I'm hunting men this Christmas
The one I want the most
Is really most elusive
Down here so near the coast
The weatherman says eighty
So again this year you'll find
Me at the kitchen window
Building snowmen in my mind.
Best wishes for a very merry Christmas and a blessed and peaceful New Year!
Laugh
Showing posts with label peace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label peace. Show all posts
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Yoga Bare
Don't look now, but the Captain's at it again. Check out my post at An Army of Ermas for a guy's version of what should be a peaceful combination of exercise and meditation. Take a peek and see what all the excitement's about. If you dare.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Bathing Suitable
Buying a new bathing suit is like selecting an alias for the Witness Protection Program. You want something that fits and has flair, but that will keep all your hidden assets locked away where no one will ever find them.
In my experience, the main function of a bathing suit is to gather oceanic sand in the lining of the crotch while you’re trying to balance on the retracting grains of an outgoing wave without spilling your drink-filled coconut. With my typical lack of coordination, my coconuts take a dunking every time.
I went shopping with my sister and my niece, Knockout. This girl could wear an oven mitt and guys would follow her into deep water. I was painfully aware that my thighs had expanded to the outer banks and my behind had relocated to the subtropics.
We’re at Wal-Mart, browsing through the racks. It’s the only place I can get support hose, Sugar Smacks, and sinus medication without having to change parking lots. Presently my buggy is loaded with a month’s worth of Friskies and the floral pack of Hanes Her Way Full Coverage. Nothing says party like a well-fed cat and chubby sized underwear.
While Knockout was slipping on bikini tops over her clothes, I was fumbling through the racks looking for something with sleeves and a bib. I couldn’t fit a bathing suit over my clothes if I had the Jaws of Life to help me dress.
“What about something with a little sarong to cover up problem areas?” Knockout suggests, flattening an invisible wrinkle in her belly button.
I couldn’t fit a sarong over my shin with a shoe horn.
“Do they have anything with a hoop skirt instead?”
I’m headed to the seashore for a weekend away from the Labradors. All I’m going to do is pick up a few seashells, eat some fish without having to share, and play a round of beach putt putt. I shouldn’t have to use up the gross national output of latex to get a hole in one at Shipwreck Cove.
When it comes to shopping for clothes, I use the lawn and garden strategy. I don’t so much have to focus on my strengths so much as try to mulch the problem areas. I’m at the age when weeds are creeping into the rhododendrens and the ground cover is losing momentum. I figure if I keep everything in the dark and provide proper drainage, we can keep the damage to a minimum.
Also I stand by the idea that if I can’t see it, it’s not a problem. I’ve played hide and seek with my navel for 35 years. Once I passed 40 and realized I’d need a topographical map and a satellite signal from NASA to find my waist, I declared myself the victor and began looking for my original chin. We might have to call in the Mars Rover for that one.
“What about a cover up? You like retro.” She held up a tye-dyed washcloth, swirling with all the colors of a bowl of breakfast cereal.
“It looks like something you used to clean up a chemical spill. A very small chemical spill."
I wandered across the aisle to a rack of likely-looking house dresses to use for disguise. My idea of coverage is mountains-to-sea. I’m not interested in anything that leaves the foothills or the Great Plains out in the open. I untangled a handful of spaghetti straps and pulled out a prospect. “What about this? It’s almost long enough to cover the coast at high tide.”
“That’s a prom dress.”
“How can you tell?”
“There are sequins on thong.”
“I thought that was an armband to hold my iPod.”
“There’s a clip on the tiara for that. See, there’s a secret compartment behind the disco ball.”
Three dozen prom gowns and I pick the one that needs John Travolta in a white suit to complete the package.
“Here’s an animal print. You’d be right in style.” Knockout whipped a bikini bedecked with pink and green peace symbols off the rack and held it up with a flourish. A trail of leopard prints the color of blush traipsed through the peace fields.
“The leopard is already embarrassed and I haven’t even tried it on.”
She flipped through a few more prospects. “There’s nothing left on the rack but old lady swimsuits.”
