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Author Topic: Jest for laughs  (Read 40350 times)
« on: April 14, 2003, 10:22:40 AM »

I know a sence of humor helps all housewives make it thru the day with a semblance of sanity remaining at bedtime...(hopefully) so here`s todays giggle...

Wild Hair
I was bothered this past week by a wild hair that kept poking me in the eye. Try as I did, I could not find the culprit!

I yanked out numerous of my bang hairs to no avail. When that wild hair continued to sneak in there day after day, I tried to change my hairstyle.  My options were tremendously limited for reasonable styling alternatives since my hair is cut so short.

First I parted my hair on the right side, then I parted it on the left side, then I curled it all around. I just got tired of playing hokey-pokey hair (get it?), so finally in desperation, I went to my barber.

This time, my barber did the best job ever!  But like all good things that come my way ... I had to wait awhile for it.

You see, my barber does not take appointments. Most most of the time, patience in waiting is NOT my virtue, but since my barber's shop is entertaining for me at times -- I waited.

Those of you who know me well, know it really doesn't take much to entertain me.  

I especially like watching the old geezers get their nose and ear hairs trimmed!  They always sit in the barber's chair with a such a straight face ... as if it is a normal every day occurrance to have someone stick an electric shaver UP their nostrils!  I've also noticed that not one of them even bothers to flare their nostrils in order to accomodate my barber's tools of the trade.  Sheesh!!

During the main event, I usually bury my head in a magazine and when I chuckle at them and laugh too loud (rotflol), they just think I'm laughing at an article I'm reading.  Heh-heh!!

I pull it off every time, but my barber knows the truth.  In fact, I think he even understands me now.  Sheesh, I show up for a trim at least every other week ... his cuts are reasonable and his sensible advise sure beats the price of my EX-therapist!

I tipped my barber exceptionally well today.  When I left his shop, my hair was bouncin' and behavin' better than the models in the Vidal Sassoon commercials.

My drive home ... as usual, was very pleasant since I knew that all the other drivers on the road knew I looked GOOD!   When I know I look my best, it oftentimes goes to my head ... errrr, pardon the pun!

Just after I arrived home, I'll be darned if I didn't notice that the elusive wild hair had crept it's way back into my eye again!  I had just spent all my play money on another dang haircut, unnecessarily!

I quickly retrieved my little eye mirror that I use to pluck my eyebrows ... and gosh, folks, geez, I'm so ashamed ...

I'm not even sure I should be admitting this on a public forum ...

The culprit was a two-inch long eyebrow hair. I couldn't believe the size of that lone hair!  Good grief, I pluck my eyebrows as often as I cut my hair ... you'd think that darned hair woulda' been plucked eons ago!

To be on the safe side, I examined the opposite eyebrow.  To my astonishment, I found my first WHITE eyebrow hair.

Ohmigosh, it's been over a decade since I've seen my natural hair color but I naively never expected to see steely little white hairs in my eyebrows of all places!  Isn't that supposed to be a guy thing??

I immediately made a closer examination of the whole facial area for good measure.  It is now my honor to announce that at least I do NOT have any nose hairs ... yet!! (whewie!)

Well folks, you can bet that I won't be laughing at the old geezers at the barber shop anymore!  I'm on my way to becoming one sooner than I think!

Hmmmmm, I wonder if there are any seniors reading this story? I'm open to hear what to expect next!

author unknown
« Last Edit: April 14, 2003, 10:25:15 AM by IrishAngel » Logged
« Reply #1 on: April 29, 2003, 11:57:31 AM »

Vanity Insanity

The girl knelt in the confessional and said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

"What is it, child?"

"Father, I have committed the sin of vanity. Twice a day I gaze at myself in the mirror and tell myself how beautiful I am."

The priest turned, took a good look at the girl and said, "My dear, I have good news. That isn't a sin - it's only a mistake."

