Posts Tagged ‘funny’

Attention Fellow Garage Patron……

October 8, 2011

Date: Today and going forth until the end of time

Attention Fellow Garage Patrons,

It has come to my attention, as a fellow patron of the Land Down Under, that you may not have been informed as to proper “garage” etiquette.  So, to assist you in your transition or refresh your memory, if you have been here for a while, but have had some lapses in judgement, here are a few tips that might be helpful in your daily parking execution.

* The lines between the spaces are not to be UNDER your vehicle, EVER. Rather, there should be two of those pretty cheesy colored lines on either side of your car. Your car tires should be equidistant from the lines on both sides, not touching them. If I have to go through my sunroof AGAIN to get into my car because you don’t know what equidistant means and can’t park in the middle of the space, I’ll make sure to hop up on your hood to get into my car.  For the record, I ain’t little. Again, BETWEEN the cheese sticks, NOT on the cheese sticks.

*If your vehicle is sticking out of a space marked “Compact Cars Only” by a two and half feet,  your car/truck/bus/moonrover is NOT compact size, and you’re blocking the aisle! Of course, if you like parking in those spaces with your “compact car,” I’ll gladly take off your front end with my big ass SUV as I try to manuever through the garage to get to the space for my big ass SUV. You know the ones not marked “Compact Cars Only.”

*Conversely, if you DO own a compact car, please park in the spaces indicated for your vehicle size.  If your car is in a space that looks like it can fit three more cars in it along with yours (and still not be over the lines-see first bullet), then please troll on over to the spaces for the Matchbox cars.  If those spaces are full, please feel free to call me and I can park your car inside my big ass SUV.  If turned on its side, your car should slide in quite nicely. If driving the new Fiat 500, we can squeeze two in.

*For those veteran parkers, I know were all adults here, but I’m calling “Same Seats!” If you park in a regular space, then park there.  No need to wander over to my usual spot, just cause you want to sit with the cool kids or try something new.  Please note the previous references to the big ass SUV.  If you continue parking in my space, me and my big ass SUV will help you back to your regular one. Beat it, buster! I mean it. To newcomers who accidentally park in my space, you get a one-day free pass. If you’re in my space two days in a row, you will be treated like a veteran interloper. In which case, please reference this bullet from the beginning. Consider this your friendly reminder. And I use the word “friendly” lightly. Very lightly.

I hope you find these tips helpful in assisting you in your daily excursions into the our little slice of combustible heaven.  Thank you and have a pleasant day (not in my parking spot)!

Riding the Line,

Edge

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Pardon The Interruption….

April 19, 2011

Years ago, the children were ensconced at the table eating a snack-good time to head to the Head.  “Eat your snack. I’m going to take a shower, I’ll be out in 5 minutes. Do not disturb unless it’s an emergency.”  I ran into the bathroom, jumped in the shower,  and kicked it into gear to get my whole self clean in five minutes.  I was a pro from back in my boarding school days when five minutes was sometimes all the time we had, and then the hot water would run out. 

2 minutes in, the door bursts open.  “Mom is this purple?” It was Whirling Dervish holding up a skirt.

“REALLY?!  Did we forget that Mommy said “Do NOT disturb!”

“Uhhhhh.”

“Is someone concussed?”

“No.”

“Is someone bleeding? Does someone have a limb off?”

“No.  But Momma is this purple?”

“REALLY???!!! Please close the door on your way out.”

I guess I should be happy, she was outside the shower. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had gotten in there with me. Whirling liked to invade my personal space-a “close talker” a la Jerry Seinfeld.  Her usual M.O. was to wait until I was in the bathroom and then come in and step so close to me that she would be standing in my under garments. yes, IN, my underwear.  And it wasn’t as if she was coming to tell me the kitchen was on fire or anything.  She just wanted to chat.  Mind you she had absolutely NOTHING to say to me while I was not in the bathroom.  I guess her mind got rolling as soon as I sat down on the can.   I would have to politely ask her to back up out of my draws and out of the bathroom.  And off she would go, inevitably leaving the bathroom door wide open, leaving me fully exposed for all the world to see.  And she wasn’t the only one.  Her siblings were just as bad. I got asked all sorts of stuff in the water closet. Can I transform the Transformer back?  Momma, can you get the pony tail out of Barbie’s hair?  Mom, can you sign my permission slip?  Can you get this knot out of my sneaker? And so it went. For years.