To this kid, Paris Hilton is ancient history.
With a sigh, I tossed the sequined thong and tiara selection into my cart. I may not be Queen of the Prom, but I’ll be the best dressed gal at the Pirate Ship Putt Putt course.
In my experience, the main function of a bathing suit is to gather oceanic sand in the lining of the crotch while you’re trying to balance on the retracting grains of an outgoing wave without spilling your drink-filled coconut. With my typical lack of coordination, my coconuts take a dunking every time.
I went shopping with my sister and my niece, Knockout. This girl could wear an oven mitt and guys would follow her into deep water. I was painfully aware that my thighs had expanded to the outer banks and my behind had relocated to the subtropics.
We’re at Wal-Mart, browsing through the racks. It’s the only place I can get support hose, Sugar Smacks, and sinus medication without having to change parking lots. Presently my buggy is loaded with a month’s worth of Friskies and the floral pack of Hanes Her Way Full Coverage. Nothing says party like a well-fed cat and chubby sized underwear.
While Knockout was slipping on bikini tops over her clothes, I was fumbling through the racks looking for something with sleeves and a bib. I couldn’t fit a bathing suit over my clothes if I had the Jaws of Life to help me dress.
“What about something with a little sarong to cover up problem areas?” Knockout suggests, flattening an invisible wrinkle in her belly button.
I couldn’t fit a sarong over my shin with a shoe horn.
“Do they have anything with a hoop skirt instead?”
I’m headed to the seashore for a weekend away from the Labradors. All I’m going to do is pick up a few seashells, eat some fish without having to share, and play a round of beach putt putt. I shouldn’t have to use up the gross national output of latex to get a hole in one at Shipwreck Cove.
When it comes to shopping for clothes, I use the lawn and garden strategy. I don’t so much have to focus on my strengths so much as try to mulch the problem areas. I’m at the age when weeds are creeping into the rhododendrens and the ground cover is losing momentum. I figure if I keep everything in the dark and provide proper drainage, we can keep the damage to a minimum.
Also I stand by the idea that if I can’t see it, it’s not a problem. I’ve played hide and seek with my navel for 35 years. Once I passed 40 and realized I’d need a topographical map and a satellite signal from NASA to find my waist, I declared myself the victor and began looking for my original chin. We might have to call in the Mars Rover for that one.
“What about a cover up? You like retro.” She held up a tye-dyed washcloth, swirling with all the colors of a bowl of breakfast cereal.
“It looks like something you used to clean up a chemical spill. A very small chemical spill."
I wandered across the aisle to a rack of likely-looking house dresses to use for disguise. My idea of coverage is mountains-to-sea. I’m not interested in anything that leaves the foothills or the Great Plains out in the open. I untangled a handful of spaghetti straps and pulled out a prospect. “What about this? It’s almost long enough to cover the coast at high tide.”
“That’s a prom dress.”
“How can you tell?”
“There are sequins on thong.”
“I thought that was an armband to hold my iPod.”
“There’s a clip on the tiara for that. See, there’s a secret compartment behind the disco ball.”
Three dozen prom gowns and I pick the one that needs John Travolta in a white suit to complete the package.
“Here’s an animal print. You’d be right in style.” Knockout whipped a bikini bedecked with pink and green peace symbols off the rack and held it up with a flourish. A trail of leopard prints the color of blush traipsed through the peace fields.
“The leopard is already embarrassed and I haven’t even tried it on.”
She flipped through a few more prospects. “There’s nothing left on the rack but old lady swimsuits.”
To this kid, Paris Hilton is ancient history.
With a sigh, I tossed the sequined thong and tiara selection into my cart. I may not be Queen of the Prom, but I’ll be the best dressed gal at the Pirate Ship Putt Putt course.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Pet Tree
“You brought it home. You should take care of it.” I hated to be difficult at the risk of disrupting household harmony, but I’m pretty sure this sort of thing is covered in the Constitution.
“I gave it water every day this week.”
“And now you can clean up after it.”
“But I got it for the whole family.”