 Lips Sealed
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« Reply #2 on: May 01, 2003, 10:12:01 AM »

Thanks, some senior read this, ME, and when I'm done answering you, I'm going to check if there are any of those grey/white/silver things in my eyebrows (such as they are).  I needed a lift today (check my prayer request).  I came to this site becasue of the prayer request.  Have a blessed day.  
 ;)PS I remember the hokey pokey and caught your pun even if some of our younger counter parts did not.  I lead a Bible Study at my church and sometimes some things I say aren't understood becasue of that generational thing, imagine, you'd think I was old!!
« Reply #3 on: May 02, 2003, 11:28:58 AM »

Imagine eh jaclaire  Wink  I hope you have received the encouragement you needed! Here`s another one that hits a little too close to home lol...


Alright Ladies, it's that time of the year again.
Just a friendly reminder!!
Please raise your big toes and repeat after me:

MY SISTERS (The Open Toed Shoe Pledge)
As a member of the Gorgeous Gal Sisterhood, I pledge to
follow the Rules when I wear sandals and other open-toe shoes:

I promise to always wear sandals that fit. My toes
will not hang over and touch the ground, nor will my heels
spill over the backs.

And the sides and tops of my feet will not pudge out
between the straps.

I will go polish-free or vow to keep the polish fresh, intact and
chip-free. I will not cheat and just touch up my big toe.

 I will sand down any mounds of skin before they turn
 hard and yellow.

 I will shave the hairs off my big toe.

I won't wear pantyhose even if my misinformed  girlfriend, coworker, mother, sister tells me the toe seam really will
stay under my toes if I tuck it there.

If a strap breaks, I won't duct-tape, pin, glue or tuck it back into place hoping it will stay put. I will get my shoe fixed or toss it.

I will not live in corn denial; rather I will lean  on my good friend Dr. Scholl's if my feet need him.

I will resist the urge to buy jelly shoes at Payless for the low, low  price of $4.99 even if my feet are small enough to
fit into the kids' sizes. This is out of concern for my safety, and the safety of others.
No one can walk properly when standing in a pool of sweat and I would hate to take someone down with me as I fall
 and break my ankle.

I will take my toe ring off toward the end of the day if my toes swell and begin to look like Vienna sausages.

(Toe rings? How old am I? )  Huh

If I have been privy to the magic that is Foot Soup,
I will share that knowledge and experience with the non-initiated.

 I will be brutally honest with my girlfriend/sister/coworker when she asks me if her feet are too ugly to wear sandals.
Someone has to tell her that her toes are as long as my fingers and no sandal makes creepy caloused yellowed feet look good.

I will promise if I wear flip flops that I will ensure that they actually flip and flop, making the correct noise while walking and I will swear NOT slide or drag my feet while wearing them.

I will promise to go my local beauty salon at least once per season and have a real pedicure (they are about $25 and
 worth EVERY penny).

(hmmmmm I got better places to spend $25, but sounds ok)

I will promise to throw away any white/off-white
sandals that show signs of wear...nothing is tackier than dirty white sandals...and we are not tacky...we are GORGEOUS GALS!

 Don't keep this to yourself - pass it on to other
 sisters.  Cheesy
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« Reply #4 on: May 07, 2003, 10:42:36 PM »

Hee hee, this is where I say that I never wear sandals.

(because of the aforementioned hair-on-the-toes thing)

So no one has to see my feet but me!

Good text though, where do you find these things? Smiley Cry

And God will say:
Depart from me I never knew you!
I never knew you!

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.
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« Reply #5 on: July 18, 2003, 05:54:39 AM »

Vanity Insanity

The girl knelt in the confessional and said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

"What is it, child?"

"Father, I have committed the sin of vanity. Twice a day I gaze at myself in the mirror and tell myself how beautiful I am."

The priest turned, took a good look at the girl and said, "My dear, I have good news. That isn't a sin - it's only a mistake."

