A woman calls a Contractor to her house to give her a bid on painting the interior of her house. She takes him into the first room and tells him that she wants it painted pale green. The contractor writes something down on his notepad, goes over to the window and yells down “green side up”. The homeowner takes him into the next room and tells him that she would like it painted rose colored. The contractor again notes it on his note pad, goes over to the window and opens it. He then yells down “green side up”. The woman was curious, but continued to show him the rest of the house. In each room the contractor notes her color choice on his notepad and yells out the window “green side up”. When the homeowner had completed the tour, she asked the contractor why he always yelled “green side up” when she told him her color choice, when the colors were all different. He laughed and replied I have a crew of blondes across the street laying sod.
The time in our doctor’s waiting room became unexpectedly enjoyable as we sat with an elderly lady and her family. No one had said much beyond “Good morning” till the elderly lady asked her daughter to push her closer so she could admire the ornaments on the tree The doctor had so generously decorated for her patients’ pleasure. She laughed and said, “I am eighty-three years old. I’ve come all the way from chopping wood to people walking on the moon. Oh, I’ve chopped lots of wood.” As she talked on, she cackled as she told this one. “I’ve milked many a cow in my time, many a cow. I remember one time, I was ‘a milking two titties and a pig was ‘a sucking on the other side.” She had us all laughing along with her. We would have loved to spend the rest of the day with her. What a wonderful visit we had!
Mother was a true Daughter of the Bible Belt. Daddy was a man of the “Old South. Mother’s regular days were demanding, but preparation for Sundays were grueling. There were five children in our family;two older girls, the “big” girls then my brother, each three years apart. When my brother was five, my parents got reacquainted and had two more girls about a year apart, known as “little” girls. I quickly noticed the little girls had made a better decision than I when joining the family lineup. Their role was to be sweetly precious while the “big” girls were promoted to unpaid household help; sweeping, mopping, cooking, cleaning, evening farm chores. I didn’t care for any of those things, but of course, I was conscripted, not a volunteer.
Mother’s life was unenviable by most standards. When her normal duties on late Saturday were done, it was time for us to get shoes polished, clothes starched and ironed, and baths and pin-curling done. I would have gladly foregone the torture of having my fine, lank hair slimed up with Dippity-Do, but my opinion was irrelevant. She hated having her girls show up on Sunday with stringy hair. Mother clenched me between her knees, wound my pre-slimed hair tightly around her finger and slid in criss-crossed Bobby -Pins to hold the recalcitrant curls in place. The pins wouldn’t have goudged a groove as they slid in had I had resisted the temptation to bite the plastic tips off the pins, but alas, I was a slow learner. The pin-curled mess was wrapped snugly in a scarf overnight to keep curls from working loose, leaving one straight sprig claiming independence from it’s frazzled friends. I hated the curly do that taunted me in the mirror the next morning. I can’t imagine why anyone would go to all the trouble to look so awful.
Pretty often, Daddy threw a monkey wrench into Mother’s organization by electing to take us all to visit his family until late Saturday evening, often not getting us home until long after all the kids had slumped into deep sleep. As he approached home, he threw the car windows open to shock the us awake since he didn’t like carrying somnolent kids in. Unwashed kids with dirty feet tumbled into bed in their clothes. Beds would be stripped Monday.
I was grateful to forego hairdos when we were out late. Kids got spitbaths after a quick breakfast That left Saturday night’s shoe-polishing, a panicked job before Sunday school. Without fail, at least one shoe went missing, ensuring a wild search. It was almost unheard of for all pairs to be found resting cozily together under the edge of the bed as they should have been. The shoe might have escaped to the fartherest corner of the house, yard, or perhaps been kicked off in the car. While Sunday School lessons read, offering nickels were stuffed in Sunday School Collection Envelopes. Amidst this mayhem, Mother or one of her lacksadaicsical lackies had to draw Daddy’s bath, and put the soap,washcloth, towel, and church clothes out. He always dawdled over coffee, late to his bath. We alway left late for church with him preaching all the way to church because “Y’all made me late! You need to get organized!” the perfect start to a lovely Sunday. I
Two senior ladies met for the first time since graduating from high school. One asked the other, “You were always so organized in school, did you manage to live a well planned life?”
“Oh yes,” said her friend. “My first marriage was to a millionaire; my second marriage was to an actor; ,my third marriage was to a preacher; and now I’m married to an undertaker.”
Her friend asked, “What do those marriages have to do with a well planned life?” ”One for the money, two for the show. three to get ready and four to go.”
A retired gentleman went to apply for Social Security.
After waiting in line for hours, he finally arrived at the counter. The woman behind the counter asked for his identification to verify his age and, after looking in his pockets, he realized that he’d left his wallet at home. “Will I have to go home and get it?” he asked.
The woman said “Unbutton your shirt.”
He opened his shirt revealing lots of curly silver hair.”That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me,” she said and processed his Social Security application.
When he got home, the man told his wife about his experience at the Social Security office, and she said “You should have dropped your pants — you might have qualified for disability, too.”
