blue-green whispers of mold. Squinting and turning, squinting and turning until I’m relatively certain it’s fine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Our dishwasher is shockingly full of spoons. We’ve become those people who eat peanut butter on a banana and call it supper. Spoons from dipping into the peanut butter jar, spoons from all the cereal we’ve been eating, spoons from yogurt. I feel like a terrible person for running the dishwasher because we’ve simply run out of clean spoons so I throw in our toothbrushes and the permanently spaghetti-sauce-stained spatulas to see if one more round of dishwashing might lighten their orange glow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I opened the cereal closet the other day (yes we have a closet just for cereal) and I smelled a dead body. After lifting boxes here and there hoping I wouldn’t find someone’s forgotten fingers, I remembered this odd vegetable we used to eat a lot of “Once upon a time,” called a potato. I had to scrape the melted spuds off the shelf with – you got it – our last clean spoon.</span></div><!--EndFragment-->Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-76682604454805287412010-06-24T06:29:00.000-07:002010-06-24T06:30:14.722-07:00unflinchable<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGcI_5qchfpKYZmfqtiELXKB9DNkG5VzTJpANg3OqqYMC61zXo4hqClIlePKQcgg9Z5L9sGRotBWMvvko2WWOdHH-2DNvkSfg4IoMzSs2f7G85eDGOiroM6GIHtshw_TTnikgSLjUHtzS/s1600/spatula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGcI_5qchfpKYZmfqtiELXKB9DNkG5VzTJpANg3OqqYMC61zXo4hqClIlePKQcgg9Z5L9sGRotBWMvvko2WWOdHH-2DNvkSfg4IoMzSs2f7G85eDGOiroM6GIHtshw_TTnikgSLjUHtzS/s200/spatula.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One of my favorite things about babies, besides inhaling their hair, is watching them do a whole body startle when something surprises them. It’s a primal reaction we’re all born with. Even in a roomful of adults, if you make a sudden “BANG!” you get a peppering of full body flinches and stifled-staccato screams. The firefighter types always jump to their feet. The rest of the room takes that elongated-voiced inhale scientists say is designed to give us a last good breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It wasn’t until a bird broke through a restaurant window and my sister Jennifer and I were the only patrons still sitting, that we realized we had both lost our startle reflex. Somehow, the nerve ganglion preserved through years of evolution to protect us had been severed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">What would cause two sisters to lose this reflex you might ask? We grew up in a home with a screamer. Our mother’s panicked inhalations were heard every time she dropped a spoon, forgot her dentist appointment, or a bookmark fell out of her book. As children, we’d run to her expecting to see fingers or toes lopped off from a dropped knife, but instead would bend over to retrieve a stack of mail that had slipped off the edge of the table. Years of conditioning gradually desensitized us. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This freakish inability to react has made us popular with our daughters; we’ve become a “party game.” The girls pop out of darkened hallways and slam books to the floor in an attempt to make us scream, flinch, inhale, look up…anything. When both our families went to an amusement park together, the girls delighted in the knowledge that I had moaned a little going down the steepest roller coaster hill. Finally a reaction! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There are times when living with a screamer is a lot more fun. Any good news shared with my mother, and you need a spatula to scrape her off the ceiling. Even on long distance telephone calls, she reacts with over-the-top-glee at a report of a lost tooth. When, in my own calm way, I compliment my daughter Emily on her art project, Emily finishes with, “Thanks Mom, I think I’ll go call Gram.” I’ve tried faking excitement, but everyone just laughs. It’s as obvious as a put-on-sneeze. My day is coming though. When Emily starts to drive, she’ll appreciate having a passenger who doesn’t squeal at every mailbox you almost hit and who doesn’t yell, “STOP!” at yellow traffic lights. Yes, my day will come.