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/

The "Not Not" List...it's not that it's not time to end the romance when...

The Not-Not List of the Week

January 25, 2010

Ahhhh, romance…how can one not ponder the trials and tribulations of this topic as the pounding hooves of Valentine’s Day approach and we’re bombarded with hearts on every wall of every store, chubby babies with arrows poised thusly and all manner of red and pink items enticing us to make sure we don’t forget to let our lovers know of our passion. May I say, that if it has taken these types of reminders to…well, remind us of telling the object of our desire(s) how we feel, then perhaps we have a wee bigger problem in the form of communication, rather than choosing a collective sampling of items to express that passion.

I’ve got to admit I’m a great lover of Valentine’s Day because I’m a sap, believing in “the one,” along with the fact that I just love hearts and I was one of “those” girls who drew hearts around not only the names of every guy I ever took a shine to but, heck, I drew them all over my paper just because. This brings me to the list that I’ve threatened to bring out weekly, on every manner of topic, which I call the “Not Not” List; my little form of the double negative equaling the positive. This week’s topic: R-O-M-A-N-C-E! Get it while it’s hot!

It’s NOT that it’s NOT time to end the romance when…

1. His soulful gaze of romantic intent turns out to be his myopic attempt to see the football game on the flat screen behind you.

2. You answer your phone, hear an intake of breath and upon your inquiry as to who it is your paramour tentatively says, “Babe? Heyyyy, I was just thinking about…youuuuu,” with exactly all of those pauses and inflections.

3. Whenever you’re not in the room, upon reentering said room he seems to be scrambling to hide a piece of paper which you find later and it sports the heading, “Reasons to Stay in the Relationship,” “Reasons to Leave the Relationship”…and relationship is spelled wrong.

4. When your birthday rolls around he says, “Wow! That’s already here again?! How about if I give you the money and you get exactly what you want?”

5. When planning a romantic date it always involves a) dinner at his favorite restaurant b) flowers from the local supermarket and c) An intimate encounter at the end of the night that culminates in a minority happy ending.

6. He calls, hangs out with, talks about, thinks about or brings up his mother more than he calls, hangs out with, talks about, thinks about or brings up you.

7. After a social engagement he is able to describe what every female in the room was wearing, with admirable detail, while he has trouble verbally recovering from his wrong answer to your question, “What color are my eyes?”

8. When you start talking his eyes drift to anywhere else and when questioned about it he goes on the defensive, saying why can’t he just be who he is, followed by a tragic story about his wandering eye and how he was teased about it as a kid.

9. He begins a conversation with, “Let’s deal with some things…” and ends it with, “So, we’re good?”

10. You receive a text that shares more information than he is able to share in person and when you comment upon that fact, he says, “I can be more open when I’m not looking at you.”

11. He has defriended you on facebook, but claims it’s a glitch in the system.

12. When other people know you’re breaking up before you know you’re breaking up. (This one may be attributed to my teenaged daughter.)

13. He goes off line the moment you go on, but claims that’s not the case, but that it’s a glitch in the system.

14. His facebook status is “single,” though you know for a fact it said, “in a relationship” when he was with his last girlfriend.

15. You realize he hasn’t initiated any contact in weeks and you entertain the notion that the only reason he’s still seeing you is because you’ve got the flat screen television featured in number 1 above.

If It Please the Court...and anyone else...

