Kathryn's Calamaties - and me.....

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

I have memories I can’t shake. The latest is Kathryn’s dad. I remember mother better because of her laughter.

Daddy was a quiet man who rarely spoke. He observed every move, every sound and when he stood up that meant something was going to happen.

It may have been to go get coffee, but I never knew if we were too loud or he heard sneaking in and out. Not that we ever did that.

When Kathryn came to college (indeed a book I should write) we took turns commuting. I was a junior and she was a freshman. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened had she gone right after we graduated. We were quite the pair at an age we should’ve been old enough to know better.

While in her car, make that her father’s car, we had a tiny mishap. It really wasn’t Kathryn’s fault, that car was huge.

We’d been invited to a friend’s house outside San Marcos, up a very skinny and wooded road. We were going there to study. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Half way up, Kathryn stopped.

“Why are we stopped? We’ll go backwards!” I exclaimed because that’s what I’d done in my brother’s VW Beetle right in front of the SUB on campus and it was very embarrassing to say the least.

“We’re stuck.”

“We can’t be stuck this is your daddy’s car.” I had visions of him getting out of that chair walking towards us. I never finished what I thought he’d do.

Nobody could’ve done this but Kathryn and her trusty sidekick.

We finally made it to the house. There were little scratches; but remember he observed. We were so upset we couldn’t “study.”

Kathryn, already an aspiring artist, tried shoe polish; I threw dirt to make it look smudged.

Later, I went to her house because I couldn’t let her take all the blame. I walked in and waited for her to come to the living room.

He was observing. Mom was laughing. I fidgeted.

“It was an accident.” It just popped out.

Kathryn walked unhurriedly saying I couldn’t control myself.

I hushed.

I realized that Kathryn, though usually animated, could purse those lips just so and give a look that meant she might “get up out of the chair”.

Moral? If you see that look, hush.

Don’t let her stand up.

 

I hate talking maps!

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Prof’s mom has become a good long distance friend. They live in Houston and when she gets to Lubbock we try to enjoy a cup of coffee or double dips of ice cream, whichever mood we’re in. Usually the latter.

At Christmas, she told me she never gets lost anymore. I couldn’t believe it because she’d always told me she got lost in Sears. That totally endeared me to her. I would get lost in Sears too if I didn’t get lost on my way to Sears.

“What do you mean you don’t get lost anymore?” I asked between bites of homemade chocolate pecan pie Prof’s dad made.

“I got a GPS.”

I groaned. I don’t like husband’s GPS. She has totally taken over our road trips. Maggie died and now he has Young Maggie. They’ve been the other “women” in my life. The saving grace is neither could speak.

I decided since Momma Prof had one, I should have one. I didn’t tell husband I ordered one and was hoping it wasn’t as boring as his.

As luck would have it, it was a smaller, handheld cute little thing with a car in the picture. I know this sounds perfectly ridiculous to those not geographically challenged, but that blue car on the road is amazing.

The unfortunate part is that it talks and has an annoying attitude. I showed husband my prize and we took it to Plainview to meet friends for an annual New Year’s Eve dinner. We are a really wild bunch.

Husband thought she was bossy and often wrong (only because he knows every back road in Texas and Bossy doesn’t). However, Bossy fooled him because she’d tell him the next exit and the next until he finally had to. It was really amusing to watch husband and Bossy try to outsmart the other.

I asked if I could change the car color to red and husband asked why. I like red that’s why, but I didn’t say anything. Then I asked if the voice could be like Johnny Depp instead of a haughty naggy voice. That he may have gone for, but so far it’s still Bossy’s voice.

As you’ve guessed, Bossy is now in residence with Young Maggie. He says he is seeing which is better but finds he like qualities in each that the other doesn’t have.

I’m just happy he can only have one wife or I’d probably be discontinued.

Blossoming Pyromaniac....

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

I am an accidental pyromaniac.

Over the years I’ve had a few things happen due to neglect husband says. I say due to overlooking what I’d forgotten I was doing.

He says that’s the same as neglect.

Whatever.

He doesn’t like ‘whatever’--I say it’s almost admitting neglect.

When the kids were young and I was a stay-at-home mom (translates to dabbling to near insanity on given days) we owned a house that had a long hallway leading to three bedrooms and the kitchen and den on the other.

I had a gas stove because it’s hard to burn things--just turn off and voila....heat is gone. Electric stoves don’t do that and I have a penchant for overcooking.

The telephone was on the wall close to the kitchen with a cord long enough to walk down the hall to check on the urchins and also cook and talk and talk and cook. You get the picture.

Husband came home while I’m walking around the kitchen talking to a friend about nothing much because nothing much is what stay-at-home moms often feel they have to discuss.

He walked through to the den and hung his cap on a hat peg. I’m still talking about nothing much when I realize he’s watching with a devious smile.

“What?” I demanded as I turned to stir ‘whatever’ on the stovetop.

“Hot conversation?”

In defensive huffiness I assured with clipped, whispered tones I was not gossiping.

Calmly, he grabbed the paper, “Just wondered, the phone cord is on fire.”

I looked and the cord was in flames! I’d drug it across the gas stove I so loved because it was hard to burn or overcook.