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-58932337944188332882010-06-12T20:14:00.000-07:002010-06-24T06:32:17.862-07:00black beauties<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOinknxx48cpKyvccZ4LqZysJ5QE7bH_xEIondF5SsipSBguAoi22IFJu7B7TpdQJUWbdDxEmyPazYk5Q4DAHYTnn_VZDWpf0XmU65xLSYo3XfezNp58mBsr_lpGcodN465cGa7TzWte0D/s1600/shoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOinknxx48cpKyvccZ4LqZysJ5QE7bH_xEIondF5SsipSBguAoi22IFJu7B7TpdQJUWbdDxEmyPazYk5Q4DAHYTnn_VZDWpf0XmU65xLSYo3XfezNp58mBsr_lpGcodN465cGa7TzWte0D/s200/shoe.jpg" width="153" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Patent leather shoes had arrived and were destroying relationships among girl-children everywhere. A pandemic of jealousy spanned the globe passing from house to house as the lucky ones outgrew their Sunday best and were allowed to buy a shiny new pair. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My sister Jennifer’s trendy patent leathers were reserved only for church. These Sunday-only-seductive-slip-ons were cut low enough to show “toe cleavage” and sported a black and white polka dot bow pinned like a corsage on a buxom breast. My hand-me-down Mary Janes paled against the patent’s ebony glow. Although Jen’s feet had grown and moved on to greener pastures, I was left with her shoddy hand-me-downs. My worn Mary Janes chronicled the older sister’s growth with buckle impressions marking each pinhole along the length of my leather straps. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Every Sunday morning Jen pranced about the house finding hard surfaces to enjoy the audible click-clop of her new patent leather shoes. Her Black Beauties broke from the closet each Sunday for their once-a-week showing at The First Presbyterian Church of Alliance. My lame Mary Janes and I stood tethered while Dad fished my fingers into the slender sleeves of my white church gloves. Jen’s feet sidled up to us shimmering with unbridled enthusiasm. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In the gravel-y church parking lot, I kicked each stone hoping to remove enough chapped leather to necessitate a new pair of shoes. Jen walked with arms out, as if on broken glass. During the boring bits of the service I busied myself studying Dad’s pocket watch and memorizing the veined map of his hands. I tried not to look at Jen’s feet shining in glory as they swung back and forth nearly touching the hymnal rack. Forget coveting the neighbor’s wife, God should have mentioned patent leather in those 10 commandments. Finally Mom touched Jen’s leg to stop her swinging and to remind her to sit with her knees together. Each week it was the same torture for me, watching those shoes swing in time with Dad’s watch, ticking away the years. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One hot summer day I found myself trapped in my bedroom with my mother who had set aside the morning for our annual torture of trying on school clothes. We first went through my closet to see what I had outgrown over the summer and then moved into my sister’s boxed wardrobe of hand-me-downs. The fan whirred in the open window blowing in sounds of freedom as my friends played a raucous game of kickball in the street without me. Pulling dusty dresses from boxes, Mom held each one up to my rigid frame, as if dressing a life-size paper doll. My frozen expression of pain and suffering went unnoticed by my mother who began clucking about hem lengths as she reached for her sewing pins. Resigned to my fate, I climbed into the first dress awaiting the commencement of the prolonged alteration process. With Mom crouched on her knees before me, I stood on the kitchen chair that had been brought upstairs. Like a poorly trained ventriloquist, Mom mumbled admonishments with pins pressed tightly between her lips, “Stop fidgeting! No slouching! Arms at your sides!” At her instruction and with each annoying tap-tap of the yardstick measuring my hem height, I turned every-so-slightly like a ballerina on a music box winding slowly down, down, down with each turn.