Wednesday, January 08, 2014

D-I-Y Me?

A little stroll through the aisles of your local pharmacy makes it clear that we have now entered the wonderful world of medical do-it-yourself-ism.  There are test kits for everything from warts to pregnancy.  DIY health care is sure to save millions of dollars in unnecessary co-pays to doctors, but there’s a darker side to this story. 

 "Uh, hello?  I just used your "So You Think You Have a Brain Tumor" test kit and I think I... What?  State my symptoms?  Well, ok.  Excruciating pain in the left side of my frontal lobe, seeing flashing lights and, oooohhh…paaasssingggg…ooouut…”

“Whoopsie, that was a close one.   Now where was I?  Oh, yes, flashing lights, vomiting and severe ringing in my ears.  The test kit says I most likely have a brain tumor. The cute little picture of the brain turned pink when I…well, you know.” 

“What?  Cough into the phone?  But I don't need to cough?  A matter of routine?  Alright, if you say so.  Aaahemm, aaahemm!  I'm sorry, that's the best I can do, I really don't feel a need to cough.  It's just that I used your brain tumor kit from the drug store and it came up positive, so I figured I'd better call and find out what to do next before it gets worse.” 

“Place two fingers on the carotid artery?  I think my arteries are good.  It’s just I've got a big presentation due on Monday at work and I don't want to be passing out in front of the suits from corporate, so I...  What’s that?  Prick my finger and time how fast the blood clots?  Are you kidding?  For a brain tumor?” 

“Hey, wait, is this the right number?  I dialed the number on the back of the kit like it said.  This IS the right number?   And don't forget to sterilize the lancet?  Cheesy crackers!  What lancet?  I don't have a lancet.  Can I use a really sharp fork?  I've got a really sharp fork here in the drawer, but there's crusted egg yolk on it, can you wait a minute while I wash it off?  I'm putting you on hold, don't hang up, ok, don't hang up.”

“You're not ‘programmed’ to hold?  Heeey, am I talking to a real person?  Well, you don’t sound like it.  Ok, ok, don’t get huffy.  You say I should use the complimentary lancet in the test kit?  I didn’t see a lancet in the box?  Oh, here it…yikes, this sucker's sharp!  Crap!  Can you hold, I just stuck myself with your stupid lancet and…  What?  Oh yeah, duh, start timing, right.  No, I don't have a watch with a second hand.  Alright, alright.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

“Ok, fifteen minutes and…and…forty-seven seconds.  Now what, I‘m getting pretty light-headed here?  What?  Did I remember to sterilize the lancet?  Oh, crap... What’s that you say?  For my convenience, there's a nice selection of  ‘So You Think You Have Tetnus’ test kits at my local pharmacy?  Yeah, thanks, you have a nice day, too.”

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Thursday, December 31, 2009

Low-tech Entertainment for a
Dark Night
Call me crazy, but I enjoy a lengthy power outage now and then. Especially on a warm summer night when you can step outside and experience true, natural darkness…then plummet off the unseen edge of the porch. 

In our house, within the first few seconds of an outage, someone will invariably make this astute observation, “uh-oh, power’s out,” then the family sits pinned to their seats or holds themselves mid-step like kids playing statue tag. 

Only when it’s certain that this one isn’t just a flicker, do I get up to find a flashlight or start fumbling around in a dark refrigerator for stubby candles. I read once that they burn slower when kept cold. I’ve never forgotten that. I’ve forgotten my long-suffering hubby left standing outside the grocery store, literally holding the bag, on several occasions, but I’ll always remember how to store candles.

The next line uttered comes from my husband, “don’t hold the fridge door open, you’ll let all the cold out!” Ceremoniously, I scoop up the cold that has escaped out onto the kitchen floor and stuff it back into the fridge. No one sees my sarcasm in the dark. 

I find the junk drawer and rummage for the weather radio. An incentive gift for opening a bank account. (I had hoped for cash.) My fingers pass over sprung clothespins, a handful of dead batteries waiting for miraculous resurrections, tangles of rubber bands, screwdrivers I’ve hidden from my husband because I’ve used them for stirring paint and fourteen tubes of Super Gloo that have glued themselves together. 

There it is--I can tell by the bumpy texture on the front where all the little holes are for the speaker. This pocket-sized radio has always been there in the junk drawer and comes out only for occasions such as these. And it always takes me back. 

