In Memory of Betty: The Betty Files: Baby it's Cold Inside

We recently had a week where, it seemed, everybody was dying. (That's a sentence that should bring in the readers!) I kid you not! Every time we turned around, someone that we knew, knew someone who died. Among those who passed, were my mother-in-law, age 88; and a friend, Betty, age 76.  They both had Alzheimer's and had strokes.  They both also were faithful followers of their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  We are comforted knowing that we will indeed see them again one day.

So, in Betty's memory, I have decided to re-post a couple blogs affectionately called "The Betty Files".  This is the first of two.  I hope you enjoy it.  She was quite a character.





 After discussing several prospective blogging titles, I was assured by my personal blogger advisor, that I should definitely go with the one I am about to discuss.  "Just make it funny", was the remainder of the advice.  So, I will do my  best.

My dear friend, Betty, is always cold. "Just look at my hands."  She says this after saying "Just feel my hands", and placing her hands in mine, so I can, indeed feel how cold she is.  She continues, "My hands, they look like white bones. Just look at them."  She continues this conversation for several more minutes.

Maybe I should digress a little to explain exactly why she is here on a regular basis.  She has lived much of her life in and around Wooster, so most of her family is here, namely her "little mother." Her mother is now in a local nursing home with Alzheimer's. Several years ago, her husband found work in Florida, so they moved there.  He lost that job a few years ago, and now works in Wisconsin, but they still have their place in Florida. Anyway, maybe that was unnecessary information, but he flies her back here about every six weeks or so, in order for her to be with her mother.  She usually stays with us.

Anyway, the last few times she has been here, she laid claim to my terry cloth robe.  It's the shorter style, and has a hood on it, which she tells me, she likes to pull up over her head when she sleeps because it keeps her so much warmer. Now I just leave it back in "her room" so she can have ready access to it.

And now, a word about me.  I am currently in the fun phase of my life, called menopause.  Being in menopause makes your body do some weird stuff.  For one thing, my internal temperature regulator has gone berserk!  I am either freezing, or sweating.  So, in order to stay somewhat comfortable, I have several sweaters lying around.  Brrrrr, I'm cold.  On goes the sweater.  Arrrrggg. Man, is it HOT in here.  Off goes the sweater.  I don't even know how many times a day that occurs. So, I try never to be too far from my sweater.

The other day, I was wearing my yellow sweater, and Betty commented on what a nice sweater it was.  "Yes, it's handy to have around," I say, pulling it off due to a hot flash, and draping it around the kitchen chair.  "Oh, that is a very nice sweater", she repeats, while running her hand over it, and admiring it.  We talk a little more, then get busy with other things.  Later, in the evening, during a cold flash, I'm looking for my sweater, and can't find it.  It's not completely unusual that I can't find something, but usually, after looking under blankets or coats, I can locate it.  However, my  yellow sweater was no where to be found, so I pulled out my black sweater.

The next morning when Betty walks into the kitchen, I notice she is wearing my(her) white robe, and around her shoulders is draped my yellow sweater.  (Ohhhhhhh, that's where it got to, I say to myself.)  She proceeds to tell me how warm she is, except for her "bone white hands".  I'm glad she was able to stay warm, and mentally accept the fact that I will not be seeing my yellow sweater for the remainder of her visit.

The following day, as I was getting ready to leave the house and go grocery shopping,  my black sweater appeared to be "missing".  I left the house, did my shopping, and got back home.  There was Betty, fully dressed, and wearing my black sweater, underneath another vest.  She makes no apologies (none are needed), and says, "I just "found" this nice sweater.  It goes with my outfit better, don't you think? (I assume she means, than the yellow sweater), and it's warm, too!"

She eventually discards my black sweater, and I nonchalantly pick it up and put it on. Luckily, I was having a well-timed cold flash!

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This feels a little scary, but I'm going to make another attempt to re-start blogging. The last time I made that statement was in 2013!  Yikes! I'm feeling a little rusty, and know I will have to relearn everything I thought I knew about blogging.  It's a frightening thought. (Especially since my official blog adviser doesn't live here anymore. I will have to actually figure everything out on my own!) Bear with me, please.

So, Hubby and I have recently celebrated 36 years of wedded bliss.  Where did he take me, you ask? To a bar. An out-dated, old bar, out in the middle of nowhere.  Why, for heaven's sake?  Because on Fridays, they have the best "all you can eat" fried fish! And, normally, we don't even like fish.  I suggested on Friday morning that we go out for fish after I got home from work that evening.  He thought it was a good idea. (Secretly, I wanted to see if he would claim it for our anniversary dinner, knowing he would!)  When we arrived, the place was packed.  There were two empty chairs at the bar, so that's where we sat.  When the guy sitting beside Hubby left, he passed over the TV control to Hubby.  After surfing the channels and finding nothing appealing, he found "The Andy Griffith Show", and that's where it stayed.  You won't find that show playing in too many bars!

Halfway through the meal, Hubby said, "By the way, Happy Anniversary!"  And, I said, "I knew you would claim this for our anniversary! Happy Anniversary to you, too!" After we finished eating, we waddled ourselves out to the car, complained about eating too much all the way home, waddled into the house, plopped on the couch, and watched some more episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" on Netflix. And, who says "romance is dead"?  Not us!

