Thereâ€™s an urban legend that claims the brassiere was invented by a man named Otto Titzling, who reportedly lost a lawsuit with Phillip de Brassiere.
This reportedly originated with the 1971 book â€śBust-Up: The Uplifting Tale of Otto Titzling and the Development of the Braâ€ť and was propagated in a comedic song from the movie â€śBeaches.â€ť
Itâ€™s not hard to figure out the reason to attribute the invention of the bra to a man. If I have to explain it, you probably donâ€™t need to be reading this prattle.
I look forward to a serious mopping project with about the same degree of enthusiasm I reserve for surgery sans anesthesia or being rolled buck naked on a gurney around the courthouse square.
Domestic chores in general are not the sort of thing that get me revved up, but eventually as they say in the commune, someone has to take out the garbage.
And so it goes with mopping at our house. The time comes when it has to be done.
I donâ€™t know if reading doctor columns is an indication someone might have an excessive interest in other peopleâ€™s problems.
Even if it does, I have to admit I enjoy them. I even learn from them. My favorite is â€śAsk Dr. Gott,â€ť the one by syndicated columnist Peter H. Gott, which until recently appeared in this newspaper. (I miss him already.)
Norman Vincent Peale wrote a book called â€śThe Power of Positive Thinking.â€ť
Iâ€™m considering acquiring copies of the work to distribute to candidates for local elections, including the ones who sought school board positions in the recent school election.
In the first place, I donâ€™t like lies, half-truths, false statements, â€śrearrangementsâ€ť of facts â€” in short, anything thatâ€™s not really the unvarnished truth.
It was only a quick flash on the TV screen, yet that was all it took to unleash a floodgate of memories that made my heart race.
The image that brought about this reaction was a red cocker spaniel that was included in a public service announcement related to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animalsâ€™ anti-cruelty campaign.
I love learning.
That may sound trite, but itâ€™s true.
Conversely, I hate to appear dumb, but I made a really dumb mistake this week, and of course my mistakes are there for thousands to see immediately and then become part of local recorded history forever and ever.
Thatâ€™s a heavy pill to swallow at times, but itâ€™s been my life for 40 years, so I guess Iâ€™m getting used to it.
The up side of that is that I learned something from my recent faux pas.
Did you ever wonder what happened to old-fashioned manners? Lots of times I find myself wishing for a revival of the little niceties that used to be commonplace but are rapidly disappearing from modern society.
The same could be said for language today. Crude words that I still canâ€™t utter have become commonplace. Some in particular would have sent my mother into a frenzy if I had dared use them in earlier days.
The build-up came to full strength this week, culminating at War Memorial Stadium in Little Rock. The annual Salt Bowl seemed like more of an event than a game, just as it had in years past. The rivalry between these two teams has always been strong even if the games were not. These two teams have played in oppressive heat and the remnants of a hurricane.
Nobody likes to go to the hospital.
Correction: MOST people donâ€™t like to go to the hospital. There are hypochondriacs who thrive on such experiences, but I donâ€™t count myself among them.
I have known such individuals, including one now deceased, who was in my fringe family circle. She was an interesting woman when you could get her to talk about matters other than those that ailed her, but this was no easy task since she thrived on what my spouse calls â€śorgan recitals.â€ť
But thatâ€™s fodder for another day.
Numbers have never been my friend. I embrace words with passion, but numbers are another thing altogether.
Words, their meaning and their usage come to me with little effort, but the same canâ€™t be said for figures, and that would be just about in any form, including old telephone numbers.
Those I use regularly at work are fixed in my brain, but numbers of the past? Not even a dim memory where most are concerned.
The shining exception is the phone number I had when I lived in an apartment in Fayetteville as a young married woman. That number was Hillcrest 2-2287.