“You’re upset.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You’re doing Frito shots again.”
When I’m having what the Captain lovingly calls “the days Homeland Security doesn’t have a color for,” I like to soothe my ruffled hormones with a mixture of Fritos and M&M’s. I take a handful of each and slam dunk them into my mouth like Michael Jordan down the lane at the buzzer. Crunch time. With a candy coating.
I don’t want to say I’m stressed, but I bought a case of each at the local warehouse store and I have them stored in those never-ending watering dishes you get for your dog so that he’s never thirsty. If I play my cards right, I can munch my way through July without ever getting up. I won’t even have to change clothes. I’m wearing stretchy pants and they’ll just grow along with me.
I don't know if I’m more stressed than usual, but I’m so high strung these days that if I flex my pinky my shoes come untied, my glasses fly off, and I lose control over important bodily functions, such as the ability to locate my keys inside my Aigner bag. I sneezed at the office the yesterday and someone had to throw a blanket over me and run for the Bounty. The cell phone in my pocket called emergency services. In Australia.
I’ve noticed that women react to stress differently from men. When searching for something that he needs urgently and cannot locate in a nano-instant, my husband finds it soothing to toss random objects out of his path and assign creative swear words to best fit the scope and purpose of each object. His trusty Lab waits nearby for moral support, ready to pitch in and chew a shoe or take a nap if the situation merits immediate action.
Curiously, it appears that we also turn up the tension knob over different things.
I get upset because supper is late, somebody’s teacher is threatening emergency action again because of a wildlife sighting in her chair and while she’s at it, a mention of Huckleberry Finn on the back of a cereal box is not the same as reading the novel, and there's a spider sending semaphore signals from a web in the bathroom that would support the weight of Tarzan on a junglewide jaunt. Also, there is a $70 tennis shoe in the litter box.
The thing that worries me most is the shoe.
Why is there just one? And which of those careless cats wore the thing in there and left it? I’ll jut have to watch and take note if I see Fluffy hobbling down the hall in a single Reebok. I see disciplinary action in the future. He's irresponsible with tennis balls as well.
The Captain, on the other hand, is distressed that his DVD of Dr. Who episodes is turned the wrong direction on the shelf--obviously the work of housebreaking ninjas with a time travel complex. It’s not like he can watch any DVDs anyway, because the player doesn’t work without the remote, and I think that’s what I saw peeping through the Fresh Step in the litterbox after breakfast this morning. Fluffy the cat is quite diverse in his hobbies.
All in all I think I’ll take the easy way out when it comes to stress. I’ll cook dinner for the in-laws, redecorate the house, and teach the teenagers to drive all at once. After that, everything else will look easy.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Michael Jordan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michael Jordan. Show all posts
Monday, July 19, 2010
Friday, June 12, 2009
Trash Talk
I lobbed a blackened cabbage toward the trash can and groaned as it bounced off the side and spun across the linoleum. It sounded like an eighteen wheeler losing a retread at ninety miles an hour.
“I need a vacation.”
“You need a free throw coach. That was a terrible shot.”
Bill Dear and I have discovered that teamwork activities are a cheap form of marriage counseling. Cleaning the refrigerator may not seem like an exercise in compromise, but we’ve found that many of life’s problems pale in comparison to a quicksand patch of Mrs. Butterworth’s that’s about to claim the life of a helpless pot roast.
We are presently in the kitchen seated side by side in wooden chairs, facing what he calls the Rottery: three shelves of timeworn tuna, meatloaf meltdown, and a swamp of sweet tea that could support a pontoon brigade.
The whole affair has the engaging scent of a garbage barge on an extended search for a home port.
I handed him a largish hunk of something that once resembled cheese. “Okay, Michael Jordan. Your shot.”
He banked the object off a handy Labrador napping nearby.
“Swoosh! That’s how you do it.”
“No fair. You had an assist.”
“And you had a vacation. Remember last month? You stayed home for a whole week.”
“Five days at home with two flu-ridden kids is not a vacation. It’s an internship.”
He attempted a three-point shot with a stray Brussels Sprout. The Lab intercepted the object with a snap on the downward arc, swallowed the thing in one gulp, and looked accusingly at his Pop. He hates Brussels Sprouts.