December 31, 2009

If It Please The Court…

Jury Duty. Doesn’t just seeing those two words in front of you provide a good case of the heebie-jeebies? Along with tax audit, test results, and license renewal. When I received my jury duty notice I felt like an accused defendant, instead of a prospective juror, but I was eager to report for duty…because I had to. The entire process began with my attempt at securing a parking space that didn’t sport spraypainted words like, “County Employee Only” or “Not For You.” At one point I procured what I thought was an extraordinary parking space -- under a tree, lots of room on either side, walking distance to the courthouse. As I utilized my handy automatic doorlock I happened to glance over and notice some writing on the cement block to which I had nicely lined up my front bumper. I am slightly nearsighted so some minor details escape my attention now and again. As I sashayed on over to take a closer look I noticed “jury commissioner” emblazoned on the marker. I moved my car. Immediately. Because I had to.
As I approached the courtroom I was faced with a line longer than the one for tickets to the “Kiss” Farewell Tour (XXIV). Usually, I don’t even wait in line for things I want, let alone jury duty, but I waited…because I had to. As the earth spun on its axis one more entire revolution I stood there. As luck would have it, I was sandwiched between a woman who had stopped by just to let everyone know she wasn’t able to perform her civic duty because she was sick with an extremely contagious case of something and a gentleman who was just darned excited to be there, even though his digestive problems usually kept him from such outings. Then the clock struck anticlimactic as I checked in with a woman who even pronounced my name correctly.
As I settled in for the wait with a new book I applauded myself for my foresight in packing such a wonderful time passer; however, while reading is a good idea in theory, the clerk’s nasty habit of calling out names every ten seconds put a damper on my enjoyment. Then it was time for a twenty-minute break when I scored a rich, frothy latté, the only problem being it took me nineteen minutes to get it. The bailiff took one look at my cup of latté goodness, shook his head “no” and I gulped down the entire contents in seconds, killing twenty thousand screaming tastebuds in the process. Because I had to.
Next, was the incredibly tedious task of watching the jury selection. The mostly washed masses sat attentively as the judge attempted to determine who was best suited for the job. Now the dance really began, commencing with the most painful question and answer sequence I had witnessed since the one that occurred when my father quizzed my first date about his intentions. This segment might have gone quicker, if not for the judge’s contentious question he asked of a woman with a philosophy degree: “Do you feel you can be a fair and impartial juror?” Hello, and break out the bedrolls. Not so simple when broken down and parsed out by a thinker. This was one complex little situation, at least when viewed from her perspective apparently, and we were forced to live that perspective for a good twenty minutes. I was starting to sweat, my jeans felt tight, and the plot of my book was uninspired. Finally, the judge put the woman out of our misery, telling her that it probably would be best if she took a pass on this particular proceeding. She was dismissed. I heard a collective sigh of relief waft through the courtroom and the air began to circulate again.
The next hour was even more excruciating as one juror after another was excused. I fantasized about hitting one of the attorneys in the back of the head with the wadded up gum wrappers I was accumulating. The real estate lady who everybody in town knew and respected was asked to step down. The zealous older man with whom I had shared line time got to stay. The woman who had proudly proclaimed her marriage to the sheriff barely got the chance to put her purse down when she was excused. As the process dragged on, I began to think that 12 jurors really were too many. I remembered that high school staple of a play, “Twelve Angry Men.” How about “Twelve Angry Men” and one very angry, and hostile middle-aged woman? Couldn’t we be just as efficient with another even number, like, eight? Finally, the last seat sat vacant. We all sat stock still, breathing became labored, if not non-existent. One of us would have to fill that seat and it felt as though it was the electric chair, rather than an opportunity for public service.
I heard a name called. Not a female name. Not me. It was a male name. They didn’t object to him, the way he dressed, what he had for breakfast, or his career choice. I stepped out into the sunshine a free woman. Unlike high school basketball, I was happy not to be chosen, and as I made my way out of the courthouse, I expressed my exhilaration by doing the touchdown dance in front of the bailiff. Because I had to.

Link to essay that ran on October 24, 2009

http://www.theunion.com/article/20091024/OPINION/910239987/1024/WAP&parentprofile=1056&template=WAP

A Humorous Take on Taking Home Economics...Nineteen-Seventies Style!

December 29, 2009

What follows is a humor column that ran in my local paper, The Union, back in September of 2009. Though the intention was to provide a humorous take on my own taking of a Home Economics class back when I was a wee lass in junior high school, a couple of folks seemed to see it as a slam against providing just such a class at all. That was not my line of thinking, but rather my thoughts -- and writing -- had intended to poke fun at my own rather inept attempts at gaining sewing and cooking chops. (We didn't cook chops...well, you get what I mean.) The column ended up serving a dual purpose in writing and perspective. Besides chronicling my Home Economics lessons in a marginally humorous way, I gained the added lesson about perspective and, let's face it, perspective is the lesson that keeps on giving, far beyond any other.

