Around this time of the year, when there’s still frost on the outdoor dog in the morning and air conditioners run like a spider-chased schoolgirl in the afternoon, I like to venture down to the Lawn & Garden department at the local Sow ‘em & Grow ‘em Store. People who should never own fertilizer are wandering past the bags of peat moss, clutching pots of distressed dahlias, and murmuring, “Wonder if I need manure?”
It’s like Disneyland for clueless people.
All I want is a bird feeder. Winter and fat Cardinals have not been kind to the little plastic number that hung in my yard all winter, and I need someplace to leave the offerings for the sparrows that exercise the dogs by flitting around just out of Labrador reach.
Here in the South, whimsical lawn ornaments are popular among the population. By whimsical, I mean ugly and offensive. By population, I mean my neighbor (you know who you are, Danny) who used to borrow a goat the last week of every month so that he didn’t have to cut the two square inches of grass that grew beside his cultivated kudzu patch.
My other neighbor has a patch of lawn decorated by a wishing well, two wooden farmer misses bending over to show polka dot bloomers, a bevy of plastic geese, and a charming white toilet holding a cluster of cheerful daffodils. These folks may have lawn furniture in the family room, but the porcelain in the front yard holds a place of honor.
Driving back home with my tiny plastic birdfeeder, I can’t help but think about my own yard. I won’t feel comfortable calling it a lawn until there is something growing in it that didn't spring spontaneously to life over the septic tank. Algae doesn’t count as lawn, even the easy-care kind.
I guess everybody celebrates Spring in their own fashion. In Augusta, the Masters has acres of azaleas, not far away the peach trees are beginning to bud. But in my little corner of the country--just below the Bible Belt and just above the Sweet Tea Bag; we take pride in our pottied plants.
Laugh
Showing posts with label flush. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flush. Show all posts
Friday, February 25, 2011
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.
Monday, August 23, 2010
TravelLunacy.Eat
When the Captain and I travel, it’s more like a study of modern art than a road trip. Nothing on the map looks like it does in real life, and I’m so busy staring at the lady in the Hummer painting an extra eye on her face every time she hits a bump, I don’t notice that the route I’ve chosen to follow ends in an intricate sculpture composed of exit ramps, clover leafs, and left turns that lead directly down the Highway to How Did We Get Here?
Cap doesn’t understand the trouble I have with maps. To him the whole thing is as plain as the two noses on your face.
Another difference in our traveling styles involves pit stops. He doesn’t make them. I brake for anything with a handle, just in case. I once wheeled into a car repair shop because their sign said, “Flush for winter.” I thought I wouldn’t get another chance until July.
Floating past a slow moving Buick like Picasso’s paintbrush, he sighed contentedly and pondered aloud, “Which exit do we take?”
Flipping the map over in an effort to locate the northern hemisphere, I figure I can answer this question two ways: multiple choice or essay. Either way, I’m pretty sure I can see the end of the marriage superhighway looming in the distance.
It’s times like this I should whip a U-turn in my thought processes. But when my mouth goes into overdrive, somehow my brain always seems to yield to the traffic flow. My kids say it’s been parked in a tow away zone for years.
“Does it matter?”
He clutched the steering wheel until the bones of his knuckles broke through the skin. He looked like Wolverine.
“Not if we don’t care whether we end up at David’s house where we can have supper, or the Emerald City where we can choose between brains, courage, or little red shoes.”
Personally, I’ve always been partial to red shoes, but as usual eating wins out. Maybe my priorities are out of order, but given the choice, I’ll sing along with the Burger King instead of humming “If I only had a brain” any time.
“I always take that road that goes past the Japanese steakhouse that’s been there since we were dating, and then I go up and turn at the intersection that goes past the milk shake place. You know you’re on the right road when you pass the hot doughnut sign.”
Just thinking of Bavarian Cream gives me happy trails.
Cap travels using road signs. I go by major food group. I can’t read a map, but if I can find a route that covers everything from gooey to gourmet, I can find my way by smell.
On the other hand, he can track anything. If we’d ever had a child together it would be an Indian scout named Paula Deen.
He sighed. I’ve noticed that the longer we’re married, the more he sighs. In a couple more years it’s going to be like living in a wind tunnel.
“According to the map, where do we turn?”
“According to the map, we’re already two creases and a wrinkle past his house.”
