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Words to uplift the soul.
Words to uplift the soul.
Growing up, I used to hear old people say, Honey, if it ain’t one thing, it’s another. Heck, I can deal with one thing or another; it is the 10 or more things that all seemingly happen at the same time that I have problems with. For instance, I used to be a firm believer in the saying “age is nothing but a number.” That worked until the day I noticed a gray hair in the middle of my right eyebrow which had not been there the day before. Convincing myself that it was a cat hair—as both my fluffy gray and white cat and little orange tabby loved sleeping with my husband and me—I tried to pull the gray hair out. Immediately, it sprung back; it was not a cat hair. Grabbing a pair of tweezers, I yanked out the offending hair, only to notice there was also a gray one in the other eyebrow and another under my chin. Using industrial-strength tweezers, I yanked out the chin hair. Imagine my surprise that a few weeks later, I noticed that it had returned. This time had it not only returned but with an entourage. All had now taken residence beneath my chin. Problems—they do multiply. Take several summers ago. Instead of spending our vacation money on some exotic location like Aruba or Cancun, like my husband and I normally do, we decided to have the gutters replaced on our house. Full disclosure: I had discovered a long time ago that any honey-dos that you leave when you go on vacation, still remain upon your return—go figure! All things considered, I should not have been surprised when the gutter job foreman knocked on the door to get his money, he mentioned that we might also want to consider having our roof replaced. Apparently, while fixing the gutters, he had noticed some soft spots on the roof in several places. Soft spots were places where squirrels, the weather, etc., had caused the wood under the shingles to rot. Foreman Rudy, who seemed much too nice to be the bearer of such continuously bad news, added that I might already have water damage in the attic. Oh, Joy! In my mind’s eye, I saw my husband and me during the next torrential rainstorm, scurrying around catching leaks in every vessel we owned, as you see in the movies. So what’s a person to do except maybe cry, then pay for the new gutters? Then purchase a new roof and pray that nothing else turns gray, needs repairing or replacing anytime soon. If It Isn’t One Thing, It’s often 10 or Sometimes 12. Excerpt from Random Notes by Author Carol Gee Military Veteran|Columnist|Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.
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6/4/2020 0 Comments Satin SheetsOnce upon a time, only royalty could afford the sensual elegance of silk and satin sheets. So me being a princess, at least in my own mind, I longed for some. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself reclining in a glamour shot pose on red or black satin sheets. In this picture, I would be wearing a beautiful peignoir like those women on Dynasty and Melrose Place. Lying next to me would be my spouse, gazing lovingly into my eyes, just before we got buck wild. In my fantasy, there would be no potato chip or cracker crumbs from eating snacks in bed, or cat hair, like in real life. This fantasy came true when my husband and I returned to the states after having spent three years in Okinawa with the Air Force. We had accepted an invitation to spend a few days with friends in San Francisco, before heading to our new duty station. Like most, our hosts gave up their bedroom where the lady made up the bed with a brand new set of red satin sheets straight out the package. How had she known about my fantasy? Giddy with anticipation, I jumped into the shower with my thoughts on what was ahead. I imagined the dazzling colors of love with someone I adored. Later, we would hold each other close, bathed in the afterglow of lovemaking so good, that afterward, the neighbors on both sides of the condo had to have a cigarette. Alas, this is where fantasy and reality collided, BIG time. It started with his pillow sliding to the floor with a skidding sound; my pillow followed next. You've heard of Kung Fu fighting? This was more like Kung Fu lovemaking. First, the sheets felt like ice against my naked flesh. OUCH! POW! There went my elbow to the ribs when I tried to hug him! Alas, my sensual kiss missed his mouth altogether and we ended rubbing noses. Now I have heard that this is the way that Eskimos do it, but hey, to each his own. This, however, was not part of my fantasy. During one point in our love dance, I busted a move that my spouse must have thought was sexy. I watched the hazel in his eyes change like it does those times. In truth, I was trying for a position that I hoped would keep me from flying across the bed. I don't care what others think, falling out the bed on my head, is not considered foreplay, at least not for