BOGO Sisterhood

I received a frantic voice mail today from my sister, Donna. On her lunch hour she stopped by the local shoe store and found it closed and deserted. Remembering my experience when I discovered my shoe store had closed, she called and left me a message. She, too, was afraid she hadn't purchased enough shoes to keep them in business. Another fear that she shared with me, scaring both of us, is the possibility that the chain of shoe stores would bite the dust forever.

With that horrible thought in mind, we had the same thought - go online and investigate. We discovered that the shoe store has merged with two other companies and is alive and well. Relief swept over us in our separate offices in separate cities. Neither of us knew, but we were both on the site and decided to browse the selection of shoes. I was in dire need of three pairs of brown shoes. I needed boots, dressy heels, and casual shoes, all in brown. I found what I wanted. I also looked at men's bath slippers since Robin has asked for a new pair for Christmas. I found those, too.

I proceeded to checkout and discovered that BOGO is online as well. So, I got two pairs of shoes for half price and no shipping charges. I was excited and forwarded my order confirmation to Donna so she could see that we were still in business. Just minutes later, she forwarded me her own order confirmation where she purchased two pairs of sneakers. We thought it was so funny that we placed our orders at the same time.

The beauty of shopping online is that shipping is free if you spend above a certain amount or if you have your order sent to the nearest store to your home where you can pick it up there. Of course nothing beats the thrill of trying on the shoes and walking out with them the same day. Either way you choose to buy your shoes, BOGOing is fun and easy online or in person.

When Donna learned that we'd both rushed to the internet to find out what happened to our store, then ended up shopping, she said, "we've created a monster."

Oh Yeah! Sissy and I BOGOed today!

Funny Boy Jude

Although none of us can explain the reason behind it, Jude has a big dislike of animals, and dogs in particular. He is not the animal lover that his sister Baylee is. While Baylee gives a bear hug to the biggest, scariest dog around, Jude keeps his distance. It's not that he's a big fraidy cat; he just doesn't like dogs. This five-year-old will ride the fastest roller coasters at Six Flags, but don't expect him to get near a dog. It won't happen. He isn't interested.

Last night Jude and his family went to a local school for Trunk or Treat. Baylee spotted a dog and ran towards it, just itching to get her arms around its neck. The owners welcomed her love for their pet and stood there, patiently letting Baylee slobber all over their animal. Then they spotted Jude and asked if he'd like to pet the dog, too. His honest, sincere answer surprised everyone and caused much laughter.

"No, I have dog and cat issues."

Explain that one to me, Jude, you smart little boy!

Mission Accomplished -- Solo!

Robin carried his deer blind -- in sections -- to the lease today in Cisco. I didn't know how he would be able to assemble the blind all by himself, so I offered to go. He assured me he could handle it and that the terrain was rocky and I wouldn't like it. He reminded me, too, that he's caught and killed a rattlesnake out there. Still, I was willing to help, anxious to make sure he is able to enjoy every minute of hunting season. OK, I had slumber parties on my mind, too, but I really was trying to be helpful.

He had constructed the base a few weeks ago and it was at the lease waiting to be topped with the blind. The pictures show the stages of completion. Being the genius he is, Robin used bungee cords to hold the sides in place so he could add the hardware. He carried the plywood roof up a ladder to secure it to the frame, then carried sheet metal up to protect the wood. I'm amazed that he was able to accomplish this feat on his own. The finished product looks very impressive for homemade.

So, this time next week Robin will be roughing it in the wild while Patty and I indulge in cheese enchiladas, shopping, TV, and reading. Yes, I definitely offered to help.

Countdown To Hunting Season

Robin has been very busy as he anticipates the opening weekend of hunting season, which will go into effect at sunrise on November 3. He bought two spots on the lease this year and that required the construction of another deer blind. He is seen here with the blind, all decked out in camo paint. He successfully built this structure under our carport and now a combination of ragweed and sawdust have him plugged and sneezing.

Robin's already been to the shooting range to sight in his gun and will go again next week. Clothes, towels, sleeping bag and pillow are just waiting to be stowed in his SUV. He's made several trips to the deer lease to make needed repairs and fill the feeders. He has a make-shift shower on the premises near the camp site. His camper will be stocked with easy meals and, yes, even the disgusting Vienna Sausages. As is usually the case, much of his cookware, coffee pot, and thermos will be brought home and placed in the kitchen sink to "soak". Soak, meaning that I will not tolerate a sink full of neglected items and will wash them myself. I certainly don't mind because hunting season is an exciting time for me too.

