I’m of the opinion that if you don’t see the sun rise over the ocean at least once in your life, you can’t get into heaven. It might not be on your bucket list, but it deserves a place on your sand pail and shovel agenda.
The Captain says today’s sunset is tomorrow’s early sunrise, so there’s no need to get up when dew is forming on the newspaper just to see one. If you’re upset about the direction, look at it in a mirror.
Our priorities are different. His are wrong.
Vacationing at the beach, I undertook to secure him a spot on the scenic side of the pearly gates when he finally goes to the big place computer techs go when they die, and although I’m uncomfortable mentioning gates and windows in that context, I don’t mean a big room with lots of windows and a high speed Internet connection and a billion users that know how to synch their own Blackberry.
It was 7:00 a.m. The sunlight streamed in the window like it was on a video loop. The Captain’s face was one with the pillow and held the relaxed, peaceful air of a summer firefly in the meadow.
Time to get up.
But how to facilitate the waking process without also calling the enemy to battle? He doesn’t always show the proper appreciation for my efforts to initiate husband-wife bonding time. After the last unpleasantness, I decided not to use the car alarm ploy again. The policeman that issued the warning seemed adamant about the possibility of a future fine.
Law enforcement officers that have gone all white around the mouth do not always make their point clear, so I’ve never been sure if the greater infraction was disturbing the peace or indecent exposure. And the fire was already out when they arrived, so that wasn't a factor.
I sat in bed, resting against the wicker headboard, celebrity magazine in hand. I try to improve my mind, even when my body is on vacation. You can’t fight too hard in the fashion battle, and this issue focused on Jessica Simpson’s shoes. Flipping pages like they were fan blades, I glanced over at the Captain. I’ve patented a look that will freeze jalepeno poppers, but to be considerate, I set my eyes to stun.
No response.
I cleared my throat meaningfully.
No response.
I repositioned myself repeatedly due to an uncomfortable wrinkle in the linens.
No response.
Inspired by the sheets, I succumbed to a previously undiscovered allergic reaction to thread count.
With a snort, he turned to face the other wall.
Somewhere on another street, possibly in another town, an unknown hand flipped a switch on a small countertop appliance, and a dark beverage began a slow drip into a pyrex pot. Nobody gives a wake up call like Mr. Coffee. Captain Caffeine sensed the change in the atmosphere immediately. If they could train him to sniff out bombs like he can track down freshly brewed coffee, he would always have a job as an airport monitor.
He sat up, sucking in air like Smokey the Bear on the trail of a forest campfire.
I padded to the kitchen and back bearing a cup filled with the drink that never sleeps.
He burst from the bedclothes like Superman from a 50’s era phone booth. “So, wanna go see the sunrise?”
“Sure, but you’d better gas up the car.”
“Why?”
“Because we’d have to travel three time zones toward the west to get a glimpse.”
He took a long drink from his mug. Some women go their whole lives without the caress that the Mickey Mouse on that cup was getting. The Captain leaned his head back and closed his eyes with a look of complete serenity.
“That’s okay. We’ll catch the next one tonight. Got a mirror?” He took a draw of coffee that made Mickey’s ears stretch and shot a boyish smile at me from across the room.
Just my luck. I have a plan to get to heaven and he finds the door right here on Earth.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Funniest Home Videos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Funniest Home Videos. Show all posts
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Virtually Unfit
"You haven’t exercised in ten years," My sister, seated on the couch behind me, cracked open another chocolate bar. "A couple of downward dogs aren’t going to help you now. Besides, it looks like those puppies are on the loose. Dogfighting is illegal, immoral, and—especially in this case—exceedingly unattractive.”
Some things, such as swimming against an undertow, require a buddy. And if I’m ever in that situation, Sis is the one I want with me. She’d feel right at home with the sharks.
Today, I wish she’d find a feeding frenzy somewhere else. I gaze down where my toes should be. Perhaps Yoga isn’t the right form of exercise for me. The only thing about me that stretches is the gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
With visions of myself in a flirty white skirt, I decide to try the virtual tennis competition on the boys’ video game. I attempt a saucy backhand, send the controller flying, and nail my sister so hard in the face that she has a Pause button imprinted on her forehead. I resist the urge to press the thing to see if it works.
Nobody warned me about the dangers of virtual sports. Before the day is over, I’ve got tennis elbow, swimmer’s ear, and I’m signed up for a guest shot on House as a candidate for mysterious complications from Tommy John surgery.
“Why don’t you make a video of yourself trying to zip your jeans and hold out for a part in WrestleMania?” she smirked.
I grinned, “And I’ve got a show for you too.”
“And that is. . .”