me. But to each its own. Then, my leg cramped up from trying to find a comfortable position, and it took a minute to rub the cramp out. Needless to say, neither of us got any sleep that night. Or anything else. The result was, we both woke up looking like something a few of our kitties dragged in over the years. Through the years, I’ve discovered that each stage of life brings with it its own set of expectations. The texture of love is certainly no exception. In the beginning, it was satiny smooth, full and rich like the deepest chocolate. Other times, love is as rough and rocky as the tide. Although it has been many years, I can still recall those ‘tear the roof off’ moments of our youth. And, from time to time we revisit them. If for nothing else, to prove to ourselves that we can after four and a half decades of marriage. For so many, after years together, the best kind of intimacy is soft and tender. The kind one gets from someone familiar and dear. Much like cotton or flannel, it's comfortable, natural...durable. So, as we indulge ourselves with fantasies, quite like mine about satin sheets, too often we are reminded that everything that looks good, isn’t. When it’s all said and done, I take comfort in the knowledge that I am okay being cotton percale, or even flannel, in a satin sheet world. Excerpt from Random Notes by Author Carol Gee Military Veteran|Columnist|Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. I typically wear tops and blouses with sleeves to my elbows or longer that cover my arm flab. However, one day, I decided to risk exposing my arm flab for looking cute. The morning started fine. Every time I glanced at myself wearing my cute top, I felt good. You know the old saying, “If you think you look good, you often feel good.” All this changed around two o’clock that afternoon when the temperature in my office dropped drastically (I later learned the AC malfunctioned), and I still had three hours to go before getting off of work. I was freezing. Even my goosebumps had goosebumps. Knowing that I could not make it three more hours sitting in front of my computer with my arms folded for warmth, I frantically looked around for something—anything—to put on. Spotting a decorative cloth wall hanging I had made to decorate my office space, I snatched it off the wall and flung it around my shoulders. Similar to those sporting the names or initials of colleges, the wall hanging was roughly about 36 inches long and 12 inches across. The pointed end sported a tassel the same color as the rest of the material. Unfortunately, my wall hanging only covered one shoulder and only a part of the other arm. Thus, I had to hold it in place with one hand to keep it around me. This resulted in a hunting and pecking motion of the keyboard with my right hand. This went on for maybe an hour or so when, suddenly, I looked up to see one of the technicians from our IT department standing at my desk with a puzzled look on her face. I figured my weird typing must have made her think I had a computer problem. (Call me paranoid, but I have always believed that companies could watch what workers did with company computers). “I like your shawl,” my co-worker said, pointing to my banner/shawl. I burst out laughing, which must have really made her think that I was crazy as well as could not type. Incidentally, the mauve and wine colors of the banner complimented the hot pink blouse that I had on, so I could see how she thought it was part of my outfit. I explained what it was and why I was wearing a wall hanging. As much as I have always hated to admit it, mother was right! Necessity is often the mother of invention. Author Carol Gee Military Veteran|Columnist|Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. 1/17/2020 0 Comments That Dreaded Gingham SkirtI can admit it now. Growing up, I was not a fashionista. My goal, according to my parent, was to go to school and learn, not worry about looking cute. Based on that premise, all clothing purchased was not to look cute but to last for as long as possible. This included my school shoes. For me, it was those dreaded black and white Oxfords or, as I called them, the shoes that never died, and you could not kill them. Believe me, I tried: primarily by daily scraping my feet along the sidewalk on the way to school and back. Other attempts to destroy them soon followed. They also required nightly care. Every night I was required to polish them, paying special attention not get black polish on the white part. To complete this picture, the shoes that never died were worn with knee socks of various colors to match my outfit du jour. Growing up, Home Economics was a required course. Having always been creative, I loved it. The first year we studied cooking. Naturally, I enjoyed that because we got to eat whatever we made—cookies, cupcakes and such. Year Two, we learned simple sewing techniques, starting with making an apron. Back in the day, women wore aprons over their clothes to protect them from getting dirty. They typically had more than one so they always had a clean one when cooking. Our next project was learning to make a skirt—a gingham skirt to be exact. For those unfamiliar with gingham, it is a fabric comprised of small squares. My skirt was purple, which is still a favorite color of mine. The skirt we made had an elastic waist and was trimmed with Rickrack at the hem. What’s Rickrack, you are probably asking? Rickrack is a flat, narrow braid, woven in a zigzag form, used as trimming for clothing or curtains. The braid is made of cotton or polyester fabric and typically stitched to the edges of items. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. As you recall from earlier essays, my mother didn’t believe in wasting anything. Nor was she concerned with how crazy I looked in the eyes of my peers. So I should have anticipated what came next. Picture it: there I was wearing my purple gingham skirt complete with a Rickrack hem with a white blouse. (Don’t forget to add a pair of white knee socks.) Then add my black and white Oxfords. Finally, throw in two long braids hanging down my back…in the eighth grade! Mother often said that my getting good grades throughout my school years was because I was not distracted by worrying about what to wear every day like so many of my classmates. Yeah, that was probably why. Author Carol Gee
Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. 10/22/2019 0 Comments If You Can’t Say Anything Nice…We’ve all heard that old children’s rhyme, sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you. Well, that old saying is a lie. Words have the power to hurt, even to the point of lacerating a person’s soul. Bullying is not a new concept and has been going on for as long as there have been children and bullies. Like so many children, I was bullied for my hair, my clothes and even for liking and doing well in school. Also, like so many, I had to find ways to survive. My mother’s advice to “ignore the bullies”, “to not be so sensitive” and “to toughen up” didn’t help. However, talking and using big words did keep me out of fights. I was also known to make up words and throw them into conversations. For instance, if a mean girl stepped into my face, without flinching I replied that “hypodermically speaking you really need to step off!” To which she would shake her head and mutter, “hypo-what?” Thinking I was crazy, she stepped off, thank God! I realized I was onto something. The next time another mean girl said something to me I replied, “Well, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to you” (from Mary Poppins), then flounced away, inwardly patting myself on the back for escaping yet another fight. You would have thought the mean girls would have taken the hint and left me alone, especially when the voices in my head started up. You know, “Shut up! No, you shut up!” But no, yet another got into my face. Before she even got started I went, “Yabba dada do” (from The Flintstones cartoon), much to her bewilderment. She too quickly flounced away, but not before looking back at me as if I were crazy. On another occasion, I jumped up and clicked my heels together like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. In hindsight, wearing a pair of ruby red slippers instead of my black and white oxfords would have really been cool. I was on a roll, once yelling, “Moo Goo Gai Pan”, which is an Asian dish, not a phrase. “Moo Gai! Moo Gai!” I yelled, adding arm flaps for more emphasis. In shock, the mean girl momentarily stopped in her tracks, before taking off running, albeit trying to do so in a cool way, never once looking back. My crazy responses worked until entering high school when a whole new kind of Hell began. But, by that time, I ignored it as there were more important things to worry about like how I was going to get money to go to college. Did the hateful power of words stop once I reached adulthood? One would think so but no. Sadly, the mean girls had grown into catty women and the backhanded compliments ran rampant. Alas, it has happened to all of us from time to time. There we are, minding our business when someone compliments us in a way that stings. You have probably heard this: “You have such a pretty face; you would really be pretty if you lost some weight.” Or how about this? “You would really be cute if you did something different with your hair.” Better yet: “You would look so much prettier if you wore makeup, swapped your glasses for contacts, painted your toenails red, white and blue and … (you fill in the blanks). Even an innocent comment from a younger person, “I want to be just like you when I get your age”, can sting. Even though adults are supposed to know better, many of us have made statements without realizing how it might be received:
