A Letter for the Labradors

Dear Dogs,

I realize you have a reputation to uphold. After all, you don’t sleep 15 hours a day just because you’ve got nothing to do. (Oh, wait; yes you do.) The spastic hyperactive crazed dog fit that comes in the twenty minutes it takes me to drive to the store for kibble, hamburger, and Pine Sol is the perfect opportunity to use all that energy you’ve stored up sleeping on my grandmother’s hand-sewn comforter.

The sound of the deadbolt slamming into place in the back door and the pathetic wheeze of my ten-year-old oil-burner valiantly attempting another run at the hill at the end of our driveway is exactly the incentive you need to leave your cozy nest and mount an assault on the trash can that leaves my kitchen resembling the remains of the Bin Laden compound after Seal Team Six came through. The only thing missing is the news team recording misinformation for the masses.

I understand that the Iditarod is run by teams of sled dogs that work with such precision that a single wrong step can throw the whole team off, but those puppies are sock puppets compared to the destruction a pair of Labradors can instigate during a fifteen minute absentee-owner break. If there are mass destruction world records to break, you can’t live with yourselves another second without sliding down the hall on your blubber-filled butts and shattering them like Lalique crystal on a brick floor.

I also realize you are trying to make a point. To the best of your tiny sesame seed-sized recollection, you’ve been nothing but good and true ever since the incident with the television remote. Since you have no sense of time, it’s hard to explain to you that the vet trip for that little snackfest ended just last night. And the one for the pantyhose ingestion drama is still front page news. So even though you’re rallying against oppression, I have to insist that you stay out of the coffee grounds, drop the banana peel, and back away from the scented soap.

And while you’re at it, stay out of the kitty litter. There’s some things that give you breath that even Irish Spring can’t erase.

Besides, a goatee made out of Fresh Step just looks silly.

Love,
Mom

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.

Beauty Buffet

My mother religiously practiced the Pond’s 7-day Beauty Plan for forty years. I figure if it didn’t work for her in four decades it won’t do me any good to jump on it as a last resort. I wash my face with whatever soap product is melting in the dish and leave off my glasses when I look in the mirror. For all I know, I look terrific.

Why is it that some of us inherit all the withered branches a family tree has to offer and the slobbering weasels of the family get all the good stuff? I got my mom’s body type and the shape of her legs, which were like parentheses from the knees down and crescent rolls from the knees up. I can look in the mirror and see all the food groups represented in my body. Don’t think I enjoy sitting on this rump roast.

With as many can’t miss beauty plans advertised on the market today, it seems like I could find one that would turn my rolls into flatbread. There are plenty of doctors willing to gather up all the folds and trim off the excess. The whole thing seems to be sort of like making a pie crust. Anything that hangs over the sides gets lopped off and redistributed to more deserving areas. They should be able to fashion extra people with all the extra material. We could harvest enough excess flesh from my thighs to create Victoria’s Secret models that resemble humans instead of uncooked spaghetti.

I finally found a beauty routine that seemed likely to make a difference. You use an avocado, two slices of cucumber, and a tomato, and serve it with a large pan of burritos. You won’t be any better looking, but with everybody crowding the buffet table at your dinner parties, no one will notice.

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.”

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.”