Are you getting bored with all the articles telling you to look and feel your best, you need at least eight hours of sleep a day?
If you’re like me, you feel you look better with dark circles and puffy bags under your eyes teamed with a sallow complexion.
Have you caught your husband lustily eyeing the groggy woman ahead of you at the checkout line, confirming your suspicion that he feels haggard is the new sexy?
Have no fear. I’m here to give you some tried-and-true tips for capitalizing on your lack of sleep. Follow my advice, and you, too, can achieve that harried look and attitude of a mom on the edge. Healthy and well-rested is so yesterday.
1) Have children. One child can do it, but if you’re really going for the too-exhausted-to-stand-upright look, have three.
2) The kids should feel free to sneak in your bed at all hours of the night. If you’re not woken up with at least one of your kids’ feet on your face or a little arm wedged under your ribs, you’re not doing it right.
3) Keep your office in your bedroom. Your computer should call to you in the middle of the night, with emails that need to be answered and a blog that needs updating while everyone is tucked safely in bed. This will ensure that you will be completely shot by breakfast. You may even get a headache. Doesn’t everyone know that nothing is sexier than a tired, haggard, cranky woman with a headache? You’ll be the envy of every mother at the PTA meeting, school drop-off lane or toddler gym class.
4) Teach your children that you’re at their beck-and-call at all hours of the night. If you have gone a week without one of your children asking you to make scrambled eggs and bacon or asking if they could build a rocket ship in the basement at 3 a.m., you’re really at risk at looking well rested.
5) If you should decide to ever lock your door in order to have a little private time with your mate, or just sleep uninterrupted for more than two hours, make sure you have the type of kids who are willing to camp out by the door for at least two hours. If they are clever enough to sing 10 versions of “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” or say things like, “But mom, you are my best friend” and “Let me in. I can’t hack sleeping on my own tonight,” you’re golden.
6) Drink coffee. All. Day. Long. Here’s a special tip: Go to Starbucks and get a grande with three shots of espresso. It’s highly recommended if you need to clean out your closets and fridge at 3 a.m.
7) Send your kids to school or daycare. This will ensure that they will get sick and you will be woken up by a little one with a fever or projectile vomiting. This is really essential. Seeing your child sick and in pain will add more than a little stress to your exhaustion. You’ll feel so helpless and sad for your child that you are sure to have an extra layer of sluggishness.
Follow one or two of these tips, and you’re sure to look a little bleary eyed. To achieve the maximum effect of weary-and-shattered beauty, you must follow all of these steps. This task isn’t for the faint of heart.
After practicing these tips for 15 years, my look is so haggard and exhausted that any day I expect Vogue to schedule me for a cover shot.
I hope they use Patrick Demarchelier.
— Kathy Radigan
Kathy Radigan is a writer, blogger, social media addict, mom to three, wife to one and owner of a possessed appliance. She posts a weekly essay each Sunday on her blog, My dishwasher’s possessed!, and has had her writing featured on BlogHer and Cribster. She’s also a contributing author in Sunshine After the Storm: a survival guide for the grieving mother and The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain and Power of Female Friendship. You can follow her onFacebook, Twitter and Google +
(This essay first appeared in Not Your Mother’s Book…On Being a Woman in October 2012. Reposted by permission of the author.)
“Darn, Robert Redford isn’t quite as cute as he used to be! I just hate that.” And I was adamant. It had been years since I’d seen Mr. Redford and didn’t expect to such a drastic change in his appearance.
My husband, Jerry, and I were watching him being interviewed on television. A true sense of melancholy came over me when I realized he was no longer a young and handsome hunk. I much preferred to remember Redford’s striking face in movies such as The Way We Were and The Sundance Kid.
The interview continued, but I only heard a few words here and there. My thoughts had turned to aging. If age could take a toll on the likes of Robert Redford, none of us was immune. Just how many people — men or women — are blessed with such terrific looks to begin with. If it could happen to him, we were all doomed — should we live long enough.
