I have always loved the Saturday...

when Daylight Savings Time ends.  It's like the official beginning of Fall - and the bonus of that extra hour to do whatever you want.  Read for a little while longer before you go to sleep, watch a movie, stay up until two in the morning to change the clocks...  Seriously - when I was a kid my grandpa always stayed up until two to change all the clocks on the farm - like it was the law or something.  I was tempted this year, but I only made it until 1:30 - but then, it was actually only 12:30.  But I digress...  One of the best things about the end of DST, especially when I was a kid, was that coveted extra hour of sleep.  I come from a family of early risers; I am one as an adult, too - but when I was a kid, especially when I was a teenager, I would have given anything to sleep in on Saturdays, but that was never going to happen.  My dad would get up around five, make his first pot of coffee and enjoy the silence of the kitchen for about an hour.  He'd read, play with the cat or most of the time, I suspect, just ponder the nature of the universe - or whatever other computer geek thoughts he thought.  Then, around six, he'd head off to the shower and wake my mother.  And like most Southern households, when Mama is awake - everyone is awake.  During the school week I could understand getting up early - we had to leave the house with my dad because he dropped us off at school.  But on Saturdays - no rest for the wicked - or two kids who would have loved to sleep until at least eight - or even watch cartoons.  Nope - time to get up, get dressed and clean the house from top to bottom.  Never mind that I had dusted and polished all the furniture every day after school during the week or that I'd washed the entire kitchen every night after dinner, including washing the kitchen floor - Saturday was cleaning day and we were going to do our chores - because, you guessed it, when Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  And then, once a year, came the day I lived for and with it, that extra hour's sleep.  And the fact that Mama couldn't do anything about it.  It was an untouchable hour of leisure and my slothful self enjoyed it every time it came around.  I still do.  Apparently, we never outgrow the need to defy our parents.  Or at least I haven't.

Did you make the most of your extra hour this year?

Are these retailers crazy?

I keep seeing Black Friday ads - already!  It's not even Thanksgiving - what are they thinking?  Not long ago I was pleased to see a photo of a Nordstrom's door that  announced their intention not to decorate for Christmas until the appropriate time.  Good for them!  If I were inclined to shop, I'd shop there.  I think I've finally gotten sick of the all the commercialism in my old age.  Anyone who knows me will be the first to tell you that I do occasionally shop and that I like stuff - but over the past few years, I've gotten rid of junk I was hanging on to for whatever reason and pared my surroundings down to only the things I use and things I really like.  I have only shopped on Black Friday once in my life and I remember exactly when it was: twenty years ago.  I had gotten a flyer in the mail at the office about a special invitation-only sale at Burdine's (back before it was Macy's - it's been that long!) and so my mother and I drove off to the mall early on the appointed morning of the event and literally shopped until we dropped.  The sale at Burdine's was okay, but the real bargains were to be had at Belk (before it was Dillard's - Lord, I'm old!) and the best part was their free gift wrapping.  After a dinner at Cracker Barrel, Mama and I dragged ourselves and our gaily wrapped packages into the house - our holiday shopping complete a full month before Christmas.  It made the holidays seem sort of anti-climactic that year and I haven't done it - or spent as much - since.  I looked at a few of the ads online that promised Black Friday deals - and most of the stuff is just junk that kids will open, play with for a week or so, and then move on to something else - like the box it came in.  You can't go wrong with a good box, I always say.  I wish shoppers (and retailers) would forgo quantity for quality and be more generous with charitable giving.  But that's not going to happen, is it?  I wonder what would happen if a sizable portion of the population decided to boycott shopping on Black Friday - I'm going to do my part again this year.

Are people crazy?

Who in their right mind goes shopping at 4:00 am?  Or worse yet, who camps out all night long to be first in line for some over-rated sale the next morning?  Sorry - not me.  Never again.  Not even if I had any money to spend!  Yes, I went shopping on Black Friday once, years ago, because I had never gone.  My mother and I decided to go to Burdines early in the morning - see how long ago it's been?  Burdines is now Macy's!  It was horrific and I vowed never to do it again.  I came home with a migraine the size of Texas.  The whole shopping trip is a Mama story - something like Mama Takes on the Mall - but I will leave that for another time.  This year, like every year since that fateful holiday shopping spree, I slept a little late and have spent the entire day at home.  I admit that I did do a little holiday shopping online - but only for a couple of inexpensive handmade gifts on Etsy - and two things that will be incorporated into some crafts I'm making from eBay.  I have putzed around with some Christmas card ideas, but I don't like anything I've done so far.  I gathered up the fall decorations and got out one of the boxes of Christmas baskets and my little white wooden deer.  The weekend is still young!  Right now we are patiently waiting for the Pizza Hut delivery guy to bring us our thin crust cheese pizza.  Well, I'm being patient - Aggie knows something is up and she's sitting beside her gate staring down the door.  She'll be in a complete frenzy when she hears a strange car and then a knock on the door.  Children! 

Mama and the Canadian Pothead...