 Lips Sealed


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Read it on line for "FREE"


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« Reply #6 on: July 18, 2003, 01:12:36 PM »


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« Reply #7 on: July 18, 2003, 03:17:07 PM »

Jest for laughs Grin Grin Grin



Galatians 4:16   Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?
« Reply #8 on: July 22, 2003, 06:53:47 PM »

LOL  ...think its a slightly off kilter version of the "you would cry too if it happened to you" line  Wink
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« Reply #9 on: August 29, 2003, 07:31:14 PM »

Blazing, Cloudy Rain
Falling through my hair
Sitting all alone
It reaches my mined
The joyous I felt
Having you as my angel
Tears slowly drops to the ground
Cleaning the cell
Which I long fears inside
Love thou lovers we are
Far from this world
Yet our hearts and thoughts
Is sweeter than honey
Closer than friendship's
Rain falling, thou reach to an end
Thou love thee treasured
Whisper of wind ring though my ears
Crowded and Silent, Ant's as I am
Find my own shelter with this morning rain

 Grin Grin Grin

I love all joke here I'll post one soon
« Reply #10 on: August 31, 2003, 07:07:48 PM »

The Hampered Chef
Confessions of a “culinary challenged” woman
by Donna Hill

Some people say where there's smoke, there's fire. In my house, where there's smoke, there's dinner. Try as I might, the most basic kitchen skills elude me. Even the vocabulary's confusing. "Blanch" and "julienne" are potential names for my children, not something I'd do to potatoes. A "colander" is where I pencil in my upcoming dinner dates (at restaurants, of course). A "wok" is what I take after I've eaten too much. And "blackened" chicken? That's for novices. I can blacken hot dogs, green beans, and cream-based soups without ever reaching for the fire extinguisher.

It doesn't help that I married into a family that would make Emeril envious. Taking basic ingredients and turning them into fancy French dishes such as coq au vin or vichyssoise comes as easily as breathing for my sisters-in-law. And my mother-in-law can whip up a meal comparable to what's served at any five-star restaurant without batting a spatula. Just the thought of attempting such a feat makes me need to breathe into a brown paper bag. It's intimidating, to say the least.

Early in my marriage, I decided to swallow my pride and ask my mother-in-law for some help. "I'm supposed to fix something for an office party," I told her. "Do you know of anything I can make that doesn't require me to boil, baste, broil, bake, or fry?"

"I've got an easy recipe for a congealed salad," she suggested. "Why don't you try that?"

Congealed salad. Now that sounded like a happy, non-threatening thing to make ("This year's Ms. Congealed Salad winner is . . . "). So pulling out pretzels, Jell-O, cream cheese, and a variety of other ingredients, I followed the recipe to a T, which apparently stood for trouble.

See, I have a fundamental problem with recipes. As a lawyer friend of mine likes to say, they assume facts not already in evidence. With the congealed salad, somehow I was supposed to know intuitively I should spread the cream cheese completely across the pretzels and seal off the edges before I poured the Jell-O over it. Lacking that one vital piece of information, my congealed salad quickly became Jell-O soup, and my congeniality waned.

Other recipes are just as vague. For example, while laboring over an intricate pasta dish—okay, I was boiling spaghetti—I came across the instructions "cook al dente." Just who is Al Dente? And why should I be cooking for him? As a studious former English major, I looked up the phrase. In its original Italian form, it means "to the tooth." I guess that means I'm supposed to cook my pasta so it won't break the teeth of those who eat it. If that's the case, then maybe I should hang a picture of good old Al prominently in my kitchen as a reminder of my main goal in cooking.

Because of incidents like this, I've come up with what I like to call my Irrefutable Recipe Rules. First, all ingredients must be able to be pronounced by anyone with a decent phonics background. Second, the number of ingredients called for can't outnumber my children or the square root of the number of Pampered Chef gadgets I currently own—whichever is less. Third, if the recipe calls for something to be parboiled, nix it. (Just exactly what is parboiling anyway? The word itself sounds inedible.) And here's one last rule of thumb: "Season to taste" means whoever wrote the recipe didn't know how to fix it. Therefore it stands to reason it's not going to taste right when I make it.

