Summer is fast approaching. It is the most dreaded season of the year for those of us who are a bit fluffy and seasoned. To add to my dismay, I opened the morning news to discover a twelve year old, wearing a swimsuit, advertised in the Misses section of the store.
I think most women dread this time of year and the annual swimsuit purchase. Even my skinny friends manage to conjure up an eighth of an inch of cellulose that manages to triple in size in the dressing room mirror. Locating a suit that conceals a shape reminiscent of a ’57 Studebaker is next to impossible. Forget what you read about skirted suits; they conceal nothing. You look like a beach umbrella gone rogue. The high cut leg is touted as slimming. Wanna bet? They display more of the thighs you wanted to hide in the first place. A patterned midriff style does not conceal love handles. You look like a blob wearing your Aunt Gertie’s 1948 sofa throw.
Settling for a completely black number that covers most of the horrors, you proceed to the dressing room. Once you have stripped down to the point where you can try on the suit, you notice a warning posted on the dressing room wall….”These rooms are monitored.” Oh please God, say it isn’t so. A total stranger is watching everything you so desperately want to conceal. Someone is actually going to see you struggle, without a shoehorn, to get the blasted suit on and in place.Where oh where is the camera? Oh, it’s that little black glass do-hickey up in the ceiling where you can’t reach it or cover it with an item of clothing you just removed. I imagine someone in a cube in India bent double with laughter at my tortured attempts to wriggle into a new swimsuit. At least if you go to the beach or the pool you can hide under a huge beach towel until you are in the water.
Facing the horror of the swimsuit try on is an exercise in character development for women of a certain age. We are never going to look like that mal-nourished waif in the swimsuit advertisement.I’m hitting the pool as soon as the clock strikes midnight!
Last week on my trek to purchase groceries, I could not locate the Blue Plate mayo. My heart sank. This was worse than giving up cigarettes. I actually panicked. I eased my knobby knees to the lower shelf to paw among the goods. What a relief. There it was, tucked behind several other brands.
I grew up in a household that did not use mayonnaise. Our family used Miracle Stuff, which is akin to glue according to my taste buds. My grandmother introduced me to the joy of Blue Plate mayonnaise. Her culinary skills could morph Blue Plate into hollandaise sauce, dressing for potato salad and sandwiches. Once you’ve tasted Blue Plate you’re an addict for life.
Wouldn’t you know the Yankee I married preferred Miracle Stuff. I discovered he used ketchup on ham and hot dogs. This insult to hot dogs was compounded by the addition of sweet relish. No self-respecting southerner uses anything but mustard on ham. We know ketchup belongs on meatloaf and French fries, but not ham. Sweet relish and ketchup on a hotdog is heresy.
Blue Plate was not widely available where we lived, so I plodded along for years using the other mayo along with Miracle Stuff until on a visit to Biloxi, Miss I rediscovered Blue Plate. Appearing in big bold letters on the menu “made with Blue Plate Mayonnaise”. It was Nirvana. Tasted just as good as I remembered and I gained ten pounds.
Once you have had Blue Plate, nothing else will do. To the other addict who hid the Blue Plate: I thank you for not buying the last jar, but in the spirit of sharing hid it instead.
For the second time in less than six months, the Mafioso red-light camera installed at a major thoroughfare nailed me. I could appeal the fine, but that really isn’t cost effective. This is legal extortion.
The city mails your citation that provides a website for you to watch the video of your offense. The video would support my claim that the light changed, as I was one fourth through my right hand turn. My options were to pass safely through a changing yellow light on a right hand turn or risk being rammed by the three other vehicles behind me.
These drivers turned on the light that turned red immediately after my right turn. One of the cars sported a popular and highly regarded auto insurance logo plastered all over the car. I’m not saying which auto insurance company, but its spokesperson is female, with big red lips and snappy banter.
The argument is the cameras are beneficial and free law enforcement officers to monitor locations that are more dangerous.
If so, why are they never around to see people running red lights at four way intersections? Why don’t they see people turning right or left from the center lane? Try finding an officer when some idiot eases over into my lane while talking on the cell phone.
I might feel better if the ticket proceeds were used to maintain streets in the neighborhood where the traffic camera is located. That isn’t happening in my neighborhood. There is a crater at the end of my street that would hold a SUV…….or a traffic camera.
Mea Culpa? Maybe