78 Club Car Makeover

Here are some before, after, and during photos of my 1978 Club Car restoration.

I was attracted to it because it matched our garbage cans.

The upholstery was a little rough. But hey, it ran...sort of.

This shot is after some re-upholstery and ditching the canopy. A little paint helped.By now my wonderful son Andy had gotten the bugs (literally) out of the electric system, and Jud and John helped him drink the beer. I did the brakes cause the boys didn't want to get their clothes dirty.

Here it is coming out of Andy's garage. Lights working new fake grill and a loud horn. Andy might have given me some new tires while I was there.

I had to rebuild the seat frame. The bumper is courtesy of my daughter Laura. It's an Emeril chrome pot hanger. No kitchen could make it look that good.

Time out for Halloween , when Spongebob and I played cops.

On one Halloween , Spongebob got his famous boat on the street. I drove as Mrs. Puff.

Our late dog Teddy LOVED the cart rides. And he stayed in his seat!

Today, the cart has a roof and is awaiting its windshield.

The rear bumper used to be the dashboard rail. I love the moonie hubcaps donated by Andy! Laura says it looks like an Amish wagon, but check out the trunk I made from aluminum sheets. It is held shut by a spring and is handy to  carrying beverages.

Thanks to Paula and Meg, I have a spectacular hood ornament. Those are inexpensive tractor headlights. The cowl and fender panels between the original "hood" and the bottom of front window is leftover metal from Laura and Curt's kitchen backsplash.
No animals were harmed during the remodeling of this vehicle.

Turn This Country Around!

I collect political rhetoric. I have an entire suitcase of it stored in the basement. You can find it anywhere, anytime. It comes in all flavors, Republican, Democrat, Independent, and unlicensed drivers.  They even have it in high school student council elections; "Fire the teachers! Get new bleachers." or "Vote for Jones and keep your cell phones!"

But the holy grail of my rhetoric collection is kept upstairs at my house in a decorated graham cracker box. It is the one that declares, "Let's turn this country around!" 

This makes so much sense. How else could we better fix out current problems? Just look at the map to see the advantages: Washington State could finally be in the posh northeast.They would enjoy fall color and people that talk funny, along with a great view of Europe just across the pond. It's high time California had a few hurricanes. The folks of the eastern states are quite tired of them. I personally am tired of everyone flocking to Florida in the winter. They will now flock to Alaska and boost that state's economy for awhile. Florida will still have great weather in their new spot. They just won't be as close to Cuba. Of course there is the danger of Florida breaking off from the mainland and sinking. As for Maine, they'll get former Washington's rain! 

It looks to me as though Utah and Indiana will be a fair flip when they exchange locations. That's a good thing. The Amish will thrive in the former Utah with its open spaces, and the Mormons would appreciate the former Indiana area for its significance in their early church midwest history. 

Texas, you will notice, will not relocate. It was concluded that because of its size, it's too heavy to move. Illegal immigration will continue, but will lead newcomers more to the new eastern states, where the weather is not as inviting.

Finally, North and South Dakota will also remain where they are. Folks have enough trouble finding them as it is. 

I'm just not sure how the Golden Gate Bridge will look in Delaware.

A House on a Hill

The Bates Motel

My childhood home

     What a great Mother's Day, the celebrations of which, of course are reserved for great mothers like me. Not to say that I was a good mother, but I was at least a prolific one, having spent 7 years in the State of Pregnancy, which is a bit south of Nebraska, and every bit as stimulating.
     And so the fruits of my womb turn their attention to me each May, and despite my veiled protests, shower me with attention and worldly goods. Yesterday was a banner year. Not only did I receive 3 days of pampering in Cincinnati, free meals, and an underground city tour, I was able to watch the entire first season of Bates Motel, uninterrupted. What an experience it was to recall the sheer terror of the movie, Psycho, released when I was 16 years old, and kept me out of the shower until I was 18. That pretty much explains my sparse history of dating.

Norma??????