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As Mom reached into the box to pull out the next dress for hemming, she clapped her hands with glee. She had unearthed the coveted patent leather pumps of yesteryear. “Oh Ann, I think you’ve finally grown enough that you can wear Jen’s old Sunday pumps that you liked so well. Won’t that be nice?” Every little sister knows where this is going. Years had passed. Fashions had changed. Clogs and earth shoes were now the craze. Being forced to wear patent leather pumps with a bow at the toe was more than a little toe cleavage could repair. The fact that I used to adore these shoes made it even worse. Mom tried to comfort me. “I’ll make you a long dress from that psychedelic silk all the girls are wearing. Most people really don’t look down that often. No one will notice. You’ll be fine.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Along with many other children of the ‘60’s, I managed to survive the Patent Leather Plagues that swept through North America. But I can’t say I wasn’t scarred by the experience. Someday when I have time, I’ll let a therapist pick at the scabs every hand-me-down sister has festering somewhere in the tender recesses of her broken little heart.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-2034565839211717122010-05-14T05:55:00.000-07:002010-06-12T20:01:07.455-07:00mother tongue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lf4MoUxGT7gJftySeMvAEFeyN22anAU80C9K9dyuAvdPsQCOQ8m-x3GTjclyROLRnoL3e8E2CHVrgxgx79QorKJeKvRL_0NCS1w4vs3BejkCSTDQJffTAQJvRH6faflFZlxjHotPQocW/s1600/Keynote_ShakingFinger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-lf4MoUxGT7gJftySeMvAEFeyN22anAU80C9K9dyuAvdPsQCOQ8m-x3GTjclyROLRnoL3e8E2CHVrgxgx79QorKJeKvRL_0NCS1w4vs3BejkCSTDQJffTAQJvRH6faflFZlxjHotPQocW/s320/Keynote_ShakingFinger.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Some families are multi-lingual - growing up with Spanish, Italian, or Chinese spoken in the home. In my family we spoke English, but our mother tongue was an ancient language of whistles and raised eyebrows that seasoned parents have spoken throughout the ages. One might be surprised by how many phrases and reprimands can be communicated with pursed lips and furrowed brow. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My sister Jennifer and I shared a bedroom. At nighttime after we’d been tucked into bed, Jen and I could get a little loud with our talking and giggling. If things progressed to volume levels that could be heard downstairs, Dad’s two-noted whistle came wafting up from the family room like the smell of burned popcorn quickly changing our mood to furtive, muffled goodnight whispers followed by a quick silence. To outsiders who didn’t understand “the language,” Dad’s whistle might sound melodious and pretty, to us it was a warning cry of impending doom, for if we continued to make noise, one of us would surely spend the night in the lonely downstairs guest bedroom.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My mother is not a whistler; she speaks eyebrow. From a distance of 30 feet, she can give you a punishing eyebrow lashing that will bring tears to your eyes. If necessary, she has a whisper-yell chaser that will knock you straight if her eyebrows didn’t quite do the trick. In the 70’s it was popular to wear underwear monogrammed with the days of the week. These mother-invented undergarments were the bane of children everywhere for it became immediately evident on laundry day that someone hasn’t been changing her underwear. My mother, holding up only Monday and Thursday panties, could shoot me a wicked raised-brow that could kill a cat. No words necessary. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Once you’ve grown up learning “the language” you never forget it. At forty-six when I see a wrinkled brow or hear that familiar two-tone whistle, I flush with anger thinking, “What? What am I doing wrong?” before I realize I’m not being corrected, it’s just someone calling his dog.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-44766536171175575072010-04-23T20:13:00.000-07:002010-04-23T20:25:35.586-07:00weekly highlights<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01u3hG7BANiPs4-09tb-QVd4F8EZ4fmgYBYlYabo5xm_-SqOe4fReIn8B0jroAPyTcoYLkKlcccsyQcnpy5WE0LUqDzrd2Ne2uTT5CFJEfezAdfqddaHHlLjr-2bTymueeHtDaZoaotMX/s1600/bar+of+soap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi01u3hG7BANiPs4-09tb-QVd4F8EZ4fmgYBYlYabo5xm_-SqOe4fReIn8B0jroAPyTcoYLkKlcccsyQcnpy5WE0LUqDzrd2Ne2uTT5CFJEfezAdfqddaHHlLjr-2bTymueeHtDaZoaotMX/s200/bar+of+soap.