My Buddy Josh and the Black Bear Rescue

 

Yes, I know one of the firefighters in this video about the rescued black bear in Oxnard. So that means. . . I’m like – one degree from bears. . . but seriously – firefighters rescuing bears – gotta love it. Smokey the Bear thanks you, Josh!

 

Italian Espresso Roasting, California Style

I’d like to introduce you to Ellie.

Ellie is 51 and roasts her own E-Bay bought coffee beans in her back yard.

Okay, that may not sound like too much excitement, but a lucky (I’m sure – chosen - even) few were privy to her secrets and the tools of her trade. I will start by using the one sentence that Ellie started the whole process with as she took us to her back yard picnic table. “This is a simple process.” Remember that.

First, Ellie shows us a 1950’s caramel corn maker, with an agitator at the bottom to keep things moving. She plugs in a digital thermometer and tells us she’s just going to warm things up a bit.

Next, she drops raw coffee beans (no taste, no smell that I can discern) into the contraption until the agitator starts moving back wards. She pulls out about a dozen beans, because the agitator shows you how many beans to put in by its movement. Huh?

Ellie then puts the lid on her home-made roaster and tells us that the beans will go through a series of smells, none of them pleasant. She also tells us that we are waiting to hear the first crack of the beans as they are roasting. Simple? What?

Ellie explained that as the beans heat, they crack (it sounds like popcorn), but this is only the first crack. And Ellie is right; the beans smell like they are burning. Not a nice aroma at all. In fact, based on the smell, I could give up coffee completely.

Now that the first crack and three or four acrid smells have assaulted our nostrils, Ellie says we are waiting for the second crack of the beans, which is, by the way, a very distinctive sound that is quite different from the first crack.

I ask why these husk like things are flying all over. Ellie shows us the (simple) holes she’s drilled into her roasting machine, so the chaff flies out. The holes are bigger than the chaff, so it can easily separate itself from the beans.

I don’t know about you, but I think chaff flying out of any size hole sounds like a bad thing, and about this time, I think I have landed in the Ozarks at a distillery of one of my Hatfield ancestors.

The second crack has come and gone (not that I heard anything) and now our nostrils are being assailed with an amazing aroma that makes my brain scream ‘give me coffee NOW!’

After the beans have been cooled with a shop-vac colander contraption, the beans are ready. They find their way to the grinder, to the percolator, to my cup. And Ellie, here’s to you, for one of the best cups of coffee I have ever tasted. But girl, that process is anything but simple.

From 1/3/2007

Facebook – The Ultimate Connector

I’ve written about Facebook before. How it’s a great way to decipher every degree of separation from Kevin Bacon.

And now? I am just about stupefied silent (right) by the people that are reappearing in my life through Facebook. I feel I must tell everyone that Facebook is more than a teenager’s what-are-you-doing-right-now kind of site.

With Facebook, you can reconnect with family, friends and your school mates. Good Lord, you could probably find Jimmy Hoffa on Facebook!

I graduated from high school in 1983. There are a few people that I still communicate with regularly, but let’s face it. That was 25 years ago. Gulp.

People that were important to me back in those days haven’t been on my mind for many years. Except for the three or four that I still talk to – high school has been a very distant memory.

Then one day I log on to Facebook. And there it is, staring me in the face. A friend suggestion from someone in California. Gilbert Daudistel. Eighth grade. Whoa.

I added Gilbert as my friend. Haven’t talked to him, thought of him or anything since we threw our caps in the air at graduation in 1983. I remember his Davy Jones haircut and his mouth full of metal.

With a quick catch-up email through Facebook (exactly how do you catch up on 25 years in a ‘quick’ email?), I learn he is now the father of three or four dozen boys, has a gorgeous wife and has done some serious military service. He is also apparently fluent in Russian.

What happened to the awkward Gilbert that blushed all the time?

And that’s how it began. Now, more than 20 of us from our drama club in high school have reconnected. Even our beloved drama teacher, Kathy Juarez, has reconnected with all of us. It’s plain crazy, people!

Their pictures all look the same. Nobody seems to have changed much. Some have come out of the closet, some have married and divorced more than once, some are still chasing big dreams, and some have made their dreams come true. It also seems that every darn one of us is still involved in creative arts in one way or another. Dance studio owners, screenplay writers, column writers, novelists, actors, teachers. . . it’s just been a really cool experience.

