Laundry Songs

Sinatra sang about Ermine.  Those were the days.  

Me:  Anybody have laundry they need done?  Looking for colors only.

Andrew:  Laundry in my white tee.

Me  What? No, I said colors.

Andrew:  Making demands, in my white tee.

Me: What? No, I SAID GIVE ME YOUR COLORS TO WASH!

Andrew: Yelling, in my white tee.

Me:  What are you talking about? Do your own laundry then.

Andrew: Laying down the law, in my white tee.

Katie: Mom, he's making fun of the very large white t-shirt that you're wearing.

Me: Well it's comfortable and I like it. Why is that funny?

Andrew: Asking questions, in my white tee.

Katie: It just is, don't ask.

Me:  Well, I think we both know I'm going to keep asking until someone tells me. Or I Google it.

Andrew: Googling, in my white tee.

Me.  That's it......


Don't , just don't look it up.
Seriously.
( It's a very catchy rap song about all the fun and illegal things one can do in a white tee clearly written by very sad and lonely children with too much time on their hands.   With words I can only find in the Urban Dictionary.)

I'm still wearing it though.

Summer Reading Contest

Every summer vacation our family quietly ( hahahaha) has a reading contest.
Me: woohoo, just finished my first book on the beach!
Andrew: Did you start it on the beach? because technically that doesn't count.
Me: says who?
Andrew: When did you start it?
Me: well, June 10th, but I don't think...
Andrew: So , not on the beach.  Doesn't count.
Me: Hey, YOU'RE rereading a book, that doesn't count either!
Bill:  Please stop.
Me: Tell him to stop.
Bill: Both of you stop.
Andrew: Doesn't count mom.
Me: You're not the boss of me.
Katie:  CHANGE APPROVED
Bill: Oh, good grief.
Me: This is why I read on the balcony. It's a hostile reading environment down here.
Andrew:  Mom look....smoking beer shooting teenagers with a radio....go get em!
Bill:  Stay in your chair.
Katie:  Yeah Mom, go smack that radio with your book.
Me: Technically 1/2 a book. I'm going to need a bigger book.  [Jaws reference]
Katie: Use Andrew's book, he's already read it.

a field guide perhaps

Bill: Nobody is smacking anybody.
Me: Well no, because I'll need a bigger book. and a taser.
Bill: Why do you resort to violence?
Me: Code of the beach.

Andrew is reading a Brad Thor novel ( for the second time)
Katie is reading Game of Thrones: A Storm of Swords
I'm on my first WHOLE book - Dave Barry, "Lunatics"
Bill is reading some book on Integrity.  
Need I say more?

Mom, you're old and crabby

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I recently discovered I am old and crabby.  By discovered I mean Andrew said, "Mom, you are old and crabby."   I think I was born old.  The crabby part I have nurtured and cultivated to a point of perfection or contention depending on who you talk to.

Things I do well on the beach.
Sleep
Read
Drink
People watch
Laugh
Tell very accurate stories rarely embellished at all. Especially about squirrels.
Repeat.

Things I don't do well on the beach
tolerate teenagers ( which is why we rarely come here during spring break)
a radio
any radio
any music
wind chimes ( yes)
being read to ( especially if it's good for me)
being told to pray for people I'd like to see get eaten by sharks
cigars
cigarettes
fishing lines
sharing water with teenagers who were just shooting beer while their parents watched and whine that it's too far to walk back to their house and get some. (true story)

I was a kid once.  We did stupid things too.  Not at my parents house.  And not with my parents liquor. And we knew our parents would hold us accountable.  We were not allowed a sense of entitlement.  Which is probably why I was born old.  And if you really want to cultivate a crabby side work in a pediatric practice of any kind and watch the parade of clueless parents that are too busy being friends to their lost and boundary-less brood while feigning shock that anyone would require any amount of decorum while around said monsters.  Listen to them talk to their parents in such a way that is both disrespectful and degrading while the parent is writing a check for they're next entitled activity.  Dance, Football, Rock Climbing, Camp, Nails, Hair, Tanning Beds, New Car, etc.    They aren't all like that, most are wonderful.  But sometimes I feel like the tide is turning.

I'm pretty sure I got my attitude from my father.  He wasn't perfect but there were some things he got right. My mother had a dinner party at our home and invited some family she knew that had 2 daughters that were mine and my sister's ages, 6 and 8.  We were definitely a lower middle class working family. My dad had worked hard to get my mom a piano.  My mom could play and she loved that piano.  Over the course of the evening the guest monsters had gotten on top of the highly polished piano bench IN THEIR PATENT LEATHER SHOES and tapped away.  My mother although horrified would never had said a word and I feel certain she asked my father NOT to say anything.  And he didn't.  Until they got ready to leave.  As they were saying their goodbyes at the door and telling my mom what a great cook she was and how wonderful the evening was my dad leaned into the door and said " We had a great time too, we really enjoyed your company, and you're welcome here anytime, however don't ever bring your kids in my house again. I don't allow my children to act like that in my home and I won't allow it from yours either.  Have a nice evening."
And then he went to bed.  My mother and my sister and I stood there stunned.  Probably not as stunned as they were.

They never came back.
I inherited the piano.  And the attitude.

The piano, mom, Kim, Me and Mr. Attitude. 

Slides. Not the playground kind.

My mom took tons of pictures.  She only took slides.  We sat many summer nights outside with a white sheet hanging on the side of the house as a screen  just looking at slides.  When my mom died I insisted on taking as many of the family photos and slides as possible with the good intentions of getting everything copied and scanned to share with my sister.  

