I am guessing it just started as one trip to a ballpark on one of their vacations, likely to catch that team playing his beloved Cardinals, which led to my dad to decide to visit almost every major league ballpark in the country and one in Canada, all with my mom as his co-pilot.
     My parents made swings out west and swings to the northeast, and many swings through St. Louis, dutifully pin-marking each stop on a map displayed at home. Friendly patrons snapped their photo at each game, and dad frequently reported back to me on the beer and peanuts quality at the ballpark.
    Mom was a good sport through that and his many adventures: repairing old MGB and Triumph cars, a brief stint with camping, a two round a week golf habit, and learning to play a couple of instruments. He returned the favor by supporting her interest in the arts and music.
     We lost my dad to this earth in December, but sadly, we had gradually lost his spirit and his mind to dementia prior to that.  It was arduous, particularly on Mom, who had to provide almost round the clock care the last couple of years, and to see the man we loved reduced to sometimes garbled thoughts and speech. The cruelty of diseases effecting the mind is almost unbearable.
    My dad was a patient, yet impatient man.  He had the patience to research and publish a book about his beloved hometown country club, the patience to faithfully rehab his arm after a shoulder surgery, and the patience to apply fertilizer, winterizer, and weed and feed to his yard each year, a task I have yet to accomplish.
     He was patient enough to fly fish a little and to hunt quail and ducks, but told me he never had the heart to hunt deer.  He loved a good piece of fried quail with drippings gravy. So do I.
     He was patient when letting grandkids pull on his ears and nose and crawl all over him or when giving them rides on his John Deere lawn tractor. He enjoyed an occasional episode of Peppa Pig or Thomas the Train long after the kids no longer watched them.  
     He was much less patient with drivers who failed to use turn signals or obey traffic laws, students at the medical school where he worked who didn’t want to study, and occasionally his children, who for some reason could never remember to turn off lights when they left a room.
     My dad was a funny, yet serious man.  He loved one-liners, waited for the minister’s joke each week during the sermon, and wrote clever song lyrics to sing while he played his guitar. In his younger days, according to Mom, he and his college buddies got a kick out of The Three Stooges and their antics, so he wasn’t above some of the sophomoric stuff. In later years, he loved Cheers and could recite many of Norm and Cliff’s lines from memory.    
     He was not stand-up-comedian type funny, but he was mischievous, and he had pretty good timing.  I can picture his face and a little sideways smirk he gave right before cracking wise. He loved a funny greeting card almost as much as the present that accompanied it.     
    I remember he would answer the phone when my sis and I were in junior high and high school by saying “Colton’s summer home. Some are home and some are not.  Who do you want?”. Or maybe if a boyfriend said, “Is Cathy home?” when they called, he might just say, “Yes, she is” and hang up. After all, he had answered the question, right?
     He invited a couple of my dates to the back deck to have a beer with him while I finished getting ready.  The ones I was able to forewarn refused the beer and made it through the test, but a couple of really cute ones couldn’t resist a sip. Here’s to potential lost loves!
     My brother is an absolute hoot, and I can’t help seeing a little of dad in him. Somebody told me the other day that I was funny, and somehow it made me miss my dad a lot.  I would do anything to hear him tell a joke again.
     He was more serious about his faith, first as an altar boy, then as an usher, and always a regular attender at church. He was also pretty serious about being on time.  He was always the first one ready, urging us all out the door (see reference to impatience here…).
     And I bet I could count on one hand the number of times he didn’t work his 9 to 5 shift, at his desk in at least a sport coat and a worst a collared shirt, shoes with a coat of polish applied the night before, taking exactly one hour for lunch. I can attest to the fact that if Dad worked for you, you got your money’s worth.
    My dad was loyal, almost to a fault.  You learn a lot about loyalty when you are a Missouri Tiger football and basketball fan. A season ticket holder at Mizzou for many years, sometimes my dad’s misery over their performance was almost palpable. But when he passed away, his closet still contained plenty of Mizzou gear, and he wore a Tiger watch on his frail arm until the very end.
     My dad was also loyal to his St. Louis Cardinals and spoke fondly about games with his dad and grandad at old Sportsman’s Park. I have a highly treasured picture of my dad and me on the way to probably the last game he watched at Busch Stadium, his ball cap placed jauntily on his head, clothed in a Musial jersey.    
     You would have been hard pressed not to find a Card’s game or pro golf event on his TV at home on a Sunday afternoon, the time of day when he checked the insides of his eyelids for cracks. He saw many of the greats play golf and proclaimed Scotland to be too beautiful to describe after he went to St. Andrews. His collection of books about baseball and golf would embarrass most sports libraries.
   My dad was a purist, but he liked to try new things, too.  He followed the rules of golf the way they were written in Bobby Jones days, scoffed at baseball’s designated hitter rule, liked a baked potato with his steak, and told me once he preferred a wrapped gift to a gift bag delivery. 
    But when KFC came out with crispy chicken in addition to original, he would have a piece of both. And he had a Callaway and one of those fancy longer putters in his golf bag, even though he preferred the old clubs he had re-gripped multiple times.
     My dad gave me lots of gifts, both the tangible and metaphorical kinds. He gifted all of us with intelligent conversation and the knowledge that home was a safe, loving place to express an opinion or learn one. He enjoyed the gift of music, and in particular James Taylor and saxophonists who could play jazz, but he could name lots of classical pieces by ear.
     He and mom gifted me my first car, a yellow VW Bug, whose heater was questionable and whose floorboards were thin. I loved that car and the freedom it gave me, and he piddled with it just enough to keep it running.
    He gifted me the example of strong work ethic, and my own work ethic has been a point of pride through the years.  He gave us the gift of believing in all of us. The best story I have about that was when as a young driver I was in an accident that was not my fault.
     The adults involved blamed me, but Dad believed me.  He turned into Perry Mason, entering a plea in small claims court.  We sat at the intersection, timing the traffic lights, had my engineer uncle help us with a to-scale diagram of the accident site, complete with tiny moving cars, and rehearsed his opening statement. We ate Chinese at the fanciest place in town to celebrate our less than $500 victory.
    Perhaps the greatest gift he gave our whole family was loving my mom.  Even this last fall, when many things were hard for him to do, he attended her choral concert and almost cried when he heard their beautiful songs.  He claimed he could hear mom’s voice amid them all, and my guess is he truly could. 
      I wanted to type this column before he passed away and never did it, a regret I will live with a long time. I have been telling myself that it was perhaps because my dad was hard to quantify, but in reality, a tribute seemed such a small gesture of what I felt for him.  I can only hope that by sharing him with you now, near a time we celebrate our fathers, I have honored him in some way.
 
Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.
 

     When my stay at home work began due to the Coronavirus, I have to admit I was pretty jazzed.  I quickly renovated (read moved stacks around) my office space to accommodate my computer and supplies (read bag of Hershey’s miniatures and a box of those yellow mechanical pencils), and went straight to work.
   I dutifully downloaded Zoom, brushed up on Google Meet, and tackled task after mundane task.  But a few days in, I realized I was missing something: my co-workers.  I have seen all the funny memes about the husband, kids, and pets as co-workers, and I have plenty of those, too. 
     But I miss the people I interact with daily.  In fairness, they may not be missing me with the same fervor. 
     I started thinking about how lucky I have been in the co-worker department, and for the most part, I have enjoyed being around all of them.  I have loved their hearts and their good intentions, have been touched by their gifts and help, and laughed so hard with some of them, that I think they should have their own comedy shows.
     But a few from my past jobs came to my mind that were very memorable, and maybe in not such a positive way.
 
The Narrator
     I had a co-worker who made me feel very lazy every day, because she literally narrated her entire day as she went. We were in a cubicle type situation, where we could hear one another pretty well, and while I became adept at blocking out much of the surrounding conversation and noise, Amaryllis (name changed to protect the guilty) was pretty hard to block. 
     Starting early in the morning, she narrated her trip to the staff kitchen to make her coffee. 
     “Let me get that cup out of here and rinse it. Well, that looks clean, now let me get this dry.  I guess I will start with just a half cup since I have been making so many trips to the bathroom.  Now let’s see. Where is that creamer?  Right where I left it.  Well, that’s good.  Okay, got that cup of coffee going, let me get back to my desk and get started on sorting those files.”
     Back at her desk, she sorted through the files, and her line of thinking was clear, as she told us all about it.
     “Wonder if the best way to sort these for Trevor would be alphabetically or by date?  I think I will call him on his cell and see if he has an idea about what would be best.  Now let me see if I can find that number.  Right here it is. Hmmmm.  I thought his number started with a 6.  Sandy, do you know if Trevor’s cell is right in this directory?  Let me walk over to you with it to let you see.”
    By around 11:00, we knew that she had sorted the files, the five phone calls to agencies she would be making, how cold the water in the bathroom sink was when she went to wash her hands, and how many more tasks she would tackle before she broke for lunch, when she would narrate how many seconds she would need to heat her meal, and what magazine she was reading that day.
     We also knew not only whether the new sandals she had purchased were pinching her bunion, and how much cyan and magenta toners were left in the copier, but also how it was going with her boss that particular day.
     “Okay, if he can get those papers signed, I can bring him the file to review and maybe he can get that phone call done before my afternoon break so that I can get those mailings done and get to the post office before four.  But if he doesn’t…”
   It was endless and it was exhausting.  I felt like a slug for just sitting quietly at my desk and plodding away. There were two breaking points with dear Amaryllis.
     The first was when she shifted to stopping on her way back to her desk from the break room and recapping for us, even though we were quite aware of what she had done.
     “I was working on those files today and just couldn’t decide whether to do that alphabetically or by date, but I went ahead and called Trevor, and…”
     People started timing their bathroom trips for her break times, so that when she peered in the cubicle we weren’t there.  That didn’t stop her.
     “Anybody know where Cathy went?  I was gonna’ tell her if she was copying anything in color that the magenta and cyan were low.”
     The second breaking point is perhaps what drove another co-worker to request an intervention with Amaryllis’ supervisor.
    The copy machine jammed. And it was a major glitch to our day.  Amaryllis was about the only one who could make it behave. And she did. But only after narrating all the rollers she turned, and the doors she shut and reset, and counted each piece of paper she unjammed out loud.
     “Forty six, forty seven, forty eight…”
     After the supervisor’s intervention, Amaryllis was wary of the rest of us, unsure who had reported her daily narration.  Wish I could say it stopped her, but all it did was shift the approach slightly.
   “Guess I better not report this coffee break out loud. I will just step back here as quiet as I can and then get right back to work on those files,” she said in a stage whisper.
 