I feel just a little bit younger, and the world feels a little bit smaller.

Until I see pictures of all those children that my school mates have spawned. Many are in high school, some even in university now. The littlest children belong to those friends that seemed to take their time to continue their DNA line. I feel my youngest when I see those toddler aged children standing against the legs of my school chums. Then I feel like the clock is ticking properly, that time isn’t spinning too fast.

I wonder if, 25 years from now, we’ll all be too old to type our status changes on Facebook? Will we go from a status of ‘Joyce is getting ready to party the weekend away’ to ‘Joyce is currently napping away her golden years’?

Will I be Facebook friends with the great-grandchildren of my high-school mates? Will Facebook take place of actual reunions now that we’ve virtually connected?

Really, even if I were never able to ‘see’ these friends again, it might be okay. Without Facebook, who knows when I would have connected with these people again?

Rollercoaster Lovin'

Dear Readers: This column was published just after Nuria's departure back to Spain. Am I little behind in posting much? Or did I already post this one? Ugh! Getting old blows.

Nuria has only been gone a week, back to her home in Galicia, Spain. Peter and I still miss her like we've only just said our tearful goodbyes.

Really, it was only three weeks. How attached could we be?

Nuria phoned when she arrived home safely, seeming to have forgotten English. Apparently lack of sleep has that effect on the brain. I can barely speak English at the best of times, so I will always be impressed with our 17-year-old-four-language-speaking wonder.

I’m glad I don't have my own children, because any of them leaving would kill me outright.

Anyway, come back with me to Brockport, New York, after the soccer tournament . . . remember, Terry now has a GPS, so the cornfields no longer frighten us, and my Google Maps reading skills no longer frighten Peter.

Sunday afternoon, several of us in the group were on our way to Darien Lake theme park (a former Six Flags resort). Thanks to the GPS and Superkathy’s sense of direction from an actual map, the cornfields didn’t swallow us as Darien Lake rose out of the trees right smack in the middle of nowhere.

Peter and I have never ridden a roller coaster together (I know!). Even though Peter didn’t see the romantic implications as much as we tender-hearted women-folk, I was ready to cross roller-coaster-screaming-as-a-couple off my things-to-before-the-‘til-death-do-us-part-thing list.

You see, I love the coasters. LOVE them.

The weather was fully clouded over and a constant threat of rain. We didn’t care. The lines at the park were short, and it was still as humid as the deepest of rainforests. Oh, and the mosquitoes must know that Lanark County residents have sweeter blood, because there wasn’t ONE bug in all of that park.

I’m pretty sure that our tough-16-year-old-year-old-soccer-chicks were a little surprised (and hopefully suitably impressed) when after we all giggled right through the turnstile in our excitement to get to the first ride, I was asked if I’d ever been on a roller coaster before.

Pulleeeeze.

I gave them my most superior look and informed them that there wasn’t a roller coaster in California that hadn’t seen my backside on its seat or my hands up in the air (up until about 7 years ago, anyway).

But when they pointed to the ride where your feet dangled AND you turned upside down, I knew I was out of my realm of experience. So I started giggling like a little girl again.

Nuria pointed to another ‘ride’ that wasn’t much more than a steel cage bouncing about a hundred feet between the sky and the ground hanging by two giant rubber bands. If it hadn’t cost extra, I would’ve done it. That’s my only excuse. Really.

Ahem.

The foot-dangly ride called the Mind Eraser was the coolest. But ladies, don’t wear your earrings. I was seriously afraid that my ceratoid and jugular arteries were in peril as the backs of my earrings stabbed my neck repeatedly.

Oh, and that piercing, high-pitched shriek that you hear is not the ride coming apart, it’s your own scream, or that of your husband.

We tackled all the other rides with a fierce bravado. And roller coasters are just as thrilling as I remember, especially when you have your guy (or girl) next to you for a quick kiss or a hand-holding-scream.

The water slides were just as much fun, but I have a feeling all these mysterious bruises came from screaming down fibreglass tubes at 40 miles per hour. Might have to wear a protective bubble suit next time.

Check out all the exciting photos when you log into your Facebook account and add me as a friend.

If You Ever Went Away - John Michael Montgomery Video

Hi friends-

My long-time friend Monty Devita is a ridiculously talented guitar player and song writer. When he finally got his act together and got to Nashville from California, things started happening for him.

