Reaching the Wisdom

FMM:   8.39 miles on Sunday (No, I'm not kidding)

Hi, friends, frenemies, and fam,

Recently, we got an eight euro break on a museum entrance.  When I asked the man why, he smiled and replied, "Because you have reached the wisdom."   Wow, and I thought I was just touring around; I didn't know enlightenment was part of the deal.  O'Connell children,  take note.  It's official: I now really do know best.

Since you are all reading this to learn about Italy, or at least to pretend you are spending your time wisely, I'll let you in on a few things I have experienced since arriving:

Women hanging out apartment building windows talking to people in the street.  (Yes, this happens a lot.  It's probably because most of the windows have no screens. So far I haven't seen any men doing this.)

A man holding his thumb to to his two fingers, bending his elbow,  and shaking his arm while speaking loudly. (Yes, and I don't think I was the cause of it, but one can never be sure about such things..)

Graffiti everywhere. (Yes.  It is on every possible surface.  Today we even saw in on the pop-up side of an escalator step.  I'm told that if it weren't for graffiti we would have no knowledge of how the ancient Romans lived.  Nonetheless, when I first saw our neighborhood, I feared that I had landed in the middle of a Crips vs Bloods turf war or perhaps a Corleone vs Sarducci vendetta.  But, no, I'm in an ordinary neighborhood.  And I'm told that most of the remarks have to do with soccer. Of course, designing creative ways to "solve" this problem has caused us to dream up all types of cruel and unusual deterrents and punishments for offenders.  Send me your suggestions.)

The frequent use of an Italian word that most of you didn't know you knew.  Answer at the end of the blog.

Tizhaps (Admit it; this is your favorite section.). I went to the post office to buy stamps.  I had a half-written letter with  an extra sheet of blank paper in it with me as I wanted to show the postal worker that I was mailing the letter to the U.S.  She promptly grabbed it out  of my hand, taped it shut,  and demanded two euros twenty.  Add one more person to the list of people who will now think I am off my rocker...I was talking to my sister on the phone while sitting outside at a subway station when I looked down and saw a lizard on my purse--- well, you can picture the rest; I prepared for pickpockets, not lizards......There's an unusual man who lives in this complex and sits at the entrance or sometimes lies on the curb.  I must pass him every time I come or go.  I've said , "ciao" to him a number of times, and he eventually answered back.  Then he stopped me and tried to ask me something.  I thought that perhaps he had found my lost metro card.  He put his hand in his pocket and showed me a handful of change and kind of shook it. I replied (in English, of course), "No, I didn't lose any money, but I did lose my metro card."   He hasn't spoken to me since.  So, now I think maybe he wanted money, or perhaps he wanted to offered me money (don't laugh; you never know!).  My "friend" suggested that perhaps he had recognized my wardrobe plight and wanted to offer me money for new clothes...I've taken to wearing my sunglasses each time I go out, but somehow I think he still recognizes me.


Give up?  Okay, the word is "prego."  It means "you're welcome" in Italian.


Wise and in disguise,
I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/ Tizmom/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

Ciao

June 9, 2016

FMM*:  5 miles and the day is young.

Hi, friends, Romans, and countrymen/women,

I am in Italy.  Since  I have nothing better to do, and, obviously, neither do you, let's waste some time together.

Once again I find myself  in a foreign land getting by on my own devices.  You know that can't be good. Bob and I are here with 46 or 47 -- I keep forgetting -- students.  Bob is teaching a class.  Me?  I'm just here.  

We have had our share of cultural adjustments.  I became re-acquainted with a device I had first encountered in Europe in 1974: a bidet.  I tried to explain what it was to Bob, but without wifi for a proper explanation/demonstration, he didn't quite get it.  Nonetheless,  he did find a use for it.  He has been soaking his sore foot in it.

Bob has become quite attached to the RFID (you did look that up, didn't you?) money belt he got for Christmas for this trip. Of course, he refuses to wear it as designed --- out of sight and under one's shirt.  So, it looks suspiciously like a you-know-what (initials: FP).  He has asked me a few times if he looks like a dork.   Of course, I insist that he doesn't, but we all know the truth.

Figuring out food has been fun.  I bought what I thought was chicken noodle soup.  However, it turned out to be missing the chicken and noodles.  So, we had broth one night.  I thought I was being smart and ordered what I thought were scallops on one menu.  That turned out to be pork in a basalmic vinegar sauce.  I didn't mind as I like pork, too.

