Asking our GPS for a destination is sort of like writing a letter to Santa. You express your heartfelt wishes and desires and hope that you’ve been good enough to get results. My GPS makes me address it as if it were the deity in charge of merge lanes and yield signs. Forget about Rest Areas. You’re better off packing an empty coffee can and a Do Not Disturb sign.
The Captain of our compact Conestoga fired up all four cylinders at the same time recently and to celebrate, we decided to take an actual trip.
Me: Oh great GPS, would you direct us to the path that leads to the beach?
GPS: No.
Me: Please? I won’t ask for anything else. Ever.
GPS: What have you done to deserve this trip? I get no respect. You even put my batteries in upside down.
Me: Sorry. But I didn’t put hair remover in the Captain’s shampoo for April Fool’s Day this time, and I didn’t mention the ferret in the dishwasher.
Captain: There’s a ferret in the dishwasher?
GPS: There WAS a ferret in the dishwasher.
Kid One: You found my ferret!
Me: The point is, I’ve been good. Please tell me how to get to the beach.
GPS: Did you pack a towel?
Me: Yes.
GPS: And clean underwear?
Me. I can buy new ones when I get there.
GPS: Read the fine print. It’s against my Code of Ethics to take you anywhere without clean underwear.
Me: Fine. (I leave the car and return shortly, having taken a precautionary pit stop.) Now will you tell me?
GPS: You left the overnight bag in the guest bath.
Me: I also flushed the house key by accident.
GPS: Did you jiggle the handle?
Me: Yes. Can’t I just buy underwear when I get there?
GPS: Oh sure, and I guess you’re going to parade around all day in that thing you call a swimsuit. Did you pack a cover up?
Captain: You’re not taking underwear?
Kids One and Two: You’re going to wear a BATHING SUIT? We’re not going.
GPS: Don’t talk to your mother that way. That’s my job.
Captain: You’re not taking underwear?
Me: I have to take that bathing suit. It’s the only one I have.
GPS: That might have been a bathing suit in 1975. Today it is a rubber band with sand in the crotch.
Me: Fine, I’ll look for a new one when we get to the beach.
Kid One: Can we take the ferret?
GPS: That ferret won’t be going anywhere, kiddo. Not after a spin through the potscrubber cycle.
Kid One: MOM!
Me: The vet says he’s going to be just fine, honey. He said he’d never seen anybody give CPR to a ferret before.
GPS: CPR? That was more like LOL. That ferret looked like a sprinkler hose.
Kid One: MOM!
Me: He’s kidding. The vet will have him all patched up in no time. Let’s just hit the road, shall we?
Captain: You’re not taking underwear? Are we staying in the same room as the kids?
GPS: And what about that ratty bathing suit? It looks like a freeway-bound retread just before it leaves the tire.
Me: You take that back!
Captain: Sorry. I just thought separate rooms would be better.
Kid One: Can we go by the vet’s office on the way out of town?
Me: No, honey, we don’t have time.
Captain: How much time does it take to get a room?
GPS: I sure wouldn’t stay in a room with a woman in a ragged bathing suit and no underwear.
Me: He just needs a little extra care.
Captain: That’s what I’m saying.
Me: Not you. The ferret.
Kid One: How much?
Captain: That’s what I want to know.
GPS: That’s it. Find your own way to the beach. I quit!
Me: Fine! I’m giving these new batteries to the iPod.
And that’s how we ended up staying home during vacation time this year. Although we did download a vacation planner and mapping application, and bought new underwear for everyone in the family online. We also got a new GPS.
One that’s guaranteed not to talk back.
Laugh
Showing posts with label shampoo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shampoo. Show all posts
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, May 14, 2010
Mother's Day Out(Law)
My birds can’t sing. It's not so much that they're not motivated, as much as that they're gifted in other areas, such as recreational violence. They while away their time scarfing up purple berries to use later in a revenge-fueled attack on my car.