Aggie & Don't-Call-Me-Grandma!

I know I’m a day late for the actual celebration of Thanksgiving in Canada, but yesterday did remind me of my mother and her quest to mark smoking pot off her bucket list… When my sister was in college, she had some interesting friends – one of which was a pothead from Ontario whose name was Ryan or Reed or something like that.  Anyhow, for one reason or another, she would regale us with tales of his adventures with smoking weed.  I didn’t care and to this day I don’t know why Mama was so interested.  My friend Kathy and I once took my mother to a Hall & Oates concert where the air had a decidedly sweet smell and all Mama did was shout “What is that smell?” over the music.  Kathy finally told her to just shut up, inhale and enjoy it.  Which might just be the reason why she was so interested in the unlawful exploits of my sister’s friend from north of the border…  Anyhow, one fall my mother embarked on a vacation to Michigan to visit my sister who was living off-campus at the time.  All Mama could talk about was meeting the pothead and “smoking a marijuana cigarette,” she’d say.  “I think they call it a joint, Mama,” I’d remind her.  My sister planned an evening get-together and Mama was beside herself with excitement.  “Well, have fun,” I encouraged her reluctantly.  I had horrifying visions of my mother’s mugshot and the headline “Hash-smoking Housewife Handcuffed” on the front page of the Grand Rapids Press.  I made sure I had enough money for bail.  About eleven the night of the big soiree, the phone rang.  It was my sister.  “Well?” I asked.  Apparently the evening went fairly well – or as well as a college party could go with Mama in its midst, constantly asking when they were all going to smoke pot.  I guess the Canadian finally got tired of her badgering and produced his stash.  “Not in my apartment!” my sister decreed and showed the bad influence and the would-be pothead to the laundry room in the basement.  My sister said the moment of truth had finally arrived when Mama made a face and said, “I’m not smoking that wet, nasty cigarette after you – that’s disgusting!  I want my own!”  I guess the pothead was not as well-connected as he had implied to his friends and he only had the one with him.  And so I don’t think Mama ever marked that particular item off her list of things to do before she died, but we always enjoyed retelling the story, laughing and teasing her over trying.


Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.

Mama and the blue bargain bras...

Ever have a memory just hit you from out of the blue (pun intended)?  I was folding laundry this morning - yes, actually folding it up! - and I remembered these awful blue bras I had when I was in high school.  It was the 1970s and I was not cool.  Not in the least.  I wasn't really a slave to fashion; all I cared about was marginally fitting in, since I really spent most of my time with my nose in a book.  Anyhow, my parents sent us to a private school with lots of rich kids and my nerdy self was pretty low on the social scale.  It didn't help that my mom, who sewed beautifully and made most of our clothes, had a fashion sense stuck in the 1950s - when she was in high school.  Mama didn't like t-shirts; therefore we were not allowed to wear t-shirts, or even like them, for that matter.  My wardrobe consisted mainly of peasant dresses, blue jeans and my mother's favorite: blouses from Grant's.  Most of these blouses were white or pastel colors.  I hated them, but it's hard to be picky when you don't buy your own clothes and you live with the queen of bargain hunters.  To make matters worse, I also come from a long line of well-endowed women.  My maternal grandmother and her sisters were all at least a 32DD - and my great-aunt who aspired to ice-skating fame was a 32F.  And so - most of my mother's lingerie purchases were based on support and durability.  God help the other women in line at a Playtex sale!  We wore Playtex 18-Hour bras until they were practically threadbare and then replaced with yet another model - always white.  My sister called them iron bras.  Well, one summer before school started, Mama took us to the JC Penney store downtown.  It was really sort of a JC Penney catalog outlet, but they had good prices on some pretty odd-lot merchandise.  Once, when shopping alone one day after school (I was supposed to be at my dad's office), I dared to spend part of my allowance on a pair of nylon hip hugger underwear with pink smiley faces; Mama was mortified and lectured me for days on how nice girls don't wear a) nylon panties, 2) hip hugger panties and D) underwear with smiley faces printed on them.  So my secretly rebellious self wore those things as often as possible - after all, it was my hard-earned dollar.  But I digress...  Hoping to find similar bargains on that back-to-school shopping trip, I couldn't wait to get to the store.  Suffice it to say that my excitement was short-lived when the only bargain to be found that day were three wretched, robin's egg blue MaidenForm bras in just my size.  Not a Playtex 18-Hour iron bra in sight.  My mother went on and on about how well these would hold up - both in terms of support and daily wear - and the die was cast.  I became the proud owner of three blue back-to-school bras.  And remember those blouses my mom was so fond of?  Well, these hideous blue bras on my pale as a ghost skin showed through everything.  Although my mother continually assured me that my unmentionables weren't noticeable, a lot of other people sure noticed them and made more than a few mentions of that fact.  I hated those damn blue bras and I prayed every day that they would just wear out and I could go back to a plain white iron bra.  Mama got her money's worth - those things lasted a whole school year and then some!