Friday, December 26, 2014

Ten Reasons My Husband Is My best Friend

   I met my husband thirty years ago on a blind date after we shared a month of daily phone conversations. Before we met face to face, his quirky sense of humor won me over. I knew I'd never have a dull moment if I married this man.

     And I've been laughing ever since.

     My love for him deepened after we had four children together and I saw how important family was to him. He encompasses everything a woman looks for in husband material---he's loyal, loving, trustworthy and kind.

     Although I admire all of these qualities in my man, it's his off-the-wall humor that I adore most. The things he does for me would send most husbands packing:

  • He doesn't have a problem with hitting the drugstore in his pajamas at 2:00a.m. for a tube of Monostat and a bottle of Pepto Bismol. He'll grab a six pack of beer while he's there and tell the checkout lady that he's hosting a helluva party.

  • He sacrifices watching the big game on TV to attend the neighbor's bris. For their dog.

  • He loves his in-laws despite their quirky habits of being cat whisperers and food addicts.

  • When our children were young and we couldn't afford entertainment for their birthday parties, he would don various costumes and morph into “Sven The Happy Swede” or “Daffy The Dysfunctional Clown.”

  • He'll eat my Velveeta surprise casserole without complaint even though it tastes like wallpaper paste and looks like a science experiment gone wrong.

  • Whenever we share a double decker fudge sundae, he sacrifices a few calories by saving the last bite for me.

  • He has plunged our temperamental, overflowing toilet more times than I can count and chased the kids through the house with the dirty, dripping plunger.

  • He doesn't mind being called on in the middle of the night to rescue his teenage daughter when the police detain her for sitting in her friend's car in a baby booster seat without a seatbelt. Yes, she really pulled this stunt.
  • He's patient with me when he's feeling amorous and I'm hotflashing like a mofo. Sex is not an option when my lady parts feel like an Easy Bake Oven.

  • He's always ready to protect me from a cockroach invasion. His holster is loaded at all times with a can of Raid on one side and a shoe on the other.

     Although there is nothing in our wedding vows about having to pull clingons from the dog's butt or scrubbing algae off a smelly turtle tank, our love can be measured by the lengths we will go to make each other smile.

     And in those moments when we are sporting magnifying glasses and nit combs over a child's lice-infested head, I am reminded why I married this man. He is my toilet-plunging, roach-stomping, lice-picking husband.

     In other words, my hero.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Fly On The wall In Christmas Town

     Welcome to another addition of the Fly On The Wall group postings. Fourteen brave bloggers are allowing their readers to step into their homes for a glimpse of what goes on behind closed doors.

     In the Doyle house, this month has been all about holiday preparations. The Christmas tree is up, the house is decorated inside and out, the frantic shopping has begun and there are oodles of baking goods in my pantry for a weekend of marathon cooking.  I look forward to having my family here as we sip mimosas, open gifts, start a balled-up wrapping paper war and feast on all the delicacies of the big Christmas dinner. My favorite part of the evening is sitting around the fire pit in our backyard as we cozy up to the warmth and listen to family members who sing and play guitar. When I look at all the lovely faces in the glow of the fire, I'm reminded of how blessed I am to belong to this spectacular family.

     If you were a fly on the wall in my house this month, you'd see me designing my own holiday Somee Card memes, which I'm including in today's post. You'd also hear the following snippets of conversation:

"To some, it's a tin of Christmas cookies. To me, it's a support group."

"You could have helped me decorate the tree today instead of being so lazy."
"I'm not lazy. I'm energy efficient."

"There's never a happy ending from a story that begins with, 'that one time I drank Fireball at a holiday party….'"

" I can't enjoy the Christmas feast this year without feeling guilty. You've demonized all the calories."

"It's obvious you're a holiday hoarder. You need a decoration intervention."

"Thank God we have hurricane resistant windows, otherwise they would have cracked when she hit that high note on the Christmas carol."

"It's not good holiday food unless it's really fattening….and you can feel your heart beat slowing down while you eat."

"Need help wrapping all these Christmas presents? …..said no teenager ever."

"Why on earth did you buy a red star for the top of the tree? We now have a brothel Christmas tree."

"I'm going to try to stick to my diet during the holidays."
"I can't do that. I have a condition that prevents me from going on a diet."
"What condition?"
"I get hungry."

