humor

‘I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes..

‘I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.’  Henry David Thoreau

This is my favorite shirt.   I love it more now than the first time I put it on.  I wish I had a meter to tell me which things will turn out like this shirt.  When it was new, it was a nice medium-weight denim, several shades darker.  It was probably laundered six or seven times before it revealed its beauty to me.  It faded and softened, calling out to me every time I open my closet.  Buttons have been replaced a few times, buttonholes repaired, tucks restitched, and today, an iron-on patch applied to the right side just below the yoke.  The lace on the yoke has a small, well, maybe good-sized snag.  I don’t think anyone will ever know.

                      

I fear it will wear out one day, as my favorites have done before, before too much longer. Sadly, it’s like trying plug a hole in a dam, when you plug one leak, another starts.  I guess I will just love it as long as it lasts.

Poopy Puppy on a Plane

Image courtesy of Pixabay

Had I met Snowball under different circumstances, I’m sure I would have found her adorable.  Sadly for our friendship, I met her on a crowded plane.  I heard about her before I saw her, listening  in on the conversation between the two passengers sitting between me and the aisle.

”Snowball never pooped when I put her down on her pee pee pad in the bathroom.  I know she has to go by now.”  Ms. Bozo worried as she crowded me closer to the window.

”She’ll be fine.  We can’t do anything about that now.” Mr. Bozo replied, placidly.

”I think you need to take her to the lavatory and put her down on a pad.”  Ms. Bozo insisted.  “I gave her a little laxative last night so she’d go this morning. She never did.   We don’t want her getting constipated again.  You remember what happened last time.”  That sounded ominous.

“I told you not to do that!” Mr. Bozo grouched. “You know how that works her.”  He got up and struggled to pull Snowflake’s carrier from under Ms. Bozo’s seat.  Ms. Bozo unzipped the opening and peeked in at Little Snowball.  The smell was bad news.  Desperate to escape the fetid air in the carrier, Snowball leapt to freedom, smearing Mr. and Ms. Bozo with feces on her way.  Snowball no longer looked snowy.  Ms. Bozo squealed and Bozo roared.  Snowball sprinted down the aisle, ducking between passenger’s feet, the stewardess in pursuit.

”Don’t hurt her!  She’s scared!” Shrieked Ms. Bozo.  “Snowball, come back to Mama!  Snowball! Snowball!

That Snowball could run. Darting in and out among the legs of the other passengers, she left a little of herself all along the way.   She got by Bozo and the stewardess several times.  Eventually  she was recaptured, looking much cleaner, courtesy of hapless passengers’ legs. Ms. Bozo tidied her up in the lavatory, so Snowball was in better shape than her disgruntled new acquaintance who took turns sponging off in the lavatory,.  They clearly held a grudge.

Soon, a miasma from Snowball’s befouled carrier beneath the seat began to reek. As the odor recirculated through the cabin, only the Bozos failed to notice.  Even after the stewardess had them stuff it in a garbage bag, the smell spread,  even crossing the curtain into first class.

It was not the best flight I ever had.

 

 

Icy Showers and Rotten Sausage

Cousin Kat was tight. We always took plenty of food when we went to visit her in her Appalachian Paradise knowing how “conservative” she was. She thought three rolls, three scrambled eggs, a little jam and a dab of butter was plenty for any number of guests there might be for breakfast. “I just don’t think there’s any point in folks being hoggish,” was her favorite phrase as she set out a meal. She was a devout believer and had probably heard that story about Jesus feeding the multitudes on five loves and three fishes one too many times.

A few days before our last visit, someone had given Cousin Kat some fresh homemade sausage. She’d eaten a bit and saved some for us. That sounded fine till I opened her tiny 1940 model refrigerator to get some water. The rank smell of bad meat nearly knocked me down. “Ooh, Cousin Kat, I think something’s gone bad in here!”

“Oh, it’s not bad. It’s just that sausage Barney gave me. It’s real spicy!” She answered, totally unconcerned. “I’m gonna cook it up for supper.”

I made up my mind then and there to eat popcorn. I’ve never smelled a spice that mimicked the smell of rancid meat so closely. Mother and Phyllis both found other options. Count Kat cooked that sausage and ate up all by herself, since she was determined not to let it go to waste. It stunk the whole house up with its nauseating odor as it cooked. We all told her it smelled like it might have “gone to the bad.” She disagreed.

