The first problem I had with the now notorious Big Ham was its sheer size. Lifting it at the grocery store, I groaned, “Unnggggggghhhhh,” leaning over the meat case, bum in the air, elbows flying, then throwing the heavy weight into the deep buggy. Family was coming to town and knowing how easy a crock pot meal would be, I settled on ham with coleslaw, baked beans and pickles. And if I was lucky, I’d have enough left over for a second meal. You see, I wanted a pork shoulder that would feed an army and I wanted a good price. I searched the newspaper flyers on Thursday for sales, then wrote out a menu.

Even though I picked out the smallest ham in the meat case, it weighed over eight lbs. (twice the normal size I buy). I came home and opened the frig. Now the second problem appeared. I had to rearrange two shelves to get the BH inside, but still couldn’t close the door: I shoved it even further back, with a triumphant “heave-ho!”

The next morning brought another dilemma. Basically I had a BIG ham and a LITTLE crock pot. This would be problem number three. And since a huge bone ran throughout the trapezoid-shaped ham, cutting it in half was not an option. Undaunted, I tried turning and flipping the BH ten different ways, hoping I could JAM it into the crock pot. It was no use. I then considered baking it in the oven, but with the 90 degree heat wave we were having in early October, I quickly decided against it. My whole house would heat up AND the ham wouldn’t be as tender as if slow-cooked. Argh!

Using a rare thing (my brain),  I decided to call the store to see if the butcher would cut the Big Ham in half for me. Yes, he said, bring it on down, he’d be happy to. Well, y’all, the fourth problem was getting the ham from my car to the store. What if it spoils being off ice 30 minutes or more, I thought? So I triple bagged it with ice in a separate bag. I threw the BH in the front seat and called hub-Russ before I put the car in gear. Ding! Ding! Ding! “What’s that noise?” Russell asked me. My dashboard flashed a red seatbelt warning as the alarm continued. I put the car back in park and tried to stretch the seat belt around the Big Ham, but instead stretched my hamstring (no pun intended). All this time I’m thinking, “this ham had BETTER be worth it!” Frankly, I was beginning to doubt it.

Man, I sure felt silly carrying a ham FROM my car IN TO the store. I found a buggy in the parking lot right next to my car and laid the ham inside. Geez, that thing was heavy and I didn’t want to carry it any further than I absolutely had to.

I marched straight back to the meat department, rang the bell for the butcher and handed him the eight pound bundle, saying, “Would you cut this in half and wrap the ha ms in two separate packages?” I planned to save the ham-hock end for seasoning collards at Thanksgiving.Next I heard that awful, high-pitched grinding sound, not unlike a dental drill, and grimaced. Do you think that was problem number six?

Okay, so here we are today, with NO MORE PROBLEMS! Ham A was devoured in two meals, as it were. Ham B is in the freezer, waiting for the holiday. And me? Well, I’m just glad it’s all over. My new motto: never buy a ham that needs its own seat belt!

What is going on here? My new “green” nail spa has let me down, big time! I’m all about saving the earth and going “green.” I heard “Save the Whales” and nodded. Then I heard “Save the Males,” but was a little confused. Are they referring to the Citadel or to the Chippendales? The “Chips” for short, which is exactly what my “green” spa toenail polish did after four days. Chipped!

Let me summarize: listening to my fave DJ recently in my car, I heard a radio spot for a certain “green spa.” I like the idea of it, so, I call. They offer me an immediate appointment. Nice! I walk into the place expecting the sight and sound of soothing waterfalls, recycled furniture, aromatherapy, and tons of eco-conscious customers. Instead, I find no customers, a backless bench with one pillow and a stack of old magazines. I wonder if they’re printed with soy ink. I see only one hairstylist with wet hair (is she coloring it?) on a cell phone, wearing a black cape. No, she’s not Batwoman, but I’m guessing she does her own hair. That may sound weird, but I do my own hair sometimes after a professional trim, since the right side is usually longer than the left. I declare: my head must be lopsided!

But I digress. Or, do I? Since hair and nails are the only thing on my body growing that need constant attention, except for my hips. But I’m trying to make them shrink, not grow!

Anyway, Shannon, the “green” manicurist, warmly greets me and invites me back to her “green” room. The hot, blue, swirly water feels so good to my tootsies. While I relax, she explains to me how their polish is unique — all natural. I’m thinking she means no polymers, no peptides, no paraffin, no paraben, no incense and peppermints.

I’m getting into this, nodding off to a sweet sleep, my vibrating chair singing along, when I’m jolted back to reality! I’m told to choose a color. I pick a muted pink-rose, then close my eyes again to dream about Al Gore’s global warming documentary. He would be so proud of me!

And then, I’m done! THAT sure was quick. What about the blue light thingie, I ask? “No, honey, we are “green” here,” Shannon replies with a confident smile. And the blower, the fan, the dryer (whatever), I ask. “Not necessary,” she demurs. I almost feel cheated UNTIL I remember I am saving the earth, ten little toes at a time. I’m in a “green” spa, for heaven’s sake.

I walk out feeling smug and guilt-free, thinking this new regimen is too good to be true. I mean, I’ve recycled and reused longer than anyone I know, and now I can add nails to the list. I think of other ways to continue my save the earth campaign: green hair products, green food, green gym.

But guess what? Four days later the big toenail on my right foot and the second toenail on my left foot have chipped. Badly. This is not good. I’m used to a four-month, not a four-day manicure. When my toe’s half moons become full moons, that’s when I return for a pedicure because the polish itself never chips. This is bad. Shoot! I’m going back to my old polish with the polymers, the peptides, the paraben, the paraffin and the incense and peppermints. I’m sorry, Al, but I’m saving my nails this time!