When the program ended, Jerry spoke up. “Well, you know none of us is as cute as we once were.” He was so nonchalant that I was caught completely off guard. I sat on the foot of the bed in a daze and thought how much I despised those words.
Then it was time for my all-but-rehearsed and-often spouted spiel of how I don’t feel any older; it’s all a state of mind. We bantered back and forth, all in good fun, for several minutes. Just as I began to stand up, dear hubby made a very disturbing announcement. “Kathy, do you realize this year you will be twice the age you were when we met?”
I felt like someone had hit me right over the head with a cast-iron frying pan! I fell backwards onto the bed, covered my face with my hands and recall uttering a few sounds of agony at Jerry’s uncalled-for remark. There are some things that shouldn’t be said to a woman and/or wife! What was he thinking anyway?
I began doing some quick math in my head. Not liking the first results, I ran through the numbers again — the results were the same and they sucked!
“Oh darn — you’re right, Jerry! However, that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me in our entire married life,” I shrieked, and I shrieked loudly! “I can’t believe it. Don’t you know when to keep your mouth shut? There are certain things best kept to yourself, and I suggest you remember that in the future! What is wrong with you anyway?”
He didn’t say a word, but looked at me strangely. Perhaps he thought I was losing my marbles? Or, perhaps he was afraid to say one more word!
Still, I kept wondering; where did the years go so quickly? It didn’t seem possible! I went to bed that night still obsessing over our conversation and Jerry’s dim-witted remark. I tossed and turned! I flipped and flopped! Secretly, I hoped all my writhing about was keeping dear hubby awake as well. It was hours before I drifted off to sleep. Being twice the age of anything is a horrid thought, unless you’re lucky enough to still be under the age of say, 15. What might be next? Would Jerry someday tell me I’m three times older than when we met? That could prove to be dangerous and I hoped he knew it.
I finally decided to look at the bright side of things before this revelation made me crazy. After several days, it finally struck me! Indeed, a bright side did exist. According to statistics, Jerry will probably never be able to say such a thing. Since he’s six years older than I am, he will more than likely already be six feet under! If by chance he isn’t, well, all I can say is he’d best never utter that dreaded three word. Should he do so, I’ll be moving out.
Yes, it’s as simple as that — three and I’m out! I’ll pound on that call button as fast as my old, stiff fingers will allow. When the entire convalescent staff storms our room in panic, I’ll demand they wheel me into the home’s administration office. And then I’ll demand a private room in a different wing — next door to Robert Redford.
— Kathleene S. Baker
Kathy Baker grew up in the small town of Augusta, Kansas, and all these years later, she insists you can take the kid out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the kid. She and her husband, Jerry, reside in Plano, Texas, which is part of the Dallas metroplex. As empty nesters, they share their lives and home with three canine fur kids: Hank, Samantha and Abby. She has edited many online newsletters and several books and been published in numerous newsletters, on websites, in newspapers, magazines and various anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Soul and Not Your Mother’s Book. Kathy is co-editor of Not Your Mother’s Book…On Dogs and is currently working on Not Your Mother’s Book…On Pets.
The only thing that leveled the playing field among everyone who went to my high school was that we all wore the same uniform.
Like most schools, there were the typical cliques — the popular kids, the jocks, the brains, the nerds, the loners and “other.” I think I fell into the “other” category.
I truly enjoyed high school. I had a wonderful group of very close friends, and my days playing softball were some of the best of my life. I like to think I was friendly. I was neither popular nor unpopular, and I went through my four years happily, without regrets. Well, at least I didn’t think I had any regrets…until now.
How about that girl in high school? You know, the one all the guys wanted to date, and all the girls wanted to be friends with? What was she really like?
Remember that guy in high school? You know, the one you never made eye contact with because you were afraid he wouldn’t return your glance?
What about that other girl whom you were “hi and bye in the hallway” friends with but you never really got to know?
