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DARN IT!
I’M REALLY HOOKED

I always thought that women who watched soap operas were dumb. How could they watch that dreary, depressing dribble? Well, let me tell you…..

One day a friend was visiting and we were having a cup of coffee. The time was passing pleasantly, when all of a sudden she checked her watch, let out a screech, jumped up and ran to the TV. I noticed she had a crazed look in her eyes and her pupils were dilated. She flipped the button and waited impatiently for the set to warm up.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“SHHHHHHHHHHHH!” she hissed, as she settled down on the floor, inches away from the set. Her eyes didn’t stray from the screen for even one second. She didn’t even blink.

Since I had no choice, I watched a show called “General Hospital.

Actually, I watched my friend watching “General Hospital”. She laughed, she cried and at one point became so emotionally involved she started talking to the actors…”Tell them you’re innocent, Audrey. Tell them you didn’t kill her!”

 I couldn’t believe it. I knew this gal was intelligent and had a lot on the ball. How could she have let herself become addicted?

I noticed during the credits that the thing was written by Frank and Doris Hursley. Brother! I could do better than that, I thought.

After the show, it was as if she couldn’t turn her mind off. She proceeded to ignore my protests and tell me all the gory details of the very intricate plot. Reluctantly, I admitted it was kind of interesting. I began to wonder if Phil and Jesse would go ahead with their divorce, if Tom would ever find out his baby was alive and if Howie was really playing around. Janie was such a good wife, too.

Well, from these innocent beginnings I, too, have progressed to the position of a full blown addict. I hate to admit it, but I go the whole route. Fifteen minutes before show time I take the phone off the hook. The sign goes on the front door, “Not at Home”. The drapes are drawn. I go into the bedroom, turn on the set, get my cigarettes, matches, a snack and coffee. I lock the bedroom door.

And for thirty minutes I escape into another world. The tragic world of the staff of the 7^th floor of General Hospital.

Ever so often the show is pre-empted by such trivial things as men landing on the moon or world series baseball games. It’s at these times I must force myself to overcome the urge to fly to New York and throttle whoever is in charge of programming.

Anyway, I’ve been watching for a long time now and I’ve been waiting for weeks and weeks for Diana to tell Peter that she’s dying. If she doesn’t spill the beans soon, I’m going to write to Frank and Doris and tell them to get the show moving or they’re gonna lose a fan.

It’s be an idle threat though, because, darn it, I’m really hooked!

To The Country!

The car rolled into the drive. He looked so unsuspecting. I took a deep breath and mentally went over the highlights of my campaign as I threw open the front door.

“I found it! The farm for us!”

“Ummmm,” he mumbled as he tossed his jacket on the couch and went to the bedroom to change.

I followed. “Hey! This is really it this time. An enclosed front porch the whole length of the house! You should see it. Goodbye traffic. Hello fresh air, peace and quiet and ponies for the kids. Our very own farm in the country!”

He was trying to find his jeans in the closet.

“How many acres?” he asked absently.

“Oh, I don’t know. Around two, I think.”

“Two?” his head jerked around. “That’s not a farm. Where I grew up we called that a patch.”

At least I had his attention. I went on.

“You really should see it. There’re four buildings besides the house. A little white garage we could use for the ponies, another little house that would be perfect for a rec-room for the kids and two smaller buildings….one for me and one for you. You know, a place to go to get away from the noise. The larger one would be perfect for my writing desk and the little one could be all yours.”

“I knew I’d get stuck with the crapper,” he sighed.

“The ex-crapper,” I corrected. “Our farm has indoor plumbing.”

“Don’t call it a farm. I’d be laughed out of the state if any on my old farming buddies heard that.

“Well, it doesn’t sound respectful to call it a patch.”

He smiled a little. “I don’t think you’d like it in the country. I mean, anyone who thinks pigs should wear bras, just isn’t the country type.”

“We wouldn’t be having pigs,” I sniffed. “And I wouldn’t have to plant my tomatoes and onions between the shrubbery. Why I might even learn how to make dumplins and light rolls in my country kitchen.

His face brightened a little. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just look at it.”

My mind raced ahead. We’re moving to the farm! We’re moving to the farm! A garden! Sunshine! Trees! Peace and quiet! Maybe I’ll even find the ironing board during the packing.

I envisioned my yellow and white kitchen, which would house lots of green plants in cute little pots. I could just see our furniture clustered around that darling little heater stove in the living room.

I found out later that quaint little stove in the living room was the only source of heat for the two story house and not just a cute decorative touch.

Since my husband is still cold when he remembers the winter mornings of his youth spent in an old farmhouse without central heating, he insisted on installing a furnace when we bought the “patch”.

To make a long story short, we moved this spring, I found the dad-burned ironing board, (but thank goodness it’s lost again) and now our garden is growing. The corn is as high as a grasshopper’s eye and I made jelly from our own cherries. How’s that for a city girl?