Whether folks realize it or intend to, their words frequently hurt our feelings. Today’s social media is ripe with folks who think nothing of bullying others or shaming them at every turn. The nastier their comments are, the more it gives license for others to join in. Hiding behind their little hashtags and supposed anonymity emboldens this type of bullying. Not allowing others’ words to affect me hasn’t always been easy. Truthfully, there have been a lot of tears and, admittedly, a whole lot of Scotch but I have succeeded. Consequently, having been on the receiving end of these hurtful comments, I watch how I speak to others. You know the old adage: “If you can’t say anything nice. . .” Author Carol Gee Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. P.S: Recently, I was honored to be interviewed for the book, Dos And Don’ts For Bully-proofing Your Child. The author, Markus Horner, who was bullied due to suffering from numerous disabilities, from childhood even into his adult years. Dos And Don’ts For Bully-proofing Your Child shares poignant personal anecdotes as well as statistics on the subject. I invite all those who have children, teachers and others responsible for children, to read it. When it came to clothes for my sister and I, mother had one piece of advice: “Always make sure you are wearing clean underwear, in the event you are ever in an accident.” Our being fashionistas, not so much. When items were on sale, it was a bonus. So, the day we went ‘back to school’ shopping and she spotted a pair of sandals on sale, she was pumped! White, they had faux stones of every color on the in-step strap as well as the strap circling the ankle. “Oh child, aren’t these pretty?” Mother asked my sister, picking them up. “Oh look, they have them in your size.” She said, much to my sister’s horror. At nine, my sister already wore a size 9 shoe. Mother, being old-fashioned, insisted we wore socks with sandals to school and church. In my mind’s eye, I could just see her wearing those sandals with her various colored knee socks, and being taunted by her school mates. I couldn’t hold in my laughter if my life depended on it. My sister, probably also imagining it, started to cry which earned us both a scolding. She was scolded for having a tantrum since embarrassing our mother was a no-no. I was scolded because we weren’t supposed to make fun of each other. As tears rolled down my eyes from laughter, my sister cried even harder. Frustrated, mother turned to her saying, “If you don’t like them, you don’t get any new shoes this year. You’ll just have to wear last year’s school shoes.” With that, the three of us exited the store. While not rich by any means, we always had three sets of clothing. There were those we wore to school, those we played in and our church clothes, which the ‘old’ folks used to call ‘good clothes’. ‘Church’ clothes to my religiously pious parent, meant wearing hats. So every Easter, my sister and I each got a new hat. These were little, white straw affairs with a piece of elastic worn under the chin to keep them on. We wore them all spring and summer. On one Easter, funds must have been tighter than usual. When a co-worker gave my mother a bag of clothes that her children had either outgrown or ‘flat-out refused’ to wear, she graciously accepted. The miscellaneous items included two hats‒a dingy, off-white color one and one with a net-like fabric my mother called a veil, hung over the front. (A tell-tell sign that it was designed for a grown woman, not a child.) Since I was the oldest at age 12, mother felt I should wear the one with the veil. “Oh child, don’t you look nice?” She asked, admiring my hat. Truth was, I felt like crying like my sister did that time in the store. “Lord, didn’t mom want me to have any friends?” I lamented to myself. Off to Sunday school and church I went, wearing said hat with veil over two long, thick braids and what my mother described as a “Chinese’ bang. Did I mention I also wore eyeglasses, cats’ eyeglasses, and that the veil was draped over? I kept pushing the veil off my glasses so I could see. Admittedly, there wasn’t a lot of teasing from the other kids. After all, we were in church. Sunday school and church finally ended. As my sister and I waited outside while mother shook hands with the Pastor and other church members, something horrible happened! Suddenly, a strong gust of wind came up, blowing my hat-complete-with-veil, right off of my head. In the confusion that followed, it came to rest in a huge puddle, where I accidentally stumped on it, twice! “Oh, your poor hat is ruined!” Mother wailed. “Explain to me how this happened.” I did as asked, wisely leaving out that I believed it was a miracle. Alas, I survived many bullying episodes about my clothes, my shoes and my hair. (It’s a wonder that I’m not in therapy to this day.) Still, you know what they say: That which does not kill you makes you stronger…(if you survive). -Author Carol Gee, Retired Military Air Force Veteran Author|Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers.