"I hope you don't wait until the last minute to do your Christmas shopping at a Walgreens drugstore. I don't want to find the Ho Ho Ho Enema Gift Set there."

"Forget 'Elf On The Shelf.' I have 'Steve Up Your Sleeve' and 'Elvis On Your Pelvis.' "

"Whoever said 'Patience is a virtue' never experienced instant gratification."
"Or long line at Walmart."

"I have a lot of decorating to do today, but the coffee will keep me going until it's acceptable to drink heavily spiked eggnog."


Don't forget to grab your copy of my book, "WHO STOLE MY SPANDEX?" from or Barnes & Noble! Thanks!

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Wacky Wednesday Guest Post By: Follow Me Home

     My WWW guest today is very special to me----she has been my blogging buddy since the early days and she's also one of the sweetest women on the planet. Please welcome Michele (Shellybean) Marriott of Follow Me Home. For years, Michele and I have joked about meeting up one day---I keep telling her I'm saving her a seat in my garden so that we can share some wine and talk the night away. We both have several children close in age and we both have the same, zany sense of humor. Her humorous blog posts always make me smile and want to reach through the computer screen to give her a big hug. One of these days, I know we will meet up and finally share that glass of wine. Michele has a heart of gold and I love her to bits. Please welcome my dear and talented friend to my site today. Thanks!

**Side note**  This concludes my Wacky Wednesday Writer guest series until further notice. I need to concentrate on promoting my book in 2015 but will continue to entertain you with my humor blog posts every Friday!

I'd like the opportunity to explain why I wore heels to do the laundry last week.”

Yeah, I said it. Heels. High, strappy, patent leather heels. To wash dirty clothes. At home.

You see, I'm a stay at home mom now. Actually, I've been one for a few years. Not to seem stereotypical, but SAHMs need to dress comfortably for, um...staying at home. Or going to the grocery, or making runs up to the school for the occasionally forgotten backpack/homework/instrument/lunch. Most of the time though, we're tending to things inside of the house.

I also work from home running my little bag shop. Still. If I'm not lying on the floor drafting patterns, I'm contorting myself like a kid playing Twister to cut fabric. Even sitting up to the old Singer sewing machine does not involve dressing in wool slacks or blazers or ahem, stripper-height shoes.

It was an epiphany (brought on by a much needed Swiffer-fest of my closet.) -The "aha" moment when I looked around and realized that I live in holey jeans, tank tops and cardigans. They are the uniform of my life. Usually topped off with a pair of flip-flops. The colors of tanks or sweaters may change. I might venture into the occasional yoga outfit or ballet flats, but in reality this is who I had become.

I decided that night (mid-pout) that I didn't have to look "comfortable". There are always the moms with the bejeweled jeans and heels hanging out at the elementary school. (Don't ask.) There are ladies with perfectly coiffed hair buying up the healthy cereal at the market. Why couldn't I try a little harder?

The next morning, I made it happen. I brushed ALL-the-WAY through my hair. I brushed and flossed the BACK teeth. I put on my nice wool pants that had a dust line from where they had laid on the hanger so long. I buttoned up my blouse and slipped on those gorgeous shoes. Stopping at the mirror, I clasped on my metal bracelet and fastened a tiny pair of pearl earrings. I was set.

I carefully walked down the stairs. I was standing a little taller (both figuratively and literally). I walked over to the laundry room clicking on the tile floor as proper ladies do, and opened the laundry chute. Jeans first. Little boy jeans with a pocket full of sand and a package of half-eaten gummy bears. The sand fell and left a trail down my nice pants. I tried to throw the gummies onto the counter. I wasn't even close. They scattered across the floor. Breathing harder, I pulled a fully soaked towel out that was connected to 37 other towels and assorted socks. The socks were sandy too. As I reached over the side of the dryer for the "sock that got away", my rock-star shoes slipped on the sandy tile and I landed on my fancy-looking butt atop the soaking wet pile of towels.

A few words not worth repeating. A deep breath realizing how ridiculous I looked. A weak moment when I dusted off one of those gummies and ate it. Who was I kidding?

I undressed right there, down to my skivvies. I pulled open a drawer and grabbed a rubber band. The jewelry went in the drawer and my hair went in a bun. I finished the laundry that day. Looking just like that. The heels sat there in the laundry room for a few days to remind me how foolish I had been.

