Today while I was in the shower, I heard a noise, which with bathroom acoustics being what they are, I took either for sixteen cats purring in the bathroom or Seal Team Six landing a squadron of helicopters on the roof.
Having dealt closely with cats before, I was hoping for a Seal Team Meet and Greet, when I realized the sound was coming from what I call the Captain’s “Public Appearance Basket.” This is the caddy that holds his assorted shavers and is as organized as Arnold Palmer's golf bag.
Why is it that men need a separate electric device to groom each individual body part? Give me a plastic Bic disposable and I can be Barbie-doll smooth in ten minutes. I’ve shaved my legs in a moving car, with one leg in the bathroom sink, and flamingo-style in a wading pool surrounded by toddlers who were probably compromising water purity the entire time.
The Captain has an electric razor with more whirling blades than the Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber, a streamlined razor-type thingy to handle smaller land masses such as peninsulas and the ever-popular soul patch area, and a tiny precision shaver that I’m pretty sure is for his belly button.
Why one man, even one who is covered in fur from stem to stern, needs more grooming tools than a prizewinning Poodle is beyond me. Luckily he keeps his winter coat, because if we had to plug in a device to shave that chest, it would short out every television on the block and have Black Ops fans pounding our door with video game controllers.
In the old days, before the kids were teenagers, the Captain had something we called “hair” which he styled with with an intricate device known to adults as a "comb." Now he has “ears” which are to a shaved head what pebbles are to a sand garden.
He has a shaver that is the grooming equivalent of a Zamboni that I use to prepare his head for public viewing. After the bloodletting incident of ’09, we developed a plan called “Good God, What Have You Done!” and he handles the delicate ear area with a tiny weedeater designed especially for the purpose.
At least in my new role as “ The Barber of Severe,” I’m learning a whole new approach to language. To me, “Buzz Off” means “Keep Out of My Airspace.” To the Captain, it’s just another haircut.
Laugh
Showing posts with label bathroom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bathroom. Show all posts
Monday, November 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Fun with Lawn Care
“If I don’t come back, remember me for who I was!”
Jeffrey is on his way outside to cut the grass. He is 20 years old and displays a significant tendency toward the dramatic. Cutting the grass rates almost as high on the enjoyment of life scale as going shopping for foundations with his mother, something he has steadfastly refused to be a part of since he was four years old and I asked him publicly whether to get the T Rex or the Superman briefs.
His grass cutting clothes are cleverly designed to protect him from his arch enemy, sunlight. He is sporting sweat pants, a black T-shirt with a dashing dragon motif, and a camouflage jacket. The sun will never recognize him.
However, the fire ants who dwell in communes throughout the neighborhood think he’s a walking hors d’oeuvre, and scramble to assemble relay teams designed to bring back tender flesh for a glorious repast. These are some of nature’s most bloodthirsty creatures and should be required to post Predator signs in front of their homes and turn off their porch lights on Halloween.
The fire ants did not reckon with the maze of clothing covering Jeffrey’s body, which has not been exposed to the air since he emerged from the birth canal. They reconnoiter and launch an attack on the Captain, who, as chief officer in charge of Virginia creeper, is supervising the ordeal. His sole defense is a pair of hiking boots and the ability to swear like a seaman in several different languages.
I’ve heard that grits are to fire ants what Kryptonite is to the Man of Steel, so as Bill dances past the back door, I spring into action, flinging packet after packet of stone ground goodness at his convulsive form.
You'd think a person would be more appreciative of the help. But if I’m ever in Germany, I’ll know what to say if someone cuts me off in traffic.
Meanwhile Jeffrey has mowed the front lawn in a fairly accurate representation of legendary crop circles, and is showering—probably still wearing the camo jacket—in the guest bathroom with the fancy soap.
By the time the Captain recovers from the fire ant fox trot, Jeffrey will have left the building, borrowed the car, and forgotten the trauma of having parents.
I peer out the front door. The circles cut into the lawn resemble a peaceful rippling pattern. In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten to remind Jeffrey to feed the dog, empty the dishwasher, or clean his room.
They say in the old days families had handfuls of children to help with the planting and harvesting of crops, taking care of the livestock, and seeing to the household chores.
I don’t see how they got anything done.
Jeffrey is on his way outside to cut the grass. He is 20 years old and displays a significant tendency toward the dramatic. Cutting the grass rates almost as high on the enjoyment of life scale as going shopping for foundations with his mother, something he has steadfastly refused to be a part of since he was four years old and I asked him publicly whether to get the T Rex or the Superman briefs.
His grass cutting clothes are cleverly designed to protect him from his arch enemy, sunlight. He is sporting sweat pants, a black T-shirt with a dashing dragon motif, and a camouflage jacket. The sun will never recognize him.
However, the fire ants who dwell in communes throughout the neighborhood think he’s a walking hors d’oeuvre, and scramble to assemble relay teams designed to bring back tender flesh for a glorious repast. These are some of nature’s most bloodthirsty creatures and should be required to post Predator signs in front of their homes and turn off their porch lights on Halloween.
The fire ants did not reckon with the maze of clothing covering Jeffrey’s body, which has not been exposed to the air since he emerged from the birth canal. They reconnoiter and launch an attack on the Captain, who, as chief officer in charge of Virginia creeper, is supervising the ordeal. His sole defense is a pair of hiking boots and the ability to swear like a seaman in several different languages.
I’ve heard that grits are to fire ants what Kryptonite is to the Man of Steel, so as Bill dances past the back door, I spring into action, flinging packet after packet of stone ground goodness at his convulsive form.
You'd think a person would be more appreciative of the help. But if I’m ever in Germany, I’ll know what to say if someone cuts me off in traffic.
Meanwhile Jeffrey has mowed the front lawn in a fairly accurate representation of legendary crop circles, and is showering—probably still wearing the camo jacket—in the guest bathroom with the fancy soap.
By the time the Captain recovers from the fire ant fox trot, Jeffrey will have left the building, borrowed the car, and forgotten the trauma of having parents.
I peer out the front door. The circles cut into the lawn resemble a peaceful rippling pattern. In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten to remind Jeffrey to feed the dog, empty the dishwasher, or clean his room.
They say in the old days families had handfuls of children to help with the planting and harvesting of crops, taking care of the livestock, and seeing to the household chores.
I don’t see how they got anything done.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Locked Out and Loaded
Dear Lock People,
I can see why you are very proud of your product. I, too, would aspire to make the very best lock ever to nestle in throwaway packaging if I were in your place. Keeping things safe and secure is your business.
However, I am writing because I sense a flaw in your vision. Although it is essential for the very best of products to lock, I find it can be just as important for such an item to unlock, thereby instilling a sense of calm in the person standing outside the door with several bags of groceries, who wants to come in out of the rain and deposit the bags on the kitchen counter just inside the door.
From my vantage point on the steps I can see:
1. The kitchen counter, bare of grocery bags.
2. Two large dogs and a small salami-shaped dog, who sense my presence outside the door.
3. The garbage can in the act of performing a one and a half gainer, which is due to the fact that the dogs are very excited that I am outside the door. Labradors express great joy by flinging coffee grounds throughout the house in a sort of native doggie dance of abandon.
Looking down, I can also see that the gourmet ice cream, double chocolate Moose Tracks, that I bought as a reward for cleaning out the refrigerator and starting on a new exercise regime has begun to melt and is, even now, performing a kind of scientific experiment with the bottom of the paper bag.
I now regret choosing paper instead of plastic in an attempt to throw myself in with the ecologically-minded set who have actually already abandoned paper for recyclable bags made from reconstituted shower caps.
I also regret my new exercise regime, which consists of one sit-up, performed with the aid of two inquisitive Labradors striving to certify my identity as I became one with the dust bunnies and a small, insistent splinter on the floor. Because I accomplished the sit-up and passed the canine equivalent of a TSA patdown, I now have semi-soft Moose nuggets in my shoe.
In case you have questions of user error in mind, I have already checked the key in my hand to ascertain that it does not fit:
My car
My husband’s car
My diary
I am also pleased to announce that I discovered that the reason the door wouldn’t open when I pressed the button marked “unlock” on my key fob is that the unlock button only works on the doors to the car, which is presently flashing its lights and honking its horn in a psychotic attempt to alert passersby to the fact that I'm locked out of my house with overloaded bags of food, free for those who don't mind jacking a gallon of warm milk and six thawed Lean Cuisine dinners featuring limp pasta from a hysterical woman who resembles your mother on the day you decided to move back home.
In typical fashion all this serves to accomplish is to draw the attention of the cat, who skitters toward the door and finds, to her delight, the puddle of Moose Tracks that is oozing down my leg.
So just now I am trying to shake the cat off my leg, juggle the groceries, coerce the dogs to turn the deadbolt, and ram the key far enough into the lock to solve all our problems. If I had an extra limb, I would use it to do a Google Earth search on my iPhone to find your exact location.