Or that boy whom you would have liked to have been friends with even though you were from different circles?
We all missed the potential of so many friendships in high school for one reason or another. I know we are all grateful for the lifelong friends that we did make in high school, but do you ever wonder if a simple “hello” in Spanish class could have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship?
Well, guess what? We have all sent and received “friend requests” from classmates whom we may or may not have ever spoken with in high school. Whether it was a drunken request or a hope to see how someone turned out, we have all done it! When I look through my “friends list” now, I have former classmates from every corner of the lunchroom. And these days, there is much more in common than a burgundy blazer or wool, plaid, below-the-knee shirt.
We have all had our share of ups and downs. Triumphs and setbacks. Good and bad. Love and loss. Happy and heartache. Fortunes and failures. Sickness and survivors. There are no cliques. We are all just going through this journey of life together.
Now, through the world of social media, we are able to offer congratulations, condolences, a happy birthday wish, a “hello, how have you been” or even a simple status “Like.” Are we going to get best friend necklaces, ask each other to be Godparents of our children or even send actual Christmas cards? Probably not. But if we see each other at a local bar, I am sure we will raise our glasses for a “good to see you again” cheers. If we are at a Mommy and Me group, maybe we will set up a play date for our children. Or if we ask advice from our former locker buddy on how she started her blog, she may share her secrets and advice. Thanks, Danielle.
Bottom line: we are all more alike than we could have ever imagined back in high school. And that is perfectly fine. We didn’t all NEED to be friends back then. But now, I am happy to see you are doing well, wish you a “Happy Birthday” and offer you condolences in times of need.
Fast forward 20-plus years, and we are all one, big happy clique.
— Leigh-Mary Hoffmann
Leigh-Mary Hoffmann is a mom, public relations specialist and humor blogger from Long Island, N.Y., juggling a family, a job and a busy, crazy life. She tells it like it is — the good, the bad and the ugly — and tries to keep a smile on her face and laughter in her life. Her life story “reads like a cross between the lyrics of a ‘feel-good’ country song and the script from an ‘I feel so bad for her’ Lifetime Movie of the Week.” She invites you to visit her blog or stop by her Facebook page for all the gory (but not in a gross way, more like “funny”) details.
I have been blessed by the Wrinkle Fairy.
She perches on my right shoulder. I caught her waving her sparkly wrinkle wand at me last week. She was laughing as she anointed me. I frowned at her and tried to swat her off my shoulder. It’s not easy to avoid the Wrinkle Fairy when you are married to the Master Wrinkle Maker, my husband, Scott.
I started to take notice that the wrinkle fairy is more active when he is in the room. I follow him around closing cabinet doors, drawers, putting things back in the fridge and searching for his ever-lost keys. He also swears he told me important facts that I never remember hearing come from his mouth.
For instance, he says he told me, “Don’t use the American Express card. The balance is getting too high.” That afternoon I went out and I charged $214 on American Express. I have no recollection of his conversation about not using that card. I think he is messing with my mind. This makes me wrinkle up as I try to back trace in my menopausal mind. I can barely remember him, let alone an imaginary conversation. The Wrinkle Fairy notices my expressions, and she does a little twirl as she BAM! shakes her wand at me.
When you have five kids, there is always something and someone to worry about. I got extra blessings from the fairy back then. When they were teenagers I‘d wait in the cold and dark at 2 a.m. just waiting for them to try to sneak in. I’d be praying, “Dear God, please let them drive up now and be safe….so I can kill them personally!” BAM! …wrinkle fairy is not happy about being awake on a cold, dark night either. She zaps me twice! BAM! BAM!
When my estrogen level plummeted, the wrinkle fairy worked overtime. She almost fell off my shoulder from daily fits of laughter. She got dizzy spinning and bopping me with that wand of hers. I remember thinking I needed to shake her off, but then I’d get busy and forget. This forgetfulness is causing my crow’s feet to turn into eagles’s claw. My brow is so wrinkled, I feel like that cute little puggle dog, but I’m not little enough for it to be so cute.