I’m from the generation that brought you the transistor radio. I had several between the ages of nine and sixteen. They were made of cheap plastic (is there any other kind?) in a variety of pastel colors and had a little loop of cord for a handle. It had a chrome antennae that was completely useless. I pulled it up anyhow and pointed it to the south, to the north, out the window, and wrapped it with twists of tin foil in the hopes of bringing in a clear signal. 

This kind of transistor, usually found in my Christmas stockings, didn’t come with earphones. But they were just the right size for slipping under my pillow after my mother had told me, “turn it off and get to sleep and I’m not kidding this time, do you hear me?” 
So, with one ear pressed into a flat feather pillow (best for OVP, optimum volume penetration), I could listen until Johnny Carson came on out in the living room, or until the batteries went dead, whichever came first. 

It was back in those days that I came up with a game that I still enjoy today when we are fortunate enough to have an extended power outage. In the 60’s the rules to the game were simple; all I could bring in were AM stations. As one would fizzle out, I’d tune in to another. Not knowing, in the dark, what station it was or where its signal was coming from, I would try to figure out what town or state I had magically pulled into the little plastic radio under my pillow. 

It usually went like this. I hear a commercial to advertise a sale at a department store on Gulf Boulevard and I’d know right away that I was listening to the station just across the bay in St. Pete, in my own home state of Florida. That was an easy one. So now the score would be 1-nothing. My favor.

I would turn the tiny, saw-toothed wheel of the tuner and through the static and squeal I would find another station, the announcer’s accent thick and slow. Ok, deep south, maybe Georgia. Talking about textile factory workers. Now we’re narrowing in. The music is George Jones and then a message from the Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church. There will be a quilting bee this Saturday. Bring your own thread and thimble. Back to the music...Porter Wagoner sings about love gone wrong. Now, the DJ gives it away by saying the call letters, WWGA in Atlanta. No score.

Turning the dial again with the flat of my thumb, I would find the Grand Ole Opry. Way to easy. I move on. The next one is going to be tough. No accent. This DJ had obviously been to disc jockey school. He had one of those generic “I come from nowhere” kind of voices. But he does give me a clue. He tells his listeners that there’s pike action out on Erie. Now, we’re getting somewhere. I would call out, “Momma, what states border on Lake Erie?”

“New York, Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania, now turn that radio off, I’m not going to tell you again!”

It wouldn’t have been fair to take a point for that one. I had help.

Thirty years later, my game is played with head phones and a remote control. But a good outage gives me an excuse to roll through the AM stations again. Mostly it’s talk shows now and they identify themselves about every 15 seconds. Very little music. The game is much easier these days.
But some things remain the same. I can still pull in a farm report from Minnesota. Complete milking herd for sale...see Carl Olafson...first cutting hay...hothouse lambs selling well. I pick up the DEC hunting and fishing news from the county next door. March 16 closes coyote trout action on Seneca...wooly boogers working well for bait.

This latest outage has lasted a long time. A big storm has brought down wires all over the county. The whistle at the fire hall sounded five times in the last three hours. There’s not a volunteer in ten miles that hasn’t heard it. Moving candlelight can be seen through the windows of our neighbor’s homes like something from a black and white horror movie. I expect Vincent Price to appear at my door any minute now. 

We’ve grown tired of Scrabble by candlelight and my husband has gone to bed an hour and a half earlier than he has to. I’ve tried to read holding a flashlight between my teeth until I thought I felt the crown on my back molar prying loose. I've given up and gone back to my old game. I take off my headphones and call out to the bedroom, “Dan, what towns border on Seneca Lake?”

“Geneva, Willard, Watkins Glen...why?”

“Just wondering, thanks.” 

I don’t take a point on this one either.


Friday, October 23, 2009

Bathtub Blues, The Final Chapter

You may be wondering about the next episode in my battle for bathtub supremacy. And then again, you may not, if you’re a person with better things to do, but just in case you are, you’ll be glad to know I have prevailed. Huzzah!

(crowds cheering, trumpet fanfare blowing)

However, this also means this will be the last installment of Bathtub Blues. There there now, let’s not get all weepy. I’m sure, before too long, I’ll have another, even more ridiculous problem to harp on and fill a column with. Ah, free press. You gotta love it.

So will this little tale have a happy ending? Absolutely. When something is driving me crazy, I will ferret around until I find a solution. I will research, I will investigate, and generally worry the subject into submission. Or I’ll just get distracted along the way and wind up with a new passion not even remotely related to my original quest. But hey, at least I’m never bored.

