November 16, 2017 – Humility & self-esteem

        I’ve touched on this subject before in this blog and the phrase “humility” has always been a tripping stone for me. What is it?  What isn’t it? I’ve given examples where I was accused of not being humble and my poor reaction to it.

        This last week in The Daily Courier newspaper, a local column writer, Terry Ledford, wrote an article entitled:  Can humility improve self-esteem? You can find him at www.Terryledford.com for other items of interest.

       

        He makes the claim:

        “It seems to be a bit confusing to say that you can improve your self-esteem by practicing humility . . .”

        He opens the article with a C. S. Lewis quote:

        True Humility is not thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less.

        Okay, he has my full attention.

        Then he discusses Dr. Dickerson’s book, Humilitas. [Note to self, get that book and read it.]

        Now the fog is lifting for me.  Ledford illuminates the differences between humility and bragging and self-elevation of today.

        Next Ledford makes a compelling statement, “true humility is a deliberate choice”.

        Ledford also elaborates on one being put-down or humiliated.   I had always wrongly confused humiliation with humility somehow.

        Then he tells us, “One needs to have a healthy self-esteem to be able to voluntarily humble him or herself.”  That was the zinger for me as I had been told years ago I have a healthy self-esteem by a woman psychologist.  In fact, she was fascinated by how much self-esteem I had because I was a size 24 or 26 at the time.  Often women of that size have serious issues with self-esteem and she asked dozens of questions about my parents.  She concluded, they’d done a fine job raising me – she just couldn’t pin point what they exactly had done, but they’d found the right parenting method in order that I had great self-esteem in my early 40s in the middle of looking for employment as I was in a dead-end job and not a perfect dress size.  She concluded that I was at that moment miserable, but I had great self-esteem – something I shouldn’t take for granted.

        I often think of her conclusion when I am having an exceptionally off or ‘bad day’.  It is sort of my “bounce back” escape valve. Sort of a mental voice that chimes in and says, “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps – you know you can do better than this – you are not a victim.”

        However, back to humility and self-esteem; Ledford says it so succinctly I must quote him verbatim:

“When you practice deliberate humility, you recognize that you have value, ability or knowledge, but you refrain from flaunting it.  You listen earnestly to the other individual, recognizing that you can learn from everyone.  You treat the other person with honor, respect and kindness.

“I believe that you walk away from such interactions feeling better about yourself, and that your self-esteem grows.  It’s not that you walk away proud of your actions.  Rather, I believe you lose any sense of yourself, as you serve others.

        Okay, I’ll try to listen more and nix the flaunt so that I can put humility into action to feed my self-esteem. 

       

        In essence, losing some of your-self in a good way is humility.   I’ll be pondering on that while I locate a copy of Dr. Dickson’s book to go into this further.

        If I can crack the DNA of this “humility” thing – then I think I can next muster figuring out “diplomacy” the greatest attribute my Mom, who recently passed away, had. More on Mom’s diplomacy style in the near future.

        

November 15, 2017  -  That pesky travel half-ounce rule      

       As many of you realize I drove up to Massachusetts the first week of October and worked on getting my Mom’s house cleaned up and ready to be put on the market.  The biggest thing about traveling by car – you can open the trunk and toss in any darn thing you want. Work clothes, work shoes, good clothes, good shoes, extra purse, your favorite bed pillow, etc. 

You are not limited to one carry-on bag and are not “OUCHED” by the cost of paying for each checked bag on an airline. If you have a hankering, you can take full size bottles of shampoo and conditioner and live in luxury while you are away – slippers, cuddly robe.  You get the picture.  Another thing I do when I travel by car is pack a picnic lunch for that day and snacks into the next.  And, you can take a bottle of wine so that you can relax after two days of hard work, making the pain go away.

       So, I said goodbye to Mom on October 13^th and drove home. Unexpectantly, Mom died on October 19^th and this time I would be returning for the funeral by air.

       I was in the process of planning the funeral from North Carolina that was to be held in Massachusetts when I informed my husband I made airline flights and said, “They aren’t cheap.”

       Since the notification of Mom’s death, he had been walking on egg shells not certain how I was going to react. And, not sure what to say, he had been very quiet.   I know I can sometimes turn into a “rattlesnake” at a blink of an eye so he was being smart and staying distant and quiet.

From my desk, I called to him about some minor thing and he didn’t answer.  I got up to check on him and noticed his jeep gone.  I wondered where he went – he usually tells me he is going and even asks me if I need anything.  I guess he is giving me SPACE.