No, I do not go hunting. I'd never be able to bring myself to putting a bullet in a doe or buck. The macho feel of the hunt, the challenge, is missing in me. Besides, I'd never make it in such a crude environment. The lack of indoor plumbing is a big factor, and walking to the blind in the dark is scary even though snakes are probably in their hidey-holes right now. Another big concern is that perfume, after shave, anything with a non-outdoor scent is forbidden. I neither want to spend the weekend sans perfume or share cramped quarters with the primal male scent. I'd never make it as a hunter.

What excites me about hunting season is slumber parties, a change in routine, and spending time with friends and family. Donna and her friend, Deborah, hope to join Patty and me for a slumber party with lots of good food and laughter. That's my excitement about hunting season. So, stay tuned for slumber party pictures (and maybe a deer or two).

Web Site Active Again

The link to my books is now active again. The web master and I miscommunicated and my contract expired. It is up and running for another year. Please visit www.simonsays1and2.com if you haven't already. Happy reading.

A Girls' Weekend

Patty called me Friday and asked if I were up to a weekend of shopping at the Premium Outlet in Allen, just North of Plano. I said of course. She reserved us a room at the Hampton Inn, right at the edge of the mall. It was perfect. We had a nice room with two queen beds, and as Patty said, "for two queens", and were able to walk to the mall. We walked and walked. It was a good day of exercise.

Lunch was Mexican food at On The Border, "dinner" was at Starbucks with coffee and scones. Breakfast was the fare served in the dining room at our hotel. We shopped a little more, then headed home. It was a great getaway and we really enjoyed ourselves!

Baggy Pants And Birth Control

You are probably thinking I should change the name of my blog to "Opinionated Peggy" since I often express my opinions about what is going on around me. Bear with me. This platform helps me get it off my chest and resume my normal activities.

First, baggy pants have been the topic of heated debates in area schools. Personally, I find the "style" so tacky that I'm surprised anyone would dare be seen in public dressed like that. Having the crotch of the pants at the knees is not normal. It looks like someone had an accident. A bad, heavy accident. But regardless of the looks, a school dress code is in place and should be followed.

I'm showing my age here, but when I attended a public high school, pants for girls were not allowed. We had to be clad in dresses and skirts. No jeans, no slacks. I admit that posed other problems since the 60s' hemline was short. Still, if a dress appeared too short, the girl was asked to get on her knees and there had to be less than 6 inches of bare skin between the floor and her hemline. If not, she was sent home to change.

That might seem extreme by today's standards. But we had a dress code then, too, and it was enforced. Pants were allowed on girls about two years after I graduated. I'm sure the wearing of pants carried some dos and don'ts.

The point remains, that dress codes are in force in most places and need to be there. Restaurants won't allow just anyone inside. You've seen the signs "No shoes, no shirt, no service". I think there are exceptions if you're a woman, or so I've heard. A boundary needs to be in place or chaos will result. And if parents had like guidelines, instead of blaming the authorities, kids would arrive at school in the proper attire.

Secondly, the birth control controversy in a Maine school has really blown me away. From what I understand, parents must sign a form allowing their child to be treated at the student health center. But once that child is treated, the child can decide whether the parents are told or not. The school board voted that children in middle school - grades 6 through 8 - can be put on birth control pills if they are sexually active and don't want their parents to know.

As a parent, I don't feel the school board has a right to decide anything for my child except for their curriculum. Too many outside forces are trying to come into our homes and do our work for us. Why? Are we incapable? I believe most parents love their children and are willing to do what is best for them. For those who don't, there are school counselors to confide in and who can lead the child to others who can help.

Putting a child on birth control pills or patches should be the decision of the child's parents and doctor. How will that child react to the hormones in the pills? Will the pills interact safely with other medications the child might be taking? Does anyone have the right to keep something this personal from the parents?

I've always believed that as long as a minor child is a minor child that their activities should be known by the parents responsible for them. If that minor child breaks a law, the parents pay the attorney's fees. If the child deliberately damages property, the parents have to pull out the checkbook. Minor children are not on their own. They should not make major decisions about their lives when they still depend on their parents for a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies.

My feelings on this do not extend to the children in abusive homes. They need someone to step in and protect them. I'm talking about normal homes where love and attention abide. Let decent parents raise their children the way they feel is best. That includes religious training and deciding whether their 11-year-old daughters should be taking the pill. Let schools teach reading, writing, and math and leave the parenting to the parents.

Mama Cat Plus 5

The progress that continues to be made between me and Mama Cat is remarkable. She easily comes to me when I call her and has let me hold her twice, although she wasn't as thrilled about it as I was. She rubs against my legs and now considers me a semi-friend, as opposed to my once enemy status. I do, after all, have the food.