Why is it that everybody else gets a symphony of nature’s sounds outside their window in the morning, and I get what sounds like a bunch of Saturday night revelers tooting the best of Milli Vanilli on empty whiskey bottles? Just my luck to get the only birds in the world who hate morning.
I suspect they drink.
And although the idea of installing a wet bar outside loaded with enough goodwill to bring peace to the entire neighborhood is appealing, I don’t want to make the Audubon Society’s top ten “Enemies of Nature” list.
So, in honor of Mother’s Day and in an effort to instill pleasant and healthy morning habits in our bird population, the Captain of our Aviary, the man who vowed to love, honor, and rid the world of household pests, decided to install a bird feeder outside beside the combination dogwood tree, kudzu vine, and rose bush. I realize now that he’s had it in for me all along.
I’m not much of a gardener, so when the only thing that grows in my yard is a twisted smorgasbord of flora, I tend to leave it alone and pretend I don't hear the smacking sounds echoing from its depths. I’m pretty sure the cat is in there somewhere. And the barbecue grill. And my last car.
It ate my birdfeeder.
The next morning all that was left of the new birdie buffet was a trail of scattered sunflower seeds.
The bird population was seriously ticked.
About that time the family scavengers, Sam and Bo, Labradors from the planet We Are Starving came to investigate the possibility of sharing a picnic with the birds. Both are well versed in the language of international cuisine and begin snuffling through the birdseed like they’re tracking T-Bone flavored truffles.
As the sun rose to find me standing in the tall, wet grass with sunflower seeds stuck to my shoes like beetles on the screen door, with screeching swallows pelting me with pinfeathers, and pellet hounds shinnying up my shins, I could only think of one thing.
Never mind the stupid birds. I can’t wait for Father’s Day. It’s payback time.
Why is it that everybody else gets a symphony of nature’s sounds outside their window in the morning, and I get what sounds like a bunch of Saturday night revelers tooting the best of Milli Vanilli on empty whiskey bottles? Just my luck to get the only birds in the world who hate morning.
I suspect they drink.
And although the idea of installing a wet bar outside loaded with enough goodwill to bring peace to the entire neighborhood is appealing, I don’t want to make the Audubon Society’s top ten “Enemies of Nature” list.
So, in honor of Mother’s Day and in an effort to instill pleasant and healthy morning habits in our bird population, the Captain of our Aviary, the man who vowed to love, honor, and rid the world of household pests, decided to install a bird feeder outside beside the combination dogwood tree, kudzu vine, and rose bush. I realize now that he’s had it in for me all along.
I’m not much of a gardener, so when the only thing that grows in my yard is a twisted smorgasbord of flora, I tend to leave it alone and pretend I don't hear the smacking sounds echoing from its depths. I’m pretty sure the cat is in there somewhere. And the barbecue grill. And my last car.
It ate my birdfeeder.
The next morning all that was left of the new birdie buffet was a trail of scattered sunflower seeds.
The bird population was seriously ticked.
About that time the family scavengers, Sam and Bo, Labradors from the planet We Are Starving came to investigate the possibility of sharing a picnic with the birds. Both are well versed in the language of international cuisine and begin snuffling through the birdseed like they’re tracking T-Bone flavored truffles.
As the sun rose to find me standing in the tall, wet grass with sunflower seeds stuck to my shoes like beetles on the screen door, with screeching swallows pelting me with pinfeathers, and pellet hounds shinnying up my shins, I could only think of one thing.
Never mind the stupid birds. I can’t wait for Father’s Day. It’s payback time.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bar None
Man was fearfully and wonderfully made. And God looked at man, rubbed his chin, and said, “Man is lonesome. He needs someone who can remember to put a new bar of soap in the shower.”
So God made woman. A helpmate for the man; someone who could find the mustard behind the milk in the refrigerator. And who could produce two clean, matching socks from dust mites in the air at 6:30 a.m.
And who would emerge from the shower with a $20 hot oil frizz-reduction hair conditioning treatment streaming down her shoulders to locate and unwrap a new bar of soap so that the next person would not have to shower using the last bit of dandruff shampoo as a body scrub.