“The Biggest Loser. You're a natural.”
Some things, such as swimming against an undertow, require a buddy. And if I’m ever in that situation, Sis is the one I want with me. She’d feel right at home with the sharks.
Today, I wish she’d find a feeding frenzy somewhere else. I gaze down where my toes should be. Perhaps Yoga isn’t the right form of exercise for me. The only thing about me that stretches is the gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
With visions of myself in a flirty white skirt, I decide to try the virtual tennis competition on the boys’ video game. I attempt a saucy backhand, send the controller flying, and nail my sister so hard in the face that she has a Pause button imprinted on her forehead. I resist the urge to press the thing to see if it works.
Nobody warned me about the dangers of virtual sports. Before the day is over, I’ve got tennis elbow, swimmer’s ear, and I’m signed up for a guest shot on House as a candidate for mysterious complications from Tommy John surgery.
“Why don’t you make a video of yourself trying to zip your jeans and hold out for a part in WrestleMania?” she smirked.
I grinned, “And I’ve got a show for you too.”
“And that is. . .”
“The Biggest Loser. You're a natural.”
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Neighborly Advice
Ten Commandments for My New Neighbor
Living in a duplex, I go through neighbors like a family of cats goes through a five pound bag of litter that freshens with every step, and I have some friendly advice. If you want to make a go of it in this neighborhood, you’ll listen up and not staple this list to the hood of my car like the last guy did. If you want a reference from him, he is residing peacefully at Happy Acres Memorial Gardens. Feel free to use my name.
1. Old tents and ripped cushions in lawn furniture may be acceptably repaired with duct tape. Back windows in old Fords or open wounds on small children may not. Neither is it a substitute for nails and a willingness to locate a hammer when your mailbox has been detached from its post. A mailbox trussed to a wooden spike by thirty rounds of silver adhesive looking like a tin can with a toothache causes undue stress in an already unstable housing market.
2. John Deere makes a wide selection of lawn tractors. That six month old goat you’ve got tethered to a hubcap with three feet of heavy links like he’s the anchor man on a baby goat chain gang is not an acceptable substitute. Let’s send you out on a short leash to get the morning paper and see if you affect a change of heart.
3. In the future, please Just Say No to the idea of mowing the lawn clad only in your underwear. Indulge in a roomy pair of gym shorts and you’ll find yourself zipping up the popularity poll in the neighborhood before you know it.
4. A privacy fence is for, well, privacy. Please don’t launch your youngest child over the top of the fence like a punted football to find out what we’ve got cooking outside. We are not responsible for stray grill marks.
5. If you have a taste for loud music, please play something I know or can understand the words to. Having the tune to a rap song I don’t know stuck in my head will lead to my hanging about in your bushes trying to find out what words sound like “scratch my itch.”
6. A swimming pool is commonly used for swimming. I’m sure your new bass boat will skip over the lake like a flat stone, but trying out your new motor in the above-ground will result in an appearance on Funniest Home Videos. Remember there’s nothing to impede your progress toward the slime pit across the street except that scraggly row of dandelions you call a flower garden.
7. Please don’t sneak over under cover of darkness to partake of the blueberries on my bushes. I’ll be glad to share. Just like you’ll be glad to share that mess of freshly caught trout with me next summer. Also, I don’t mind if your kids climb the tree in my back yard to purloin fruit. But keep in mind the results from a morning filled with little green apples leads to an afternoon filled with personal aerobics of a stressful kind.
8. I understand if your Uncle Earl had an evening of social entertaining that leads to a hearty headache the next morning. But if any more of his “nieces” ring my doorbell at three in the morning clad in leopard-print hip boots and a leather halter top and ask to use my litter box, I’m calling Animal Control.
9. This is the South. We surpass just about everyone in the number of per capita lawn ornaments. But those plywood cutouts of Granny bending over to show her polka dot bloomers have been done to death. At least get something classy like one of those windmills that look like the roadrunner’s legs are going in a circle. Roadrunners are like pearls. They’re always appropriate.
10. Close your curtains. The neighbors don’t need to know that it was necessary to summon the Jaws of Life to your home for the sole purpose of retrieving your wife from the Jacuzzi.
11. Here's an extra commandment, just because I'm feeling festive. If your idea of decorating for Christmas is tying a sprig of mistletoe to the beltloop in the back of your pants, walk slowly past my driveway. I have a large dog who has issues with anything sporting a bushy tail. And by the way, unless your name is Jeff Foxworthy, we don't require proof that you're a redneck.
Attached you’ll find a request for samples from your garden for quality assurance purposes, a form for proof of vaccinations, and a sterile baggie for DNA testing. Merry Christmas and welcome to the neighborhood.