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 11.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I caught the soap in the shower today and you’d think I’d robbed a major leaguer of his record-breaking homerun. I went for it right handed, but it was wet and escaped my grasp. To my surprise my left hand had backed up the right and came up with the slippery prize. I instinctively looked around to see if anyone had seen this amazing feat. But alas, I was not in Shay Stadium in front of an adoring crowd but was standing naked and alone in my shower. Although I know and am actually somewhat grateful that my amazing catch won’t be televised on the sports recap shows of the great catches of the week, I can’t seem to stop thinking about it with absolute pride and wonder at what this old girl can still do.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-32447056958847894082010-03-23T16:39:00.000-07:002010-04-23T20:24:27.903-07:00curses!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi36D4kg-_rHmfsGokps5oAPBoRQ411TTq87VyE9_5ZtM9SxolSM25De0YAjsFd5KXtoZAtixA2-FfgVAK4TLp4nqO6iB-yI2MRIqkAwkTwExbZqPoDsGXXyDPQPTTWitrjuN1R4dHrJoN/s1600-h/xray_normal_hand_pa_1_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi36D4kg-_rHmfsGokps5oAPBoRQ411TTq87VyE9_5ZtM9SxolSM25De0YAjsFd5KXtoZAtixA2-FfgVAK4TLp4nqO6iB-yI2MRIqkAwkTwExbZqPoDsGXXyDPQPTTWitrjuN1R4dHrJoN/s200/xray_normal_hand_pa_1_.jpg" width="151" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My teenage daughter and I have been making up curse words that give us the satisfaction of cursing without the aftertaste of guilt and shame. "FAFSA!" is one I've been using a lot recently as I am forced to fill out countless tax and financial aid forms to prepare for Emily's first year at college. Our most recent curse word (pissiform) Emily discovered in anatomy class. It is a very tiny bone in the wrist, but goes especially well with olives as they roll down my leg, oil and all, spilled for the second time in a week. "Pissiform!"</span>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-6988117302590948872010-03-12T04:38:00.000-08:002010-04-23T20:22:27.971-07:00read to me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-FHD8sODcNfOBQAp3vIb1-DLnemWlnE83dnFEOY_KwTs6_-czRZDDw73Sv-yi5AkwhUihDSyv2sKW3QzX3rFxBTlfS13zVdXLiwLjztmzRsy7wbwjCHjqt_6IMknSHNyKzY2oCws3LnNn/s1600-h/eldx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="117" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-FHD8sODcNfOBQAp3vIb1-DLnemWlnE83dnFEOY_KwTs6_-czRZDDw73Sv-yi5AkwhUihDSyv2sKW3QzX3rFxBTlfS13zVdXLiwLjztmzRsy7wbwjCHjqt_6IMknSHNyKzY2oCws3LnNn/s200/eldx.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m a person who can’t stand to have windows with mullions - their tic-tack-toe board stretching across the windowpane restricts my view. Glasses press too close to my face and give me that “break-out-of-prison” feeling. A benign thin rim of tortoise shell on Ray Bans and even edgeless readers have me clawing at my face to get them off and away from me. This refusal to wear glasses and the ensuing blurriness that results has thrust me back to my preprimary years where I look at pictures in magazines and pull on sleeves asking people to read to me. Instead of a thrilling bedtime story, my clear-eyed counterparts read to me from the menu’s appetizer list in the dim lighting of the restaurant. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of all the things I’ve lost in the process of aging, my blurry vision is what bothers me the most. With the advent of spandex, I’ve adapted to that belt of blubber around my middle, gray hair can be touched up with dye and for achy joints there’s Aleve. But, "Oh the rage" when I come upon small print on a soup label or a medicine bottle. I’m furious that at the age of 46 everything has suddenly gone blurry. I know there is this invention called reading glasses that can miraculously bring on clearer vision, but I have not yet accepted this cure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-45282843480695441452010-01-17T09:38:00.000-08:002010-01-22T16:12:28.613-08:00lost<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8xu-3cE7j6wFdk4hqysNYy2sd1F-U3dNXs_Ndt6V1sbJNcnwFX1f-AkpNcI5vL95gfQxxDCr2i0t0I6yrV3vuXqlwsntIYCq6pS11R6bPCa2sP90PpDW9nXqrlFoDAIAmMjoL3STwtT9/s1600-h/berries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8xu-3cE7j6wFdk4hqysNYy2sd1F-U3dNXs_Ndt6V1sbJNcnwFX1f-AkpNcI5vL95gfQxxDCr2i0t0I6yrV3vuXqlwsntIYCq6pS11R6bPCa2sP90PpDW9nXqrlFoDAIAmMjoL3STwtT9/s320/berries.