Clueless

                            Clueless

 

            This morning, as I rooted around in my closet, looking for something I couldn't quite remember what; I found a pair of flip flops, quite new looking.  I have no idea where they came from.  They're really nice with a thick blue foam sole, striped in pink.  I immediately liked them and hoped they were mine.  I think I'll wear them today, they fit.

            Yesterday I was writing something about someone, and couldn't come up with the word I wanted to use.  I was pretty sure it began with a "c" but that's about the only clue my brain would come up with.  I asked my husband but he hadn't the foggiest idea what I was talking about yet, he kept popping back into the room with words. 

            "Did you say? (We’re both hard of hearing) I repeated C. He said, "Sea? Like in "Old Man of sea?"

            When I repeated, again, “No, I mean the letter "c".” He thought for a minute and left the room.  Within seconds he was back.

            "How about concentrate," he offered.  I was sorry I'd asked him.  He had one word right but not that "C" word I was looking for. And by then I’d forgotten why I was trying to remember the word--whatever it was, I forgot.

            Last week Sally and I were having tea and discussing the movie I had seen the night before.  I wanted to tell her all about it.

            "It was about something to do with a hospital..."  I began.

            "Oh, do you mean the one that starred the actor who played in the film about the war lords in China with the actress who has that long dark hair and is married to the guy in that television series about cops?"  She asked.

            "No," I said, "she was in the show last week about New York, or maybe Chicago?  Anyway she was the one who sang that song about...well remember the song they sang in Oklahoma?  It was like that, I think or it might have been the one in Carousel.  Anyway, she had a big part."

            We finished our tea perfectly satisfied with a conversation that had more holes in it then that big golf course in California or Florida whose name I can't seem to recall. Remembering is getting harder as my hair gets grayer.  But, here's a joke that I do remember.  "Why did the dumb blond keep staring at the frozen can of juice?  Answer:  It said concentrate!"   I do, but like the title of the movie, let me see if I can remember the name? Oh! "A River Ran Through It" thoughts course through my brain like that river and sometimes at the speed of sound and then flows right out the other side. I can feel the breeze.

Hanging Pictures

 

How to Hang a Picture

Hubby is retired, is now home, and more than eager to help with household chores and goings on. And now, after all these many years we’ve been married, I’d never noticed how differently we do things. Take picture hanging, please.

B.H.R. (before his retirement) and, for the past too many years to fit onto this page, I’ve hung pictures without his help. It’s a simple procedure and goes something like this:

1. Find hammer and nail.

2. Place picture on wall.

3. Eye spot

4. Put picture down

5. Pick up hammer

6. Hold nail

7. Whack away.

Hung!

I’ll admit my method isn’t perfect and has caused some major unnecessary holes in the walls, but I discovered that toothpaste is a good hole filler-upper. Not the colored, but the white kind.

          His method involves me as his assistant and goes something like this: First, he calls for his tools: level, hammer, and jar of nails. Then, he requests I show him the exact spot on the wall where the picture is to be hung. Next, he cautiously approaches the wall, narrows his eyes to slits, scrutinized the spot, and knocks the wall all around the designated area. The dog barks. 

      One of two scenarios:

     “Uh, oh,” he shakes his head. “No stud here. Cannot do.” The picture sits on the rug, holding up the wall, until he leaves to get a haircut, or play golf and I hang it myself. Forget the stud!

      Scenario two:

He finds the stud. He requests I hold the picture at the exact location so he can mark it. “Pencil, pencil, I need a pencil!” He holds the picture and in an Edith Bunker trot I run off to find the pencil. Once the placement of the picture is marked, he needs the nail jar. “Nails, please.” He sorts through the jar with mouthwatering eagerness, like the nails are Belgium chocolates and he is looking for just the right caramel.

Once the right nail is chosen, with palm outstretched, he calls for his hammer. “Hammer, please.” I hear a drum roll.  With the concentration and precision of a surgeon about to do brain surgery, he places the nail on the penciled mark and carefully hits the nail into said spot. Along with the drum roll, I hear applause, a cheering crowd and the 1812 Overture.

Once the picture is hung, he needs his level. “Level, please.” It is placed on top of the hung picture. He steps back, squints, eyes the bouncing bubble in the middle, and instructs me, “No, down on the left, up a little bit, no, too far, down, no up, no…” and so on until it is picture perfect. The whole process I’m thinking, has taken longer than the artist’s rendering of the hung painting, but it is perfect and there was no need for a toothpaste filler. Where has he been all of my picture hanging life?