Sales(wo)manship

Just about one month ago, wistful notions of once again driving my now departed Saab convertible rushed through my veins.  It was a beautiful spring day and other Saab nuts were out tooling around having fun–making me incredibly jealous and lonely for just one drive.

Fortunately, sanity returned in short order, but the real end of the story has to include how I found a buyer for the object of my admiration.  When the sad decision was finally made that my beautiful Saab Turbo Convertible was going to be sold, the first way to go about it seemed to be obvious–an ad was placed in the classifieds. 

Calls were received, appointments were made and that, my dear, is as far as it went.  Caller after caller gave credence to what became a new pet theory–courtesy ain’t what it used to be.  After re-arranging my schedule on a regular basis to be sure to be available at the appointed time, no one came, nor did any one bother to call to cancel.  Now what?  Fool me once…etc.

Then one morning as I was parking my other car in the parking lot at the near-by Target, a Saab coupe  pulled in and parked next to me.  Nothing ventured is nothing gained, so I asked the couple if they knew anyone who might be interested in buying a Saab 900 Turbo convertible.  A slight look passed between them.  “Is it a manual transmission?” he asked.  My heart sank, thinking that the automatic transmission in my car would kill any further interest.  “No, it’s an automatic.”  “Really?  What year is it?”  There were definite signs of interest.  The basic facts of color, mileage and condition were exchanged.  The Saab world around here is a small one.  They knew the mechanic who had worked on my Saab (many times) because as the owners of many older Saabs themselves, he had worked on their vehicles, too.  This was a tremendous advantage in my favor.  They knew him to be reliable and honest.  

They went home and talked it over.  It turns out that the automatic transmission was a major plus to them.  The car was to be for the wife, who was recovering from recent knee surgery.  I ran into them about 9:00 AM.  At 4:00 PM they came for a test drive, decided the price was right and wrote the check.  I was sad and glad at the same time.  Sad and glad to sell the car, but especially glad that someone who would really appreciate it’s quirky nature had bought it.  Also glad that it was someone who knew how much TLC is required to keep the wheels on the Saab going round and round.

To see the original post visit:

http://coco724.wordpress.com/2008/05/29/sobbing-over-my-saabsobbing-over-my-saab/

Hens and Chickens

My Grandmother called them Hens and Chicks, or, Cats and Kittens.  In this climate, the two larger plants in the lower section of the pot will grow just a little more, sending out runners that will produce more chicks or kittens.  Three other succulents–sedum, wall pepper and glabra–fill the rest of the pot. 

This is a fun and easy gift.  All of these suculents grow profusely in this yard.  Leftover fruit crates and extra baskets are lined with a plastic bag and dirt.  Clumps of the various plants are arranged to suit.  Voila!  Thirty minutes later you are ready to head out the door, a beautiful hostess gift in hand. 

Bumper Stickers

Winning bumper sticker of the day today is:  “I fish and I vote.”  Seeing that on a well-used pick-up truck today made me start thinking of other possible combinations.  For example, a corollary would be “I hunt and I vote.”  Each implies that the voting choice would be directly related to how each candidate stood on issues that affected fishing or hunting. 

Creating bumper stickers can be frivolous or serious, the levels of meaning peeled away one by one:

• I have an 18-year old son and I vote.
• I lost my job and I vote.
• I pay taxes and I vote.
• I hug  trees and I vote.
• I recycle tin cans and I vote. 

Attack of the Giant Grasshopper

Risking life and limb for the sake of my loyal readers–just part of an ordinary day for your intrepid mild-mannered blogger.

Memoir in Six Words

 

In today’s newspaper I noticed a catchy header on an article about a writing website.  Naturally, I zoned in and read the details.  The website (www.smithmag.net) is dedicated to the love of writing.  According to the man who founded the online magazine, Larry Smith, Hemmingway was asked to write a six-word story.  He wrote:  “For sale:  baby shoes, never worn.”  It struck Smith as a very sad story but also a very interesting premise. 

All kinds of writing contributions are included, but the site also solicited memoirs, albeit with one very specific rule:  the memoir had to be written in exactly six words.  It struck many others as an interesting idea, also.  Over 30,000 six-word memoirs were received, from the everyday person to some very famous ones.  It evolved into a book. 

I’ve been thinking about my own six-word memoir and have chosen to stick to my life-long motto:  “Bloom where you are planted. Period.”  An affirmative period that adds a sentiment, and fits the criteria of 6 words.        