We planned a road trip for the four of us to go into Amish Country and packed a nice picnic …no sausage. Phyllis and Cousin Kat decided to take their showers the evening before so The four of us wouldn’t be competing in the morning. Cousin Kat told her how she could run a bit of water in the tub, sit on the edge, wash her face, ears, neck, then her body before washing the best parts and her feet. That way, she could get by with just a little of that expensive hot water. Well, I do believe I heard the shower running while Phyllis was in there, despite her lesson. Cousin Kat perked up her ears, too. When Phyllis came out, Cousin Kat said, “I hope you stopped up the tub and saved your water for me. Just one person don’t mess up bath water none.” Shamefaced, Phyllis had to admit she run it all down the drain. Cousin Kat gave her a look.

We went on to bed. I snore and talk in my sleep, so no one would bunk in with me. I am always early to bed, so I took the small bedroom. Cousin Kat gave Mother an inflatable mattress her son had left there to put on the living floor. Unfortunately, he had taken the pump home with him, so they sent a great deal of time trying to inflate it with a small hand-held hairdryer, the wrong tool for the job. Eventually, it approximated a mattress, though it flattened out the minute Mother reclined on it. They hadn’t bothered to pad the floor with quilts, so Mother was freezing the minute she lay down that frosty October evening. She got up, dragged her covers to an old-fashioned bi-fold sofa and tried to warm up. It was hard, lumpy, and had a couple of exposed springs but it was better than the icy floor.

Meanwhile, things weren’t going much better for Phyllis in the large, unheated upstairs bedroom. She’d chosen it because she liked to sleep in the cold. She’d dawdled and was the last to get to bed. I was quickly asleep, though I kept up a listen for retching during the night, expecting Cousin Kat to come down with food poisoning, but the next thing I knew, Phyllis was climbing in the small creeky bed with me. “I thought you were too good to sleep with me.” I reminded her.

“I am, but when I got upstairs and switched on that dim overhead light everything looked fine, but when I turned back the quilts, rice scattered all over the place. I couldn’t imagine why rice would be on the bed, like that. I turned on that little flashlight Cousin Kat gave me and saw the bed and floor covered in mouse pellets. Mice were scattering everywhere. I can’t sleep up there with all those mice. She was mad! I was laughing so hard the springs were creeping. We sounded like honeymooners.

As I mentioned earlier, I don’t sleep well, I talk in my sleep. In truth, it’s much worse than that. I curse and hurl epithets, language I’d never use during waking hours. Once I drifted off, Phyllis and I rolled up in that ancient mattress like a couple of hotdogs in a bun. She swears I shoved her and screamed at her to “get the f…. Out of here. I don’t remember a thing about it!

In a huff, she got up in search of a place to sleep. Seeing that Mother had abandoned the perfectly good air mattress, she gave it a try. Of course, it put her right on the floor. Not to be defeated, she folded it in half and stretched out. That was a little better. Just as she drifted off, it gave up the ghost and blew out. Hearing all the racket, Mother and I got up to help. I invited her to share my bed, but she was mad and wouldn’t have any part of it. Mother offered to share the bi-fold sofa, but there was no way that would work. She ended up spendinding the rest of the night wrapped in a blanket trying to sleep in a not-so-easy chair.

We got up early to have breakfast and get ready for our trip. At the kitchen table, We chatted over breakfast and sipped coffee. Mother and Phyllis lied about the extent of their miserable night. Phyllis had to come up with an excuse about abandoning the mousy attic. Cousin Kat polished off the last piece of the rancid sausage with her breakfast.

I got the first shower, keeping it short, since I remembered Cousin Kat’s lesson. It was pleasantly hot, but Mother said Cousin Kat ducked down to the basement to “get something” while I showered. Mother was next in line. When she got in, the water was nice and hot while she soaped up, but in just a minute, an icy blast hit her. Obviously, Cousin Kat’s basement errand was to cut off the water heater. The water came from a mountain spring, so Mother’s hot shower was over. She had to wipe the soap off with a wet washcloth dipped in icy water.

She was furious when she shivered out of her shower, accusing me of using all the hot water.
“Mother, I wasn’t in there but a couple of minutes. I didn’t use that much!”

All the while, Cousin Kat sat humming contentedly, finally offering, “Oh well, that water heater’s old. I guess it just gave out.” Only the day before she’d told us that her son had just put in a new one, over her objections. “I can heat what water I need on the stove and save the heating bill.” She made no mention of turning off the water heater.

Finally, the cold, grouchy bunch was ready to start the trip.