“Oh my gosh....I have to go....it’s on fire!” I started flapping the cord. “No, not the house, the phone thingy...talk to you later!”

When I bathed the cord in the sink and stopped my little fire I went and stood in front of husband with hands on hip whining “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, I could have burned the house!”

Again, very calmly (I hate that!) he looked over the top of the paper and said he would’ve stopped it if he thought the house or family was in danger.

From experience I knew the “moral of the story” was coming.

“Besides, I figured you’d remember better this way.”

He began to read again smugly knowing he’s right.

Whatever.

Who Needs A Tan?

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

A conversation at my desk centered on tanning. One thought the safest tan was bottled. I wanted to scream “Noooooooooooooo!”

My fear of bottled tans comes from when my dear friend Kathryn told me; no promised me I could appear tan without blistering, peeling, and without damage to the skin.

I tried to tell her I’d tried this once and the palms of my hands were the same as the tops and this “tan” took forever to disappear no matter how many times I scrubbed.

“No, Alisa, this is the best (she named some brand)” she spoke in earnest with an all-knowing look of authority.  “And look at me--I’m fair skinned and it works on me.”

I was visiting before going to Dallas to a writer’s conference and I wanted my feet and legs to look tanned so I wouldn’t have to wear hose. I’ve since gotten over wearing hose. I simply don’t care. Back then, I thought I had to look better than I did, and feel good about what wasn’t real.

Make sense? It made perfect sense to me then.

Long story short, I let her talk me into the tanning of the feet and legs.

I don’t remember the brand name, which is good because I’d want to file a truth in advertising suit. There should be a disclaimer that reads:  “Alisa Dollar should not use this product because she is super pale, with no pigment and will turn orange no matter what Kathryn says. All others use as directed.”

We were perched in the middle of the Graham’s king size bed watching Law and Order reruns, drinking diet coke, laughing and talking while waiting for it to dry. It became apparent this wonderful product wasn’t going to work on my legs, skinny ankles and feet.

I screamed, “My legs look like Cheetos, Kathryn!”

I’d forgotten her basset, Agatha’s favorite snack is Cheetos and before our eyes, she did an Evil Knieval jump onto the bed and plopped down on my legs and licked. The disappointment was evident when she realized it was only a fake failed tan. 

The moral is to not ruin skin with a real or fake tan. Natural is a-okay. Everybody can’t be a golden tan, so give it up!

Most importantly; don’t listen to Kathryn; even when she’s extremely convincing.

She means well though.  Really.

There are grocery stores for a reason.......

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

I have bad luck growing tomatoes. I love fresh tomatoes. When I’ve decided I can grow them something always happens.

Years ago, I tried. After husband told me to whip them, a hailstorm, and a very early freeze we had many jars of Chow Chow and meals with fried green tomatoes.

Looking back, that was one of my better growing seasons. Sounds as though I’m a seasoned tomato grower, right?

Not.

I rarely whipped my own children much less a bunch of innocent tomato plants that our then miniature dachshund Klutzheimer ‘watered’ daily. At least with the acts of God, I still had Chow Chow and fried green tomatoes.

After 30 plus years I decided last year I’d try again. I got four little tiny tomatoes, hardly enough for a good salad.

I think the bugs enjoyed the rest of the plant. Husband didn’t tell me to whip these since I only had one pot of them. I had to get them high enough so that now mini-doxie Maxwell Smart couldn’t water them.

This year I got one of those upside down hanging things. I didn’t know when the box is opened there’s no dirt (husband says soil, I say dirt is dirt) or seeds, just a green hangy-downy floppy plastic thing with a hole in the bottom and the top.

It’s easy to figure which end is the top (thank goodness) because the hanger is on that end. I decided rather than put seeds in all the dirt I’d funneled inside the little hole in the top, I’d put an already started plant with little tiny yellow leaves, which hubby says should be tomatoes.

I didn’t miss he said “should” rather than “would”—it appears he has no confidence in my gardening/farming/tomato growing skills.

There should be a gadget that says “STOP! That’s too much water” or “HELP! I need water” and “These bugs are driving me crazy.”

I never seem to know when to do what. Whatever I choose seems to always be wrong. I wish I could blame the weather or the dog, or that I had spanked them even though they were upside down.

They died a slow and painful death. Those little yellow things fell off and nothing replaced them unless you count brown brittle leaves.

Wish I had a Farmer’s Market next door.

I’m really good at buying fresh yummy tomatoes.

Little Red Ridin' Hood

(I took a writing class many years ago from Dee Pace. Once of the assignments was to take a classic fairy tale and make it contemporary. You can tell from this piece when I wrote this. It's not meant to be a political statement, I just have a warped sense of humour....and it just sort of flowed. It's been awhile, so hopefully all the innuendoes are still recognizable.  Enjoy!)