An elderly woman decided to prepare her will and make her final requests. She told her rabbi she had two final requests. First, she wanted to be cremated, and second, she wanted her ashes scattered in Bloomingdales.
“Bloomingdales!” the rabbi exclaimed. “Why Bloomingdales?”
“It’s the only way I can be sure my daughters will visit me twice a week.”
An old woman was walking along the street when she heard a voice telling her …”YOU WILL LIVE TO BE OVER 100.” She looked around, but no one else seemed to have heard the voice. Then she heard it again, “YOU WILL LIVE TO BE OVER 100.” Again she looked around, and again, no one else seemed to have heard anything. Convinced it was The Lord speaking to her, and figuring since the Lord had told her she would live to be 100 she’d better do something to make herself look better, she made an appointment with a plastic surgeon, and scheduled a face lift, a tummy tuck, liposuction, breast implants, and a nose job.
After healing from all the operations and looking years younger, she decided to go shopping. While crossing the street, she was hit by a bus and killed instantly. When she got to heaven, she asked the Lord, “Why did I die? You told me I was going to live to be more than 100?” God looked at her and replied … “Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t recognize you.”
An old man decided his old wife was getting hard of hearing.
So he called her doctor to make an appointment to have her hearing checked. The Doctor said he could see her in two weeks, and meanwhile there’s a simple, informal test the husband could do to give the doctor some idea of the dimensions of the problem.”Here’s what you do. Start about 40 feet away from her, and speak in a normal conversational tone and see if she hears you. If not, go to 30 feet, then 20 feet, and so on until you get a response.”
So that evening she’s in the kitchen cooking dinner, and he’s in the living room, and he says to himself,”I’m about 40 feet away, let’s see what happens.”
“Honey, what’s for supper?” No response.
So he moves to the other end of the room, about 30 feet away.
“Honey, what’s for supper?” No response.
So he moves into the dining room, about 20 feet away.
“Honey, what’s for supper?” No response.
On to the kitchen door, only 10 feet away.
“Honey, what’s for supper?”. No response.
So he walks right up behind her.
“Honey, what’s for supper?”
“For the FIFTH time, CHICKEN!!!!”
An elderly couple was on a cruise and it was really stormy. They were standing on the back of the boat watching the moon, when a wave came up and washed the old man overboard. They searched for days and couldn’t find him, so the Captain sent the old woman back to shore, with the promise that he would notify her as soon as they found something.
Three weeks went by and finally, the old woman got a fax from the boat. It read: Ma’am, sorry to inform you that we found your husband dead, at the bottom of the ocean. We hauled him up to the deck, and attached to his butt was an oyster, and inside it was a pearl worth $50,000 …. please advise.
The old woman faxed back: Send me the pearl and re-bait the trap.
What is the best thing about being senile?
You can hide your own Easter eggs.
A senior citizen was driving home on the freeway when his cellphone rang. Answering, he heard his wife’s voice urgently warning him, “Herman, I just heard on the news that there’s a car going the wrong way on 280. Please be careful!”
“Hell,” said Herman, “It’s not just one car. It’s hundreds of them!”
How do you know when you’re getting older?
Everything hurts and what doesn’t hurt, doesn’t work. Getting lucky means you find your car in the parking lot. The gleam in your eyes is from the sun hitting your bifocals. Your knees buckle and your belt won’t. Those issues of Reader’s Digest just can’t come fast enough. You hear your favorite song on the elevator at work. You give up all your bad habits and you still don’t feel good. Dialing long distance wears you out. You’re the one calling the police because those damn kids next door don’t know how to turn down the stereo. You actually want socks for Christmas. You and your teeth don’t sleep together. After painting the town red, you have to take a long rest before applying a second coat. The little gray-haired lady you help across the street is your wife. There’s nothing left to learn the hard way. Your little black book contains only names ending in M.D.
70-year-old George went for his annual physical. He told the doctor that he felt fine, but often had to go to the bathroom during the night. Then he said, “But you know Doc, I’m blessed. God knows my eyesight is going, so he puts on the light when I pee, and turns it off when I’m done!”
A little later in the day, Dr. Smith called George’s wife and said, “Your husband’s test results were fine, but he said something strange that has been bugging me. He claims that God turns the light on and off for him when uses the bathroom at night.”
Thelma exclaimed, “That old fool! He’s been peeing in the refrigerator again!”
My children took frequently took advantage of one of my fatal discipline flaws. Should their behavior cross the line and require discipline, activating my funny bone rendered me useless. The pastor in our small Methodist Church offered healing by laying on of hands at the end of the regular Sunday Service. I suspect that was one of the few times John, age ten, had ever listened. He made a move as though he were heading to the front. I was totally surprised, and caught his arm, thinking he’d misunderstood
”Where are you going?” I asked.
”I’ve got a heat rash!” He giggled.