“Sorry, buddy.”
With a sigh, Bo settled his chin on the floor between his paws.
“That’s the trouble with dogs. They’ll forgive you for anything.”
“That’s why we take them on trips in the car instead of our wives. If you would act nice, I’d let you ride to the dump with your head out the window, too.”
I popped him with a wilted celery stalk.
He pulled a Tupperware bowl from the bottom shelf. The lid was puffed up like a chef’s hat, and a peculiar life form was clinging to the inside like a fruit bat.
“Have we ever had anything that color?”
“I don’t think they make food that color.”
“Well, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” He lobbed the offending container toward the trashcan.
The bowl dropped to the bottom of the can like a laser-targeted depth charge. The lid spun for a minute before rocking back into place. We watched silently, ready to run if an explosion seemed imminent.
Bill Dear leaned back with the self-assured air of an NBA star at a post-game interview.
“But if it’s packed in Tupperware and the top is rising like a shot from center court, save yourself the painful learning experience and throw the whole thing away.”
We closed the refrigerator door and stood up.
“So now can I have a vacation?”
“Sure. Come with me.” He picked up the trash can and held it at arm’s length. I’ll take you to the dump.”
“Now that's foul.”
He loaded the car and I watched as he headed down the driveway with the big Lab perched happily in the passenger seat.
I dropped into the chair at my computer to Google exotic vacation destinations. The cat padded across the desk and nestled in my lap.
"Well, Kitty," I purred as I typed in a verification, “If life is a basketball game, I'm about to be charged with traveling."
“I need a vacation.”
“You need a free throw coach. That was a terrible shot.”
Bill Dear and I have discovered that teamwork activities are a cheap form of marriage counseling. Cleaning the refrigerator may not seem like an exercise in compromise, but we’ve found that many of life’s problems pale in comparison to a quicksand patch of Mrs. Butterworth’s that’s about to claim the life of a helpless pot roast.
We are presently in the kitchen seated side by side in wooden chairs, facing what he calls the Rottery: three shelves of timeworn tuna, meatloaf meltdown, and a swamp of sweet tea that could support a pontoon brigade.
The whole affair has the engaging scent of a garbage barge on an extended search for a home port.
I handed him a largish hunk of something that once resembled cheese. “Okay, Michael Jordan. Your shot.”
He banked the object off a handy Labrador napping nearby.
“Swoosh! That’s how you do it.”
“No fair. You had an assist.”
“And you had a vacation. Remember last month? You stayed home for a whole week.”
“Five days at home with two flu-ridden kids is not a vacation. It’s an internship.”
He attempted a three-point shot with a stray Brussels Sprout. The Lab intercepted the object with a snap on the downward arc, swallowed the thing in one gulp, and looked accusingly at his Pop. He hates Brussels Sprouts.
“Sorry, buddy.”
With a sigh, Bo settled his chin on the floor between his paws.
“That’s the trouble with dogs. They’ll forgive you for anything.”
“That’s why we take them on trips in the car instead of our wives. If you would act nice, I’d let you ride to the dump with your head out the window, too.”
I popped him with a wilted celery stalk.
He pulled a Tupperware bowl from the bottom shelf. The lid was puffed up like a chef’s hat, and a peculiar life form was clinging to the inside like a fruit bat.
“Have we ever had anything that color?”
“I don’t think they make food that color.”
“Well, they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” He lobbed the offending container toward the trashcan.
The bowl dropped to the bottom of the can like a laser-targeted depth charge. The lid spun for a minute before rocking back into place. We watched silently, ready to run if an explosion seemed imminent.
Bill Dear leaned back with the self-assured air of an NBA star at a post-game interview.
“But if it’s packed in Tupperware and the top is rising like a shot from center court, save yourself the painful learning experience and throw the whole thing away.”
We closed the refrigerator door and stood up.
“So now can I have a vacation?”
“Sure. Come with me.” He picked up the trash can and held it at arm’s length. I’ll take you to the dump.”
“Now that's foul.”
He loaded the car and I watched as he headed down the driveway with the big Lab perched happily in the passenger seat.
I dropped into the chair at my computer to Google exotic vacation destinations. The cat padded across the desk and nestled in my lap.