     But seeing the Bates Motel again brought me a great realization. I lived there! It was when Norman's mother was trying to scrub blood off the concrete stairs that I realized I too lived atop a hill accessible by a long concrete stairway. Then, with spine chills, I remembered that my mother was often seen in the big window, just standing there, staring at the street. Now I'm doubting everything about my childhood in that house. Maybe my mom wasn't Betty Crocker or Joan Crawford. Maybe she was Norma Bates!
     My memory is now flooding with suspicious images. My mother digging large holes in the back yard, her insistence that we get the first garbage disposer in the neighborhood, her obsession with Alfred Hitchcock. It all makes sense now, especially that favorite story she liked to tell whenever we had leg of lamb. It was a Hitchcock story of the mysterious death of a woman's husband, and the two detectives who tried to find the murder weapon, a large blunt object that had struck him on the head. They were graciously served a supper by the grieving widow. The main course was a bone-in 24-inch leg of lamb, roasted to perfection.  As the naive detectives chomped down the delicious meat, only the viewers realized that the detectives were destroying the evidence. The leg of lamb had been frozen as hard as a club until only hours before the meal, and was in fact, the now unrecognizable murder weapon. My mother thought that was a brilliant story. I'm just sayin'.

New Year's Solution

Trust me when I say that as you get older new Januarys' come with less glitter and glamour. Personally, I haven't witnessed a new year roll in since 1985, when I just happened to be up at midnight changing a diaper and heard some fireworks go off in the neighborhood.

Sure, I remember the excitement of my youth when the magical moment of a new year was captivating. Things were simpler then. All I had to worry about was taking out the garbage and changing underwear. So imagine my delight, saying to the family, "Well, I'm off to bed now. See you NEXT YEAR!"

Of course there were the later years when New Years' gave us flowering females a chance to drink away our inhibitions and stand like puckering nutcrackers under the mistletoe, waiting for someone - anyone - to seize the chance to plant a slobbery smooch on our virginal lips. Usually it was a perverted uncle with potato chip crumbs on his face.

Cut away to 2014. A few days ago I was brushing my hair, and I had a brainstorm to put on lipstick. "Now this will be a change for the better," I thought. I located an old lipstick in the bottom drawer of the vanity. It was tangled up with the cord of a dead curling iron. I checked the color: Ravishing Ruby. Perfect. I pulled the cap as if it were a hand grenade. As I brought the lipstick tube to my lips I made a sickening discovery. My lips were missing. Seriously. My wrinkled skin just comes together like mummy lips; all that's missing is the string  that sews them together. I know I saw lips there awhile back, but they are gone now, folded into my mouth. If I put lipstick on now, I'll have to draw lips first to know where to put it. No way. I pitched Ravishing Ruby into the trash.

That brings me to today, when most folks are making resolutions. I'll settle for just two solutions. First, in 2014, I will seek a solution for our toilet that continues to run, even after we have put $260.00 into it, proving that it's better to repair than replace. Everyone that uses our bathroom emerges with a suggestion for fixing the toilet. Just once, I'd like someone to comment on the wallpaper.

And second, this year, I will look for my lips. They must be around here somewhere.

How I Got Avian Flu (Almost)

The best things are free!

My daughter came for coffee this morning, and  handed me a gray plastic bag with a blue travel mug in it.

"Here's a spare coffee mug for you, Mom. We get them on our doorknob all the time, so I have plenty of them."

I told her that I had a favorite cup just like it and could use an extra. It is my habit to leave an evidence trail of coffee mugs behind me, so having a spare is always welcome. She told me the mugs are frequently left by an insurance company on the doorknobs of her street, which is only two streets from mine.

"That's odd," I remarked, "All I ever get on my doorknob is a blob of peanut butter or a notice that we've used an excessive amount of water."

About an hour later my son came by to borrow my truck to haul some things from the home improvement store.  I asked to go along for the ride, knowing that shopping for building supplies was at the top of my excitement potentiality scale for the morning.

Looks like a cup to me.

As we started down my street he commented that he had seen several gray bags in the street on the way to my house. Just then we came upon one.

"Stop!" I yelled, "It could be a free coffee mug!"

I bolted from the truck before it quit rolling, grabbed the lightweight bag and ripped it open. A goodly-sized piece of partially consumed chicken breast with crimson sauce tumbled down the front of my clothing, landing on one of my two new sneakers. Other colorful and gooey contents fell out, making me feel suddenly very contaminated and very silly. I had to pick it up, so I threw it into the bed of the truck, an honor usually reserved for soda and beer cans.

"I can't believe that," I said, climbing back into the passenger seat, "It was somebody's lunch, and it's all over me."

"It's okay, Mom, you always have stuff on your shirt. No one will know whether it's your lunch or someone else's."

Just then we drove up to another gray bag.

"Wait! Stop!" I yelled, "Let me check this one."

I learn quickly, so this time I just felt the bag with my sauced up chicken fingers and discovered it was not a mug. I tossed it in the truck as well.