The Copy Cat
     I might not have noticed the Copy Cat’s behavior if a friendly co-worker had not pointed it out to me. 
    “Have you noticed that Joyce is wearing almost the exact same outfit you wore yesterday?  Seriously, she is. Right down to the shoes. I think she is copying you.”
    Flattered that anyone thought an outfit I put together in the dark of the early morning, with a still sleeping husband, whose entire morning routine took about seven minutes, I pondered this new information. Dressing in the dark had produced some dazzling results and now someone liked how I looked?
     Should I branch out into something a little different than black pants, white blouse and a cardigan and see if Joyce followed? I did it.
     I broke out a dress, tights, and cowboy boots and scooted right into work.  It was a look. Perhaps not a good one, but it was a look.  A couple of other co-workers commented on the boots, and Joyce keenly observed.
    I was disappointed the next day when she did not come to work looking like Calamity Jane.  But I had not been patient enough.  By week’s end, she had adopted my look.
    Some of you are mentally scolding me right now, thinking I should have just let it go, but others of you know me better, and are sure I behaved not so nicely.
     Over the course of the next few weeks, I wore turquoise jewelry mixed with gold (gasp) and a new shade of bright red lipstick, with Joyce in hot pursuit.  I shifted the part in my hair to the opposite side, and she mirrored.  I parked in the sun instead of the shade, and she pulled in right next to me. I went from drinking tea to drinking coffee and she caffeinated accordingly.
    At some point, my co-worker and original conspirator suggested something drastic, like piercings or a tattoo to see if she would follow, and when I considered it, that is when I knew maybe I was the one with the obsession instead of Joyce. 
    Case in point. We had a torrential rainstorm, and my already frizzy hair had taken on a life of its own.  I dug around in the depths of my purse for a brush or something to fix it.  First I found a Zero bar left over from Halloween and ate it immediately.  So good.
     Wait. What was I talking about?  Oh yeah, my hair. Candy bars often interrupt my thinking. Back to my hair.
     I found a claw clip and whipped into the bathroom to contain the mess.  I ended up with a sort of Cyndi Lauperesque hairdo that would have to suffice.  I rushed into the meeting, and the only seat was directly across from Joyce. 
     She very carefully observed my new do. And I was keenly aware of several snickering co-workers watching that interaction as well. I began to think they assumed my clip was a set up to tempt Joyce.
    At the first break in the meeting, I watched her head to the bathroom. Guilt finally got to me, and instinct told me she might come out of the bathroom with a clip, and I just couldn’t let her. 
    “Joyce!  How are you?”
     “Good!  Hey, I want to tell you something.”
     I was sure that Joyce was going to confess to having copied me for weeks, but instead she looked at me with the same look I give my daughter when I have to give her bad news.
   “I know it is rainy and all today—but that clip is just a bad look.  I noticed everyone watching us, and I think they were hoping I would say something to you. Sorry.”
  
The Butt Kisser
       Do I really have to spell this one out?  You all have had a butt kisser co-worker unless you are self-employed, and then it is probably you. I don’t want you to see yourself in this narrative and quit reading. End of story.
 
The Shady Lady
     I was absent for a couple of days for a work conference, and during that time, a co-worker borrowed my laptop.  We were for sure not good enough work friends for her to do that without permission, but what comes next is the real horror story. 
     When I returned from the trip I noticed many of my settings were changed, but I attributed it to updates tech had pushed through while I was gone. 
     The following day, my immediate supervisor requested an early morning meeting and when I arrived, she was waiting for me with a Human Resources rep.  There is little that strikes fear in even the most innocent than an unexpected HR visit. They questioned me about my trip and asked if I traveled with my computer.  I left it here, I told them, figuring I should have taken it along for some reason.
     Then they asked me to get my computer and boot it up.  Next they asked if they could look at it.  Several minutes passed while I sat across the desk and they looked at the computer and took notes on a legal pad. Both very professional ladies and nice people, their shocked, distasteful looks as they perused the computer had me sweating.
    Before the suspense kills you, just let me start by saying the co-worker who had borrowed my computer had some curious web surfing habits which had come to light with online monitoring.  And let me finish by saying I will never look at bearded Amish men in the same way again.
 
The Post-It Note Queen
     I once walked into an office where Post-It notes were everywhere.  They covered the computer monitor, were stuck to the desktop phone receiver, and marked random places in books and on documents.
    Some of them contained one word reminders, some had phone numbers, some had cryptic codes or lists. The system of Post-It notes was either sheer genius, as they could be thrown away with each accomplished task, or sheer madness, in that they displayed just how much had to be done and the occupant’s random thinking.
    It was me. I was the Post-It Note Queen.  And it was a Post-It note that reminded me to finish this column today, so the system is working pretty darn well.
    Here’s to all my fabulous and not so fabulous co-workers through the years! May you “office” with people who give you all the respect you deserve.
 
Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.
 