Below is the new John Michael Montgomery video, If You Ever Went Away. Monty is the bass player in the band scenes - he's the tall good-lookin' one, rockin' his geeeTAR.

I shrieked like a freak when I saw him on the screen. This is HUGE.

And for those of you who know me and wonder at the connection, Monty is Kathy Weatherwax's brother, and used to be the boyfriend of another long-time friend of mine - Jeanita.

While Jeanita dated Monty,  I tagged along with her to all of his musical gigs, most of which involved Silver Creek, the band he played in a gazillion years ago - man, those were some good times, my friend. Don't care if I was a groupie by definition. I made some lifelong friends during that time.

Enjoy the video - I am beyond excited for Monty, and also a big fan of John Michael - it's good to hear some new stuff from him.

YouTube - If You Ever Went Away

Riverside Jam 2008, Oh What a Weekend!

This column was published in The Mississippi Weekender on Friday, August 8, 2008.

Ironically, Peter had a story publish on the front page, and my stories and pictures from Riverside Jam are all through the paper. It's pretty cool. Copies are being sent to California VIPS, or I can send on upon request.

The Canadian Edition (front page story) garnered my first autograph request. Too funny, and oh-so-surreal.

Gotta love fame in a small town.

Enjoy! - Be sure to scroll down for more stories, posts and pictures. Leave me a comment, dammit! I know you're reading! What do you think? What do you want me to write about?

*************************************************

I could hardly believe my luck, but the evidence was laying around my neck.

Riverside Jam, 2008 All Access.

Sweet, fancy Moses, what fun I was going to have with my camera while I was backstage. Look out, country music stars, the paparazzi in Carleton Place is on the loose!

I’ve loved country music since I was a teenager (which, of course, wasn’t that long ago), so I was really looking forward to the 5^th annual music festival presented by the Diamond Foundation. The scheduled talent was phenomenal, and I couldn’t wait to scream and stomp my feet with the rest of the crowds as we swayed to the notes flowing from instruments played so many amazing musicians, including Gord Bamford, Tommy Cash, Lorrie Morgan and Mark Chesnutt.

Though the rain threatened at all times, garbage bag-wearing-umbrella-toting music lovers had already set their lawn chairs up in prime spots in front of the stage. Anticipation buzzed through the air.

Y101 introduced Ambush, and the Jam officially started.

There’s something about Ambush. They are so much fun to watch, to dance to. Maybe that’s why they’ve garnered a Canadian Country Music Association (CCMA) nod with an award nomination for Group or Duo of the year. And to most of us, they seem like friends.

Jason Blaine came after Ambush, a Pembroke man who has the recognition of his music peers as a talent on the rise. The only disappointment felt by most was that his handlers didn’t allow photos with the fans as they waited in line to meet him. However, Jason is cool. If you ever do get a chance to meet him, be sure to ask him how he came up with the song “My First Car”. It will remind you of your clutch-popping days for sure.

When I asked Blaine what his favourite part of playing a Riverside Jam type of venue was, he replied “Folks in small towns don’t just listen to country music, they live it. Those are my kind of people.” That’s why you’re our kind of people too, Mr. Blaine.

The skies opened up and the rain began falling hard and fast as Brad Johner took the stage. His pop-country sound revved the crowd until many were standing and dancing along with the music, rain be darned. Soon everyone was soaked.

Me? Of course I wasn’t prepared for any of it. My umbrella was too small, my camera bag NOT rain-proof. I forgot to charge the battery in the camera and I had no pen to take notes. Intrepid reporter, indeed.

Good thing the beer tent and the Mick Armitage band were close by to keep the good time going when the big stage was finished, or I might have been really angry with myself.

On Saturday, I asked a few concert-goers if the rain bothered them. Wiping a layer of wet off of the brim of his cowboy hat, one cowboy grinned and said “What rain?” Gotta love the constitution of country music lovers and rednecks.

Saturday night, after the supper break, my friend Tami Walls (who’d scored the other all-access pass because Peter was afraid all that country music would kill him) and I entered the back stage gate (because we could).

And who was standing right in front of us, waiting to start his show?

Gord Bamford.

So I walked right up and asked if I could have a few minutes after the show. He agreed with a big smile. Tami almost fainted.

Yeah, baby.

Gord Bamford and his band kicked up some high energy with their performance. The crowd was instantly involved and Gord was honoured with first standing ovation of the weekend. Gord and the band brought it to Lanark County and left the crowd dizzy from demanding more. Maybe that’s why they’ve garnered 15 CCMA award nominations this year.

