RE: (Humor) Thanksgiving is near which is also a fabulous place to keep our gratitude...

Gratitude Where Gratitude is Due...to the Near-sighted

I have now attained the age where my time is better spent plucking multiple bodily quadrants, developing my personality and making gratitude lists, than it is perfecting my “image” with the attendant hair styling, make-up applying, and accessorizing with purse dogs that would be needed.

Yes, as we slide into the retail double play that is Thanksgiving and Christmas — THANKS-GIVE-US — I feel it is only appropriate to initiate one of our family's child rearing requirements – the gratitude list.

(In fact, I still have a list my daughter drafted when she was about 6 years old and fretting over her young lot in life that was being born into a family devoid of heiresses. Her beatific listing of things to appreciate was so heart-meltingly sweet. She was “great full” to have a cat, sheets, a mommy, a daddy, and a sissy. I think she still feels the same way all these years later.)

Maybe it's because my red-letter day (actually, I prefer purple) often coincides with the Thanksgiving holiday that I'm more inclined toward throwing a festive, life-affirming birthday party than I am a depressing, poor-me-I'm-aging pity party. The former provides me with an undeniably rich opportunity to look at my Big Gulp serving-sized life glass that is full right up to the straw.

What am I grateful for? I am grateful to the near-sighted for it is you who have genuinely made my aging so much easier.My own near-sightedness is a fact that has forced me to compensate for the unrelenting march of time by implementing the Larger-than-life Letter Labeling System (LLLS) of which my favorite tool, the Sharpie, is an integral part.

Without the utilization of such a system, I am left to my own devices and the results are never pretty, occasionally hazardous. For instance, when showering it is essential that I correctly identify which of my many bottles of delightfully smelling girlie stuff I require for use on my hair. When I haven't taken the time to alter the ant-dropping-sized font to a larger proportion, my day gets out of whack immediately.

We are all familiar with launching the requisite shampoo sequence of lather, rinse, repeat. In the absence of my method I'm likely to implement a flawed system whereby I lather, condition, lather, lather, rinse, lather.

My gratitude to the near-sighted folks who have crossed my path extends to those who may be classified as such both by virtue of physical and emotional myopia.

After all, it's really all about how the people you adore, value, and respect view you. You allow them entrée into your personal bubble, they get “magnified one thousand times” close and, lo and behold; they like what they see. There is no better gift than this kind of unconditional love.

I don't have enough space for an all-inconclusive list, but 365 days a year, 7 days a week, 25 hours a day, I am grateful for:

— My husband who tells me I'm beautiful and that my appearance hasn't changed even a little bit over the years, (although one time I did catch him lusting over a photograph of the 24-year-old me standing next to my beloved Camaro).

— My mom who still views me as her baby.

— My Bob who looks at me like his new baby.

— My sassy daughters who tell me I'm a pretty mama and that I dress hip, but appropriately (although sometimes a little too matchy-matchy according to the youngest).

— My treasured friend since junior high school, Mady, who assures me we both haven't aged one iota and darned if she didn't produce a Facebook-worthy profile picture that almost proved her point.

— My photogenic, photographer confidante, Sharon, who always uses the word “gorgeous” when she talks to me.

— My beauteous friend, Sue, who promises me I'm still “hot” at this point in my life (flashing hot, baby!).

— My all-around, forever gal pals, Sandy, Julie, and Tami who tell me every time I see them that I look “Great!” and that my hair looks wonderful, even when I had that '80s, hairbrush-breaking perm and pregnancies that turned me into a female Humpty-Dumpty.

— My adopted “big sis” Bev for looking at my college dance pictures and saying, “You know, you really haven't changed at all.”

— That older gentleman I hope I see again really soon who said I look like a young Natalie Wood.

— All those folks out there who exclaim, “You don't look old enough to have a teenaged daughter,” when the aforementioned teenaged daughter is actually my youngest child.

— The multitudes of young people working at my favorite caffeinated beverage purveyors, grocery stores, and retail outlets who don't say “you remind me of my mom/grandmother/older maiden shut-in great aunt” AND stop themselves every time they start to call me “Ma'am” and refer to me as “Miss” instead.

That's my kind of “Miss” – as in miss the mark on my biological age.