Once upon a time in the land of freedom and opportunity, a mother prepared her daughter who had reached the age of assent, to go out into the cruel world of harsh reality.  For mother knew there to be many who were powerful, whom she likened to wolves because they would prey under the guise of goodness upon the innocent.  With these admonishments, mother sent daughter into the world, dressed in a patriotic, nautical dress.  Adding the perfect touch, she topped the dress with a smart beret perched slightly to the left upon her daughter's head; enhancing thick dark locks, while displaying big blues eyes, robust cheeks and a toothy grin.  Mother sent along a basket of goodies to be shared only with those possessing grandmother's teachings–that of being worthy.  With a basket overflowing in wisdom, charm and self,  daughter left mother's home listening to one last caution, "Do not go down the avenue named after the train state, and do not go near that big white house. . .because there lurks the power that consumes."

The young lady enjoyed her freedom and found a few worthy of the gifts she carried in her basket.  Little by little, she began to share her gifts, using her grandmother's teaching.  Surely her mother was mistaken; she had yet to find power--a wolf disguised in promises with disturbing consequences of broken vows.  With this assurance, the young lady found herself upon the doorstep of that big white house.  Giving in to temptation, she knocked.

A very large, giant of a man opened the door.  His smile quite large, with eyes quite leering, he clapped his hands in glee.  "Oh, my, young lady, have you come to my aid?"  Remembering her mother's warning, she feared this man might very well be that wolf disguised in powerful clothing. 

Smiling again, he asked, "And what is your name?"

"Lou Ann, sir," 

"And your last name?"  He rubbed his hands together and smacked his lips, while watching her intently through hooded eyes.

"Ski," Lou Ann softly answered.

"What a nice moniker, Lou Ann Ski."  The man couldn't hinder the shining gleam of lust radiating from his eyes.  "Please come in and let me look through that quite attractive basket you are carrying so closely to your chest."

"Oh, sir, there is no way I could come in.  I am not supposed to be here.”  Lou Ann clutched her basket closer and turned to leave.

“Ms. Lou Ann Ski.”  The man grinned.  “Oh, I love that name.  Do you mind if I use it all together?  It seems to roll so fluently over my tongue and out of my mouth.  Please, my dear. Come in my office, its oval, you know . . . and we shall discuss this fear you have of power.”

Not able to dissuade this man and so sure she could change his evil ways, she marched behind him--straight into his office.

While he talked, she couldn’t help but notice certain things.  Stopping in midstream, he asked her if, perhaps, she had a problem?

“Oh, no sir.  I just noticed what big eyes you have.”

“Oh, my dear Ms. Lou Ann Ski, all the better to see you--”

“And what big teeth you have--”

“All the better to--”

As he attempted to finish the sentence and grab her by the shoulders, a much harried, angry lady burst forth into the room.  Her flushed face clashed angrily with her dress.  Too bad, because she looked so pretty in pink.

“Stop this now, I say!”  The lady seemed wicked as a witch.

“Who are you, ma’am?”  Lou Ann asked.

“I am from the west wing.”  The lady answered testily.

“How did you know I was here?”  Lou Ann asked in her innocence.

“You won’t believe this, but I was led here by a star, but not from the East . . . I think from Texas.  I am trying to stop the injustice of power over innocence before this goes too far.”

The man moved to say something, perhaps in apology, to the witch.  She stopped him cold with a withering look and a condescending, “Zip it, I don’t want anything out of you.”

Amazingly, this seemingly powerful giant stepped back, and Ms. Lou Ann Ski realized who truly held the power within the big white house on the street named after the state with trains.  Leaving as quickly as she could, she thanked her lucky star--the one from Texas--for saving her from more embarrassment for not seeing sooner, the wolf dressed in powerful clothing.

Seeing eye front seat driver???

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Prof told me I had the makings of a good country song when I was telling her about driving husband’s pickup while he was driving me nuts. Before I finished the tale, she was laughing.

I decided to write an article instead.

Disclaimer to men who can’t laugh at themselves….stop reading here; women, you’ll be nodding furiously in agreement.

It started when husband had his eyes checked. I had a dental appointment to have my teeth cleaned. The two offices are within a mile of the other across town. Husband decided I’d drive after his appointment because his eyes would be dilated. Unlike some, it takes quite awhile for him to look normal, not like a wild person.

Everything went well until I had to drive. He is very protective of his pickup and more so when I am driving said pickup.

Remember, he can’t see.

I will admit upfront I feel as though I’m driving a bus which in and of itself is bad enough; but to have a front seat passenger side wild-eyed helper makes for a very irritating afternoon.

That’s the good part.

The bad part is that Mr. Wild-Eye Know-it-All Can’t See Husband decides I don’t know which lane to get into in order to turn. Then, I must not know this pickup is different to park than my 4-door Taurus.  What? Like I don’t know I’m driving a tank?

And the last and most indefensible thing he said to me “What if you had to parallel park, what would happen? Huh?”

As calmly as I could I replied that was a mute point as there were no parallel parking spaces available and that most likely I would ram whatever was in front and back of me like I did all those years ago when I took my driving test.

“I’ll bet you didn’t pass either!” he grumped while still telling me that I needed to back up and retry because I was too close to the car next to us.

I refused to tell him I had to retake the test.

As much as I don’t like to go to the dentist, I was happy to get in that office and catch my breath.

Maybe I will write a song--I was driving my husband’s pickup while was driving me nuts.

It really does have a ring to it.