My Tub's Better Than Your Tub

A couple of years ago when we were searching for our new home, we had in mind a number of specific things we were looking for.  We wanted four bedrooms. We wanted a fairly updated look so we wouldn't have to make a lot of changes. We wanted large spacious rooms. You get the idea.

I personally wanted something that I have never had in my life but always coveted; a garden tub. I wanted to take a bath in something that felt more like a swimming pool than a tea cup. No matter how many bubbles you put in an average sized tub, it doesn't feel any more luxurious and you don’t feel any less cramped. I wanted a ledge on which to place my scented candles and a space for my iPad to sit so I could watch movies while I turned into a raisin.

Happily, we found the perfect house complete with a fabulous garden tub. You would think that this alone would be enough, but in fact, there is more. About a year or so ago, I noticed that the tub was miraculously growing coins overnight. It didn't happen very often, but as time passed, it started happening often enough that I took notice. Sometimes it would just be a couple of pennies. Sometimes there would be quarters, nickels and dimes. I've always known money didn't grow on trees, but I had no idea that it grew on the ledges around garden tubs. No wonder people love them so much.  On the mornings that I found these offerings I scooped them up and started putting them in a jar on the dresser. I didn't say anything to anyone because I felt like they might think I was crazy, but the other day I went ahead and mentioned it to Larry because it was happening so much more often than before. I felt like he should know that we had a miracle and that we were going to be rich!

It's been an amazing discovery but today just took the cake. When I went in and turned on the light this is what I saw.

 I guess, like a fruit tree, the more mature the plant becomes,  the more developed the fruit. I immediately woke Larry to show him the new development. He just smiled a sleepy smile and said, "cool". He doesn't seem nearly as excited as me. 

How He Wasn't Bald, I Will Never Know

Gray hairs act differently than the other hairs on one's head. It's probably because they're old and feel entitled to do whatever they want, when they want and how they want. It's kind of like my diabetic grandma who wanted a piece of cake. Everybody was all up in arms about grandma wanting cake. "Don't you give her that! She's diabetic! Are you trying to kill her?" By golly, she had made it to 90 and why should she be denied? She wanted cake, and if I recall correctly, she managed to get it on her own without the help of her loving, concerned family.

Anyway, I know there are products in this world that will help a person control the wiliness of crazy acting gray hair, but I'm willing to bet you'd actually have to spend some time with these products to ensure their usefulness. I imagine it's more time than I spend making my normal acting hairs lay down in a semi-proper fashion every morning. Anything extra would rip a hole in the time/space continuum because I'd have to wake up earlier than I already do. This is not acceptable. The extra moments it would require to make me look less like Albert Einstein are moments I do not choose to waste in such a manner. I'd rather waste them sleeping. Unfortunately, my obvious laziness creates another problem entirely. My lack of motivation dictates that I am daily destined to be approached by all sorts of people who feel the desperate need to pluck said hairs from my head without prior permission and apparently without remorse either.  What kind of world do I live in that people feel entitled to remove my own personal hair from my head, and in such a violent, painful manner? These people are my friends, my coworkers and my family and they all act like its normal behavior. They would argue that it is just uncontrollable, natural instinct to want to grab something so obviously out of place and make it right. Well, my natural instinct is to punch you right in the face after you rip out my hair, but I seem to be able to control THAT.  Rogues.

 

 

 

All I can say is that Albert must have had no friends. He certainly would have been bald.

No Rest For The Weary

So, I've been feeling a little sickly the past two days and it's interfering with my sleep.  If you know me at all, you know that sleep is essential to my way of life and my witty, vibrant demeanor.  

Two days ago, my throat was on fire and I couldn't breathe very well, so against my better judgement I took one of those four hour Sudafed.  I did it again twice more that day even though this is unheard of behavior for me.  Sudafed just isn't my friend.  It makes me crazy and no matter what time I take it, I know that it will keep me from sleeping. It's a known, proven fact and of course, that's exactly what happened.  I was up all night and miserable, just like I told myself I would be each and every time I swallowed one of those little red magical pills.  So yesterday, I chose to go without medicine completely.  I intended to sleep that night without fail, even if I had to sniff and hack my way through the day in order to achieve it.  By the end of my work day, a coworker stopped by my office, stuck his head in and said "Aren't you dead yet?", which led me to believe that my hacking and sniffling might possibly have been bothering him.  I decided not to worry about it because I would indeed be sleeping tonight and just the thought of that made everything better.