(And I even remembered how to add pictures! woo hoo!)


 

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Bloglovin'?

Is it "Blog-lovin" or "Blo-glovin"? Ok. I know what it is, sorta, just tryin' a little humor. My intentions are to get back to blogging, hopefully before this decade is over. But, we shall see.

Opps. I almost forgot the reason for this blog:Follow my blog with Bloglovin

I think that makes me official.

Anyway, I'm trying to stay ahead of the weeds in the garden. That's a big FAIL right there. I blame my little part-time job at the library for keeping me too busy. Son and Sweetie Pie will be coming soon to spend Independence Day Week with us. Can't wait for that!

I hope all is well with you. I'm missing you all, and hope to get my life in order soon, and get back to the wonderful world of blogging!

Take care,

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Ricochet Rabbit

I may have to change the name of my blog to "Wow, I have an amazing memory". I was lying in bed this morning, racking my poor little brain, trying to come up with an "R" post. Suddenly, my brain pulled out, "boing, boing, boing, Ricochet Rabbit".

www.cartoonlair.com 

I tried to download a free cartoon, but it was taking for-ev-er to load, so you will be spared. 

Looking at this picture has made me realize that a lot of cartoons from my generation revolved around "the Law."  Ricochet Rabbit was a sheriff, and his deputy was (his name just left me...oh yeah,) Droop-a-long. Of course, complete opposites. Then there was, Deputy Dawg and his sidekick, Mr. Mole. 
And, we can't forget Sheriff Quick Draw McGraw. His deputy was a slow poke, too. Then, there was Yogi Bear and Boo Boo, too, always trying to outsmart Ranger Smith(?) and get pic-a-nic baskets. 

My brain is a little tired after coming up with all these images from the past, so I'm going to boing! Boing! boing! Ricochet outta here!

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QQQQQ

I had been dreading this post, until, miraculously, a word from my past, popped into my head. Now, there is some controversy about this word, but, it's not what you're thinking. How do I know that? Because I can read minds! Muwahha.

The word for today is "queep". I'm not surprised that you haven't heard of it, because I made it up. 

Back in the day, before the cursed political correctness ruled our lives, there was a perfectly great word, queer. In my dictionary (from 1975, it's an antique, I know), it was defined: 1)differing in some odd way from what is usual or normal, 2) eccentric, unconventional 3) mildly insane:touched...and finally,sexually deviate:homosexual. I had my own definition: weirdo. 

I used that word a lot on my sister and brothers, yelling at them, "You're so queer, you weirdo!" Redundant, I know. But, I enjoyed the satisfaction of name calling. One day, my sister and I were fighting. Again. I think she threw me in the closet. But, I also think it was because I took some of her candy. Hey, it was chocolate! And, on the way in the closet, my arm scraped against a nail head that was sticking out. I still have the scar, but it's starting to blend in with my wrinkles. Blinded by the pain, my mind was racing, trying to come up with the perfect word to hurl at her. Creep or queer? But, my words got mixed up, and I screamed, "You, queep!" 

"Queep? What's a queep? She mocked me.

"You're a creep! You queer!" It was too late. My vocabulary blunder destroyed the effect. Instead we started laughing at the new word. 

The controversy? My silly sister thinks that she came up with the word. How ridiculous is that? I just gave you the play by play account, (and my memory never fails me) so, if you should ever hear anyone say "queep", you will know the true story of its origination. 

In case you are wondering, my sister and I do not throw each other in the closet anymore. However, we may still fight over chocolate!

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P is for Pressure

The pressure of this A-Z Blogging challenge is profound. Every day a new letter to ponder. This causes quite a predicament, because my psyche goes practically blank, with each letter. I sit at my computer, staring out into space, probing my mind on what starts with the letter "p". Such a perplexing plight I'm in.

I worry about what persnickety people (I'm not talking about you) might be thinking about my pitiful blog. I'm not a perfectionist, (n)or precise. 

Please be patient while I  persevere and persist. I may come up with something pertinent to write about.

But, you may think, it's just a bunch of poppycock!

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O, Oh, Ohhh!

"Oh. My thoughts on "o". Here is a little story from days gone by, when my chillen's was little.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and we had just gotten home from church. I told my kids, ages 6,5,and 4, to change into play clothes before lunch. My 6 and 5 year old sons, were, for once, quite obedient, and they changed their clothes. My 4-year old daughter,(aka Amazing Daughter) on the other hand, decided that she did not want to change her clothes. I was in my room, and I could hear my 5-year old telling her to change her clothes. It went something like this:

5 year old: Mom said to change your clothes.
4 year old: I don't want to.
5 year old: But, Mom said to.
4 year old: I still don't want to and I'm not going to. 

Then there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and there stood my 5 year old, looking very serious, and exasperated. He said, "I told her she had to change her clothes, but, she won't do it." And, then he said, rather matter-of-factly, "She's just being obstinate." And, he marched down the stairs, washing his hands of the matter, leaving me with my mouth hanging open, wondering, "where in the world did he learn that word"? 

And that was my introduction to the Letter People, Miss O is obstinate.

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