Not Exactly Kosher

I was in a whimsical mood on the way to the temple Friday night. This is what I saw while grabbing a burger on the way.



Ken’s Man’s Shop. [Barbie’s beau is gainfully employed?] Well, this explains why I haven’t been able to find a good man at the local church dances. Apparently you have to buy one! And in North Dallas, they certainly don’t fit into my budget.

I wore jeans to work on Friday, with a dressy T-shirt and a jacket. One does not wear jeans to the temple. I also brought a skirt. I had no knee-high hose. Thus, a trip to the grocery store along the way. I wondered why there were two Tom Thumbs in close proximity. This picture explains it.



One for the gentiles at Royal and Preston; this one at Preston and Forest maybe a mile away. I was standing between Lorelai and an SUV and had pulled my skirt on over my head and down over my jeans and was wiggling my jeans down toward my ankles when two men came out of the store to enter the SUV. I smiled at the one and said, “I’ll just be a minute”.

Have you ever tried to get into a compact car in a long skirt with your blue jeans around your ankles? Once I got my jeans off, it was easy to swap out red ankle socks for knee-high hose, change my shoes, and drive decorously off to the temple.

So, not exactly kosher, but not for one moment was I immodest. And did they ever have a story to tell their wives when they got home!

I took this picture when I left the temple. I walked in tired, frazzled, and dutiful. I walked out calm and happy, wrapped snugly in peace as if it were a shawl.



I think of the men who are the constants in my life. My two wonderful sons-in-law and Fourthborn’s Fiancé. Brother Sushi and Brother Karitas and dear old grumpy dead Brother Stilts, whom I often suspect of being my own personal guardian angel, now that he has graduated from earth life. Ben and Jerry. Orion. And this one.



Moroni is my homeboy.