  

I did fall asleep last night and I stayed asleep all the way up to 1:30 AM.  In case you don't know, that is NOT an entire night.  1:30 AM was when my body woke me up violently and told me that it needed to cough so much that I would NOT be returning to sleep.  Because I am a benevolent and kind spouse, I chose to grab my pillow and make my way to the den in order to lounge on the couch for the duration of my episode.  It was dark in there.  When I got up close to the couch I realized the thing that I didn't realize on the other side of the room in the dark.  My sweet, sweet husband had folded loads and loads of laundry and these folded clothes were touching every single inch of that couch.  I couldn't just shove them off and lay down and I wasn't about to carefully move them anywhere.  I certainly wasn't going to put them up or anything. Just like that fox in Aesop's fable, I decided I didn't really want to lay on that couch anyhow.  It would probably be even better for me to sit in that chair over there.  It was fluffy and big and just fine enough for me die in.  Unfortunately, upon close inspection, the chair was also full of things, all belonging to Paige.  A tripod for photography, a giant shiny black bag full of who knows what, her school  backpack, etc.  Again, it seemed futile, especially when I was so tired and miserable.  But where?  Where could I lay my weary head and get on with this night?  AH!  The spare bedroom/library has a couch!  A very tiny love seat kind of couch, but a couch nonetheless.  That would do.

I made my way down the dark hall, clutching my pillow and dragging along behind me a red Ole Miss throw blanket that I picked up along the way.  I'm happy to report that the couch was clean and happy and ready for me to fall on.  I was pretty happy even though I didn't exactly fit there and my legs kind of went numb from hanging off the arm rests.  It was a victory.

This morning, when Larry woke and asked me how I slept, I began to tell him this tale and right after the part about going down the dark hall, he tried to complete my story by interjecting "and you went into Patrick's room and slept on the bed."  ....  Here's how the emotions played out.  Firstly, dumbfounded and silent as that sank in.  Secondly, amazed that I didn't think of that myself.  Thirdly, mad as an old wet hen (which as I understand it is very angry).  All I could do was look at him and say, "No.  No, that's not what I did, but I certainly should have.  That would have been a smashing idea."

Laundry Legalities

So...when doing laundry where quarters are involved, is there any rule of etiquette? I mean, if you arrive and somebody has left their underwear in the dryer and it's all finished drying, are you allowed to remove it from the machine? Is it really proper to be touching other folk's underwear? If you get brave enough to take it out, should you fold it? How about folding it neatly and leaving it on the clean spot on the folding table? You know that spot. The spot that's free of laundry detergent in any form, powder or liquid. Well, ok, what if you CLEANED a spot on the table and put the neatly folded underwear there? I think if it was a spot close enough to the dryer in question, they would easily recognize it once they come back from whatever extremely long errand they've been on.

I'm not touching it.

The Dangers of Confined Spaces

During my days at the sewer (which I am missing terribly by the way) I learned about the dangers of confined spaces. Terrible things can happen to a person who doesn't take proper precautions before entering a place that is so small that it might contain toxic fumes or is oxygen deficient. Friday, I entered a confined space and I'm here to tell you that there is more danger than just lack of oxygen. There is a possibility that you might hurt yourself or the other three people that are living in the confined space with you. You could hurt them because you can't get from the couch to the kitchen (2 steps) without stepping on them. You could hurt yourself by tripping over the shoes they left in the 2 inches of floor space available or falling over the mountain of blankets and pillows that are laying around because two of them are sleeping on the couches. You could hurt them mentally by yelling at them for all of the above and just because you are in a fantastically bad mood. Litkia is especially unhappy about the lack of snack food available, but I don't think she realizes that this can't be blamed on the tiny apartment. However, there is a distinct possibility that leaving this place in order to replenish the stash might lessen the danger here.

Box Fan

The fan in the hallway struggles to bring some relief from the heat and lack of A/C in the building. The drone of the motor sends me back to a house that I once lived in. I'm not sure if it was in Wagarville or in McComb because I get those two houses mixed up in my memories. It was on an extremely early morning that my five or six year old mind could not compare with any other morning in my short life. I'm not sure I had ever really experienced that time of the morning before. There was so much darkness at the windows, and it was a weird darkness. It wasn't the same shade of darkness that happens when you go to bed or wake up in the night. Why do I think the air felt damp? Do I remember hearing crickets? Maybe not, we were inside the house. I was so sleepy. There was packing and hushed movements and this noise that I didn't recognize. There it was. In the hallway. Something different. It was a very large box fan, as tall as me and much wider. It was loud and it was so big that when I passed by it I dare not get too close for fear that my arm would be sucked in and chopped to pieces. It was obviously a real fear because mama held my hand tighter when we passed by it. Or maybe it was me that was doing the extra squeezing. I don't know where we were going or why my parents had the fan in the hall, but I cannot hear a box fan without thinking of that morning.