   My mom and grandmother both sewed and luckily, somewhere along the line, my mom taught me some sewing basics.  I have a serviceable sewing machine, tons of thread, some supplies passed down from her and some of my own. 
     Like many other frustrated designers, I threaten my family routinely not to use my sewing scissors to cut paper, even though I rarely use them at all.  I have a special shelf and box for all my bobbins, my seam ripper, elastic, bias tape, ricrac, and extra needles.
     I am not designing haute couture fashion or something you will see on a runway, and my daughter won’t pass on any clothes I made for her to her own children.  My expertise lies in small, one afternoon projects; I can make a straight stitch and can follow a pattern.
     So over the course of this quarantine time, I have been sewing face masks.  Some of them are made from a very special fabric provided by St. Luke’s through a group One Mask at a Time, begun by a friend.  My mom and even my husband helped cut them out, and I pray over each one I sew, that a professional healthcare worker will be safe and can continue to care for the infirm. 
     Other masks are from cotton fabric that has just been waiting to be included in such a special project as this.  Boy, if that fabric could talk. Anyone who has been to Joanne’s on a rainy Sunday afternoon may relate to my fabric stash.  In fact, if someone says you have too much fabric, stop talking to them.  You don’t need that kind of negativity in your life. 
     Much of my fabric stash was purchased with good intentions.  There is a cheery Hawaiian look cotton print that thought I would make fun, matching mother daughter skirts with. My charming then four year old would come out of her room, dressed in some wild looking outfit, and say, “Match me, Mom!  Match me!”  I tried. I really did. 
     When I could not re-create her special brand of pattern mixing, I decided I would sew some things for us to match.  She is 14.  Trust me when I tell you, she no longer wants to match.
     There were various, beautiful deep purple fabrics that were meant to pay homage to my alma mater, Truman State University (just FYI, when I attended, it was Northeast Missouri State University, where my piddly ACT score was still perfectly acceptable).
     I visualized myself sitting in Stokes Stadium on a beautiful fall afternoon, under a handmade quilt of many purple shades and hues, taking compliments on my loyalty to my school as well as excellent sewing skills.  “Bulldogs, Bulldogs, bow wow wow!” I yelled, as I stood up to cheer on the team, gathering my quilt to place it back across my lap, a potential future alumnus of the year, just waiting for the call.
    I haven’t been to Homecoming in about five years, due to the aforementioned 14 year old’s schedule, and the fact that I cannot hold my liquor like I used to, and reunions tempt me to try.  Well, that and the fact that I never finished the quilt.
     There are whimsical fabrics in my stash as well, like a black and white cow print, cute little cowboys standing near a covered wagon, and a yard or so of red bandana like cotton.  I feel like they were going to be a part of a Halloween costume that likely got purchased at the last minute and not handmade after all (think Toy Story’s Jessie). 
     Or maybe I wanted cute scarves or headbands for a trip we had dreamed of taking out West. Turns out the farthest west I have been lately is Olathe, Kansas, and it seemed like such a long trip that I had to take snacks. 
     I must have gone through a bird phase as well.  My flock of fabric included owls, eagles, and the cutest fat breasted bird in a repeating pattern.  I can’t remember any reason for having purchased these at all.  I am guessing that I got to that section and glanced lovingly at the bolts, unable to leave any of them behind.  Or maybe they were 50% off. Yep! That’s it.
   My plaid phase is a little easier to explain.  You see, the plaids were going to serve two purposes.  The first is, like many ill-informed middle class moms, I assumed I would own a cute little lake house or country retreat by my late 30’s, where my family would go each weekend every Friday, right when we got off the clock, and where we would stay and commune with nature until late Sunday afternoon, where we would grudgingly head back to our daily lives.
   And, like all good woodsy retreats, it would be decorated in homey, comforting plaids.  I mean, that’s what’s in the movies, right?  If not a house or cabin, at least a back yard She Shed, like Sheryl’s right?  Silly little things like a mortgage on a real house, a car payment, and the need for groceries got in the way of that dream. But the plaid evidence still exists. 
   The second way I wanted to use the plaid was for an ill-conceived conversion for my husband from regular ties to bow ties, ones that I would of course make.  I have written about my husband The Coach before, so many of you are wondering if you missed the chapter where he trades in his baggy elastic waist shorts and screen printed t-shirts and becomes a dapper businessman, who eschews tradition of boring long ties, and shows up at his appointments in a neatly pressed oxford cloth button down with a bow tie and matching pocket square.
     You did not miss that chapter. But I did miss the mark.  As with many of my mistakes, I blame Pinterest.  Darn that perky housewife who talked her husband into wearing bow ties and then posted her finished projects, complete with a PDF of the instructions. 
    When I approached my husband with the idea, after he checked for all the signs of me having had a stroke, determined I had not, realized I was quite serious, and then took a deep breath, he explained what I had missed.  He said it was not that he would not want to wear anything that I had hand-sewn, but more that he felt the longer ties really made him appear thinner—you know, vertical lines and all.  The plaids took their place in the stash.
     And finally there were dog prints in my stash. I love dogs.  In fact, after having been in the house for almost a month with my family, my dog is easily my favorite family member. 
     In a well-trained stash of fabric were French bulldogs wearing jaunty scarves and long-legged greyhounds frolicking with Pekinese on turquoise backgrounds. There were dogs wearing glasses and ties, because who doesn’t like dogs who look like people? 
    There were dogs with Christmas wreaths and dogs breaking out of Easter eggs.  There were no dogs who had been COVID-19 quarantined and desperately in need of grooming.
   Since I had apparently been working on my PhD (projects half done), all these fabrics and a few more from my Oriental phase, made their way into cotton masks for family and friends.  If you got a mailbox or driveway delivery, maybe you will read about your fabric here. 
     I can promise you, each mask was made with only a little regret over the project it was originally meant for, but with much love and hope for the person it was made for.
    I will leave you with a poem that I wish was my own, but for whom I can find no attributed author:
Soft Fabric, Warm Fabric,
Buy it by the Yard
Happy Fabric, Pretty Fabric
Here’s my Credit Card! 
     Please stay safe and at home!
 

Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.  
 

