“What’s with the hat?”
The Captain doesn’t always trust my motives. If I were a ship, he’d stock plenty of life boats before leaving port.
“I want to run away from my job, wallow in uncontrolled substances, and wear ugly clothes.”
“Did you get the Nyquil mixed up with the mouthwash again or have you been watching Charlie Sheen on TV?”
“Charlie Sheen. He’s a zillionaire and he’s always wearing some crazy hat. I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could come up with the big bucks.”
“I don’t think a clown hat from Ringling Brothers is going to do the job. Why don’t you try a pretty floral bonnet?”
I peered out from under the brim. “It’s perfect. There’s not a better clown on TV. And he’s living the high life.”
"You want to rebel from work? Didn’t they just have Employee Appreciation Day there?"
“Yes, and a covered dish dinner. It was lovely.”
“Then why don’t you rebel from housework instead?”
I leaned back in my chair to consider. The clown hat swept the shelf behind me and sent a dusty copy of Stain Removal for Dummies crashing to the floor.
“That’s not a bad idea. There’s vacuuming. I hate to vacuum.”
“You haven’t vacuumed in 13 years. Do you know where we keep the Hoover?”
"In the Colorado River?"
“That’s a dam.”
“That’s about right.”
“And I hate to cook.”
“The closest you’ve come to cooking in the last week is pouring milk on your breakfast cereal. We have enough takeout boxes in the refrigerator to have a potluck supper for the cast of Slumdog Millionaire.”
“There’s always uncontrolled substances.”
“Uncontrolled? You mean like over-the-counter breath mints? Or nonprescription drugs? You can’t even take painkillers without walking like a circus clown. That must be why you need the hat.”
“Drugs? Who said anything about drugs? I meant Girl Scout cookies. Those Thin Mints are addictive.”
“All that’s left is ugly clothes. I’ve always been partial to your purple flannel puppy dog pajamas.”
“They don’t count. They’re my good luck pajamas.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. Whenever I wear them I dream about George Clooney.”
“You'd better stick with the hat. You look like a freakin’ rock star.”
“From Mars?”
“From Pluto.”
“That doesn’t sound quite as epic.”
“Well, you’re way out in space and everybody loves you, but you don’t have what it takes to make top billing.”
"I can't believe you said that. That's cold."
"Now you're finding out what life is really like on Mars."
Laugh
Showing posts with label hat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hat. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Beware (With apologies to Jenny Joseph)
(For my husband, Bill, who has a Very Important Birthday coming up)
When I am old I shall wear Speedos
With sandals and black socks
And a Hawaiian floweredy shirt.
I shall collect old electrical appliances
That no longer work and are missing buttons.
And keep spare screws and washers
In jelly jars on a shelf.
I shall wear striped shirts and plaid shorts together
With the waistband under my armpits
And an old felt hat
From 1947.
But for now I must hold down a job
And go to church
Even Sunday School
And buy milk by the gallon.
But maybe I should buy bicycle pants for now
So people who know me won’t be surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear Speedos.
When I am old I shall wear Speedos
With sandals and black socks
And a Hawaiian floweredy shirt.
I shall collect old electrical appliances
That no longer work and are missing buttons.
And keep spare screws and washers
In jelly jars on a shelf.
I shall wear striped shirts and plaid shorts together
With the waistband under my armpits
And an old felt hat
From 1947.
But for now I must hold down a job
And go to church
Even Sunday School
And buy milk by the gallon.
But maybe I should buy bicycle pants for now
So people who know me won’t be surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear Speedos.
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