Occasionally I will see a yellow kitten from a litter she had about 6 months ago. He/she is learning the drill, to come running for food when the door opens, I call kitty, and the distinct sound of a paper bag being opened. Lately, I thought I could hear the sounds of a smaller kitten, but thought surely not. Mama cat had a litter 6 months ago, why go back and do it all over again so soon?

Well, she did. Now when I go to the door there are four beautiful kittens playing in the yard, nursing on Mama Cat, or playfully chasing each other. I'm just itching to get my hands on them but they scatter when they hear the door open. I know in time they will associate my voice with food and a good scratch under the chin, but they might be past this cute kitten stage. I've picked out my favorite, a fluffy gray and white with the sweetest face, but it won't do me much good on the homefront.

I was sitting outside today watching Mama Cat eat when her babies emerged from their hiding places to partake of the food. They kept an eye on me as they slowly approached the bowl. For the first time they ate and slurped water with me sitting nearby in plain sight. I'm having to buy bags of dry food in duplicates now. Six cats can drain the well in no time.

I guess I'm trying to civilize these flea-infested dumpster cats. It has been interesting to watch the transformation from being completely afraid of me and learning some trust. Their backyard sanctuary is also a needed haven for me. I can sit there and watch them and pet Mama Cat and feel so at peace. It's a great place to be when the office gets too crazy.

Now, a funny comment from my grandson, Ashton. I got him hooked on the hand-held Yahtzee when I visited them last month. He plays it all the time, unless he's immersed in his obsession with math. Well, today he told his Mom that Callan's hair was curly like hers. She said, "yes, Callan and I have curly hair, and you, Daddy, and Juliet have straight hair."

Ashton said, "Two with curly hair, and three with straight hair, that's a Full House!"

Oh, I love that kid!

Grief & Guilt

It may seem a little extreme that I'm experiencing the two Gs over the demise of my favorite shoe store, the one closest to my home. The truth is, I'm obsessed with shoes. Shoes run a close second behind my perfume fetish, and I probably have as many pairs of shoes as I have bottles of perfume. Maybe more.

The route I take to work after first making a bank stop puts me at the intersection where I used to have so much BOGO fun. My heart almost stopped when I noticed the empty, deserted store. Then, for a moment, I considered the possibility that the store had moved to a better location, perhaps even closer to my home. A new highway is going in and much construction has taken place. That's it, they had to close to make room for the new highway. But just as that thought was filling me with comfort, I noticed the dreaded "for sale" sign at the edge of the property: Free-standing building for sale.

The grief set in, that awful feeling of loss. Yes, that store has chains all over the area, but this one was close, was convenient, was the one in my city that I should have supported. That's when the guilt sets in. I didn't buy enough shoes. Maybe if I'd purchased just a few more pairs the store might still be operating. It's a horrible feeling to think you have let down a trusted friend, one who was there when you needed a pair of shoes to match the new salmon blouse, or the charcoal sweater.

It's not like I didn't try. I was a faithful customer. I've walked out of that store with a big sack of shoes. Name the color, I have it. I have many pairs of black and white sandals, many in varying shades of pink, orange, and green. I have red, purple, aqua (can't spell the more accurate color), yellow, gold, silver, and brown. And, of course, the basic black and brown boots for fall and winter. I did try to keep them in business. It's the times I left there empty handed that fill me with guilt.

Now, I don't pretend to have enough money to buy the very best in footwear. Especially in every color. That's why this store was very dear to me. They provided an assortment of affordable shoes that gave me the feeling of expensive indulgence. How fun it was to open the closet, scan the two wall-hanging shoe racks and the two big storage bins and select the perfect shoes for the day's outfit. Still, I should have done more.

I will now have to spread my patronage to other stores in the area and hope that I can rectify the damage I did to the poor deserted store not far from my home. I vow to never walk out empty handed again. I will take full advantage of every BOGO, and update my summer and winter collections every year. I will add new colors and styles. I will not allow another store to close because I failed to do my part.

Looking down at my beaded black sandals it hit me that they are two years old. Yes, I have newer black sandals, but these are my favorite. And I bought them there, the closed store that had offered me many shopping pleasures. I wish I'd bought half a dozen just like them. Maybe then I'd be able to open that door and enter shoe paradise again.

Say What?

Today I read a quote from Mexican President Felipe Calderon that I would like to share. This statement was made during his State of the Union address (which must have sounded promising considering all those American dollars flowing their way) and revealed his opinion of our U.S. Border Patrol. "Mexico does not end at the border . . . wherever there is a Mexican, Mexico is there."

Huh?

Besides not making much sense, the statement also shows a blatant disregard for American laws. I wonder if an illegal American could make the same claim in a foreign country? Most countries consider us to be arrogant anyway, so why not make such a statement? We don't because we have all heard horror stories about prisons abroad. But what about the lack of respect for our laws?