That was 1993.    

The road to hell should be finished by now with a bypass and several interchanges complete with scenic overlooks and rest stops.

And my mother didn't store them in small boxes. Nooooooooooo.  I brought home about 50 Kodak Carousels jammed packed ( 100 slides each) plus a couple of boxes of the tiny boxes of slides which of course is just so easy to find a place to store in a controlled environment.    And so begins my scanning projects.

I picked up a cheap simple slide scanner, which I regretted almost immediately , as I have to hand feed each slide.  Plus I get side tracked looking at the tiny 2 x 3 inch screen with my less than perfect vision trying to discern which tree in the state of Missouri my mother felt the need to commemorate.  And there are lots of them.  And after scanning a couple of the boxes and complaining about NOT having a clue how to clean the slides I discovered it wasn't the slides it was the darn scanner.  Yay for the hundreds I've already scanned.  And my highly observant skills.

I am not exaggerating

And here we have......trees.

when I say 80 percent of each Kodak Carousel that I've scanned is trees.  Trees on the side of hill.  Trees by the lake.  Trees on the farm.  Trees on the side of the road as they drove about 75 miles per hour  down some unnamed highway while clicking pictures out of the car window.  And she saved all of them.  Bad shots, missed shots, unfocused shots.  I know because they are numbered. And none are missing.  At first I tried to just scan the good ones but it was easier to set up a rhythm and scan them all.  Which is probably how she came to keep all of hers too.

Occasionally I run into real gems.  Ones that answer age old questions, you know, like  Why are the animals in zoos so far away from the people now?

Clearly some parents.....

use questionable methods.....

for expanding their toddlers education.  Thanks Dad. 

Or this,  did Colonel Sanders just sell chicken? 

Apparently not.  Beef AND Ham.  

Or - Were there any signs that I had terrible eyesight as a child? 

nahhhhhhh..

And the treasure hunt continues.  

Stay tuned for more secrets revealed 

1969  trip to the Smokies.  More damn tree pictures.  

I fixed the car.

chirp chirp chirp 

I hired a personal trainer.  Wait, let me rephrase that.  My husband who would do ANYTHING if I'd just fall in love with exercise hired a personal trainer for me.  He does this about every 7 years.  I suspect there's some biblical mandate to do this, you know considering the whole 7 is the perfect number because its the combination of 3 for the Holy Trinity and 4 for the Earth.  Or maybe he's into numbers.  I don't know.  This is also followed by me insisting on various pieces of equipment because I disdain exercising in a public setting.   I always look like I've been held under water too long.  Or am awakening from a coma.  I've actually had people ask when I've been coerced into attending a class if I was okay.  It's not exactly a confidence builder.   I may just pass out and make everyone happy.    So to add to my list of equipment Bill added a heart monitor watch thingy.  He thinks he's clever for getting me a pink one.   It looks suspiciously like one of those bands they put on you if you're under house arrest.  I think it feeds him real time information as to whether or not I actually went to the gym.  But it is pink, so.

After he showed me how to attach the band around my upper body that reads information to the pink house arrest bracelet and set the numbers I went to the gym.  I also have wireless earphones so I can watch Netflix movies on my phone while watching the pink house arrest bracelet do it's thing.  I'm pretty techno, but not coordinated.  Which comes into play every time I get on the treadmill.  It's always a toss up as to who will win, the next episode of "Arrested Development" or the bracelet from hell.   Sometimes they sync, sometimes it looks like I'm growling obscenities at the treadmill or Matt Lauer if I can't figure out how to switch the TV monitor above the treadmill.   It's safe to say I do both on a regular basis.

Friday I left the gym all thrilled with myself for not falling off the treadmill and managing to sync everything correctly.  I got into my white-mommy-mini-van and cranked it when I noticed what sounded like a bird or rodent sound coming from under the dash.  At first I thought a baby bird was under the hood or maybe even in the mirror.  I turned off the air and the radio and all my techno crap and proceeded to try to locate the bird.   Putting my ear to the dash, the door, the radio console, getting out, walking around the car, looking behind the mirror, fender, under the car.  Nothing.  and I couldn't hear it anymore.  Get back in the car and crank it, chirping starts.  It's very faint but now I'm thinking some electrical switch or fuse is about to go kerplunk.  My sliding door's electric lock died a couple of weeks ago but I can hear it trying to engage so maybe it's something like that.  Well, I'll just tell Bill when I get home.....IF I CAN GET HOME.  My brain always goes to the worst possible scenario when it's car related.   I pull in turn off the car, still chirping.

chirp chirp chirp

Now before I tell Bill and look like an idiot because as all wives know children, pets and automobiles NEVER repeat the trick you've asked them to do I recheck all possibilities.  STILL CHIRPING.

Trying to find my keys to get back into the house I'm rummaging around and fussing about the car.  As I reach into my purse the pink house arrest bracelet passes by my ear.  Chirping.  Well, that was 30 minutes wasted on finding a bird.  I walk in and tell Bill my whole story.

Me:  ......and so it was my bracelet! Isn't that funny?
Bill:   so there's nothing wrong with the car?
Me:  Nope.
Bill:  ok.
Me:  Isn't that funny?
Bill.  Are you asking me if I think it's funny that you didn't notice the watch you've been wearing is making a chirping noise?  Why would I think that's funny? I worry about you.
Me:  It's funny , trust me.

A lot of my stories end like this.