Yesterday I went to the grocery store without my list. There was only one item, and I could remember that easily. I went up and down every single aisle trying to remember why I made this crucial trp. I could not remember to save my life. When I got home, I splashed water on my face and when I looked in the mirror, I remembered. I went to the store for WRINKLE CREAM!! My fairy friend is now doing the Macarena on my shoulder.
I made the mistake of telling Scott about this. At 2 a.m. last night he got up to go to the bathroom. I heard him yelling, “Get out of here! Get! Get! Don’t even think about it!!” I thought we must have had a water bug or a mosquito. He came back to bed, and I asked him what was in there. He said, “It was one of your wrinkles trying to attach itself to my leg. Don’t worry. I caught it and flushed it. You’re safe tonight.” For the love!!!
My fairy rolled over and covered her ears. It must be exhausting being my fairy. She needs her rest. Who knew laughing can cause so many wrinkles?
My wrinkle fairy and I have made peace. I’ve decided to embrace her blessings.
By the way, she told me her name is Wanda. I call her Wanda with the sparkly wand. We are now best friends. I’m taking her to lunch today. She is my new best
— Anne Bardsley
Anne Bardsley, of St. Petersburg, Fla., is the author of the soon-to-be-published ANZ World…How I Earned My Wrinkles, a collection of humorous and sentimental stories about marriage, motherhood and menopause. She lives in a menopausal world with a husband who gives her wrinkles. When people ask her age, she sometimes tells them her bra size. “36-C,” she says, “was a wonderful age.”
In a day and age when music programs across the nation are being cut from school budgets, there appears to be one place where music is still a hot commodity: on cell phones.
Gone are the days of the boring monotone ringer. We are in the 21st century…a time of innovation, a time of creativity, and a time when you can download a belching sound as an indication that your grandmother is calling.
When my best friend’s cell phone rings, it plays the first three bars to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” My mother’s cell phone plays a waltz from “The Nutcracker.” More impressively, my friend from college has downloaded the theme to “Murder, She Wrote” on her cell phone. (Every time it rings, I feel a little nervous for my life.) My father, however, has stuck to the more traditional, one-beep ring. (I don’t think he knows how to program his cell phone ringer. Nor do I think he cares.)
However, your cell phone ring can be an important personality identifier. Can you imagine if your company president had a cell phone that played “Money, Money, Money?” Or, would you date a guy whose phone rang to “Smooth Criminal?”
Walking around Main Street this weekend, I kept my ears glued for different cell phone rings. I was amazed at the diversity of music coming from people’s pockets and purses. I heard everything from Justin Timberlake to the sound of fireworks. At one point, I really believed that Bruce Springsteen was in the local bookstore when I heard his voice coming from behind the non-fiction section. (I was highly disappointed when I learned it was a pregnant woman with adult braces, and not my beloved Bruce.)
During my research, I also realized that some people have a talent for recognizing others’ cell phone rings in only a few notes. I felt like I was witnessing an episode of Name That Tune while watching a mother of three teenagers distinguish who needed to answer their phone in a local diner. She knew that it was her youngest daughter’s Rihanna phone ringtone in fewer than two notes!
So, after hearing all of these clever cell phone rings that have surrounded me, I realize that not only do I have to choose what cell phone service to buy, I also have to worry about choosing a ringtone for me. Shall I pick a classic Beethoven ditty or a more contemporary Kate Perry song? Shall I try out the “sound of rain falling on a car roof” or the bizarre “funny donkey” pre-loaded ring? (Does a funny donkey really have a sound?)
I’ve contemplated this decision, and have come to a verdict. In order to be distinctive, I’ll stick with the vibrate mode. Apparently, everybody else just wants to make noise.