I'm not going after the immigrant. It's the word illegal that most of us have a problem with. What happens when American citizens commit an illegal act? We face the consequences. We are fined, penalized, and punished. What happens when an immigrant crosses our borders illegally? We again pay the consequences. Our tax dollars (I don't like this term since we have little say in how our tax dollars are spent) foot their living and medical expenses, and provide hot lunches at school. We reward the breaking of a law.

This is why municipalities are taking matters into their own hands. They have given up on the federal government and whatever alliance they seem to have with Mexico or other countries who encourage the illegal migration to America. Irving is the latest city on the ball and in the spotlight. Even the Mexican Consulate warns the illegal immigrants to steer clear of Irving. Irving is being accused of racial profiling. The police say they are only doing their job. If they stop someone for a moving violation, they check for legal documents. If none are to be had, the individual is turned over to ICE for possible deportation. What's wrong with that? Is it any different than a squad car with radar waiting at the bottom of the hill? Or is that also called profiling? It could be. Catch a speeder, go to the highways. Sounds like profiling to me.

If the government refuses to handle the influx of immigrants who disregard our laws and feel they have every right to come here freely and get their demands met, then it's time our city governments rise to the occasion. I'll back them all the way. A law applies to everyone, not just a few (although the illegal numbers are growing out of sight). In other words, don't charge me penalty and interest for filing my taxes late, then turn around and give that money to someone who is here illegally and draining our country's resources. Fine them, too. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. That little adage, sadly, is not followed in our country.

It's obvious that President Calderon is urging his people to enter America regardless of what our laws are. They have their own Border Patrol agents and I don't think they are waving everyone through with a big smile and a frosty margarita, and totally ignoring documents that identify us and our business in their country. Laws should be acknowledged and respected, whether you're pointed North or South.

Just Call Me Granny Clampitt

Elly Mae would be more flattering, but I'm trying to be honest. I received a letter and contract to allow access to my home property for drilling purposes. No, there won't be an unsightly oil rig in my back yard, although I doubt I would actually find one unsightly. But they do hope to draw oil beneath my home and are willing to pay for it.

This is part of the Barnett Shale and all the wells that are now operating in North Texas. We will be paid upfront depending on our lot size, and receive 20% royalties for the life of the well. Even with the soaring gas prices, I can't see making a fortune since everyone in my city probably received the same letter and contract. We will be attending a meeting this week to learn more.

Just the same, it's nice to know we might be sitting on a wealth of oil. The wealth will go to those who have the expense of drilling, but I'll take whatever they throw my way. And I won't jump up and rush to Beverly Hills when I get my first check. Unlike Granny, I know where I belong and where I fit in the best. I think this Texas Girl will just sit back and relax on top of all my oil and dream bigger dreams. Black gold, Texas tea . . .

Not Just Another Day At Church

It was a big day at church for Allison's kids and I was out of town and missed it. Jude got to help take up the offering. With an adult helper by his side, he stopped at each pew so the members and guests could drop in their tithes and offerings. Let me mention now that Jude is a very smart boy and knows the value of a dollar. Or as he calls it, floppy money. After all the money was collected, he walked back up the aisle to have it blessed with a prayer. Then, instead of handing his loot to the deacon, he turned and walked away. I'm sure he felt very special knowing so many people had given him a small fortune. No, you may not borrow Jude for your own church service. He is ours. He stays here.

Baylee had her moment of glory by, as Allison put it, bringing her Kim Possible persona to church. How the angels must have rejoiced as the super heroine entered the sacred doors of our church. I just hope her mission wasn't to keep an eye on Jude.

Lastly, we have Sophia, all innocence and pink cotton candy. She is proudly wearing a dress that belonged to cousin Juliet. With the wind in her hair and gently lifting the soft pink layers of her dress, she is neither stealing money meant for the Lord's work, or conquering the universe. She was there to be her sweet, happy self and looking adorable in the process.

I've never said my grandchildren were perfect. But I've thought it many times.

Spooky Toes And Fingers

Patty humored me and sent the pictures of her latest manicure and pedicure for use on my blog. You can see she is getting into the Halloween spirit. It happens to be one of her favorite occasions. She's very creative and her yard and house are brimming with orange and black goodies.

There's always a bale of hay in her front yard, complete with pumpkins, corn stalks, and a scarecrow. As you near her front door, a motion-activated cat, witch, or ghost will scare the socks off of you. Inside are pumpkin candles, pumpkin dishes and bowls, and Halloween characters abound. I admire her for her creativity and energy. I do good to get a bowl of candy to the door on the 31st.