I polled the audience with a glance. Son One’s face was three inches from the television screen. He held a video game controller and was pressing buttons faster than I can type to rid the world of aliens. Son Two was carefully accessing You Tube on his brand-new-from-Santa laptop to upload a video of himself making a video. He was clutching his tongue between his teeth in the classic “Don’t mess with me while I’m thinking” pose. I never realized You Tube required that much concentration.
Sooner or later even the Captain of the family Ship of Life has to learn the consequences of random acts of kindness. “It’s not looking good for family unity.”
He sighed. “A month ago everybody loved it.”
“A month ago everybody hung their hopes on a fat guy fitting down our chimney.”
“I can’t believe they don’t want to have it around.”
“Actually nobody knows it’s there. After two weeks the new wears off, the dust settles, and it becomes invisible. That’s nature’s rule.”
He cleared his throat meaningfully and swung into his “last chance before grounding” voice. “Now hear this. Someone needs to take ownership of the Christmas tree. It’s drier than your Aunt Edna’s pot roast.”
Son One rolled his eyes and blasted two aliens with a single shot. Son Two aimed a peace sign and a grin at his web cam and pushed the black button.
About that time, the Captain’s personal dog and first mate, a rambling Labradorish thing who is his sworn companion, front seat navigator, and right paw in all things domestic trotted up, bubblegum-colored tongue languishing out of one side of his mouth.
“Well there’s your champion waterer right there. His resume is as long as our driveway. There isn’t a shrub that didn’t have his help during the drought.”
“At least someone cares.”
We watched together as the big dog strolled over and took personal charge of watering the Christmas tree, which was so old the needles piled on the carpet like dirty underwear on the laundry room floor and the branches were slick as ski poles.
Bill smiled fondly. “See he cares. He still has the spirit of the season.”
“That’s great,” I answered, blotting the tree skirt with Bill’s windbreaker. “But if that’s the way he says Merry Christmas, I’d rather not hear what Man's Best Friend has to say on your birthday.”
“I gave it water every day this week.”
“And now you can clean up after it.”
“But I got it for the whole family.”
I polled the audience with a glance. Son One’s face was three inches from the television screen. He held a video game controller and was pressing buttons faster than I can type to rid the world of aliens. Son Two was carefully accessing You Tube on his brand-new-from-Santa laptop to upload a video of himself making a video. He was clutching his tongue between his teeth in the classic “Don’t mess with me while I’m thinking” pose. I never realized You Tube required that much concentration.
Sooner or later even the Captain of the family Ship of Life has to learn the consequences of random acts of kindness. “It’s not looking good for family unity.”
He sighed. “A month ago everybody loved it.”
“A month ago everybody hung their hopes on a fat guy fitting down our chimney.”
“I can’t believe they don’t want to have it around.”
“Actually nobody knows it’s there. After two weeks the new wears off, the dust settles, and it becomes invisible. That’s nature’s rule.”
He cleared his throat meaningfully and swung into his “last chance before grounding” voice. “Now hear this. Someone needs to take ownership of the Christmas tree. It’s drier than your Aunt Edna’s pot roast.”
Son One rolled his eyes and blasted two aliens with a single shot. Son Two aimed a peace sign and a grin at his web cam and pushed the black button.
About that time, the Captain’s personal dog and first mate, a rambling Labradorish thing who is his sworn companion, front seat navigator, and right paw in all things domestic trotted up, bubblegum-colored tongue languishing out of one side of his mouth.
“Well there’s your champion waterer right there. His resume is as long as our driveway. There isn’t a shrub that didn’t have his help during the drought.”
“At least someone cares.”
We watched together as the big dog strolled over and took personal charge of watering the Christmas tree, which was so old the needles piled on the carpet like dirty underwear on the laundry room floor and the branches were slick as ski poles.
Bill smiled fondly. “See he cares. He still has the spirit of the season.”
“That’s great,” I answered, blotting the tree skirt with Bill’s windbreaker. “But if that’s the way he says Merry Christmas, I’d rather not hear what Man's Best Friend has to say on your birthday.”
