I may or may not have posted this on my old blog, I can’t remember. So if you’ve already read it, please excuse me. You may or may not enjoy it any more than you did the first time, or whatever. It’s just too hot here to really think about writing something from scratch…and I can’t think of anything amusing about scratch anyway…or the heat.

What’s in a name

Names are good. I like names. Without them we wouldn’t know when someone was talking to us, or for that matter, when they were talking about us. If everyone shared the same name, it would be impossible to spread a rumor about a person. We’d find ourselves on both sides of the gossip fence at the same time.

If we all had the same name, how would we comprehend the news reports? How would we know which politician was lying to us or having an affair or mismanaging our government funds…well, actually we could probably just close our eyes and pick one, but that’s not really the point I’m trying to make here.

What I’m trying to say is, names can often be confusing. Like the names of restaurants for example. Say you went out to dinner on Saturday evening to TGI Friday’s Restaurant. And suppose you ate a Sundae for dessert. You go back to work on Monday morning and your co-worker friend asks you about your weekend.

FRIEND: “Where did you have dinner Saturday?”
YOU: “Friday’s.”
FRIEND: “No, Saturday!”
YOU: “Yeah. Friday’s! You’ve gotta try their Sundaes.”
FRIEND: “Neener, neener, neeener. You’re stupid and I’m not talking to you any more!”

And the names of food. This can be confusing as well. You can have Kentucky Fried Chicken in New Jersey, A new York Strip Steak in Idaho, Philadelphia Cream Cheese in Texas, and a Chicago Style pizza in, of all places, Chicago.

I’m almost inclined to believe that the entire English language is messed up. You can drive through the bank window, but you can’t drive through a parked car. (unless you have loads of auto insurance and a good reason). You can stand for what you believe in and still remain seated, you can fall asleep while lying down, and you can lie while standing up.

Then there’s that thing with the escalator and elevator. Our dictionary tells us that the words: elevate and escalate mean “to rise, to go up, to ascend toward the top”. So, why do we still call them elevators and escalators when they’re going down? I’m sorry but that’s just wrong.

And what about that time when you needed to get your hair done, or when you needed to see a dentist or a doctor on short notice? The receptionist looked at you all hateful like and said, “I’m sorry we can’t accept walk ins.” Then you wondered if you should have crawled into the office, or perhaps slithered in on your belly like the earth worm she is making you feel like.

And who ever started referring to Pepsi and Coke products as ‘soft drinks’? I dropped a case of Mountain dew on my foot the other day and believe me there was nothing soft about it.

And what about all these eponymous diseases, like Lou Gehrig’s disease, Hartnup’s disease, Mortimer’s disease, all named for the patients who first got the disease. Or Addison’s disease named for Thomas Addison, the British physician who invented the light bulb…(no wait that was Thomas Edison) Anyway, I’m sure it was not a life long dream of these people to grow up and become a disease.

So, in the immortal words of Juliet, “A rose by any other name would probably be a weed,” or some such nonsense.

Here we are at the start of another work week. How many people do you know who love their jobs? I mean people who actually love to labor and who can’t wait until the weekend is over so they can go back to work? I don’t think anyone actually loves going to work — some just hate it a bit less than others.

Suppose someone were to conduct a poll and ask random strangers on the street the question: “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you rather be?”

How many of these people would say that they’d rather be at work? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say approximately none.

However, millions of us head out to work each morning, not because we like it, but because we need a payday at the end of the week. Most of us work anywhere from forty to sixty hours a week and what do we get come Friday? A piece of paper. Yes, we do all that for a piece of paper.

Of course these pieces of paper are worth more than, say, bits of copy paper, toilet paper or gum wrappers, because these papers have words like “pay to the order of” and “void after ninety days” and they also have numbers on them, which makes them more valuable. The more numbers they have, the more coveted they are.

Immediately after leaving work on payday, we head off to the bank where we give the teller our piece of paper. She gives us another piece of paper in return that has words like “receipt” and “deposit” on it. Oh, and it also has numbers.

We usually stop on our way home and pick up food and a few personal items for which we give the store clerk a piece of paper with numbers on it, from our own personal booklet of papers, or either a square plastic card with the word “debit” or “credit” on it. (Which also gives new meaning to the question: “paper or plastic?”).

We then return home where we take our little paper booklet and proceed to tear out little pages, write numbers on them and place them into envelopes addressed to places like, Central Telephone Services, United Electric Company, Credit Card People, etc. When we finish, we add up the total of all the numbers we have written and subtract the total from the amount on the piece of paper we received from our week’s work and discover that there aren’t any numbers left.