To bring those readers up to date that may not have been tuned in for the previous episodes of Bathtub Blues, I had been having some difficulties due to the fact that my clawfoot tub was an unusually small one, and there was no way to avoid shower curtain adherence to the ankles, which gives me the heebie jeebies and has led to a raging case of vinylhydrophobia.

Also, there was no room to have that leisurely bath that you see people having in the movies. (You know the kind. About three feet of steamy water, bubbles up to the chin. A candle here and there, Debussy’s Clair de Lune playing softly in the background, and an entire family waiting outside the bathroom door. “Ma, are you finished yet?!”)

In the last episode, our heroine (that would be me) cleverly solved the shower curtain dilemma with clothespins, but the tub was still the size of the average kitchen sink. I remember bathing my babies, as do many of you, in the kitchen sink. But this is not practical with adults. You’re sure to bump your head on the cabinets above. And then there’s that little matter of the window that’s usually right behind the sink. But, as usual, I digress.

To summarize for those of you who missed Episodes I & II: small tub, large heroine, something’s gotta give.

Then my good friend Tricia introduced me to one of the neatest places in Rochester. It’s called ReHouse. An architectural salvage store that reclaims cool stuff from old buildings and sells it out of their oddball place on East Main St. Tricia said they had tubs. Lots of tubs.

Music to my ears.

We took a little trip to ReHouse, and there it was. The tub of my dreams.

Because they are a We Buy, We Sell, kind of place, I asked how much they would give me for my tiny clawfoot tub. They were only too happy to take it as a trade-in on the bigger model.

So before I left the store I did what anyone would do when buying a new tub. I took it for a test drive. Well, maybe I ought to say, a dry run.

I got into the driver’s seat, got behind the wheel, checked the instrument panel, and propped my arm up on the edge. Yep, it was a perfect fit. I climbed out for a check of the undercarriage. Nice, no rust.

And of course, the last thing I did, I went around and kicked all the claw feet.

Yes, this was the one. It even had that new car sme…, I mean, that old tub smell. Cast iron and porcelain. Ahhh…

It’s been a few months since I took delivery of the new, old tub and I’ve put quite a few miles on it since then. I hardly ever have an attack of the heebie jeebies anymore, my therapist says my vinylhydrophobia is just about under control, and best of all, there’s plenty of room for leisurely baths.

Yep, it’s just like in the movies. “Alright, already, I'm almost finished!”

image courtesy FCIT

Friday, March 20, 2009

Put Down The Quarters, And Step Away From The Dryer

For many years, before city water came to my rural community, our well went dry with the regularity of someone on Metamucil, forcing me to undertake the loathsome chore of Laundromat Duty.

This was similar in many ways to military K.P., however, there was no dog-faced drill sergeant pointing out a mountain of spuds waiting to be peeled. Instead, there were several children who had worn the same jeans for so long one could stand them up in a corner for the night (the jeans, not the kids). And maybe, there was a husband with a few tender words. He took my hand, looked into my eyes and said...

“Honey, dinner was great and the candles were a lovely touch, but this is my last pair of clean underwear.”

My options at this point were few.
1. Down to the creek to beat seventeen loads on a flat rock. 2. Hire someone else to do the wash at a rate high enough to buy new wardrobes.
3. Face the music and haul three-week’s-worth of ripe laundry to the local Wash-a-teria.

Great. Saturday morning at the laundromat.

As usual, the bleach spilled in the car and formed yet another pink amoebae-shaped blotch on our otherwise burgundy upholstery.

And upon arrival, like every time before, there was no one around when I needed help schlepping the behemoth baskets through the door. Yet, like magic, as soon as I did, the place filled up while I played doorman for everyone else. I watched my washers get pirated by a sweet, little ninety-year-old who told me she only had a few dainties to do.

Then, there was the question of etiquette. Should one introduce oneself to one’s laundromat mates? Who speaks first? Should one speak at all, given the fact that the guy hypnotically watching his army blanket twirl around in the dryer, is a dead ringer for Charles Manson out on a weekend pass and looking edgy?

I chose to talk to a five year old whose mother (the one smoking two Camels simultaneously and chugging a 32 oz. Red Bull) snapped at her daughter, “Don’t talk to strange people!”