— Becky Munsterer
Becky Munsterer writes daily for the “here today, gone tomorrow” blog, Novel Nibble. She’s also the author of two children’s books (The Little Rippers and Kat McGee and the School of Christmas Spirit.) She lives in Norwich, Vt., where she actually doesn’t have cell phone reception.
I might be having a mid-life crisis.
I’m not sure because crisis is exactly the opposite of how I’m feeling, which is sexy.
Hard to believe, since I can no longer just bend down and get up in a single motion, and have a wrinkle in between the brow that is now a crevice you could lose things in. Still, I’m sashaying around wearing all my fancy clothes that are actually years old, but I would never wear before because apparently, I was saving them for my mid-life crisis. Also, I have clean hair. Never underestimate the power of clean hair.
I had no idea that this feeling was one of the mid-life symptoms. So I started researching, and sexy wasn’t anywhere on the list of what to expect.
It did say that mid-life is the time more people step out with a young lova. But this makes no sense to me. Someone young cannot see someone middle aged without causing one to die of shock and the other of embarrassment. If anything, I’d have to get me a very old, blind lova. That is, if my husband says it’s okay.
They also say there’s a lot of reassessment, and I have been contemplating my life lately and wondering if I actually have one.
Many people quit their jobs. I don’t have a job. Maybe I’ll get a job! Yeah! That’s it.
But then how could I go to the gym to lose the five pounds I need to rock my minivan right and attract my old, blind lova? All of sudden, I understand why men buy Porsches. They’re feeling it and want to show off their bada** selves, while they’re still bada**.
I read that a mid-life crisis spurs drinking, so I bought a couple of cases of wine because I like to be prepared. I don’t know if that would go over well on my new job, but I’m thertainly giving it the ole college try. urp.
Not that I’m qualified for anything anymore.
I can just see me at a business lunch, cutting up a client’s food and then, if he gets distracted by our fascinating conversation about what’s on sale at the supermarket, forking some fish into his mouth. At least since he ordered it; it wouldn’t come back out in a disgusted dribble like I just fed him clumped dirt. So there’s that.
Okay, forget the job. I’ve got too much to do anyway. Let’s see… well, the kids are all finally at school, leaving me with the bulk of the day to my own devices. It’s the first time in over 10 years that I’ve had the house to myself for the hours of 8:30 a.m. to 3 p.m.
It’s amazing. I can actually think when they’re gone.
They are gone. My babies! Oh my babies are gone!! Oh my GOD!!!
Pause for slug of wine.
Okay, deep breaths. Much better.
I do wonder what is going on in my body that’s making me feel so full of… No. Not myself. I was going to say, life. Whatever it is, I’m feeling good. Maybe I’ll take up tennis. Or start running races. Or schedule a little fix in the face? Or dye my hair a ravishing red.
Wait?! What if it’s like when a person is near death, and they all of a sudden get that last surge of energy before the end??!! Oh no!! Is this my last bit of sexy?? Then it’s gone?! FOREVER?!
Well now I’m depressed. They say that’s a sign too.
Pause for another slug.
Whatever. For the moment, I got my sexy back.
Maybe hot flashes will be better than I think.
How you doin?!
— Alisa Schindler
Alisa Schindler is freelance writer who chronicles the sweet and bittersweet of life in the suburbs on her highly entertaining blog www.icescreammama.com. Her essays have been featured on Mamapedia.com and Bonbonbreak.com as well as in the book, Life Well Blogged. She is a member of “Yeah Write,” an online community for writers, where she has won the Jury Prize multiple times in the group’s weekly essay writing contest. She has just completed her first novel that she feels comfortable showing to someone other than her mother.
I suppose it’s a good thing that my goal is to live to be 110 because after spending the last several hours cleaning my son’s apartment, I may inadvertently have sacrificed a year or two.
He didn’t ask me to do it, and he certainly didn’t expect that I would. We were supposed to be enjoying a merry old time tonight with a group of his friends who invited us for dinner and then an evening at the local indoor trampoline park. Awesome, right? Yes, I was ready to don a set of Nick’s sweats and hop till I dropped this evening, but an unexpected call from his workplace changed our plans, leaving me with four hours to entertain myself, and no cable television.
