ECONOMICAL VS. INFERIOR

I'm cheap.

No, not that way. Geez - what were you thinking?

I am discovering that some things are simply better when they are cheap.

My mom always insisted on high quality items - clothing always had to be from the high-end stores (Robinsons, Macy's). They may have been from the sales racks, that may be true, but never from a place like K-Mart.

I don't know where she bought furniture, but I still have a couple of end tables looking good after 50+ years (and my three children).

I always figured it was because she grew up dirt poor, and even when we had extremely limited income when I was in elementary school (in particular the years my dad was writing for television), the quality-deal never altered.

Ever.

But I have a daughter who carries that same gene - if something is hers, it's pretty well-made.

So maybe, like good looks and class, it just skipped a generation.

Therefore, I have believed, for quite some time, that high-price, high-count and high-end stuff are always better.

Not.

I love cheap bath towels.

I mean, the $3, thin towels that are supposed to be the ones you pick up before the Egyptian cotton 999-million count thread $45 towels.

Because those 999-million count thread simply don't dry me as quickly as the cheap, 23-thread count ones.

And that's really all the matters to me.

Okay, how many of you now are going to disown me as a friend?

FARMER JOHN RIDES AGAIN

I installed a new car battery tonight into a John Deere tractor.

Okay, I bought a new battery for my neighbor's tractor, so I could prepare the field for our 6th (7th?) Annual Youth Mud Football game. And then my neighbor's son, Tom, ended up doing most of the installation for me.

Then I attached this huge metal frame with curved prongs to the tractor for the plowing.

Well, Tom backed the tractor up... and connected it... and his mom ended up driving it around so I could inflate the... okay, so Tom could inflate the tires.

But then I drove it over to our field, and plowed until it was too dark to see.

And THAT part I did ALL BY MYSELF.

Tomorrow, the mud creation BEGINS!

(with the help of a well, six water hoses, a sprinkler, and a LOT of patience on my part as I move the water for the next seven days to create the muddiest, messiest field ever)

'ELLO, GOVEN'R!

Why are foreign accents so adorable?

British, especially. Probably because I can understand what they are actually saying...

Well, most of the time.

But everything with a French accent sounds romantic - everything Spanish sounds rapid-fire and immensely important like disaster bulletins - Indian (east Indian - the original India) is so... Indian.

I like Japanese because I can imagine subtitles running below whatever is being spoken. Russian sounds cold - I know, I know, it's just a matter of association. And anything spoken in Chinese makes me hungry.

I didn't completely understand other pople finding American accents 'cute' until I lived in a British community, and found my neighbors hanging on my every word. It was extrememly embarrasing at first, but then it was sort of fun.

Because someone from London sounds completely different from a Yorkshire native - or a person from Wales is highly insulted if you mistake them for someone from Bristol.

After a while you pick it up.

But to them, a southern drawl and New Yorker... well, it's all American, right?

I just love it.

PEEKING OVER THE FENCE

When I stop and look back over my day, I realize my neighbors must think I am clinically insane.
(No comments necessary from you who actually know me)

I walk outside, turn on the water hose, and start yelling my horse's name.

(He normally responds, not because I am such a incredible horse trainer, but because he is an absolute pig, and is continually optimistic that I will have something, anything, for him to eat).

He takes one look at the running water, and immediately heads in the opposite direction.

The mare, however, simply adores being hosed down. I'm certain it's because when she was on the track, it was a regular deal to be rinsed after a race, and it felt GREAT.

And a 95 degree Arizonan day like today, she knows it's also going to feel good.

So she trots over, and immediately and happily moves herself right into position to be drenched.

Now my horse simply can NOT stand for ANYone or anything else to get more attention than him. He will nose or push or trample into any situation where he is not already the main center of attraction.

So, with the water still running, he dashes over, pushes the mare aside and gets under the water stream.

Now here begins the quandary - my horse does not particularly like the sensation of cold water running over his back... or his legs, or his side or any other portion of his body.

But he cannot possible give up the position of POWER.

However, he does not WANT to be in the middle of the stream of water.

So, mentally conflicted, and psychologically confused, he alternates between:

1) Hosed down or 2) Running away.

Perhaps my neighboors don't think I'm nuts - but now they know that one of my horses is.

EXCUSE ME?

It's easy to get inpatient with people.

People who get in the "8 Items Or Less" express line when they have the entire store's stock of Michelob in bottles in the shopping cart.

The driver in front of you who, when the light finally turns green, is twisted around trying to adjust the DVD which is keeping his toddler happy, and (obviously) does NOT stomp on the gas (as he should) the INSTANT the traffic light begins to twitch its wavelength towards 495 mm & frequency to 606 THZ (i.e. green).

The grandmother who repeats the same stories that you have heard from your infancy, forgets what day of the week it is, asks you the same question time and time and time again...

Wait a minute, that is me. Right now.

Alzheimer's and senile dementia were both blessings for my mom. Yes, she couldn't hold on to an explanation for more than a few seconds, but she also had forgotten all heartache, bitterness, and anger, and became an extremely agreeable person.

Hmm.

Only trouble here is that since I let go of most of the anger, bitterness and heartache a long time ago. And so with the memory going...

I'm sorry, what we were talking about here just a minute ago?

Oh, yes, this was prompted by my husband's difficulty in listening to his mother tell him "four times" the same story during our weekly call.

I'm going to be there very, very soon.

Wait... where am I going to be?

DOWN VS UP

I get unreasonably irritated every time I hear something along the lines of:

-- Cases of breast cancer within the city limits of Kalamazoo have risen 24% over the past ten years!

-- Your chance of developing testicular tumors as a adolescent girl are 200% better than they were last month!

-- If one of your parents is dead, chances are you will be dead within the next 48 years!

Not that very long ago, people died at relatively young ages. The life expectancy in 1900 was only into your early 30's - in 1950, it was 58 - up until the current statistical chance of living well into your late 70's.

My maternal grandmother died at age 34 - probably hemorrhaging or infection following childbirth at a farm. Her father died at age 29 - and his father at age 34.

Autopsies were not performed. Cancers were not diagnosed. People just 'died.'

And you died from the flu - from a cut - from what we would consider a minor childhood illness.

But you didn't hear about people suffering from depression. There weren't headlines in the papers about cocaine addiction (although in the 1910 cocaine was still an actual additive to Coca-Cola - whole other story there).

Was that because, like cancer, it simply was not recognized and/or diagnosed? Or was it because you normally didn't have a lot of extra time or energy after growing your own food, working an exceedingly physical job, walking almost everywhere, not having television, a radio, or a whole lot of books to read.
So was it high levels of endorphins from all the physical labor? Because no one knew (or cared) about the stock market? Or when you married someone it was almost impossible, both socially and legally, to divorce them? in 1900, that one in every five children died before their fifth birthday?

I'm not really expecting any answers, I'm just expounding on a thought process that began yesterday when I was dealing with a semi-suicidal, clinically depressed spouse.

Somethings I think we just have too much free time. Too much information. Too many little tiny things that get blown way huge out of proportion.