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I got lost in a berry patch tonight and thought I’d never find my way out. I live in the suburbs where developers think it’s cute to name every street in a neighborhood around a common theme. My friend and I drove separately to a tea party/blogging tutorial where I was meeting her friend Nikki, an American tea goddess and blogger extraordinaire.<a href="http://teaescapade.wordpress.com/"> http://teaescapade.wordpress.com</a> Chara had to leave early so I needed to pay attention to remember my way back out.<br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">As Chara and I left the familiar streets of our neighborhood, Dutchland Boulevard, Netherlands Court, and Tulip Drive, I grew more and more nervous as I followed her into this thorny tangle of streets knowing that I would have to forge my own way out.<br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">We turned right onto Blueberry Way. (Blueberries. My family loves blueberries; we pick them every year at Rouster’s farm. I’ll remember blueberry). We passed Boysenberry Road and turned left onto Raspberry Lane. (I hate boysenberries – too seedy, but we grow our own raspberries and love them. Surely I’ll remember Raspberry Lane). We turned right onto Huckleberry and drove on that road for quite a distance. (I thought about Huck, Tom Sawyer and Injun Joe). We weren’t even halfway into this rat’s maze of berry streets and I’m dreading what may come next…Strawberry? Blackberry? Frankenberry? I was already dizzy. I’m a “special” person, but not a “spatial” person. I have trouble reversing directions to make my way home; rehearsing rights and lefts does no good because it’s all backwards. Chara and I parked our cars and had a wonderful time with Nikki. I learned so much about blogging and the finer points of drinking tea.<br />
</div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wZ9uqktvJ0w7ZEtkus4SAgRUL4jtXI-ffP6hUdmqgJ-Q0QBmqOV34Rfj7MxDOlhtA4vARkzDTDRhcLvCDH-Xijb_B5_R8MztNAejydAIXal2fyB7PTr23NZdoEu80gTPLgfcbR8Hq2JY/s1600-h/nuvi500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;">It’s January so when I left Nikki’s, it was dark. I got into my car and started on my way. I turned around in the cul-de-sac and saw a street going off to the right called Thornberry. I didn’t recognize that one so I kept going. I came to another cul-de sac and had to turn back around. This time as I passed Thornberry I decided to see where it would take me. Another cul-de-sac. The kids playing outside in the snow were getting nervous seeing a car in the night slowly creeping down their snowy sleepy roads. After a few minutes of wandering I had gotten so thoroughly lost that I fell into another development or “galaxy” you might say, as I roamed the streets of Jupiter Lane, Mars Boulevard and Neptune Circle. I decided not to do a “shout out” for help since the kids playing outside were already inching their snow games closer to the front door just in case I tried to steal them. I pulled over and turned on my dome light to use my 1<sup>st</sup> lifeline and called my husband to tell him I might be awhile. He told me to check the glove compartment for the GPS satellite unit he’d bought me for Christmas. I powered it up and waited what seemed like 10 minutes for the satellite search to find me. I almost shouted for joy as the sweet-voiced-robotic stranger called out cosmic street names and occasionally admonished me for a wrong turn with her charming phrase, “Recalculating…” It wasn’t long before my GPS gal was shouting out familiar Amsterdamish street names taking me back to my own country. After surviving this experience, I have vowed never to enter another berry patch or cosmic galaxy without my GPS.</span><br />