Living in a duplex, I go through neighbors like a family of cats goes through a five pound bag of litter that freshens with every step, and I have some friendly advice. If you want to make a go of it in this neighborhood, you’ll listen up and not staple this list to the hood of my car like the last guy did. If you want a reference from him, he is residing peacefully at Happy Acres Memorial Gardens. Feel free to use my name.
1. Old tents and ripped cushions in lawn furniture may be acceptably repaired with duct tape. Back windows in old Fords or open wounds on small children may not. Neither is it a substitute for nails and a willingness to locate a hammer when your mailbox has been detached from its post. A mailbox trussed to a wooden spike by thirty rounds of silver adhesive looking like a tin can with a toothache causes undue stress in an already unstable housing market.
2. John Deere makes a wide selection of lawn tractors. That six month old goat you’ve got tethered to a hubcap with three feet of heavy links like he’s the anchor man on a baby goat chain gang is not an acceptable substitute. Let’s send you out on a short leash to get the morning paper and see if you affect a change of heart.
3. In the future, please Just Say No to the idea of mowing the lawn clad only in your underwear. Indulge in a roomy pair of gym shorts and you’ll find yourself zipping up the popularity poll in the neighborhood before you know it.
4. A privacy fence is for, well, privacy. Please don’t launch your youngest child over the top of the fence like a punted football to find out what we’ve got cooking outside. We are not responsible for stray grill marks.
5. If you have a taste for loud music, please play something I know or can understand the words to. Having the tune to a rap song I don’t know stuck in my head will lead to my hanging about in your bushes trying to find out what words sound like “scratch my itch.”
6. A swimming pool is commonly used for swimming. I’m sure your new bass boat will skip over the lake like a flat stone, but trying out your new motor in the above-ground will result in an appearance on Funniest Home Videos. Remember there’s nothing to impede your progress toward the slime pit across the street except that scraggly row of dandelions you call a flower garden.
7. Please don’t sneak over under cover of darkness to partake of the blueberries on my bushes. I’ll be glad to share. Just like you’ll be glad to share that mess of freshly caught trout with me next summer. Also, I don’t mind if your kids climb the tree in my back yard to purloin fruit. But keep in mind the results from a morning filled with little green apples leads to an afternoon filled with personal aerobics of a stressful kind.
8. I understand if your Uncle Earl had an evening of social entertaining that leads to a hearty headache the next morning. But if any more of his “nieces” ring my doorbell at three in the morning clad in leopard-print hip boots and a leather halter top and ask to use my litter box, I’m calling Animal Control.
9. This is the South. We surpass just about everyone in the number of per capita lawn ornaments. But those plywood cutouts of Granny bending over to show her polka dot bloomers have been done to death. At least get something classy like one of those windmills that look like the roadrunner’s legs are going in a circle. Roadrunners are like pearls. They’re always appropriate.
10. Close your curtains. The neighbors don’t need to know that it was necessary to summon the Jaws of Life to your home for the sole purpose of retrieving your wife from the Jacuzzi.
11. Here's an extra commandment, just because I'm feeling festive. If your idea of decorating for Christmas is tying a sprig of mistletoe to the beltloop in the back of your pants, walk slowly past my driveway. I have a large dog who has issues with anything sporting a bushy tail. And by the way, unless your name is Jeff Foxworthy, we don't require proof that you're a redneck.
Attached you’ll find a request for samples from your garden for quality assurance purposes, a form for proof of vaccinations, and a sterile baggie for DNA testing. Merry Christmas and welcome to the neighborhood.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Core Care
This year I finally decided to try yoga as form of excercise to replace my previous routine of "No Exercise at All." Lately I can’t perform the “Trying to Tie My Shoe” dance in the privacy of my own grocery store without a friend pointing out snippily that yoga would strengthen my core muscles and give me balance.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible."
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on one foot and trying to catch my shoe strings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their downward dog faces somewhere else. Besides, given my motto of "no excess movement unless there is a fast-moving spider involved," it beats World Cup soccer as a form of exercise.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I could at least create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. That, and I also have a video camera and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and one in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of designer adult diapers for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When the teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. It doesn’t work the core muscles, but it sure beats trying to get up until an Emergency Responder carrying oxygen and a tow rope happens by to give you a hand. So if you happen across a woman with untied shoes stretched across the Weight Watchers aisle in the grocery store, step over her. It's me. I'm either finding inner peace or waiting for the tow truck to arrive.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible."