I've learned some of my cooking lessons the hard way. For example, it took me three tries to figure out that doubling the oven temperature doesn't cut your cooking time in half. Nuking yeast rolls doesn't cause them to rise faster. And if you bunch ten hamburger patties into an eight-inch skillet, they'll never get done. Fortunately, my husband has a grill, and he's not afraid to use it.

"Maybe you should try some of that once-a-month cooking," suggested a former friend. "You could cook all day Saturday and have enough meals for the entire month." Enough meals indeed, assuming my family would enjoy eating dishes they can't even identify. My regular meals are bad enough. Frozen entrees defrosted in the microwave don't stand a chance.

Fortunately, my gang is learning to adjust. The Food and Drug Administration did us a big favor by making bread and grains the biggest part of the food pyramid, since cold breakfast cereal's fair game for breakfast, lunch, and dinner around my house. My eldest daughter, on a quest to prove that man can, indeed, live by bread alone, has become an expert in warming up rolls. Just yesterday I found her in the kitchen preheating the oven.

"Whatcha doin'?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, trying to hide the oven behind her five-foot-six, 90-pound frame. "Just heating up some rolls."

"Do you want me to do that while you finish your math?" I asked, ever the good mother.

"No, no, that's fine," she assured me quickly. "I can work a problem or two while they're cooking."

Secretly relieved I wasn't going to have to broil her Brown 'N Serves, I wandered off to find something less dangerous to do.

At least now I'm willing to admit my limitations. In the past, transferring a bucket of KFC to my own platter before taking it to potluck dinners became an art. Combining cut-up carrots with canned soup made my "homemade" chicken soup famous. My cover as a developing culinary queen was blown, though, after hosting our annual family Christmas buffet a couple years ago.

"This turtle cheesecake is delicious," commented my sister. "Did you make it?"

"Mmm hmmm," I mumbled noncommittally, feigning food in my mouth.

Then the truth reared its ugly head. "How in the world did you get all these little pieces of wax paper between the slices?" my sister asked. My charade was over.

What I lack in cooking expertise I make up for in other ways. I can wash, dry, iron, and put away clothes faster than you can say "fricassee." The faucets in my bathroom shine as brilliantly as Julia Child's copper-bottomed kettles. And my inadequacy as a cook is overshadowed by my intense desire to organize my kitchen—so if I do happen to want to, say, fry up some macaroni and cheese, I've got 12 pots and 8 Tupperware containers to do the job.

Unless God miraculously intervenes, it looks as though I'm going to be culinary challenged for the rest of my life. I could go on and on about my cooking inabilities. Or I could let my husband explain my limitations. After hearing me say I might have used a bit of literary license with this article, he read it and quietly asked, "So what part of this isn't true?" But my smoke alarm just went off, which no doubt means it's time to pull my no-bake cheesecake out of the oven.
« Reply #11 on: August 31, 2003, 07:19:44 PM »

Home Deconstruction
By Liz Curtis Higgs

I never dreamed my attempts at home improvement would find me seeking a stripper and packing heat!
I grew up in a family where Mom—not Dad—reigned as the Grand Poobah of domestic repairs. My stalwart mother refinished furniture, painted woodwork, hung wallpaper, and sanded floors while I watched from the sidelines in wide-eyed wonder.
Mom wisely drew the line at anything involving electricity, though. If it had a cord, a plug, and wattage, she deferred to the experts.

As in all things, I should have learned from my mother when homeowner was added to my résumé. I was single at the time and determined to prove to the world I could Do It All Myself, including serving as Ms. Fix-It for my little bungalow in the heart of downtown Louisville.

The good news of downtown dwelling? You get a lot of house for a little money. The bad news? Your neighbors are probably dealers, and I don't mean Tupperware. The really bad news? Everything in the house needed repairing 30 years ago.