I am grateful for not-corrected-to-20/20 vision!

Biography. Diane Dean-Epps is an author, teacher and comedienne. She can be reached at mswrite10@yahoo.com or for more writings, clips see: http://www.dianedeanepps.com/

Re: Humor Column About Facebook...Tag! You're It!

September 5, 2010

Tag! You’re It!

So, I’ve stepped in it again and this time what I mean by “it” is the ubiquitous package we call technology. Namely, the “technology” of which I speak – and I have spoken on this topic once before – is Facebook.

I possess just enough knowledge to be dangerous about a variety of things, social networking being one of these. While I’m not particularly knowledgeable about Facebook, generally, I am even less knowledgeable, specifically, about the related etiquette. Evidently.

Having said that, Facebook does make some things easier; like uploading photographs. You can upload pictures and tag them over to your friends in less time than it takes to mop the kitchen floor. While I do understand the concept that is the photographic equivalent of yelling, “You’re It!” when tagging pictures of people who are IN the images, I figured why couldn’t you expand upon that feature and transfer snapshots to interested third parties? (Don’t get ahead of me now.)

For instance, if I took a particularly stunning picture of a gal pal of mine, why wouldn’t her significant other not enjoy seeing that picture, let alone own this treasure by virtue of his Facebook account? Well, let me tell you why.

I’m sitting at my computer one morning, creating a new album and tagging away, as I slurp down my French blend cup of joe. Suddenly, my daughter materializes in my office demanding, “Did you post a picture of me on Facebook?” to which I replied, “I just did it. How in the world did you know?” as I simultaneously notice she has her cell phone in her hand.

(As an aside, another thing I learned is that you can set-up your Facebook account, so that when anyone does tag you, you will receive an immediate cell phone notification. That is some handy information to have.)

I did not sense danger and, in fact, proudly proclaimed my actions by burbling, “I did! I took these great pictures of your dad and I thought you’d get a kick out of them.” Her horrified look told the story, but it’s really only the beginning of the story because what I had entitled the album was, “Photos of My Hot Male Model.”

My daughter ran to her computer, in full damage control mode, as I struggled to keep the bile from rising as a result of what I now realized may not have been one of my swiftest moves. My offspring’s rhetorical scream of, “How could you do this to me?!” showed me the folly of my ways.

There, in glaring font, illustrated with posed pictures of her father, but appearing on her home page – and later the public newsfeed – was the album entitled, “Photos of My Hot Male Model.” Oh, no! Even I got the awkward factor on that one.

In case you don’t know this, when someone has tagged you in this way, there’s not much you can really do about it because goodness knows we tried. It’s worse than a typo in some obscure Internet posting that keeps popping up like an embarrassingly persistent former boyfriend. She posted a note of clarification on her wall, along with a public comment to me saying, “Really Mom?!” and I shamefacedly posted back that I would put myself in a corner.

The lesson on tagging someone who isn’t in the picture also applies to pointing and staring. Don’t do it, not only because it’s impolite, but these types of pursuits tend to invite the kind of attention you just can’t Face(book).

Strapped...Purse Comedy...

Strapped


I’m a bit addicted to purses. Not to just any kind of purses, mind you. Showy and flashy ones. Plus, they have to be able to transport necessities and me to a happier place.

I especially love the purses with all of the scenes, cities and thematic extravaganzas on the front of them. I call these collectibles, “art on a strap,” perhaps coming soon to an art gallery near you.

I once overheard my eldest daughter telling her father, “It’s medicinal,” in response to his grousing query, “Why in the world did your mother buy a purse with a poodle on it?” I thought that was an apt and timely assessment of my purse attainment since I had just gotten done telling my husband to consider the purchase cheap therapy. Now we were on the same page, or is it purse? You get what I mean.

And my daughter’s right. I have only to gaze at one of my purses and I am no longer susceptible to any negativity. Even if I’m already in a positive frame of mind, then the concept works because each purse is an artistic extension and celebration of that “high on life,” thing. The only problem seems to be that my desire for these wondrous works of handbag ingeniousness is insatiable. Well, not the only problem.