As Lorrie played on, Bamford stayed after his show to meet his fans. The line was long and wound around the hundreds of lawn chairs back towards the beer tent. Gord stayed until he’d said hello to every last one of them and posed for as many pictures as his fans wanted.

Tami and I watched Lorrie Morgan take the stage and sing so many of our favourite songs in her sweet, sultry voice. But I kept my eye on the Y101 tent. The minute Gord said hello and goodbye to the last fan in line, it was my turn.

I was going to interview Gord Bamford.

Gulp.

Jammin’ by the Riverside, 2008

 Hi readers! most of you know that I was lucky enough to be given the features assignment for the 5th Annual Riverside Jam. This is the first article that appears in the Carleton Place Canadian. I will scan and post when I have the hard copy tomorrow. There are three articles in total.

This one is 'general overview'. All photos are taken by me.

*****************************************

I could hardly believe my luck, but the evidence was hanging around my neck.

All Access. Riverside Jam 2008

A lover of country music since I was a teenager, I was really looking forward to the 5^th annual music festival presented by the Diamond Foundation. The line-up of talent was phenomenal, and I couldn’t wait to scream and stomp my feet with the rest of the crowds as we swayed to the talented notes flowing from their instruments

Ambush took the stage and brought an energetic show we are all used to seeing from them by now. Their talent and energy makes even the most proprietary of feet start moving. You just can’t help but dance to Ambush. Maybe that’s why they’ve garnered a Canadian Country Music Association (CCMA) nod with an award nomination for Group or Duo of the year.

Jason Blaine came after Ambush, a Pembroke man that has a CD and the recognition of his music peers as a man to watch. His voice is smooth and his lyrics catching. If you ever get a chance to meet him as I did, be sure to ask him how he came up with the song “My First Car”. But point your camera fast, because Blaine is a busy man and rarely stands still.

Brad Johner took the stage after Blaine. His pop-country sound revved the crowd until many were standing and dancing along with the music. It didn’t matter that the rain kept falling. We were wet, we were singing and dancing. We were having fun.

Saturday brought much of the same as far as weather goes. When asked if the rain bothered them, several concert-goers responded at once with “What rain?” Gotta love the constitution of country music lovers.

Local talent, the Mississippi Girls could indeed bring a tear to a glass eye with their perfect harmony. Along with so much more local talent, we should be so proud of our Canadian songsters. Canada truly rocks the country vibe.

Saturday night brought The Good Brothers, Gord Bamford and Lorrie Morgan. It was obvious that the fans choice was Gord Bamford (15 CCMA nominations this year). Even over Lorrie Morgan’s classic songs and sultry voice, Gord brought it to Lanark County and left the crowd dizzy from demanding more.

Sunday, the highlights were billed as The Bowes Brothers, Tommy Cash and Mark Chesnutt. But again, our local talent leaves its mark, from Johnny Spinks and Coolwater to Greg Hanna, you could barely catch your breath before more wonderful music hit your ears.

Tommy Cash did his brother Johnny proud. Mark Chesnutt sang his heart out and joked with the crowd, singing one after the other of his multitude of chart-topping hits. We sang along, loving every minute of it.

It’s a great thing that the Mick Armitage Band stayed around until 1:00 a.m. every night to allow us to continue our partying ways. When in Lanark County . . .

 

Lost In Love With Soccer? Nope, Just Lost Somewhere In New York

Theoretical itinerary (as they always are):

· Friday, 1:00 p.m. sharp: Pick up Nuria from afternoon classes with car loaded, gassed and ready to hit the road for Batavia, New York to rendezvous with soccer team at hotel for weekend tournament in Brockport

· 3:30 p.m.: Stop for bite at The Cracker Barrel. If not hungry, proceed to next Cracker Barrel. Continue along Cracker Barrel path until hungry.

· 6:00 p.m. Wait in lobby of hotel until rest of team arrives and checks in.

· 7:00 p.m.: Light supper with team

· 9:00 p.m.: Lights out for. . .

· Saturday, 6:30 a.m. wakeup call.

· 7:45 a.m.: Leave hotel for first tournament game at 9:15 a.m.

Actual Itinerary:

· Friday, 1:00 p.m.: Go pick up Nuria from classes and let her buckle up her confused soul into the car sans Peter. Jet to the gas station to fuel up, jet to Timmy's to get those iced caps we can't seem to live without.