To be continued

Icy Showers and Rotten Sausage part 2

We toodled happily through the hills of Virginia in high spirits for a couple of hours till Cousin Kathleen asked for a rest stop. She wasn’t feeling so well. Uh oh! Still fearing the onset of food poisoning, I wheeled into a service station and she scurried for the Ladies Room. We filled the car, took our break, and waited. She came out looking a little green around the gills. “I ain’t feeling too peart. Something must be going around. I have a feeling I knew what was going around, that rotten sausage rolling around in her gut.

“Do you think we ought to go back home? I don’t want to take you off sick.”

“I’m fine. I just kinda’ had loose bowels.” That phrase always gave me visions of a person walking along with their arms full of slippery guts that periodically escaped and slipped to the ground. “I think I am fine now. My stomach’s rumblin’ a little. Think I’ll have a little bite to settle it.”

The sharp smell of rancid sausage assaulted us as she unwrapped a sausage-biscuit she dug out of her purse. “I’m sorry I ain’t got enough for y’all, but I didn’t want to waste this last piece.”

We couldn’t talk her out of eating it, and she cleaned it up, even licking its wax paper wrapper. Around noon, we stopped at a rest area for our picnic, spreading it out on a table under a shade tree. Several other groups were picnicking close by. Cousin Kat wasn’t hungry, so she headed for the restroom, telling us “Y’all go ahead and eat. I need a few minutes to sponge off a little.” That sounded ominous, but I didn’t offer to go along, assuming she wanted privacy.

By the time she came out, she looked bad. At a nearby picnic pavilion a couple with three little children was putting out their lunch. Dad smoothed the red and white checkered cloth and corralled the kiddies as Mom laid out the matching napkins and dishes. It was obvious tradition meant a lot to these parents since the kid’s clothes matched and Dad pulled out a nice camera and set up a tripod. It was a beautiful day for a picnic and family photos until Cousin Kat walked up, leaned against one of the poles of their pavilion and started projectile vomiting in their direction. She continued retching as they hurriedly packed their things, apparently in no mood for a new tradition.

When she regained her equilibrium, drank a Seven-Up, declaring she was fine now. “Sometimes I just get real sick like that, then it’s all over. Let’s get on down the road!”

She must have had a constitution of iron. We couldn’t talk her into going home, so we headed on. All was well for a couple of hours, then she got nauseated. I pulled over so she could retch to her heart’s content. Reaching in the car behind her, she grabbed Mother’s brand new red fleece jacket to wipe herself up with. Mother is still griping about her ruining that jacket. We whipped into a hotel and got a room, so she could rest and recover. We loaded her with fluids. I tried to get her to go to the Emergency Room but she would have no part of it. You can’t make an apparently competent adult go to the Emergency Room against their will. Believe me, I tried. Every time she opened her eyes, I had her drinking fluids.

After a few hours, she seemed better. At her suggestion, the rest of us walked over to the hotel restaurant for dinner. When we got back in an hour or so, the room smelled like a charnel house after a fresh episode of diarrhea and vomiting. Worst of all, her hemorrhoid had flared up and started bleeding. There was a bloody, poopy mess on the toilet, the walls, and a trail back to the bed where she lay sleeping like a baby. We made sure she was okay, gave her more to drink, and got to work on the mess, calling for extra towels to clean up. We also had to wash her clothes, since she’d already messed up the two outfits she’d brought. Then we headed to the pharmacy for remedies and air fresheners. Just in case you don’t know, they don’t give that stuff away. It was not a good night.

Somehow, we made it through the night. The next morning, she’d won her gastrointestinal battle. Now all she had to deal with was agonizing hemorrhoids. Her generous descriptions of her progress and suffering did not make her a better travel partner. We did some anti-climatic sightseeing in Amish Country, due to her ailments. Naturally, she didn’t feel like getting out, so we just made abbreviated stops. The only place she got out was at a quilt shop, where she was outraged at their prices. She’d thought she might be able pick up a nice quilt for twenty-five dollars.

We headed out early the next morning, determined to drop her off and head home to Louisiana. We had no intention of ever spending another night at her house. I think she was happy to see us leave, especially since we left her pantry well-stocked.

What I’ve Been Up To

My little granddaughter, Leda, has her priorities straight, dividing her time between Peppa the Pig, Spider-Man, Captain America, and numerous other superheroes.  She addresses Bud and me as Grandma and Other Grandma. Before going to preschool she put a bandaid on her shin and had me roll her pants leg up so it would show. Additionally, she applied a huge one to the center of her forehead just before getting out of the car. She was very satisfied by the fuss the kids made at her entrance. That evening at home, she plastered herself with about twenty and proclaimed, “I am so beautiful!” She was right!

