Ladies First?

I found this in a 1966 magazine at work:

"Lady's First"
Q: Why do ladies always go first? (From a teen-age boy)

A: It is simply a matter of courtesy. You may be surprised to learn that ladies do not always go first, however. It is a common mistake on the part of men to know when to go first themselves under certain circumstances. These are:

On the steps of a train in order to help the lady alight;
Through the corrider of a train, so taht he may open heavy doors;
Out of a taxi, so he may assist her in alighting;
Through a crowd, so he may make a path for her;
In a restaurant when there is no headwaiter to guide them to their seats;
Down stairs, to break her fall if she trips;
Into the theatre, if there is no usher;
Into a darkened room or any other place where a lady entering alone might have difficulty or encounter danger.

Life is a curious thing

It's funny, too. For instance: ever since I can remember, I've had brothers. And these brothers have always taken a long time in the bathroom. This has always annoyed me. Well, tonight, just now actually, I was about to get in the shower - but guess who's in the bathroom? However, because my brother is in the bathroom, and I can't take a shower, I now have time to blog. And now I'm someone contented. Funny, isn't it?

What's even funnier is the fact that I have absolutely nothing I want to share with you. Oh, there's plenty going on in my life. But nothing I want to share with people I hardly know. Actually, there is one thing in particular that I wish I could get off my chest. However, I couldn't possibly tell it to the one person who matters, because that would just be awkward. Because it kind of involves him a lot. Now, how can I pour my heart out to internet gurus, who don't care about my problems? Maybe I'll put them in the third person.

I have this friend....

You know what, never mind.

My parents are in Italy right now. Mom's always wanted to go to Europe. I guess she's deserved this little holiday, but I wish I could fast forward the next thirteen years, until I'm rich and famous and have a hotel in Paris and have to travel there regularly.

Until then, all I can do is blog, and try and figure out little life puzzles, such as:

How am I going to get rich and famous during the next thirteen years? And why does it have to be thirteen years?

Think about it. In thirteen years, I will be the ripe old age of thirty-five. Not so young to be called reckless, yet not so old to be called senile. Middle-aged. The prime of my life. Yadda yadda...

Let's say next year (2012-2013) I take off from school to work hard and make enough money for hair-styling-manicure-and-cosmetics school (because I want to be a hair stylist-manicurist-costmetic-artist). The fall of 2013, and perhaps the spring of 2014, I will busy myself at said school. By the time I finish there, I will be twenty-four going on twenty-five.

[I just realized, twenty-four was the limit I gave myself for marriage. If I am not married by the age of twenty-four, I will submit myself to the life of an old cat lady. But a rich old cat lady, remember?]

Now, we can look at my life after 2014 in two different ways: Miss Rich-and-Famous Jet-setter, or Mrs. Rich-and-Famous Jet-setter.

Miss Rich-and-Famous: From 2014 until I gain the required hours needed, I will work at small hair salons here and there (most likely in my own home town, where rent seems to be cheaper for some reason). Let us say I gain the hours I need to open up my own hair salon by, I suppose 2017. By then, I shall be twenty-eight. So far so good. I open up a hair salon, the motive and idea for which I shall keep secret in this blog. This hair salon becomes such a hit that I quickly make lots of money and fame. I invest in a growing hotel in Paris. End of story.

Now, for
Mrs. Rich-and-Famous: I start working at my home town hair salon to gain hours I need to open up my own business. In 2015 I meet a rich man, whose own business I haven't conjured up in my imagination yet. We get married in 2016 (I love quick romances).
[This is a little later than my twenty-four deadline, but I think a one year difference is of little importance]
With his steady income, we are certainly both well-off enough to travel to Paris every so often if we so desire. But I really want that business of mine. We buy a big house, I set up an area in which to open up my business, and we are now a two-income family. While our four or five children (which I shall have by the time I am thirty-five years old) are enjoying swimming lessons at home with Grandma and Grandpa, me and my wealthy husband shall parade around Paris to our heart's delight.