On occasion, as I enter stores selling pocketbooks, I have had to hold my hands up as blinders in order to traverse the aisles upon aisles of exquisite specimens. Every so often, in a weak moment, I add to my collection.

One such acquisition being a 2004, auction-acquired, tan canvas number with cowgirls and horses all over it, festooned with tasteful sequins, beads and curlicued words that say, “Cowgirls have more fun.”

All right, actually, my mom bought this piece for me, so this didn’t represent a monetary challenge, but rather a social one. These purses get me into all kinds of trouble due to the conversational gambits that ensue.

I excitedly chose to drag this particular reticule with me to an awards ceremony during which time my daughter would be receiving an award.

I was at this event grappling with my high tech, nineteen-nineties, vintage video camera as I teetered on high heels and attempted to focus in on a child that at least had the same hair color as my daughter.

It was at this point that a gentleman near me decided to strike up a conversation. What he said was, “Are you a rider?” What I heard was, “Are you a writer?” To which I replied, “How did you know?” as though he was the “Amazing Kreskin,” so astounding was his ability to divine my career path.

As I took in his puzzled look, downward glance, and wife’s clasping of his arm to prevent him from speaking with me further, I figured out that he had been looking at my cowgirl clutch.
“Oh, rider,” I repeated, bobbing my head up and down in vigorous understanding. “As in riding horses,” I said, accentuating the alternate auditory meaning by pantomiming the riding of a horse. No mean feat with a video camera in one hand and a tissue in the other. He just nodded his head and succumbed to his wife’s grasping redirection.

Much more racy and less innocuous are the conversations that ensue when I carry my bag that features Las Vegas. We’ll go with a clean, though tired example of one of these interchanges which is usually delivered with a leer, “So what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right? Am I right? Am I right? Anything that’s there?”

To which I respond, “Oh, yes, you are absolutely right. Are you planning on visiting Vegas in the very near future?

Link to THE UNION:

http://www.theunion.com/article/20100808/NEWS/100809825&parentprofile=search

A-Tisket, A-Tasket, (Humor) Easter Detritus Lingering Longer Than the Chocolate Afterglow...

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

A-Tisket, A-Tasket

It doesn’t matter that I’m the mom of young adults, or that it’s May, or that I’ve vacuumed the floor and cleaned the house at least 150 times since Easter, I am STILL finding Easter basket remnants, including that plasticky grass stuff floating around the floor.

We have a plethora of family traditions one of which is Easter baskets, which I’ve been bestowing upon my offspring their entire lives, evoking the sing-songy melody accompanying the nursery rhyme, “A-tisket a-tasket, A green-and-yellow basket.”

As an aside, did you know that Ella Fitzgerald recorded “A-tisket, A Tasket,” in 1938 and it was an extremely successful signature song for her? Can you believe it? (See lyrics and link below for fun. And it’s ALL fun, isn’t it?)

Okay, I’m not sure which of the aforementioned items are unbelievable: That I’m still finding Easter detritus around the ‘ole homestead, that Ella Fitzgerald recorded this nursery rhyme as a successful song or the fact that I knew Ella Fitzgerald recorded “A-tisket, A-tasket.” (I went on to discover that Ella's song, "A-Tisket, A-Tasket," was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1986.)

Now, how to transition smoothly from famous nursery rhymes turned into even more famous songs back to finding decorative Easter items around the house on the “off” season.”

Hum…sooooo…these items just keep turning up.

TRANSITION.

At our house we have a junk drawer, a junk closet and what is rapidly shaping up to be a junk room. Darned if every time I try to get into any of those, the plastic Easter eggs don’t come popping out as though some steroid-hopped up hen is pelting me with them.

Over the years I have accumulated so many Easter baskets, it looks as though I could open one of those specialty stores where you always wonder what possessed the owner to wake up one morning and say, “THIS is the day that I make my dream happen by opening up a store that sells only Christmas decorations.”

I’ll tell you how that happens. What you don’t see is the day before and all that preceded the realization. The Christmas decoration enthusiast had a family that grew up, left home and all she got were the stinking Christmas decorations. One day she was standing in front of her junk drawer, closet, room, looking at ALL of those leftover decorations, knowing she needed to get rid of them, realizing she couldn’t just bag them all up, so what’s the alternative? Open a store and sell the stuff!