My youngest is now 8, so I thought I was done with the interruptions.  They still do it from time to time, but for the most part, they stay out, at least until I turn the water off in the shower or flush the toilet to barge in. Some times tey wait until I have finished brushing my teeth to ask me a question or talk to me.  But no.  Now there’s a new interloper in our midst. Butter Face cometh.

My dog has become the Bathroom Bandit. It doesn’t matter what bathroom I’m in or what floor he’s on. He makes his  way to the bathroom heads on in.  He just opens the door all the way and waltzes right in.  He walks right up to me, looks up, as if to say, “Hey, whatcha doin’?” Then he sniffs my shoes, does his doggy circling ritual and then lays down on the rug. And stares.  I don’t know about y’all, but it’s hard to concentrate with the beast ogling me from below, peeping at me underneath my reading material.

I guess I should be thankful, he doesn’t ask me to deknot his bone.

Routines…..

April 8, 2011

Since I rise before the chickens to do the first round of waking the dead for school, I take Butter Face for his morning stroll through the ‘hood.  Ours is a tranquil little hamlet with great neighbors, who greet each other on the street, awesome families (Shout out to the Pool Ladies Book Club AKA The Mommy Mafia), and regular routines.  There’s the “Walker Lady” who speeds through the neighborhood hoofin’ it to the bus stop on the main road. And the “Beige Man.”  He walks his beige dog, in his beige coat and pants, wearing his brown hat and shoes. Everyday.  And so the routine went yesterday.  Or so I thought.

It was Thursday, Trash Day. It was recycle day as well. And so, Butter Face and I took our usual stroll, weaving through the forest of green cans and bins.  At least for half of us, who use the same trash company. Trash Day is blissfully routine in suburbia.

It was early; the sun wasn’t quite up. It was just casting a pink and orange glow through the trees.  I hadn’t had my coffee yet.  Thankfully,  the dog was on auto-pilot.  He knows the drill- up the street, take a left, walk up the block, make a left, up that street, another left, along one of the main roads, then take a right.  Ahhhh, routine. Go dog go.

We were halfway past the first left, when I saw this from a distance.…..

Here Kitty

 

Oh, look, a cat on the trash can.  I wonder if Butter Face sees him.  He’s not moving-wait!   That’s not a cat!  Is that a bobcat?! What the heck??!!! It’s a stuffed bobcat in a trashcan!

Mesmerized, I had to get a closer look, because really, it’s not every day you see a mounted bobcat on the curb. Right?

Ain't I purdy?

And so my mind went…

Eeeeew,  that thing’s been through the ringer. It’s got fur missing and looks all mangy.  Who HAS this in their house(Clearly, these are neighbors that I don’t know)! Oooh, I wonder if they shot it. And where.  Was it home stuffed or professionally done?  I hope they didn’t stuff it lookin’ like that because that was a waste of money. 

This is way too much to process this early in the morning without coffee.  But I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

 Butter Face, on the other hand, was FREAKED!  He was yankin’ at his leash, he couldn’t get away fast enough.  He would have dug to China through the sidewalk if I had stood there too much longer.

Then my mind went to what the conversation was when contemplating throwing this little gem into the trash….

“Hattie!  You seen my bobcat?  It was right here…. HATTIE!  Woman, where’s m’ bobcat??!!.”

“Willard, it was time. That ol’ ratty thing had to go, sitting in here collecting dust and such. I put him out in the trash this morning.”

“You did what, woman? That was my daddy’s bobcat!”

“You’re absolutely right, Willard.  So, I sent it to be with your daddy.  May they both rest in peace.”

Boy, I really did need coffee.

And Butter Face needed a tranquilizer.