And do you know what I’m thinking, Lock People? I’m thinking that if I had your Quality Control guy right here in front on me, I would whittle a key out of whichever part of him was most likely to conform to the crooked little slot that is barring me from tracking melted Moose Tracks, wet kitty, and a squishy thing stuck in the treads of my hiking boots into the kitchen and through the coffee grounds and orange peels to get to my dancing dogs.
Do you know what else I’m thinking? I’m thinking that the packaging for this handy doorknob/lock combination, which the Captain tossed nonchalantly in the garbage a year ago when he was installing this product, said “Lifetime Guarantee.” And I’m wishing I had read the fine print then to see which mayfly’s lifetime you used as a basis for this guarantee, because that's exactly how long yours is going to be once we meet to assign blame.
But for now, I am going to kick the door with my shoe until my son, who is downstairs engrossed in perfecting his score on the Let’s Sweat section of Just Dance, feels the vibration and experiences the tsunami it starts in the toilet in the guest bathroom.
When he finally opens the door, I am going to call you on the telephone and invite you over for ice cream.
And coffee grounds.
And you know what? You may keep this invitation to use at any time.
It has a lifetime guarantee.
I can see why you are very proud of your product. I, too, would aspire to make the very best lock ever to nestle in throwaway packaging if I were in your place. Keeping things safe and secure is your business.
However, I am writing because I sense a flaw in your vision. Although it is essential for the very best of products to lock, I find it can be just as important for such an item to unlock, thereby instilling a sense of calm in the person standing outside the door with several bags of groceries, who wants to come in out of the rain and deposit the bags on the kitchen counter just inside the door.
From my vantage point on the steps I can see:
1. The kitchen counter, bare of grocery bags.
2. Two large dogs and a small salami-shaped dog, who sense my presence outside the door.
3. The garbage can in the act of performing a one and a half gainer, which is due to the fact that the dogs are very excited that I am outside the door. Labradors express great joy by flinging coffee grounds throughout the house in a sort of native doggie dance of abandon.
Looking down, I can also see that the gourmet ice cream, double chocolate Moose Tracks, that I bought as a reward for cleaning out the refrigerator and starting on a new exercise regime has begun to melt and is, even now, performing a kind of scientific experiment with the bottom of the paper bag.
I now regret choosing paper instead of plastic in an attempt to throw myself in with the ecologically-minded set who have actually already abandoned paper for recyclable bags made from reconstituted shower caps.
I also regret my new exercise regime, which consists of one sit-up, performed with the aid of two inquisitive Labradors striving to certify my identity as I became one with the dust bunnies and a small, insistent splinter on the floor. Because I accomplished the sit-up and passed the canine equivalent of a TSA patdown, I now have semi-soft Moose nuggets in my shoe.
In case you have questions of user error in mind, I have already checked the key in my hand to ascertain that it does not fit:
My car
My husband’s car
My diary
I am also pleased to announce that I discovered that the reason the door wouldn’t open when I pressed the button marked “unlock” on my key fob is that the unlock button only works on the doors to the car, which is presently flashing its lights and honking its horn in a psychotic attempt to alert passersby to the fact that I'm locked out of my house with overloaded bags of food, free for those who don't mind jacking a gallon of warm milk and six thawed Lean Cuisine dinners featuring limp pasta from a hysterical woman who resembles your mother on the day you decided to move back home.
In typical fashion all this serves to accomplish is to draw the attention of the cat, who skitters toward the door and finds, to her delight, the puddle of Moose Tracks that is oozing down my leg.
So just now I am trying to shake the cat off my leg, juggle the groceries, coerce the dogs to turn the deadbolt, and ram the key far enough into the lock to solve all our problems. If I had an extra limb, I would use it to do a Google Earth search on my iPhone to find your exact location.
And do you know what I’m thinking, Lock People? I’m thinking that if I had your Quality Control guy right here in front on me, I would whittle a key out of whichever part of him was most likely to conform to the crooked little slot that is barring me from tracking melted Moose Tracks, wet kitty, and a squishy thing stuck in the treads of my hiking boots into the kitchen and through the coffee grounds and orange peels to get to my dancing dogs.
Do you know what else I’m thinking? I’m thinking that the packaging for this handy doorknob/lock combination, which the Captain tossed nonchalantly in the garbage a year ago when he was installing this product, said “Lifetime Guarantee.” And I’m wishing I had read the fine print then to see which mayfly’s lifetime you used as a basis for this guarantee, because that's exactly how long yours is going to be once we meet to assign blame.
But for now, I am going to kick the door with my shoe until my son, who is downstairs engrossed in perfecting his score on the Let’s Sweat section of Just Dance, feels the vibration and experiences the tsunami it starts in the toilet in the guest bathroom.
When he finally opens the door, I am going to call you on the telephone and invite you over for ice cream.
And coffee grounds.
And you know what? You may keep this invitation to use at any time.
It has a lifetime guarantee.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Muddy Waters
“The water’s brown.”
“It’s supposed to be brown. I’ve been cleaning stuff.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just smear mud on the clean spots?”
“It’s November. There’s enough mudslinging without me joining in.”
Cleaning the bathroom is a lot like electing a President. You need to wipe away all traces of anything nasty and create a sparkling platform that will stand up to all the dirt that will come to light later on.
This weekend, as I sprawled on the bathroom floor peering into corners that don’t always (um, ever) receive the full scope of my attention, I couldn’t help but think of the upcoming elections. There’s not a presidential candidate at stake, but given the choices on the ballot I found myself wishing I could scoop back through the litter box for some better alternatives.
I’m from South Carolina, an area where throwing your hat into the ring involves more hat tricks than rings and there’s not anybody in the limelight I’d want to tip my cap to without keeping a firm hand on my wallet.
“Trouble?” The Captain of my Scrub Boat lounged in the doorway, sipping coffee and checking his watch. He likes a clean bathroom as much as anybody, but once the scrubbing bubbles crowd lunchtime, he’s done with the dirty work. Besides, it’s his job to contain the mess I make when cleaning, and this time it could take a village just to get me off the floor.
“Toss me that sponge. I can’t get rid of this mystery spot.”
“That’s no mystery. It’s barbecue sauce.”
“Do I want to know the whole story?”
“It involves chicken nuggets.”
“Oh.”
“And the dog.”
“Never mind.”
“You don’t see any stray french fries down there, do you?”
“No, but there’s something in the litter box that I don’t plan to investigate.”
After a while I found that I’d scrubbed my way into a space up against the wall and it was either make a dramatic exit through the window or track dirty footprints back the way I’d come. Life is full of those times when neither choice sounds beneficial.
“Help!”
Cap appeared again in the doorway. “It's lunchtime. Need a life preserver?”
“I’ve backed myself into a corner.”
“Step on these newspapers and then grab my hand.” He laid the front page and the comics to make a pathway to the door. I never thought about it before, but they seemed to work well together and I followed the newsprint road to the door.
Free at last, I look backed to admire the morning’s work. The floor was spotless except for the tiny corner where I’d been stranded.
“Not bad for a morning’s work,” I grinned. Everything’s clean except one place that’s hidden behind the closet door, and I have somebody who can give me a hand when I’m in a tight spot.
I can’t think of a better way to celebrate Election Day.
“It’s supposed to be brown. I’ve been cleaning stuff.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just smear mud on the clean spots?”
“It’s November. There’s enough mudslinging without me joining in.”
Cleaning the bathroom is a lot like electing a President. You need to wipe away all traces of anything nasty and create a sparkling platform that will stand up to all the dirt that will come to light later on.
This weekend, as I sprawled on the bathroom floor peering into corners that don’t always (um, ever) receive the full scope of my attention, I couldn’t help but think of the upcoming elections. There’s not a presidential candidate at stake, but given the choices on the ballot I found myself wishing I could scoop back through the litter box for some better alternatives.
I’m from South Carolina, an area where throwing your hat into the ring involves more hat tricks than rings and there’s not anybody in the limelight I’d want to tip my cap to without keeping a firm hand on my wallet.
“Trouble?” The Captain of my Scrub Boat lounged in the doorway, sipping coffee and checking his watch. He likes a clean bathroom as much as anybody, but once the scrubbing bubbles crowd lunchtime, he’s done with the dirty work. Besides, it’s his job to contain the mess I make when cleaning, and this time it could take a village just to get me off the floor.
“Toss me that sponge. I can’t get rid of this mystery spot.”
“That’s no mystery. It’s barbecue sauce.”
“Do I want to know the whole story?”
“It involves chicken nuggets.”
“Oh.”
“And the dog.”
“Never mind.”
“You don’t see any stray french fries down there, do you?”
“No, but there’s something in the litter box that I don’t plan to investigate.”
After a while I found that I’d scrubbed my way into a space up against the wall and it was either make a dramatic exit through the window or track dirty footprints back the way I’d come. Life is full of those times when neither choice sounds beneficial.