Not right and Fruity too

My supervisor type person was at my desk today and while he was standing there, he reached for my pencil cup full of magic markers. One by one, he picked them up, removed the top and took a whiff. Mostly he made faces afterward, but it reminded me of my childhood, sitting in training union at church and getting excited when that very cool box of scented magic markers was pulled from the cabinet. The yellow one smelled like lemons, the orange one smelled like oranges and the purple one smelled like grapes (my personal favorite). Some of the fruity scents were more realistic than others, but to resist smelling each and every one was futile. So anyway, I was watching my fearless leader smelling these markers, looking for one with a scent when he suddenly stuck one out for me to smell with a smile on his face. Once it got close to my nose, I realized that searching for a childhood memory wasn’t what he was doing at all. He was trying to get high.

That ain’t right.

My Mama Would Say You Were Wrong

My Mama always told me that if you’re about to make a negative comment about something a person couldn’t do anything about, you should just keep your trap shut. For example, if your friend has spinach in their teeth or toilet paper hanging off their shoe, by all means, let them know politely. Although the initial sharing of the information might be a little embarrassing, the end result is positive. If, however, a person has a scar on their cheek in the shape of a lightning bolt, you should hold your tongue. Nothing can be done about that. Since my unfortunate run-in with a deer, resulting in the destruction of my Barbie Jeep, I don’t have a lot of love for woodland creatures, but even Thumper’s mama told him that if he couldn’t say something nice, he shouldn’t say anything at all. Having said all that, when I tell you I’m moving and you ask me where I’m going, my answer will be Beaumont, Texas. The correct response to this information should not include you scrunching up your nose like you smell something bad, or interjections of “ugh” or “oh man, that’s too bad”.

I might be able to understand the reaction more, if I thought you really believed that Saraland, Alabama is the land flowing with milk and honey, but the truth is, I don’t think you believe that at all. I think you’re just mean.

One out of One Hundred Twenty Five

The other day at my new job, I was handed a three-ring binder that contained 125 pages. I was told to read it. It was for my own good. I know it’s important because it looks very official and the title is “MAWSS Safety Rules Handbook”. I have to admit that it doesn’t seem much like a HANDBOOK. To me, a handbook speaks of a much smaller thing. You know? Something a little less bulky. Something you might be able to carry in your pocket or stuff into your purse. At any rate, I opened the tome and began reading the letter in the front that told me that I was important enough that they wanted to keep me safe. Just like a mama might do. Then on the 2nd page, also like a mama, there was a little lecture about there being no such thing as fate and that accidents were avoidable. There were some general safety rules on pages 3 through 7, but after that I got pretty confused. I trudged on though, since it was my very safety at stake! I’m happy to say that I’m sure I’ll be safe if I ever find myself welding, using an axe, a hatchet or a concrete mixer. I now know the standard hand signals for overhead, crawler, locomotive and truck boom cranes. The only thing I can’t figure out is what any of those things are. But, no fear! If I can figure out which is which, I can signal them properly and avoid danger!

When I got to page 114, the title made me smile. “Office Safety” is what it said. Now, THAT was something that seemed familiar. And I must say that number 7 made me shake my head in agreement. “Do not lick envelopes; their edges may cut your tongue.”

I knooooow, right?

We HATES them

I try pretty hard to be a nice person. Well, at least I try pretty hard NOT to be a mean person. But right now I'm am thinking along the lines of murder. Let me explain.

I planted a pretend garden this year, all in pots. I started with tomatoes and have since added some squash and zucchini and even some beans! It's fun. I'm feeling my green thumbs and I like it. I love going out every morning and seeing the progress. I get so excited to see my tomatoes getting bigger and a few days ago, to see the first one getting a little pink. I could easily imagine the day I would be able to pick it and make a tomato sandwich with my first home grown tomato. I could almost taste it.

BUT...and you KNEW there was going to be a BUT in here, I went out yesterday to check on my precious tomato's progress and guess where it was? In the mouth of my dog, being chewed in a very irreverent manner. After squirting him with the water hose and telling him off, nearly through tears, I inspected the plants and found a slightly chewed green tomato still hanging on the plant, intact with teeth marks. Squirrels. It's squirrels. There are droves of them here and I feel very outnumbered. The dog was probably not the one who swiped it, but he sure took pleasure in finishing off the job begun by the giant rats with bushy tails. We hates them.

And today, we hates them even more. Two more tomatoes GONE. I'm so sad. I'm so injured. They have robbed me of the joy of the harvest and I will have to kill them all. I don't really want them to suffer, but I do want them dead. And, after their demise I plan to hang them up along the fence by their evil fuzzy tails, one after the other, as a warning to their neighbors and friends that this is not the yard they want to hang around. And what about this "dog" of mine? What kind of dog allows such behavior right under his nose in his very own backyard? My dog. That's who. I realize that he's getting old, but I just can't feel like making excuses for him. I will allow him to live, but buddy, he has been TOLD. He better step up the guard dog duties and quit taking bribes or I'm sending him to a place where they won't let him sleep inside in a cool laundry room at night.

We hates them.

This is the dog I have. A dog of leisure.



The is the dog I need. Squirrel killer extraordinaire.