Learning to Drive

When I was thirteen my father decided I should learn to drive.  We had a 1959 Renault named "Fifi."  Fifi was adorable.  Three speed.  She had a bit of trouble on an incline, but who cares.

Daddy drove us to the duPont Louviers parking lot on a weekend.  The lot was empty.
Then he had me take the drivers seat and calmly explained how to manage the manual transmission.  I lurched and stalled all over the lot.

But eventually I got it~That's when I became dangerous.  Mother and Daddy would go to a party, I'd steal Fifi and go joy riding.  Good new, that.  It  made stalking Carl Jacobson even easier.

I loved that car!  By the time I had a legal license I drove her to school daily.  Best friend Nora always knew when Fifi and I were half a block from picking her up.  Fifi was marvelously loud.

I cut school in Fifi.  Went to Washington, D.C. with my High School boyfriend, Greg.  He was a terrible first boyfriend. (There won't be more about him on this blog since my blog is all about channeling positive energy.   Negative energy Greg blocked from my brain.)

Once, while riding down the Main Street with Gina Jackson, we actually traded seats at the speed of 30 miles an hour!  She climbed over me from passenger side to drivers while I crawled under her. Happily we didn't crash.

 Gina's car was a NEW blue opal.   Her Dad worked for a car company so she got new cars all the time.  She later got a bright orange brand new Vega.  My daddy believed in used cars.  "They depreciate by a third the minute you drive them off the lot."  Mostly what he said I believed.

Upon college graduation my parents offered to buy me my very own first car.   I looked at loads, Daddy stated, "They are all yours until you buy one".  He was pushing me toward a canary yellow Karmann Ghia.
Instead I chose Gina's now used orange Vega.  What a dope...hard to come up with a "....but that's good because" about an orange Vega.

Karmann Ghia above.  Cute huh?  Even cuter in canary yellow.

Orange Vega, not so much.

Another friend drove a 1950's Mercedes Benz.  This was in 1969.    The back seat was loose.  Everytime she hit the brakes all of us back there would be slammed into the rear side of front seat.
Her parents had added a big odd air-conditioning unit between passenger and driver.  No other friend I  knew had automobile a/c.  Very plush.

 My sister's first car after college was a 1965 navy blue Chevy, Malibu.  I wrecked it while singing along to "Gitarzan" and fooling around with a car full of kids.  Daddy replaced it with a 1969 Cutlass 442.

He was such a cowboy in a muscle car.  His favorite muscle car activity was pulling to the side of the road, standing on the accelerator and counting how fast that buggy got from zero to sixty.  When he leaned on the 442's gas the whole front of the car lifted into the air.

I was forbidden from driving it.  I suppose wrecking my sister's first car played a part in that.  So I back to tooling around in Fifi.

Remember the song "Gitarzan?"   Lyrics follow---climb into your vintage car and sing your lungs out!!   You're welcome.

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Gitarzan

Ray Stevens

He's free as the breeze
He's always at ease
He lives in the jungle and hangs by his knees
As he swings through the trees
With a trapeze in his B.V.D.s
He's got a union card and he's practicing hard
To play, the guitar, gonna be a big star
Yeah, he's gonna go far
And carry moonbeams home in a jar
He ordered Chet's guitar course C.O.D.
Like A and E and he's working on be
Big W&W and R&B and even the chimpanzees agree
That someday soon he'll be a celebrity
Get it, get it, get it.

Gitarzan, he's a gitar man
He's all you can stand
Give him a hand, gitarzan

He's got a girl named Jane
With no last name
Kinda homely and plain
But he loves her just the same
Cause she kindles the flame
And it drives him insane
When he hears her say
She really does her thing
It's her claim to fame
Come on sing one Jane
Baby, baby, oh baby
Baby, oh baby
(How about that folks)

They've got a pet monkey who likes
To get drunk and sing boogie woogie
And it sounds real funky
Come on your turn boy
Sing one monkey
Let's hear it for the monkey
On Saturday night they need some excitement
Jane gets right and the monkey gets tight
And their voices unite
In the pale moonlight
And it sounds all right 

Yeah, it's dynamite, it's out of sight
Let's hear it right now
Baby, baby oh baby
Yeah, shut up baby, I'm trying to sing
Get it, get it, get it
Repeat Chorus

Happy Birthday Dear Jimmy

My husband turned 70 on March 29th.  Which, weirdly enough, is also my ex-husbands birthday.

Jim's son, Jason, made the decision to fly in for the day and surprise his dad.   I wanted to save the "kid" (in his 40's) cab fare so offered to pick him up at the airport.  Needed to keep his visit a secret so told Jim we were picking up a friend.

"Who?" he asked.

"Charki.  And she's flying in on Southwest, landing in Tampa."   That was the first friend who popped into my brain.  Charki lives 45 minutes south of us in St. Petersburg.  Charki is a retired United Airlines employee.  Naturally she always flies United because it's free for her.