My own fixer-upper was better than most. It had walls and ceilings (without holes), windows and doors (with several deadbolts), and natural woodwork all through the house. Their honey brown surfaces had never seen a single drop of Sherwin-Williams. Except in the bathroom, where the woodwork was painted pale pink. Yes, pink.

It matched the pale pink flamingos that hung on the pale pink walls. And the not-so-pale pink tub and sink. And the pink dotted Swiss curtains in the tiny window over the tub.

It was curtains for the flamingos—and the curtains—and a couple rolls of wallpaper worked wonders. But what to do about the decidedly pink woodwork?

Welcome to Home Improvement Nightmare #207: Paint Removal.

We're talking baseboards, doorjambs, and a floor-to-10-foot-ceiling storage unit coated with 7 layers of oil-based paint—one for each decade. My putty knife and I soon discovered that pale pink gave way to several rounds of antique white, which yielded to hospital green, which succumbed to a grim shade of battleship gray dating from World War I.

When four hours of scraping yielded only a patch of bare pine the size of my hand, I proceeded to ask my friends and coworkers for suggestions.

Ken, a serious do-it-yourselfer, minced no words. "What you need, Liz, is a stripper."

"No way." I knew my neighborhood was bad, but not that bad. "Anyway, where would I find one?"

He looked at me like I had a two-by-four sticking out of my left ear. "At a hardware store, of course."

My shopping trip proved highly educational. I marched up to the customer service counter and made my bold re-quest: "I want a stripper."

"Aisle three," the clerk said without even looking up. I headed that direction, prepared to blush and avert my eyes, until I discovered an entire shelf of them waiting for me: Zip-Strip, Lightning Strip, Strip-Ease, Tough2Strip, and Strip-X Stripper. Who knew?

I bought several bottles, brushes, gloves, and a five-inch scraper, certain my woodwork would be paint-free by evening's end.

By seven o'clock, two serious challenges presented themselves: (1) Old-fashioned woodwork is filled with grooves and indentations no five-inch scraper can touch. And (2) Woodwork runs vertically. Liquid paint stripper also runs vertically. What a mess! I chased more drips than a faucet repairman, all the while inhaling methyl chloride and killing brain cells at an alarming rate.

Disgusted, I dumped the whole fiasco into a trash can.

My friend Alice, the queen of home improvement projects, listened empathetically the next morning. "Get yourself a sanding sponge," she said. "It'll fit in those grooves like nothing else will."

The sponge had several things going for it—it was cheap, light, and drip-free—but what it didn't have was the Energizer Bunny attached to it. Seven layers of paint don't give up easily. The liquid remover might have scared 'em a little, but they weren't the least bit intimidated by a sponge covered with sandpaper. Especially in the hands of a woman who wimped out after two hours of sanding back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth….

My cramped fingers held an imaginary sponge for a week.

"Forget that stuff," my buddy Brenda demanded. "Visit a rent-all store and get yourself a heat gun."

Made perfect sense to me. Shoot the silly paint off the woodwork. That'll teach it.

I did have a couple of questions, though. "'Heat' as in, 'police'? Or as in 'stolen'? You know, a 'hot' gun?"

Brenda rolled her eyes. "Think blow dryer, Liz. That's what it's shaped like. And it doesn't shoot bullets, it shoots heat. A lotta heat."

I was dubious. "How does heat scare the paint off my woodwork?"

"It cooks it off," she explained, adding hand motions. "Point the heat gun at one spot. Pretty soon all the layers will stick together and start lifting off the wood. Along you come with your putty knife and wham, that pale pink paint is history."

Historical paint. Perfect.

Friday after work, I headed to a strip mall—no connection to paint strippers, mind you—with Brenda's recommendation in mind. Sure enough, hanging among the small appliances in this rent-all store was an all-metal device that looked like a blow dryer.

"Three days," I told the clerk, plunking down my quickly depleting cash. Surely I could finish over the long Labor Day weekend. Surely.

With my bathroom window propped open for ventilation, I aimed my gun at the doomed doorjamb. "Stick 'em up!" I growled, hitting the on switch.