My family and friends gets free haircuts, giving my name fame throughout the land.


I don't seem to mind the Mrs. Rich-and-Famous so much.

We're not overpopulated

Do the math.

"I like old people"

Says my 71 year-old co-worker at the museum. I don't think he knows why I laugh every time he says that.

My job is a mixture of boring and exciting at the same time. All in all, I love it. If you ever get the chance to work at a small-town museum, go for it. It's an unforgettable experience, to be sure.

My musuem is run by seniors. Every year on Canada Day they have a huge open-house type thing, with the steamer, well-driller, thresher, and clay oven going all day long so people can see how things were done "in the old days". In preparation for that day, I got to know the old helpers quite well - they always came for coffee every day, at 10am and 3pm, sharp. The coffee always had to be made on time. And there had to be plenty of cookies, too.

The men sat at one end of the table, while the woman (and I) sat at the other. I had the advantage of being able to hear both ends of the conversation: the men would talk or argue over machinery, the DC Case, how to fix the well-driller, etc. The women would chat about their flowers, what they planned to do at the lake that weekend, their quilting projects, and whether it's worth buying a rechargable battery for their husbands' hearing aids.

In just two months, Monday till Friday, coffee time sometimes extending to over and hour and a half long, I've gained an extensive knowledge of all the above, as well as how to trap a mole, that banana goes quite nicely with rhubarb, that we need more dummies so we can show off all those old clothes in the storage room, that it's good for plants to pick off the dead flowers every once in awhile, that Mrs. So-and-so has bought a new condo and is moving in by the end of the month and must downsize a lot so she might need more than one garage sale, that people need to stop bringing in their mother's sewing machines or old type-writers because we have more than we can store, and that goes for old pump organs too, that that one brand of ant killer really does the trick, and apparently using seven-up in your pie crust in place of vinegar works just as good.

Things have slowed down a little, now that the Canada Day celebrations are over and the clean-up is almost done. I'm going to miss our frequent coffee-chats. But I'm sure they'll keep coming back every so often, if they think I should know that the rechargable battery in Mr. So-and-so's hearing aid was worth it.

su-su-su-sugar town

I've recently discovered the beautiful voice Nancy Sinatra jr. holds.



I love looking at pictures of her and her daddy - don't they look adorable together?

Old-Fashioned Daydreamer

This picture of Jean Arthur gets me every time I look at it. I guess it's the dreamy expression in her eyes - it brings back so many of my daydreaming moments, where my imagination transcends time and space itself. I've always been an avid daydreamer - I think "avid" is the right word - but you know what? I think you already know that. I'm sure I must have mentioned in detail my many imaginings as a child, and how these daydreams still exist, even through college.

Well, you don't need to hear all that again. Really, you don't need to hear anything again. But, as long as I like to write, and as long as dopes like you (I say that in the most endearing way, of course) continue to subscribe to my silly blog, I'm going to keep on writing about things you don't need to know.

Like books, for instance. Talk about stimulation for avid daydreamer!
(again, hoping that "avid" is the correct term)
I just love books. All books -- that is, all old books, all classic books, all books that have satisfied millions of hopeless romantics like me in their endeavors to push the daydream button in our brains. I recently obtained a nice little collection (four or five little books) of poetry, the author of which I have never heard of, so I think it unneccessary to point him out. Here is one way in which books have the power to hold my imagination. Not knowing the author, and not being particularly partial to any types of poetry myself, I don't look inside these books for their content. Rather, I look at them for their history, for the story they tell. Because, you see, these books are mostly over one hundred years old. And I love old books.

Some of them have been through fire, and are a little scarred; one has paper covers added to hide the missing original; one, published in 1952, says, "First Edition: This book is a collector's item. Don't part with it." Another is a French religious work dated 1893. Now, with books like these sitting on my shelf, do you wonder that I'm so proud of them? So willing to glance at them, in them, every now and then, and look at the many notes written inside by their previous owners? In this is the history, not the content. And I love it.

Anyways. I'm going to go daydream.