Jump-er Start

I’m convinced that an entire generation of baby boomer women were permanently scarred when they were forced to take “Home Ec” in school. HOME ECONOMICS. Just seeing those words in print reminds me of its unwelcome appearance on my junior high school schedule.
The girls all knew Home Ec was ahead, looming like some sort of rabid wild animal, threatening us on our path to womanhood. We understood that we had to take this class, as surely as the boys understood that they had to take Wood Shop and court the disaster that was the bandsaw. We also courted physical harm with the equally dangerous female version – the double boiler.
This looming disaster of a curriculum was divided into two equally terrifying units – cooking (or “burning” as it should have been more aptly renamed) and sewing. It was the latter that would burn a hole in my emotional psyche as surely as the double boiler burned a hole in my binder full of recipes, but a close second was the first unit -- Cooking.
We were to prepare a myriad of invaluable meal staples, such as hot chocolate made in a – yep, you guessed it – double boiler, long cooking oatmeal and cake, from “scratch,“ and the piece de resistance – biscuits which doubled as paperweights. To nicely compliment the stereotypical stew that was the cooking unit, we were expected to serve our homemade gruel to the football players who would eat anything. Usually. Evidently with the one exception of food fixed by “yours truly.” According to the female training standards of the time – cooking, cleaning, sewing and subservience – I was certainly no catch. On to the second unit which undid me early on, when we utilized “Simplicity” patterns that were anything but, although the goal seemed simple enough.
We were expected to make a ghastly blue serge jumper, complete with buttonholes, piping, stitching and, yes, darts. I knew I was in big trouble right after reading the step one pattern directions which intoned, “a double pointed straight dart is made exactly like a single straight dart, except that you start at the center of the dart and stitch to the tip.” Huh?
My finished monstrosity had two uneven straps, a button bursting off of the shoulder as though it were spring-loaded, and uneven stitching, complete with darts made so puffy by irregular sewing that it appeared as though someone was already wearing the jumper and they had a chest, rendering the darts necessary. It was my fervent desire to make short shrift of the short shift, but there was one problem. In order to pass the class, we were required to model our fabulous creations in a fashion show that would take place during one of our notoriously raucous junior high school assemblies. Sheer bliss.
Fashion Show Day dawned much as any day does when you feel as though you’ll die if it arrives. It dawned. I didn’t die. Physically. I’m not sure what the weather was like, what day of the week it was or how my hair looked. What I can tell you is what I was wearing – my homemade blue serge jumper. That day I made my way through the stage curtains, head held high, and I kept my eye on the prize. The stairs at the end of the runway.
All I had to do was proceed through the curtains, walk approximately five feet upstage, make a turn and then continue what seemed like a mere 17,000 miles to the end of the runway and I’d be home free. No problem.
I began my journey. I even managed to look at the audience and have a bit of fun as I executed a jaunty turn. One turn down and only 16,999 more miles to go. I was almost there, too, when it happened. The jumper began to fall apart right in front of, if not my personal eyes, certainly everyone else’s eyes. I was, literally, coming apart at the seams. I needed to hurry, so I kicked it into high gear. Platform shoes. That’s what tripped me up in the end.
I managed to catch myself before I could show the entire student body my student body, thereby proving that I had heeded my mother’s advice and was wearing clean underwear. I also managed to retain a shred of my dignity, along with the shreds of my dress, by holding on to everything -- the jumper, the stage, this hideous memory.
The rest of the show was comparatively uneventful. As I left the scene of the shortest modeling career in history, my Home Ec teacher, Mrs. Price, buttonholed me by asking if she could keep my jumper as an example for future classes. I never did ask her if it was an example of what they should or shouldn’t do. That was more information than I needed.

Greetings from Ms. Write on Her Maiden Vogage Into Blog World!

Greetings from Ms. Write during this, my maiden vogage into BlogWorld!

I'm glad you kept reading, even though you saw that dreaded exclamation mark, which is usually the hallmark of an insufferably energetic scribner. I'll try to use those puppies judiciously.

I've been writing since I learned what cursive meant and I plan on continuing for as long as the vowels and consonants cooperate and form marginally amusing, mostly understandable sentences. I am a humor columnist, comedienne, teacher, published author, and former broadcast journalist so, in short, it would appear that perhaps I'm unable to keep a job?!

Writing is how I make sense of the world and this most auspicious of occasions -- Christmas Eve of 2009 -- marks a wedge of time during which I've been offered an opportunity to reflect upon the things I love to do...ergo the writing of a blog. Sometimes we don't exactly get to plan how these reflective times are presented to us and that seems to be the case with me. (Don't you just love a good mystery?) Just suffice it to say that the end product, the opportunity to have a thought or three, is not a bad thing. Not at all.

During the course of writing this blog I'll be sharing all of those tidbits you thought you could live without, like 2,010 ways to save money or "live on the cheap," pithy asides, as well as my writings related to living life on life's terms.

I hope you'll join me on this journey where I discover something...perhaps my long-lost metabolism...perhaps my sanity...perhaps my giddy belief that home is where the writing is. {:-)

Website: www.dianedeanepps.com