The first order of business (after the lady with my washers was finished with her dainties) was making change in the innocent looking dollar-changing machine where I spent the next thirty minutes in a battle of wills, flattening and re-flattening my bills, in hopes that the evil contraption would accept them and give me my quarters. This can be very hard on those already suffering from low self-esteem. One must try not to take it personally, it’s your money that’s being rejected, not you.

When my wash was finally in, I realized I had left my book at home. How to amuse myself for the next two hours? There was always the complimentary reading material, Newsweek, vintage 1983, pages stuck together with a scary gelatinous substance vaguely resembling FlufferNutter.

Eventually, my attention was diverted (halleluia!) by my machine lurching out of its place from the orderly line against the wall, like a soldier gone berserk--breaking ranks. I pretended I didn’t notice until all my ‘mat-mates had, in turn, mumbled “not mine.”

I stood in front of it, tried to stare it down. There was nothing else to do, of course, since it was one of those washers that, until it's finished, is sealed tighter than the lips of the folks who know which contestant will be kicked off of Idol next week.

Trying to push it back into place could be fatal, so I stared at it a while longer and muttered something astute like “stupid machine.”
(Note to reader: Make sure at least one other person hears you, this absolves you from any further responsibility.)

The final indignation was the THIRTY SECOND WAITING PERIOD AFTER THE WASHER HAS STOPPED BEFORE YOU CAN OPEN THE DOOR rule. What could possibly happen if it’s opened before the little red light goes out? One might be sucked in to some parallel universe, alarms and sirens go off, immediate arrest and hard time?

“Laundromat police, you’ll have to come with us, Mam.”

Maybe, it’s like those little tags on mattresses, simply a passive aggressive method of world domination and humbling of the masses. At any rate, we conform for the most part, and are obedient children.

But, not this day! No sir, I wouldn’t be bullied any longer!
As I gave in to temptation and choked back my fear of becoming the next episode of Cops (even though I have all my own teeth, do not own a tank top and to the best of my knowledge, have never kept a python in the garage), I tried the handle, in hopes that it would release my soggy clothing thirty seconds sooner than promised.

Oh, the joy! Thirty seconds stolen from the tyranny of laundry automation…

Imagine the possibilities.

Monday, September 08, 2008

This is me getting ready for my flight to Florida, one can never be too prepared. Ignore the mustache. It was a really stressful day, I didn't have time to wax.

Of Cognitive Therapy and Barf Bags

Don’t think for one moment that vacationing in Florida is all fun and games. There are real hardships associated with a trip like that. No, really. I had to fly. Not my favorite thing. For me, it ranks right up there with a root canal or an IRS audit.

It had been seventeen years since my last flight, so my anxiety level was running high enough to rupture a major artery. I had to get myself under control. Two trips to the restroom before boarding. Dramamine for motion sickness, Sudafed and Bubblicious for ear pressure (unfortunately, I was in such a state that I swallowed the Bubblicious and chewed the Sudafed), headset playing “Soothing Woodland and River Sounds”, and lots of prayer.

And don’t tell me the airlines are not packing us in tighter than I remember. I was in a section of three seats per row. The cheap seats. All three of us in my row were what you might call portly. This made for some interesting maneuvering to get comfortable.

The guy to my left claimed the armrest between us as soon as he sat down. I could tell because he stuck a little flag with his name on it into the vinyl upholstery and played some sort of National Anthem on a comb and piece of waxed paper. Ha! I commandeered his pillow when he stood up to salute his flag. He had the last laugh, though, he kept his elbow in my ribcage the entire trip.

The woman to my right kept trying to adjust the waistband on her queen-sized panty hose. I could empathize with that, but the sound effects that went along with this gymnastic event were rather disconcerting. Something akin to Darth Vader in an iron lung machine. I gave her a 9.3 for artistic merit, but in all honesty, I couldn’t give her more than an 8.4 for execution. She didn’t stick her landings.

Take-off, for me, was an exercise in Cognitive Therapy Self-Talk. (I knew someday there would be a use for all those mail-order psychology courses.) What follows is the conversation I had with myself. You be the judge.

Taxiing: “Just think of this as a big car, Gloria. Visualize yourself in a big car, a very big car. Or a very big bus.”

Taxiing faster: “A very big bus, Gloria. Big, fast bus. Very fast bus! Fast bus! Fast BUS!”


Take off: “Breathe, Gloria, BREATHE!”