Happily,  Jim didn't pick up on that odd bit.  Rather lovely to be married to a vaguely obtuse man.

We boogied to airport at about 3 p.m.   "Charki" was to land at 3:50.  Parked in the cell phone lot and began watching the giant light up board for arriving flights.   The plane departed from Midway, Chicago.  NO Chicago flights are on the electronic sign.

Jim begins to grill me, "Are you SURE it's coming into Tampa?  And you SURE it's not St. Pete."
"Yup, I'm certain."

Five minutes roll by and again he says, "Are you certain?  There are no Chicago flights on the board.  I think you should call Doug!"  (her husband)
"Don't have his number"  Lie lie lie
"Then call (mutual friends) Brookie and Earl.  Get Doug's number.  And
 what's the flight number?  You should always get the flight number!"

I cannot call from my phone. The call would have been broadcast loudly from my bluetooth, which I have no idea how to disable because that would require reading the manual.  I don't do manuals, I just pound on buttons and turn knobs until (maybe) something works out.

Texted B and E saying, "I'll be calling, please play along."  Then I called. Hooray, neither picked up.

Emailed Jason, "DO NOT TEXT OR CALL ME WHEN YOU LAND. (damn Bluetooth again)
" JUST EMAIL.  And, oh by the way, are you landing in Tampa?" (Please please please be landing in Tampa or I'm toast.)

By now my normally rarely-wants-to-murder-me husband is fuming.  No Chicago flights on Big Board.  No way to reach Charki.  And furthermore, why did Charki not fly directly to St. Pete where she lives?

At long last Jason emailed, "On the ground.  Will be standing at Southwest arrival wearing plaid shirt and red back pack."

"Hooray Jimmy,  Charki landed. She will be wearing plaid.   And a red back pack."
That bit caught Jim's ear....Charki, in plaid?  Charki is known for crisp white shirts, flowy scarves, hip jewelry, cute color coordinated cross body bags.  When he pointed out the curiousness of this I simply said, "She likes plaid for flying."  Seems I've easily grown into being a big fat liar.

Cruised along arrival area until I spotted Jason.  Jim, looking keenly for Charki in her unique new ensemble, never noticed Jason until he pounded on the driver side window.  The look on Jim's face was worth all the lying, sweating, fretting and enormous anxiety attack.

Secret kept! Cloak and dagger stuff accomplished.  Marriage survived!  Yay.   Altogether great day.

Plus neighbor Lynda baked him an awesome Girl Scout Thin Mints birthday cake.  That's it in the photo.  5 candles, one for every fourteen years.  Needed a calculator to figure it out.  :) Just to be sure I counted it out with my hoof.

Take a Gander at this and you'll understand

So, I explained in an earlier post why I was so smitten with this guy.  Betcha' get it now, huh?

Bovine belly-aching

I have been wrestling with this painting for months.  Three cows.  Canvas is 5 feet wide, four feet tall.
What?  You say you only see two cows?  Well, look closely.  You'll see the ghost of #3 there on the lower left hand corner.

They are a family.  Mom, Bossy, is in the middle.  Daisy is the ghost.  Maisie is on the right.

So far I've "killed" Daisy three times.  Paint her.  Hate her.  Obliterate her.
Our garage has been a bloodbath.  Whenever Bossy sees me approaching with my black paint loaded brush she trembles.  Meanwhile Maisie smirks.  Sibling rivalry being what it is, Maisie kind of likes Daisy meeting her demise on a regular basis.

This huge painting is destined for our kitchen wall.  Jim has been enormously patient with my plodding pace.  He buys into my lies that, "Art can't be rushed."  Tee Hee.   My bad.

I'm considering painting a tombstone onto the left side...."R.I.P. Daisy."

BUT, the fact that I've not finished the painting is GOOD BECAUSE when I finally do complete the cows we will enjoy and appreciate them all the more for having waited.  Yup.   That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Now,  all you peeps go have a very good nice fun filled and possibly cow filled day.

Time to manifest a shower.   :)

I was told to put photos in my blog. So here are two!

This is my latest creative hobby.  I make wonky little dolls, decorate them with jewelry from my defunct Etsy shop and foist them off on friends.  This little lady went to live in Miami.  Her back story is that she's from Cuba.   She actually turned out pretty well.  Many of them have birth defects.
Like the chick below.   She was my first attempt.  Her feet look like frog feet.  Her back story?  Her mother was beautiful princess given to wandering the woods and kissing frogs.  One day the frog she kissed transformed into a handsome prince.  They married and this baby was the product of that union.  Clearly frog DNA was still in Dad's system.  I sent her to a friend in Pennsylvania where she now lives in a flower shop.

Another reason being old is awesome

Being old is terrific because I don't care as much what anyone thinks.  Sometimes I go entire days WITHOUT WEARING MAKEUP!   I started wearing make up in 10th grade.