There may have been tears. There may have been shocked neighbors watching a 42-year-old woman folding towels in her underwear. There may have even been a few less gummy bears. Who can tell?

I've learned my lessons.

1. No more playing dress up.
2. Kids MUST empty their pockets before throwing their clothes down the chute.
3. Kids must notify mom before throwing down soaking wet towels.
4. Gummy bears, in a crisis, can surpass the five-second rule.

Happy "Be-yourself-all-of-the-time" day, friends!


Michele (Shellybean) Marriott is a mom to three and a wife to one. (Hey, she lives in Utah!) When she’s not blogging, she’s creating bags for her shop, “shellybean” or eating doughnuts.

You can find her blog, “Follow Me Home” at

Friday, December 12, 2014

Menopausal Mother's Favorite Holiday Quips

     For many of us, this is the busiest time of year. It's also the most stressful. Trying to juggle the everyday demands of work, children, household chores and errand running coupled with extra holiday obligations is enough to make our heads spin (or earn our very own parking spot at the Liquor Mart).  It's nearly impossible to fit in time for decorating the house, shopping for gifts and baking special treats for family and friends.

     For this reason, I've culled some of my favorite family quips from past holidays and put them together to bring a little laughter into your hectic life. Sit back a moment, take a deep breath, and relax while you read…. 


"All my husband has to do is decorate our front lawn with thousands of LED lights so that it's bright enough to be seen by the International Space Station."

"I've got an artificial tree from China, not a real one from the mountains of North Carolina. The silver lining in all of this? No more pine needles to clog up the vacuum."

"What really drives my husband to drink gallons of spiked eggnog at this time of year are the cartons of decorations labeled "Assembly Required." On a particularly bad day, he'll claim that these boxes are grounds for divorce."

"At night, those giant, Christmas lawn inflatables glow and stand erect as if they've been given a big dose of Viagra. But in the morning once they've deflated, they look more like fiesta-colored condoms strewn across the yard."


"Maybe the store managers should offer people little cups of adult beverages while they wait in sales lines. I bet no one would ever complain again."

"As I'm contemplating the aisle of Christmas decorations marked 50 percent off after the holidays, my husband is contemplating a separation---or maybe just a conversion to Judaism. After all, how much room does a menorah take up?"


"Little did we know after the holiday party that our stomachs and intestines were preparing to take us for a wild ride on the toilet train to hell."

"While everyone else was listening to "O Holy Night" and sipping apple cider, my oldest son and I were groaning "O Wretched Night" with a vomit bowl between us."

"The only surprise I wanted from Mr. Claus while I was sick was another toilet, along with a stocking full of Pepto-Bismol and Keopectate."


"Each year, my husband insists on buying a turkey the size of an ostrich, whether we're feeding four people or forty, so it's up to me and Pinterest to figure out something clever to do with all that leftover meat. Turkey salsa? Turkey brownies? A turkey smoothie might do the trick for a jolt of liquid protein. Turkey martini, anyone?"

"I want to live in a world where acorn squash is high in fat and calories and chocolate truffles are as nutritious as carrots."

"In my house, football season is second only to the Christmas holiday for binge eating. It's the perfect excuse to act like the Romans did centuries ago---binge, purge, and gorge some more."

"Everyone knows that three pounds of holiday food is the equivalent of ten pounds on the scale."


"I want to see Santa wear something other than that tiresome red suit. How about a kilt? Or maybe some jeggings. An industrial-strength girdle might even be in order after all the milk and cookies he sucks up like a Hoover vacuum."

"I want to ride in a pimped-out sleigh with Santa, but only if there's a bottle of cognac in the glove compartment."

     I hope these quips brought you a little holiday cheer. If you'd like to read more, these lines are from my book, "WHO STOLE MY SPANDEX?" Don't you think it would make a great stocking stuffer or holiday present? Nothing beats the gift of laughter…..except maybe a turkey martini……

***NEWS FLASH: I am honored to have been selected as the Humor Writer of the Month by the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop. Thank you everyone! You can read all about it here:

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Wacky Wednesday Writer Guest Post By: est.1975

    Not only is my special WWW guest a talented comedy writer, she's also a fabulous editor! How do I know this?  She edited my book, "Who Stole My Spandex?" Please welcome Sarah del Rio of est.1975 ! What I love about Sarah's blog is her honesty ----no subject is too squeamish---and her fresh perspective on modern-day parenting. The stories she shares on her site are HILARIOUS….ear wigs, poop jars and scrambled porn….what's not to love?

