Being Literate

In literacy training today I learned that this is a perfectly good English sentence (albeit without proper capitalization and punctuation):

the young man
the old horses

Think about it . . .

And Away We Go . . .

The new Apple laptop is fully charged and sitting in its case, along with an expensive mouse, a pad of paper, and a couple of varied colored ink pens. I can't really use the laptop without extensive cursing. First, in its carrying case it's almost too heavy for me to heft and any extended walking with it practically doubles me up (bad back and all that). Using the Apple is highly frustrating for me because I'm just not used to it. The last 12 years I've been solely Windows based and frankly, I see no reason to want to change horses in mid-stream. I'm sure that after six months or so, I'm going to adjust. I thought this summer I would get myself in Apple mode, but after typing one Word doc on the thing, I zipped it back into its case and there it sat, untouched.

I'm not sure I'll need the Apple tomorrow, but I'm going to take it along -- because I have it and I should be using it.

At 8 a.m. tomorrow morning I'm starting literacy training. Because I'm not literate, you ask?

This second round in education is funnier in some ways than the first round was. Literacy training is a prime example. Only English teachers have been asked to take "literacy training." Maybe I would have more understanding if coaches or home economics teachers were being trained (I know, that's a stereotype) but no, it's only for English teachers or those who work with them.

So tomorrow I go to learn to be literate. Literally.

P.S. They are paying me to take the training. That's the good news. But I've got two full days at a convention center and then a day having a root canal and then a day learning to use the Apple. I'll tell you all about it at the end of the week -- if I'm literate enough, that is. What a hoot!

To Have and To Hold

Twenty-nine years ago – a couple of lifetimes, actually, at 5:00, I put on a beige caftan and hung it with my turquoise jewelry. Hubby put on his favorite jeans leisure suit. It was 1978 after all. His best buddy put on a lovely three piece black suit. We climbed into our little used Toyota and buzzed down the street to the local Methodist church.

Hubby’s sister and mother met us at the church, along with a family friend. The minister was a no-show. After 20 minutes, in panic, I called him only to find him having dinner with his family. “Oh. Was I supposed to meet you tonight? Well, sorry. I’ll be right there.”

Thirty minutes later the ceremony began. The minister examined the paperwork. He smiled at Hubby and then asked the bride and groom to hold hands, as he happily tried to join my hand to Hubby’s best friend. We explained the mistake.

“Dearly beloved . . . do you Susan take this man . . .” Oops. No Susan present. My mind frantically began to wonder just how wrong this wedding, seemingly impromptu, was going to go wrong. Would it be legal if the minister continued to use the wrong name and actually married Hubby to Susan?

Hubby grinned when he looked at my face and stopped the ceremony. The minister peered at us for a moment or two in consternation, shrugged and began again.

Two weeks earlier Hubby’s best friend had arrived from Louisiana to be the witness at the wedding. After all, he thought that he was the cupid that had finally gotten Hubby to agree to marry me.

Five years earlier Hubby and I had met when I joined his choir. I couldn’t sing well, but I could read music and in that choir that was an advantage. I’d been smitten from the start. Hubby was as well but it took us six months to connect. From the first date we’d never been apart. Hubby had two previous marriages; I had one.

Our “courtship” really was a non-event. We had all the ups and downs of a couple that immediately start living together when they really don’t know anything about each other. My parents were horrified. His family had seen him through so many girls that they didn’t even bother to get to know them any longer. His sister has no memory of me in the first year of our relationship – I was just one of a long line of conquests.

After five years, my family was still irate but his had finally welcomed me into the flock. I wanted a visual commitment to show the world that Hubby was indeed, a “taken” man. Grudgingly, he finally agreed and so the best friend was invited to attend the wedding, arriving in mid-July. After two weeks of waiting for the big event, best friend finally told Hubby that he was going home that weekend. So on a Thursday at 6 p.m. we were at the church, formalizing our five year relationship.

Vows taken, papers signed, minister paid, we drove a couple more blocks to Hubby’s sister home where we had a blue Baskin Robbins cake and opened our one wedding present, an electric skillet. Hubby sat around long enough to have some ice cream and then he and best friend went off to play pool, their favorite evening activity and I went home, alone.

The best friend is now a full professor of music at a prestigious Louisiana college. The minister became mayor of our city is now a congressman in D.C. representing our district. Will’s sister moved to Houston where she lives and we spend every Christmas with her. Their mother died of cancer in the 1980’s – she was one of my dearest friends. My parents never reconciled to the wedding. The turquoise jewelry was stolen, along with almost everything we held dear, in a terrible robbery in the 1980's. The old Toyota was replaced with a variety of new cars until new cars began to cost more than our house had originally so now we're back, driving the old beaters -- just in much bigger format. No children graced our union but the fur babies have increased our lives ten-fold.