Tizhaps:  I briefly lost my passport, but a quick-thinking student grabbed it off the ground as we exited a ferry, thereby saving me from a lifetime spot in the Hall of Shame Gallery.... when walking back from the grocery the first time, I accidentally walked into the wrong gated apartment complex (well, someone was holding open the gate and I was only one complex off...) and got myself locked in as a key was needed to get out.  Luckily, the Italian man who had let me in laughingly responded to my cries,  came back across the street and released me or I might still be there; it reminded me of the time an 18 month old Molly slammed the metal door on us at the bank and we were locked in the safety deposit box room at Landmark Bank for 10 minutes; they have since installed a bell you can ring, probably due to us...lost my FitBit the first week.

Despite my best efforts --- or should I say lame efforts -- I have someone not packed the right clothes.  I should be wearing skintight jeans (Darn, left mine at home!), skintight tops (left those, too), high heeled shoes, boots,  and clogs (may have some at home in a box in the garage from 509 Marshall), and way more black.  If I decide to improve my wardrobe, I'll be sure to post pictures.

Currently, I don't know how to post photos from the iPad.   I'm hoping to shake down some of the students soon.  In the meantime, you'll have to use your imaginations.


Roaming and Roming,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Tizmom/Elizabeth/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

*FMM= forced mile March

Packing It In and On

Hi, old friends,

I'm at it again.   This time Bob and I will be inflicting ourselves upon the Italians as well as a few Hungarians, Germans, Austrians, and Dutch.  But first, comes my most unfavorite chore --- one I have taken a two days off work to complete -- one that inspires me to see if I can even still sign into blogspot-- one that may even make me come up with a new password and tour all the ways this website is "new and improved" even though I am perfectly happy with typing and pressing what I hope is the correct button -- one that I have been whining to my sister about for at least six weeks:  you guessed it:  PACKING.  

You can see that instead of packing, I am doing what you all do best:  slacking.   I should be crossing my accomplishments off a list, but instead I’m sitting here eating malted milk balls and writing a blog.

Of course, I have taken most of the proper steps to prepare for my trip.  I've ordered clothes, bought clothes, purchased luggage, and made lists, lots of lists as I can never find the previous list I made.   I’ve even ordered Bob a thing or two – a multi-pocketed nylon travel vest to hold maps sunglasses and all those things he usually dumps in my tote bag and a plaid collared Eddie Bauer nylon hikng shirt.   I've done everything but the most hated chore of all:  trying on the clothes I have to see what fits.  The answer is: not much.  Nontheless, I am taking these things:

Gray travel pants that I ordered from Lands’ End last year that fit just fine.   My daughters relentlessly claim that they are nothing more than yoga pants disguised as “travel pants”;

and they laugh evilly.   But that can’t be because I would never wear yoga pants to the airport.

An RFID  (Look it up if you don’t know what it means; what else do you have to do?) fanny pack, passport holder, credit card holder, billfold, and purse.  Those infamous Roman pickpockets will not be outsmarting me! Bob thinks they will just pick me up and carry me away.

I did have one rather disturbing experience.  I was trying to up my underwear count.  After visiting several stores, I was in a state of despair.  What I wanted just wasn’t anywhere to be found.  Then I happened into Walgreens and  - lo and behold – I found just what I had been looking for.  At the risk of starting a blog-readers’ mad rush for the brand/stye I prefer, I won’t mention it.

BTW, we are taking 27 students with us this time.  Wish us luck.

Tune in Sunday for an update from Milan.

Packing and yakking,

 I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Tizmom/Mom/Liz/Grandma Tizzie

Thank You For Your Service, 509

                Near the turn of the last century, a young couple named Tom and Katie fell in love and got married.  Their wedding announcement in the Charleston paper described Katie McCarty as one of the most “deservedly popular young ladies in Charleston.”  Tom Coady , one of “Pana’s  representative young businessmen,” was congratulated on “his good luck , to say nothing of judgment, in having won such a wife.”  They moved to Paris and bought a small two bedroom home at 509 Marshall St.  Little did they know that nearly 119 years later that that address would still resonate with their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and great-great grandchildren.

                Tom and Kitty’s (she was called both “Katie” and “Kitty”) seven children were born in the house which eventually had a front porch and a second story added.  While the children were growing up, there was a barn in the backyard, chickens and cows roamed the yard, and a large garden was planted each year.  Although Kitty died in 1928, she would have been happy to know that her children remained close to one another their entire lives, and they and their families gathered regularly and happily at 509 Marshall St.  Whether guests were properly seated around the dining room table or crowded around the kitchen table, love and laughter prevailed. 