       Later my darling husband returns and plunks a shopping bag from Belk department store announcing,

       “You’ll need this for your trip.”

       I opened it and was rather surprised to find a four-ounce bottle of perfume – not my usual scent, but something new, and expensive.

       “Thank you dear, but the airlines have a rule now  - you can’t take more than a half-ounce.  They’d confiscate this.”

       He looked at me perplexed.  He was unaware of this rule as he hasn’t flown in many, many years.

       “Then, I’ll take it back.”  He said – miffed.

       “Oh, NO, I’ll take my dribs and drabs and save this for later.” I snatched the perfume back from him.

       “What do you mean you can’t take it?”    He demanded to know.

       I had to explain to the dear that it had been so long since he had flown by air what the rules were – the luggage weight, the clear plastic bags of cosmetics, the Rules that are driving all air travel customers crazy.

       He’s never experienced the taking off of the belt and the shoes, etc. I am sure he would not handle the “pat down” after the 3 seconds scan either.

       “I wanted you to smell nice.”  Was his final comment once I got through to him the message about the half-ounce rule.

       Later, I had to vent to someone about this hiccup in my relationship and called a girlfriend and she reminded me that she’d been bitched at by the airline for too large of a toothpaste tube and the airline had confiscated it.    We laughed.

She said,  “It was a half tube of toothpaste – half used and they grabbed it.”

We laughed again.   

       Needing more reassurance and emotional petting, I called another girlfriend about the little miff over the four-ounce bottle of perfume and explained my husband just wasn’t aware of the Rules.

       She had a different slant on it and said, 

“He doesn’t know what to say to you about your Mom dying. The only language he knows is perfume.”

                

       

November 14, 2017 - The absent gardener

        The roads were familiar still, as they are to someone born and raised in a small hometown that has been away for decades with only the occasional visit home.

        I slowly eased my old Lincoln between the stone walls flanking the driveway and parked.

        Bordering the length of the stone walls were lush, green ferns with a touch of yellow and brown.  The fronds danced in the soft breeze of the golden autumn sun.  They were still lovely if you mentally erased the weeds peeking out here and there.   

        I calculated the gardener had been absent over seven years now as I stepped out onto the drive. I noticed mowed weeds and grass instead of crunchy gravel. Exactly as Daphne Du Maurier’s had once written:

“Nature had come into her own again and little by little had encroached upon the drive with long tenacious fingers.”

        My heart sank as I took a sweeping glance at my parents' home.  Gosh, it looked like an abandoned house, not the loving nurturing place of my childhood.

        I walked up the front walk now grown over with weeds from the gardens on one side and the lawn from the other.  I paused.  Oh, yes, my brother had mowed the lawn. In his rushed life, he had at least been able to attend to that at the same time attending to full-time care of our aging mother, but the rest, had been left to Nature.

I paused at the re-grown Rhododendron that Dad had cut to the ground.  The plant had disobeyed and was now chest high and looked perfect at the corner of the front walk.

        I stepped out onto the spongy lawn skirting the velvet-moss covered walk that edged the focal point of Dad’s front garden.  The raised brick garden under the bay window was a mass of weeds and I could identify a few hangers-on.   Dutchman’s breeches here and there and the grey-green, soft leaves of the Rose Campion had escaped the garden and infiltrated the lawn.

        I walked towards the front step garden where now, unknown perennial plants had succumbed to weeds that clambered, and sprawled out past the dislodged drain spout.

        With the warm sun on my back, I turned and walked silently around the house. I noticed what I believed to be woodpecker hole damage to the upper eave on the end of the house and I walked to the back yard to see the rest of what was once a beautiful landscape now in ruins.

        The stunning blooms of the hydrangeas in their full fall glory surrounded the rotted steps and broken boards of the summerhouse platform.  I moved away and continued to the back entrance stone steps that were overgrown and now too dangerous to attempt. I stepped back on the lawn surveying the bed of Dad’s Bleeding Hearts and red Peonies.   Only the dried leaves and stems remained as testament of his vigorous plants.

        This was not really an abandoned house, as it looked to all passersby.  This was merely the result of an absent gardener.

I’ll take care of it now, Dad.

NOTE:  Pictures taken from the internet.  I didn't have the stamina to take pictures of Dad's gardens in disarray.

This essay is the result of a recent trip to my parents' home and this months Writer's Club Prompt:  Abandoned building or Abandoned house.