The bale of hay and pumpkins will remain until Thanksgiving, that is unless someone steals them. Last year someone grabbed her pumpkins, jumped back into a van, and sped off. This was caught on their security camera, but not close enough to make out details.

Thanksgiving also marks the day her Christmas tree goes up, fully decorated with an American theme. Then, all the wreaths, Santas and snowmen find their place in the yard or house. Patty is very good at celebrating every occasion with gusto. I rely on her to let some of that enthusiasm rub off on me. I'm not exactly a Scrooge - Christmas is my favorite holiday - but I need a push in the right direction. Patty comes over and helps me decorate my tree. We've even made a middle of the night run to Wal-Mart for some finishing touches. I appreciate the lengths she goes to in spreading Christmas cheer my way.

But now it is Halloween that is almost upon us. It doesn't surprise me that Patty would extend her decorating ideas to her toes and fingers. She's already given Robin butterscotch-flavored lip balm and green apple for me. If you can't make out the designs in the picture, they are cats, a pumpkin, and a spider web.

"My toes look like sausages," she said me with a laugh.

"The picture had to be a closeup," I told her. "Anyone's toes would take on the sausage appearance."

She said her salon told her they do wonderful Christmas trees so this may not be the last you see of Patty's toes and fingers. Of course, I, being the practical one, asked why spend the money for Christmas toes, only to cover them with socks? Then, I remembered the weather we've been having and told her it was a good idea. Christmas may still find us in flip-flops.

A Weekend Jaunt

I took Friday off from work and accompanied Robin to Houston for a business meeting. We had the meeting with his steel supplier, then took off for Galveston. We (Robin) were hoping to find some off-season sales on swimwear. The prices were still pretty high by Robin's standards, but he has no idea what those skimpy pieces of cloth can go for. He didn't find anything for himself, but chose a Texas flag bikini for me. I think it would look better waving from a pole in our yard, showing our allegiance to the Lone Star State. I'm not anxious to try it on.

While in Galveston, we wanted to scope out the resort we have reserved for August, 2008. We found it, a whole 15 miles from all the action in Galveston. It's on a stretch of road that is no longer Seawall Blvd., but San Luis Pass. On the positive side, the resort is new and all the condos look fresh in their pale Easter colors. The negatives are that the resort is spread out and the trek to the pool would burn a few calories. The beach is across the road, but requires a car or a very long walk. Once parked, there is a long bridge over a dune that leads to the beach. There are no restaurants or grocery stores very close. Robin decided he doesn't want to stay there so we will book something else. Finding a condo during red season is difficult. I can see Robin being bored there. Cheryl and I would have a ball.

On the way back to the civilized section of Galveston we spotted a cow standing by the road. It looked as if it was considering its two options: find the broken part of the fence and return to the pasture, or risk becoming ground beef. We continued on, neither of us wanting to learn of its decision.

Then, there was a truck in front of us with "OTR Services" written on the back and sides. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Just imagine their list of services: feminine products, mind-altering and anti-bloating drugs, straitjackets, body guards, hit men, etc. My world is small, so I have no other explanation for this company.

As usual, we took the back roads home and enjoyed the scenery. We went through College Station, Mexia (no "Home of Anna Nicole Smith" sign that I could see), picked up I 45 in Corsicana where we had lunch and a pit stop, then immediately took another back road to home.

We had the camera but saw nothing picture worthy, other than the cow or the truck and I was too slow in capturing the moment. It was just a small getaway but any day away from work is great.

Robin's Free Spirit

Yesterday afternoon Robin went to a local tattoo parlor - appropriately placed on a highway jammed with topless bars, yet very close to our home - and finally finished his tattoo. The darker areas in the photo are the new additions. The older, faded parts will be touched up soon.

This is Robin's own design. He didn't want to choose from the large assortment of patterns and risk being duplicated. When we had our first date in Galveston, he was at the pool when he saw me drive up. He met me in the parking garage, only in his swimming trunks, and when he turned to head back to the pool I saw those spooky eyes on his back. He later informed me that on this particular trip he would add a new dimension to the eyes. I sat in the tattoo parlor and watched as he bravely covered any pain he might be feeling. Occasionally, he would wink at me. This time, however, he had it done solo while I was across town getting my roots done. That's what almost ten years of marriage does to you.

I'm not into body art. I don't have a strong opinion about Robin's tattoo. If he likes it, go for it. If it were my body in question, I'd be totally against it. While a yellow M&M guy might look cute on my shoulder, it would be my luck that I'd be invited to a formal event where a strapless gown would be the proper attire. I don't see the yellow guy fitting in.