                When Tom and Kitty’s youngest daughter Catherine  married Vic Bridwell in 1947, Vic moved into 509.  Catherine and Vic walked over to Paris Hospital on Shaw Ave. for the births of their children.  When it became clear that Catherine wasn’t interested in moving to another house, no matter what its attributes, Vic compensated by adding a garage, a rec room with a pool and ping pong table, and another bathroom.  509 was ready for another generation.  The kitchen was remodeled in 1956.  It never saw another remodel.  In the 70’s Catherine’s children pooled their money to buy their mother  a lovely new Tell  City wooden kitchen table.  It spent five years in the den as Catherine liked her formica table just fine.  Finally, her daughter Mary Ann took the wooden table home.

 In Catherine’s opinion, the house was fine just as it was.   And it was. People certainly were drawn back to it.  It was a given that family holidays would take place at 509.  As a widow, Catherine’s older sister Helen came to live at 509 while Catherine’s four children- Bob, Tom, Mary Ann, and Tizzie - were in high school.  If the teenagers got too much for Helen, she retreated to her room to listen to a ballgame or to pray the rosary.   Yet she came back for four school years.

For Catherine’s younger brother Connie’s family, 509 Marshall was their summer vacation destination.  For many years, the five of them came to visit each summer for about two weeks.  During that time, Catherine rescinded her rule against pets in the house and happily welcomed their dog , Mickey Flynn.  She didn’t even flinch when he jumped on the furniture. 

                One can’t tell the story of 509 without mentioning the front porch.  Today, people seem to want decks and privacy, but it was just the opposite at 509.  With over thirty kids in the neighborhood, it was often put into use for various causes.  Once it served as the hospital for childhood war games.  Boys would be patched up with sticks for splints and sent back out into the yard to fight some more.  Sometimes, the neighbor girls would join Mary Ann and Tizzie (aka “Elizabeth”) to rock their baby dolls to sleep on the big swing.  The adults just liked to sit and chat.  Catherine’s sisters Mary Louise Sunkel and MeMe Mansfield and their families often drove by and stopped as did Vic’s parents.  The porch was where the action was.  The Bridwell girls’ friends met on the porch each fall on the first day of school to make the short trek to PHS.  Vic took many photos to commemorate these ritualistic gatherings.   Eventually, it was the spot where a nervous young man asked Vic for his daughter’s hand.

Like any house, 509 saw its share of sorrow.  Three sons went off to three wars – WWI, WWII, and Viet Nam.  Kitty and Tom both died in the house.  Kitty and her son George, who died unexpectedly at 29, were both waked in the house.

But life moves on. Houses get quiet.  Eventually,  only  Vic and Catherine were left at 509.  For a while, they were blessed with grandchildren and the good health to enjoy them.  Another generation was introduced to 509. They watched Grandma make her secret fudge recipe in pan that was at least fifty years old.  They tasted the pork chops with the distinct flavor that only a lifetime of seasoning on an iron skillet can produce.  They dressed up in old clothes and hats of indeterminate age.   They sat on Grandad’s lap and read stories. They ate sugar toast. They viewed the iconic portrait of Mary and Tizzie forever memorialized at ages 5 and 6 that had greeted anyone who had walked in the front door since 1957.  In short, they fit right in.  It all seemed normal to them.   The fun only multiplied when the out-of-town cousins showed up.  Vic loved kids and he loved Christmas, and he did all the Christmas shopping.  The grown grandkids still talk about those Christmases as the best ever.

After Vic died in 1995, only Catherine was left in the home she had never left.  Vic had had insulation blown in and security doors installed, and had made it so that only a small part of the house needed to be heated or cooled.  In essence, it became a small home again.  Catherine managed well for many years, but eventually, she had to leave her beloved home.

For the first time in its long life, 509 was suddenly empty.  The Bridwell children began to ask, “What are we going to do about 509?” Well, as of August 15, that question has been answered for us.  The house is changing hands today.  It has a new roof and new wiring --- preparing it for another go round with another generation. 

For five generations,  it has been a mainstay in the family.    While, in the end, the house is old and not worth a great deal of money, no price tag can be placed on the memories it holds for those of us who are descended from the popular young lady from Charleston and the man lucky enough to marry her.  Thank you, 509, for your good and faithful service. We wish you the very best.