November 13, 2007 – Christmas Catalogs arriving by the basketful!

        The Christmas shopping catalogs are arriving daily and I can hardly keep up with them.

        In the upper right hand corner of one woman’s clothing catalog it announced:

“Live the good life, love what you wear.”

        I paused.  Yes, when you love what you are wearing, life seems to be much better, doesn’t it.  They have some excellent people on their staff to lead with a line like that.  Yes, I flipped through the entire catalog and then tossed it. The clothes were obviously not for my life, but it is a great quote.

        The next catalog, a baker supply catalog, I saved for the next morning with my coffee so that I could peruse it undisturbed.  They always have a few recipes tucked in between the merchandise and I check for those first.  Then I look at the pictures of the scrumptious food next, then my third flip through – yes, third flip through – I scrutinize what I don’t own and consider if I have a need for it.

[I lusted after a snowflake shortbread pan for almost 20 years before I finally decided to buy it. I had to rationalize the high price at the time with the theory that I should have bought it the first year instead of agonizing over the high price on the 20^th year. I grimaced and bought it and it now costs considerably more!]

        Just the other day a friend said when she moved that she had tossed out some of her kitchen housewares because she was moving and downsizing. Now, she laments what she did and is having to invest all over again in things she needs for her up-coming, large family Thanksgiving dinner.  The same thing happened to me.  I haven’t had the need of my demitasse coffee set for years and I put it in a church rummage sale and now I intend on serving Tiramisu for dessert at Thanksgiving and I had to quickly jump on line and order a new demitasse set.  Thankfully, I didn’t throw out my silver demitasse spoons!

        So, with pen in hand . . . [I love to read catalogs with a pen in hand so that I can circle things – must be the frustrated wanting to be a teacher in me, but I went another direction.  I love to take the red pen to my own essays and I love to circle things in magazines and catalogs – not sure what psychosomatic tendency that alludes to – but I have it – big time.] . . . where was I, yeah, pen in hand, I got a fresh cup of coffee and settled down to half listening to the morning news – hardly anything changes from day to day - I flipped to the first page.

        Bench Knife  -  $24.95.  I gasped.  It is the same exact bench knife that I have had for at least 30 years – possibly more.  Mine is still in good condition and I reach for it often.  It has its very own special place so I know where to grab for it when I need it. But, $24.95, I pity the new bride learning to cook, she might by-pass one of the most useful tools in cooking because of the price tag. 

So, I idly started through the catalog circling things I own.  In a matter of six pages, my mental tally was over $250 and that was for about 7 items and would never cover the replacement cost of what it takes to make Christmas cookies.  When you take into account the mixing bowls, cookie cutters, cookie sheets, cooling racks, rolling mat, rolling pin, cookie batter scoop, shortbread pan, measuring spoons, and measuring cups . . . GOSH it made me sit back and reflect.

I tossed the catalog into the recycle bin after I cut out one recipe.

So, when someone tells you, “Your cookies taste like a million dollars,” smile and nod and smugly think about the underlying cost it took to produce them which includes your expertise, time, equipment, and ingredients; then compare that to the taste you’ve received and mentally calculate the value given to the church for their fund raiser.  

November 11, 2017 – This year’s experiment – Belgian Endive

        Belgian endive (Cichorium intrybus) sometimes called witloof or French endive is actually a type of chicory.

        This year – being really retired – I decided to experiment.  I have always been fascinated about the forcing of Belgian Endive.  Horticulture’s Step-by-Step article in the December 1990 issue found its way into my Gardening scrapbook.

      Last winter I was aghast at the price of the ‘chicons’ being sold in the market and they looked old and picked over.  That got me to thinking and researching Belgian Endive.   Sure, takes a bit of trouble to grow step one and then on to step two – but isn’t anything worth having worth a bit of trouble?  I was up for the challenge.

        I purchased Totem organic Chicory Seed from Johnny’s seed [Their product No 2320G.]  Complete cultural and forcing instructions are included with the seeds.  In the spring you plant the seeds and raise them in rows where they are 5 to 6 inches on center.  I started mine in seed blocks – so I ended up with more “forked” roots than normal.  Next year I will start them in plug type trays without the compaction of the soil in seed blocks – if this experiment is successful, that is.

      They were big fluffy green leaved plants much like the look of an overgrown Romaine lettuce.  With that abundance of leaves, I was expecting the roots to be much larger – but I wasn’t completely disappointed when I dug them up this fall.   It was late September when I dug them up cautiously – not injuring the roots. I started with 32 plants and ended up with about 26 roots worth keeping.