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on one foot and trying to catch my shoe strings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their downward dog faces somewhere else. Besides, given my motto of "no excess movement unless there is a fast-moving spider involved," it beats World Cup soccer as a form of exercise.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I could at least create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. That, and I also have a video camera and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and one in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of designer adult diapers for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When the teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. It doesn’t work the core muscles, but it sure beats trying to get up until an Emergency Responder carrying oxygen and a tow rope happens by to give you a hand. So if you happen across a woman with untied shoes stretched across the Weight Watchers aisle in the grocery store, step over her. It's me. I'm either finding inner peace or waiting for the tow truck to arrive.
Monday, March 15, 2010
I'll Take "No Clue" for $100, Alex
Because it’s human nature to forget pain, and also because I have the memory retention of an aquarium-based goldfish, I gather the family together in front of the TV every night to feed my Jeopardy addiction.
I may not rinse and spin with any degree of regularity, and if it's going to take me past starting time, the roast may just come out of the oven at half past rare, but at 7:30 Alex Trebek is going to find me poised on the edge of the recliner screaming, “Dust Bunnies for $100!”
I’m a perennial loser at Trivial Pursuit, I don’t store random facts about movie titles away in my cheeks for the winter, and I’m at the point in life when I have to slap a sticky note on my forehead to remind me why I’m looking in the mirror, but I’m going to get the video clue to finish out the category or die.
Meanwhile, my husband and two sons, human memory dumps in baseball caps, are spouting off the answers to history, science, and technology questions like it’s the entrance exam to Romper Room. By the time I get to answer a question, the Jeopardy music is giving way to a commercial featuring a bear in the woods.
I was an English Major. I can compare and contrast diction and theme in Shakespeare and Chaucer with one poet tied behind my back, but give me three seconds to come up with the name of Tex Ritter’s horse and I crash and burn.
The show ends, high fives are awarded all around and the living room empties. I feel like the last kid on the school bus.
“Oh sure, everybody leaves now,” I snarl. “I was about to stage a come from behind victory.”
“The show’s over, Mom.”
“Why don’t they have essay questions?”
“Because Alex Trebek is getting older. He doesn’t have enough time left to grade papers.”
That hurts. Alex was my first love. If it were up to him, I’d probably be the Vanna White of the light up board.
I pop back in the recliner, grab a handy copy of War and Peace and prepare to do some light reading.
I’ll get ’em tomorrow. Double Jeopardy or nothing.
I may not rinse and spin with any degree of regularity, and if it's going to take me past starting time, the roast may just come out of the oven at half past rare, but at 7:30 Alex Trebek is going to find me poised on the edge of the recliner screaming, “Dust Bunnies for $100!”
I’m a perennial loser at Trivial Pursuit, I don’t store random facts about movie titles away in my cheeks for the winter, and I’m at the point in life when I have to slap a sticky note on my forehead to remind me why I’m looking in the mirror, but I’m going to get the video clue to finish out the category or die.
Meanwhile, my husband and two sons, human memory dumps in baseball caps, are spouting off the answers to history, science, and technology questions like it’s the entrance exam to Romper Room. By the time I get to answer a question, the Jeopardy music is giving way to a commercial featuring a bear in the woods.
I was an English Major. I can compare and contrast diction and theme in Shakespeare and Chaucer with one poet tied behind my back, but give me three seconds to come up with the name of Tex Ritter’s horse and I crash and burn.
The show ends, high fives are awarded all around and the living room empties. I feel like the last kid on the school bus.
“Oh sure, everybody leaves now,” I snarl. “I was about to stage a come from behind victory.”
“The show’s over, Mom.”
“Why don’t they have essay questions?”
“Because Alex Trebek is getting older. He doesn’t have enough time left to grade papers.”
That hurts. Alex was my first love. If it were up to him, I’d probably be the Vanna White of the light up board.
I pop back in the recliner, grab a handy copy of War and Peace and prepare to do some light reading.
I’ll get ’em tomorrow. Double Jeopardy or nothing.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Ten Commandments for My New Neighbor
Living in a duplex, I go through neighbors like a family of cats goes through a five pound bag of litter that freshens with every step, and I have some friendly advice. If you want to make a go of it in this neighborhood, you’ll listen up and not staple this list to the hood of my car like the last guy did. If you want a reference from him, he is residing peacefully at Happy Acres Memorial Gardens. Feel free to use my name.
1. Old tents and ripped cushions in lawn furniture may be acceptably repaired with duct tape. Back windows in old Fords or open wounds on small children may not. Neither is it a substitute for nails and a willingness to locate a hammer when your mailbox has been detached from its post. A mailbox trussed to a wooden spike by thirty rounds of silver adhesive looking like a tin can with a toothache causes undue stress in an already unstable housing market.