“Help!”
Cap appeared again in the doorway. “It's lunchtime. Need a life preserver?”
“I’ve backed myself into a corner.”
“Step on these newspapers and then grab my hand.” He laid the front page and the comics to make a pathway to the door. I never thought about it before, but they seemed to work well together and I followed the newsprint road to the door.
Free at last, I look backed to admire the morning’s work. The floor was spotless except for the tiny corner where I’d been stranded.
“Not bad for a morning’s work,” I grinned. Everything’s clean except one place that’s hidden behind the closet door, and I have somebody who can give me a hand when I’m in a tight spot.
I can’t think of a better way to celebrate Election Day.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Special Delivery
For a while, the Captain of our Kennel discovered he could waylay any latent longings for new experiences in motherhood I might display with the addition of a new pet. Pets aren’t less expensive than children, but in rare cases their obedience training is actually effective. I am now the Angelina Jolie of the animal world. Presently I have six animals representing various cultures lounging on the living room furniture, ringing for takeout.
The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.
I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.
It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.
The cats are no trouble. They thrive on indifference. And aloe plants. Aloe plants that you’ve pampered and promised roomy new pots to if only they will “Live, please, live just one more day!” Shortly after a feline gourmet vegetarian meal, you will discover that fillet of aloe plant makes them puke fancy green spearmint gum-type designs on the new living room plush.
I can also keep up with the Labradors. Chunk a ball down the driveway and they will knit themselves into a scarf trying to be the first to grab it up and chew it like Double Bubble. Big dogs are easy. They know they’re dogs (okay, they also know they’re people and feel entitled to at least half of your sandwich, but that’s another thing entirely.) The thing is, they EXPECT to chase a ball and to be invited outside of the house for personal chores, such as watering topiaries and chasing squirrels. They come in the house to sleep or to help with the vacuuming or to beg for potato chips.
It’s the Dachshund that gives me trouble.
So far she has successfully trained me to retrieve a toy, give her a treat, and dress appropriately for carrying her outside under the umbrella in inclement weather. I’m striving for more complex achievements, but if she thinks I’m good for agility training, she’s going to be disappointed. I’m 51 years old. I don’t always make it safely through the hallway obstacle course on my 2:00 a.m. bathroom expedition. For me, agility is the ability not to trip over shadows and to open the bottle of pain reliever without calling for the Jaws of Life.
Occasionally, I will look down by my chair to find the little darling gazing up at me with the kind of eyes that would make Ebenezer Scrooge sign up as a Salvation Army bell ringer, attempting to assimilate me into her thought processes. Usually I’m not adept at picking up other languages, but now I recognize Dachshund for “play,” “treat,” and “let’s send the big dogs to live with your brother.”
As an added embarrassment, she doesn’t care for clothes like the movie stars' dogs do. Oh, she’s up for sleeping on your new sweater or dragging your soiled underwear through the dining room to pad her bed when company is passing the sugar bowl for tea. But she turns surly if you present her with a set of twinkling reindeer antlers at Christmastime, and no matter how nicely you ask, she won't let you tie the chinstrap in a fetching bow.
She once shunned a beautiful sweater, knitted entirely by the hands of her loving auntie, to shield her from the winter wind. She pulled her head and paws in like a turtle so that trying to dress her was like stuffing a sausage. And I’m quite certain that the thoughts parading through her stubborn Dachshund brain were particularly unladylike. I informed her straightaway that I knew a little Pug that would love to have that sweater, and with one look she invited me to pack it up and send it along special delivery. And the Labradors along with it.
I think I’ll need a bigger box.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
News Flush
After the excitement of Labrador tipping earlier this month, I thought the rest of my dog days would drone on like a pre-lunch period Geometry teacher. (Please don’t send geometry hate mail. My parabolas are already weak and couldn’t stand the shock.)
But now, from the same state that brings you a politician named Dick Harpootlian and a smalltown mayor that decreed the police shall be forbidden to chase the bad guys, comes a criminal mastermind: the Port-o-Potty Pistol Packer of Myrtle Beach South Carolina.
Seems that our man—let’s call him John--was in line behind folks that took a little longer than he considered necessary at a portable public toilet. Vulgar language ripped through the air, feces, er faces, were flushed, and weapons came into play.
I know how he feels. I was the youngest of four children. I had to mark all my “personal necessity trips” on the family calendar in January. If I slept through dawn on a Monday in June, I might not get another chance to go to the bathroom until late one afternoon in mid-October. Hoping for a cancellation, there were a few times I was tempted to pull a pea shooter on my brother, but appreciation for superior fire power always held me back.
And at least once when I was 36 months pregnant and standing in line for a gas station restroom holding a key attached to a giant Slim Jim, I could easily have committed murder by jerky.
But what sort of logic told this guy that pulling a handgun is going to help the situation? Granted it might speed the biological aspects along; haste makes waste after all. But apparently the holdup here was a handful of tourists changing clothes.
Excuse me?
Changing clothes in a portable public toilet? Is there any train of thought that could make this a good idea?
You could plant vegetables in the smell of the last Port-o-Potty I was in. I’m fairly certain that you would have to hold a gun on me to MAKE me change clothes in one.
Given all the evidence, I’m siding with our friend John. Even if he did have a potty mouth, at least he was in the right location for it.
And if you ever find me on the verge of a public potty wardrobe malfunction, call John. He'll know exactly what to do.
But now, from the same state that brings you a politician named Dick Harpootlian and a smalltown mayor that decreed the police shall be forbidden to chase the bad guys, comes a criminal mastermind: the Port-o-Potty Pistol Packer of Myrtle Beach South Carolina.
Seems that our man—let’s call him John--was in line behind folks that took a little longer than he considered necessary at a portable public toilet. Vulgar language ripped through the air, feces, er faces, were flushed, and weapons came into play.
I know how he feels. I was the youngest of four children. I had to mark all my “personal necessity trips” on the family calendar in January. If I slept through dawn on a Monday in June, I might not get another chance to go to the bathroom until late one afternoon in mid-October. Hoping for a cancellation, there were a few times I was tempted to pull a pea shooter on my brother, but appreciation for superior fire power always held me back.
And at least once when I was 36 months pregnant and standing in line for a gas station restroom holding a key attached to a giant Slim Jim, I could easily have committed murder by jerky.
But what sort of logic told this guy that pulling a handgun is going to help the situation? Granted it might speed the biological aspects along; haste makes waste after all. But apparently the holdup here was a handful of tourists changing clothes.
Excuse me?
Changing clothes in a portable public toilet? Is there any train of thought that could make this a good idea?
You could plant vegetables in the smell of the last Port-o-Potty I was in. I’m fairly certain that you would have to hold a gun on me to MAKE me change clothes in one.
Given all the evidence, I’m siding with our friend John. Even if he did have a potty mouth, at least he was in the right location for it.
And if you ever find me on the verge of a public potty wardrobe malfunction, call John. He'll know exactly what to do.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Broom Beneath My Wings
Night was a memory, but shadows still lurked in the corners of the kitchen. Silence blanketed the house like, well, a blanket. I blinked in the direction of the newspaper and aimed a watery imitation of coffee toward my mouth.
Through the brain haze, I pondered the best way to use the name Justin Bieber in a blog post to insure maximum search engine potential. Two months ago, nobody had ever heard of this kid. Yesterday my newborn niece was born sporting an “I Love Justin Bieber” tattoo right on her binkie.
Son Two appeared at my side like a spirit. “So, what are your plans for the moth in the bathroom?”
He and I share a common bond. We may disagree on nonessentials like the frequency of bathing or the advantages of using a fork to eat, but when it comes to the inalienable need for a homeland security system to warn against rogue insects, we’ve got our priorities right in line.
I’m fairly certain that in a bid to secure the benefits of a hefty life insurance policy, my husband left the assassin moth behind in the shower this morning. It’s a clever ploy, but my warning system is far ahead of him. Daylight was still a stranger and I was not yet awake enough to know that I had eyes, but my internal sensors had already informed me there was a moth in the bathroom.
I rolled the sports section and nudged Son Two toward the door. “I thought you’d take care of it.”
Right. He’d decorate his first car with pompom fringe and rooftop reindeer before he’d take on an insect assassin with wings of death.
“I’m not going in there. The thing has fangs dripping blood.”
This kid is 19. If he ever marries, I hope it’s to entomologist with a proven catch and release program, or a ninja warrior woman wielding a No Pest Strip in each hand like nunchuks.
Besides, I knew his story was true. Blood-drenched fangs are a natural accessory of rogue moths. It also had the wingspan of a dragon and clutched the wall with spiked talons. Nature’s death machine. And it was probably hungry.
“Well, we could get the broom, wave it around, and see if he’ll fly.”