”Sit down.” He got me
Joe and his wife were working in their garden one day when looks over at Betty and says: “Your butt is really big, I mean really big! I bet your butt is bigger than the barbecue.” With that he proceeded to get a measuring tape and measure the grill and then went over to where his Betty was working and measured her bottom. “Yes, I was right, your butt is two inches wider than the barbecue!!!!” Betty chooses to ignore Joe. Later that night in bed, he is feeling a little frisky. He makes some advances towards his wife who completely brushes him off. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Betty answers: “Do you really think I’m going to fire up this big-ass grill for one little weenie?”
In the unlikely event I’ve not mentioned this before, I was raised Southern Baptist in Louisiana back in the fifties. That theology would pretty much pass for Christian Evangelical now, not to mention the “What will the neighbors think?” factor. No drinking, dancing, or provocative dress such as short or tight skirts, shorts, or swimsuits for women or girls. Most church members gave lip service to the rules and went on their way, but my Dad fervently embraced any rule that backed him up in rendering his daughter’s lives joyless.
Fortunately, it wasn’t one of those extreme cults that required long hair, dresses for girls, and no makeup, a fact I was truly thankful for. I soon understood that most sin resulted from trashy women leading men astray since “boys will be boys.” The subject of sex was off limits, except in sermons with scriptures and admonitions against fornication and iniquity, which flew way over my head as a young child. After a tentative question or two that seemed headed toward sex, I learned “That’s none of your business.” That was wildly incongruous coupled with the admonition we could talk to our parents about anything. I soon learned any question had consequences. By the time I actually garnered any true information about sex, I had amassed a fascinating compendium of misinformation from my friends, who were as clueless as I.
Way too many times, Mother rushed to turn the television off if it appeared a woman was about to go into labor. Should Red Skelton get too risque, the screen went black, which was a real shame, since we had no idea what he was referring to. The point was, anything suggesting sex was a sin. That promiscuous laboring woman and the evil Red Skelton had to be punished.
Fun was suspect, particularly fun not experienced and executed under the watchful eyes of a parent or stuffy chaperone at the youth group. I soon learned it was a sin to even ask about attending a dance or the school’s end of year party at the lake. “Don’t you have any morals?”
I knew better than to give a truthful response, “uh…..no. I just want to go the party or go swimming with the other kids.”
Nubile girls parading around in the modest swimsuits of the sixties was sure to incite uncontrollable lust in the hearts of schoolboys. Hayrides were pure iniquity. Imagine carelessly throwing boys and girls together to ride around on a wagon full of hay after dark unleashing their devilish hormones!
When you live in the South and visit old folks in the country, the first thing you have to do is admire their garden. If you run out of excuses, you’ll come home with a “mess of greens.” I hate dealing with greens. For the unenlightened, greens include turnips, collards, or mustard greens. Boiled down low, with a bit of pork, and garnished with a splash of “pepper sauce,” greens make a delicious meal. A true connoisseur polishes off by sopping up the juice, or pot-liquor with cornbread. If you’re above the Mason-Dixon Line, try a roll. That’s the happy ending.
Now, we get down to the nitty gritty, literally. Greens have to be “looked and washed.” The first step is dispossessing the wildlife who habituate greens. Nobody wants to find half a worm or a cluster of bug eggs in their pot-liquor. You have to give both sides of each rumpled leaf a good look, wash, and then rinse copiously. I’d heard the glorious news that greens could be washed in the washing machine, cutting down tremendously on prep time.
The next time Bud visited an elderly family member, he came back wagging a bag of greens. I didn’t moan like normal, having recently heard the good news that greens could be washed in the washing machine. As usual, the basic information registered, not the total technique. I loaded the washer with dirty greens and detergent and hit the start button. Quite a while later, the alarm sounded, and I went to retrieve my sparkling greens. Alas, no greens remained, just a few tough stems and a few bits of leaves. A follow-up conversation with my friend revealed that I should have only washed them on gentle and not continue on to spend.
Though I hoped he’d forget, Bud came in that night expecting greens. I feigned innocence. “What greens?” It didn’t fly. “The greens I brought in yesterday.” It’s hard to come up with an excuse how precious greens went missing. I gave up and told the truth, though I don’t like worrying Bud stuff with that gets his blood pressure up. I’m considerate that way.
“They went down the drain.”
“How in the Hell did they go down the drain?” I don’t know why he gets all up in my housekeeping and cooking business. “
“They just did. Now don’t keep asking nosy questions!” “
“Exactly what drain and how did that happen?” “
“The washing machine drain.” I
I hoped if I answered matter-of-factly, he’d move on. I didn’t work. “
“You put greens in the washing machine? What in the Hell were you thinking?” I
I hate it when he apes back what I’ve just said. I’ve told him it gets on my nerves. “It takes forever to look and wash greens. Jenny told me she puts hers in the washer and it works great. I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to put them through spin.”
“Grouch, grouch, grouch @^%&( , #@$%! Don’t ever put )(^%&# greens in the washer, again!”
“Okay, okay. Don’t go on forever about it. I get tired of your nagging” Since then I’ve been careful not to spin them. It works great.