The following Monday morning we head back off to work where we begin the journey toward our next payday. We stumble through the maze of cubicles, much like trained mice, not really wanting to be here, but thankful that no one moved our cheese.

And in all this working and trading of papers and plastic cards, we rarely, if ever, see any real cash or coins, which makes me wonder…where has all the real money gone? Just between you and me, I think the government gave most of it away to the auto makers and to Wall Street.

The drug cartels, the mob, and the FBI have the rest of it hidden inside their briefcases.

A Few Simple Rules For Dealing With Women

Gentlemen I know your lives aren’t easy. I know we women are a pain to live with sometimes. Okay, most of the time. But life can be made a little easier for you if you follow a few simple rules. I’ve heard several of you grumbling about how you will never understand women, that you sometimes don’t know how to answer us when we ask you a question, and even that you have no way of knowing if the question we ask you is a trick question. Well, I would like to give you a few pointers that might help you understand how our minds work and how to avoid confrontation with the woman in your life.

I will break this down into sections so there will be no confusion. Feel free to take notes.

Actually women like to be told what to do; we just don’t like to be told what to do. So if there are things you “do” or “do not” want us to do you should always let us know by phrasing it in the form of a suggestion and not a command.

Here’s another thing. We like it when you’re stronger, smarter, louder, funnier, and better paid than we are. But we also want to be equal to you. We do not want to be treated any differently, unless of course it’s to open a door for us, move heavy objects or remove the lid from a jar of olives.

You also must realize that there are some things women go through which you may never understand – like PMS and menopause. However, you can become more enlightened about it if you take the time. In order to truly understand this strange phenomenon, you must first do the following experiment. Report back to this column when you have completed the following task:

(a) Drink at least six gallons of water. You must drink until you feel completely bloated and are unable to fasten the top button of your jeans.

(b) Do not eat anything for a period of three days during the experiment. However it is suggested that you drink lots of coffee so you will get that jittery feeling, like maybe if your nerve endings were hanging outside your body and being rattled by a strong breeze. You must feel very weak and dizzy as well. (this is the reason that no food is allowed.) After you have completed these tasks, answer the following question: “Do I still feel like dancing?” Perhaps the next time she tells you she doesn’t want to go out because she feels cranky, tired and bloated, you’ll understand and sympathize with her.

For your next experiment follow these instructions:
(a) You must first preheat your oven to about 400 degrees.

(b) Place your head and upper body inside the oven.

(c) After about one minute remove yourself from the oven and put your head and torso into the freezer.

(d) Do this at least every 30 minutes for the duration of the night.

Congratulations. You have just had your first “hot flash”. See? Wasn’t that fun? Now remember, you must do this at least once or twice each week for at least a year, maybe longer. By understanding the concept, you will be able to comment intelligently the next time she complains of a hot flash. Maybe with something like, “Girl, I know exactly what you mean. I didn’t sleep a wink the other night.”

Always tell her she’s beautiful, even if you have to lay your tongue on the alter on Sunday and repent for being a little less than truthful…. Okay, for lying through your teeth. Women need to hear this. We know you don’t really mean it, but hey, why would we argue with you if you tell us we’re beautiful?

Pretend to like our cooking, even though you may have to grind your teeth to keep from gagging up a hairball. And never ever under any circumstance tell us how your mother made it. Because, well frankly we don’t care.

And finally, for the love of God, please remember to replace the gas in our car if you run the tank dry. We’re always in a hurry when we leave the house and we have a habit of not checking the gas gage.

You don’t want us to run out of gas and get angry with you. Chances are we could be feeling cranky, tired, bloated and having a hot flash when that happens and you would not be pleased when we finally get home.

Fourscore and several years ago Sir Issac Newton sat daydreaming beneath an apple tree. I suppose he was dreaming of his girlfriend Apple Betty. Not because she was beautiful, or because he was smitten with her, but because she made the most delicious apple pie in the world. In fact, the first time Sir Issac tasted her pie, his chair tipped over and flung him flat on his back onto the floor. The apple pie landed upside down on his face. This was what inspired the idea for the Apple Turnover.

Anyway, as Sir Issac Newton sat dreaming, a huge apple fell from the tree and bonked him on top of his head, thereby proving to him that the earth is full of gravity, and instilling in Sir Issac Newton a sudden craving for figs. This led to the discovery of gravity and also the birth of the yummy Fig Newton that we all love to eat to this day. After the apple hit Newton, he jumped to his feet and shouted “Eureka!” which is Greek for “owww, that’s gonna be sore in the morning”.