It was so refreshing seeing the kids at her school. One morning a little guy met us at the door wearing a tutu and fireman’s helmet while a little girl danced around in a cowboy hat and hula skirt. After a day or two they all greeted “Grandma.”

Leda kept us busy. She had to have at least one Grandma at her side at all times. Other Grandma had to justify not being at her beck and call.

This friendly giant is our grand dog, Leda’s buddy.  He tries to stay between Leda and the grandmas all the time.  Below, you can see him wrapped in a shawl he snitched from my daughter.  He competes for Leda’s treasures, ferreting them out and cuddling them before chewing them up.

Croc with his grandpa.  He managed isolate him for a short time while Leda was running wild.

Uh Oh!

 

A battered man staggers into the emergency room with a concussion, multiple bruises, and a five iron wrapped around his neck.  When the doctor asked what happened he replied. “Well, it was like thisI. I was enjoying a quiet round of golf with my wife, when we both sliced our balls into a pasture of cows. We went to look for them and I noticed one of the cows had something white in its  rear end. I walked over and lifted up the tail, and sure enough, there was a golf ball with my wife’s monogram on it stuck right in the middle of the cow’s butt. Thats when I made my big mistake.” “What did you do?”, asked the doctor. “Well, I lifted the tail, pointed, and yelled to my wife, “Hey! This looks like yours!”

 

I Don’t Have the Money Right Now

Sally Cronin was kind enough to let me blog sit and publish this post on her site, Smorgasbard today.  I had difficulty reposting so I am doing it today.  Thanks, Sally.

Mother prides herself on being frugal, but loves nice things. Should she win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes today and be guaranteed five-thousand dollars every week for life, it wouldn’t change anything. She’d live in the same house and drive the same car because, “I don’t have the money right now.” She’s been the same size and worn the same styles since she married, so she never has to buy anything that’s not on clearance. In fact, when shopping, she’s not above placing the size eight she has her eye on among the size eighteens and then coming back to see if it’s marked down a few weeks later. You’d think God was looking out for her. “Would you look at this? They’ve marked it down. I don’t mind paying fifteen dollars, but there’s no way it’s worth eighty-five to me.’

The one great exception is her pursuit of the perfect shoe. Domestic abuse early in her marriage messed up Mother’s ability to easily find shoes on the bargain rack. Just so you know, she’s the one who committed the abuse, though Daddy never even noticed. As a young man, Daddy worked shift work and put off going to bed as long as possible. He felt sleeping was a waste of time when there were better things to do. As a result, when he finally hit the bed, he slept like the dead. One night, he rolled over on Mother’s long hair and she couldn’t wake him. She poked, elbowed, and yelled, to no effect. In desperation, she kicked him till he finally roused enough for her to get her hair loose. In agony, she got up and soaked the toe till it calmed enough for her to sleep. The next morning, it was bruised and so swollen she couldn’t even get her shoe on. This was back when doctors made house calls. Daddy fetched Dr. Pike who diagnosed the big toe broken, pushed the battered toe back in place, and wrapped it to her second toe to act as a splint. She hobbled around in just a sock till the swelling went down enough to endure a shoe. Afterwards, she required a half size larger and needed more supportive shoes, which are of course, more expensive.

As a result, Mother fixated on good shoes. Should she find her heart’s desire, particularly at a marked-down price, a terrible dilemma ensues. Torn between her desire, for that particular pair of shoes, the battle of shoe desire versus frugality begins. It’s a trial to witness. “Do I really need these shoes? I don’t have any nice (brown, blue, white, green, yellow) ones. I won’t ever find any more this color, style, price, etc. again. You know I have a hard time finding shoes that feel good after I hurt my toe.”

She always makes it sound like the toe incident was an Act of God, not an attack of my poor, innocent father, so I feel obligated to remind her. “You know, you wouldn’t have all this trouble if you hadn’t kicked my poor daddy.” Just as I hoped it would, this remark always catches the attention of store clerks and nearby shoppers, who no doubt envision her kicking a poor, incapacitated invalid, not the snoring behemoth she kicked seventy years ago. They do seem a bit disappointed when they turn to stare and see only a tiny eighty-nine-year-old lady standing there, clutching a pair of red shoes.