4/13/2019 0 Comments ‘Grown Folks’ BusinessGrowing up, every time my sister and I were around where adults were talking and we questioned something that we heard, my mother would tell us that it was grown folks’ business and sent us to our room or outside to play. Was it any wonder that I didn’t know nada or zip about sex, PMS or what happened when women went through ‘the change’ until I left home for military service? To this day, I still blame this banishment on my sister. Much sneakier than she was, I kept as quiet as the proverbial mouse when adults were talking in order to better hear them. Like me, my sister was a big talker and could not resist adding her two cents to the conversation. One time, as I sat quietly playing hairdresser with my dolls—who were nearly bald after all of my hair styling and cutting—my sister blew our cover. I don’t recall what the adults were discussing at the time, but I do remember that during a lull in the conversation, my sister loudly announced to our guests that our mother could take her teeth out and put them back in. At seven, she was unduly impressed by mother’s dental bridgework and felt it needed to be shared with others. (After that, mother always checked to see where we were when her friends visited.) Seriously, everything I ever learned came from eavesdropping on grown folks’ business. Like the time I learned that one of our neighbors had a common-law husband. I didn't know what a common-law husband was, except it was said in such a hushed manner that, I figured it was something worth remembering. I also learned that ‘Sister’ Jones from our church was going through ‘The change’. And that her poor husband was catching pure HELL. First, Sister Jones was well over six feet tall, while her husband was around 5’6 or shorter, so she really towered over him in her high heels (and apparently in their marriage). Still, every time Sister Jones came to the beauty shop, I watched her closely so as to not miss seeing her “change”. I remember hoping that she would change into a puppy so that I could play with it. After all, in my childlike mind, what was the benefit of changing if you couldn’t change into something good? Likewise, I pondered whether the “roots” that Sister Jones supposedly worked, had somehow brought on the change? Of course, I didn't know what roots were either. Were the feelings that she was supposedly experiencing, according to the other women, the result of these so-called roots? Because I had overheard one of the ladies at the shop say that it made people do strange things. Caused a man or woman to fall head over heels in love with people who apparently had serious issues. Right then and there, I decided to stay far, far away from roots. Other subjects like ‘how to keep your man at home’, even without the use of roots, were secretly gleaned for future knowledge. The women also spoke about the other realities of life: things that resonated with them. And, above all else, the keys to survival. Author Carol Gee
Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. 2/10/2019 0 Comments The Way Men and Women CommunicateI'm a talker. Wouldn’t you know that I would marry a man who wasn’t? As you might imagine, having a conversation in my house is quite challenging. This is definitely true when my hubby is deep into his television programs. For some reason, questions like, Do you love me? Come to mind while he is watching one football team trample another. I’m sure it is purely coincidental that Do you think I’m pretty? Comes up as tennis great Serena Williams does her thing in those bright, little short shorts on the tennis court. Honestly, I am a confident, black woman who admires Serena for crushing it while doing what she loves. Oh, but my personal favorite is What would you do if I died? (I’m sure he probably prays for my demise right then and there, so he can enjoy the rest of the game.) In truth, the communication process between men and women is often like tiptoeing through a minefield: even simple words take on significant meanings. Take the word fine: even the slowest man on earth should have learned not to use it to answer that trick question, How do I look? Thanks a lot: don’t be fooled; this is not an expression of gratitude. What it really means is thanks for nothing! This is frequently followed by the loud sigh. If you hear that sigh, watch out for the double whammy effect. While an actual word isn't uttered, the message sent is certainly loud and clear. I remember doing this as a child, right after my mother had scolded me for something. She looked me dead in the eye and asked, Do you have something you want to say? Fortunately, unlike like me, my husband knows to never ask these questions. Case in point, a while back he mentioned that a couple we knew were splitting up. Surprised, as I had always thought they were truly happy, I asked, "What happened?" “I don’t know,” he answered. “Well, what did he say?” I asked. “He just said they were separating,” he replied. “How did this conversation come about?” I asked. “He just mentioned it in passing,” he said. “Besides, I didn’t want to get up all in his business,” he says, now getting irritated. “So, you have literally told me nothing,” I say. Frustrated, I had to get on the phone and call our friend to see what was really going on. As if I don’t have enough to do, I said to myself. (Full disclosure: I didn’t want to get all up into their business either, but this was a couple we knew and liked. I sincerely felt that we needed to see if we could help them in some way.) Still, as husbands go—and despite his being a prince of the one or two-word responses--mine is pretty special. After all, it’s who he is and nothing will ever change that. In fact, every now and again, he will string several words together and utter something truly profound and sweet. Well, me being who I am and true to myself, I ask: Does this dress make my butt look big? -Author Carol Gee
Retired military Air Force Veteran Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker For these and other great laughs, purchase your copy of Random Notes at Amazon.com and major online book retailers. My mother tried to kill me! Not once or twice, but many, many, times throughout my childhood. |