At that same moment Chicken Little was passing by and because he didn’t speak Greek, he thought Sir Issac Newton had said “The sky is falling”. So he began running around shouting that the sky was falling.

Meanwhile over in Switzerland, there was a young boy and a man named William Tell who was the boy’s father and an excellent marksman with a crossbow. Anyway, William Tell heard Chicken Little yelling about the sky falling and he was looking up toward the heavens as he and his son rode through the village of Altdorf. Unbeknownst to William Tell, the emperor Hermann Gessler had placed a hat on a pole in the village square and had demanded that everyone in the village bow to the hat as they passed by. Due to his intense perusal of the soon to be falling sky, William Tell rode right on past the hat with his head in the air and didn’t bow even once.

Now this made the emperor very angry. He demanded that the man and his son be brought before him for punishment. All the king’s horses and all the kings men chased after William Tell and his son, caught up to them and dragged them back to stand in front of the emperor Hermann Gessler. The emperor was livid and he sentenced William Tell to hang by the neck from an apple tree. However, Tell told the emperor what an excellent archer he was so the emperor told him he wouldn’t be hanged from the apple tree if he could shoot an apple off his son’s head. (William’s son, not the emperor’s son.)

So William Tell told his son, Young Tell, the tale that the emperor had told him and he told Young Tell not to tell Mrs. Tell that he had to shoot an apple off young Tell’s head. But Young Tell, being a tattle tail went ahead and told his mother Mrs. Tell what his father William Tell had told him not to tell Mrs. Tell.

Of course Mrs. Tell forbade her husband to shoot at their son, especially with a deadly weapon like the crossbow, but like most men William Tell didn’t listen. And so he placed an apple on his son’s head and shot it, and the arrow split the apple in half which later led to the delicious ice cream treat called a “banana split, which is made from bananas instead of apples.

And so ends this segment of Twisted History.

I’ve always found that fact is so much more fascinating than fiction, and it was for this reason that I always slept through History Class. And in case my History teachers are reading this column, I hope they check their mailboxes because I’m sending them each a big shiny red apple. And yes, I polished each one of the apples myself.

I learned to be an apple polisher while sleeping through Civics Class.

===

On legs that are unsteady, faltering, I shoulder my way across the crowded room.

The air is thick with the scent of flowers, perfumed bodies and that unique yet indefinable smell one always associates with this place.

I draw a deep breath, feeling as though I will suffocate. My hands shake as I try to ignore the whispered remarks that ripple through the crowd.

“Who is SHE? What is she doing here? She is his daughter you know.”

His Daughter! The phrase echoes through my brain with an empty hollow sound, like that of a tin can rolling down a deserted alley. I try to swallow around the tears crowding my throat.

I came here tonight seeking answers to questions I have carried around inside me forever — questions to which I know there are no answers, yet I keep asking them anyway.

Where were you all those years ago, throughout all the skinned knees, scraped elbows, all the broken promises and all the Christmases that never came?

Where were you when I needed a strong male shoulder to cry on after my heart had been broken by a boy that first time?

Where were you on my wedding day when there was no father to give the bride away? You had already given me away the day I was born.

Why did you go away? Was I lacking in some way, unworthy of a father’s love?

I recall the year I was six. For our last Art project of the year, our class chose to make special greeting cards to give to our dads for Father’s Day. I remember copying from the girl sitting next to me. I had no idea of what to write on the card nor how to illustrate it, for you see, I had no knowledge of the role a father plays in a little girl’s life. I was ashamed to tell anyone that I had no father to give the card to, so I brought it home to Mama. I was reluctant to throw it away because I still waited secretly for the day you would return.

Throughout my childhood, I never grew tired of hearing the story of the handsome stranger who swept the beautiful lady off her feet, gave her a year of happiness and a little girl, before he disappeared, taking her heart with him and leaving her and the child all alone.

I longed to meet the handsome stranger in the story. I often dreamed you would return and the story would end like a fairy tale. And the handsome stranger, the beautiful lady and the little girl would live happily ever after.

But little girls grow up, fairy tales fade away and dreams have a way of wearing thin when pitted against reality.

Many times I wished you dead. Better that you had died than to have left us of your own free will, by some choice that you alone made, never giving a thought to the child you left behind.

Did you never long to know me as I longed to know you? Did you never wonder what I would grow up to become?