Four years ago Hubby’s sister flew to us for a month, and with the help of church friends, we celebrated our 25^th wedding anniversary with a concert raising funds for the church. With the help of our friends and family, I got the perfect wedding event. Folks came from near and far, the music was incredible, the concert with accompanying reception full of red roses and long gowns and tuxedos. The best friend flew in to duet with his pal. And Hubby sang to me, a song of his choosing. The song is not highly romantic. It is not full of passion and glitz. But it speaks to the love we have shared all these years.

“If ever I would leave you, it wouldn’t be in summer. . . .”

Thirty-four years ago we began our life together; twenty-nine years ago we were officially united. How lucky we have been to have had each other through the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, the ups and the downs. We promised in that ceremony to love each other to the end . . . and that promise has been kept.

“Summer, winter springtime, or fall! No, never could I leave you at all!”

The Bee's Knees #2

The rich warm caress of Hubby’s voice sent shivers of delight straight into my soul. I hadn’t heard that special vibrant heat in several years. I dashed into the computer room where he had settled after coming in the front door and confronted him. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’, babe. Things are just fine.”

As I peered intently into his eyes, I asked the fateful question. “The knees?”

“Oh, they feel pretty good.”

And there it was. Pretty good. The pain was easing. The pain that had stolen his sense of humor and his ability to cope with frustration and that special tone I used to hear in his voice when he was happy.

“I just rode my bicycle. I could ride it until I worked up a sweat. It felt great. I can’t go down steps yet, but maybe after the next shot. Well, anyway the knees feel better.”

And we both grinned like kids.

We're All About the Knees

Hubby had the second of the three injections into his knees today (one in each knee for three consecutive weeks). The first shots last Monday really had no effect, needles in and out, and Hubby hobbled around as usual. Today, however, he experienced significant pain in his right knee after the shot.

Our good news is that the insurance company only charged us for the first injection. The other four (two more in each knee) are covered by the first deductible charge. That's a very good thing.

We weren't expecting pain with the shots and so the immediate onset put Hubby into bed for the afternoon / evening. I suggested we call the doctor, but Hubby, being the stoic that he is, preferred a "wait and see" attitude. We had asked what the restrictions were during and after the shots and the only thing we were told was that Hubby shouldn't go jogging. Otherwise, normal every day activities were very acceptable and we hadn't been warned that they might be curtailed by grinding pain.

Hubby was slated to cook dinner today, darn it, and that pain meant that I was once again forced into kitchen labor -- and comfort food, at that. It's a small price to pay, though, if tomorrow or at the end of the week - or in the next month -- Hubby begins to get some relief for his ailing knees.

We're still in a wait and see mode. We'll keep you posted.

Life For Sale

I am a clothes horse. The thing is I only wear a couple of outfits regularly. For Christmas last year Hubby gifted me with three pairs of the same pants – in purple, pink, and turquoise. They feel like I are wearing my pajama bottoms and I call them my “happy pants” because when I’m wearing them I feel supremely content and comfy and free. No zippers. No buttons. Stretchy material. Pull up – pull down. Perfect length to cover the requisite orthopedic shoes. Happy pants to the supreme degree. I try to wear my happy pants at least twice a week – and sometimes I actually do wear them three times. I’m old and the kids don’t much care what I’ve got on as long as it doesn’t smell and is relatively clean. I can get away with wearing the same pants except in different colors and nobody says anything, except Hubby now and again.

Too many surgeries on the tummy area have created nerve endings that don’t take well to being “squished” so now I don’t buy pants with zippers or tight waist bands. The orthopedic shoes are so ugly that dresses and skirts are out – and panty hose is the bane of a “happy pants” type of woman’s wardrobe. I don’t want to iron anything either so pretty much all cotton is out unless it’s in t-shirt form. The boobs require I wear a bra, darn it, so I’m unable to give up underwear completely, but I don’t wear things that buttons up the front because that requires more structured undergarments than I care to undertake.

Meanwhile I own Oprah’s closet. Well, not the closet itself – just enough clothes that I feel like Oprah when I survey the mounds of clothing I actually do own. Biting a very painful bullet, this summer Hubby and I agreed to learn how to sell things on E-bay and we started with my closet. I spent April and part of May divesting myself of any interest I had in keeping clothing that, though absolutely gorgeous, was not comfortable or practical (requiring dry cleaning and/or ironing). The amount of clothes I then had for sale was incredible – and embarrassing.