     I cut the tops back to 1 inch from the crown and laid them at my feet sizing them in the shade.  They ranged from a few larger than the diameter of a quarter to those the diameter of a nickle.  Anything smaller than that I tossed on the compost pile.  I let them rest in the shade a day or so then brushed the soil off more and packed them up into bundles of 6 to 8 roots in loose plastic and placed them in the crisper tray of my spare refrigerator.  They have now passed the 6 to 10 week mark.

        I pulled out 8 roots – three of the big ones and 4 of the small ones and one of the large forked one.  I had saved some wonderful “Monrovia” brand pots that are about 7 inches tall.  They are two quart sized pots and sturdy.

        I mixed equal parts sand with unused potting soil and potted them up.  I filled the pot ½ full of this mixture, then pressed the roots into the soil and continued to fill the pot.  Of course, I didn’t cut my roots short – like the instructions said – they were longer and I created sleeves/collars around the inside of the pots with three overlapping paper plates shoved down into the soil. I continued to fill the pots and collars until they were just about at the crown top.  Then I watered them in and placed two pots in a 15 inch tall black waste basket – the office type you can find at Staples or Office Depot. [Recycled from my closed title company.]

        I parked the endive filled wastebasket in the master closet on the north end of the house, popped an opaque plastic cover on the top for darkness. And, to give them fresh air every day – I will stroll into the closet and pop the top off – in the dark and brush my teeth – then when done – I will pop the top back on.  It is cool in that closet and we keep the light out – so I’ve the cool and dark, just need to tweak the fresh air and humidity bit. But, I once grew button mushrooms and was successful without a lot of fuss and I think these will be similar. [Especially when I surf the internet and see pictures of many European houses growing them under the kitchen counter in a galvanized bucket.]  I am not “over-thinking” this project.

http://www.johnnyseeds.com/growers-library/vegetables/belgian-endive-production.html

        Above is the link to Johnny’s horticultural instructions if this interests you.

        So, in 21-29 days I am hopeful that I will be harvesting chicons.  In 14 days, I will put down the second run of two pots and hopefully I will have a continuous crop for a few of these upcoming winter months.

November 9, 2017 – “Eat your crusts!”

        At church last night, I meet a gal that has been through cancer and is looking much better.   She no longer has the scarf covering her head as she now has almost a two-inch long growth of white hair and it is becoming on her.

        She asked, “I heard. How are you doing?”

        As I sat beside her, I pressed a smile and said softly, “I’m okay.”

        Her snappy come back was, “What’s the point of complaining about it, no one will listen.”

        It made me smile.  Her typical New York attitude lightened the mood.                          

        Just then, another church member, a retired nurse, came up behind the woman and started to fluff her new hair.  I listened as they chatted.

        “It is coming in curly.”   The surviving cancer patient said.

        Before I knew what was coming out of my mouth I said,

        “When I was a kid my Mom used to tell me ‘Eat your crusts or you won’t get curly hair.’ ”

        I continued, “The bratty kid I was then I’d always say, ‘I don’t want curly hair.'  I used to eat just the center out of the toast where the butter was and leave the rest.”

        Half a dozen women’s eyes were on me at that moment and there was apprehension on their faces watching how I was going to handle this sudden memory of my Mom.

        “It is coming in curly – you must be eating your crusts.”  I said.  

        “You were never a bratty kid,” the survivor replied.

        “Oh, yes I was . . .”  I trailed off. Looking around at the faces with the apprehension – what, were they expecting me to crumble and fall on the floor and wail and gnash my teeth and cry my guts out?   Everyone, why the look?  Aren’t I allowed my memories, uncensored?

* * * * *

        That was last night – it is now morning and I remembered what Mom said to me the day after I flew home for Dad’s funeral back in 2010.  Mom and I were finally alone as we were driving back from the finalization of his funeral arrangements.

        “He is everywhere.”  Mom said brightly.  She had reached out and was fingered something of Dad’s in the console tray between us in the car as I drove.  I knew what she meant.  Mom didn’t drive then, we were using Dad’s car.

        When we got back to the house, I hesitated before I sat in ‘his chair’, but then I settled in and enjoyed it knowing he had always sat there.