​     Every writer gets the gift of a topic once in a while, one that just falls right into her lap and practically writes the column itself.  Sometimes the topic is a ridiculous politician (plenty of those for fodder), sometimes it is a speaker’s gaffe or facial expression which leaves us laughing, or sometimes it is fad or challenge that catches our attention.  But in 2020, Enter Queen Coronavirus.
     Once we moved past the funny memes connecting the Queen to Corona beer and the funny songs to the tune of My Sharona, I got bored with the online stuff. Until we were encouraged to stay home, and suddenly things got interesting.
     First there was the viral thread where we were asked to tag our spouse, kids, or pet as a co-worker in our home office and describe their behavior. I couldn’t get enough. 
     One friend posted that his ‘co-worker’ had paraded into the room, not wearing pants and demanded that he hug him.  He had taken his case to the director of Human Resources (his wife and not by chance the co-worker’s mother) and she had said just hug him and help him put his pants back on.  Reasonable enough.
     Some co-worker reports are closely related to 7th grade boy humor. There was the co-worker who was reportedly licking his private parts and laying in the sun all day. Another co-worker believed he could handle ‘number two’ all on his own and got it all over the bathroom and himself.  A very troubling report said the co-worker kept farting and asking for lunch and playing on his tablet while the adult co-worker did all the work. This time when the complaint went to HR, HR replied, “Leave my grandbaby alone.”
     There were a number of posts (sometimes accompanied by pictures) of co-workers drinking on the job. Guilty as charged! But my personal favorite was the ‘co-worker’ who clipped her toenails on the carpeted stairs then brought ten clippings to her boss to prove she had picked them all up. It is possible I am related to this co-worker.
     Soon we had all the different ways people pronounced and mutilated the name of Queen Corona.  I heard it called ‘coronaryvirus’ , ‘coronation virus’ (probably initiated in sadness about Harry and Meghan shedding royal titles) and then later ‘The Corona’, kind of like my grandmother used to say, “Can you take me up to The Walmart?” as though there was just one.
     Just in time, they grabbed a name which did not refer to any geographical location, animal, individual or group of people, COVID-19, which just simply means the coronavirus disease, discovered in 2019. But folks didn’t get the message.
     It became The Ghost Virus, the illness, the silent problem, the China virus, the Wuhan virus, the novel virus, the invisible threat and many others. In line at CVS, of course six feet away from the lady in front of me, I heard her say,” I am just picking up some supplies in case this cerveza virus gets a lot worse.”  Now that is the kind of virus I could handle.
     Next came all the 20 second hand washing songs for practicing cleanliness during this time. We were tired of singing Happy Birthday two times through.  Newsflash: We needed playlists of 20 second songs! I heard them all from Baby Shark to Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline. But how can I wash my hands to Sweet Caroline?  Aren’t my hands supposed to be swaying back and forth in the air during that time as I sing along?
     Some of them were not quite so funny—Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer, Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive and Lizzo’s Truth Hurts, to name a few. My favorite 20 second handwash is a nod to my former career as an English teacher. 
     Little known fact: If you recite Lady MacBeth’s Out Damn Spot speech at a measured pace, it fits the bill: “Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him." I realize just by letting you know I have this memorized, I run the risk of you never reading another of my columns.
     There was moment when I did not see the humor in any of this corona virus mess. One morning, I woke up in a sweat.  I mopped my forehead, certain I had a fever, and charted the best course of action. If my fever was high enough, should I drive myself to the doc or risk my husband being exposed? It was a mere five minutes later when I realized the dog had bumped the controls on the electric blanket to high. Crisis avoided.
     Through this, I have learned some new tricks to working from home. For example, as long as you wear a different shirt, you can wear the same pants from the day before for teleconferencing. And since your family never paid any attention when you talked to them about work, they have no idea what you are doing. You can pop in ear buds and point to your computer as though you are very busy. Fearful they might be asked to help, they will surely stay away.
     If you are able to find anything on the  grocery store shelves except lime Jello and Tuna Helper, you can try any weird recipe and tell your family that you saw on TV it was good to eat this particular food during the pandemic. I have learned to appreciate reheated coffee—didn’t I just brew a pot this morning? 
     We have reacquainted ourselves with family game night. The only difference from before is wash the dominoes in soapy water after our nightly game. And I now know why my dog is a nervous wreck when I come home at the end of the day—there are lots of suspicious noises on our street, and he has clearly been on patrol.
     Frankly this social distancing thing feels like Christmas break, where you lose track of days and wear a lot of flannel, but without the promise of presents at the end of it all. I know people are saying how much they like the time with their family. I admire those people. I think it is also possible they are liars, but I am not pointing fingers.
     Queen Corona has, however, given me one really good present.  My best old person story used to be that we had to get up and walk across the room to change the channel on the television.  But I am thankful that years from now, I will have some corona virus stories about this time to tell my grandkids and young co-workers, since I lost most of my savings in the stock market and am now on a fully retire at age 85 plan to recoup it all.
     Stay home, stay safe. Wash your hands, make some memories.
     Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.  
 