Son Two looked at me as if I’d suggested we don pink-tasseled thongs and volunteer to lead the cheers at the next Republican rally. To him it was more vampire bat than harmless visitor. “There’s no other door. Where do you think he’s going to fly?”
“The only other choice is to wake up your brother.”
Son One, Rip Van Winkle, hit the snooze button back at the half century mark and still has a five decade siesta to take care of before his eyelids see action. Waking him up before he’s ready is like summoning the Kraken. He rises from the depths, consumes all the groceries, and then resubmerges until suppertime.
Clutching the door frame, Son Two peered around at me. “You go first.”
Who says a child will do anything for a mother that loves him? Well I’m not excited about going all Harry Potter for him, either.
“Okay, give me the broom.”
He hands me the weapon and I embark as stealthily as Rambo on my version of Psycho II: Moth Balls R Us.
As I approached the creature, I realized two things. My son is slamming the bathroom door repeatedly on the heel of my shoe in an attempt to trap me with the monster. Also, if I lose control of bladder functions in the heat of battle, I’ll likely lose the element of surprise, slip through the puddle, and slide into the litterbox like it was home plate.
With one arm in the air like a seasoned fencer, I brandished my broom in the direction of the Moth Monster. “Hello, My name is Inigo. . .” Just then the moth took flight, circling the light fixture and landing on the handle of my broom.
I'm pretty sure it will be easier to remodel the bathroom than just repair the damage. The litter box looks like a strainer and there are spots on the tile that no longer match the rest of the decor.
I decided to name the moth Justin Bieber. It appeared overnight and was kind of cute, but all it did was flutter a little and create pandemonium everywhere it went.
Through the brain haze, I pondered the best way to use the name Justin Bieber in a blog post to insure maximum search engine potential. Two months ago, nobody had ever heard of this kid. Yesterday my newborn niece was born sporting an “I Love Justin Bieber” tattoo right on her binkie.
Son Two appeared at my side like a spirit. “So, what are your plans for the moth in the bathroom?”
He and I share a common bond. We may disagree on nonessentials like the frequency of bathing or the advantages of using a fork to eat, but when it comes to the inalienable need for a homeland security system to warn against rogue insects, we’ve got our priorities right in line.
I’m fairly certain that in a bid to secure the benefits of a hefty life insurance policy, my husband left the assassin moth behind in the shower this morning. It’s a clever ploy, but my warning system is far ahead of him. Daylight was still a stranger and I was not yet awake enough to know that I had eyes, but my internal sensors had already informed me there was a moth in the bathroom.
I rolled the sports section and nudged Son Two toward the door. “I thought you’d take care of it.”
Right. He’d decorate his first car with pompom fringe and rooftop reindeer before he’d take on an insect assassin with wings of death.
“I’m not going in there. The thing has fangs dripping blood.”
This kid is 19. If he ever marries, I hope it’s to entomologist with a proven catch and release program, or a ninja warrior woman wielding a No Pest Strip in each hand like nunchuks.
Besides, I knew his story was true. Blood-drenched fangs are a natural accessory of rogue moths. It also had the wingspan of a dragon and clutched the wall with spiked talons. Nature’s death machine. And it was probably hungry.
“Well, we could get the broom, wave it around, and see if he’ll fly.”
Son Two looked at me as if I’d suggested we don pink-tasseled thongs and volunteer to lead the cheers at the next Republican rally. To him it was more vampire bat than harmless visitor. “There’s no other door. Where do you think he’s going to fly?”
“The only other choice is to wake up your brother.”
Son One, Rip Van Winkle, hit the snooze button back at the half century mark and still has a five decade siesta to take care of before his eyelids see action. Waking him up before he’s ready is like summoning the Kraken. He rises from the depths, consumes all the groceries, and then resubmerges until suppertime.
Clutching the door frame, Son Two peered around at me. “You go first.”
Who says a child will do anything for a mother that loves him? Well I’m not excited about going all Harry Potter for him, either.
“Okay, give me the broom.”
He hands me the weapon and I embark as stealthily as Rambo on my version of Psycho II: Moth Balls R Us.
As I approached the creature, I realized two things. My son is slamming the bathroom door repeatedly on the heel of my shoe in an attempt to trap me with the monster. Also, if I lose control of bladder functions in the heat of battle, I’ll likely lose the element of surprise, slip through the puddle, and slide into the litterbox like it was home plate.
With one arm in the air like a seasoned fencer, I brandished my broom in the direction of the Moth Monster. “Hello, My name is Inigo. . .” Just then the moth took flight, circling the light fixture and landing on the handle of my broom.
I'm pretty sure it will be easier to remodel the bathroom than just repair the damage. The litter box looks like a strainer and there are spots on the tile that no longer match the rest of the decor.
I decided to name the moth Justin Bieber. It appeared overnight and was kind of cute, but all it did was flutter a little and create pandemonium everywhere it went.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day, Captain!
Dating for Baby Boomers is a lot different than dating for teenagers. Teenagers may say they're hanging out, but Baby Boomers really do. I should know—these days I spend a major portion of my life trying to cover it all up. To me, a belly shirt is something that rides up in the front when I pull the shirttail down in the back and is more an item I would wear to ward off would-be attackers than out to a seven-screen cinema on Saturday night.
When teenagers say they’re going to see a movie, they mean an action flick where the main action is blood loss. Baby boomers experience blood loss when we stand up too fast and all of our platelets stage an intervention around our ankles. Teenagers go to a Counting Crows concert and play air guitar. Baby Boomers count crows feet and go to see the Eagles farewell tour. (Unless we can find it on HBO. Then we watch it from our recliner, wake up at the end of the show and say, “Now THAT’S music,” as we gather our pillows and head up the stairs to bed.)
The younger generation thinks midnight is the new sunset. By the time the clock on the mantle strikes 12 at my house, I’ve been in bed long enough to have pillowcase creases on my cheeks. I realized the difference in mindset one wild weekend when The Captain of My Love Boat and I planned an adult extravaganza to keep the current flowing to the old spark plugs. Both of our teenaged sons were gone for the weekend, so with a hot date in mind and free access to the car, we headed out with high hopes and no curfew. Friday night we went to Wal-Mart and bought a box of those nose strips you put on at bedtime so you don’t sound like an asthmatic mountain goat.
We were going to go out to eat, but we were both so tired from the Wal-Mart excursion that we went home, had a peanut butter sandwich and went to bed, where we slept soundly until 2 a.m. when we passed each other in the darkened hallway during bathroom breaks. Thus rested, we were able to venture out to the mall Saturday night where we shared a combo meal at the food court, got a smoothie for dessert and walked to the electronics store to see if the batteries were on sale. Then we went home and went to bed. I woke Bill up about an hour later trying to put one of those nose strips on him without turning on the light. My aim must have been a little off because when I got through, he wasn’t able to close his eyes for the rest of the night.
So let the teenagers have action-packed movie dates at the mall. As for the two of us, we’ll always have WalMart. And a relationship where we stick together like a no-snore nose strip.
When teenagers say they’re going to see a movie, they mean an action flick where the main action is blood loss. Baby boomers experience blood loss when we stand up too fast and all of our platelets stage an intervention around our ankles. Teenagers go to a Counting Crows concert and play air guitar. Baby Boomers count crows feet and go to see the Eagles farewell tour. (Unless we can find it on HBO. Then we watch it from our recliner, wake up at the end of the show and say, “Now THAT’S music,” as we gather our pillows and head up the stairs to bed.)
The younger generation thinks midnight is the new sunset. By the time the clock on the mantle strikes 12 at my house, I’ve been in bed long enough to have pillowcase creases on my cheeks. I realized the difference in mindset one wild weekend when The Captain of My Love Boat and I planned an adult extravaganza to keep the current flowing to the old spark plugs. Both of our teenaged sons were gone for the weekend, so with a hot date in mind and free access to the car, we headed out with high hopes and no curfew. Friday night we went to Wal-Mart and bought a box of those nose strips you put on at bedtime so you don’t sound like an asthmatic mountain goat.
We were going to go out to eat, but we were both so tired from the Wal-Mart excursion that we went home, had a peanut butter sandwich and went to bed, where we slept soundly until 2 a.m. when we passed each other in the darkened hallway during bathroom breaks. Thus rested, we were able to venture out to the mall Saturday night where we shared a combo meal at the food court, got a smoothie for dessert and walked to the electronics store to see if the batteries were on sale. Then we went home and went to bed. I woke Bill up about an hour later trying to put one of those nose strips on him without turning on the light. My aim must have been a little off because when I got through, he wasn’t able to close his eyes for the rest of the night.
So let the teenagers have action-packed movie dates at the mall. As for the two of us, we’ll always have WalMart. And a relationship where we stick together like a no-snore nose strip.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Resolutions: Doggies & Potties & Zombies, Oh My!
The Resolution Trend is upon us, and much like the leg-warmer trend of the seventies, it crawls up your leg and leaves you with cold feet. But if Resolving is the thing to do, I may as well jump right in and point out my shortcomings. Lord knows if I don’t do it, the teenagers will.