</div></span>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4947794987681426531.post-74287185853015418272009-12-21T14:48:00.000-08:002010-01-12T19:37:37.131-08:00basement monsters<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-align: justify;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUbp76rEjRlS0MxUvMH14CQU2qyjlpXKUAFVGL7aiAbsUhdhtzauLO8zyLr2WwFv8ihWY_eLaAF1SvuL8-ShpOP-g6lwvzmQi8eYZmWBtqqZ9E8qc6qIXBtyoFsLSZr5a1GB9oP500xXP/s1600-h/a_brown_monster_hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUbp76rEjRlS0MxUvMH14CQU2qyjlpXKUAFVGL7aiAbsUhdhtzauLO8zyLr2WwFv8ihWY_eLaAF1SvuL8-ShpOP-g6lwvzmQi8eYZmWBtqqZ9E8qc6qIXBtyoFsLSZr5a1GB9oP500xXP/s200/a_brown_monster_hands.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Why must the young and the innocent always be sent on these errands of doom? Parents, who profess to love their children, yet so willingly sacrifice them to these monsters of the deep for a simple tool from the workshop or a loaf of bread from the freezer. They coach from the safety of the upstairs world. “Just turn on the light.” they say. “We’re right here. What could happen?” And off we go, hearing them continue in their breakfast babble –not concentrating on possible cries for help from the bowels of the basement. Before every descent, I used to give detailed instructions of what should be done in my absence. I wanted the sister, mother, father, grandparent to stand at the top of the basement stairs with an ear intently tuned, listening for signs of peril. I wanted their face and eyebrows knitted with worry, focusing all their attention on my safe return. I made them promise to come after me if my string of chatter ceased. Then, like a springboard diver rehearsing her routine of twists and tucks, I planned my moves and took a final breath chorusing the words “Talk, talk, talk, talk talk…” over and again as I descended into hell.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Unfortunately the light illuminated only the stairs; there remained a long stretch of blackness to navigate. Like a captive princess, the freezer stood in the far corner of the basement, guarded by the sump pump who gurgled and belched warnings from his watery hole. I saw the light-string dangling in the center of the room; my holy grail. With the nimbleness of youth and my “talk, talk, talk” to give me courage, I brought glorious light with one tug of the string. Not wanting to waken the sump pump from slumber, my chorus of “talk, talk, talk” moved into a gentler timbre as I released the freezer door and extracted the strawberry jam I was sent to fetch.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Frigid trophy in hand, I braced myself for the perilous ascent where demons would chase me, unwilling to relinquish their frozen strawberry booty. In order to complete my task, I realized I must once again plunge myself into darkness. Soaking up the last rays of illumination, I sprinted to the light string and pulled it with such force that it wound like a gymnast making circles round and round the cross beams of the ceiling joist. Running faster than my pupils could dilate, I dashed through the darkness past shadowy figures toward that beacon of light above. Pounding up the basement steps, I was sure slimy, monstery hands were poking slender fingers through the open backs of the basement stairs, grabbing at my ankles. In the sound track of my seven-year-old mind, stringed instruments screech warning cries as my feet drummed up the stairs hitting each wooden step with staccato precision. My panic rose in pitch the nearer I came to freedom; piquing in a deafening crescendo. Lured by the sweet smell of “upstairs air” and sounds of breakfast, I pumped my knees high remembering that I was still in “monster strike zone.” (Those last three steps are always the most dangerous). I took a final lunge onto linoleum, out of breath, chased nearly to death, but still alive. I held up the strawberry jam in expectation of trumpets and cheers only to find that my benefactor had left her post at the top of the stairs to finish her cereal before it got soggy.</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I made promises that if I survived to adulthood, I would never send anyone I loved into such a place alone. And I’d like to say that I never have, but it’s so handy to send my daughter Emily down for a frozen pizza or to drain the dehumidifier into the sump pump. And really…What could happen? She’ll be just fine. </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p><br />
</div><br />
</div></div>Ann Weimer Baumgardnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04765572946415400598noreply@blogger.com0