I carried my cosmetics in a small white case.  It had handle on top.  I would sit at the kitchen table, morning light streaming in the back windows, and apply my eyes.  Mother used to say I should sign my chin when done.

Red heads have no natural color.  Well....I guess we do. White on white.  No color in our eyebrows.  No color in our lashes.  Freckles and hair on our heads is our only visible hue.

Now that I'm old I sometimes skip putting on a face!  That saves 20 minutes of my life for other stuff....like sitting on my ass and reading.   Or coloring.  Coloring is a delicious pastime.

If I added up all the time spent smearing on a face I'd have decades.  I'd likely also have no husband.
Guys tend to like women with visible faces.  However, once they are nabbed one can let themselves go!  Yay for being old.

Hey you guys, start reading my blog.  I am hungry for comments.

Soon I'll sort out how to post photos.  Mayhap a photo of me without makeup!  (NOT)

Good Morning, Universe!

Today I found my meditating mind circling back to my youth.  It occurred to me that another great thing about being sixty five is the angst of my younger years is behind me.

When I didn't have much time booked on this planet everything seemed enormous!   Now, not so much.

For a time being my big anxiety centered around Carl Jacobson.  I clearly remember the hours/weeks/months fretting over him.  He was the dreamboat I "loved" in Junior High.  He was gorgeous in a Paul McCartney floppy hair way.

Carl played alto saxaphone, so I took up sax.   I planned to sit next to him in band practice.   Little did I know he was lead chair, I was last chair.  Our paths didn't cross.  Plus I learned playing sax was a pain--you had to put the dry reed into your mouth and hold it until it became flexible.  That made me gag.   Furthermore being in band involved wearing ugly black and gold wool uniforms with ridiculous tall feather adorned hats.

Another "nab Carl Jacobson" plan involved basic stalking.  Walking by his house.  Going wherever he might go.  Once I went to a MYF dance (Methodist Youth Fellowship) because rumor had it he'd be there. The passing clothing fad was denim pants that rolled up to just above the knees and wide horizontal stripe t-shirts.  Mine was navy and white, purchased at National 5 and 10 on Main Street, Newark, Delaware.

The afternoon of the dance I worked for hours on my "look".  Set hair in big rollers and sat under the dryer.  The dryers in the 60's were plastic boxes with flexible tubing attached.  The other end of the tube was hooked into a bubble cap that blew up like a balloon when the dryer was running.  My dryer had a fancy feature whereby you could put perfume into a certain spot and your hair would come out smelling amazing.  I used Jean Nate.

Then I put on my jean shorts and tee-shirt.  Standing in front of my mom's full length mirror I saw I had very big, very obvious thigh saddle-bags.  I reasoned that I could reduce the look of those fat wads by stuffing Kleenex into my pants just above the widest leg lump.  Not the best plan.  I didn't consider the fact the tissue balls would shift.  By the time I ran into Carl Jacobson my backside appeared to have tumors.

Goodness, I spent a lot of my youth sweating the very small stuff.   Being old has given me perspective.  Yay for being sixty five.

Toes hanging over the edge of a new reality!

Whooo Hoooo!  I'm sixty five!  I've been sixty five since November 28th, but only recently embraced it.

Sixty Five is a turning point age.  Like thirteen, without acne.  Or sixteen, but already have a driver's license.
Other turning point ages: Eighteen,  Twenty-one,  Forty....then they sort of go along by decades until you hit SIXTY FIVE!

Most people aren't thrilled about sixty five.  They think of it as the beginning of their last chapters on this planet.

But here is why I have embraced sixty five (other than Medicare):  I read a TERRIFIC book and I'm planning to use the tools in that book to manifest the most awesome rest of my life possible.

The book, you ask? (Yes, there are many "yous" out there.  Eventually you will all find this brand spanking new blog and possibly ride along with me now and again.)

The book is You Are A Badass by Jen Sincero.  It's a fun read and quite convinced me that I can manifest anything I want in my life by the amazing wattage of hooking into my higher power.  I think of my higher power as "BF"---aka Benevolent Force.  Sometimes I call BF God.  But mostly I call BF "best friend."

Check out Jen's best selling book at jensincero.com

This refreshing down to earth fun funny little book is my starting point for rocking the rest of my life.
She maintains we can manifest anything we want in our lives simply by the power of our thoughts!  Everything we desire is already HERE, we simply have to believe and BF mixed with our beliefs will pop that no longer elusive marvelous item right into our world.  How cool is that?

I tested this yesterday in the packed parking lot of our local Publix grocery store.  Not one single open space to be found.  So I said to myself, "Yes there is.  There is an open space quite near the entrance."  Lo and Behold,  just as I thunk it a car pulled out of the exact perfect spot and we pulled in.  Now that is quite the ideal litmus test, eh?

There's lots more.  Like the little line "....and this is good because."  More on that tomorrow.  Now I'm off to manifest clean laundry.   👏