I'm Still The Cuckoo of This Clock!

By Sharon Raines

Might as well have some fun while the old biological clock ticks, ladies! A collection of heart-warming, funny and in-your-face stories of aging (somewhat) gracefully.

Thrown in for non-females, 'Tinkering with the biological clock' are short humor stories designed to keep it light.

Remember- life is short. Point and laugh!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharon Raines
• Release date: Oct 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452394992

Sharon Raines

Sharon expects her third book, Letters to Mom, to debut March 15th. She has also been published in several magazines. When not writing she enjoys spending time with her grandchild and doing Zumba.

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I'm Still The Cuckoo of This Clock!

Published by Sharon Raines at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Sharon Raines

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 FUNNY, FUZZY WOMANHOOD

CHIN HAIR FORECASTING

MAW’S UNDERWEAR

TALK SHOW THERAPY

MY TITLE IS…

FOOD AFFLICTIONS

CHAPTER 2 BLESSINGS ABOUNDING

RURAL RICHES

LIFE’S NOT FAIR

HOME AGAIN

EMPTY CABINETS

COUNTING BLESSINGS

CHRISTMAS AWAKENINGS

BLACKBERRY STAINS

ANGELS UNAWARES

Tinker with the biological clock: CONTACTS

CHAPTER 3 I WILL TRUST IN THEE

BACKSIDE OF HIS ROBE

Tinkering with the biological clock: BABY STEPS

CHAPTER 4 MATURING INTO FINE WINE

THE COLORS OF CHARACTER

MANY ME’S

SHELL MEMORIES

BRICK HOUSE NO LONGER

AND I REMEMBER…

CLOVER CHAIN CROWNS

Tinkering with the biological clock: FISHING WITH DAD

CHAPTER 5 LETTING GO OF THE APRON STRINGS

MEMORY BOX

THE END OF THE GROWING PAINS

POLAR SNAPSHOTS

IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT

PICK YOUR BATTLES

CHAPTER 6 LOVE AND MARRIAGE

MAYBE THAT WAS WHEN I KNEW

THE 40-YEAR-OLD ROMANCE

TRUE COMPROMISES

THE BOOKBAG

Tinkering with the biological clock: THE SLED RIDE

Chapter 1: Funny, Fuzzy Womanhood.

Chin Hair Forecasting

Remember the gift shop weather forecasters? You know, the rock on a string. If this rock is wet, it’s raining. If this rock is warm, it’s sunny. If this rock is swinging it’s windy. If this rock is missing…well, you’ve been robbed.

I have recently discovered that women possess that same kind of forecasting. It would be of great benefit if mankind (men, specifically) would take note. It may even save lives.

Here’s how it works: If a woman’s chin is smooth and void of any hairs: Safety. You can walk at normal tread through the kitchen without much fear of being ambushed. You may even get by with leaving your plate, unscraped, in the sink. However, this smoothness can also mean the woman has just waxed because she felt old and useless and insecure and it would be very unwise for you to even come in the kitchen, much less at a normal tread.

If you notice 1 chin hair: (For goodness sakes- DON’T POINT IT OUT!) There is a squall on the horizon, a disturbance somewhere near the equator. It could at this point blow over. Maybe somebody ‘moo-ed’ at the woman as she was huffing and puffing on her morning run. However, it could intensify into a tropical storm. They not only ‘moo-ed’ but yelled, ‘hurry up tubs’ as she was sweating it out. Use caution. At this point, words like: lovely, terrific cook, and ‘that robe is so becoming on you’ would be good choices. Be careful though—any overuse of these words will be taken as hypocritical and sarcastic and could result in sharp objects being thrown your way.

2 chin hairs, separated, one on each side of the chin: The squall has now gained momentum. Churning thoughts of water weight, age spots and tripping that sorry, skinny neighbor as she jogs by at the YMCA are causing waves to crash inland. A distant look could be a telltale sign that the woman is pre-occupied with these thoughts; or it could mean that you left the bathroom door open—a crime punishable by death. At this point a man should pack an emergency kit and hide it behind the door. Include a change of clothes, toothbrush and a dog-bone, as you will probably end up sharing a place with Fido.