​   At this stage of my life, I am not considering a career change unless it would be a restaurant critic who gets to eat for free all around town, a booking agent for a new Hawaiian bed and breakfast where a requirement is that I HAVE to stay on the island site, or of course President, because…well, you fill in the blank.  I also might consider being a detective, as I have acquired a set of CSI like skills since becoming a mom.
     Granted, I am not solving murders, and most of the time, no punishable crime has been committed, other than to offend my sensibilities or generational morals. Despite the fact I have never trained professionally, little eludes me when solving the many mysteries in my world. I just use the brain God gave me, my finely honed five senses, and a little common sense.
     First, I have a pretty good sniffer.  My once petite nose has grown to Karl Malden like proportions as I have aged, and the benefit is it works pretty well.
     Colleagues and co-workers will say to me, “Do you smell that?  What is it?” and a simple sniff allows me to supply an answer.
    “The burner was left on too long under the coffee pot again,” I say, yawning, and not even looking up from the computer to see if I am right, because I am.
     No blood hound from here to the Mason Dixon line can sniff out something better than I can. When my husband and I recently returned from a trip to the store, our daughter had been alone for approximately 40 minutes.
     The smell hit us when we hit the door. “Oh, geez, what is that?” my husband gasped. 
     “It’s either nail polish remover or embalming fluid,” I say. She had not had enough time to plan anyone’s demise, and she isn’t into undertaking, so we deemed the smell safe.
      To be fair, I have had a bit of practice with the old nose. When my daughter was younger, she would often read a book and try something she had read about. Her interpretation of what she had read sometimes produced amazing results. Other times it produced horrific smells.
     “Mom, smell this,” she said, at about age 8. “I bet you cannot guess what three things I combined to make invisible ink.”
   I was no closer than six inches from the container when I said, “Windex and milk—no wait, 2% milk to be exact, and lemon juice—not fresh lemons, the squeeze stuff.” She shrugged in resignation and walked away before I could even ask if the ink worked.
     Some investigative work is done just by observations, as noted by a recent set of orange crumbs ground into the carpet of my car, impossible to vacuum out.  I immediately compiled a list of prospects: Hot Cheetos, Goldfish, Cheez-Its, and as an outlier, the inside of a Butterfinger bar.  Since my husband wouldn’t ever leave a Butterfinger bar uneaten, I know who owns the mess, and I call my daughter down for clean up on “aisle car.”
     Just Tuesday, a red splotch appeared on my counter top, and it didn’t go away with my microfiber cloth and elbow grease. Like lightning, three possibilities flash through my mind: Kool-Aid, marker, blood. A little detective footwork shows me the Kool-Aid packs are still in the pantry and there is no sign of sugar spilled on the floor. No one has disturbed the first aid kit for a bandage and left its contents spread all over the bathroom counter, thus no blood. Deduction? The splotch is marker, no doubt the result of my daughter testing her school supplies that I paid approximately $6 million for last week.
   Some of my skills would be really good on an FBI resume.  I can decipher almost any handwriting and its owner at a glance.  Here I have a distinct advantage, since I was a school teacher. A random note on the driveway? If there are no capital letters, I know it likely the work of my daughter or a friend, who seem to have no respect for proper nouns. A downhill slant to the letters?  Probably my neighbor, a lefthander of an age.
     I have a photographic memory for most handwriting as well.  I can clearly visualize the handwriting of my 4th grade teacher, a former boss, and like all good Americans, John Hancock.  I literally once interpreted my doctor’s handwriting for the pharmacist, who of course, called to verify the prescription with the doc. The pharmacy manager offered me a job on the spot, but I prefer to focus on things a little closer to home.
     I am not a busy body, but as an amateur detective, I track habits of my neighbors like Gladys Kravits watched the Stephens’ family from Bewitched.  One day last winter, I asked the lady next door how her husband was feeling. She answered that he was better--- then she stopped mid-sentence and asked how I even knew he was sick.  I did not confess that I had not heard his ‘alarm clock’ truck start up in the driveway at 5:45 a.m. for his commute in the middle of the week, so I just assumed he was ill. I smiled mysteriously and just said, “Oh, I just knew.”  She hasn’t stopped by for coffee lately, likely fearful of my supposed physic abilities or that I have a thing for her sickly hubby.
     I mimic the actions of television show detectives if I have to dig a little deeper to solve a mystery. I am not above driving carpool just to pick up a sliver of a conversation to provide a clue.  I will friend another mom on Facebook temporarily just to see if my daughter’s bad mood is the result of being slighted an invitation to a party or event.  I have donned exam gloves and a flu mask to check out the dog’s poop if we fear he has devoured a Lego.
     I play both good and bad cop in interviews with my niece, whose mom swears she never tells her anything, but who sings like a proverbial canary to me.  “Are you having fun in college?  I loved my sorority date parties,” I say. 
     “I love our date parties, too.  We had one where we dressed like the 80’s,” she shares.
      “Did you and your date both wear neon?  Now that was an 80’s wardrobe staple,” I reply.   
     “Evan wouldn’t wear any neon except for sunglasses,” she laughs, and I have all I need.  Not only did she have a date, his name is Evan, and I already don’t like him, ‘cause no self-respecting man would take a chance on being photographed in neon sunglasses.  I hit up her Instagram, find the 80’s party, and there he is, Neon Sunglasses Man.  I Google search his image, and I find he was captain of his school’s debate team and was a National Merit finalist.  I like him a little better now.
     Sometimes I have to be a little tougher with my niece to crack her.  When she was little, I tell her, I thought she would never get in any trouble, because she was so sweet, but I guess I was wrong about all that. I shake my head and glare at her with just the right amount of irritation and no information whatsoever that she has actually done anything wrong at all. 
     “It wasn’t that big of a deal,” she says.  “No one at the frat house even saw us tip over the pool, and we would have totally gotten away with it if Chloe hadn’t bragged to somebody.”  Bam! Snared like a jungle animal, right into my net.
   On very rare occasions, I have to combine my full set of skills for a diagnosis.  Case in point, my husband’s best friend is at our house a lot, and on a recent trip he wore a jacket with a stain on the right cuff.  In the entryway, out of what he thinks is my hearing range, my husband bet his friend $5 that I could guess the origin of the stain, and his friend took the bet.
     “Honey, look at the stain on Pete’s jacket. What do you think it is?”
     I step back into the family room to glare at them both before I make my pronouncement. I noticed the stain when I hung up his coat, deduced from the size that it wasn’t an actual spill but just a drip, and determined it must be dairy-based due to a crusty ring around the stain’s edge, formed between two to three days earlier. 
       “It’s Chik Fil A sauce,” I say, insulted not only that our friend has no faith in my abilities, but also that my husband only put $5 on that action. Pshaw. Beginner’s work.
     Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.  
 

​     If I didn't know any better, I'd say I heard them calling my name, like a Siren song, wooing the ancient Greek sailor.  I stood quietly, trying to focus, willing myself not to move toward them.  
     They were beautiful, unlike anything I had ever seen before, and when I finally reached out to grab them, the initial contact was electrifying.  Before you label me as a weirdo, let me assure you this has happened to many a woman, some right there that day in the same place as me. And while we may be just a little ashamed or embarrassed, we cannot help ourselves.  We are shoe addicts.
     Let me say up front, if you have never bought a pair of shoes and then built an outfit around them, please quit reading right now and skip to the weekly police report, ’cause Sister, you won’t be able to relate.  However, if you don’t count flip flops or boots when your husband asks how many pairs of shoes you have because they are not really shoes, then stay with me! We are kindred spirits.
     Truthfully, I don’t have an accurate count of my shoes, but I can tell you it is too many. When I go to line up the browns, and I have four different shades, I probably have too many.  When I can create actual categories besides just flats, heels, and tennis shoes, I probably have too many. When I am looking for a pair of shoes to wear, and I pull out a pair I don’t even remember buying, I for sure have too many.
     I scoffed at an article that popped up online the other day.  Ladies should only own 12 pair of shoes, it said, one pair each of: classic white tennis shoes, ballet flats, summer espadrilles, classic black loafers, neutral evening heels, over the knee boots, something whimsical or with personality, flat sandals, office appropriate pumps, a pop of color, walkable heels, and classic black ankle booties.
     Clearly, the disillusioned blogger forgot multiple other categories: fuzzy boots with which you may or may not wear socks, ones that match something your daughter owns, just in a bigger size, something with such a high heel that you only wear them when sitting down, and rain boots in multiple colors, to name a few.
     The good news about being a shoe addict is that I know I am not alone. I once helped move a friend whose shoes numbered over 100 pair.  And when we got her all settled, we celebrated by visiting – you guessed it—a shoe store.
     I imagine meetings for those of us with a problem might start like this: “Hi, I’m Cathy and I am an addict.”  “Hi, Cathy,” my fellow shoe junkies would say.
     “This week I found myself in a new city on a business trip, and I just happened to find a shoe boutique,” I blurt out.  My friends comfort me and applaud me for going home with just one pair.
     I also know it is a problem because there are shoe memes, like the one that says “I make shoe contact before I make eye contact” and “There’s no shame in my shoe game.”
     And there are too many famous idioms and quotes about shoes, also. ‘If the shoe fits, wear it (or in my case buy it)’, ‘Mama needs a new pair of shoes’, ‘Give a girl a new pair of shoes and she can conquer the world’, or ‘Change your shoes, change your life’. And maybe my favorite, ‘Life isn’t a fairy tale.  If you lose a shoe at a party, you probably have another pair almost exactly like it in your closet’.
     I have drawn the line at shoes that cause my feet too much pain.  I have seen the pictures of supermodels’ gnarled feet, caused by wearing sky high heels 2 sizes too small for their runway walks.  I have, however, purchased a pair of shoes with the promise to myself that they will stretch a little bit, and a couple of Bandaids later realized that maybe they won’t.
     I have had one serious shoe injury, that happened when I was in high school, but I still remember it well, and have a little scar to help me.  I wish this was the story of a beautiful shoe I wore to prom, and I was running to make curfew after one last kiss with my date when the heel snapped off. But the real story is not nearly as cool.
     Adidas tennis shoes, made of real leather, with stitched on stripes were the rage when I was about 14.  I just had to have a pair, and I finally talked my mother into letting me add some babysitting money to her contribution to have enough money to get them.
     A friend and I bought matching Adidas, with dark red, almost maroon stripes, ones that closely matched our school colors.  We were headed to band camp with our new kicks, sure to impress some fresh-faced sophomore percussionist.
     Day one at camp we learned a marching high step, which required us to drag our feet up the inside calf of the opposite leg.  The stripes on the Adidas worked nearly as well as a razor, scraping away our flesh with each step. 
     By about mid-day, I could no longer drag my leg over the open wounds anymore.  Neither of us brought another pair of shoes to camp, so we marched in sock feet on 100 degree pavement.  Not even a sophomore percussionist would be impressed by that.  The scars on my right leg are hardly noticeable anymore, but the memory is pretty fresh.
     Look, shoes are about the only thing in our wardrobe that doesn’t have to be sensible, that lets us rebel against the old Buster Brown oxford school shoes, and truthfully, when your clothing size is not as small as you would like it to be, shoes still fit.
     My theory is this: When life gives you lemons, sell them, and buy shoes.
 
     Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.  
 

     I commute to work, so I am in the car a minimum of 45 minutes a day, as Eddie Rabbitt would say, ‘Driving my life away’.
     Sometimes I sing aloud at the top of my lungs to oldies, and practice my next karaoke solo (which shall be the topic of a full column another day). That’s generally on Fridays or only once a week, because I don’t want to get too good at singing and have to decide between my family and a life on the road.
     Other days I catch up on phone calls.  For you younger readers, that is the thing where two people converse with one another using their voices and not texts.  I have a mental list of five minute all the way up to 20 minute phone call friends, who like me, actually like voice to voice contact.
     Most days, I listen to the radio. Lately, I have heard some of the most bizarre stuff on talk radio, and it has me thinking with our unusually damp spring, that some people have indeed taken a little water on their brains. In fact, the whole world may be going mad. 
     On a recent morning drive, the first radio story was about turophobia, which is the fear of cheese.  Turns out this is usually based on a childhood trauma with cheese as one of the main players. 
     I have had a couple of bad grilled cheese experiences, now that I think about it, where the cheese leaked out of the bread or I didn’t slather enough butter on the top slice, but nothing too memorable or scarring.
     The talk show hosts shared that people who suffer from turophobia generally have the most aversion to parmesan and limburger cheeses, which have distinct smells, and the least aversion to mozzarella, which has a more neutral presence.  Sadly, there was no mention of  Colby-Jack, my personal cheese favorite, and also what I might have named a baby boy if I had married a rancher.
     The impetus of the story was a young lady who had been fired from her job as a waitress for her unwillingness to deliver meals with cheese to her customers.  Is it only obvious to me that maybe waitressing, or in fact anything to do with the food industry, might not have been her best career choice?
     The hosts quoted the turophobic lady (look at me using my newly learned word) as saying that in extreme cases, where she encountered a block of cheese, she had such an adverse physical reaction that she would faint or become violently ill.  I can’t help wondering what she eats with sausage and crackers or what her safe food is at a questionable potluck.
     The hosts moved on to say that apparently turophobia extends to pets as well, as a related story they were sharing was about a dog who is scared of sliced cheese.  His family found out about his malady when they were doing the Cheese Face Baby challenge, an Internet sensation from earlier this year.
     For the challenge, people toss pieces of sliced cheese at baby’s faces to see how the baby reacts.  Once this family gauged their baby’s reaction to having cheese thrown at him, apparently they moved on to their dog.
     For the record, I would like to say I don’t think this family should even have a dog if they are throwing cheese at their baby.  Or maybe they shouldn’t have a baby if they are throwing cheese at their dog. You decide.
     On the same talk show later that same week, I heard a story about two female astronauts doing a spacewalk together outside the International Space Station.  As the show hosts shared the story, they talked about the historical significance of the walk. I practically swelled with pride for my sisters in space.
     But alas, the hosts said, the walk had to be postponed. “We will tell you why after the break,” they intoned, insuring I would be hanging on through the commercials.
     My mind was racing. I bet they got in some kind of dumb cat fight about who was going to go first.  Maybe they couldn’t properly accessorize the suits for photos or were having a collective bad hair day, I surmised. Maybe a recent 23andMe test had revealed they were twins and their mom put a stop to it, afraid of a space accident that would injure both of her newly-reunited daughters. I could hardly wait for the answer.
     The hosts launched immediately back into the story, but cleverly took calls from listeners guessing why the women couldn’t make the walk.  Men called and said tacky things like, “They probably had to get their nails done and couldn’t squeeze it in” or “The walk was too long and it would have made them late to pick up the kids from school” or “Maybe their therapist told them this was their husband’s job”.
     After about ten minutes of nonsense, we found out NASA postponed the walk because they didn’t have two spacesuits that would fit the women, both size medium.  I could hardly catch my breath after the big reveal.  Didn’t they measure them before the mission?  Is this a case of ‘Dude, you had ONE job?‘.
     Turns out the women themselves problem-solved, and one astronaut who wore size medium and one woman who wore size large made the walk.  Poor other size medium lady astronaut!  She acted heroically in sacrificing her 15 minutes of fame for another female.  Now I have a new reason not to diet.  Turns out there wouldn’t be a spacesuit in my size.
     The third item I heard may just be the one that takes the cake (or that may be something I did, since I am no longer worried about being a size medium…).  Just like fashion comes out with new lines of clothes and new styles provided by designers, so too are there new lines of textiles and home décor, including items for bedrooms and bathrooms.
     One online retailer really stepped up its game to provide customers with something truly unusual: a full line of linens that look like they have come from the scene of a horror movie, complete with bloody handprints.
     The show hosts laughed, but I was repulsed.  Bloody handprints? A company spokesperson said people like to decorate for occasions, and the recent bent has been more toward the ‘macabre’.
     What Bed and Breakfast would be using these?  I can hear their tag line now: “Come For a Romantic Weekend, and If You End Up Killing Each Other, We’ll Never Know!”
     Originally marketed with the company’s Halloween line, the thread counts for the sheets is 800, and the design is washable on the delicate cycle and dryer safe. Why go to that much trouble? This is the stuff the rest of the free world is trying to get out with stain removers.
     FYI: With a special order, you can also get the word REVENGE on the top sheet and HELP on the fitted one.  The kicker? The set has sold out once and is on backorder.
     This final story gave new meaning to the words of Poet Henry Brown who said, “This whole world has  gone mad.” Apparently maniacs abound. I had really had about enough of talk radio for that day, so I switched over to the oldies station. 
     Playing at that exact moment was Misty Blue, by Dorothy Moore, and I was instantly flooded with fond memories, as it was the song to which I had my very first slow dance. I was in 7th grade, and I danced with Ben Horine, who as far as I know, had no aversions to cheese, and would have fit nicely at the time into a medium sized spacesuit.
 
Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.    

     I have been slightly obsessed with Jeopardy lately, due to a new champion, James, who has amassed great amounts of money.  I either tune in or watch it from the DVR, almost daily.
     By the time you read this, he will have crossed the 2-million-dollar threshold, yet to be upended by a quick-thumbed speech therapist or airline pilot or mountain climber. He might be on his way to 3 million, but either way James’ knowledge base is impressive. He has got me thinking about my Jeopardy skills.
     There are days when I shout out an answer (of course in the form of a question) which has come from the deep recesses of my generally untested brain.  I silently thank my junior history teacher Anthony McCord for sharing with me that FDR was the first sitting President to fly in a plane. I raise a hand to my Sunday School teachers for helping us memorize the books of the Bible in order or bless my dad for his love of an ice sport which makes it easy to recall that Gordie Howe’s nickname is Mr. Hockey.
     I have had some notable success in playing the game against my husband. I once “ran” the category Parts of Speech.  I am a former English teacher so frankly, it would have been embarrassing not to. But then he smoked me on Billiard Games.  There were lots of pool halls in his small hometown where he apparently hung out as a kid. Go figure that would come in handy in a hotly contested Jeopardy game.
     My daughter has joined in the quiz fun, primarily shouting out Pop Culture answers that someday her own children will call ancient history. “Who is Lady Gaga?” she says when the video comes up of the star in a Christmas tree headpiece.
     Oddly, she also knew most of the answers under Amphibian Anime as well.  Those Geico gecko commercials are working, I think.
     Suffice it to say that categories like European Family Dynasties, Classical Music, Russian Literature, and Opera Arias are not my bag.  Neither are World Geography, Scientific Mysteries, or Modern Artists. What’s left, you say? Well, I need a little different type category to succeed.
     I would be a master at the Never Make these Recipes Again category.  Clue: ‘Orange in color, sweet in taste, this yam-based dish made your family puke.’ Answer: “What are sweet potato bombs?”
     In the category Pinterest Fails, the clue would be: ‘Excellent medium for children’s play and a tasty after school treat’ . Answer: “What is edible slime?” In the category I Would Never Do That Again, the clue would be ‘Packaged in boxes by approximate color,’ and the answer would be, “What is a home hair highlighting kit.”  Don’t ask.
     I would run the category Stuff We Will Never Understand About Middle School Girls.  “I’ll take Middle School for $400, Alex.”  Clue: ‘Mgrblhnphnph’. Answer: “What is her first unintelligible phrase of the morning?”
     Possibly in the same category the $600 clue is ‘Currently going through any middle schooler’s head‘ and the answer is “What is I am being raised by wolves?” Maybe for $800 the clue is ‘5 weeks’.  I hope that is the Daily Double, ‘cause I am betting it all. Answer: “What is how long is it since you have seen the floor of your room?”
     And I might just need a different host than good old Alex Trebek.  I want a sassy 40-50’ish Melissa McCarthy look-a-like woman who appears to have washed her hair on Tuesday and this is now Friday. 
     Maybe she would be wearing an Old Navy shirt from about 2006 with some unidentifiable stains because it is comfortable, and she never comes out from behind the podium because she is wearing yoga pants with a hole in an awkward spot and house slippers.
     If I stay out of the negative in the single Jeopardy round, she winks at me and says, “You go girl.”  In the category of Things You Would Like Them to Say to You at the Doctor, where the clue is: ‘Wow’ and the answer is “Why are you are so thin?!,” she hollers, “I know that’s right!”
     My Final Jeopardy Round would need to be a working mom category and include something like Driving Multiple Places on Nearly No Gas Because I Know My Car, or Thawing Meat on the Dashboard While Driving Multiple Places, or What Do You Mean You are Out of Lunch Money? for me to make any cash and not go home in a respectable second place, broke as a joke.
     Just so you know, in the category of Dreams Deferred, the clue is ‘Not tomorrow, not the next day, and not ever,” and my answer would have to be, “When is Cathy headed to Jeopardy?”
 
Cathy is a retired public school English teacher and Public Information Officer.