The closest I've come to body art is getting my ears pierced. That wasn't well received by everyone and a tattoo would really be pushing it. I'm done in the piercing department. Although, I wouldn't mind getting my ears done again so I could wear diamond studs with my hoops or danglies. But that would require the purchase of some diamond studs. I'm not interested in having my tongue or belly button done, or any other areas of my anatomy. I really don't understand nipple piercing. The female breasts need no decoration. You can't improve on perfection.

This morning I removed the bandages from Robin's back and applied ointment after his shower. He viewed his back in the mirror.

"Is that a beard you added to the face?" I asked.

"A beard?" Robin was incredulous. "It's a bird in flight."

"A bird? But what about the eyes?"

"You don't understand abstract art. It's the back of a bird with eyes peering from its back"

"Why?" I asked.

Robin exhales a deep, exasperated breath. "It symbolizes a free spirit with a menacing undertone which proves no one is ever really free."

"Kinda like we think we are free but Big Brother is watching?"

He didn't answer. By the look on his face, I'm glad he didn't.

American Made?

Today, it's really hard to tell. So many companies are going outside the United States for cheaper labor and higher profits. We've all needed technical support or a question answered concerning a credit card purchases, only to encounter someone with an accent who is difficult to understand.

Recently, auto workers have gone on strike because their demands aren't being met. While I've never understood the point of walking a path and carrying a sign, I do see where they are coming from. Members of the UAW want job security. That is, of course, one of the American dreams. We want to know we will continue to be able to support our families and live in a world where costs continue to escalate.

One of the concerns of auto workers is that many jobs are being sent beyond our borders. An American made car is no longer an American made car. The same is true of foreign cars. Many are now made in the United States. Having parts of the car manufactured in another country doesn't mean the consumer is getting off easy. No, those savings are not passed along to us. Two cars can sit on a lot, side by side, and they will be the same price regardless of where they were made. The name of the game is profits. Profits for the company, and more than a trace of insecurity for the American auto worker.

I used to be a big Oldsmobile fan. I've had a Cutlass, A Ninety-eight, a Calais, and a you-can-see-me-coming bold yellow Starfire. I've also had a Cadillac El Dorado, another General Motors creation. I've been guilty of treason by driving three BMWs and currently a Nissan, which I was told could have very well been made in America. As in North America. So, the question remains, how do we know?

It's fair to say that much of the assembly takes place in many of the plants in our country. What about parts? More importantly, what about the workers who depend on that job for their livelihood but have the misfortune of living in this country with this country's standard of living? Must a lot of them step aside in the name of profits and watch their job go across the border?

The same thing is happening in retail stores. They can purchase their products cheaply from another country. Why keep an American company in business by paying their higher prices. Often, quality is compromised too. You get what you pay for.

"Made in America" is no longer a popular or accurate slogan. Maybe our American cars should promote the American Design, and leave the word made for use by other countries.

Happy Birthday, Clayton!

Birthday greetings to Clayton, my son-in-law, and sincere wishes for a glorious day! Your birthday is a great time to thank you for being the wonderful man you are. I so appreciate the kind of husband you are to my daughter, Angela. Thank you, too, for three of my grandchildren and for being a loving, involved father to them. I'm thankful for the spiritual influence you bring into their lives and for making them and my daughter very happy.

You deserve a special birthday and, knowing Angela and the kids like I do, I'm sure you will get it. Happy birthday and may God bless you with many, many more!

Always In Our Hearts

Today would have marked Chezzy's 72nd birthday. He passed away when he was the age I am now. I thought it was too young then, and it really seems so now that I have reached this time in my life. I have a hard time imagining him at 72, but had he been here with me through those passing years I'm sure the changes that aging brings would have been so gradual as to go unnoticed.

In truth, there was no age difference between us. Even though he was born over fourteen years before I was, he was so young at heart that one hardly realized he was almost another generation ahead of me. He was fun, tender-hearted, loving - all the things that keep us young. The cultural differences weren't felt either because Chezzy's heart had always been in the United States of America.

Just recently an old customer asked me about "Blondie", Chezzy's nickname for Allison. He seemed surprised that she and I have such a close relationship and asked, "isn't she your step-daughter?". When I told him no, she is my daughter, he was further amazed that Chezzy's big heart had loved Allison like his own child. He said he always talked so fondly of her and with so much love that he assumed Blondie was Chezzy's own daughter. In reality, she was his own daughter. It's further proof of the heart that was bigger than Texas. That same love extended to my son, Ron, and many others who had the privilege of knowing him.

This week, another customer told me that if my machine breaks down again, he will gladly punch our parts at an affordable price because "Chezzy really helped me get started in my business and I never forget a deed like that".