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Jingle Bill$
Now that Thanksgiving is tucked conveniently away in freezerbound Tupperware and I’ve sewn the button back on my accidently expanding waistband, I can look forward to my favorite December pastime; counting down the days until Christmas. There is a complicated formula involving a calendar and a red marker that I could use, but I prefer the new math method. I count the number of sales flyers in the newspaper and divide by how many gifts I have left to buy.
Many of the area retailers have been infused with a generous helping of the Christmas spirit since the eve of the autumnal equinox, but I’m very firm about leaving the Christmas goodies on the shelves until the last of October’s candy corn is gone and the turkey leftovers have disappeared into the Dachshund. There’s something about toting red and green wrapped gifts home in a Frankenstein Trick or Treat bag that takes away the festive air of the whole project.
So I’ve been out this week, taking in the sights and sounds of Christmas. I noticed that “Debit or Credit” is the greeting of choice around town. Waffle House must be the only place left that still takes cash. They have to have something to give the folks behind the mask during the twelve days of armed robberies.
I got all my Christmas shopping done at a store that advertised cut-rate sale prices on all the merchandise. A perky sales clerk in a Santa hat rang up my purchase. When she hit the Total button, the machine started flashing like a jackpot winner on a slot machine. I guess a long list of cheap stuff still turns into a big bill. Especially when they add the state’s share at the end.
As I looked around the store, my eyes reflecting the soft glow of the cash register’s LEDs, I saw the walls were festooned with greetings for every holiday from Christmas to Kwanzaa. Now that we’re all celebrating different things this time of year, there’s only one greeting that still applies to everybody.
Peace on Earth.
Plus Tax.
Many of the area retailers have been infused with a generous helping of the Christmas spirit since the eve of the autumnal equinox, but I’m very firm about leaving the Christmas goodies on the shelves until the last of October’s candy corn is gone and the turkey leftovers have disappeared into the Dachshund. There’s something about toting red and green wrapped gifts home in a Frankenstein Trick or Treat bag that takes away the festive air of the whole project.
So I’ve been out this week, taking in the sights and sounds of Christmas. I noticed that “Debit or Credit” is the greeting of choice around town. Waffle House must be the only place left that still takes cash. They have to have something to give the folks behind the mask during the twelve days of armed robberies.
I got all my Christmas shopping done at a store that advertised cut-rate sale prices on all the merchandise. A perky sales clerk in a Santa hat rang up my purchase. When she hit the Total button, the machine started flashing like a jackpot winner on a slot machine. I guess a long list of cheap stuff still turns into a big bill. Especially when they add the state’s share at the end.
As I looked around the store, my eyes reflecting the soft glow of the cash register’s LEDs, I saw the walls were festooned with greetings for every holiday from Christmas to Kwanzaa. Now that we’re all celebrating different things this time of year, there’s only one greeting that still applies to everybody.
Peace on Earth.
Plus Tax.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Cookies, Kids, and Zombie Killers
I have two children, a main son to provide general mayhem and destruction, and a younger backup son for mental distress. Although the odds of them getting along is about the same as a double fudge brownie dying of old age in my kitchen, they take great pride when it comes to disturbing my peace. Sort of a parental trauma tag team.
Son Number One specializes in physical destruction. His responsibilities include punching holes in plaster, breaking small appliances, and clogging the plumbing. He holds a family record for mass destruction and once brought down an expensive light fixture with a simple fastball, high and tight. If you’re looking for a Rambo-style battle with water-based munitions in your living room or need to know how much Play Doh the ceiling fan will hold, he’s your man. His motto is “I didn’t mean to.”
Son Number Two specializes in emotional turmoil. He is responsible for the state of general untidiness in the house, having long ago mastered the art of talking his way out of cleaning his room, taking out the trash, and emptying the dishwasher. He is especially adept in the art of negotiations and can reduce an opponent to heavy sighs and hand-wringing without once dropping his video game controller. If he were an independent country, his national symbol would be the loophole. We expect him to have a successful career in government. Should monarchy come into vogue, he’ll be a natural.
