My book is a thief! LOL
It has stolen all
of my time for days now. Gawd, I didn’t realize how ignorant I was until I started this project. LOL
I’ve been pulling out CD’s we’d burned to save files from days (and hard drives) gone by, to cull stories for the humor essay book. I copied them to this
computer to compile and edit. Some came out as strange little boxes and symbols, as though written by little green men. No, not Leprechauns, although St. Patty’s Day is just around the corner LOL
"Leprechaun" is actually one of the nicknames we have for an American Idol contestant. (I won’t be so cruel as to name which.)
Even more cruel would be to name the one we refer to as “Special Olympics” (Spare me your politically correct righteous indignation - I know in the privacy of your own home you make crude references too - LOL
) My personal favorite this season is gone-gray-while-still in-his-20’s, I-sing-soul-even-though-I’m-a-white-guy, Taylor Hicks.
- - - - - - Any bests on the Oscars? - - - - - -
Oops, I am digressing. And babbling. It's Babble-gress 2006! LOL
Here is one of the stories that didn’t make the cut (audience moans, "Oh great, throw us the scraps" LOL) No, I didn’t put it in the book because it isn’t funny. I didn’t put it in because it involves family members, and I do not want to upset the sensibilities of those I love and can possibly use to promote the book to their friends LOL
Since these folks don’t read my blog though, I will abuse their privacy here ~snort~
Gawd, I sound horrid. OK, I am horrid. I am so tired of reading my own words, over and over, as every story I copied seemed to be in a different font or page setup, and editing them into a uniform book format has been nerve-wracking. Every damned page has been different. Curly quotes, straight apostrophes, does the comma go before or after parentheses? Adding two spaces after every after sentence, has all sentenced me to a period of insanity. Picture me sitting in front of the computer flipping my finger (no not THAT finger) across my lips, going, “Blubada blubada blubada” LOL
‘Nuff of that - hope all of you have a spectacular day!
Here’s the tale:
Wake Ups and Downs
It was the wake we almost didn’t make.
We picked up Eldest Son, and I made him change out of the Stoli Vodka bright red T-shirt and ripped jeans, and put on dress-up clothes.
We were late picking him up, because of a comedy of errors. I asked Middle Son early in the day, "What are you wearing tonight? Do you have everything you need?" He said, "Yeah, I'm all set." About an hour before we were to pick up Eldest Son, I went in to get dressed. I had colored my hair in the morning, and set it in some curlers (a real rarity for me - LOL!) so I knew it was going to take a while to fiddle with.
During the time I was in my bathroom, fixing my hair and doing my makeup, I heard the washer running. (It is directly below my bathroom) and I think, "hmmm, I did not start the washer, what is going on?"
So, wearing my slip I wander out to the front room where Middle Son is sitting in his boxers watching TV. I ask him if he started the washer. He says yes, he spilled something on his pants. It is now closer to 40 minutes before we are supposed to leave the house. I say, "Do you have any idea how long it takes to run a load AND get it dry?"
His expression turned to panic. He said, "Well, I'll just yank them out of the washer early." I said, "then they’ll be all soapy," so he yells, "WELL WHAT DO I DO?" I asked him what setting he used. "Setting" might as well have been a word like "garfalox".
He was blank. So, half-naked and half-made-up, I tromped huffily to the basement.
Fortunately the first setting (the one a boy/man would stop at) is "delicate" which is the shortest cycle, and they were already going into rinse. I yelled at him to stop standing on the stairs halfway to the basement, to come the rest of the way down the steps, that’s right, good boy, now look...see the washer dial? Yes this round thing. When it goes to THIS spot, (me pointing) and the machine stops vibrating and making noises, open the lid, remove the lint basket, and yank your pants out. Put them in THIS machine, the DRYER, and throw in one of these, no wait I'll do that, OK, the dryer sheet is already in now, SEE? ALL you have to do is throw the pants in, and turn it on. I will set the timer for you, just push this button that says, "START," OK?
Back upstairs I go, listening through the floor for his movements. He did as he was told, but he thought they would be dry in five minutes. He went down pulled them out and they were still wet, so he threw them back in and left. Unfortunately, he left withOUT re- starting dryer.
Minutes pass. It crosses my mind, "I do not hear the dryer running" so back to living room I go, where boxer-boy is watching TV again. He informs me he tested the pants dampness factor but they were still wet so he threw them back in the dryer. I say, "Did you push the "Start" button again?" "You have to push that EVERY time?" he asked.
I sighed, nodded and motioned for him to scurry his boxer-butt back down there and re-start it. It was ten minutes past the time we told Eldest Son we would be AT his house to pick him up. So we jump in the van and high-tail it over to the town where he lives.
Did I mention that he moved recently? Well, we got lost. When we had gone to his house before, we approached from the west, but this time we approached from the east.
It is an area of suburbia I am unfamiliar with. A creek transects it, and there are few roads that actually CROSS the creek, but there are DOZENS of Courts, Terraces, Circles, and Drives, which are all cul-de-sacs or dead-end streets, and we took every one of them.
Plus they all have really dorky "castle" type names, so you're on "Abbey" or "Piccadilly" or "Stoneybrook" and going quietly, castle-y insane. They ALL look alike, every frigging split-level looks like the last one and the one on the next street, and we passed the same fat guy watering his lawn at least five times.
Thirty minutes late we knock on Eldest Son's door, see the previously mentioned T-shirt ensemble, send him off to change, and wait. I think he was weaving the cloth for his new outfit. He kept us waiting 35 minutes. His small-talk-challenged roommate was nearly hysterical from the stress of trying to entertain us.
Now it's more than an hour past the time I told Mother-in-law we would arrive, and I am sure she was telling everyone that we were all in comas or something, to excuse our hideously rude behavior.
At last we arrived. Cars were everywhere. We had to park THREE blocks away, which was probably just as well, because I imagine the Mercedes’, Jaguar’s, and BMW’s parked closer to the house would have all driven themselves off a cliff, rather than suffer the indignity of having our 15-year old Dodge van parked any closer, exchanging lecherous dirty-old-van looks and comments. "Hey there cutie...hiccup...nice wheels...I got somthin' for your intake right here baby!"
I estimate there were 75 people crammed into the deceased loved one’s home. White hair everywhere. Mother-in-law, recovering from recent knee replacement surgery, was royally installed in "deceased loved one’s chair" (which even deceased loved one’s WIFE had never sat in); lady of the manor, brand new knee pillow-propped up on the recliner footrest, holding court with the bereaved.
Relief flooded her face when we appeared. Introductions followed. Dozens upon dozens of elderly folk, a virtual AARP army.
We were directed to the rec. room in the basement, where even MORE old people (those still ambulatory enough to trek down the steps) and the buffet tables were. There was enough food to feed all of Africa. Eldest Son acted like he'd found Nirvana. We lost him to an hour-long gorge-fest.
I had some of the worst cookies I've ever tasted. I tried to pawn them off on Husband. He took one bite, passed it back to me with the, "I'll get you for this" look in his eye.
Relative Whose Name I Can’t Remember appeared. "OH! You have some of my cookies! Do you want some more? There are still a lot of them left!"
Thank you dear, but no, I'm really not in the mood to get my stomach pumped tonight, was what I THOUGHT, but of course I only said, "I'm full, thanks".
At last we had shaken every liver-spotted hand, hugged every stoop-shoulder, pulled bloated-with-food son from the buffet, told Mother-in-law that yes, we would be over on Thursday, and headed home.
What a day.Author