What a beautiful legacy this man left behind. And how loved he was by all of us. Ron, Allison, Angela, and I will never forget what he meant to us. We will rejoice with him someday and introduce him to all the precious children he never got to meet. How much he has missed! How much we have missed. He is always in our hearts.

Toby - In Loving Memory

It was a year ago today that Toby was put to sleep because of a combination of health problems. He was 17 years old. Toby was presented to me on one of my birthdays and he proved to be the greatest gift ever.

I often teased that he had more dog tendencies than those of a cat. He came when I called him, he learned to beg for his treats, and he understood other commands like "Toby, get the bug!". But he was all cat with a purr that sounded like a diesel engine, but comforting just the same.

Toby was a great hunter, a trait common to the American Shorthair. In his early years he would wait patiently by the fireplace, listening to birds caught in the chimney. Many times I came home from work to discover the remains of a poor unfortunate fowl, always left under the same chair in my bedroom.

And what a fabulous bed partner he was! He wasn't a lap cat, but he did like to snuggle. He would find his comfortable spot on the bed, close to me, and slip off to happy cat dreams. When Robin entered the picture, Toby often left my side and stayed close to the man of the house.

Toby was so good to my grandchildren. Little ones sometimes don't know how much pressure to apply when petting an animal. Toby patiently allowed them to do whatever they wanted. If he had enough of it, he quietly slipped away. There was no biting and no spitting. He was such a good boy and absolutely no problem until old age began the wear and tear on his body.

Besides his gentle temperament, Toby made us laugh. All cats have their antics, but one stands out clearly in my mind. Angela and Clayton had just married and were spending a few days with me. Someone had given Clayton a feathery honeymoon accessory and to his dismay, Toby found it in the opened suitcase. Here comes Toby into the den with this slip of a garment with feathers attached. We all doubled over laughing. I have the picture, but I'm sure Clayton is glad I don't know where it is at the moment. If I did, it would be posted. Better seeing it in Toby's mouth than having Clayton model it for us.

Here's to Toby. I've missed him so much but he gave me 17 years of unconditional love and I will never forget what he meant to me. That little guy really grabbed my heart.

Cruel And Unusual Punishment

Due to the many complaints by death row inmates, the U.S. Supreme Court is looking into the constitutionality of death by lethal injection. I know I'm sounding like a softie here, but it's high time someone heard the cries of the condemned.

Imagine spending 10 years in a cramped cell and contemplating your own death? The day is slow in coming, but it will come. Images of being strapped to a gurney and wheeled into the death chamber must be horrific. Then, the worst happens. The needles. The dreaded needles. The skin is pricked and a deadly combination of drugs are introduced into the body of the poor, defenseless soul. It has to be years of nightmares as this moment is lived over and over in the inmate's mind. It touches a real soft spot in my heart.

This method of torture should be banished from our penal system. It proves to the rest of the world just how barbaric and uncivilized we really are. I have a better solution, one that I'm sure will be met with enthusiasm by those waiting out their sentence.

Perhaps it's time we bring back the old eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth form of punishment. What convict, if truly guilty of the crime, would argue with that? Let the person die as the victim did. Apparently, the criminal mind identifies with that method. After all, he or she used that same method to end the life of another. They see nothing wrong with it. Merely inserting a needle is not dignified. Let them face the end of their own life with the same look in their eyes that the victim(s) had. Let them feel what the victim felt. Let them repeat the words that their victim said as their final breaths were taken. Let them know how it feels to die as their victim died.

Using a needle is indeed cruel and unusual punishment. What about a gun? A knife? An ax? How about hands that are squeezed tightly around the throat? What about gasoline and matches? Apparently, these forms of death appeal more to the one sitting in his death row cell.
Grant his wish. Too many of us suffer from needlephobia and it needs to be banned.

In the criminal mind, the victim's death was not cruel and unusual. Reenact the original crime scene and our inmates can play their 10-year waiting game with peace of mind.

It's No Longer Funny

Not that it was ever funny in the first place. I'm referring to the not so mysterious disappearance of my gowns and nightshirts. Every time I drape one over the chair in my bathroom it is replaced with some slinky number that does not provide the comfort I'm looking for.

I know I've addressed this subject before. But addressing it has not solved the problem. And I know I'm not alone. Every woman out there has her favorite threads. They are usually worn and faded, soft and loose, and a big turn-off to the man in our lives. I like to come home from work and shed the outer and under garments and slip into something that allows everything underneath to go where it wants to go, which is usually South. I do not want to cook dinner in a spandex body suit and risk burning parts of my exposed skin. I do not want to hear "put on something sexy" the minute I walk in the door. I understand that men are visual creatures, but we need a balance. A balance - to me - means making no repetitive comments about my "granny gowns", and understanding that comfort is of the utmost importance at this age.

