50 Ways to Lose Your iPhone

I exaggerate, of course. I have not lost 50 phones, but even the loss of one phone is enough to throw your entire life out of whack. What is the weather like? I haven’t a clue. I don’t have my phone app … I must WALK OUTSIDE and discover that it is beautiful, with a little chill in the air. Talk about a lot of work for results that just yesterday had been so easily ascertained from under the comfort of the warm covers of my bed. Sheesh.

The first phone I recall losing was a good old flip phone. I now understand why your back pocket is not always the ideal place to keep your phone. Without going into gross detail, let’s just say that it surreptitiously fell into the toilet and was flushed down the drain without my knowledge! Imagine that you fail to realize that your phone is sleeping with the fishies until a few dozen flushes of said toilet. By that time, I needed to call in a plumber who had to remove the entire toilet to recover the sodden phone. I then had to run to Home Depot to buy a brand-new toilet and pay to have it installed! You would think that I would have learned my lesson, but nooooooo – I have had more than a few close calls.

I recently bid adieu to my new iPhone 6 at a Nature Preserve and Wetlands. I do live fairly near the Florida Everglades. Anyhow. There was the cutest clutch (I might have made that word up as a description for a gang of alligators. Or did I make the word “gang” up? We’ll never know because I am too lazy to consult a dictionary) of baby ‘gators!! Oh, my gosh they were just the cutest little things and everyone was gathered around them and snapping their pictures from the safety of the wooden boardwalk. I leaned over with my phone and before I could even snap a picture – sploosh! went my phone down into the swamp. The crowd looked at me, obviously thinking, “What an idiot!!” I just laughed and remarked that I had really wanted a new iPhone 7, a haha. I was actually mortified, but there was no way that I was going to lie down on the boardwalk and try to recover the phone because I knew that Mama Gator was lurking nearby and I didn’t want to end up like Captain Hook.

Last night I attended a wedding. It was great fun and I danced like it was 1999. I had kept my new iPhone 7 (see above) on the table all night. I took pictures. I checked for texts and emails, and kept hoping that one of my submissions had been accepted. Right. Like editors have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than to peruse my sappy stories. Do they? Well, I get into the car to go home and we have driven a goodly distance (I’m trying to sound British, now that I realize that some of you are from one of my most favourite places on Earth) when I realize with a gasp! I had left my phone stranded on the table. We call from the car, and I do mean FROM the car, I still can’t get over that Bluetooth dialing thing, and leave desperate messages to friends who might retrieve my phone before they, too, leave the party. No one could hear their phones ringing, of course.

So now it is Sunday morning and I have no idea if I have won the lottery. (rolling my eyes) I guess I had best to google their website and then scroll down for the lotto, and then manually click for the results. Much ado about nothing, I presume. But I don’t know. I don’t have my phone!!!!!!!!!

You Don’t Deserve Candy

For Valentine’s Day, I gave my husband a heart-shaped box (oh, shades of Nirvana!) that was filled with miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. He ate about three of them, and then completely ignored the rest. I watched that pile of chocolate-peanutbuttery goodness for a week, two weeks, a year (in candy-watcher’s time) before I pounced on them and unwrapped and devoured every single blob of caloric heaven. And then I wah-wahhh’d because I’m so fat. Continue reading

The Paper Dress

I was one groovy chick, back in middle school. I was the first to wear bell-bottom jeans. I saw them in a fashion magazine and made my poor mother go on a hunt for a pair, a quest not unlike that of Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail. She finally snagged a pair and I proudly wore them to school. The reception was the same as if I had arrived bare-bottomed: no one understood bell-bottoms and the consensus was that I looked stupid. My vindication was slow to arrive, but it did. Within a few months, ALL the cool kids were sporting bell-bottoms. So there!

This was the time of macrame belts, tie-died tee shirts, go-go boots. Everyone had the soundtrack to Woodstock  and it was the rising reign of Aquarius, of the hippies. I embraced this look with all my heart. In fact, I was so experimental that several friends later confessed that they had thought I was from some weird foreign country, if not from a completely different planet. I did like my beads and my fringe.

My birthday was coming up and my mom and brother had a surprise in store for me. They had been secretly collecting Campbell’s soup can labels so that they could send away for something that they knew I would totally dig. It was a screen-print paper “pop art souper dress from Campbell’s” and looked like one big Andy Warhol painting of soup cans. Did you catch that? It was made of paper. It was the most far-out dress that I had ever seen. I loved it.

The first thing I did, of course, was to take a pair of scissors to it and chop it off into a micro mini dress. Was I wearing white go-go boots? If not, I certainly should have been. And then I sashayed off to the bus stop, where I made quite the impression with the boys. “paper???” “your dress is made from paper??” “like, I could tear it off you?” (ergh: had not thought about that frightening scenario).