Two closets and two dressers in the basement full of clothes. Three upstairs closets jammed full and a room strung with clothing poles full to overflowing. There were skirts, long, short, full, straight, wool, corduroy, velvet, linen. There were blouses, sometimes five of the same design just in different colors. There were slacks and pants and Capri’s and gauchos and jeans. There were suits from Nordstrom’s and Saks and Dillards and August Max and Elisabeth. Professional dresses designed for blazers and cocktail suits for elegant dining. Expensive clothing, worn maybe five times, then hung away while I continued to wear my happy pants with a tee that was wash and wear. Wool, velvet, linen blazers. More than a dozen vests. Nearly everything still fit except for a couple of pairs of jeans I uncovered from two sizes ago. And all of it in perfect, nearly unworn condition. All of it lovely and well cared for. I had become a hoarder. It was a true embarrassment of riches.

I struck a deal with Hubby. He would photograph the clothes, I would write up the descriptions, he would mail the packages when and if they sold and what didn’t sell was destined for the charity shop. I started with the vests and sold five and we gave the rest away. Of the more than 15 I owned I kept two out of the lot.

We moved on to the blouses and sold more of those. Vests aren’t very trendy right now it seems but the blouses sold well. We sold around 25 blouses with about 15 more that didn’t sell. I moved on to selling pants. They sold about as well as the vests, however all the pants suits sold. Now I’m listing dresses and outfits – matching skirts and blouses – as well as blazers and jackets.

E-bay selling is time consuming and both E-bay and PayPal take a cut of your earnings. Then, of course, mailing is expensive, even though you charge the customer for the service. Writing up the description of the item takes time, as does the photographing and the wrapping of the packages for mailing. Luckily clothing doesn’t break when you ship it. We're not getting rich out of this.

Yet, slowly my closet is dwindling. I can now unearth my favorite t-shirts from the rack instead of just grabbing the first one I can see. The blouses may not have breathing room but they aren’t so jammed packed that they are too wrinkled to wear without pressing. I eliminated every pair of slacks that didn’t carry some designation of “happy pant” in them for me. Though I still own a rainbow of colors, I don’t own four pairs of red slacks any longer (we won't discuss black, however -- one can never own too many pairs of comfy black pants).

In the second bedroom the bookcase is no longer obliterated by clothes hung all over it. In fact the only items hanging there now are the ones I’ve still to write descriptions of for E-bay selling. Once that is done the clothes are shipped off to the “other house” where Hubby has his office. He maintains them until they either sell or they go to the charity store. Either way, I’ve loosened my grip on them or once they are out of this house I won’t lay eyes (or my greedy hands) on them again. At least once a week, though, Hubby and I have to have the “talk.”

“Oh, look at this pretty skirt and blouse – Oh! I just loved it so much – Oh! I think I need to keep it just in case. .”

“When was the last time you had that outfit on?” bellows Hubby and I have to remember that it was four years ago and though it is lovely and still very much in style and in perfect condition, I’ve not worn it because: a. the buttons gapped in the front when I sat down; b. it requires panty hose; c. the skirt only looks good with high heels (NOT on these feet!); d. the waist required a belt which pinched; and e. it looked best with a blazer and that was just way too many pieces of clothing for me to feel comfortable in.

I still may have Fibber McGee’s closet (for you old folks out there) but I no longer have the excess of Oprah who is allowed to wear something only once in public. School starts in just a week and my happy pants, which I can now easily find, are ready for new year of comfort and ease.

The Bee's Knees or Update on Hubby's Condition

Friends have been asking how Hubby’s knees are doing. His knees are exactly the same today as they were on Sunday.

We knew going in that the first shots would show little to no results. After the second set of shots we might see some improvement – or maybe not.

It could take up to 12 weeks before we know if Hubby will be more agile and in less pain but we are only looking at a 50% "shot" at improvement.

However Hubby is the eternal optimist. He believes the shots will help. He really wants them to work so he can avoid total knee replacement on both knees. Maybe that will raise his percentage a bit.

Above is a picture of Hubby's much stronger legs taken about eight years ago -- and as you can see even then the knees were not bending very well. In this picture our boy Fritzy is only two years old -- he's ten now and a senior citizen. All of us are slowing down, it seems. And yes, Hubby is carrying a purse -- he's never had gender identification issues.