The rules are simple: No setting goals that involve Paris Hilton in appearance or scope, no setting goals that involve such a vast amount of weight loss that a colon cleanse is indicated, and no setting goals that will prove detrimental to your overall lifestyle - honestly, it will not make you a better person to bake like Paula Deen. You’ll just spend more time in the kitchen, you’d have to expand to more extensive stretchy pants, and while you’re at it take a look at a recent picture. The woman is obviously a zombie. I haven’t seen eyes like that since Mystery Science Theatre 3000 ruled the airwaves.
So, with our ground rules, if not our sanity, intact, here are my Resolutions for 2010:
To eat at least one meal without sharing with the dogs. How many bites does it take before the Labrador remembers that he still doesn’t like olives?
To go ahead and take the batteries out of the TV remote/game controller/digital camera before the boys beat me to it. Personal satisfaction is the name of the game here.
Find one easy-to-prepare meal that everyone in the family will eat. Perhaps I’ll also go in search of Leprechauns and buckets of gold.
To come home from any destination (including a trip to the mailbox) at least once without heading immediately to the bathroom. Honestly, predictability is so 2009.
To go a full day without complaining about the speed of my Internet access, all the while bemoaning the days when people had to rely on the Pony Express or fax machines to deliver information.
Not to make more resolutions that I can feasibly accomplish. Which I automatically failed to do in Resolution Number One.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make the dog a sandwich. Extra pastrami, no olives.
The rules are simple: No setting goals that involve Paris Hilton in appearance or scope, no setting goals that involve such a vast amount of weight loss that a colon cleanse is indicated, and no setting goals that will prove detrimental to your overall lifestyle - honestly, it will not make you a better person to bake like Paula Deen. You’ll just spend more time in the kitchen, you’d have to expand to more extensive stretchy pants, and while you’re at it take a look at a recent picture. The woman is obviously a zombie. I haven’t seen eyes like that since Mystery Science Theatre 3000 ruled the airwaves.
So, with our ground rules, if not our sanity, intact, here are my Resolutions for 2010:
To eat at least one meal without sharing with the dogs. How many bites does it take before the Labrador remembers that he still doesn’t like olives?
To go ahead and take the batteries out of the TV remote/game controller/digital camera before the boys beat me to it. Personal satisfaction is the name of the game here.
Find one easy-to-prepare meal that everyone in the family will eat. Perhaps I’ll also go in search of Leprechauns and buckets of gold.
To come home from any destination (including a trip to the mailbox) at least once without heading immediately to the bathroom. Honestly, predictability is so 2009.
To go a full day without complaining about the speed of my Internet access, all the while bemoaning the days when people had to rely on the Pony Express or fax machines to deliver information.
Not to make more resolutions that I can feasibly accomplish. Which I automatically failed to do in Resolution Number One.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make the dog a sandwich. Extra pastrami, no olives.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Polar Caps to Cold Feet
As a woman who can no longer figure her age without the aid of a scientific calculator, a sheaf of graph paper, and a Number Two pencil, I completely understand the concept of global warming.
I've just hit the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from her fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom.
It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t really mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself.
She lost her place and had to start over.
I've just hit the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from her fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom.
It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t really mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself.
She lost her place and had to start over.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Green Acres
I thrive on civilization. If I get more than half an hour from a mall, I go into withdrawal and require a whiff of Estee Lauder’s free gift to bring me to my senses. To get my shopping fix when traveling, I’ve been known to pull over at all-night drugstores and check out the sale on cough drops. People close to me understand that if I don’t have access to a restaurant with a dessert cart at least once a week, police action may be required.
So how did a nice city girl like me end up in Farm Town?
The closest I’ve ever come to crop rotation is sending my cotton socks through the spin cycle.
I was hard at work one afternoon, trying to figure out how to send a Coffee Smiley to 70 of my closest friends on Facebook when up popped a memo.
“Your sister gave you a pig.”
Excuse me?
Give me barbecued ribs, butterflied pork chops, or a crown roast. Don’t bother me with livestock unless they’re trading them for Red Lobster coupons or gold bricks at the Fort Knox outlet store.
After further investigation I discovered that my own sister, the sister who wore a silver sparkly gown to the 1968 Christmas ball and refuses to get a dog because that’s one more place she has to set for dinner, was plowing virtual farmland like she was digging for dollar sweaters on the clearance table.
I investigated her little piece of potato plantation. She was about to sell her spuds at the market for enough money to keep her in hash browns for years to come. Pretend potato money is just about the same as what I’m stashing in my piggy bank these days anyway, so I signed up for a farm of my own.
In real life, my gross household product is mold on the cheddar. Here was a chance to win friends, pick produce, and while away an afternoon I would normally spend overwatering the cactus.
So this little piggy went to market.
By the end of the week, I had enough livestock to fill an ark, I'd grown fruit trees laden with bounty, and my crops rotated like Shakira’s hips.
Meanwhile my family was living on a steady diet of frozen peas and Spam jelly. When my son asked me for his lunch money I snapped, "You'll have to wait for market price like everybody else." I found myself scheduling bathroom breaks around my harvesting schedule.
So in the end, I had to give up my farm and say goodbye to my amber waves of grain.
Once the American dream interferes with the natural flow of things, something’s gotta give.
But I’m keeping the pig. Times are tough and you never know when Fort Knox is going to open that outlet store.
Or when you’ll get a craving for barbecued ribs.
So how did a nice city girl like me end up in Farm Town?
The closest I’ve ever come to crop rotation is sending my cotton socks through the spin cycle.
I was hard at work one afternoon, trying to figure out how to send a Coffee Smiley to 70 of my closest friends on Facebook when up popped a memo.
“Your sister gave you a pig.”
Excuse me?
Give me barbecued ribs, butterflied pork chops, or a crown roast. Don’t bother me with livestock unless they’re trading them for Red Lobster coupons or gold bricks at the Fort Knox outlet store.
After further investigation I discovered that my own sister, the sister who wore a silver sparkly gown to the 1968 Christmas ball and refuses to get a dog because that’s one more place she has to set for dinner, was plowing virtual farmland like she was digging for dollar sweaters on the clearance table.
I investigated her little piece of potato plantation. She was about to sell her spuds at the market for enough money to keep her in hash browns for years to come. Pretend potato money is just about the same as what I’m stashing in my piggy bank these days anyway, so I signed up for a farm of my own.
In real life, my gross household product is mold on the cheddar. Here was a chance to win friends, pick produce, and while away an afternoon I would normally spend overwatering the cactus.
So this little piggy went to market.
By the end of the week, I had enough livestock to fill an ark, I'd grown fruit trees laden with bounty, and my crops rotated like Shakira’s hips.
Meanwhile my family was living on a steady diet of frozen peas and Spam jelly. When my son asked me for his lunch money I snapped, "You'll have to wait for market price like everybody else." I found myself scheduling bathroom breaks around my harvesting schedule.
So in the end, I had to give up my farm and say goodbye to my amber waves of grain.
Once the American dream interferes with the natural flow of things, something’s gotta give.
But I’m keeping the pig. Times are tough and you never know when Fort Knox is going to open that outlet store.
Or when you’ll get a craving for barbecued ribs.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Drip Dry
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what happens to my towels. There are times I think the door to my bathroom leads to some sort of lavatorial Bermuda triangle where terrycloth goes to die.
Today my husband disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Seconds later he pried the door open a crack and stuck his head out.
“Have you washed towels lately?”
“Have you shaved your legs lately?” I love the man, but I'm not the only one in the house that can rinse and spin.
“I’m not trying to be sexist. I just want to dry off.”
“Yesterday I washed everything that resembled a towel. I even threw in that funny sweater your mother gave you for Christmas.”
“That’s not terrycloth. It's cashmere”
"So that's why there was enough fluff in the lint trap to knit a goat.”
The door closed. I heard furtive searching sounds coming from the bathroom closet. Seconds later he peered out of the door crack with one distraught eye.
“What’s the matter?”
“All that’s left is the froggie towel from when the kids were little and the pink velour Martha Stewart with the floral design.”
“Go for Martha's flowers. Froggie repels liquid. You can dry on that thing for half an hour and still retain enough water to qualify as a camel.”
Later that night I found six hand towels and a frayed wash cloth drying on the towel rack. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances with the blossoms. I tossed them all in the laundry.
It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terrycloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up to the size of a turtle’s teardrop. But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would be envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.
The day that Bill Dear kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was changing the oil, the guest towels disappeared. The day Son One and Son Two were heard arguing over who was to blame for the massive Fruit Loop spill on the Oriental carpet, the blue towels I got for Mother’s Day went missing. The day we adopted the third puppy, I took out stock in cotton futures.
There’s nothing I can do about the towels that are already gone, but there are preventive measures I can take to guard against these towel-thieving guys in my house.