“I guess I’ll have some time to write after all,” I tell him as he hurriedly dresses to cover a shift. He looks great in his dress pants, shirt and tie, but cuts himself in his rush to shave.
“Why are you using a disposable razor?” I ask, knowing from personal experience how unforgiving they can be.
“I don’t know,” he says, pressing a piece of toilet paper to his chin. “A leftover habit from when I didn’t used to shave every day, I guess.”
If he could, he’d likely never shave, but his job now requires it. I make a mental note to buy him a real razor.
He leaves, and I open the refrigerator to rustle up some dinner. Looks like it’ll be a celery and peanut butter extravaganza, and when I open what should be the fruit drawer to see if there’s anything I might add, I recoil in horror.
No, there’s no severed head or any other body part in the drawer, but there’s clearly something growing, and not something anyone should eat. I decide that my young bachelor could use a little help, and set aside the celery for later.
I survey the small apartment and decide to start with the floors, drab beige-brown linoleum that almost hides months of neglect. After running the vac (note: buy new vacuum bags), I fill the tub with bleach water and search for a mop, but find only a dry-mop. Into the tub it goes, and I instantly feel better slopping it across each room and capturing all the dust bunnies.
The color of the tub water when I rinse the mop makes me think that I should repeat what I’ve just done, several times, but my time is limited and there’s much still to do. Like clean the tub, which is blooming both black and an unnatural pink. And the toilet, which rocks when you sit on it, and the sink, which is attached to the wall at the perfect height for a Lilliputian.
I look for a new sponge (note: buy new sponges), to no avail, so I use the one that keeps the bar of soap from slipping into the sink; it’s in considerably better shape than the scary one Nick has been using on dishes in the kitchen. My hands start to look like old lady’s hands (I’ve only just hit my middle-age) and I wonder if I should be wearing a haz-mat mask, but it’s too late. I’ve gone too far.
After dousing all bathroom surfaces with bleach (note: buy more bleach), I scrub what I can, including the abused trash can. Then it’s back to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator again, hoping that what I saw an hour ago isn’t really as bad as I first thought, but in fact, it is far worse.
When I remove the drawer to clean it in the sink, what I find under it at the bottom of the refrigerator defies description, and for a moment, I consider pretending I’ve not seen it. I could clean and replace the drawer, and no one would be the wiser. But then I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Ever.
And so I do what I must with a skanky sponge soaked in antibacterial spray (note: buy more antibacterial spray), and as the saying goes, one thing leads to another. I do my best not to breathe each time I go in for a scrub, but I start to hear the doctors’ dialogue when I’m 108.
“Poor old girl,” they say. “I’ll bet she cleaned her son’s refrigerator when she was just middle-aged. There’s no way she’ll make it to 110 now.”
Nevertheless, I know that I will finish what I’ve begun.
When all of the red-green gooey jelly-like substance is gone, I finish up by scraping a meal’s worth of food from the inside of the microwave and wipe down the stove front and hood. The sponge can handle no more, and my peanut butter celery is calling me.
I clean the kitchen trash can, toss in the mangled sponge, and scrub my flaky hands with the last drop of antibacterial spray. Time for dinner (note: buy more celery) and three, yes three brownies. Hey, I’m only going to live to be 108 now, so I might as well enjoy every moment!
Nick returns shortly after 10 p.m. and I note a brief expression of concern on his face. He senses that something is different, but cannot put his finger on it.
“Wow. I normally just carry the whole trash can to the dumpster. You were brave to pull out that flimsy bag,” he tells me when he sees the over-full bag by the front door.
I tell him just how brave I’ve been.
“Thanks, Mum,” he tells me, and I know that we both will sleep well tonight.