-Routinous Interruptus at the Edge

Boy Logic…..

March 31, 2011

MiniMe in the MiniMan Cave

My 13 year-old son, MiniMe, has recently taken to spouting boy logic, his twist on things.  His utterings seem perfectly rational to him. Me, not so much.  Is  boy logic the definition of oxymoron? Absolutely. So, here was today’s little tidbit, after I told him his efforts at cleaning his room were less than stellar.  “But Mom,” he starts–I had to ask him to wait until I swallowed my coffee before sharing so that the coffee wouldn’t come out of my nose.  I start backing up in the kitchen as he’s walking up on me…..

Mom, it’s like a new car getting dirty for the first time. He smiles a wicked little grin, the wheels in that head turning…..

“Really, how’s that son?”

A new car is shiny, the wood grain dash is buffed and glowing, the carpet pristine.  Then the kids get in.  Juice boxes, baby puke, Cheerios, ice cream, muddy shoes, french fries, you know, kid gunk.

“uh,hunh.” I’m still backing up, nostrils flaring, trying not to laugh.

And then you get the car cleaned.  But is every really the same?  I mean REALLY? No more new car smell, the carpet’s forever stained, the windows are forever smudged with boogers and fingerprints. Clean as you might, there’s still dirt and french fries EVERYWHERE-“

“And soooooo….” The laughing has started and I can see where it’s going. 

Why bother?  I’m mean really, Mom!  That room’s had two other kids in there BEFORE me.  And me and Number1Son together at some point too! The new room smell is long gone.  Soooooooo looooong gone.

 Still laughing, tears welling.

He’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, all proud of himself, “hunh, hunh, right? Right?  You know I’m right mom.”

Hmmmm. Well, he does have a point.  Boy logic might have some validity after all.  But I’ll never tell him that because his room looks and smells like a  dead goat exploded in there.  He’s 13, ‘nough said.

“Thank you son, for that morsel of wisdom.  Clean up your room, and for God’s sake and everyone else’s, open the windows. Yes, I know it’s 40 degrees outside, put some socks on, you’ll be alright.”

Mommy Logic wins out EVERY time.

-Logically Speaking at the Edge

Pinkified……..

March 30, 2011

Glamour Rayz is the essence of girly.  The pinker, shinier, the frillier, or sparklier(making up words, yes.), THE better. Whirling Dervish was once like her sister, and in fact started out über pinky with pink undies, pink socks, pink shoes, pink shirt, you get the idea. But now WD is girly in a funky sort of way, tom boy with pizzazz.  I, having been a tom boy growing up, and still am in a lot of ways, have had to get in touch with my inner Pink. Woo.

Believing that everyone should embrace pink the way she does, from time to time Glamour will strike, catching her victims unaware, inflicting her pinkness on anyone or anything in her path…..

The poor blue M&M had done nothing to deserve this. He didn’t stand a chance.

Last Sunday, she caught Butter Face.  He didn’t know what hit him.  After the carnage wrought by Glamour’s birthday party last weekend (see 8 Year Olds post, please), Big Daddy and I had parked it in the livingroom to continue our marathon of March Madness viewing.  Glamour skips by, down the hall to her room, then shoots back by on her way downstairs.  She gives me a quick, “Doot, duh, doot, doot, doo, hey Mom,” in her Mini Mouse voice. “Hey, chicken” I shoot back, not taking my eyes off the TV.

A few minutes later, Butter Face the Wonder Dog, comes sauntering down the hallway. I see a flash of pink out of the corner of my eye,  and my mouth drops open.  Big Daddy looks over, “No she didn’t.”

My poor dog.  The look on his face was one of utter disgust. He walked in and laid down as if to say, “WHY, why does she treat me so? Please put me out of my misery.”

So watch yourself, she may be lurking.  She might bat those eyelashes to draw you near. and Wham! You’ve been pinkified….

Ego Trip……..