2. John Deere makes a wide selection of lawn tractors. That six month old goat you’ve got tethered to a hubcap with three feet of heavy links like he’s the anchor man on a baby goat chain gang is not an acceptable substitute. Let’s send you out on a short leash to get the morning paper and see if you effect a change of heart.
3. Also, in the future please Just Say No to the idea of mowing the lawn clad only in your underwear. Indulge in a roomy pair of gym shorts and you’ll find yourself zipping up the neighborhood popularity poll before you know it.
4. A privacy fence is for, well, privacy. Please don’t launch your youngest child over the top of the fence like a punted football to find out what we’ve got cooking outside. We are not responsible for stray grill marks.
5. If you have a taste for loud music, please play something I know or can understand the words to. Having the tune to a rap song I don’t know stuck in my head will lead to my hanging about in your bushes trying to find out what words sound like “scratch my itch.”
6. A swimming pool is commonly used for swimming. I’m sure your new bass boat will skip over the lake like a flat stone, but trying out your new outboard motor in the above-ground will result in an appearance on Funniest Home Videos. Remember there’s nothing to impede your progress toward the slime pit across the street except that scraggly row of dandelions you call a flower garden.
7. Please don’t sneak over under cover of darkness to partake of the blueberries on my bushes. I’ll be glad to share. Just like you’ll be glad to share that mess of freshly caught, cleaned and chargrilled trout with me next summer. Also, I don’t mind if your kids climb the tree in my back yard to purloin fruit. But keep in mind the results from a morning filled with little green apples leads to an afternoon filled with personal aerobics of a stressful kind.
8. I understand if your Uncle Earl had an evening of social entertaining that leads to a hearty headache the next morning. But if any more of his “nieces” ring my doorbell at three in the morning clad in leopard-print hip boots and a leather halter top and ask to use my litter box, I’m calling Animal Control.
9. This is the South. We surpass just about everyone in the number of per capita lawn ornaments. But those plywood cutouts of Granny bending over to show her polka dot bloomers have been done to death. At least get something classy like one of those windmills that look like the roadrunner’s legs are going in a circle.
10. Close your curtains. The neighbors don’t need to know that the Jaws of Life was summoned to your home for the sole purpose of retrieving your wife from the Jacuzzi. Nor do we care how she plans to remove the dirty bathtub ring.
Attached you’ll find a request for samples from your garden for quality assurance purposes, a form absolving us of liability in cases of kitty prints found on the windshield of your Corvette, and a sterile baggie for DNA testing. Welcome to the neighborhood.
1. Old tents and ripped cushions in lawn furniture may be acceptably repaired with duct tape. Back windows in old Fords or open wounds on small children may not. Neither is it a substitute for nails and a willingness to locate a hammer when your mailbox has been detached from its post. A mailbox trussed to a wooden spike by thirty rounds of silver adhesive looking like a tin can with a toothache causes undue stress in an already unstable housing market.
2. John Deere makes a wide selection of lawn tractors. That six month old goat you’ve got tethered to a hubcap with three feet of heavy links like he’s the anchor man on a baby goat chain gang is not an acceptable substitute. Let’s send you out on a short leash to get the morning paper and see if you effect a change of heart.
3. Also, in the future please Just Say No to the idea of mowing the lawn clad only in your underwear. Indulge in a roomy pair of gym shorts and you’ll find yourself zipping up the neighborhood popularity poll before you know it.
4. A privacy fence is for, well, privacy. Please don’t launch your youngest child over the top of the fence like a punted football to find out what we’ve got cooking outside. We are not responsible for stray grill marks.
5. If you have a taste for loud music, please play something I know or can understand the words to. Having the tune to a rap song I don’t know stuck in my head will lead to my hanging about in your bushes trying to find out what words sound like “scratch my itch.”
6. A swimming pool is commonly used for swimming. I’m sure your new bass boat will skip over the lake like a flat stone, but trying out your new outboard motor in the above-ground will result in an appearance on Funniest Home Videos. Remember there’s nothing to impede your progress toward the slime pit across the street except that scraggly row of dandelions you call a flower garden.
7. Please don’t sneak over under cover of darkness to partake of the blueberries on my bushes. I’ll be glad to share. Just like you’ll be glad to share that mess of freshly caught, cleaned and chargrilled trout with me next summer. Also, I don’t mind if your kids climb the tree in my back yard to purloin fruit. But keep in mind the results from a morning filled with little green apples leads to an afternoon filled with personal aerobics of a stressful kind.
8. I understand if your Uncle Earl had an evening of social entertaining that leads to a hearty headache the next morning. But if any more of his “nieces” ring my doorbell at three in the morning clad in leopard-print hip boots and a leather halter top and ask to use my litter box, I’m calling Animal Control.