        Now, just looking around my computer desk, my Mom is visibly here with me as she always has been and always will be.  There is the overly ornate letter opener and magnifying glass I’d sent to her one Christmas with a little note. “Mom, if they don’t suit you, please send them back to me – don’t give them away.”

        They came back to me the next February with a little note saying, “You must have gotten these at that fancy jewelry store you took me to once.”

        I may have lived hundreds of miles away from Mom, but we were always together – we knew each other. She knew where I shopped as I had taken her around and introduced her to all the shopkeepers I trade with when she visited.

Mom did have curly hair – not the frizz type – but the plump curl type.  Over the years, she had love affairs and hate affairs with multiple hairdressers.  Some knew how to cut her hair and let the natural wavy curls be the focal point and then others wacked them off giving her desperate uncontrollable wisps.

My hair has just enough bounce and body without the misplaced curls or cowlicks. When I want curls, I use the hot rollers.

“Hey Mom, if I start eating my crusts do you think I’ll get curly hair now?”

       

       

November 1, 2017 – Prize Patrol notification  

        Normally I toss out every one of the Publishers Clearing House notifications.  However, the manila envelope of this one caught my attention as the postmark has a face front eagle against a waving flag background.  Of course, it was in black ink and is a presorted reduced rate postmark.  Enough said about that.  I often pause and admire good artwork – wherever it may show up.

        Every time I see a TV commercial for Publisher’s Clearing House where you see the thrilled winners I question out loud,

        “Where does the money come from?  Magazine subscriptions can’t generate that kind of money on a continuous basis – this has to be phony-baloney.”

        The letter was a one-page letter with no stickers to keep to verify a winning number or magazines to buy.  But, I must share it with you because it is the most amusing, no outrageous, advertising spin I have encountered to date.

        “. .. it is policy . . . not to provide any advance notice to our winners . . . .our commercials have featured the authentic moment when the Prize Patrol surprises winners for over 25 years.”

        Okay, they caught my naïve attention.

        “. . . however, this policy often leads to less than ideal circumstances . . . .  recent winner notifications have not lived up to our expectations. . . . some winners were overwhelmed . . . and were speechless.”

        I bold this next part for you:  “I hope you can understand that these types of reactions are not ideal for our TV commercials.”

        WHAT?  The next paragraph . . .   “In the event you are selected the winner, will you be fully prepared to give a “TV-worthy” winner reaction for the cameras?”

        OH MY . . . I am chuckling now.

        This reminded me of a scene out of Casablanca when the Germans were rolling in to Paris and Rick and Ilsa [Bogart and Bergman are the actors] and at a small café in the Montmartre. A shadow on the floor reflects the café sign “La Belle Aurore.” [In my opinion, one of the most outstanding visuals of all cinema.]    I apologize for the length of this insert – but do try to enjoy it.

CUT TO: 

INTERIOR of LA BELLE AURORE - AFTERNOON

A small cafe in the Montmartre. A shadow on the floor reflects
the cafe sign "La Belle Aurore."

Rick, at the bar, gets glasses and a bottle of champagne.

He walks over to Ilsa and Sam at the piano.

Sam plays "As Time Goes By."

Ilsa seems unnerved. There is evidently something on her
mind.

Rick pours the champagne. His manner is wry, but not the
bitter wryness we have seen in Casablanca.

RICK
Henri wants us to finish this bottle
and then three more. He says he'll
water his garden with champagne before
he'll let the Germans drink any of
it.

Sam looks at his glass.

SAM
This sort of takes the sting out of
being occupied, doesn't it, Mr.
Richard?

RICK
You said it!
(to Ilsa)
Here's looking at you, kid.

Suddenly a loudspeaker BLARES out something in German. Rick
and Ilsa look at each other, then hurry to the window.

RICK
My German's a little rusty.

ILSA
It's the Gestapo. They say they expect
to be in Paris tomorrow.

They are telling us how to act when they come marching in.

She smiles faintly.

ILSA
With the whole world crumbling, we
pick this time to fall in love.

RICK
Yeah. It's pretty bad timing. Where
were you, say, ten years ago?

ILSA
Ten years ago? Let's see...
(pause as she thinks
a bit)
...Yes. I was having a brace put on
my teeth. Where were you?

RICK
Looking for a job.

Ilsa looks at him tenderly. Rick takes her in his arms, and
kisses her hungrily. While they are locked in an embrace
they hear the dull BOOM of cannons.

ILSA
(frightened)
Was that cannon fire, or is it my
heart pounding?

RICK
(grimly)
Ah, that's the new German 77. And
judging by the sound, only about
thirty-five miles away.