After they’ve all had a good look, I remind her. “Those do look good. You’d probably enjoy them. If you change your mind, we can bring them back.”

“You don’t think it would be foolish of me to get these? I don’t really have the money right now, but I have a hard time finding good shoes. These were originally $169 and they’re marked down to $59. That’s more than I want to spend, but I’m not going to find them any cheaper? What do you think?”

“I think you won’t get a better deal unless you throw a brick through a window, so get them if you want them. Besides, if they were just a dollar, they’d be more than you want to spend.” She is just warming up. We both know she’s getting the shoes, but there’s still work to do.

“I know. I have a couple of new pairs I haven’t worn yet, but blah, blah, blah. Do you really think I should get them? I still have two-hundred dollars left from the money I got for Christmas.” This was in April. She’d rake in a fresh bankroll for her birthday in May, but this discussion is going to go on a while, anyway. I was almost, but not quite, ready to kick in on the shoes to get out of the store. She asked two customers and a clerk for opinions. They were divided. That didn’t help a bit!

“Mother, if you want them, get them. You don’t have to consider anyone but yourself. I’m going to look around while you make up your mind.” I head for the hills, returning with the hope she’s reached a decision. When I came back, she was in line with two shoeboxes, three customers behind her. She wasn’t budging.

“Look, I found the same shoe in yellow. Yellow is my favorite color. Which ones do you think I should get?” At least she’s made the decision to purchase something. There’s no way she was leaving that store without shoes.

I took a huge gamble. “I think you should get the red. You can wear them with more.”
Clearly offended, she made for the counter. “I’m getting the yellow! I might never find yellow shoes again.” She still looked torn about the red ones.

At this point things could still go horribly wrong. I know Mother wants me to recommend one over the other, but I don’t know which. It’s very important that I validate her reasoning on this matter. My psychic abilities failed me. Impulsively, I tossed caution to the wind, knowing the wrong answer could put us back at square one. “Get them both. You wear lots of red AND yellow. You may never find any more just that color and you do need shoes! When we get through here, let’s go to the Chinese Buffet for lunch. My treat!”

Thank Goodness, it worked. “I think I will.” She happily pulled out her money and made her purchase. Everyone in the store clapped. Mother hadn’t been that happy since her last shoe purchase.

Though we had eaten at a Chinese Buffet, she charmed the staff into a carry-out container and free coffee. “I have all this left on my plate and just hate to waste it.” Her shoe-high lasted all the way home all through the time I helped her in with her two shoeboxes, fanny pack, (which she usually wears instead of strapping on) and carry-out from lunch. Just as I started my car, she ran out to get her cell-phone she’d tucked in the glove box. I hadn’t been home ten minutes when my phone rang. “I’m so glad I got these shoes. I looked in my closet and I don’t have a single pair either color. I do have some tomato red ones and a yellow-greenish pair, but I didn’t have any in exactly these colors. I really needed these.”

Worst Sandwich, Ever

Long, long ago when I was a but child-bride, I yearned to please my handsome husband so I dreamed of concocting hearty breakfasts, luscious lunches, and delightful dinners. This wasn’t to be. We had wisely married while still in college so were in possession of two things money couldn’t buy, abject poverty and true love. We were just scraping by. After about two weeks, about all we had left in the refrigerator was a half-loaf of bread, mustard, a couple of lonely, frozen chicken gizzards, and an old, dry sliver of cheddar cheese. I fried those chicken gizzards up nice and hard, sliced them as thin as possible, added the slivered cheddar cheese and sat down with My Darling to enjoy the amazing delicacy. It was the worst thing I ever tried to eat. The piquant taste of overdone gizzard slathered with mustard was not a good companion taste for the dried out cheddar cheese. I was never tempted to try that combo again.

Warm Welcome

The best part of being a nurse was getting to know the patients.  Most days brought a surprise.  Late one afternoon I was hurrying to return a patient to his room after a treatment.  I helped him into his chair, wrapped him in a blanket, and zipped down the hall.  As always, I was in a bit of a hurry to get home to my children. I wheeled him into what I thought was his room only to find the bed already occupied by a little old lady. “Oh excuse me Ma’am. Wrong room!” I apologized.

“Just bring him right on in, Honey. I’ve been here quite a while!” We all got a good laugh out of that.

Hint for anyone in hospital. Always ask that your wheelchair seat be covered and be wrapped in a blanket when you leave your room. Wheel chair seats can be soiled and those halls get cold.