First thing Monday morning, I’m heading to Wal-Mart to snag a buggy full of pink velour towels with a floral design.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to install automatic air dryers in the bathroom. They're not very thorough, but it's best to let your delicates drip dry anyway.
Today my husband disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Seconds later he pried the door open a crack and stuck his head out.
“Have you washed towels lately?”
“Have you shaved your legs lately?” I love the man, but I'm not the only one in the house that can rinse and spin.
“I’m not trying to be sexist. I just want to dry off.”
“Yesterday I washed everything that resembled a towel. I even threw in that funny sweater your mother gave you for Christmas.”
“That’s not terrycloth. It's cashmere”
"So that's why there was enough fluff in the lint trap to knit a goat.”
The door closed. I heard furtive searching sounds coming from the bathroom closet. Seconds later he peered out of the door crack with one distraught eye.
“What’s the matter?”
“All that’s left is the froggie towel from when the kids were little and the pink velour Martha Stewart with the floral design.”
“Go for Martha's flowers. Froggie repels liquid. You can dry on that thing for half an hour and still retain enough water to qualify as a camel.”
Later that night I found six hand towels and a frayed wash cloth drying on the towel rack. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances with the blossoms. I tossed them all in the laundry.
It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terrycloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up to the size of a turtle’s teardrop. But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would be envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.
The day that Bill Dear kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was changing the oil, the guest towels disappeared. The day Son One and Son Two were heard arguing over who was to blame for the massive Fruit Loop spill on the Oriental carpet, the blue towels I got for Mother’s Day went missing. The day we adopted the third puppy, I took out stock in cotton futures.
There’s nothing I can do about the towels that are already gone, but there are preventive measures I can take to guard against these towel-thieving guys in my house.
First thing Monday morning, I’m heading to Wal-Mart to snag a buggy full of pink velour towels with a floral design.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to install automatic air dryers in the bathroom. They're not very thorough, but it's best to let your delicates drip dry anyway.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Bathroom Safari
“Morning, Mom. Don’t go in the bathroom.”
Nothing says Rise and Shine like a warning not to use the facilities.
“What’s wrong?” My early morning detection system could use a little work. I totally failed to miss the large “Do Not Disturb” sign resting on a stack of towels the size and shape of the Statue of Liberty. We huddled in a mass and peered in at the terrycloth statue on the checkerboard tile.
“Um, there’s a creature under there.”
“Oh.” My intelligence meter doesn’t top out until after my morning muffin. If my IQ points rose as fast as my blood sugar, I’d be smarter than a fifth grader every morning before the sun came up.
As I blinked to focus, I made out a crude but clever early detection system rigged up in the bathroom. The Towel of Liberty was balancing one of my crystal goblets on the peak. If anything in that statue moved, the Waterford would be water under the bridge faster than you could dam it.
Son Two, the Bugophobe, takes after me. There could be anything from a honey bee in pre-sweetened larva stage to a winged Komodo Dragon under that towel, and the reaction would be the same. No need for facilities—all bodily functions go on automatic pilot.
“What is it?” I’m trying to conjure a worst case scenario. If best case is of the Cricket Is Our Friend variety that I’ve bested in the hundred meters dash before, I won't panic until I hear chirping over the household intercom. But worse case, which includes any type of predatory animal or insect capable of defending itself with teeth, claws, stinger, or obnoxious Lysol-relling odor, would find me dialing 911 from a payphone inside the Animal Control Office.
So far, I’m thinking that towel is going to stay put for the eight and a half hours it will take for Bill to get home. I’m considering hanging out a sign that says “National Monument” and charging admission.
Bug Boy is not big on accurate news reporting. “I’m not sure. It was huge. And it looked mad.”
Great. An irate creature possibly under the influence of growth hormones under a few flimsy towels in my bathroom. How long until it gnawed through the barricade and launched a Rambo-like manhunt for the person responsible for its untimely entrapment and incarceration. It probably had some sort of advanced tracking system embedded in its tentacles.
Oh the positive side, I didn’t have to outrun the creature, only the other person in the race, whom I felt I could outdistance if a natural disaster or a free-flying chair impeded his progress. I was eyeing the furniture for ease of transport, when the goblet shook. We looked at each other.
Out in the yard, we continued the conversation.
“Geez, Mom,” Son Two rubbed his shin. “Why’d you hit me with the recliner? I almost dropped the grill.”
“You were trying to trip me up.”
He dropped the baseball bat and the laptop. “I was just trying to save some of the valuables in case the monster wiped out the house. You know, like Godzilla did to Tokyo.”
About that time, Son One called to us from the bathroom window.
“The coast is clear. You can come in now.”
“Did you kill it?” I imagined crafting shoes for the entire family from the monster’s hide.
“No, I let her out.”
“Her? What was it?”
“It was a lady bug.”
“A lady bug?” I glared at the Bugmeister.
“Mom, that may have been a bug,” he sniffed indignantly. “But she was no lady.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Well, she landed on the jelly glass by the sink."
"Gross, but okay."
But she never even touched the crystal.”
That's my boy. You can't judge a ladybug by her spots, but anybody who rejects lead crystal can just fly away home.
Nothing says Rise and Shine like a warning not to use the facilities.
“What’s wrong?” My early morning detection system could use a little work. I totally failed to miss the large “Do Not Disturb” sign resting on a stack of towels the size and shape of the Statue of Liberty. We huddled in a mass and peered in at the terrycloth statue on the checkerboard tile.
“Um, there’s a creature under there.”
“Oh.” My intelligence meter doesn’t top out until after my morning muffin. If my IQ points rose as fast as my blood sugar, I’d be smarter than a fifth grader every morning before the sun came up.
As I blinked to focus, I made out a crude but clever early detection system rigged up in the bathroom. The Towel of Liberty was balancing one of my crystal goblets on the peak. If anything in that statue moved, the Waterford would be water under the bridge faster than you could dam it.
Son Two, the Bugophobe, takes after me. There could be anything from a honey bee in pre-sweetened larva stage to a winged Komodo Dragon under that towel, and the reaction would be the same. No need for facilities—all bodily functions go on automatic pilot.
“What is it?” I’m trying to conjure a worst case scenario. If best case is of the Cricket Is Our Friend variety that I’ve bested in the hundred meters dash before, I won't panic until I hear chirping over the household intercom. But worse case, which includes any type of predatory animal or insect capable of defending itself with teeth, claws, stinger, or obnoxious Lysol-relling odor, would find me dialing 911 from a payphone inside the Animal Control Office.
So far, I’m thinking that towel is going to stay put for the eight and a half hours it will take for Bill to get home. I’m considering hanging out a sign that says “National Monument” and charging admission.
Bug Boy is not big on accurate news reporting. “I’m not sure. It was huge. And it looked mad.”
Great. An irate creature possibly under the influence of growth hormones under a few flimsy towels in my bathroom. How long until it gnawed through the barricade and launched a Rambo-like manhunt for the person responsible for its untimely entrapment and incarceration. It probably had some sort of advanced tracking system embedded in its tentacles.
Oh the positive side, I didn’t have to outrun the creature, only the other person in the race, whom I felt I could outdistance if a natural disaster or a free-flying chair impeded his progress. I was eyeing the furniture for ease of transport, when the goblet shook. We looked at each other.
Out in the yard, we continued the conversation.
“Geez, Mom,” Son Two rubbed his shin. “Why’d you hit me with the recliner? I almost dropped the grill.”
“You were trying to trip me up.”
He dropped the baseball bat and the laptop. “I was just trying to save some of the valuables in case the monster wiped out the house. You know, like Godzilla did to Tokyo.”
About that time, Son One called to us from the bathroom window.
“The coast is clear. You can come in now.”
“Did you kill it?” I imagined crafting shoes for the entire family from the monster’s hide.
“No, I let her out.”
“Her? What was it?”
“It was a lady bug.”
“A lady bug?” I glared at the Bugmeister.
“Mom, that may have been a bug,” he sniffed indignantly. “But she was no lady.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Well, she landed on the jelly glass by the sink."
"Gross, but okay."
But she never even touched the crystal.”
That's my boy. You can't judge a ladybug by her spots, but anybody who rejects lead crystal can just fly away home.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Apple of my Eyetooth
Today, the sun finally peeked through the storm clouds long enough to make the daffodils bloom before the next cold snap mows them down like a serial killer on Sunset Strip. Definitely a sign from heaven telling us spring cleaning is in order.
Spring cleaning is probably a good thing to do at least once a millineum. So I scrubbed the bathroom fixtures, reorganized the bookcases, and scraped the ooky stuff from around the burners on the stove.
Hubby took the dog to the dump. No, he didn’t leave him there. The weekly dump adventure is their version of a father and son backpacking trip with the Cub Scouts. Plenty of male bonding with the added bonus of disgusting smells.