     After I hired Sarah to edit my book, we spent hours chatting on the phone, texting and IMing one another. Sure, we accomplished plenty of work together, but we also spent plenty of time laughing about our shared experiences in parenting. I felt a connection to her right away because we both have the same quirky humor. I loved having her on board with my book and even better---made an awesome blogger friend at the same time.

     The story that Sarah is sharing today is a good example of why morning sickness and fried fish do NOT mix during pregnancy. This one had my laughing out loud, folks. Please welcome this super funny lady to Meno Mama's site today with lots of comment love!


Not long after I became pregnant with my only son, I began to suffer from an obscure medical condition called "morning sickness."

If you're like most people, you've probably never heard of this highly unusual complication of pregnancy. But guess what? You're in luck. As someone who has personally experienced the rare phenomenon of "morning sickness," I am more than qualified to explain it to you.

For those of you not in the know, "morning sickness" happens like this:

1. You get knocked up.
2. You barf forever.

I should also mention that in some cases of "morning sickness," the symptoms can last well beyond a few uncomfortable weeks and into the ENTIRE NINE MONTHS OF YOUR PREGNANCY. I'm sure it won't surprise you to know that I was one of those cases. The only real bright side was that I walked away with a bunch of awesome stories to tell. Stories like:
Yet, one story in particular will always stand out as the pinnacle of my "morning sickness" experience, and I hope you will find it as disgusting delightful as I do. Enjoy.


It was six weeks before my son was due to arrive, and three weeks before he actually did arrive. By this time I had my morning sickness mostly under control with a life-saving cocktail of Zofran and Unisom -- though when I say "mostly under control" I mean I was only barfing several times a week as opposed to several times a day. 

For some reason my husband had suggested fish and chips for dinner and for some reason I had agreed. But almost immediately after we'd finished eating, my stomach started to grumble and bitch, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my fish and chips dinner was not going to *stay* dinner. And I also knew that when it came up, it was going to be BAD.

You know how you can just tell? I could just tell.

And I was right. It was BAD.

First I got the sweats. Then I became nauseous. At first I tried doing "morning sickness mitigation tricks" like laying on my left side and taking deep breaths. Those didn't work, so I had my husband bring me the trusty Big Blue Bowl, a large mixing bowl from Williams-Sonoma that I took almost everywhere. You know -- just in case. Sometimes it helped just having it around, even if I didn't end up actually using it.

Sadly, the comforting properties of the Big Blue Bowl did not alleviate my nausea this time around, and soon I was lunging towards the bathroom, just barely making it to the sink in time to evacuate all of my fish and chips into its porcelain embrace. But when I turned on the faucet to try and rinse everything down the drain, the sink informed me in no uncertain terms that IT WAS NOT GOING TO COOPERATE. It was completely clogged with partially digested fish chunks and was bound and determined to stay that way.

So I spent the next ten minutes bailing out the sink with the trusty Big Blue Bowl (a call-to-arms not exactly in its job description) and relocating all of the nasty chunky grossness into the toilet, where it could be flushed away with ease. The sink's drain remained clogged, but at least there was no longer any standing fish puke water in the basin.

It was at this point that I realized I was once again starting to sweat. And within moments it became crystal clear that something unpleasant was about to start happening in the *other* direction, and it was about to start happening in very short order.

And sure enough, it did.

For the first time since I'd been in the family way, I became struck with raging diarrhea.

In all honesty? After months and months of pregnancy constipation, I thought I might actually enjoy a little bit of diarrhea. BUT I WAS WRONG. This was no "cut it loose and heave a cleansing sigh of relief" diarrhea. This was painful, cramping, "take all your clothes off and hang onto the sides of the toilet seat for dear life while rivers of sweat run down your back and into your ass cleavage" diarrhea. And it was no bueno.

(A brief aside: For those of you who are wondering whether this whole thing might just have been food poisoning, I can assure you that it most definitely wasn't. My husband ate some of my fish AND some of my chips, and didn't get sick.)

Eventually everything worked its way out, and when I was feeling able, I cleaned up as much as I possibly could (the fish puke water, the diarrhea residue, and did I mention I also pissed on the floor while barfing? Because I did.) Unfortunately the sink was still clogged, and needed to be dealt with. I tried to plunge it, but that didn't work; then I tried Drano, with equally unfortunate results. So despite my best efforts, my poor husband was finally called in to disassemble the sink, which was now clogged with regurgitated fish parts *and* puke *and* Drano.