Turbulence: “Think pot holes. Visualize pot holes. Just big pot holes. Big bus hitting big pot holes. Very big pot holes. Breathe, Gloria, BREATHE!”

Landing: Repeat everything in reverse order.

It was tough but I made it. I’m not sure what happened to the King of Armrestovia or Darth Vader in the queen-sized pantyhose. They got up and made for the attendants area sometime around “Fast bus! Fast bus!” What really matters is, I conquered my fears and the “friendly skies”.

And to prove it, I brought home the unused barf bag as a trophy.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

I've always had to have pants with pockets. But, on those rare occasions when I do find myself in pocketless pants, I end up pulling out my old stand-by sweater. The one with deep pockets that can hold a day's worth of collecting all the odd bits of stuff that seems to have found its way to somewhere it ought not be.

My intention is to get these odd bits back to where they belong, before I found them under bed, under sofa, under bookcase, under desk, under tree.

Each day I empty out my pockets, and once in a while, I just have to smile at what I find.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

The Rural Rites of Spring

It’s an emotionally dangerous thing to develop a fondness for squirrels. Because sooner or later, you’re going to run over one. And so begin the rites of Spring.

Around the time the sap starts to rise, these little gray bandits start to fall. In their excitement to be running footloose from branch to limb, they get a little careless, particularly when trying to cross power lines that span the streets and highways.

This is where I come in. I seem to be some sort of tragedy magnet where the animal kingdom is concerned. If squirrels had a post office, my face would be posted on the wall.

They seem to know, somehow, the worst possible moment to lose their usual sure-footedness. As I am about to motor under the wire, they drop like the Flying Wallendas on a bad day. Tiny, furry acrobats without a net. Then, it’s my choice. Usher in Springtime by flattening a squirrel or go head to head with a Peterbuilt. Avoiding the semi appears to be the wiser choice.

Another sign of Spring on our roads is the ever-changing, always-surprising surface conditions of the pavement (or the lack thereof). Before your daily commute to the city, if getting stuck in the mire of your own driveway doesn’t wake you up; the heave in the road around the corner, caused by the last night’s freeze, will likely get your attention. Then, an afternoon thaw will turn the heave into a buckle and catch you on the return trip home.

And, of course, there is the mud-today-dust-tomorrow challenge. This causes seemingly no-nonsense people to believe that writing WASH ME PLEASE on the trunk of someone’s car is the height of intelligent wit.

The streets of Springtime become busy, too, with another kind of traffic. Walkers. Treadmills and aerobics on DVD are abandoned for the call of the open road. My little neighborhood makes a perfect one-mile-around track. Ten stray dogs as escort, no extra charge.

There are the serious, health incentive walkers, easily identified by the eyes; straight ahead, no looking around. Concentrating on even breathing and dreaming, no doubt, about carbohydrates. Then there’s me. Eyes everywhere, looking all over, concentrating on nothing (as usual) and mentally counting the change in my pocket for Ben and Jerry’s Chunkey Monkey at the corner store.

This brings to mind another Springtime amusement. I’m always fascinated by what is revealed along the roads, in the ditches and in the yards after the snow melts. Some things we might prefer to remain snow covered. However, Barbie and G.I. Joe, who went MIA sometime around Thanksgiving, will be found after the meltdown along with your extra car keys, two or three stick-to-the-dash coffee mugs that unfortunately didn’t stick to the roof of the car, a window scraper, forty-seven Wal-Mart circulars no longer stapled, a sneaker, a dish towel that blew off the clothes line and some folding money, if you’re lucky.

Treasures of Spring. Ah, life is grand.


photo courtesy scarysquirrelworld

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Woman vs. Wild

We finally bought a new sofa. And to make sure it doesn't go to waste, I've been watching a lot of TV lately. I might as well, since there just happens to be a television set directly in front of it. In most American homes, the sofa's placement is scientifically determined by the position of the TV. There's a formula and everything.

"The circumference of the sofa is one half the radius of the television, times pie with whipped cream, divided by the amount of time it takes the kids to change the channel to the Cartoon Network."

I've always been good at math.
When I can get the remote away from the children, I've been particularly fascinated by reality shows, especially the ones where some guy with the survival skills of Crocodile Dundee, Jeremiah Johnson and the combined armed forces of the United States, is dropped off in the middle of a barren wasteland or rain forest or some other inhospitable terrain like Buffalo. Then, for our viewing pleasure, he has to spend a week trying to find food, shelter, and water, all while attempting to stay within the proper camera angle so the viewers don't get a peek at the boom mics hanging from tree limbs or the catering table set up just outside the scene's perimeter.