3 obnoxiously long chin hairs with tiny, white, noticeable ones scattered around the whole chin: EXTREME DANGER! The storm has now gained hurricane strength. It will not, I repeat, WILL NOT, pass over. Clouds of cellulite, hurtling threats of weight gain, and a solid eye-wall of tears because she cannot run as fast as her sister-in-law have now placed her squarely in a level 3 status with beater bands reaching as far as the neighbor’s mailbox. Evacuate the premises immediately, and encourage your neighbors to do the same.

Do not attempt to come back to the house for any valuables, or to watch football, as these are life-threatening conditions. Wait with your emergency kit, Fido, and the neighbors, for signs that the storm has passed. This could take anywhere from 1 hour to 3 days, depending on severity of the storm.

You will know the storm has, indeed, truly passed by, when, looking (through binoculars, of course) you spot a smooth, hair free chin, smashed calorie counters and scales, and shredded too-tight underwear, littering the floor. Although the imminent danger has passed, it is always wise to pick your way through the detritus with a bar of dark chocolate and a smile, while chanting softly, ‘Man- honey, you look terrific today. Have you lost more weight?’

Maw’s Underwear.

The little girl reached far around to her backside, pulling and tugging with no concern that she was in plain view in the church parking lot. I know that little ‘wiggle-shift’ move. All the classic signs of a major wedgie. Poor thing.

Underwear, the number one torture of women everywhere. The wedgies and the crawlers seem to plague us all, especially in public. Sit down, stand up, get in the car, and sit down again. No wonder there was a flurry of discreet ‘adjusting’ every time we stood.

But, it’s not just the adjusting. It’s trying to find a decent pair in the first place, a comfortable pair, a pair that covers the whole hiney and still looks pretty. Good luck with that!

Just this morning I went to pull up my skivvies. My thumb ran a hole right through to the other side, leaving a strap of naked elastic. Rats! That was my best pair, too. The cotton fabric dangled, loose and free, taunting me.

For the younger and more inexperienced of you out there, I do want to throw in some free advice: If you use Duct Tape to fix your underwear, make sure, absolutely sure, that the sticky side faces away from your body. I speak from experience. Next, if you safety pin your gaping underwear together, do not, I repeat—do not—bend over during the day. How do you think naval piercing started, anyway? It would be better just to go commando than to use either of these remedies, my friends.

As for me, I am so done with the underwear war. I am fed up with tattered lace underwear that has more holes than a golf course. I am through with underwear that cuts off more of my leg than an 18th century saw amputation. And I am firmly finished with wondering what will happen if I am in an accident without clean underwear? To look at my underwear, one would presume I had already been the victim of a terrible accident with no survivors.

But, this morning, all of that ended with a brainstorm. Why keep fighting it? The elastic always wins anyway. The fabric is just a frivolous player in this woman versus underwear game. The lace, the silk, the pretty bows, all are just decorations anyway. Why not let nature have its way?

I trotted to the sewing machine with the raggedy pair in hand. With a few quick scissor snips here and there and a simple stitch or two, I had revolutionized the female underwar. Proudly outlined by the morning sun was my new underwear—an elastic strap. No cotton, no cutting leg holes, no hanging fabric. Just a simple elastic strap. After all, underwear was only for psychological comfort anyway, right? What other purpose, besides riding and twisting, did it really serve? To create nasty bulges and panty lines? Sure. That’s why every woman I know wears it.

And what did the woman wrestle the most with? Well, getting the elastic band over her hips, what else? Why hadn’t someone thought of this before? Goodness, help! Our underwear had been telling us this for centuries.

This invention solved everything. No more fingers through flimsy fabric. No more would I hide behind a car door, tugging and dancing. No more ‘riders’ crawling ever upward. No embarrassing panty lines. Certainly no more leg holes severing my flesh. Now, when I pulled up the elastic band, there would be no adjusting. I could put on my skirt without trying to hold my underwear in place. And never, absolutely ever, would I be embarrassed by the cotton fabric dangling by a thread on my ‘best pair’.

(You say, why not just buy a G-string? Are you listening to the conversation? Remember, we are already trying to mine things out of the crevices. Why would we add to the torture?)

I would be rich! Women everywhere would send ‘thank you’ cards and flowers, all because the fashion industry had waged a war with us that started centuries ago.

Now, granted, I have not been in this war all of my life. No. Thanks to Maw, my great-grandmother, my war didn’t start until I was well into