Guys? I have the best husband. Because even though he said he wasn't grossed out by the fish barf, I know he kind of was. Wouldn't you be? I mean, *I* was grossed out by it and it was *my* barf. BARF THAT SMELLED LIKE YACKED-UP FISH. SMOTHERED IN DRANO.

And while I'm bestowing glowing words upon my husband, I think I should also mention that we didn't have any rubber gloves in the house at the time. I'll let that sink for a moment.

*a moment*

Yeah. Exactly. EWWWWWWWwwwwwwwwwwwww.


Sarah del Rio is a comedy writer whose award-winning humor blog est. 1975 brings snark, levity, and perspective to the ladies of Generation X.

Despite being a corporate refugee with absolutely no formal training in English, journalism, or writing of any kind, Sarah somehow manages to find work as a freelance writer and editor.

She contributes regularly to blog site BLUNTMoms, has made several appearances on the Huffington Post Best Parenting Tweets of the Week List, and her blog est. 1975 won Funniest Blog in The Indie Chicks 2014 Badass Blog Awards. She has also been featured on blog sites Scary Mommy, In the Powder Room, and the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop.

You can find Sarah’s blog at You can also like her on Facebook at, and follow her on Twitter at

Social Media Handles:

Twitter: @est1975blog

Friday, December 5, 2014

Good Intentions Gone Wrong

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know how much I like to highlight the absent-minded situations that my husband gets into. His intentions are good, but somehow his plans always go awry. Case in point: One afternoon when we were hosting a backyard barbecue, my husband offered to do all the cooking. He'd forgotten to replace the old gas line to the grill, and was happily flipping burgers when he noticed a small spark by the gas tank. Grease from the meat was splattering everywhere and hitting the leaks in the gas line.

We narrowly missed a gas explosion that day when the grill burst into flames. The black plumes of smoke sent the partygoers scrambling out into the street. Fortunately, most of our friends discovered a sudden fondness for Cajun-style burgers.

Another example of good intentions gone wrong occurred years ago when a hurricane approached our coastline. My husband thought it would be "fun" to pack our family of six into the minivan for a quick trip to the nearby beach to watch the storm whipping up the waves. Little did he know that the hurricane was a fast moving storm, and that it was closer to our area than he suspected. When the wind began rocking the sides of the van, he broke the land speed record to get us home before the hurricane hit.

Rather than leave the minivan in the driveway, my husband decided to park it on the side of the house for better protection from the oncoming storm. It was a new vehicle, and he was determined to keep it from being crushed by a fallen tree. In his rush to maneuver the car to safety, he put it in reverse and backed into the tight space of our side yard. His foot slipped  off the brake onto the accelerator and the van lunged backwards, slamming into a tree. The glass in the rear window shattered into a million shards just as the rain started lashing the streets. The kids had a hard time containing their giggles while they watched their wind-blown father struggle with a roll of duct tape and a plastic tarp in the middle of a hurricane.

My husband easily falls into these situations because he is a kind man who is always happy to help others. He'll carry heavy bags out to the car for elderly shoppers at the grocery store, assist a stranger changing a tire on a busy highway, or rescue a stranded friend in the middle of the night.  But sometimes these little acts of kindness backfire.

One morning he was in a crowded elevator on his way up to a job interview when the woman next to him spilled a stack of business cards onto the floor. Being the chivalrous man that he is, he bent down to retrieve the cards for her when he heard something rip. Everyone in the elevator stood silent, and at that moment, my husband realized his brand new slacks had split wide open from stem to stern.

Needless to say, he spent the entire interview with his backside to the wall.

It was the most recent incident, however, that will go down in history as the EPIC PHONE FAIL.

Last week when my "Spandex" book was published, my excited husband sent out a large group text on his cell phone to share the good news with everyone on his contact list. A few days later, one of his buddies responded to the text and asked what he could do to help out. My husband JOKINGLY texted back, "Buy the book, F@#*ER!"

After he hit "send" on his cell, it dawned on him that he'd accidentally sent the message to EVERYONE on his contact list. This included not just our close friends, but the plumber, the minister, our vet, the jeweler, the dentist, all of our doctors, the electrician, the A/C guy, our contractor, my mother, the friggin' MAYOR, our hairdresser, and all of our neighbors. It even went to the physician who performed our colonoscopies.