In each episode, our survival heroes find themselves in even more dangerous situations than the week before. Coming closer to a death from exposure, starvation, dehydration, or the worse case of Montezuma's revenge on either side of the border. You'd swear they're competing to see who can eat the most revolting, live and slimy creature, in the most extreme, nausea-inducing, camera close-up.

"Why do you watch this stuff," my husband asks?

"You never know when you'll need these skills," I say.

Learning to turn a hiking boot into a three course meal could come in handy someday, given my culinary expertise. Yes, if anyone is going to have to know how to repel down the face of an Arctic crevasse while filleting a Polar bear with her free hand, it's going to be me. Why just the other day...

* * *

From the safety of my living room, the landscape outside may look like a beautiful winter wonderland, but looks are deceiving. Yes, today I'll be stepping out my front door and going to...the mailbox. (cue dramatic theme music)

I know it sounds crazy, but yes, the mailbox. And I'll be completely and utterly alone. Except for my cameraman.
I'll be making my way across the treacherous, snow-covered expanse with no provisions or equipment, save for the Trusty Swiss Army Knife given to me by my Brownie leader when I was only six.

"Gloria," she said, "never go anywhere without your Trusty Swiss Army Knife, especially to the mailbox."

I've never forgotten those words. How could I? They're tattooed on my left bicep. Don't tell me Brownies aren't tough.

No food, no water. Not even a compass to guide my way across the frigid topography. Yes, without sun, moon, stars, or Patagonian Sherpa to lead me, I could wander for days unable to find my way. (Warning: Outlandish Aside Alert)

Why, just last year, on a day quite like today, a woman foolishly attempted to make it to her mailbox in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and was (cue suspenseful music)...




Let's hope I don't meet the same fate as she, but rather, demonstrate how to survive the hostile environs of The Front Yard, despite the fact that I have mysteriously developed a British accent and am talking REALLY LOUD.

WELL, I'VE MADE IT TO, er, I've made it to the porch steps by sheer will and determination. Now I must descend without the aid of climbing gear. As my Brownie leader use to tell us before cookie sale time, "Don't panic. Always take time to assess the situation. In every worst case scenario, there's a solution, if you just keep your wits about you."

And, there it is. The solution. The extension cord on my cameraman's battery adapter (hey, we've got a tight budget here, do you know what those batteries cost these days?). I'll just fashion the cord into a repelling line and tie it to the belt of my bathrobe. There, that's got it. I'll be down these icy steps in no time.

What's this?! Blimey, my line's gone slack!

Me: "What's that you say? You think I should turn back?”

Cameraman: "Yes, there's no mail delivery today. It's a government holiday."

* * *

Ah, it's just as well. The way things usually go for me, I'd probably end up as one of those Outlandish Aside Stories. (cue poignant but catchy music)

I can picture it now, my lifeless body discovered by a very surprised meter reader sometime during spring thaw. Besides, I think I dropped my Trusty Swiss Army Knife down between the sofa cushions.

(cue commercial)


Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Got Them Ol’, Clothes-Don’t-Fit-Gotta-Lose-
French-Fries, Low Self-esteem Blues.

Daddy’s frying taters, (da-DAH-da-domp)
Better get on outta town. (da-DAH-da-domp)
Ain’t never seen no tater,
That this poor girl won’t wolf down.

Yeah, I got the blues,
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, pass me that Quarter Pound,
Low self-esteem blues.

Drivin’ by McDonald’s, (da-DAH-da-domp)
What’s that before my eyes? (da-DAH-da-domp)
Get thee behind me Satan,
And your box of Super-sized.

Yeah, I got the blues,
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, make that a hash brown,
Low self-esteem blues.

Went shoppin’ this morning, (da-DAH-da-domp)
Bought a skirt just for fun. (da-DAH-da-domp)
Tried to put my two legs in,
But there’s only room for one.

Yeah, I got the blues
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, I ain’t messin’ ‘round


Sunday, September 23, 2007

gloria's nice thing of the day

Thought I'd share this with my faithful readers. If this doesn't brighten your day, well then, just go back to bed, you're unbrightenable.

I've never tried to include a music link, so I hope this works. If not, hie thee to ye olde record shoppe and pick up anything by Steve Goodman. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

RIP, Steve.