Although I was too cool for school, I still got on the bus when it arrived. I sat down on the ancient buckled leather seats and heard a sound that made my heart stop. R-R-R-R-I-P!!! NO!! I had just ripped the dress the minute I sat down. The bus went crazy. As we pulled up to the school, the boys were hanging out the window screaming “we got a girl in a paper dress and it ripped!!!!!” Had it not been so humiliating, I would have reveled in the  reception I received as I stepped off the bus. I was famous! Everyone wanted to see this paper dress, especially the now air-conditioned back side where my underpants could be strategically viewed. Someone from the Administration ran up and wrapped me in a blanket and hustled me off to the Infirmary. The secretaries tried everything to save my dress: staples, scotch tape, packing tape. They did what they could to preserve my dignity and then sent me off to class. I doubt that I learned a single new fact that day, other than the obvious: paper rips. I was constantly applying more scotch tape to fresh rips all day long. That dress never saw a second wearing, and was probably tossed in the trash when I got home.

I just googled that dress and discovered that at one point it was selling as “rare Vintage pop art” (vintage??? ow, that hurts) and someone actually paid nearly $7,000 for it. Wow. I could have been a bazillionaire if I had only left the dress safely in its plastic bag. But, where’s the fun in that?

Don’t give me a dirty look b/c your dog is a jerk


We own a very sweet-tempered dog. She is a mix of Australian Shepard/ Catahoula Leopard hound, which is fancy talk for “very pretty dog with interesting markings.” When I walk her, she is non aggressive and totally ignores other dogs. She likes people better, because they pet her and make a fuss over her. Her name is Cali.

I don’t know what it is about Cali, but her mere presence is enough to drive some dogs insane with rage. The owners always assure me that their dog is gentle, but one sniff of my dog and the other dog just becomes completely deranged and screams (not an actual scream, but it is something beyond normal barking) and totally transforms into a monster. Now here is the interesting part. Instead of apologizing for their little Woofy trying to kill my dog, they give us a dirty look! It becomes MY dog’s fault that they cannot control their beast. We have watched as a team of yip-yappers totally roped their owner’s legs in a tangle of leashes; another dog pulled so violently on its leash that it knocked over their little girl who began to cry; and another dog turned Jekyll & Hyde within milliseconds, baring its fangs as it jumped poor, oblivious Cali. But do these dog owners apologize? No! They give me the stink eye and mutter something about my dog. Yes, my dog … the one that is busy sniffing at a pile of leaves and completely ignoring their dog and its tantrum.

Stop it. Stop it right now, I say. Acknowledge that your dog is being a complete jerk for no apparent reason. And then, go enroll in Dog Training School.


Criticize yourself!

I was out walking the dog, one beautiful sunny day. I began to form a great big smile as the cutest sight approached me. It was a father and son, on a bicycle ride. The dad was on his great big racing bike with all of its fancy gears; the little boy was on his tiny two wheeler that may or may not have sported training wheels. The father was criticizing his young son. “Come on, T.J. You have to stay with me or you will get lost. Let’s move it.” Continue reading

Clean Up in Kindergarten

The event that would soon make my name as a substitute teacher synonymous with “Clean Up in Mrs. G’s Room” was percolating, just waiting to happen. I was subbing for a fabulous Kindergarten teacher. I knew that I would have a great day when it began in her room. It was guaranteed success.

The children and I had been enjoying a morning of cutting, pasting, singing, and snacks. Then, Diego stood up, looking a little green around the gills, and whispered, “I feel wobbly inside.” I made a mad dash for a garbage can to catch the “wobbly”, but he couldn’t wait. He showered the floor with puke. I froze. And in that instant, the entire classroom ran to his side to see why he was crying and to inspect the mess he had made. Before I could shoo the children back to their seats, the moment of ignominy occurred. First, Darcy squealed, “Ewww!! I hate the smell of puke! It makes me –” . Yes, Darcy, we now know what it makes you do. Darcy’s puke quickly co-mingled with that of Diego. I was trying to use the intercom to call for a janitor, but two more little inspectors erphed into what was morphing from a small pool to a large pond of puke.

There was only one thing to do, and I did not care that it wasn’t our turn because I was willing to face the consequences. We needed to hit the playground asap, before anyone else had the chance to be sick. Mr. Bradford, the janitor, showed up with his mop and bucket, expecting to have a small mess to clean up. When he saw the disaster that I was leaving him to face, the look he gave me could have vaporized me, had I not rushed out the door, shouting “Thank you!!” over my shoulder. He never liked me after that day.