“Let me see.”
“No. The last time I gave you the map while you were driving, it took us two hours to go half an inch.”
“That half an inch was a 150 mile path through a rock slide in the mountains.”
“So it’s my fault you didn’t get four wheel drive?”
“Those rocks were bigger than your. . .never mind. Just tell me when we pass the Jamestown exit.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we passed the Jamestown exit when you were giving me the geology lecture.”
Before he could finish up his lesson plan a transfer truck packed from tail lights to tooter with gourmet ice cream blew past us headed toward the next exit.
Without a second thought, the Captain of my Dessert Cart winked at me and whipped in behind him.
We might not agree on the best way to get there, but sometimes the best part of the trip isn’t the easy way.
It’s the Rocky Road.
Cap doesn’t understand the trouble I have with maps. To him the whole thing is as plain as the two noses on your face.
Another difference in our traveling styles involves pit stops. He doesn’t make them. I brake for anything with a handle, just in case. I once wheeled into a car repair shop because their sign said, “Flush for winter.” I thought I wouldn’t get another chance until July.
Floating past a slow moving Buick like Picasso’s paintbrush, he sighed contentedly and pondered aloud, “Which exit do we take?”
Flipping the map over in an effort to locate the northern hemisphere, I figure I can answer this question two ways: multiple choice or essay. Either way, I’m pretty sure I can see the end of the marriage superhighway looming in the distance.
It’s times like this I should whip a U-turn in my thought processes. But when my mouth goes into overdrive, somehow my brain always seems to yield to the traffic flow. My kids say it’s been parked in a tow away zone for years.
“Does it matter?”
He clutched the steering wheel until the bones of his knuckles broke through the skin. He looked like Wolverine.
“Not if we don’t care whether we end up at David’s house where we can have supper, or the Emerald City where we can choose between brains, courage, or little red shoes.”
Personally, I’ve always been partial to red shoes, but as usual eating wins out. Maybe my priorities are out of order, but given the choice, I’ll sing along with the Burger King instead of humming “If I only had a brain” any time.
“I always take that road that goes past the Japanese steakhouse that’s been there since we were dating, and then I go up and turn at the intersection that goes past the milk shake place. You know you’re on the right road when you pass the hot doughnut sign.”
Just thinking of Bavarian Cream gives me happy trails.
Cap travels using road signs. I go by major food group. I can’t read a map, but if I can find a route that covers everything from gooey to gourmet, I can find my way by smell.
On the other hand, he can track anything. If we’d ever had a child together it would be an Indian scout named Paula Deen.
He sighed. I’ve noticed that the longer we’re married, the more he sighs. In a couple more years it’s going to be like living in a wind tunnel.
“According to the map, where do we turn?”
“According to the map, we’re already two creases and a wrinkle past his house.”
“Let me see.”
“No. The last time I gave you the map while you were driving, it took us two hours to go half an inch.”
“That half an inch was a 150 mile path through a rock slide in the mountains.”
“So it’s my fault you didn’t get four wheel drive?”
“Those rocks were bigger than your. . .never mind. Just tell me when we pass the Jamestown exit.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we passed the Jamestown exit when you were giving me the geology lecture.”
Before he could finish up his lesson plan a transfer truck packed from tail lights to tooter with gourmet ice cream blew past us headed toward the next exit.
Without a second thought, the Captain of my Dessert Cart winked at me and whipped in behind him.
We might not agree on the best way to get there, but sometimes the best part of the trip isn’t the easy way.
It’s the Rocky Road.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Seek and Enjoy
Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I can tell it’s spring at my house when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”
About the only thing I hate worse than the first flush of spring is the annual Easter egg hunt at Dad’s farm. This year, Easter comes at the first of April, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.
I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity. It’s like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano. I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.
I can hide eggs with no trouble. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Dad any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.
But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby was born, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order college graduation announcements for the baby.
When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglass, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”
Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, I discovered a plastic candy-filled egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny candy bar huddled in a faded wrapper.
The kids acted like it was a moon rock. “Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs that we never found!”
That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. It won’t bother me if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.
About the only thing I hate worse than the first flush of spring is the annual Easter egg hunt at Dad’s farm. This year, Easter comes at the first of April, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.
I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity. It’s like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano. I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.
I can hide eggs with no trouble. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Dad any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.
But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby was born, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order college graduation announcements for the baby.