One of my jokes with my kids is that we’ll probably all be in the rest home together and every March/April I’ll have my aide deliver their baskets to them at “the home.” Only, even as I say that, this year feels different.

I know that my basket giving days may be at an end because my excitement level with the basket-giving has eclipsed the excitement level of my little darlings. Rather than hope for early grandparenthood or the opening of a retail store selling all things Easter, I’ll probably just do what any red-blooded, soon-to-be-empty-nester, mom yearning for days of yore, write-what-you-know scribe would do:

I’m writing a column as I eat old Easter candy I found at the bottom of one of the bunny baskets as I hum, A-tisket, A-tasket, A green-and-yellow basket, wiping my eyes periodically because I have “allergies.”


Lyrics:

A-tisket a-tasket

A green-and-yellow basket

I bought a basket for my mommie

On the way I dropped it

I dropped it, I dropped it

Yes, on the way

I dropped it

A little girlie picked it up

And took it to the market

She was truckin' on down the avenue

Without a single thing to do

She was peck, peck, peckin' all around

When she spied it on the ground

A-tisket a-tasket

She took my yellow basket

And if she doesn't bring it back

I think that I shall die

(Was it red?)

No, no, no, no

(Was it brown?)

No, no, no, no

(Was it blue?)

No, no, no, no

Just a little yellow basket

Cleaning as a Preemptive Strike..(Humor) or how NOT to add hoarder to list of accomplishments

May 5, 2010

Cleaning as a Preemptive Strike

Lest I become a specially invited guest on TLC’s “Hoarding: Buried Alive” one of my progeny has informed me that I’ve become a wee bit of a pack rat and that I need to clean things out and fast. Actually, her level of frustration was such that, belying what we thought was an inability to take charge of cleaning matters, she launched into the project that was cleaning up/out her mother’s bathroom. This after she attempted to find a Q-tip in my bathroom and instead discovering all manner of “anything but,” which, in no particular order, tallies up to the following, non-all-inclusive list, which reads like an off season “Twelve Days of Christmas” litany:

1 lighted mirror that last “got lit” when I did (as an aside, that would be years ago).

2 soap dishes with 1 usable soap, 1 cute soap, and 1 sliver (memory) of soap.

3 baskets filled with old make-up, some of which is obsolete.

4 deoderants, none of which lived up to assurances as to their ability related to keeping one dry while one is doing anything other than applying the aforementioned deodorant while breathing. I am now convinced “natural” is synonymous with “will leave you in your natural state.”

5 nail polishes that resembled a rainbow oil slick of color when, in point of fact, they were once one, non-tacky color.

6 nail files that done should have been filed in the round trash can some years ago.

7 combs of varying tooth distances, none of which have ever been used, my “heirloom” vent brush being my favorite hair tool of choice.

8 old Q-tips that may have once held some very important DNA samples, but at this juncture are just plain gross.

9 moisturizer samples to which I acquiesced to taking just to get out of the freaking store.

10 eyeshadows that seemed to be my shade when viewed in the store’s attractive florescent lighting, but when I got home in my equally attractive energy-saving, low wattage lighting the mirror didn’t lie, even if lighting everywhere has honesty issues.

11 containers of all sizes, shapes and purposes, the main one being to organize all of the above. We fired all of them. (Okay, don’t tell my daughter, but I did scavenge one cute container with a Hawaiian girl on it.)

12 X 3 lipsticks that looked fabulous on the Revlon models (See “10 eyeshadows.”)

I noted what these things were as I took out 4 bags of garbage, which was the least I could do, given my daughter devoted an entire day and precious “between texting” moments to the endeavor that was getting Mom to let go of her accumulated, though lacking in value, treasures. After all, the kid was cleaning out cabinets containing products that ceased being produced some time around the year she achieved toddlerdom, pulling herself up by those very same cabinets.