Bo is a Labrador-Dalmatian cross. He is born to be outside and happy to be riding along at top speed in the name of emergency resolution, even if the crisis involves getting the turkey parts to the dumping grounds before fumes overwhelm us.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the importance of the chore. But why does it take two hours to ride six miles? I know for a fact as they pull out of the driveway I won’t see them again until I’m scooping macaroni shreds and broccoli bits out of the drain.
It’s not that I’m jealous. But it just doesn’t seem fair that the dog gets to ride in the front seat.
Sure enough, just as I’m wiping the slimy stuff off the top shelf in the refrigerator, they reappear grinning like a pair of superheroes who have saved the world from coffee grounds.
“Thought I’d take Bo for a romp so we wouldn’t have to worry about walking him later,” Bill says, stopping in the kitchen to empty leftover dog treats from his pockets. He drops enough kibble on our kitchen table to feed a team of Iditarod Huskies.
If that’s the leftovers, I can’t image how much he used for the main course. When we go out to eat, he gets me the children’s meals. I’ve got a nice collection of toy surprises and some neat Disney collector cups.
“I see Bo won’t need any breakfast.”
“No, we stopped at the drive-through. He worked up quite an appetite.”
“I understand driving past huge containers full of rotting refuse will do that.”
"We took the recyclables, too.”
Scrubbing around the knobs of the oven with a toothbrush, I had a little difficulty focusing on the bigger picture. At the moment, “going green” was just another reason to throw out the cheese.
Just about that time, Bill stopped and took a good look at the kitchen. The sink was spotless, the stove sparkled, and the KoolAid stains had been bleached from the countertops.
“Uh oh. What did I do? It’s the two hour dump trip isn’t it?”
This dog’s been hunting long enough to smell a trap long before he’s hanging upside down by his hind leg.
“What makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, scouring the finish off the microwave.
“You haven’t cleaned this much since I forgot to tell you that I volunteered to take six loaves of apple bread to the Thanksgiving dinner at work.”
“And what happened then?”
“I learned to make apple bread.”
“So, you took off for two hours with the dog, who rides in the front seat with his tongue cleaning the pine sap off the windows, and you don’t get home until all the cleaning is done. What do you think is wrong?”
“You want me to make apple bread?”
I ponder this logic for a moment. I want him to help me empty the refrigerator drippings from the grease pit under the ice box. On the other hand, his apple bread makes the angels sing. You don’t get this kind of food in a Happy Meal.
“That’s right, honey,” I said smiling.
“Well, Bo and I worked hard this morning and I’m worn out. Let me take a little nap and I’ll make you a double recipe.”
What can I say? Sometimes it’s best to let lying dogs sleep.
Spring cleaning is probably a good thing to do at least once a millineum. So I scrubbed the bathroom fixtures, reorganized the bookcases, and scraped the ooky stuff from around the burners on the stove.
Hubby took the dog to the dump. No, he didn’t leave him there. The weekly dump adventure is their version of a father and son backpacking trip with the Cub Scouts. Plenty of male bonding with the added bonus of disgusting smells.
Bo is a Labrador-Dalmatian cross. He is born to be outside and happy to be riding along at top speed in the name of emergency resolution, even if the crisis involves getting the turkey parts to the dumping grounds before fumes overwhelm us.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the importance of the chore. But why does it take two hours to ride six miles? I know for a fact as they pull out of the driveway I won’t see them again until I’m scooping macaroni shreds and broccoli bits out of the drain.
It’s not that I’m jealous. But it just doesn’t seem fair that the dog gets to ride in the front seat.
Sure enough, just as I’m wiping the slimy stuff off the top shelf in the refrigerator, they reappear grinning like a pair of superheroes who have saved the world from coffee grounds.
“Thought I’d take Bo for a romp so we wouldn’t have to worry about walking him later,” Bill says, stopping in the kitchen to empty leftover dog treats from his pockets. He drops enough kibble on our kitchen table to feed a team of Iditarod Huskies.
If that’s the leftovers, I can’t image how much he used for the main course. When we go out to eat, he gets me the children’s meals. I’ve got a nice collection of toy surprises and some neat Disney collector cups.
“I see Bo won’t need any breakfast.”
“No, we stopped at the drive-through. He worked up quite an appetite.”
“I understand driving past huge containers full of rotting refuse will do that.”
"We took the recyclables, too.”
Scrubbing around the knobs of the oven with a toothbrush, I had a little difficulty focusing on the bigger picture. At the moment, “going green” was just another reason to throw out the cheese.
Just about that time, Bill stopped and took a good look at the kitchen. The sink was spotless, the stove sparkled, and the KoolAid stains had been bleached from the countertops.
“Uh oh. What did I do? It’s the two hour dump trip isn’t it?”
This dog’s been hunting long enough to smell a trap long before he’s hanging upside down by his hind leg.
“What makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, scouring the finish off the microwave.
“You haven’t cleaned this much since I forgot to tell you that I volunteered to take six loaves of apple bread to the Thanksgiving dinner at work.”
“And what happened then?”
“I learned to make apple bread.”
“So, you took off for two hours with the dog, who rides in the front seat with his tongue cleaning the pine sap off the windows, and you don’t get home until all the cleaning is done. What do you think is wrong?”
“You want me to make apple bread?”
I ponder this logic for a moment. I want him to help me empty the refrigerator drippings from the grease pit under the ice box. On the other hand, his apple bread makes the angels sing. You don’t get this kind of food in a Happy Meal.
“That’s right, honey,” I said smiling.
“Well, Bo and I worked hard this morning and I’m worn out. Let me take a little nap and I’ll make you a double recipe.”
What can I say? Sometimes it’s best to let lying dogs sleep.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Camping's Out
Several years ago, Bill and I agreed to take our two boys on a camping trip. The boys, who owned more electronic equipment by the age of two than I have in my entire life, felt that they had been rudely neglected and possibly abused because they had never been camping. They’ve never skinned a chicken either, but that’s beside the point.
“And don’t argue the whole way.”
Bill and I exchanged a knowing look. “Okay,” we agreed. The last time they caught us in a discussion of escalating proportions, they locked us in the bathroom together overnight.
Early one summer morning, we arose in peace and harmony, swallowed our body weight in coffee, threw ourselves into the car and drove in silence and numbed goodwill for several minutes.
“Hand me the map,” my husband said, extending one open hand while juggling his travel mug, aspirin bottle, and steering wheel in the other.
“Map?” I asked, eyeing him quizzically.
“You didn’t pack a map?”
“If I wanted to pack something I couldn’t read, I would have just brought along War and Peace in the original Russian.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested lining the bed of his truck with dotted swiss, jammed his foot down on the brake, and squealed into a gas station.
“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”
“Mom, is this an argument?” A puffy face blinked sleepily at me over the back seat. His mouth was ringed with chocolate milk and PopTart crumbs, and his hair looked like a weeping willow in a windstorm.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Pop just needs a map to find difficult locations like Asia or our mailbox.”
The boys exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a fight.”
Coffee in hand and map accordianed across the dashboard, we resumed our trip. “How much farther?” he asked, guiding the car steadily around a mountain curve. Some people just can’t be taught. I consulted the map and lifted my gaze.
“According to this, about a quarter of an inch.”
“Never mind,” he answered steadily, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “Where do we go at the junction?”
“The Shady Rest Hotel?”
Snarling, he lunged abruptly for the map, drowning any final shreds of civility in a flood of hot coffee.
“Don’t overreact,” I said soothingly, blotting up caffeine with the Northeast section of Macon County. “I was kidding.”
My husband regarded me with the same intense stare I’ve observed on the faces of cheetahs watching sickly gazelle stragglers on Wild Kingdom. If he had one, I would swear I could see his tail twitching.
“Look,” I purred, wringing out the map. This chocolate drip is the campground. That potato chip grease is where we are now. All we have to do is follow this dotted line across those squiggles and we’re there!”
I don’t understand how some people can live with themselves the way they speak to other people who are trying to help.
“How was I supposed to know those squiggles were the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“As long as you have the entire map of the United States unfolded in the front seat, try reading the legend.”
“Okay, but you know I get sick if I read in the car.”
“One quick peek won’t hurt anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Later, when we finally found a service station with equipment to clean the upholstery, I heard the boys talking behind the gas pumps.
“Do you think we’ll get there alive?” one voice asked.
“I don’t know, but if we do, we’re gonna lock ‘em in the bath-house.”
“And don’t argue the whole way.”
Bill and I exchanged a knowing look. “Okay,” we agreed. The last time they caught us in a discussion of escalating proportions, they locked us in the bathroom together overnight.
Early one summer morning, we arose in peace and harmony, swallowed our body weight in coffee, threw ourselves into the car and drove in silence and numbed goodwill for several minutes.
“Hand me the map,” my husband said, extending one open hand while juggling his travel mug, aspirin bottle, and steering wheel in the other.