For the rest of the ride to the home improvement store, I used my smartphone to look up trichinosis, salmonella and bird flu. I had symptoms of them all. When we arrived at the store I washed my hands in boiling water, but I knew the damage was done.

There are lessons here, but I haven't figured them out yet. Maybe I should keep Latex gloves in the glove box. Maybe I shouldn't believe everything my daughter tells me.  Maybe people who toss their lunch out on the street should be deported. One thing's for sure: I'm not giving up leaping from moving vehicles in pursuit of free things. Now that I think about it, salmonella is free.

One Nation Indivisible...Really?

Just shut it down.

They're telling us on the TV news that the U.S. government is shut down. You wouldn't know it from where I sit.

Unlike really exciting and unusual events, say weather disasters, or your dishwasher breaking, government shutdowns are very quiet and frankly, kind of phony. Is it really going to ruin your day that the Panda Cam at the National Zoo is turned off? Is your October vacation at a National Park cancelled? Here in Southeast Indiana, our 3 National Parks are so far away, they're almost out of state. We actually had 4 at one time, but in 1979 one fell into Ohio.

If we're supposed to FEEL THE PAIN of a shutdown, let's have a good one. For instance, stop the mail! Who needs bills at a time like this, or the latest edition of TV Guide? How about Social Security and Medicare? If you want to feel the wrath of hostile senior citizens, just pull the plug on our money and our medicine!

Lots of folks are without a paying job this morning. Unfortunately, that doesn't include the career politicians in Washington, about 140 of whom engineered a shutdown in 1995. How about cutting their payroll to zero for the duration of this shutdown? Better yet? Forever.

There is a bright side. Garbage collection in Washington DC, a federal matter, will cease immediately. I encourage all DC non-politicians to eat copious amounts of fish, the decaying remains of which will remind all of the famous observation, "I smell a rat."

In case you think I'm making light of the shutdown, please remember that some very essential federal programs will be closed for what? - a week? I refer to programs like the Consumer Hotline for Child Safety Seats, and the Wild Horse and Burro Adoption Program. You can forget joining The Peace Corps this week or filing a complaint for vaccine injury compensation.

And for those of us who think liberty starts at the fishing hole, don't try fishing without a license, or canceling your auto insurance. Unfortunately, the most annoying legislation is local, legislating the use of golf carts, scooters and yes, even your feet, should you choose to walk where not permitted.

So bring it on, America! Show us your shutdown!

High Tech, Low Tech

It's getting more difficult for us older peeps to keep up. Last night I upgraded by downloading to the IOS 7, the new operating system for the iPhone.  Maybe I got that wrong. Did I downgrade by uploading? All I know is, I'm totally confused again, just like when I got the bag phone from Radio Shack 30 years ago. Back then I was just getting used to cassette tapes and the Sony Walkman. By the time I figured that system out, we'd moved on to CD's and DVD's and were off and running on memory cards. We have 8 tracks, VCR tapes, reel to reel tapes, and a boxful of Super 8 movies rotting in the basement.

Perhaps I've reached the end of my rope with IOS 7. I was getting pretty good at sending texts and posting of Facebook and getting the blog out, but now I feel threatened. If technology were all I had to worry about, I'd be fine. But when the grocery carts at the SuperCenter act up, I lose it. After all, how hard is it to oil a squeaky wheel?  I look forward to shopping and losing myself in the experience. There's an blessed tranquility between pickles and crackers that should remain sacred, not blown apart by the distracting chugging of the cart.
Just listen.

It's not just that the cart makes a distracting noise. It also has a a auto pilot that wants to return it to the parking lot where it can rejoin the cart destruction derby.

Now before you accuse me of being a fussy curmudgeon, let me point out that the plastic carts at Target are nearly perfect. Someone there cares about them and maintains them. They also forbid them from playing in the parking lot. Their carts glide through the aisles like ice skaters, leading me seductively to shiny eggplants and zucchini squash.

It even matches the store color!

A new cart can be had for as little as $150, which is $50 more than I spent on my first car. But what a great investment. A tranquil customer is a spending customer. A noisy, self-directed cart shatters  the shopping experience.  

Do you get the picture? My nerves, already frayed by the IOS 7 upgrade, explode when the clanking cart  steers itself into a death dive on the Pampers display. How much can a woman take?

It took me 7 months to figure out Netflix. We have something called Roko which may be an alien airport. I don't know. There are seven remotes floating around the living room. I'm struggling to answer my phone. Our new coffee pot is baffling me. 

Please, make the obnoxious self-directed carts go away. 

Otherwise, give me my bag phone back.