As a Christian, one way I celebrate Easter is by attending Church services. I also host a family reunion for members of my extended family the Saturday before Easter, and while not as important as my faith or my family, I celebrate Easter by eating CANDY. In fact, I find it easy to celebrate everyday with candy.
I learned to love candy as a child. Grandma gave me candy each time I visited. Trips to town from my childhood home in the country were not frequent, but a trip to town always netted at least a quarter’s worth of candy from the candy counter at the five and dime store.
Circus peanuts were my favorite then, and they still are. However, they are closely followed by 3 Musketeers, MilkyWays, Butterfingers, licorice jelly beans, Sugar Babies, Milk Duds, Hot Tamales, candy corn, and candy Easter eggs. Unfortunately, many of my best diet plans ended badly the last week before Easter.
This year was no different.
I don’t like snakes of any size, shape, or form, so I was most alarmed when one early summer day I saw one slithering from the fireplace across the living room floor to a spot under the couch. My heart pounded and my vocal cords emitted a very high-pitched tone heard several miles away. It mattered not the snake was only slightly larger than an earth worm.
The farm girl in me knew that often where there is one snake there are two snakes. Sure enough, an hour later a second snake zigzagged its way across the kitchen floor to the range. Where was St. Patrick when I needed him?
Fortunately, my son, the one who left the back door propped open at length while he moved his belongings home from college for the summer, caught the adventurous pair of reptiles. I assisted by shouting encouragement from my perch on the dining room table.
Still, it was a week before I quit wearing my husband’s old army boots to bed—one never knows when nature might come calling.
It was an ugly rash all right. I couldn’t imagine what caused it. I had used the same laundry detergent for thirty years. The socks and slacks I wore were not new and had been washed many times. Yet, there were spots– nasty, itchy spots on my legs.
Each morning I soothed the itching with lotion and did the same each evening. Still I itched. Before long, the rash spread to the palms of my hands. I was applied lotion periodically during the day, too. Finally, I gave up and called the doctor for an appointment while I rubbed still more shampoo on my legs.
Wait—what? Shampoo? How could I have missed seeing “shampoo” so clearly marked?
So be warned. If you take both the guest shampoo and the guest lotion from a hotel room, you really should read the labels before you use the product.
My friend was excited. She and her husband had purchased a bed which allowed each of them to adjust his or her side of the bed independently to his or her comfort level.
Of course, with the bed came two additional remotes into the house. They knew the possibility existed for confusion but felt they could handle the remotes. After all, they had been empty nesters for some time and had learned to tune in television shows. They even occasionally were able to record a program to watch later– without calling one of their adult children.
They anxiously donned their jammies and settled in for a good night’s sleep.
“Well darn, my remote doesn’t work,” my friend said as she randomly pushed buttons on her remote. “Does yours?” she asked her husband.
“You tell me,” he answered, and with a somewhat revengeful smile on his face began to push the buttons on the remote in his hand.