January 20, 2011

There was a segment on the news this morning about a woman who was going to sue the mall, at which she is employed, where she fell into a fountain because she was texting and wasn’t watching where she was going. The video from a security camera is shown (repeatedly) and on it you can hear the security guards laughing in the background. In the tape, the woman, luckily with no apparent injuries, grabs her cell phone(can’t leave that!), steps out of the fountain, and quickly exits the camera’s view. Allegedly (I watch enough Law & Order to know I need to put that in there to cover my own hind parts), one of the security guards was allowed to copy the video to a private cell phone.  That guard then uploaded the video onto YouTube. And away it went. As of today, the video has had almost 2 million hits. During the segment alone, the network showed the clip at least ten times. I laughed every time the video was shown.

And so the woman, and her attorney appeared on television this morning indicating that she was pursuing the possibility of suing the mall. She admitted that it was funny and embarrassing, but that the guards did not come to her aid, she could have been hurt, and that it shouldn’t have gone on the internet. I laughed even harder. Was she serious???!!!

Here’s my take on this whole fiasco…..

If this woman was so embarrassed by this experience, why go on national television to exponentially add to the humiliation, to say that you’re suing the mall. Why not just sue the mall? And frankly, her face was obscured on the video, since she was looking down while texting and walking, so why not just deny it if asked. Then it would have been a random video on YouTube, and people would have been none-the-wiser. If she wants to sue someone, maybe she should sue her eye doctor for not testing her peripheral vision. One should see a gigantic fountain in the middle of the corridor, over the top of their phone screen, if her vision is working properly, no? And she worked at the mall, so I’m thinking she’d seen that fountain before. And don’t most of us learn in Kindergarten to, “walk on the right,” not up the middle. Just sayin’……

But there are far better ways to get your 15 minutes of fame. I’m guessing, she feels like a royal moron. But to make herself feel better, she going to take it out on the mall?  Why not sue the fountain company while she’s at it?  I was taught that if someone falls, check to see if she’s okay, and if she is, then laugh. She fell, she got up and ran off, seemingly okay from what we saw on the video.  So, learn your lesson and have a good laugh. Hell, I busted myself up skateboarding(see 2/2010 post-“I Killed Mommy”).  My husband laughed at me, or rather with me, while I was lying on the ground with a dislocated and fractured shoulder.  Granted my incident was not blasted out over the internet, but hey, it’s the voyeur age we live in and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And will forever be, “Fountain Girl.”

On the flip side, she’s right. However funny the incident, the security guards, a security guard, any security guard, someone official, should have gone to the scene, or tried to locate her to make sure that she was okay.  She could have done more damage, than bruising her ego and wetting up her phone.  She could have cracked her head open or knocked her teeth out.  Luckily, she didn’t. The guards should be embarrassed about not coming to the aid of a mall patron or employee and this only fuels the idea that security guards in malls are of no value and are themselves laughable wastes of space and oxygen. I wouldn’t say if it were my mother, since she won’t even use her phone for making calls, but if it were my mother, I would hope that someone, especially someone whose job it is to at least assist with public safety in the mall, would come to her aid.

There is a scene in the movie, “The Runaway Bride,” that is a reminder to us all.  It’s the scene at the town luau, where the folks giving toasts are taking shots at the main character, Maggie, for leaving more than a few grooms at that altar.  Richard Gere’s character, Ike Graham, gives the toast…..”May you find yourselves the bull’s eye of an easy target.  May you be publicly flogged for all of your bad choices and may your noses to rubbed in all of your mistakes…”

Just because we can post videos of other people making fools of themselves, whether on purpose or not, doesn’t necessarily mean that we should.  After all, it could beyou next time. Or your mother…..

Hitchcock Revisited…..

April 7, 2010

I live in the woods and we’ve got all sorts or critters and creatures roaming the neighborhood. I love nature, I really do. But I love it outside in its own habitat, not in mine.  Especially, my truck.

I had gone to pick up my mother-in-law, Ma, the supergrandma, from the train station.  It was early June, so we had the windows down in the truck, getting some fresh air. As I am on the ramp to merge onto the highway, I see them.  The birds….