One sunny spring day when all the world seemed fresh and new, the boys were playing together in their room. I sat at the computer composing an essay on the joys of motherhood. For a paying market.
“And that’s why motherhood makes my heart sing.” I typed the final strokes, leaned back, and wiped away a maternal tear.
“You can’t kill zombies!”
That’s not something I ever expected to hear. Until I had children.
“You can shoot ’em!”
I frowned thoughtfully. I needed to add some more endearing anecdotes.
“They’re already dead. You can’t kill something that’s already dead!”
Maybe how Ryan loved to help me with his baby brother. He would bring Jeffrey’s favorite toy lamb and help sing him to sleep.
“They’ve come back to life. Beat ’em with a stick!”
Or the time Jeffrey bought my Christmas present with his own money at the school store.
“I’ll beat you with a stick.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll cream you and your zombie army.”
Did I mention the children are now teenagers? They’d rather argue than eat. Unless I’ve got something artificially flavored on hand.
“There’s cookies in the kitchen.”
Exit two teenage boys, charging down the hallway like the bulls in Pamplona. There’s a crash. The Pamplona bulls never had to negotiate a tabby cat and two Cookie Hounds trying to beat them to the goodies.
In the kitchen, on separate plates, there are two kinds of cookies. One with chocolate chips, one with sprinkles. I have five minutes before Ryan polishes off the sprinkles and develops a sudden fondness for chocolate chips.
The essay needs a bit more length. I’ll add that cute story about Ryan coming out of church the sweltering Southern summer when his was six. He refused to listen to the sermon about humility because he thought the pastor said humidity.
Smiling with motherly love, I revised the word count.
“Zombies can’t eat cookies. They can’t eat anything. They’re dead.”
“How’d you like to see for yourself?”
At times like this, I think back to what Mom always told me. Whenever I came to her with my traumas and tantrums, she’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry, it’ll get worse.” She said it when I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, and she was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, it’s not the end of the world. Things will also get better. So if postponing the essay for a few minutes to Google “Zombie Facts” is the worst thing to happen today, life is pretty good.
Especially if there’s a chocolate chip cookie left.
This tale of zombie cookie love was first published in the February/March issue of The Wham Magazine.
Son Number One specializes in physical destruction. His responsibilities include punching holes in plaster, breaking small appliances, and clogging the plumbing. He holds a family record for mass destruction and once brought down an expensive light fixture with a simple fastball, high and tight. If you’re looking for a Rambo-style battle with water-based munitions in your living room or need to know how much Play Doh the ceiling fan will hold, he’s your man. His motto is “I didn’t mean to.”
Son Number Two specializes in emotional turmoil. He is responsible for the state of general untidiness in the house, having long ago mastered the art of talking his way out of cleaning his room, taking out the trash, and emptying the dishwasher. He is especially adept in the art of negotiations and can reduce an opponent to heavy sighs and hand-wringing without once dropping his video game controller. If he were an independent country, his national symbol would be the loophole. We expect him to have a successful career in government. Should monarchy come into vogue, he’ll be a natural.
One sunny spring day when all the world seemed fresh and new, the boys were playing together in their room. I sat at the computer composing an essay on the joys of motherhood. For a paying market.
“And that’s why motherhood makes my heart sing.” I typed the final strokes, leaned back, and wiped away a maternal tear.
“You can’t kill zombies!”
That’s not something I ever expected to hear. Until I had children.
“You can shoot ’em!”
I frowned thoughtfully. I needed to add some more endearing anecdotes.
“They’re already dead. You can’t kill something that’s already dead!”
Maybe how Ryan loved to help me with his baby brother. He would bring Jeffrey’s favorite toy lamb and help sing him to sleep.
“They’ve come back to life. Beat ’em with a stick!”
Or the time Jeffrey bought my Christmas present with his own money at the school store.
“I’ll beat you with a stick.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll cream you and your zombie army.”
Did I mention the children are now teenagers? They’d rather argue than eat. Unless I’ve got something artificially flavored on hand.
“There’s cookies in the kitchen.”