Crying and good bying,
I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/Tizmom/Elizabeth/Liz

Christmas Blog 2013

CHRISTMAS BLOG 2013

Would you trust this woman with your Christmas dinner?

Hi, friends and fam,

If you were here right now you would be sticking out your tongue at me.  Why, you ask?  Because the work part of my Christmas  is over.  Finished.  My children have come and gone.  I am free and easy.

Why, I just grabbed a baggie of leftover turkey out of the fridge, pulled out a turkey leg, poured salt on it , and voraciously ripped into it while reaching for a handful of  Lay’s potato chips with the other hand.  That was dinner.  I am sitting here without a care in the world writing this.  Before you hatch a plot to undermine me, let me fill you in on what has happened along the way…

You’ve heard of the Peter Principle, haven’t you?  It claims that people are promoted beyond their level of competence so that they become incompetent. People should stay where they belong doing what they do best. Well, I’m a perfect example of this theory. I never asked to be made commander- in -chief of Christmas dinner. From ages 10 until about 35, I was perfectly happy and quite accomplished at performing my Christmas dinner duties at my parents’ house.  They included these important tasks:

 *ask guests if they wanted iced tea or 7-Up  (only allowed on holidays) with dinner

* pick leftover remnants of meat off the turkey carcass with my bare hands (I was quite good at this)

*put the jelly on the table in a lovely bowl

*eat the turkey neck – My mother boiled it just for me.  I was special.

If only I could have stayed with what I knew, I could have had a lifetime of feeling fulfilled and good about myself.  Instead, read on for a sampling of what I’ve been through.

I took off early on Thursday to begin the grand Christmas preparations. Nancy kindly picked me up from work. We proceeded to the store where I purchased $282 worth of holiday groceries.  I then remembered quite suddenly  (okay, I really had never really “forgotten”) that I had a hair appointment and that she needed to drop me off immediately.  Poor Nancy had to go home and put all those groceries away  all by herself while I read People magazine for a few hours at the hairdresser’s.  I felt so bad.  I still do.  She did an admirable job under the circumstances.  I did find an unexplained bit of celery on top of the fridge the next day , but I  just chopped it up and threw it in the dressing. 

To my dismay, I discovered too late that there was not enough time to defrost the turkey in the fridge; I had to defrost it in the sink.  Who made up these rules anyway?  What happened to putting it on the counter overnight? Once again, I didn’t sign up for this.  You may ask why I didn’t get a fresh turkey.  I tried one once, and I must admit that I thoroughly missed the chemicals and flavorings in a good old Butterball turkey.  It just wasn’t Christmas without the sweet taste of sodium.  Once I got the water to stay in the sink, I pulled a Tizzie.  I accidentally dropped a bottle of vanilla into the water.  I debated just leaving it and seeing how it tasted.  Isn’t that how great culinary discoveries are made?  By accident? I can see it now “Mama O’s Vanilla Turkey.” ….Oh, and I haven’t eaten a turkey neck in years since my son announced that all the hormones are injected into the turkey’s neck.  I decided to rectify that this year and enjoy a turkey neck all to myself.  Unfortunately, I burned it in a pan and the smell caused my family to considered evacuating.  As usual, they were too lazy for that and just opened every window in the house.  It was 15 degrees outside, so I didn’t mind a bit.  And my turkey neck got tossed aside.  Maybe next year.

In my frenzy to wrap gifts, I accidentally picked up a pair of slippers, wrapped them, and put them under the tree for my daughter.  I  could have sworn I  had already wrapped a pair for her and I didn’t think that the slippers looked like the pair she had picked out, but , I figured that I  must be mistaken. Eventually, my daughter wondered what had happened to the slippers she had purchased ME for Christmas…well, I did get them back and I have them on right now.  (Remember my Christmas work is already over)..To my credit, I only “lost” one gift this year which is quite a good record for me.  I did find it in the nick of time (no pun intended). I had stuck Nancy’s Surface tablet in a Talbots bag in my drawer.  When I opened the drawer, I thought I had stumbled upon a surprise gift for me from Bob.  It took me awhile to discover  - I would say “remember”, but that would be lying –that the Talbot’s bag held her gift.

I had a minor tizhap.  Instead of distilled water for my Shark steam mop, I purchased purified water for baby formula.  It contained fluoride.  I considered just using it anyway, but I was afraid, with my luck, that my shark might actually grow teeth.