Perhaps we were more alike than either of us knew. Perhaps we were each waiting for the other to make the first move, both of us fearful of being rejected.

Even without your ever knowing me you have taught me many things. Things such as how to stand on my own two feet, because you were never there for me to lean on. I also learned through the years to accept whatever life hands me and to make the best of it, since you weren’t there to help sooth away my disappointments. Your absence in my life has also taught me how to be a better parent to my own children, how to be there for them whenever they need me.

Now tonight as I stand here I see a stranger’s face. A stranger surrounded by white satin, his head resting on a silken pillow. You lie there with hands folded and eyes shuttered, as though in sleep. I wonder who you really are, other than a name on my birth certificate. I am filled with guilt because I cannot truly grieve for your passing. I feel only regret for never having known you. I feel a deep sadness, for I know now, I never will.

From my pocket I remove a piece of worn, yellowed paper, folded in the shape of a greeting card. The edges are tattered and the paper is brittle with age. The crayon drawing has faded through time, but I can still make out the shape of a man holding the hand of a little girl. The childish scrawl across the top is almost illegible, but I know what I wrote there all those years ago. Ever so gently, I place the card by your side.

I came here tonight seeking answers and I have found peace at last. Perhaps we both have; you in your eternal slumber and I in the realization that it wasn’t my unworthiness that made you go away. It was your fear of love, of commitment, of the sometimes choking ties that are all a part of being a parent.

I bear you no malice. I no longer carry any bitterness in my heart, for I have come to realize that happiness and bitterness cannot exist within the same realm. My one regret is that this understanding came too late for us. Before they close the coffin, I lean down and kiss your cheek softly — for the first time — and the last time.

Goodbye Daddy. Rest in Peace.

I ran into the living room one evening and switched on the TV just as the evening news was about to be broadcast. I was terrified that I might be among the headline news of the day. You see, there was this little incident earlier that day involving me, my dog, a pickup truck, Wayne, and a pair of pajamas.

It isn’t safe to go outside anymore since cellphone cameras are so prevalent. I’ve seen the photos of Brittany spears looking bedraggled and not wearing any underwear. I’ve seen several unflattering shots of Paris Hilton (although most of them were done by professional photographers in a studio while she was posing for them). I even saw a video of Saddam Hussein being hanged –  which was supposedly captured by a cell phone. Our most embarrassing moments can be immortalized without our knowledge.

Okay, let me explain. I was working in my office at home — a job which allows me to get out of bed, grab my coffee and go to work without getting dressed. Anyway, I was minding my own business — well actually, I was minding someone else’s business as I was writing a feature article for the newspaper. Anyway, Wayne came in and informed me that he was taking Shadow, our Lab, for a drive to the store with him.

That was fine with me until he returned thirty minutes later and told me that Shadow had slipped his collar and run away.

Now I don’t know about you, but to me, this is horrifying news. Don’t ever use the words ‘dog’ and ‘ran away’ in the same sentence when talking to me.

I jumped out of my chair and into the pickup truck faster than Wayne could say, ” I’m sorry.” We drove around the neighborhood calling for him, but he was nowhere to be found, so we drove down the interstate. The cars whizzed by us like it was Bristol Motor Speedway on race day. I was almost in cardiac arrest, imagining Shadow attempting to cross the road like the proverbial chicken, when we spotted him along the river banks across a field on the right.

I dived from the truck and Wayne slowed down, then stopped. I called for him (the dog, not Wayne) and the little devil looked at me then turned and took off like a streak of black lightening. There I stood in the middle of a field, calling out for Shadow to “come here this minute, or you’re never getting anymore treats,” wearing my pajamas and a pair of house shoes, mascara smudges beneath my eyes and my hair in a fog.

I think I heard a cow and two horses laughing at me as Shadow and I played “I’ll-let-you-get-close-to-me-then-I’ll-run-away-again” which is a dog’s favorite game.

It reminded me of when my son was small and played this same game with me. No matter how tightly I held on to his hand, the kid would escape and do the thirty-yard dash anytime we were in a store, the mall, a crowded bus stop, and sometimes during church service. It always amazed me how his little legs could always outrun mine. It would scare me so badly my hair would stand on end until I caught up with him.

In fact, until he was around twelve years old folks thought I wore my hair like Rod Stewart’s because I wanted to. Now here I am over thirty years later doing the same dance with a dog. I guess history does repeat itself as our lives keep traveling in a circle. I’m just happy I wasn’t on the six o’clock news. I’m glad I’m not famous. The paparazzi would have had a field day with this one.