Exit two teenage boys, charging down the hallway like the bulls in Pamplona. There’s a crash. The Pamplona bulls never had to negotiate a tabby cat and two Cookie Hounds trying to beat them to the goodies.
In the kitchen, on separate plates, there are two kinds of cookies. One with chocolate chips, one with sprinkles. I have five minutes before Ryan polishes off the sprinkles and develops a sudden fondness for chocolate chips.
The essay needs a bit more length. I’ll add that cute story about Ryan coming out of church the sweltering Southern summer when his was six. He refused to listen to the sermon about humility because he thought the pastor said humidity.
Smiling with motherly love, I revised the word count.
“Zombies can’t eat cookies. They can’t eat anything. They’re dead.”
“How’d you like to see for yourself?”
At times like this, I think back to what Mom always told me. Whenever I came to her with my traumas and tantrums, she’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry, it’ll get worse.” She said it when I was three and ran to her with a skinned knee, and she was right. I broke my arm. When I was thirty-three and getting divorced, she said it again. And soon my kids became teenagers. But by then, I had it figured out. If things can get worse, it’s not the end of the world. Things will also get better. So if postponing the essay for a few minutes to Google “Zombie Facts” is the worst thing to happen today, life is pretty good.
Especially if there’s a chocolate chip cookie left.
This tale of zombie cookie love was first published in the February/March issue of The Wham Magazine.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Death Row Valedictorian
Somewhere down the long corridors of death row, wedged in between hatchet murderers and the people who skulk off and leave the office copier jammed, are the real menaces to society. Here, in a dim place where nobody’s day planner goes as far as the after dinner mint, dwell the people who cheered out loud at their child’s graduation.
What cruel lifetime drama brought them to this place? Are these people who held responsible jobs, or are they the type that siphon gas from an idling SUV to save a few hundred bucks at the pump? Loners, probably, who whiled away their time buying poster board at the 7-11 store every time Junior remembered that his science project was due in first period biology the next day. Trapped in the vacuum of stop-time, they raced for morning with an indelible marker in one hand and a bottle of Elmer’s school glue in the other.
Jump forward to graduation night: caps and gowns, sashes and speeches. And a reminder: Thou Shalt Not Jump With Glee When Your Child’s Name Is Announced. Failure to comply would result in A Very Bad Thing.
At my son’s high school graduation, we held our merrymaking like we held our breath. We bit our tongues so many times they were as tender as filet mignon. But one set of parents did not contain their exuberance so well.
After spending as much on school lunches, field trips, and fundraisers as Hillary spends on pantsuits, this set of parents could not contain a whoop and a cheer when their child’s name blasted from the loudspeaker and hovered like dwindling fireworks in the evening air.
The price of that happy shout? A $257 citation for disturbing the peace and a uniformed escort out of the stadium.
From the look on their faces, I’d say it was a bargain.
What cruel lifetime drama brought them to this place? Are these people who held responsible jobs, or are they the type that siphon gas from an idling SUV to save a few hundred bucks at the pump? Loners, probably, who whiled away their time buying poster board at the 7-11 store every time Junior remembered that his science project was due in first period biology the next day. Trapped in the vacuum of stop-time, they raced for morning with an indelible marker in one hand and a bottle of Elmer’s school glue in the other.
Jump forward to graduation night: caps and gowns, sashes and speeches. And a reminder: Thou Shalt Not Jump With Glee When Your Child’s Name Is Announced. Failure to comply would result in A Very Bad Thing.
At my son’s high school graduation, we held our merrymaking like we held our breath. We bit our tongues so many times they were as tender as filet mignon. But one set of parents did not contain their exuberance so well.
After spending as much on school lunches, field trips, and fundraisers as Hillary spends on pantsuits, this set of parents could not contain a whoop and a cheer when their child’s name blasted from the loudspeaker and hovered like dwindling fireworks in the evening air.
The price of that happy shout? A $257 citation for disturbing the peace and a uniformed escort out of the stadium.
From the look on their faces, I’d say it was a bargain.
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