9. This is the South. We surpass just about everyone in the number of per capita lawn ornaments. But those plywood cutouts of Granny bending over to show her polka dot bloomers have been done to death. At least get something classy like one of those windmills that look like the roadrunner’s legs are going in a circle.
10. Close your curtains. The neighbors don’t need to know that the Jaws of Life was summoned to your home for the sole purpose of retrieving your wife from the Jacuzzi. Nor do we care how she plans to remove the dirty bathtub ring.
Attached you’ll find a request for samples from your garden for quality assurance purposes, a form absolving us of liability in cases of kitty prints found on the windshield of your Corvette, and a sterile baggie for DNA testing. Welcome to the neighborhood.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Just a Jolly Holiday with Medication
True to tradition, my family celebrated the holiday weekend with liberal doses of picnics and prescription medication. Nothing says family fun like an undisclosed rash and a husband on muscle relaxers. I tried to schedule a major household appliance malfunction with expensive repairs as well, but it seems like no matter how hard you try, you just can’t fit everything into one weekend.
Let’s start at the beginning.
I love the outdoors. No matter how hectic my schedule may be, I try to peer outside through the dust on the living room blinds at least once a day. The stunning view of the sunshine on the amber waves of weeds helps me not to take my air conditioner with allergy filter for granted.
Given that I’ve even tailored my workout schedule (fork lifts and refrigerator bends—who put the mustard behind last month’s pot roast, anyway) to staying inside, it’s hard to fathom how I managed to cover myself in poison ivy. But cover I did, wall to wall, ankle to elbow. It's still showing up, so I can't name all the body parts affected specifically yet, but it's already passed PG-13 and is steaming upstream toward an R rating.
A friend told me to rub banana peels on the rash to stop the itching. I tried that but I still itch, and now I’m craving cornflakes. And I’ve got a Chiquita sticker on my fanny pack. I've also got a husband who is out for the count when it comes to spreading on calamine lotion.
Which brings us to our feature presentation.
Experts polled at my kitchen table this morning agreed that after the age of 50 it is best not to attempt dangerous feats best left to a professional, such as rerouting the plumbing or bending over to tie your own shoelaces. Bill Dear, a daredevil of the highest order, having not long ago fixed the dryer all by himself with only one extracurricular part procured from ebay, chose to pick a holiday weekend when all doctors are off practicing surgery on home-grilled two-inch thick fillet mignons smothered in steak sauce and sautéed onions, to test his limits by bending over on purpose.
The resulting muscle spasm extravaganza threw him to the floor like Luke Skywalker on the receiving end of the Emperor’s wrath and required the requisite holiday visit to Urgent Care where he twice found himself on the business end of a pointy needle full of “happy place” medication in the form of muscle relaxers and pain killers.
Once back at the house, the patient began to exhibit mannerisms that lead us to believe the medication was taking affect and so, as they often will, the resident young people, with the spirit of their youth and the logistical problem solving ability they’ve learned in classes of higher mathematics and unsupervised homeroom, set up the video camera to photograph our hero in the throes of muscle relaxer mellowness. I didn’t even realize he knew the Lumberjack Song in German.
Of course, in keeping with the festivities, the toilet overflowed, the dog chose that moment to indulge in a particularly ambitious case of diarrhea, and the cat threw up on the living room carpet.
Given the nature of our traditional holiday celebrations, I’m considering signing up to work overtime on the Fourth of July.
But for now, I’m faced with a more urgent problem.
Should I go straight to You Tube with the Bill Dear footage or save it for a special Xtreme Edition of Funniest Home Videos?
Let’s start at the beginning.
I love the outdoors. No matter how hectic my schedule may be, I try to peer outside through the dust on the living room blinds at least once a day. The stunning view of the sunshine on the amber waves of weeds helps me not to take my air conditioner with allergy filter for granted.
Given that I’ve even tailored my workout schedule (fork lifts and refrigerator bends—who put the mustard behind last month’s pot roast, anyway) to staying inside, it’s hard to fathom how I managed to cover myself in poison ivy. But cover I did, wall to wall, ankle to elbow. It's still showing up, so I can't name all the body parts affected specifically yet, but it's already passed PG-13 and is steaming upstream toward an R rating.
A friend told me to rub banana peels on the rash to stop the itching. I tried that but I still itch, and now I’m craving cornflakes. And I’ve got a Chiquita sticker on my fanny pack. I've also got a husband who is out for the count when it comes to spreading on calamine lotion.
Which brings us to our feature presentation.