I had to risk the certain wrath of my husband for moving all the crap from around the house into our bedroom.  We will undoubtedly spend the next six months looking for some of it.  Of course, I wasn’t allowed to move the 6 (six) National Geographics he’s decided to catch up on this week.  They couldn’t be moved or messed with and must remain exactly by his chair in the living room.  I did find a basket for them and placed them in it – in date order, of course.  By the time our house was “cleaned up” for the kids, our own bedroom looked like, in the words of my husband, “your mother’s junk room.”  We have managed to make our way to what I think is our bed each night and fall in.

Don’t forget the cookie baking.  Nancy and I managed to produce some cookies that actually look mainstream.  No one would know a couple of derelicts produced them.  Anyway, baking cookies is only half of it.  Then you have to hide them.  You do hide your cookies, don’t you?   My mother was the master of this.  No cookie or piece of fudge was eaten before its time.  They were all hidden away and my mother was the Doberman guarding them. I thought I was doing great.  My husband started snooping around asking for cookies.  I told him to leave the room and count to ten and I would bring him 2 (two) cookies.  He did not go for that dictum.  You should have seen his glee when he lifted the lid off the electric roaster and discovered the whole stash.  It was most disheartening for the cookie bakers – me and Nancy.  He did NOT stick to the “two only” rule.

Well, I could go on, but it’s getting very late.

The out-of-town kids did come home. And they've  left. The tree now has nothing beneath it.  The gifts all got to approximately the right person.  The cookies are nearly gone.  The leftover turkey is dwindling fast.  Despite my ineptitude, another Christmas  gathering has come and gone in our family.  Next year we’ll have a picture-perfect Christmas.  I’m sure of it.  ..In the meantime, I am thankful for my family, my friends, my health, and all the good things God has given me.  Merry Christmas, everyone!

All petered out,

I remain

Tizzie/Tizmom/Mom/Liz/Elizabeth

Having a Gas

Recently, my girl cousins  had a reunion in St. Charles, MO.   One cousin was not able to come, and she just couldn’t bear to think of all the fun we were having without her.  She called incessantly seeking details of our exploits.  Where had we been?  What did we do? What were we talking about?  Did we have more than a few laughs when she wasn’t around? Why, we had to put ourselves and her on speakerphone just to pacify her. She even tried to stir up trouble by suggesting that we oust our matriarch – for no good reason - and put her in that esteemed position!  You can see her standing next to the legitimate queen above, trying to get close to the power.  Well, to stop put a stop to all her outrageous shenanigans once and for all, I have decided to give a full and accurate account of the cousins’ reunion.  Then she can stop torturing herself and everyone else. But, I’m warning her, this is a one year only deal.  Next year she must personally appear at the reunion.  So, here goes…

While most stories build up to something exciting, our excitement came right away.  Our first night together found us in the basement of Tony’s Restaurant taking cover from a tornado which did , in fact, touch down a few miles away.  Luckily, we had wine and wit to distract us from the cobwebs, the must, the dust, and the rumblings outside.  I sneaked to a quiet corner to call my  family and advise them of my whereabouts lest they need to come search for me .  It went something like this: “WHO is this?  Oh, are you gone this weekend? Yeah, I’ll tell Dad.  He’s eating.  He doesn’t want to talk. We’re at Panera.  No, I don’t need to write it down.  I’ll remember the restaurant’s name – Honey’s, right? Bye, Mom.”

We survived the first exciting event.  Little did we know what other adventures were awaiting us…things which caused us to laugh loud, uproariously, and nearly in one voice..

Making sure one cousin did not overdose --- on Gas-X.

Politely congratulating one cousin on her “great find” which appeared to be an old, beat up wooden table with a lamp attached. 

Chowing down on pizza, sweet potato fries, baked potato soup, toasted ravioli, gooey butter cake,oh, and of course,chocolate-covered bacon.  Now that I think about ,I'm the one who chowed down on most of those things; I'm not sure what the rest of them ate.  Who cares?

Learning with certainty that the superior intellect and beauty of our bloodline is indeed  being carried on to the next generation—if the grandchildren tales are to be believed.  Upon seeing that her shoes must be removed at airport security, one clever child whispered in Grandma's ear, "Do we have to take off the rest of our clothes, too?"   A brilliant deduction, indeed!  

