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’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.”
“That’s not terry cloth.”
“Well it’s certainly not made of anything that Mother Nature has to offer.”
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 hooded froggie towel from when the kids were little, and the pink velour with the floral design.”
“Go for the flowers. The frog repels moisture. 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 rose buds. I tossed them all in the laundry.
It’s not that we don’t own other towels. If all the terry cloth in our possession were draped across the Atlantic, the ocean would dry up quicker than Bernie Madoff’s revenue streams the day the subpoena surfaced.
But our towels are given to vanishing when emergencies arise. Harry Houdini would have been envious of the sleight of hand towels we’ve experienced.
The day that the Captain of my oil pan kept screaming for something to wipe the dipstick with when he was checking my fluids, the festive holiday 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 living room shag, the blue velour 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.
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 hang the froggie on the towel rack year round and let ‘em drip dry. The living room shag will thank me for it.
Laugh
Showing posts with label fruit loops. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fruit loops. Show all posts
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Survivor: College Loans
“I’m desperate,” Laudy insisted, knocking back black coffee the way a Cadillac guzzles premium unleaded. “I’ve got one kid in college and one scattering and smothering at the Waffle House to pay back student loans. I have two more who think the Tuition Fairy is going to pick up the tab for collegiate aerobics classes. It’s time for drastic measures.”
Laudy took a close-up look at the American dream and found out the silver lining is made of promissory notes. A savvy mother of four, she surveyed the situation, consulted her checkbook, and collapsed in a state of cardiac arrest. Recovering quickly, she realized the obvious. She would either have to come across a pair of spare Hannah Montana tickets to sell on e-Bay or win some quick money. Since our family’s luck doesn’t tend toward surprise acquisitions of valuable property, Sis decided she would grab some easy money from one of the reality shows on T.V.
“You would have to eat something live and squiggly,” I winced.
“Have you ever eaten french fries off a toddler’s plate?” she patted my hand. “Caterpillars are nothing after that.”
She had a point. I have two boys. I’ve palmed chewed gum in church and plunged my fingers into slimy mouths to chase semi-digested cigarette butts.
“You have to form secret partnerships to outwit the others playing the game,” I reminded her.
“Easy enough. I’ve orchestrated surprise birthday parties that actually turned out to be surprises, and supervised four children on Christmas shopping trips where nobody found out what the others bought.”
I whistled. “How did you manage that? I can’t buy control top pantyhose without my two revealing the size and color to everybody on the Eastern seaboard. Usually if they’re talking to strangers, they throw in my age and weight for free.”
Laudy nodded and patted my hand. “All I know is that after raising one child that ate only baked beans and pizza, one that ate potato skins and ranch dip, one that ate the chicken out of her sandwich and rolled the bread into dough balls, and one that survived for ten years on a diet of macaroni and cheese and Fruit Loops, Survivor would have to be as easy as scraping egg off the ceiling.”
“That easy, huh?”
“It’s all in knowing how to do things the simplest way. Like spraying the ceiling with no stick-spray. Besides, I’ve been practicing.”
“How do you practice surviving on a deserted island?” My idea of roughing it is buying salad by the head.
“I’ve been foraging for food. Just yesterday I cut up a chicken. I bought corn with the hair still on. And I’ve been cooking on the grill instead of in the microwave. It’s just like cooking over an open fire.”
“How did it go?”
“Great. I didn’t realize what a quick response time we had with the fire department around here. Did you know that you don’t need lighter fluid if you use propane?”
“Okay, you’ve got mealtime covered. What about laundry? Ready to beat your clothes clean on river rocks?”
“Well, I’m still using that old washing machine Mama gave me when I got married. It doesn’t spin by itself any more. You have to grab the tub and whirl it around like one of those little merry-go-rounds at the park. I lose weight every time I do the wash.”
“Sounds like you’ve got what it takes all right,” I said, edging toward the door. There’s just one thing that could get in the way of success.”
“What’s that?”
It was cruel, but I’m her sister. I had to let her know. “On Survivor, they don’t have toilets.”
She looked at me with innocent doe eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s just you in the outback becoming one with nature.”
“You know, there’s something honest and noble about working for a living.”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s a lesson these kids will just have to learn.”
Laudy took a close-up look at the American dream and found out the silver lining is made of promissory notes. A savvy mother of four, she surveyed the situation, consulted her checkbook, and collapsed in a state of cardiac arrest. Recovering quickly, she realized the obvious. She would either have to come across a pair of spare Hannah Montana tickets to sell on e-Bay or win some quick money. Since our family’s luck doesn’t tend toward surprise acquisitions of valuable property, Sis decided she would grab some easy money from one of the reality shows on T.V.
“You would have to eat something live and squiggly,” I winced.
“Have you ever eaten french fries off a toddler’s plate?” she patted my hand. “Caterpillars are nothing after that.”
She had a point. I have two boys. I’ve palmed chewed gum in church and plunged my fingers into slimy mouths to chase semi-digested cigarette butts.
“You have to form secret partnerships to outwit the others playing the game,” I reminded her.
“Easy enough. I’ve orchestrated surprise birthday parties that actually turned out to be surprises, and supervised four children on Christmas shopping trips where nobody found out what the others bought.”
I whistled. “How did you manage that? I can’t buy control top pantyhose without my two revealing the size and color to everybody on the Eastern seaboard. Usually if they’re talking to strangers, they throw in my age and weight for free.”
Laudy nodded and patted my hand. “All I know is that after raising one child that ate only baked beans and pizza, one that ate potato skins and ranch dip, one that ate the chicken out of her sandwich and rolled the bread into dough balls, and one that survived for ten years on a diet of macaroni and cheese and Fruit Loops, Survivor would have to be as easy as scraping egg off the ceiling.”
“That easy, huh?”
“It’s all in knowing how to do things the simplest way. Like spraying the ceiling with no stick-spray. Besides, I’ve been practicing.”
“How do you practice surviving on a deserted island?” My idea of roughing it is buying salad by the head.
“I’ve been foraging for food. Just yesterday I cut up a chicken. I bought corn with the hair still on. And I’ve been cooking on the grill instead of in the microwave. It’s just like cooking over an open fire.”
“How did it go?”
“Great. I didn’t realize what a quick response time we had with the fire department around here. Did you know that you don’t need lighter fluid if you use propane?”
“Okay, you’ve got mealtime covered. What about laundry? Ready to beat your clothes clean on river rocks?”
“Well, I’m still using that old washing machine Mama gave me when I got married. It doesn’t spin by itself any more. You have to grab the tub and whirl it around like one of those little merry-go-rounds at the park. I lose weight every time I do the wash.”
“Sounds like you’ve got what it takes all right,” I said, edging toward the door. There’s just one thing that could get in the way of success.”
“What’s that?”
It was cruel, but I’m her sister. I had to let her know. “On Survivor, they don’t have toilets.”
She looked at me with innocent doe eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s just you in the outback becoming one with nature.”
“You know, there’s something honest and noble about working for a living.”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s a lesson these kids will just have to learn.”
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