Experts polled at my kitchen table this morning agreed that after the age of 50 it is best not to attempt dangerous feats best left to a professional, such as rerouting the plumbing or bending over to tie your own shoelaces. Bill Dear, a daredevil of the highest order, having not long ago fixed the dryer all by himself with only one extracurricular part procured from ebay, chose to pick a holiday weekend when all doctors are off practicing surgery on home-grilled two-inch thick fillet mignons smothered in steak sauce and sautéed onions, to test his limits by bending over on purpose.
The resulting muscle spasm extravaganza threw him to the floor like Luke Skywalker on the receiving end of the Emperor’s wrath and required the requisite holiday visit to Urgent Care where he twice found himself on the business end of a pointy needle full of “happy place” medication in the form of muscle relaxers and pain killers.
Once back at the house, the patient began to exhibit mannerisms that lead us to believe the medication was taking affect and so, as they often will, the resident young people, with the spirit of their youth and the logistical problem solving ability they’ve learned in classes of higher mathematics and unsupervised homeroom, set up the video camera to photograph our hero in the throes of muscle relaxer mellowness. I didn’t even realize he knew the Lumberjack Song in German.
Of course, in keeping with the festivities, the toilet overflowed, the dog chose that moment to indulge in a particularly ambitious case of diarrhea, and the cat threw up on the living room carpet.
Given the nature of our traditional holiday celebrations, I’m considering signing up to work overtime on the Fourth of July.
But for now, I’m faced with a more urgent problem.
Should I go straight to You Tube with the Bill Dear footage or save it for a special Xtreme Edition of Funniest Home Videos?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
First
Today there is change. I watched the inauguration with my teenaged son, which is sort of like inviting the Incredible Hulk to the opera, only without the purple pants.
“You want to watch the inauguration?” I asked, eyeing the living room’s big screen TV.
“Ummm. No,” he answered, sending a random Italian pizza maker to his death with the push of a button.
So, strictly speaking, we didn’t watch the inauguration together, but we were in the same house. While he was playing video games in the living room, I was in the bedroom with Barack Obama, his wife, Michelle, and about 40 zillion other American citizens. But the door was open. AND I had the sound up.
Two months ago, we packed the car full of hope for the future and took the kids to vote. Taking your kids to vote in their first presidential election is like baking biscuits without a recipe for the first time. You know you put in all the right ingredients, but you’re iffy on the amounts of everything, not quite sure if you left something important out by mistake, and you hope you turn out with a basic building block of sustenance and not a crumbly mess that falls to the floor and sticks to the bottom of your shoe.
We didn’t all vote for the same candidate. Of course, out of the four of us we can barely get two to agree what to eat for supper, so it’s probably too much to ask that we see eye-to-eye on the person who will hold the highest office in our nation. The only thing we ever agree on is the need for high speed Internet access, and even then fights break out about cost, time-sharing, and the reliability of Wikipedia for research purposes.
But no matter who you voted for, Inauguration Day is about the American people, exercising the right to be governed in a way that gives them a voice. Come to think of it, sometimes I’d willingly vote for the candidate who could do something about the voices in my house.
“Why does it matter that he’s black?’ says the kid who has always used race more for identification purposes than anything else. His posse has more different nationalities than the opening ceremonies at the Olympic games. He’s as likely to say, “the tan kid with the curly hair” as he is “the one in the green shirt” or “that kid who’s so awesome on Guitar Hero.”
“He’s the first African American president. That’s historically important.”
“I’m the second Pokemon Professor in South Carolina. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Well, I’m proud of you, but people traditionally celebrate the first person to do something. The first black president. The first man on the moon. See?”
“I have a Pokemon Professor T Shirt.”
“Mr. Obama has a plan to revive America’s economy.”
“Does he have a T Shirt?”
About that time an enthusiastic supporter waving to the cameras on the National Mall held up a T Shirt of the first family, featuring a smiling Mr. & Mrs. Obama and their two daughters.
I grinned. “Yep. There it is.”
He studied the television screen and shook his head. “Well it’s a good thing he got the job. Maybe now he can get his own T Shirt instead of having to share.”
“You want to watch the inauguration?” I asked, eyeing the living room’s big screen TV.
“Ummm. No,” he answered, sending a random Italian pizza maker to his death with the push of a button.
So, strictly speaking, we didn’t watch the inauguration together, but we were in the same house. While he was playing video games in the living room, I was in the bedroom with Barack Obama, his wife, Michelle, and about 40 zillion other American citizens. But the door was open. AND I had the sound up.