Now I'm worried that the next time I'm due for a colonoscopy, the doctor might "conveniently" forget to give me anesthesia.

I think it's time for my husband to go back to using a rotary phone.

If you love my blog, you'll love my book, WHO STOLE MY SPANDEX? MIDLIFE MUSINGS FROM A MIDDLE-AGED MILF on sale now in paperback and Kindle at or on Nook at Barnes and Noble!


Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Wacky Wednesday Writer Guest Post By: On The Border

     As you know, every Wednesday I like to feature a new writer on my blog site as part of my Wacky Wednesday Writer series. I absolutely adore today's guest blogger.  Please welcome the hilariously funny Diane Tolley of On The Border! I discovered Diane's blog about a year ago and grinned ear to ear as I read the recollections from her childhood on a ranch. I didn't grow up on a ranch, but Diane and I are close in age, so a lot of her memories are similar to my own. She is a master storyteller and saves the greatest punch lines for the end of each post. Her blog always leaves me smiling and adds a nice lift to my day.

     The other thing I love about Diane is that she is BIG on sharing. She goes above and beyond to support her fellow bloggers, and I am very grateful for the countless shout-outs this sweet woman has given me. Please welcome this awesome, funny lady to Meno Mama's site today with lots of love!


We were shopping.

I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity.

I need a really good excuse.

It was Christmas.

Okay, Christmas is a really good excuse . . .

My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Husby.

Their Dad, my Sweetheart.

After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever 

we were seeking would best be 

found at Lee Valley Tools. Husby's favourite place on earth.


It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to 

LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool 


But I digress . . .

We set out. It was December.


In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow.

Ask anyone.

But avoid those with chattering teeth. Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-

never be t-t-t-trusted.

Or understood.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.

At first, things went well.

A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the wipers were 

managing to keep the windshield clear – 

sort of.

We made it into the city.

And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.

Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with  travel 

accompanied by snow: All roads are 

now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated 

in ice. Nothing is recognizable. 

Little is even visible.

The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.

But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional 


This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And 

slapping said wiper against the 

window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.

Or, if you are my husby, by opening the driver's window and 

catching the wiper when it is in its 

furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still 

in motion. It's all about timing. And 


Neither of which I have . . .

Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed 

the necessary operation to clear the 


Total time wasted? Hours.

Okay, well, it seemed like hours.

There must be a better way.

I would try Husby's method!


When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled 

vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. 

Then I reached out.

I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their 

apex (neat word, right?)

Closer. Closer.


I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.


Okay, that didn't sound good.

As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had 


The blade was still in my hand.

I had snapped the entire thing right off its arm.

Umm . . . oops?

The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white.

Well, half of it at any rate.

Unfortunately, it was the driver's half. Rather necessary if you 

want to see where you are going.

And usually, the driver does.

Something needed to be done. And there was no one but me to do 



Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper 

blade to the driver's side.

Okay. I could see.

That's important.

But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering from the 

lack of wiper-age.


I looked around. Our options were . . . limited.

“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat. She 

was holding up her red mitten.

I stared at it.

Huh. Might work.

I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceeded to 

tie it to the other wiper arm.

There. Perfect.

We switched on the wipers.



It worked!

Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.

I don't have to tell you how it looked.

In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.

We finished our trip. Shopping done. Purchases made.

Van safely parked back on the driveway.

Husby replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to 

come off.

Stupid thing.

The wiper, not Husby.

And I learned several things from the whole experience:

1. Don't shop.

2. Don't drive.

3. Don't live in Canada.

4. Don't go anywhere without your mittens.

Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:

1. I still shop.

2. I still drive.

3. I still live in Canada.

Pack your mittens!


Diane Stringam Tolley was born and raised on the great Alberta prairies. Daughter of a ranching family of writers, she inherited her love of writing at a very early age. Trained in Journalism, she has penned countless articles and short stories. She is the published author of five e-books and the recent Christmas novels, Carving Angels and (Kris Kringle’s) Magic by Cedar Fort Publishing. She and her husband, Grant, live in Beaumont, Alberta, and are the parents of six children and grandparents of thirteen-plus.
Diane lives in the past. It’s peaceful there.”


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