There’s three of them, flitting through the sky.  As Ma was starting to fill me on the goings  on back home, I saw the birds take a dive, looking like they were going to do a fly by right past my windshield.  I thought, “They’re awfully close….they’re not going to make it!”

Two birds shoot right across the windshield. The other, ends up in my truck…..and is fighting with my mother-in-law.  Everyone’s screaming: me; Ma; the bird; everyone.  It looked like a down pillow had exploded. There are feathers flying everywhere, so much so that I couldn’t see and had to pull off the road. 

I stopped the truck and my mother-in-law and I jumped out and ran around to the back. I stopped dead in my tracks and almost wet my pants.  Ma was standing there, her whole head was covered in feathers.  She looked like a bald eagle. She couldn’t see herself and I couldn’t stop laughing to tell her.  I pointed to the back window of the truck, then she saw herself with her feathered swim cap on.

After we finally stopped laughing, we had to figure out how to get the bird out of the car before he gave himself brain damage trying to fly straight through the front window. He kept trying to take off and kept hitting his head on the glass.  I opened the back of the truck to see what we could use.  I’m a mother of 4, there is always stuff in my car.  Mini pylons would have to do. She took one and I took one. Wearing them like Captain Hook rejects, we race back around to the front of the car, all the while feathers are flying off my mother-in-law’s head.  She could have given a great science lesson on molting.

After a few futile minutes of me and her shooing through the open windows and the bird still banging his noggin on the front glass,  I realized if she’s shooing from that side and I’m shooing from this side, the only direction the bird has to go is back further into the truck.  Not good. “Stop!”  I thought for a sec(tuition dollars at work!), “Got it!” I run around to her side of the car, but instead of wielding my cone-covered hand at the bird inside the truck, I tap the cone on the windshield.  Finally, he backed out and flew off. 

We closed the windows and turned on the airconditioner.  Environment be damned.

Weeks later, we were still finding feathers in the truck. 

Frickin’ nature.

The Hungry Bum….

December 12, 2009

If you have been keeping up with my posts (which of course you have!), you know that I am not of a slender nature. As a young one, I was slim, with a head of curly hair, and a caboose. I looked like a frilly toothpick with an olive half way down. But life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness have gathered on various parts of my body through the years, and this includes my hind parts.  At this point, my olive has been over stuffed.

One day, after doing some running, I needed to hop into the shower to defunkerate. We have a stall shower in one of our bathrooms, which is a nice way of saying vertical coffin with water. Needless to say, there isn’t a whole lot of room for maneuvering and even less so when you’re as well endowed as I. Nevertheless, it gets the job done and if properly used, one comes out all nice and clean and sparkly. If properly used…..

Everything was going along swimmingly. I had finished lathering up and was returning the soap to its place, when I dropped it. “Hmmmm, this is going to be interesting. Bending forward is no use, because I still won’t be able to grab the soap and I might fall out of the shower, which is not out of the realm of possibility for me, really. I can’t lean to the side and pick up the soap because I’ll hit my head on the side of the stall or I could myself get wedged between the side walls and need an aerial rescue that would require the jaws of life for extraction . Got it! I’ll give myself some room if I face the back of the shower and point my bum towards the curtain. I do the hokey, pokey, turn myself around and head south.

I grab the soap and stand back up. Woo hoo! back in business….Where’s all that light coming from? Why is the bathroom rug getting all wet? Wait, why can I even see the rug …what the….? Upon successful retrieval of the soap and subsequent return to vertical, my bum, my caboose, my junkie trunk had swallowed my ENTIRE shower curtain. My hungry bum ate the whole thing.

In comes Big Daddy who needs to use the commode. Trying to figure out why he needs a row boat to get to it, he looks up and sees me holding the soap in one hand and dislodging my butt drapery with the other. He shakes his head.

All I can do is smile because really, how does one explain a self-induced curtain wedgie?

Fond Mammaries….

