Monthly Archives: January 2015

Angry Mood at Check-out

by Bronwyn,
missionary in Arizona, helping the caffeine-deprived understand that real coffee doesn’t necessarily have to taste like bitter charcoal water.

Alison Farmer, an extraordinary artist, brightened my day and, really, my life ...by sending me her painting of a sunflower, my favorite flower. You can see what an amazing artist she is.

Alison Farmer, an extraordinary artist in Woodinville, WA, brightened my day…well, really, my life …by surprising me with her painting of a sunflower, my favorite flower. You can see what an amazing artist she is. Her painting hangs cheerfully in my dining room.

Jerry and I stood in a long check-out line at Hobby Lobby, my favorite craft and home décor store. Although there were four check-out stands, only one had a cashier and the other three remained vacant. Many people–five, six, maybe ten–stood in line ahead of us. Just as many stood behind us. The line crept slowly, then stopped. Our cashier apparently had a problem with a transaction. She held the phone to her ear, her eyes darting anxiously around for assistance. Finally I had to break my new year’s resolution to not complain.

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How Women Can Be Happy In Their Marriage (and refrain from gnawing on the car dashboard in a fit of anguish)  

Love is You

 Rules for a Happy Marriage:

  • The day after the honeymoon, wives must present a Happy Marriage Contract to their beloved. He signs immediately, if happiness is to continue. The contract states the husband promises to never complain. He won’t say, “It’s too hot, it’s too cold, or the soft water system is broken and we don’t have water.” Or make any other complaints like these. He must especially, (and this is big), not complain about money. This means he will not come home shouting, “That So-and So Hardware store just robbed me blind. They want five cents for one nail and I can get them for two cents a nail at the Such-and-Such Hardware store.” (Such-and-Such store is sixty miles from your residence and the cost of gas to get there to save three-cents a nail is not factored into the husband’s rant.) The Happy Marriage Contract requires husbands to never ask their wives how much something she purchased cost. Therefore, when his wife (you) come home with shopping bags full of new shoes and new purse and new Michael Kors earrings, he must never ever ask, “How much did that cost?” This is a ploy husbands use to figure how much they can equally spend on a new golf club, fishing pole, or welder. If you say, “The Michael Kors earrings cost fifty-eight dollars,” he’ll exhale a whistle and blurt, “Boy, they’re proud of those!” Then he’ll think to himself, “Aha, now I can drive back to the hardware store and shop ’till I drop with armloads of tools and a shiny new drill.”
  • The Happy Marriage Contract must also include a ban on hobbies for husbands. For some reason unbeknownst to me, husbands can become addicted to hobbies. I don’t know of any twelve-step recovery programs for the husband-hobby addiction. If the hobby is photography, the husband might start out with one camera and one camera bag. But then he must have the best and most expensive cameras and lenses and tripods and the addiction takes over. Or if it’s tropical fish, the husband begins with goldfish in a bowl and then suddenly must have a two-thousand gallon aquarium that stretches from the living room down the hallway into the bathroom where expensive Lion Fish gawk through the glass while you apply your mascara. The spiny-finned fish try to kiss you with smoochy lips. It’s unnerving. If the hobby involves building things, husbands must have screwdrivers with names like Phillips and Flathead. They need wrenches and files and hundreds of pliers and tool chests to put it all in. Then comes a lathe, a mill, a cold saw, hot saw and every imaginable kind of saw. Therefore, a happy marriage allows wives only to have hobbies, as we can exercise restraint. Husbands, sadly, must abstain.

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The Miracle in the Hair Salon

A red-headed woman popped her head through the salon door with a jubilant announcement.

“That stuff for thin hair is a miracle! I just love it!” she hollered over the jazzy music and the lull of salon chatter. Everyone in Arizona, plus a few people in Texas, heard her.

I’m seated in the stylist chair, in the process of having highlights, lowlights, and any other available lights, applied to my hair.

“I WANT TO BUY ALL YOU HAVE,” the woman thundered, making me wonder why I don’t carry ear plugs with me when I go to the salon. She added,  “I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT A MIRACLE THIS STUFF IS. GREATEST THING EVER.”

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