Run back into the house to finish packing while vital articles of clothing are still tumbling damply in the dryer.

Peter has gone to the hospital to check on his dad (he's 99 now, and has a fever too often to let him out of the hospital. He is in good spirits and doing well. Will update you when I know more. I am going to visit him tomorrow. Peter has been going every day.)

Peter comes home, double checks the double checking while I try to remember everything I am forgetting (ironic, ain't it?).

3:30 p.m. Hit the road.

· 5:00 p.m.: Delayed at border offices for documentation for our Spanish senorita.

· 5:45 p.m.: Finally in the U.S.A.

· 7:00 p.m.: Stop at Cracker Barrel (at last). Send text message back to Cousin Amy in California to tell her our location. Am not allowed to print what her reply was. It wouldn’t be polite (okay, she said YOU SUCK) Lovingly ate biscuit with butter and honey in her honour. Also ordered the hash-brown casserole without the casserole in her honour. Was told it was too late to order breakfast.

· 9:45 p.m.: Wait in lobby for most of the team

· 11:50 p.m.: Lights out for 6:30 wake up call. It isn’t going to be pretty.

Saturday morning was too early for all us. We all piled into vehicles, Peter and Google maps to guide the caravan through the back roads of Batavia and the surrounding area to the tournament.

If only the roads had signs. If only State University New York (SUNY) was built somewhere inside a city boundary. If only one of the five to eight vehicles had GPS, I may have nothing to write about (and if you believe that. . .).

But the fates had deigned to make our seemingly simple, 30-minute-route of lefts and rights into a surreal adventure of almost an hour of wandering through a vast landscape of unmarked roads, creepy wagons full of stuffed animals and several stops on the side of the road to conference about what direction we should really be traveling.

Without a good cup of coffee and my required 8.5 hours of sleep, I’m sure Nuria stifled more than a healthy amount of nervous giggles as Peter and I discussed what Google maps really had printed on that paper. I’d read it and he’d ask if I was sure. So I’d make him read it. Probably not the best thing to do when he’s driving.

When we ended up on the correct road quite by mistake, Kathy, her van full of orange-clad teenage girls, decided to take the lead. We’d failed in our role of follow-the-leader and it was time for us to let someone else play. Google was failing us, miserably. And Kathy had a map. A real map that somehow made unmarked roads as discernable as the yellow brick road covered in neon-high-gloss paint.

So almost an hour into our 30-minute drive we made it to the tournament.

Peter opted out of being the pace car for the return trip.

Saturday afternoon, another parent, Terry, went and purchased a GPS.

Guess he doesn’t want that to happen again. Front yards with giant wagons full of stuffed-animals would scare anyone into a GPS.

Adventures in Cheerleaders and Horses, Coming Soon!

Hello my friends!

Just returned from a fabulous weekend with Fluffy. We went to watch our friend Jocelyn's daughter Jillian compete with her Kingston Elite Senior Cheerleading Squad at the Canadian National Competition at the Hershey Centre in Toronto.

We also stayed at Adena Springs North, where Fluffy's brother is the farm manager. That picture in the middle? The stables.

It was a horse lover's paradise, almost like a personal heaven, located in Aurora, Ontario. Click on the picture below to check out some of the types of thoroughbred racehorses I drooled over all weekend.

Bed-time now - check back often! I'm trying to write more!

Goodbye, Randy. We'll Really Miss You.

 

How can anyone sum up a man’s life in just a few words?

I knew Randy Slater for only a couple of years before he left us suddenly on Saturday, February 2^nd. As I write this, it’s still difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that Randy isn’t with us anymore, that his larger-than-life personality and sense of humour is gone forever.

I imagine that most of our Lanark County community is feeling the same way.

Of course, I do know that Randy wouldn’t want us all crying about it. He’d want us to get back to work, get the job done, quit whinin’. After the work is done would be soon enough to tip one in his honour. He’d want us to celebrate his life, but make sure that business carried on as usual. Even Winston, the family dog would probably be ordered to go bury a bone or something.

Randy was entirely too young to be finished on this earthly plane, even though none of us can pretend to know why he had to go. He was about to celebrate his 50^th birthday, and took the ribbing with his normal good-natured humour. In 2007, he celebrated 25 years of marriage to his wife, Lisa, and has two children, Megan (21), and Lindsay (19). Lisa and Randy were looking forward to a well-deserved holiday in a few weeks.