When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglass, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”
Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, I discovered a plastic candy-filled egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny candy bar huddled in a faded wrapper.
The kids acted like it was a moon rock. “Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs that we never found!”
That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. It won’t bother me if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Lap of Luxury
“What’s this?” Bill Dear asked as I set a cup of coffee crumbs in front of him one morning.
“That’s your coffee,” I answered as I handed him an orange. “Here’s your juice.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I have prunes if you’d rather have that.”
“What’s that white stuff sprinkled on my toast?”
“That’s your grits. I thought they’d be easier to eat that way.”
“Did I leave the lid up in the bathroom again?” he asked as he peered at the coffee dust in his cup.
“There’s a drought on, in case you haven’t bothered to read something besides News of the Weird. This is just like the astronauts eat. Except you can’t have Tang unless you mix it with milk.”
“Can I have an egg?”
“That takes too much water to clean up. You can have an egg on Sunday. That’s our day to sprinkle.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already broken that rule. Am I allowed to brush my teeth?”
“Is it Sunday?”
“No.”
“Here’s some Dentyne. Knock yourself out.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“You should know that it’s our civic duty to conserve water during times of drought. We’re in a desperate situation.”
“Meaning. . . .” Suddenly his face lit up with understanding. “We’re not supposed to flush.”
“Only on Sundays.”
“I don’t think that’s what they mean.”
“It says in the paper that you’re allowed luxury water usage, like loading up your Super Soaker so you can wipe out Mr. Zachary when he edges your tomatoes with his weed eater, every other day depending on your address. If you have an even house number, you get Saturdays. We’re odd.”
“I’d say so.”
“Count your blessings. Old Mrs. Finburne won’t let Ed take his Viagra.”
“Because it's a luxury?
“No. She says it’s a clear case of nonessential water usage.”
“That’s your coffee,” I answered as I handed him an orange. “Here’s your juice.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I have prunes if you’d rather have that.”
“What’s that white stuff sprinkled on my toast?”
“That’s your grits. I thought they’d be easier to eat that way.”
“Did I leave the lid up in the bathroom again?” he asked as he peered at the coffee dust in his cup.
“There’s a drought on, in case you haven’t bothered to read something besides News of the Weird. This is just like the astronauts eat. Except you can’t have Tang unless you mix it with milk.”
“Can I have an egg?”
“That takes too much water to clean up. You can have an egg on Sunday. That’s our day to sprinkle.”
“I’m afraid I’ve already broken that rule. Am I allowed to brush my teeth?”
“Is it Sunday?”
“No.”
“Here’s some Dentyne. Knock yourself out.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“You should know that it’s our civic duty to conserve water during times of drought. We’re in a desperate situation.”
“Meaning. . . .” Suddenly his face lit up with understanding. “We’re not supposed to flush.”
“Only on Sundays.”
“I don’t think that’s what they mean.”
“It says in the paper that you’re allowed luxury water usage, like loading up your Super Soaker so you can wipe out Mr. Zachary when he edges your tomatoes with his weed eater, every other day depending on your address. If you have an even house number, you get Saturdays. We’re odd.”
“I’d say so.”
“Count your blessings. Old Mrs. Finburne won’t let Ed take his Viagra.”
“Because it's a luxury?
“No. She says it’s a clear case of nonessential water usage.”
Monday, August 4, 2008
It's a Wash
Moving from last week’s baby poop extravaganza up the time line to indoor plumbing, we come to public potties, where I also have issues. Now you can tell if you ever drop by the house that I have no tendencies toward a cleanliness fetish of any kind, so that’s not the problem. I don’t panic over germ infestations unless they present themselves in the form of a creature that is hopping, flying, crawling, buzzing, or of course rubbing its little hands together menacingly in my direction.
But let's move back down the pipes to the potties. My problem is the trend toward installing automatically flushing toilets in public restrooms. I’m not sure what sort of fiendish mind conceived of such a device. Obviously the same mind that thought of squirt cheese or miniature cookies that come in tiny packages labeled 100 calories each. Everybody knows it takes a quart-sized baggie of cookies to equal 100 calories, particularly if chocolate is involved.