— Laurel McHargue
Laurel McHargue was raised as “Daughter #4” of five girls in Braintree, Mass. After attending Smith College for three semesters, she then graduated from the United States Military Academy in 1983 with the fourth class to include women. Her constant quest for adventure landed her in Leadville, Colo., where she currently writes and resides with her husband and German Shepherd. She has recently published her first novel,“Miss?” and has co-edited Not Your Mother’s Book…On Being a Stupid Kid (Publishing Syndicate). Read more at www.leadvillelaurel.com.
You probably already know — maybe not in so many words — that a sneeze is a “semi-autonomous, convulsive expulsion of air from the lungs through the nose and mouth, usually caused by foreign particles irritating the nasal mucosa.” Well, that’s Wikipedia’s definition anyway.
I’ll tell you what irritates my nasal mucosa: Is it just me, or do all women suffer menfolk who have disgusting habits?
Not long ago husband Peter and I had bad colds with deep choking coughs that lingered on and on like guests who stay past bedtime — one more sneeze, another funny story, a couple more bone-rattling coughs, kiss miss hug ugh — will they never go?
I doctored myself with aspirin, Clementines and tea, but the tickle turned into a scratch, followed by a bark, then volcanic explosive sneezes. Full. Blown. Cold. Aching, itching, coughing, Nyquil moments, although no Nyquil passed my lips.
Peter’s symptoms started a few days after mine. But would he eat a Clementine, take a spoonful of yummy orange-flavored cough syrup or swallow an aspirin? No-o. He is English, though, so he willingly drinks tea. Lots of tea. At least six cups a day when he’s well, eight or 10 cups when he’s under the weather. Plus, he’s very good at resting and doing nothing. Excellent, in fact.
Meanwhile, I dragged myself through daily chores — opened cans of soup, kept the teapot topped up, changed sheets and towels, disposed of used tissues. As soon as I was sure I would live, I returned to my routine which, by then, included piles of laundry. Sorting. Washing. Drying. Sorting again. Folding. And folding.
In my husband’s pile there was one shirt, two pair of knickers and thirty-two (32!) handkerchiefs. (Peter will not use tissues, which I argue are more sanitary, but that’s a battle I’ll never win.)
So that many hankies I could understand, but why, for the same period, did he wear only two pair of skivvies and one shirt? The man showered every day, yet didn’t change his underwear? I checked to make sure his drawer was full of “drawers.” It was, all in good condition, too, a surprise in itself.
Are all men like this or just my man?
Now I have a lot of handkerchiefs, delicate, lacy, embroidered ones, but would I desecrate them by using them when I have a cold! Heavens, no! I always carry one in my purse in case I happen to swoon and need to dab my forehead daintily. Or I make curtains with them. Yes, I do.
I use tissues for colds, sweat and tears.
My mother never allowed a box of Kleenex to cross her threshold. “Wasteful,” she said. “You have perfectly good hankies to use, Judy,” she’d say. “You can blot your lipstick on a square of toilet paper, one square, mind you.” I still do the latter, but tissues, especially the aloe-impregnated ones, are my friends when I have a cold. I’m sure I went through at least two 124-count boxes of “Dematologist tested” Puffs during my illness.
At a recent luncheon, friend Nancy said she’d looked everywhere for men’s handkerchiefs. Finally, she asked a clerk at J.C. Penney’s where they were. The young woman was blank, so Nancy described a white sixteen-inch cotton square with rolled edges. The woman said, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She probably uses the crook of her elbow when she sneezes. Call me old-fashioned, but I think a well-placed tissue to encapsulate those millions of germs, followed by well-washed hands, is more effective, and certainly more ladylike.
— Judy Clarke
Judy Clarke is a wife, mother of two daughters, grandmother to two grown grandchildren, reader, writer and blogger in southwest Virginia. Her two non-fiction books, Mother Tough Wrote the Book and That’s all she wrote, can be found on her friends’ and family’s shelves, and she’s working on a novel,But why? (That’s the title of the novel, not a question to self).