"Well, Kitty," I purred as I typed in a verification, “If life is a basketball game, I'm about to be charged with traveling."
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Blow Dryer, Flash Fryer
I’m convinced my hair dryer, the Flame Thrower, is trying to kill me. Oh, there’s nothing I can point my finger to and say, “Here are the transcripts from a conversation with the hot rollers which definitely points to annihilation by hair sabotage.” It’s subtle things like hurling sparks at my ear early in the morning when it thinks I’m not paying attention. But I’m too cheap to throw the thing out until it chokes on a hairball and sputters to a stop for good. So unless it bites off more once-blonde locks than it can chew, we’re together for another year.
Luckily, since this is a low wattage appliance and therefore has a limited capacity for complicated planning, it has been limited to spitting fire and summoning bursts of superheated air dedicated toward restyling my hair into the flash fried appearance of an overcooked Dorito. My left ear is scorched and it appears that I shrink wrapped my head in an old Brillo pad, but other than that I’m fine.
Lately the wretched thing has been sabotaging me with clandestine bouts of guerilla warfare. Its latest campaign involves the secretive, but effective technique of grabbing clumps of hair and consuming them in a teeth-gnashing frenzy like a buffet-bound supermodel on the first day of retirement. Whenever I bend over to dry the back of my hair, I end up with a festive “hairdo by shredder” look. And the hair dryer looks like a Chia pet in full bloom.
Given the embarrassment of losing daily battles with an appliance that can’t make ice, iron my clothes, or dispose of my garbage, I hoped my hairdresser wouldn’t notice. Perhaps I would sneak in for a trim.
Hairdresser: Well, Amy, what shall we do to. .OH MY GOD! HAVE YOU BEEN IN A FIRE!?
Me: Just even up the gaps, please.
Hairdresser: That’s like pulling up your knee highs to meet your push up bra. Did you lean too close to the birthday cake again?
Me: No, I just had a little trouble with the settings on my hair dryer. It thinks off means "off with her head." Say, could you make me look like Jennifer Anniston?
Hairdresser: OH MY GOD! HAS SHE BEEN IN A FIRE TOO?!
Me: Never mind. Just shave it and I’ll tell everybody I’m sympathizing with Britney during the bad years.
I slunk out of the hair salon looking like a cross between Michael Jordan and last year's geraniums. My resolution for the New Year? That blow dryer’s going down. Even if I have to get the hot rollers to help me.
Luckily, since this is a low wattage appliance and therefore has a limited capacity for complicated planning, it has been limited to spitting fire and summoning bursts of superheated air dedicated toward restyling my hair into the flash fried appearance of an overcooked Dorito. My left ear is scorched and it appears that I shrink wrapped my head in an old Brillo pad, but other than that I’m fine.
Lately the wretched thing has been sabotaging me with clandestine bouts of guerilla warfare. Its latest campaign involves the secretive, but effective technique of grabbing clumps of hair and consuming them in a teeth-gnashing frenzy like a buffet-bound supermodel on the first day of retirement. Whenever I bend over to dry the back of my hair, I end up with a festive “hairdo by shredder” look. And the hair dryer looks like a Chia pet in full bloom.
Given the embarrassment of losing daily battles with an appliance that can’t make ice, iron my clothes, or dispose of my garbage, I hoped my hairdresser wouldn’t notice. Perhaps I would sneak in for a trim.
Hairdresser: Well, Amy, what shall we do to. .OH MY GOD! HAVE YOU BEEN IN A FIRE!?
Me: Just even up the gaps, please.
Hairdresser: That’s like pulling up your knee highs to meet your push up bra. Did you lean too close to the birthday cake again?
Me: No, I just had a little trouble with the settings on my hair dryer. It thinks off means "off with her head." Say, could you make me look like Jennifer Anniston?
Hairdresser: OH MY GOD! HAS SHE BEEN IN A FIRE TOO?!
Me: Never mind. Just shave it and I’ll tell everybody I’m sympathizing with Britney during the bad years.
I slunk out of the hair salon looking like a cross between Michael Jordan and last year's geraniums. My resolution for the New Year? That blow dryer’s going down. Even if I have to get the hot rollers to help me.
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