I finally caught Shadow after he had worn us both out to the point of collapse. I put him back inside the yard and closed the gate, informing him that he was grounded for the next five years. I gave him some doggie treats to make myself feel better after scolding him, then I went into the house and got all dressed up then went back to work at my desk.

Working in your pajamas is not such a great idea after all. My picture could still end up on the Internet. Dog gone it!

“A dog is man’s best friend because he wags his tail instead of his tongue.”

Oh yeah? Well, the camera adds five pounds!

Head over to Theme Thursday for more posts about the word “camera”

I know I’ve probably said this a million times before, but I think it bears repeating: “I have an almost perfect husband.”

However, if you’ll notice, the emphasis here is on the word “almost”. No one is completely perfect. We all know that. While Wayne can match his own socks, dress himself, cook a great meal, help with the housework, is always sweet and agreeable, never raises his voice at me, gets me anything I ask for, is always loyal and trustworthy, and never over-demanding of my attention, he is always — I mean nearly every day — doing something so totally stupid and senseless it amazes me.

(After reading over the previous paragraph, I just realized that my husband has all the traits that I love about my dogs).

But, as I said, he’s always doing dumb things. So, with that in mind, allow me to entertain or enlighten you to his latest blunder.

For the past several years Wayne has worn his hair really short and he trims it himself — with a set of barber clippers. Last night I heard the buzz of the clippers through the bathroom door, then I heard him laughing. He came out of the bathroom and I almost had a stroke when I saw what he was laughing at.

He was laughing so hard he couldn’t speak, he could only point to the side of his head. When I saw what he was pointing at I almost died. His head had a two inch bald swath all the way from his ear to the back of his head. One of his sideburns was completely gone. I was speechless. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

Finally I found my voice and shrieked at him. “Oh my God! What in heaven’s name have you done? What happened? Why did you do that?!”

He finally stopped laughing long enough to tell me what he’d done. This is the story I was finally able to piece together.

He needed to trim his hair and he noticed that the clippers weren’t cutting all that well and they probably needed oiling. So, he removed the guard and oiled the teeth part of the clippers. But he forgot to put the guard back on the teeth before he began trimming again and with that first streak he mowed his hair off down to the scalp.

There was nothing left to do but shave off the rest of it. Now he kinda looks like Mr. Clean…wearing a baseball cap.

He’s still adorable though. Plus we did have a good laugh. And when I rub the top of his head, it’s kind of like petting one of those English bull dogs.

Is white an actual color? Or is white the opposite of color?

Whenever I think of white I’m reminded of my childhood. This probably seems an odd vehicle to stir ones memories, but for some strange reason I’m reminded of my mama’s laundry hanging on the clothesline, back when I was a kid. She never used prints or colors for her linens — nothing but white would do for all her sheets and towels. My sisters and I always wore white socks and white underwear. Mama’s laundry was so white it was blinding. The only detergent she would use was Tide and Clorox. And I think she sometimes used something called “bluing” that made the whites whiter. Anyway, I can still see her laundry on the clothesline. It must have been the envy of all the other housewives in the neighborhood.

One of my fondest childhood memories is of tumbling into bed after a long fun-filled day, to snuggle down between the cool white sheets that smelled of sunshine and fresh air. I remember to this day the silly panic of a sudden rain shower whenever the wash was still hanging on the clothesline. I can still hear Mama yelling, “Kids, the rain’s on its way. Help me get the laundry in.” and we would all run toward the clothesline and begin grabbing at the clothespins and fabric, determined to rescue the laundry before the rain reached us.

We coud see the rain coming in sheets across the top of the mountain in the distance, smell it before it even got close — that wet, cool scent that is almost indescribable to anyone who hasn’t experienced a sudden rain shower on a hot sunny afternoon. We would all race toward the open door with an armload of laundry, giggling, and cheering. Then we would collapse on the porch and watch the rain shower which often lasted only a few minutes before the sun popped out again.

So, for me anyway, I suppose that white is less of a color and more of a memory. White is a happy place, a fun place. White is love, comfort, family, and good times. White is my mother’s laundry. White is home.

***

This week’s theme over at Theme Thursday is the word “white”. What can one say about white? The first thing that came to mind was the white blank background of the page as I tried to write this post. For a writer, this is a scary thing. This kind of white can cause a knot to form in the belly and brain of even the most seasoned writer if they allow it. The only thing to do was to get some words down on that white space as quickly as possible. Once that first paragraph is written, the rest is a little bit easier. Drop by the website at Theme Thursday and see what the other bloggers did with the word white.