They weren't kidding—it was hot. The little bathroom warmed up in a hurry. But by golly, so did the paint. Bless you, Brenda! Seventy years of paint came off in long, sticky strips. I accomplished more in that first 15 minutes than I had in whole evenings of stripping and sanding.

Suddenly the gun let out a piercing screech. Eeeeeeee! Scared out of my wits, I hopped around for a second before I figured out how to turn off the heat gun. Immediately the deafening squeal stopped. Whew.

I soon figured out what the problem must be. When the gun overheated—it omitted a high-pitched squeal so you'd know to shut if off. Wasn't that clever of the manufacturer?

I patiently waited 10 full minutes for the heat gun to cool down, then fired it back up and pointed at the paint with maniacal glee.

Less than a minute later, it happened again. Eeeeeeeeee!

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll never finish at this rate," I fumed along with the paint, shutting off the gun with a frustrated click.

But the piercing screech didn't stop. Eeeeeeeeee!

"Good grief!" Now I panicked, fumbling with the cord until I could safely yank the plug out of the outlet.

No matter. Even unplugged, it kept on screaming. Eeeeeeeeee!

Now I was the one screaming, parking my smoking gun on the edge of the tub and running down the hall, hands over my ears.

How could it still be blaring away when it wasn't plugged in? Was it set to self-destruct in five minutes? Or would it go on squealing all weekend?

I glanced at my watch. Great. Almost six. The rental store would close and I'd be stuck with this noisy heat gun and my pale pink paint for three solid days.

I plugged one ear and called the store. "Listen, there's a serious problem with my heat gun!" I hollered.

The man on the other end was cool as a cucumber. "Problem?"

"When it overheats, a siren goes off."

Long pause. "It's a heat gun, ma'am. It's supposed to get hot."

"But what about the siren thingy?" I was whining by this point.

"Ma'am, it doesn't have a siren."

"Yes, it does. Can't you hear it?" As I held the receiver toward the bathroom, the sound stopped cold. I put it back to my ear, feeling foolish. "Um…. well…. did you catch a little of it?"

"Lady, what I heard sounded more like a smoke alarm. Got one of those?"

My mouth went dry. "A…. a smoke alarm?"

"Yeah. A little white disk, on the ceiling. Ever seen one?"

Stretching the phone cord, I tiptoed into the hallway and gazed down toward the bathroom. Above the door lurked a tell-tale white disk, its tiny red dot glowing.

"Yes, I…. believe I have seen one of those." I swallowed hard. "Once." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, fairly certain the situation merited both. "Look, I'm sorry to bother you. Happy…. um, happy Labor Day!"

"That's exactly what I'll be doin', ma'am. Workin'."

"Yup." I flexed my heat-gun-totin' fingers. "Me, too."

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« Reply #12 on: September 01, 2003, 10:53:43 AM »

 Grin Grin Grin Grin Shocked Cheesy Grin Grin Grin

"Man dreams and desires; God broods, and wills, and quickens."
« Reply #13 on: September 04, 2003, 01:59:20 PM »

Author: Brenda Vey
I should have seen it all coming……but, I really did think the light at the end of the tunnel was just that. How could I have possibly known that it was a train run by an opportunistic and somewhat macho engineer (okay, okay….a LOT macho) who for the most part didn’t think that I could even perform the job of ticket conductor on my own life’s train? Let’s pause now and instead of singing, “When two worlds collide,” sing, “When two trains finally collide.”

Well, didn’t I ask for it with my “come hither and save the fair maiden, Sire” look? Yes, the “help me, help me” attitude……otherwise known as the “lame duck” syndrome, Cinderella complex, Snow White aura…whatever you wish to call it. I have to admit that I like that stereotypical female trait to a degree; therein lays the problem: to a degree. I would love nothing more than for my beloved to slay a dragon for me.

But, he should be willing to teach me skills and enlighten me, nonetheless, without his masculinity feeling threatened…..