Now when it comes to plumbing, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the advanced technology that takes away the need for manual flushing, but I can’t seem to operate the things. When I open the stall door to enter, they inevitably begin their erratic tidy bowl dance, complete with crashing tidal waves and whirlpools. Not having thought to bring along a change of clothes, I favor an approach most often used by a goal-oriented runner approaching a closely guarded second base at Yankee Stadium. I slide in low and hope I don’t need laundry detail.
Next, I settle onto the nest like a laying hen, my pocketbook clutched tightly in my lap. I realize that as a good citizen and a proponent of clean living I should hang my pocketbook daintily on the hook provided, but I don’t do that because a) I'll generally forget it when I leave, b) I intend to reapply my lipstick, Blushing Berry, available for $7.98 at Wal-Mart, while seated, and c) I never remember the hook until the optimal time to arrange for its use has passed. This immediately leads to a logistics dilemma requiring remarkable dexterity in reaching the necessary accesories. I lean forward to place my purse on the floor, in spite of agitated e-mail circulations that implore me to choose a better option.
Immediately with a roar and the crash of waves of water, the auto-flush option jumps enthusiastically into service, cleaning more surface area than I find comfortable. I involuntarily leap to attention, realizing too late that quick attention should be accompanied by returning all possible garments to the upright position. My knees are bound together by nylon and elastic lace and a sizable amount of yardage in the form of stretchy pants as I hop awkwardly in an attempt to avoid the purse obstacle situated on the floor like a hungry mouse trap ready to snap to work given the slightest provocation.
I bend to remedy the fabric situation which sets off a renewed frenzy of water fun. By this time, bystanders are bending to peer under the door to see if distress requiring the jaws life of is taking place in Stall Number 1. After repositioning all my garments to their accustomed areas of coverage, retrieving my purse, which once again sets off a tirade of flushing action, I hold my head high and exit the stall.
Now to wash my hands. Which I would do if I could figure out how to activate the automatic faucets long enough to reach the soap. I wet my hands and wipe them off on my pants. I'm not about to attempt the automatic dryer.
But let's move back down the pipes to the potties. My problem is the trend toward installing automatically flushing toilets in public restrooms. I’m not sure what sort of fiendish mind conceived of such a device. Obviously the same mind that thought of squirt cheese or miniature cookies that come in tiny packages labeled 100 calories each. Everybody knows it takes a quart-sized baggie of cookies to equal 100 calories, particularly if chocolate is involved.
Now when it comes to plumbing, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the advanced technology that takes away the need for manual flushing, but I can’t seem to operate the things. When I open the stall door to enter, they inevitably begin their erratic tidy bowl dance, complete with crashing tidal waves and whirlpools. Not having thought to bring along a change of clothes, I favor an approach most often used by a goal-oriented runner approaching a closely guarded second base at Yankee Stadium. I slide in low and hope I don’t need laundry detail.
Next, I settle onto the nest like a laying hen, my pocketbook clutched tightly in my lap. I realize that as a good citizen and a proponent of clean living I should hang my pocketbook daintily on the hook provided, but I don’t do that because a) I'll generally forget it when I leave, b) I intend to reapply my lipstick, Blushing Berry, available for $7.98 at Wal-Mart, while seated, and c) I never remember the hook until the optimal time to arrange for its use has passed. This immediately leads to a logistics dilemma requiring remarkable dexterity in reaching the necessary accesories. I lean forward to place my purse on the floor, in spite of agitated e-mail circulations that implore me to choose a better option.
Immediately with a roar and the crash of waves of water, the auto-flush option jumps enthusiastically into service, cleaning more surface area than I find comfortable. I involuntarily leap to attention, realizing too late that quick attention should be accompanied by returning all possible garments to the upright position. My knees are bound together by nylon and elastic lace and a sizable amount of yardage in the form of stretchy pants as I hop awkwardly in an attempt to avoid the purse obstacle situated on the floor like a hungry mouse trap ready to snap to work given the slightest provocation.
I bend to remedy the fabric situation which sets off a renewed frenzy of water fun. By this time, bystanders are bending to peer under the door to see if distress requiring the jaws life of is taking place in Stall Number 1. After repositioning all my garments to their accustomed areas of coverage, retrieving my purse, which once again sets off a tirade of flushing action, I hold my head high and exit the stall.
Now to wash my hands. Which I would do if I could figure out how to activate the automatic faucets long enough to reach the soap. I wet my hands and wipe them off on my pants. I'm not about to attempt the automatic dryer.
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