Randy was one of the hardest working men I knew. He always had an idea, was always on top of whatever his beloved Home Hardware store needed. There wasn’t anything that he missed when it came to his work, and even if he was a little disorganized and messy, Randy knew his stuff. Whenever I visited the friendly chaos that is upstairs in his office, I wondered how he could possibly know where anything was in the paper explosion that was his desk. The chaos extended to the entire office, but that man was sharp, missed nothing. Even Jody, his faithful assistant, wouldn’t dare to upset his system.

Randy loved life, loved people, his Home Hardware store and his Home Installs business. He enjoyed a business growth spurt last summer and was over the moon about his success in Home Installs, his plans to buy another installs truck and hire more crew on the top of his list. His attention to customer service was unequalled, and it was an admirable quality that he enforced on all of his employees, making Carleton Place Home Hardware the friendliest and most helpful place to shop.

Randy was a man that knew how to get the job done, and usually that job started with a handshake. A handshake meant something to him, as did every person he did business with. He loved both of his communities of Smiths Falls and Carleton Place and all the people he knew in them.

The bewilderment and sense of loss will be with us for a while, as it’s all part of the process. But Jody’s son Logan says it best when speaking of Randy: “God must’ve needed Randy to build some mansions in Heaven.”

You will be greatly missed, Randy. And we may shed a tear or two, but just pretend you don’t see. And we’ll promise to keep going and carrying on what you built in your life. Don’t worry, Randy, help will always be close to Home.

Rest well, have a kick-ass afterlife, and thanks, Randy - for everything. 

Growing Old Gracefully, or NOT!

 

I Guess I Won’t Age Gracefully. . .

When I was a teenager, I used to see all the crazy ads for the newest miracle product to make someone look younger. It boggled my. I decided then that I didn’t care about face creams and eye potions and anti-aging defence. But I was a teenager. Even though I thought I knew everything, I really didn’t.

Last week, I was in a local drug store picking up a few items. When I was finished, I went to the register. And this register is where I received the shock of my life.

The blue-eyed cashier asked me for my rewards card. Then she asked something I wasn’t prepared to hear for at least another eight years:

“If you are 50 years old you qualify for our extra discount today. I have to ask everybody. Are you 50?”

Speechless is not a state easily achieved by me. And yet there I was. Speechless.

In ten silent seconds, the following went through my mind: “Did she just say 50? Didn’t someone guess I was 35 last week? Is my mascara running? Did I sleep well last night? Did my face suddenly grow a riverbed of wrinkles I wasn’t aware of? How old is that cashier, anyway? It’s not like she’s 20!”

And that’s when I knew. I was not going to grow old gracefully. I looked at the cashier again, turned to the customer in line behind me and laid my head on her shoulder for comfort and solace.

Luckily for me, the next customer happened to be my good friend Mitzy Dunkirk, on a lunch break from the hardware store. When my head hit her shoulder, I could feel the laughter she was trying to hold back.

The cashier looked a little afraid at this point, even though I was just playing with her. Bad Joyce. I looked up at her as I paid for my purchase and said “No, I’m NOT 50, and won’t be for another eight years, thankyouverymuch.”

Here is where Mitzy couldn’t hold in her laughter anymore.

“I’m sorry, I just – I just am supposed to ask everyone.” She hurriedly finished my purchase. I assured her I wasn’t really offended (though my vanity was sorely so), and I understood she was just doing her job.

Mitzy placed her purchases on the counter. I moved aside to allow room. I looked at the cashier. “So, you have to ask everybody, right?”

“Yes, I have to ask every customer.”

I looked at Mitzy, who looked at me, comprehension dawning on her 36-year-old features, and turned her heated gaze to the cashier. “Don’t you dare ask me.”

“It’s her job, Mitzy. She has to ask you.” I turn to the cashier. “ASK her.”

“Don’t ask me that question – don’t you dare ask me.”

The cashier didn’t know what to do, but my fierce stare had her asking my not-even-forty-yet friend “If you are 50 years old you qualify for our extra discount today. Are you 50?”

“I can’t believe she just asked me that.” Mitzy tossed a forlorn look my way and I did a little jump of glee.

I’d like to think the cashier was having fun too, but reality dictates that she probably couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Serves her right, asking us if we’re 50.