Suffering  in silence sas my very own sister attempted to photograph a once-in-a-lifetime-guaranteed-to-go-viral shot of a cousin using a Tide stick to eliminate evidence of her sister's having sat in bird do – only to discover that my sis had taken a lengthy video of herself instead.  And I thought Siri only laughed at me.

Rejoicing in our new-found wealth after a short, but sweet, visit to the casino. 

Hearing several scatological tales which Tiztalk's ever-vigilant censors would not dream of printing (my children read this, you know)

But our most fun was just what we thought it was going to be: simply being together, laughing, and relishing our cousinhood.

Kinnin' and grinnin'

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Tizmom/Elizabeth

Post-Holiday Ravings

     

Hi, Friends & Fam,

I was feeling like a real slacker posting a Christmas blog in February, but somehow my readers usually turn out to be  even bigger slackers than I am.. that's what prompted me to go ahead and post this blog which I've had half-written since early January.  A certain member of my family  just informed me that  their Christmas tree was taken down yesterday, so I felt empowered.  And just in case you still haven't gotten around to taking those pesky lights off your front porch, sit down, put your feet up, and waste a little time with me.   Why rush into things?

NEWS FLASH!!  Just received a text from Nancy.  Wanna hear it? Here it is:"I only have one bra we need to go shopping soon!" Isn't motherhood grand?  So, if you have any old bras, please send them her way.   Feel free to take her shopping, too.  (Note:  this really annoyed her, so I am doing my motherly job. )

Now, back to Christmas...

  Growing up, my holiday chore included taking drink orders -- iced tea or 7-up (only available on Thanksgiving and Christmas, of course!). Sometimes I also had to unload the dishwasher, but I protested so much about that unfair imposition on my time that I often got out of it.  Consequently, I am totally unqualified to do much of anything but hang around and have a good time.  And I am very good at that.    But a few times a year -- Christmas being one of those times -  I must rise from my chair and attempt to prepare a feast for my family.  Things don't always go smoothly...


   If you are a long time Tiztalk fan, you know that if I were an actress, no one would need to show me how to do pratfalls for the big laugh – I’m a natural. This year at Christmas  I proved my mettle once again. I managed to slosh a batch of defrosted raw turkey blood all over my kitchen counter, my nice Christmas dish towel, and, of course, myself. A little raw poultry juice never hurt anyone, right? Then I almost made it to the fridge without sloshing the red Jello (note: the trick is NOT to look at the pan). However, I blinked or maybe my nose itched; I’ll never know. I lost my concentration and got to clean up red Jello from the fridge drawers, counter, floor, and even from underneath the fridge. But, hey, what else did I have to do on Christmas?

           

Worst of all,  my children had the audacity to complain about their unanimous favorite dessert that I make. As I walked in the door following my 300 mile trip home from Illinois, Molly greeted me with these words: “Mom, there’s hair in the lemon squares.” Mind you, this minor flaw didn’t keep any of them from eating each and every one of them, but they seemed to delight in pulling out a hair each time one was consumed. I’m not quite sure how the hair got in there, but since they made such a big deal out of it, I decided to memoralize it with this little ditty:

To me it’s not fair;

I wasn’t there.

They can’t prove a thing

But their words still sting.

I was accosted the moment I walked in the door.

You’d think they’d never seen their mother before. 

They couldn’t wait to fill my ears

with words that might bring other mothers to tears.
 

They gleefully, evilly recounted their tale,

of something they’d found that made them wail. 

In front of my new son-in-law Cody,

they made me look downright nasty and grody.

There was a little problem, you see; 

they pointed their fingers directly at me.

What they’d found was long and dark and frizzy; 

It could only belong to someone named Tizzie. 

Tim spouted off, “I found a hair.”

Molly chimed in, “in a lemon square.” 

Megan admitted, “I did, too."

Then Nancy whined , “I didn’t know what to do.”

Now, mind you, it didn’t stop them a bit

They just pulled out the hair and went on with it.

They scarfed down the lemon squares - every last one,

then picked on me just for fun.

At my age, I'm glad I still have hair.

I've never mentioned THEIR hair that I find everywhere....

So, friends and family,  please beware.

Carefully inspect your lemon squre.

And if you find a hair in there,

Tell someone who gives a care.

Hairy & merry
I remain

Tiz/Tizzie/Tizmom/Mom/Liz/Elizabeth

P.S.  If I knew how to make all the fonts the same, I would.  They are not that way for effect -- just due to my ignorance and laziness.