November 19, 2009

Imagine my surprise, when I got ready to leave the hospital after my third child, aka Glamour Rays (GR), was born, and not being able to get my own bra on, was told by the lactation nurse, who had just measured me that I was now a bra size H.  Hunh? Come again?  “Pardon me,” I say, “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say, H???!!!!” (They actually come in bigger sizes than that. Who knew?) The lactation nurse smiled and promptly took my $70 for said garment, which looked like a double-barrelled catapult, while I cussed my husband for knocking me up again.

 My kids often ask me why I wear my pants so high.  I have to explain that it’s not that my pants are high, it’s that my boobs, which are tucked in my socks, give the illusion that my pants are at my arm pits.  On occasion, I have let out a little yelp after one of them has managed to get caught in my blackberry holster.

I remind my children that it is entirely their fault that mommy’s girls are pointing due south, leaving out the part about failing the pencil test way back in fourth grade. I could probably pass the pencil test now, but that would require some jerry-rigging and a whole lot of duct tape.  Besides, then where would I keep my cordless phone while putzing around the house?

 At one point, I did consider a boob job after an unfortunate run-in with our trashcan.  In full mommy mode, rushing around doing twelve things at once, I was trying to tidy my truck a bit so that a new layer of kid crud would have some place to play on our next outing. With my hands full, I figured I’d use one elbow to quickly lift the trashcan lid, and drop in the collected muck and mire.  I flicked the lid up and got the trash in, but apparently didn’t clear the can fast enough before the lid came crashing down, catching my nip in its wake.  A wave of pain shot out from my nip and radiated through my entire body. Benjamin Franklin couldn’t generate power like that. My yard went black for a minute and stars began circling overhead, as I tried to process what had just occurred.  Did I REALLY just slam my boob in the trashcan lid????? No, I couldn’t have.  But when I tried to step back from the trashcan, and felt the pinch, the truth was there in all its glory.  Ivy League educated, former college athlete, mom extraordinaire, stopped dead in my tracks by a big blue boob eater.

I extricated myself from the can, and thought I should call the trash company because there should really be some notation in the trashcan-operating manual about this potential hazard to women.  When I explained my remarkable feat to my husband, who burst out laughing, I thought better of making that call because really, how do you explain to some stranger that you managed catch your boob in the trashcan lid and be taken seriously. So I changed the family chore chart instead.

My son takes the trash out now……stupid can.

The Whirling Dervish in all Her Glory

November 15, 2009
The Whirling Dervish

Pit Hair

My eldest daughter’s superhero name is the Whirling Dervish(WD).  She is a bundle of big curly hair, crazy blue eyes, and energy that could light a small city. She is 9 going on 35 and started wearing deodorant a few weeks ago after she twirled by me with her arms up in the air and melted my eyelashes with pit funk.  Her  older brother that is closest to her in age (he’s 11), superhero name: Mini-Me, at times can peel paint with what he’s got going on in the pits and for a minute I thought he had come in. When I realized that in fact, it was my eldest daughter two things happened.  I sent her on the express train to the shower to bathe along with a brand new stick of her very own deodorant, and my stomach dropped as I realized that puberty was pulling up in the driveway to take up residence and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

To be sure, we have already been having conversations and reading about what will eventually be happening to her body.  But I was happy just having the conversations without the live demonstrations.

So this week, we were flipping through “The Care and Keeping of You” By American Girl and got to the section in underarm hair and I realized that I hadn’t actually looked in her pits to see if there was any hair there.  So, I asked her if she had any and to let me see.  She told me that she would be right back.  I’m thinking she’s going to look herself to see if there is any hair under there before she shows me.  A few minutes later she comes out with her tank top on and a piece of orange string across her chest, and says she’s ready to show me her pits.  She raises her arms and I almost peed my pants. She had taken all of the hair out of the 15 hairbrushes we have in our house and made herself some arm hair.  After I finished crying and laughing, I told her that was a good one.  She responded, “Yes, that was very creatful wasn’t it?…hunh?????  “Oh,” I say,”The word is creative, not creatful, ya hairy armpitted nut.” She smiled and gave me a flash of the pits.

That’s my Whirling Dervish.


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