Only God knows why a man, who can remember the quarterly scores from every Super Bowl from the dawn of civilization to present day replays, cannot remember to replace the soap when he leaves the shower. Somewhere between reaching for the towel and stirring creamer into his coffee, his priorities shift.
But while God is chuckling over the soap sliver bit, woman is in the kitchen raising her hands to heaven and crying, “Lord, never mind the soap. Why can’t man learn to put the twist tie back on the bread? Why does he have to do that twirl and tuck thing with the bread wrapper? You know I hate that.”
And God smiled. “He’s innovative.”
Then woman heads to the laundry room to bring new life to dingy whites and to zap spaghetti spots with her miracle stain remover stick. And she cries to heaven again, “Lord, why can’t he simply place his dirty underwear in the laundry basket? Why must he do that foot-flip snatch and grab act with his boxers? You know I’m expected to applaud every single time he catches them.”
And God nodded knowingly. “He’s creative.”
“Okay, God, I get it. Those little things that make me crazier than a salesclerk on Black Friday are the things he uses to make a better way in life. But just between you and me, God, what about that thing with the remote? Why can’t he leave the TV on one channel for longer than it takes to focus on David Letterman’s tooth gap?”
“Oh, that’s easy, God replied. That’s to keep you from having to watch three straight hours of How to Make Your Own Bait on the Fishing Channel.”
“You ARE wise,” Woman whispered. “Tell me, though. In heaven will he wake up every morning scratching his backside?”
“I’m working on that one,” answered God pensively. “The trouble is we have a problem with everybody staying clean.”
“In heaven?” The woman was astounded. “How can that be?”
“Well,” sighed God. “Everybody’s so busy watching television and looking for the mustard in the refrigerator, that nobody ever remembers to put new soap in the shower.”
So God made woman. A helpmate for the man; someone who could find the mustard behind the milk in the refrigerator. And who could produce two clean, matching socks from dust mites in the air at 6:30 a.m.
And who would emerge from the shower with a $20 hot oil frizz-reduction hair conditioning treatment streaming down her shoulders to locate and unwrap a new bar of soap so that the next person would not have to shower using the last bit of dandruff shampoo as a body scrub.
Only God knows why a man, who can remember the quarterly scores from every Super Bowl from the dawn of civilization to present day replays, cannot remember to replace the soap when he leaves the shower. Somewhere between reaching for the towel and stirring creamer into his coffee, his priorities shift.
But while God is chuckling over the soap sliver bit, woman is in the kitchen raising her hands to heaven and crying, “Lord, never mind the soap. Why can’t man learn to put the twist tie back on the bread? Why does he have to do that twirl and tuck thing with the bread wrapper? You know I hate that.”
And God smiled. “He’s innovative.”
Then woman heads to the laundry room to bring new life to dingy whites and to zap spaghetti spots with her miracle stain remover stick. And she cries to heaven again, “Lord, why can’t he simply place his dirty underwear in the laundry basket? Why must he do that foot-flip snatch and grab act with his boxers? You know I’m expected to applaud every single time he catches them.”
And God nodded knowingly. “He’s creative.”
“Okay, God, I get it. Those little things that make me crazier than a salesclerk on Black Friday are the things he uses to make a better way in life. But just between you and me, God, what about that thing with the remote? Why can’t he leave the TV on one channel for longer than it takes to focus on David Letterman’s tooth gap?”
“Oh, that’s easy, God replied. That’s to keep you from having to watch three straight hours of How to Make Your Own Bait on the Fishing Channel.”
“You ARE wise,” Woman whispered. “Tell me, though. In heaven will he wake up every morning scratching his backside?”
“I’m working on that one,” answered God pensively. “The trouble is we have a problem with everybody staying clean.”
“In heaven?” The woman was astounded. “How can that be?”
“Well,” sighed God. “Everybody’s so busy watching television and looking for the mustard in the refrigerator, that nobody ever remembers to put new soap in the shower.”
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