Another BOOM from the cannons.

RICK
And getting closer every minute.
Here. Drink up. We'll never finish
the other three.

SAM
The Germans will be here pretty soon
now, and they'll come looking for
you. And don't forget there's a price
on your head.

Ilsa reacts to this worriedly.

RICK
I left a note in my apartment. They'll
know where to find me.

Ilsa looks at Rick.

ILSA
Strange. I know so very little about
you.

RICK
I know very little about you, just
the fact that you had your teeth
straightened.

He chuckles.

ILSA
But be serious, darling. You are in
danger and you must leave Paris.

RICK
No, no, no, no. We must leave.

ILSA
(seriously)
Yes, of course, we --

RICK
-- The train for Marseilles leaves
at five o'clock. I'll pick you up at
your hotel at four-thirty.

ILSA
(quickly)
No, no. Not at my hotel. I, uh, I
have things to do in the city before
I leave. I'll meet you at the station,
huh?

RICK
All right. At a quarter to five.
(a thought strikes
him)
Say, why don't we get married in
Marseilles?

Rick chuckles again.

ILSA
(evasively)
That's too far ahead to plan.

RICK
Yes, I guess it is a little too far
ahead. Well, let's see. What about
the engineer? Why can't he marry us
on the train?

ILSA
Oh, darling!

Suddenly Ilsa turns away and starts to cry.

RICK
Well, why not? The captain on a ship
can. It doesn't seem fair that...
Hey, hey, what's wrong, kid?

ILSA
I love you so much, and I hate this
war so much. Oh, it's a crazy world.
Anything can happen. If you shouldn't
get away, I mean, if, if something
should keep us apart, wherever they
put you and wherever I'll be, I want
you to know...

She can't go on. She lifts her face to his. He kisses her
gently.

ILSA
Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the
last time.

He looks into her eyes, then he does kiss her as though it
were going to be the last time.

Her hand falls to the table and knocks over a glass.

CUT TO:

        Sorry, I do give you too much Casablanca information – but that scene – the entire scene is so poignant; from the reflection of the café name on the floor in shadows to the ending of the knocked over glass on the table.  It is the meat and potatoes of the movie – Casablanca.

The line I was going for was:

They are telling us how to act when they come marching in.

         

        Now that the line has sunk in – let me refer back to the letter.

        November 1-2, I should receive a letter indicating I am eligible for this prize; December 20, the winner is selected and the prize patrol will start to make plans for their surprise visit. [Should be simple they can find me on GPS. I don’t actually live in no-wheres-ville; I only say that when I can’t find what I want in a local store.] THEN, on December 22, the prize patrol will knock on the winner’s door.

        “Should you be the winner, Dave Sayer will announce [you] as the winner of our “Turn Back Time” Prize: win-for-life payments for the past 10 years - - that’s $2.6 million at once plus $5,000 a week for Life.”

        “I hope that providing you with the above schedule . . . you can start to imagine how you would react if the prize patrol knocked on your door – would you give us the terrific winning  moment we’d be looking for?” [Bold enhanced by Moi.]

        You bet your very last magazine I could knock them dead with my over the top surprise and gush, scream, cry and even twirling dance around – which as my close friends know is not my real nature. But, hey, $2.6 million – I could turn into the best 30 seconds ever recorded for Publishers Clearing House.

        Now that I know I may have VIP visitors with a bag full of loot out on my front step with cameras rolling  . . . I will be doing ‘over-the-top’ decorating of my front door.

        This year I will make that huge greenery design on the front steps.  And, I will mark my calendar so that I get up extra early on December 22 – a Friday – and do my hair and makeup and get into some nice clothes – instead of flopping around in my pajamas and slippers cleaning the house until mid-morning.

        I need to start practicing my lines . . . how about:

        “Oh, how wonderful, with this unexpected winning I can now start that Fat woman’s pantyhose company and put all the fat women, including myself, to work here in this county that need jobs.  FAT WOMEN WILL RISE UP AND BE SUCCESSFUL ONCE THEY START WEARING MY FAT-WOMAN PANTYHOSE THAT ACTUALLY FITS THEM.  WITH MY HELP, FAT WOMEN WILL NO LONGER HAVE TO HIDE IN PANTS. THEY CAN AGAIN WEAR FEMININE DRESSES AND BE BEAUTIFUL AND FAT SHOWING THEIR SHAPELY LEGS.  THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!”