If you’re planning to relocate to, say, East Meadow, NY, and you’re in the market for a house, there is a two-story ranch-style house available that the real estate listing refers to as a “handyman’s special”. “Handyman’s special”  probably being the code word for ” The Money Pit”.

However, what they aren’t advertising is the fact that this house comes with a special history. It is the former home of Serial Killer Joel Rifkin.

“The 34-year-old Rifkin was arrested in 1993 after he crashed his pickup truck into a utility pole and police found the remains of a 22-year-old woman in the back of his vehicle. Authorities later connected Rifkin to more than half a dozen homicides that occurred between 1989 and 1993.

In 1994, Rifkin was found guilty of committing nine murders and was sentenced to 203 years to life. He is incarcerated at Clinton Correctional Facility in Clinton County, N.Y.

According to TruTV’s Crime Library, while some of Rifkin’s victims were killed in his vehicle, others were slain and dismembered inside his East Meadow home.” [ ¹]

Rifkin’s mother, Jeanne Rifkin, recently passed away and now the home is for sale.

While one would assume that no one would be interested in buying a house with this much “history” according to AOL News, Jessika Gein and her husband Eric, owners of Serial Killers Ink, a leading “murderabilia” outlet says they would definitely buy the house. Jessika Gein says that the home is a part of true crime history much like the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast.

I’m sorry but I just can’t see myself sleeping like a baby in this house, not paying any attention to every little noise, and not imagining the screams of the women who were tortured and killed there — probably in the same bedroom where I’m sleeping.

That would be as horrifying as trying to sleep with a politician hiding under the bed.

Since New York is a buyer beware state, according to an attorney who practices real estate law in New York and New Jersey, there is no requirement under New York law to notify a home buyer of a murder, death or unpleasant act that occurred in the home.

The asking price for the house is $424,500. One would assume that any bodies buried under the floor boards come with the house at no extra charge.

This  puts a whole new slant on the term “a skeleton in the closet”.

Happy TGIF, everyone.

*

Have you ever wondered why your fingers get all wrinkled after they have been in water for a long period of time?  This condition is often referred to as water aging, or pruney fingers, not to be confused with the term bony fingers which is what you get from working your fingers to the bone — or so I’ve been told.

Anyway, according to Wikipedia  (who, we all know tells the gods-honest-truth about everything) the reason for the pruney fingers is this: the wrinkling is caused by water absorption in the keratin-laden epithelial skin when immersed in water for a prolonged period, causing the skin to expand and resulting in a larger surface area, forcing it to wrinkle. Sort of like when your swim suit gets wet and expands and then you accidentally lose your top when you surface. (not that this has ever happened to me. I’m just saying.)

I’m thinking they are wrong about what causes the pruney skin thing. I have never soaked my face in water for longer than a couple of minutes, and I haven’t been waterboarded recently, so what’s with the new wrinkles around my eyes that I found yesterday? pffft! Put that in your Wiki and pedia it why don’t you.

And those anti-aging, anti-wrinkle creams don’t work all that well. Trust me, I’ve used most of them. Every day a new product hits the market that promises to make our skin as smooth and wrinkle free as that of the 12-year-old model who is doing the commercial. We go out and pay $99.95 for a tiny bottle of this miracle serum, use it for a couple of months and we don’t see a bit of difference. We could have gotten the same results with a 24 oz bottle of canola oil for $4.79.

Then there’s Botox. I think this stuff actually works but who wants their face to be paralyzed. I know I don’t. I can have a stroke and do that myself. (which actually I shouldn’t be kidding around here about that and I hope karma doesn’t get me for it. There’s a long history of strokes in my family, on both my parent’s sides, so that makes me a likely candidate).

But after all, a few wrinkles never hurt anyone. I’ve never heard of someone dying from wrinkles. And another plus side to this whole aging, wrinkle thing is that as I develop more wrinkles, Wayne’s eyesight becomes weaker so I think it evens out in the end. He probably doesn’t even notice those new ones I found yesterday.

Of course there are some people who find wrinkles adorable. Who says you can’t be happy or attractive or lovable if your skin happens to be all wrinkled. Just ask these two adorable guys:

The theme this week at Theme Thursday is wrinkles. Click on over and read some other bloggers’ insights into wrinkles.

P.S. I totally ripped the dog photo off the Wikipedia website.  What? I’m planning to give it back!! Chill.

*