Monthly Archives: August 2014

To see or not to see…

By Posted in Nostalgia Tagged 4 Comments

Back in my day, if a girl was wearing a sleeveless blouse and her bra strap happened to peek out, she would dash to the restroom in tears. A slipped slip strap was just as bad, but a half slip that slithered off in the hallway was the worst.  It happened.

Today’s young women wear tops that ensure that their straps do show, while at the same time, I’m told, they wear thongs instead of panties so so there are no panty lines to show. At least the brassieres of today are prettier than those of my long ago — we had a choice of white, black, or flesh.

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I’m not a prude, but I am a bit prudish.

A catalog I get regularly sells several things that make me giggle, while other things make me blush! I’ll only list those that relate to the part of the anatomy that teenagers in my era called “first base.”  That was when “hook up” meant to attach your stockings to your garter belt or one side of your bra to the other. For example:

  • You can buy a flimsy triangle-shaped cover-up that attaches to your bra — assuming you wear one — to make a plunging neckline discreet or to create a layered look without adding actual layers. In the photos they look like thongs, and I don’t mean flip-flops!
  • There’s a “boob tube” that is nothing like your father’s 1956 RCA console TV. These knit or lace bandeaus hide cleavage too.  Frankly, my cleavage has gone so far south that the waistband of my panties works for me.
  • If your wraparound top doesn’t make it all the way around, Swarovski crystal and pearl cabochons serve as dainty buttons. No more safety pins and tape. I have to wonder, would buying the next size larger shirt alleviate the need for these things? Just askin’.
  • Wrinkly decollete? There is a gen-u-ine, one hundred percent, medical grade silicone pad that sticks to the cleavage area to smooth chest wrinkles caused by sun damage, aging or side-sleeping. And, get this, you can actually wear the thing under your clothes, perhaps with one of the above items to hide it.
  • For side-sleepers, there’s a lightweight, slip-resistant plastic cylinder that, if I were so inclined, I could snuggle between my bosoms so they’re in a more natural resting position. Sorry, but for my money, “natural resting position” is wherever “the girls” want to rest, under my arm or over my shoulder!
  • There’s a form-fitting band that’s really on the border between “first” and “second base.” Lace-edged, it fits over the waistband of your jeans, for example, and under your top. It gives the illusion of a cami without the bulk, and it helps smooth out a “muffin top” too, all the while hiding butt cleavage!

Makes me think, there’s a new market to be tapped here: get rid of the lace, manufacture the band in denim or camo, and market it to plumbers!  You get the picture!

 

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Wonder who invented the word “cleavage?”

 

 

 

 

Not all angels are angelic.

By Posted in Where to go Tagged , 6 Comments

“Don’t ask, won’t tell” is the credo of morel mushroom hunters. They guard the secret of their patches the way the NSA is supposed to guard our national secrets.

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Morel reclining. Northwood Lifestyle

When I was little, my dad took me morel hunting in the spring, always with his caution never to tell anyone where we went. As if I, at eight or so, could’ve directed anyone to the woods where morel colonies hid under May apple leaves, or to the stretch along the train tracks where they flourished in the cinders beside the rails. We filled pillowcases with them and took them home for supper. Mom dusted them with seasoned flour and fried them in butter. Best meals ever, better even than a meal of fresh strawberries over warm biscuits with lots of cream and sugar.

My friend Joanne and I recently had an overnight getaway at a lovely place not far away on a river in the mountains — the name and GPS coordinates will not be revealed. We were clued in that there were giant mushrooms to see. I was to take my camera.

Six days of heavy rain had turned the place brilliant emerald and, as we arrived, the sun broke through like a searchlight from Heaven. The moss-carpeted ground sparkled with moisture, trees dripped, the river rushed, and there in the clearing, lit by a sunbeam, was the biggest darn mushroom either of us had ever seen.

After we carried our things into the little house that resembled something Goldilocks might have stumbled upon, and after coffee and several hours of chat, we headed outside on a ‘shroom search. Except for two enormous ones, I didn’t spot any. Joanne was a star. Everywhere she looked she found one, each different, all beautiful, some so tiny I couldn’t hold still enough to focus on them. (That’s my excuse anyway.)

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There weren’t any morels, but they are springtime ‘shrooms. Even if we’d found some, I wouldn’t have trusted myself to cook them. Without even knowing about the bounty that awaited in the woods, I had fixed a mushroom crust quiche the previous day for Jo and I to eat that evening. Later, a Google search showed me that our giant mushrooms were among the deadliest in the world: Destroying Angel, Amanita bisporigera.

The Amanita mushroom genus contains some of the deadliest mushrooms in the world.
Certain species of Amanita contain amanitin, a lethal toxin that kills by shutting down the liver and kidneys…
Amanitas usually start appearing during the second half of the season, in summer and fall.
Look for them in woodlands on the ground. In many places they are quite common.

No “destroying angels in my quiche, thank goodness!

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Store-bought is safe.

 

‘Tippy tappy’ isn’t the real deal.

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , 2 Comments

Up until a couple of years ago, husband Peter played badminton once a week with a bunch of retirees. In his younger days he’d played competitively, so he complained that the group played a “tippy tappy” game, not the fierce, killer contests he loved.

When he started playing again he went all out to get kitted up, as he does. Special shoes, new racquet, supply of shuttlecocks. In the end he decided he liked his old racquet better, and he always wore the same white shorts from fifty years ago.

Now true shuttlecocks, “birdies” to casual players, are made from sixteen feathers and a cork tip covered with goat skin. Modern versions are made of plastic, but my fella likes the old fashioned kind, even though they last for only two, maybe three, matches.

For several years most of the seniors went to the state Senior Olympics, and some, including Peter, came home with gold and silver medals. Not to put too fine a point on it, but they were the only ones competing in the seventy-and-older age group, but still, they were out there!

Each year there were the usual schlocky gifts contributed by local businesses. This morning I was cleaning out the kitchen drawer where I keep our prescription medications, and assorted other important things — three plastic grapefruit spoons, stickum to secure candles in holders, mints, sprinkle tops for salad dressing bottles — when I found the rubber grip Peter brought home from an olympics. A grip is the thing you wrap around a stubborn lid so you can get the jar open. It was lurking in the corner of the drawer under a stash of corkscrews. They’re also called “rubber husbands.” I love that.

As my hands and wrists get creakier I use my rubber husband rather often, but until this morning I hadn’t noticed the advertising legend on one side. This handy helper was contributed to the Senior Olympics’ goodie bag by a funeral home and crematory!  What, were they hoping for business from over-exerted seniors, I wonder?

In a badminton match, seems to me it’s the cock and the goat who get the wrong end of the deal.