“Map?” I asked, eyeing him quizzically.
“You didn’t pack a map?”
“If I wanted to pack something I couldn’t read, I would have just brought along War and Peace in the original Russian.”
He looked at me as if I had just suggested lining the bed of his truck with dotted swiss, jammed his foot down on the brake, and squealed into a gas station.
“Never mind. I’ll be right back.”
“Mom, is this an argument?” A puffy face blinked sleepily at me over the back seat. His mouth was ringed with chocolate milk and PopTart crumbs, and his hair looked like a weeping willow in a windstorm.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Pop just needs a map to find difficult locations like Asia or our mailbox.”
The boys exchanged knowing looks. “It’s a fight.”
Coffee in hand and map accordianed across the dashboard, we resumed our trip. “How much farther?” he asked, guiding the car steadily around a mountain curve. Some people just can’t be taught. I consulted the map and lifted my gaze.
“According to this, about a quarter of an inch.”
“Never mind,” he answered steadily, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “Where do we go at the junction?”
“The Shady Rest Hotel?”
Snarling, he lunged abruptly for the map, drowning any final shreds of civility in a flood of hot coffee.
“Don’t overreact,” I said soothingly, blotting up caffeine with the Northeast section of Macon County. “I was kidding.”
My husband regarded me with the same intense stare I’ve observed on the faces of cheetahs watching sickly gazelle stragglers on Wild Kingdom. If he had one, I would swear I could see his tail twitching.
“Look,” I purred, wringing out the map. This chocolate drip is the campground. That potato chip grease is where we are now. All we have to do is follow this dotted line across those squiggles and we’re there!”
I don’t understand how some people can live with themselves the way they speak to other people who are trying to help.
“How was I supposed to know those squiggles were the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“As long as you have the entire map of the United States unfolded in the front seat, try reading the legend.”
“Okay, but you know I get sick if I read in the car.”
“One quick peek won’t hurt anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Later, when we finally found a service station with equipment to clean the upholstery, I heard the boys talking behind the gas pumps.
“Do you think we’ll get there alive?” one voice asked.
“I don’t know, but if we do, we’re gonna lock ‘em in the bath-house.”
Sunday, November 18, 2007
These are the People in Your Neighborhood
After the divorce, I moved into a tidy (not to be confused with tiny, a more suitable word but not as polite) duplex, thinking with my best “house is half-full” mentality that eventually I would buy a house. However, growing boys and lack of child support being what they are, twelve years later I’m still in the duplex, scanning newspaper stories about the burgeoning repossession rate, and longing for an extra half-bath. But in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I try to look on the bright side of things, like the fact that I’m not responsible for the water bill when tornado season causes the septic tank to back up, which in turn gives the toilet, never one to be outdone, a chance to perform its best Horseshoe Falls imitation. While other people are experiencing a drought, I’m planning a rainforest room in the bath and wondering where one can purchase parrots and other decorative jungle wildlife.
The best part of duplex life is the close, personal relationship you develop, by necessity, with the neighbors. By best, I mean frightening and intimidating. I remember the young man who proudly secured his mailbox to its post with good intentions, old-fashioned ingenuity, and the clever application of three-quarters of a roll of duct tape. Since he still had some duct tape left on the roll, I refrained from any pointed comments concerning his design.
Then there was the Good Samaritan who rescued a stray puppy that, filled with youthful vigor, managed to wind its tie-out chain around our heat pump every morning, a particularly delightful diversion on mornings I was late to work. Since Mr. Samaritan was rarely home, the task fell to me to unwrap the dog. One particularly stormy morning when I released the prisoner, he fell to with such excitement that he lashed us both securely to the heat pump. With determination and a cell phone pre-programmed to call Emergency Services, I managed a successful escape.
Better than this were Adventures with the Goat Man. This latest neighbor, a-twitter with the discovery that goats are to kudzu what the combine harvester is to wheat, procured from his brother-in-law, a baby goat. While the goat was fairly attractive as goats go, she was merely a wee babe and not up to the task before her. Even an enthusiastic goat is eclipsed by ten wooded acres covered in kudzu. Goat Man spent much time away from home (do we see a trend here?), and although long absences in neighbors are often desirable, we felt sorry for the poor baby left alone, and ventured over with fresh water every day. I soon found that goat-watering is a task best left to a younger, swifter generation. At my approach, the goat’s natural fears lead to a frenzied dash whose path was restricted by the chain that tethered it to a discarded tire rim. The circles grew smaller in circumference until the goat and I realized at approximately the same time that we were bound together by circumstance and an alarming length of sturdy metal links. I discovered at this point that it is best not to call for help from your teenaged son, who is not mature enough to realize the tact and discretion necessary in such a situation. It’s enough to say that he nicknamed the goat Seabiscuit, and that everyone on the Eastern Seaboard was aware of our predicament.
Duct Tape Man is thankfully gone, along with The Samaritan. Goat Man in still with us, although the goat is no longer in evidence. In its place is a free-range dog, a frisky yellow Labrador that fetches beer cans to our door like other dogs fetch the newspaper. And although I don’t really approve of the dog's habits, I have to admire his manners in asking us out for a drink.
The best part of duplex life is the close, personal relationship you develop, by necessity, with the neighbors. By best, I mean frightening and intimidating. I remember the young man who proudly secured his mailbox to its post with good intentions, old-fashioned ingenuity, and the clever application of three-quarters of a roll of duct tape. Since he still had some duct tape left on the roll, I refrained from any pointed comments concerning his design.
Then there was the Good Samaritan who rescued a stray puppy that, filled with youthful vigor, managed to wind its tie-out chain around our heat pump every morning, a particularly delightful diversion on mornings I was late to work. Since Mr. Samaritan was rarely home, the task fell to me to unwrap the dog. One particularly stormy morning when I released the prisoner, he fell to with such excitement that he lashed us both securely to the heat pump. With determination and a cell phone pre-programmed to call Emergency Services, I managed a successful escape.
Better than this were Adventures with the Goat Man. This latest neighbor, a-twitter with the discovery that goats are to kudzu what the combine harvester is to wheat, procured from his brother-in-law, a baby goat. While the goat was fairly attractive as goats go, she was merely a wee babe and not up to the task before her. Even an enthusiastic goat is eclipsed by ten wooded acres covered in kudzu. Goat Man spent much time away from home (do we see a trend here?), and although long absences in neighbors are often desirable, we felt sorry for the poor baby left alone, and ventured over with fresh water every day. I soon found that goat-watering is a task best left to a younger, swifter generation. At my approach, the goat’s natural fears lead to a frenzied dash whose path was restricted by the chain that tethered it to a discarded tire rim. The circles grew smaller in circumference until the goat and I realized at approximately the same time that we were bound together by circumstance and an alarming length of sturdy metal links. I discovered at this point that it is best not to call for help from your teenaged son, who is not mature enough to realize the tact and discretion necessary in such a situation. It’s enough to say that he nicknamed the goat Seabiscuit, and that everyone on the Eastern Seaboard was aware of our predicament.
Duct Tape Man is thankfully gone, along with The Samaritan. Goat Man in still with us, although the goat is no longer in evidence. In its place is a free-range dog, a frisky yellow Labrador that fetches beer cans to our door like other dogs fetch the newspaper. And although I don’t really approve of the dog's habits, I have to admire his manners in asking us out for a drink.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
From Polar Caps to Cold Feet
As a woman who can no longer figure her age without the aid of a scientific calculator, a sheaf of graph paper, and a Number Two pencil, I completely understand the concept of global warming. I haven’t even hit the half century mark and I don’t break out the sweaters and scarves unless ice is forming under my fingernails. Mother Earth has got me beat by a few decades, give or take a period of conquering hordes, a roving band of dinosaurs, and a Crusade or two. I figure tornado-force winds come from her fanning herself to keep cool.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom. It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself. She lost her place and had to start over.
In my younger years I was the first in the neighborhood to break out the faux fur and firewood, but these days my polar cap is melting at a rapid rate, which is the only explanation I can find for my humid hairstyle and damp T-Shirt. If I had to hold the heat of all the people on Earth, there would be a spike in the number of new oceans, not to mention some even greater lakes, and not a small increase in tributaries. All of these new bodies of water would spring to life in the wee hours of the morning accompanied by a good bit of tossing and turning and 37 trips to the bathroom. It's odd, though, how the temperature of the whole is greater than the degrees of the parts. My behind is the permanent victim of Chinook winds and my feet are wedged firmly in an Antarctic ice floe. But I wear the Equator like a halo above my sweatsoaked brow.
I don’t mind the aging process. The popping of my joints makes for a lively rhythmic beat to keep me from napping at my desk in the afternoons, and I’ve become accustomed to wandering from room to room searching for a clue as to what I was looking for in the first place. But if Mother Earth is ahead of me in menopause years, I can understand why history repeats itself. She lost her place and had to start over.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)