Now, I wouldn't call my lounging wear granny gowns. Maybe I didn't purchase them at Frederick's of Hollywood, but they don't look as if they were made for a very mature lady. In my humble opinion, they are sweet and cutesy and perfect to slip into to cook or apply makeup. And they are comfortable.

This is my feeling about some of Robin's favorites:

- The Mesh Dress - The fisherman caught a whale.

- The Spandex Dress with side cut-outs - Woo-hoo! Look at those love handles!

- The Black Lace Body Suit - A mermaid who no longer feels comfortable in her own skin.

- The Metal Bikini - Biker Babe Relic, or let's not even go there.

- The Peek-a-boo Dress - Peek-a-boo flab.

- The Mint Green Mini Dress - Mold on mold.

OK, maybe it's not that bad. But close. I want clothes that are functional. I want clothes that enable me to function. I don't want to be confined in tight-fitting clothes or wear myself out sucking in the tummy muscles. I want to breathe. I believe we should all be comfortable within the walls of our own home.

I could resume my crunches and other boring exercises. Not only would it make me feel better in the clothes Robin likes, it would improve my mental outlook. I'm in a funk and I'll be the first to admit it. Hiding my comfy clothes does not help matters. I shouldn't have to demand my nightshirts when laundry day arrives. The disappearance of my gowns doesn't produce any favorable results. I merely pull another one out of the drawer.

Robin still doesn't get it. This old, tiring joke is still funny to him. I fail to see the humor, especially after nine years of the same thing. Once when I couldn't find my favorite lounger, I later discovered it on his 5-foot skeleton, propped at the computer with a bony hand on the mouse. No more Halloween toys for this boy. They backfire on me.

I think it's time to demonstrate. Women of America, unite! Put on those comfy clothes, hold your signs of protest high and proud, and let's storm the streets of this great Nation. I'll be there in my bleary-eyed nightshirt that reads, "I hate Mondays". Allison will be there in her thread-bare Tweetie nightshirt. Angela will be sporting either her gray thing or her alternate gray thing. Cheryl will be leading the pack with her pigs-with-wings pajamas that proclaim "when pigs fly". Just maybe we will get the message across this way.

And maybe not. Robin still suggests we go shopping for some sexy items. And I still tell him I don't wear the ones I have.

The Taming Of A Cat

This is Mama Cat who has taken up residence in the yard behind our offices at work. Three cars and a boat are kept there and they have provided shelter and a maternity/delivery space for this homeless gal. I turn to mush where cats are concerned and her plight touched me deeply. I began buying food and supplying water. The process of getting acquainted and building trust has been slow, but very rewarding.

When I first saw Mama Cat, she was jumping in and out of the boat, and I suspected she had kittens there. She did, and they scattered when I approached their boat home, being as wild as the mama who gave birth to them. Well, a Mama Cat needs nourishment, right? I began dumping food on the patio and it would quickly disappear. The day came when she would hear me open the door and come running, keeping a safe distance between us. Once I walked away from the food, she would come forward, hissing all the way, and begin eating. I often sat there and talked to her while she ate. She would be fine as long as I kept a few feet away.

The day finally came when she would walk right up to me and wait for me to pour the dry food from the bag. The first time I gently touched her head, she spit at me. I didn't try to touch her again for a few weeks. Now, she has stood still, though rigid and guarded, while I stroke her head. She's still scared but we've come a long way. She knows my voice and will come running, knowing a meal will be offered.

When she finishes eating, she will lay under the car where she can see me and I talk to her, tell her she's a pretty girl, a sweet girl, and stretch out my hand in the hopes that she feels comfortable enough to come to me. She hasn't yet. But while I talk, she opens and closes her eyes like cats do when they don't have a clue what you just said, but they recognize the soft, soothing tone.

Mama Cat and I have made progress. Although I've used the word tame, I don't think cats are ever tamed. It goes against their nature. They only appear that way when it suits their needs. I've taught them to beg for treats, which they do, because the humiliation they feel is worth the end result. Usually, even though they know what you want from them, they act indifferent and do what they want to do. A cat will sit in the doorway of the bedroom, wanting desperately to claim their favorite spot on the bed, but stubbornly ignore your invitation until enough time has passed that it looks like their idea, not yours.

It's that very personality that draws me to cats. I identify with their independent air and I'll-d0-as-I-please attitude. In time, I'm convinced that Mama Cat and I will be best friends. I have something she wants - fresh food and water. Yes, I'm being used. But in return I feel a calming effect just being in her presence. We'll get along fine. She is, after all, a miniature woman in a fur coat.