Like how to change a furnace filter for instance.

For ten long years I lived with the mystery of not knowing that esoteric knowledge. I would constantly ask, inquire and demand hubby to show me, but to no avail. I was informed that this had to be done in just such and such a manner (explanations were always vague and obscure, of course) or…….well, it would be my fault if things went awry around here…..and could I live with the guilt? Feeling the guilt of my whole baby boomer generation on my shoulders as it was, why no I could not handle anymore than I already was carrying. Even still, I would scoff, grimace and roll my eyes and accuse him of treating me worse than stupid. I could carry a child for nine months, endure the rigors of childbirth, love and tolerate his family, bounce a ball on my nose, blindstitch his pants, make a dinner from shoe leather, beans and one lemon, write some poetry and so forth…BUT, I was not qualified to install a furnace filter. I felt he was being insecure about it all…..something was fishy here and surely it could not be that hard.

I was right.

One day the God of Abraham struck this Eve with a bolt of I-don’t-know-what while He caused a deep sleep to fall upon “Adam”…… Next, He then caused me to grab the filters that had been lying on the kitchen hutch for not one week but two weeks. With trembling hands and short, rapid and tense breaths, I proceeded to the furnace room with great trepidation. Elvis Presley’s, “It’s Now or Never” kept playing through my mind…Bravely, I faced the metal monster and taking a deep breath, removed the panels.

Almost immediately, I felt horrified…..to find out that this thing was easier than making homemade apple pie……. As I stood there performing this ultra simple task of taking out two old dusty filters and easily replacing with two new filters...tasks that even Lassie, the heroine dog of yesteryear, could have done blindfolded, I entertained a wicked thought. I toyed with the apple-delicious idea of removing a rib from the sleeping "Adam".....and still musing over why hubby chose to make this a great difficult mystery for me……

Well, of course, this raised my confidence level as well as my temporary disdain for him. It was a jolt to reality that my knight slays dragonflies not dragons………I eventually forgave him and even took pity on him for I soon realized that to him dragonflies ARE dragons.

With this revelation of my own abilities, I decided to give his electric screwdriver a drive around the block, so to speak. Oh, I had fun with it all right. I would whirl it this way and then that way. Oh, what power in my hands! I loved his drill and started fantasizing about developing a woman’s line of tools called, “Powder Puff Tools.” Yep, they would be lighter weight and come in colors, of course, as we women do like functionality and beauty blended.

Anyway, I was so happy to actually look for things to screw or unscrew that I would wake up and chipper, “To screw or not to screw…..this is NOT the question….but, rather WHAT to screw or unscrew…..here, dear……need some ear wax removed? Maybe a little brain surgery while I am at it, hmm? ” Well, the fair maiden now has calluses because the knight now expects her to drill. There is no mercy from him….nay, none whatsoever. I have went from “you-cannot-run-your-own train” to “you-ought-to-be-able-to-not-only-run-your-own-train-and-collect-the-tickets-but-oil-and-grease-that-sucker-too”. Yes, I’ve come a long way, baby. In fact, if you come walking by my home, you just might hear the off-key strains of Helen Reddy’s, “I Am Woman” floating through the air…..with a minor change in wording. Instead of, “I am woman, hear me roar….” you will hear, “I am woman, hear me drill….at 1500 rpms…..loud and shrill……”

……while the knight is cooking dinner……

Say, do any of you fellows or gals know what the best rating for insulation might be? It looks like I might try my hand at that next, being that the garage looks like one of those drive-thru carwashes with "things" hanging down from above. And, if that goes well…. I will then go and meet the toilet monster……..that one does scare me...

Somebody help me.....anybody? Bob Villa? Someone.......

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« Reply #14 on: September 05, 2003, 11:58:21 AM »

Hey, don't joke about that - I think there IS a line of tools for women, they come in pastel, and they have amost the same name!!!  Grin Really! It was on TV!

"Man dreams and desires; God broods, and wills, and quickens."
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