 

Smokey Corn Chowder

Love this super fast chowder because it works on the day there isn’t a drop of chicken broth in the house.  Chop 1/2 cup onion and saute in 4 tablespoons butter until tender.  Blend in 1/4 cup flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/8 teaspoon pepper.  Add 4 cups milk.  Cook and stir until bubbly and thickened.  Stir in 1(one) 12-ounce package fully-cooked smoked sausage, sliced, 1 (one) 16-ounce can whole kernal corn, drained and 1 (one) 8-ounce can lima beans, drained.  Simmer 10 minutes.  6 servings.   

Go Blue and White

Although a dedicated Penn State fan, I am currently most impressed by my blue and white garden box.  The blue morning glories are starting to grow at an astonishing rate.  Planted two weeks before the white moonflowers, the blues have a slight edge, but the rest are feeling the heat–literally.   When the night is warmer the growth spurts are truly amazing.  Additional strings have been added for the fringe areas of the box. 

Research tells me that the name moonflower–for the white night bloomers–is commonly assigned to both the vining and bushy variety, although there is a genuine distinction.  The vining form is a variety of morning glory that grows 15-20 feet.  The soft-stemmed bushy variety is called Datura.  A word to the wise, the bush variety in particular is a member of the nightshade family.  Ingesting the seeds can be deadly.   

Field of Magazine Dreams

I love magazines.  All kinds of magazines.  Magazines dedicated to cooking, magazines dedicated to decorating, style and fashion magazines, business or sports–you pick a genre.  If they print it I will read it.  Cover to cover, usually.  At the very least, each  article is at least quickly scanned to see if there is something that piques my interest.

Resisting the urge to bring all of them home with me is an on going challenge.  All the creative juices start flowing–I could do that…and that…and that.  Never have understood people who get bored.  There are a million things I want to do, but the reality is that I don’t have a million years to complete them, nor are there unlimited funds to feed all the projects and the cat, too. 

It is actually an exercise in character building.  It forces me to focus and pick the few things that are special to me.  Otherwise, there would be a path through the middle of the house, and the next thing you know my kin would be nominating me for a rescue on Oprah or Dr. Phil.

 

 

Fresh Cherries

The cherry tree has produced its newest drop of juicy, delectable fruit.  After years of “fruitless” anticipation, the past few years have produced enough cherries to have a few each morning for breakfast or as a snack while walking past to water the flowers.  Not sure what changed.  Several years ago, I pruned it sharply, and also gave it a wheelbarrow full of good compost. 

Father’s Day we picked enough to make a smallish pie.  Last evening an equal amount was gleened to finish off this year’s crop.  To quote Jackie Gleason:  “Oh, how sweet it is!”"

Daily Read

Reading the newspaper every day is one of my life-long habits.  Qwirky bits of information, jaw-dropping stories of man’s inhumanity to man, funny stupid criminal tricks and tidbits to use in conversation with all kinds of people populate the pages.  What is of particular of interest on any given day varies, but it is a daily ritual that helps grease the wheels of daily interaction, and as a bonus, gives me a few moments to sit down and relax. 

Even on a busy day, Annie’s Mailbox (the succession to the Ann Landers column) is on my list of items that at least has to be skimmed for content.  The column is a kind of Every Man’s psychologist’s office.  One that comes free of charge for those who just want a place to vent, or for the more serious questioners who either can’t afford to pay the real deal or don’t want it known that professional help would be in order.

This morning, ”Fit and Beautiful from the Midwest” was chagrinned that her friends were fond of pointing out in a round about way that she is older than her latest beau.  The group of women supposedly all get along famously until Ms. F&B is in the company of a gentleman.  The team at Annie’s Mailbox took the tack that Ms. F&B sounded as if she were preening and showing off in front of her female friends.  Afterall, her ”new beau” is, from the sound of her letter, the latest in a succession of younger male friends whose company she keeps.  Her friends know her well and possibly see this as her new trophy boyfriend of the week.  That can get to be tedious. 

The other possibility is that they genuinely are jealous of her ability to attract younger men, or what would very sad, any man.  Whichever scenario is true, if these women really are her friends, they should zip their lips.  If Miss F&B is acting out her insecurities or they are acting out theirs, either way, the ”friends” should be silent.  Once having had a friend who did exactly the same thing, my suspicion is the former.  Being her friend meant overlooking her foolishness and self-deception, but for her, and I suspect for Ms. F&B, acknowledging the truth would be far more painful.