This, in turn, motivated me to turn my attention to my closet – that most hallowed, Smithsonian-like enclosure, preserving every fashion and, thus, decade I have experienced in my short walk down life’s continuum. (I’m now noticing that when I refer to 30-year-olds I can’t help myself from prefacing any age under 42 with, “that young person who is about…”)

From there I managed to cull 3 bags of clothes, shoes, and belts which my husband promptly placed in the trunk and I equally promptly donated the next day, lest I grow faint of heart. I must admit to you, I experienced a last-minute, terrier-like digging session at which time I attempted to excavate a faded, black, memory-evoking shirt. You will be happy to know that I failed in my attempt because I had no less than three nice people from the thrift shop come toward me, asking me if I needed help, which curtailed further pawing activities on my part. I have a feeling they’ve seen my kind before – the pre-hoarder, teetering on the edge of her new classification, so it’s best to assist someone like me with a “this will only hurt for a minute,” rip the band-aid off approach and take the bags from me right away.

I do feel better though and I’m noticing so much, like the fact that my bathroom counter is pristine and white and that my black and white, tiled accent table can be used for its original purpose. It is actually quite lovely, in addition to being a bit functional and there is no need to waste its offerings on serving as the base for my Jenga-building of products from past and present.

And the best part? This cleaning up and getting rid of decluttering is cathartic and so very symbolic. I’ve noticed more now that I have less and I consider that progress.

Closet to You...household humor about the Smithsonian that is fashion...

March 11, 2010

Closet to You

My husband is the only person I know who runs his side of the closet like a high-powered corporate executive. He routinely hires, fires, promotes and transfers clothes with gusto.

It’s bad enough that I have to witness the executive approach to clothing management in his one-sixteenth side of the closet, but periodically he has the audacity to attempt a hostile takeover of my fifteen-sixteenths of this same closet. Thus, the garment gauntlet is thrown down and our territorial war commences—coming into the closet, if you will.

My hubby has a system, a business plan, really, truth be known. His closet “company,” begins with the purchase of an item. Dependent upon washability, ironability and sweatability the article may earn front line status, being washed and worn frequently. Sometimes new apparel is immediately demoted to an inferior standing, followed quickly by inactive shelf status. This is usually the case if it’s garb I have purchased for him, whereupon I have commented, “You’re going to love this new style. Everybody has one.”

The only time the shelved pieces are able to regain their previous front line status is when some sort of household project comes along. These are general duties for which I possess absolutely no aptitude and, interestingly enough, no wardrobe. Sadly, this temporary situation still leads to permanent retirement of the garment upon completion of the task at hand.

Hope springs eternal, so my counterpart decides to broach the topic of closet maintenance with me, again, which could result in more room for him. His unfortunate timing occurs as I spent yet another morning as an unofficial zipper tester for the “YKK” company, stretching the limits of the manufacturer’s suggested specifications. This is never a good time to have a conversation with me, regardless of the topic; clothing clean-out, the relationship, nuclear war, location of the shampoo.

My good-intentioned mate enters the room, quite literally, treading lightly. “Honey, why don’t you just get rid of some of that stuff?” he queries helpfully. “You should go by the ‘one year’ rule. You know—if you haven’t worn something in a year, then toss it.”

As I look over at my closet, filled with memories, I am appalled at the mere thought of parting with any member of my clothing family which I regard fondly. The striped Def Leppard shirt I was wearing when I met my husband, the black vintage evening dress I purchased, post-partum, just because it fit, the outfit I wore when I performed my first stand-up routine, and the disco dress with shoulder pads to be reckoned with. These aren’t clothes—they’re an historical timeline representing my own personal Smithsonian, sans red velvet ropes around the entire lot.

I contemplate karate chopping him with a hanger, but realize that to be a vicious thought and, besides, we have those innocuous plastic ones, so it wouldn’t really hurt enough. I know he just wants to help me, so I relent by saying, “Maybe I should get rid of some things.”

My husband perks up and looks as though I’ve given him permission to accompany a supermodel on an all-expenses paid Caribbean getaway trip. As he trots off to gather up the bags that will eventually hold only the two items I will manage to part with, I wonder if this kind, well-intentioned man ever feels as though he’s Charlie Brown and I’m Lucy holding the football for him—again. Or maybe he’s just left holding the bag?

Excerpted from Maternal Meanderings
http://www.amazon.com/Maternal-Meanderings-Diane-Dean-Epps/dp/1932172068/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1268347813&sr=1-1