Two months ago, we packed the car full of hope for the future and took the kids to vote. Taking your kids to vote in their first presidential election is like baking biscuits without a recipe for the first time. You know you put in all the right ingredients, but you’re iffy on the amounts of everything, not quite sure if you left something important out by mistake, and you hope you turn out with a basic building block of sustenance and not a crumbly mess that falls to the floor and sticks to the bottom of your shoe.
We didn’t all vote for the same candidate. Of course, out of the four of us we can barely get two to agree what to eat for supper, so it’s probably too much to ask that we see eye-to-eye on the person who will hold the highest office in our nation. The only thing we ever agree on is the need for high speed Internet access, and even then fights break out about cost, time-sharing, and the reliability of Wikipedia for research purposes.
But no matter who you voted for, Inauguration Day is about the American people, exercising the right to be governed in a way that gives them a voice. Come to think of it, sometimes I’d willingly vote for the candidate who could do something about the voices in my house.
“Why does it matter that he’s black?’ says the kid who has always used race more for identification purposes than anything else. His posse has more different nationalities than the opening ceremonies at the Olympic games. He’s as likely to say, “the tan kid with the curly hair” as he is “the one in the green shirt” or “that kid who’s so awesome on Guitar Hero.”
“He’s the first African American president. That’s historically important.”
“I’m the second Pokemon Professor in South Carolina. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Well, I’m proud of you, but people traditionally celebrate the first person to do something. The first black president. The first man on the moon. See?”
“I have a Pokemon Professor T Shirt.”
“Mr. Obama has a plan to revive America’s economy.”
“Does he have a T Shirt?”
About that time an enthusiastic supporter waving to the cameras on the National Mall held up a T Shirt of the first family, featuring a smiling Mr. & Mrs. Obama and their two daughters.
I grinned. “Yep. There it is.”
He studied the television screen and shook his head. “Well it’s a good thing he got the job. Maybe now he can get his own T Shirt instead of having to share.”
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Gold Medal Glitches-Part I
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, so did platform shoes.
The girls in my gym class took turns attempting to mount the balance beam in a Chinese split, a form of torture perfected in the Far East many years ago to punish women for attempting outlandish and dangerous feats like voting, or cooking meals that didn’t involve rice.
Nobody made it. Too timid, I thought, gauging the distance and velocity ratio with as much accuracy as I now figure my daily calorie intake; an amazing display of mental dexterity that explains why I wear tent dresses and stretchy pants today.
Two hops and a judicious lack of common sense later, my priorities underwent a drastic change as I reconsidered my strategy and position, both of which suddenly seemed to have tiny flaws I overlooked in my original calculations.
Hanging upside down from a balance beam isn’t much different from hanging upside down from the roof of a cave, except the bat hanging in the cave probably doesn’t have much to fear in the way of peer pressure. As my personal dignity trickled out my ear, and just before I hit the floor, I gave some thought to trying to figure out how to dismount gracefully without introducing wandering dust bunnies into my hairdo.
That was the moment when I realized that the closest I would come to Olympic gold would be to hang a Wheaties box on a ribbon around my neck.
Luckily the whole thing took place before the onset of teeming hordes of paparazzi or Funniest Home Videos. But the whole memory stirs my competitive spirit and inspires me to excel. Perhaps tonight I’ll try and find my toes.
I’ll need a large pile of safety mats, six rolls of gauze bandages, and a map.
The girls in my gym class took turns attempting to mount the balance beam in a Chinese split, a form of torture perfected in the Far East many years ago to punish women for attempting outlandish and dangerous feats like voting, or cooking meals that didn’t involve rice.
Nobody made it. Too timid, I thought, gauging the distance and velocity ratio with as much accuracy as I now figure my daily calorie intake; an amazing display of mental dexterity that explains why I wear tent dresses and stretchy pants today.
Two hops and a judicious lack of common sense later, my priorities underwent a drastic change as I reconsidered my strategy and position, both of which suddenly seemed to have tiny flaws I overlooked in my original calculations.
Hanging upside down from a balance beam isn’t much different from hanging upside down from the roof of a cave, except the bat hanging in the cave probably doesn’t have much to fear in the way of peer pressure. As my personal dignity trickled out my ear, and just before I hit the floor, I gave some thought to trying to figure out how to dismount gracefully without introducing wandering dust bunnies into my hairdo.
That was the moment when I realized that the closest I would come to Olympic gold would be to hang a Wheaties box on a ribbon around my neck.
Luckily the whole thing took place before the onset of teeming hordes of paparazzi or Funniest Home Videos. But the whole memory stirs my competitive spirit and inspires me to excel. Perhaps tonight I’ll try and find my toes.
I’ll need a large pile of safety mats, six rolls of gauze bandages, and a map.
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