Tag: humor

Bottoms Up!

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

The hubby and I married in our early twenties. After announcing our engagement, I remember a handful of people, including my dad, ask if I was really ready. My mom and dad had married young and were divorced, so I understood their concern. After making assurances about my decision my dad offered a piece of sage advice:

Be very careful what chores you do. Whatever you do more than three times in a row will be your job for life.

I must not have been careful enough because as the years progressed I somehow found myself responsible for emptying all the trash cans upstairs. Downstairs? Those bins are different. Either of us will take their contents to the curb as needed. It stinks or overflows, and out it goes without further prompting. But bins upstairs? Those must be weighted like the hammer of Thor as only I appear to be worthy of lifting them.

Most of the bins upstairs are small and accessible, except for the one in the laundry closet. Instead, that room has a kitchen sized container wedged firmly in the narrow space between the dryer and the wall. The only way to empty it is to pull the entire thing up over the dryer, a difficult task when the can is full but not much better when empty. I am, as they say, vertically challenged, reaching above and around the dryer is no easy feat for me. When I realized I’d been tricked into dealing with the small bins, I asked the hubby if he would at least help with that one. I thought it was a pretty good offer; he wouldn’t have to empty it nearly as often as I did the others.

But I still expected it to be emptied sometime. As I pulled clothes out of the dryer this weekend, I noticed that the can was overflowing with rodent sized globs of dryer lint. Empty detergent bottles were stacked up like the Tower of Pisa. Exactly how long had it been between cleanings? (To be fair, the hubby does plenty of other chores around the house, he is just terrible remembering this one. I suspect is it on purpose.) The next trash day I found myself alone in the house with a few minutes before I was to start work. Fine, you win. I’ll do it myself.

I opened up the laundry closet and hopped atop the dryer. As I pulled the trash can up, empty plastic bags and more lint bunnies tumbled to the floor near, what was that, an empty raisin box?! How long has that been there? Visions of house fires and roach invasions filled my thoughts.

In retrospect, I should have simply grabbed my vacuum, but instead I lay on my stomach and tried reaching over the side to grab everything on the floor by hand. It was just out of reach. I inched forward. I learned my dryer’s surface is surprisingly frictionless.

death by dryerI began hurtling over the side like a penguin sliding on ice. Man, did I ever pick a bad day to wear a skirt. I was going to crack my head on the floor. My body wouldn’t be found until the evening with my hind quarters up in the air for all the world to see. My friends would toast my memory with a ‘bottoms up’ and wouldn’t even pretend not to giggle. It was just the way I always dreamed of going.

I thought fast as the ground rapidly came closer. I threw my head back so that it came in contact with the wall. It was enough to slow my downward momentum, but not completely stop it. I felt my body slip another fraction of an inch.

As I hung there with my rump in the air and blood pooling in my face, I found myself wondering, was I really content with the legacy I would be leaving behind? I mean sure, Elvis may be known for dying on a toilet (or at least within a few feet of it), but at least he also had revolutionized rock n’ roll and served his country with honor. I wanted to be known for more than just being the petite lady who met her end via a dumpster dive inside the house.

Continuing to use my head as a tripod support I slowly pushed myself back up. Returning to an upright position, I nearly lost my balance as my blood returned to its regular circulation, but I survived. This time.

Our eldest will bemoan that we “never buy him anything!” and has recently begun asking for an allowance. It may be time to make him earn it. In any event, I need to get this second book published before life kills me.

Before you ask – yes the book is actually nearly done (yes – done, done). I’ve edited and refined all but the final chapter. I’ll be asking for volunteers for a round of beta reads in June. Please stay tuned for additional details or contact me if you think you might be interested.

Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

When life throws you lemons, make lemonade. That is unless you are a multimillion dollar food conglomerate, in which case why are people throwing lemons your way? Can’t you pay for high-quality reusable shipping cartons to minimize the risk of bruising? But I digress.

Happy Lemon

This weekend ended much like any other weekend. The kids were tucked into bed dreaming dreams of firetrucks and / or monkeys while the hubby (who has now requested I refer to him as Lamont – my apologies to Lamonts) and I enjoyed a few hours of child-free television. Lamont was kind enough to pour me a lemonade. It wasn’t the fresh squeezed, homemade variety, but it would do. Ahh, I thought as I took a sip. Spring had finally arrived. I’d better enjoy the weather now as all too soon neon yellow pollen would fill the air and coat every surface in sight. I took another sip, savoring the sweet and sour taste.

I shifted from my spot on the couch. I couldn’t get comfortable. A weight seemed to press up against my lungs no matter which way I sat. It was almost like being pregnant without the hormones. I took another sip while I sought a position that would relieve the pressure.

No amount of movement seemed to work. My breath became more shallow, my skin more hot to the touch. I turned to Lamont and calmly said, “I can’t seem to breathe.”

“What do you mean you can’t breathe?!” (I have a long history of understating things with regards to my health.)

“Is my face red? My skin is on fire.”

I looked in the mirror. Sure enough, both cheeks were brilliant lobster red. Another red stain spread down the center of my chest.

“I think I might be allergic to something in the lemonade.” (I am also a master at stating the obvious. It really should be on my business cards.)

Up until this point, if you had asked me if I had any allergies I would have said yes, to bee stings (something else I learned from an unfortunate experience), but now I know my body is still able to learn new tricks. Yay!

Confused LemonWe read the juice label as I took a Benedryl. Ingredients listed were water, sugar, and lemon juice. All words I could pronounce. All ingredients I enjoy in other forms on a fairly regular basis. Definitely nothing I expected to trigger an allergic response. The product advertised that it was all natural. Was it possible that some bees were accidentally ground up (naturally of course) in the manufacturing process along with the lemons?

The next morning (thank you Benedryl) I fired up the computer to see if anyone else might have written about a similar complaint. I learned my reaction is considered rare (lucky me!), but I also learned a few things about the juice manufacturing process that aren’t exactly advertised. Being the great moderately acceptable parent that I am, I feel it is important to practice sharing (even if it is a little off my usual topics).

For example, I learned that as part of the preserving process all chemical that give a naturally squeezed juice its flavor are removed leaving behind a tasteless liquid that no one would buy. The manufacturers then put in flavor and scent packets to give the juice back its, umm… err… juiciness depending on the tastes of a specific market. They don’t have to declare the specific make-up of these packets on the labels because they are supposed to be based on derivatives of the base ingredients (It’s a Fruit Loop-hole). A little citrus by-product here, a pitch of black magic rind there. Voila! Bon Appetit!

lemonscaryThese flavor packets can change depending on where the fruit is harvested and when and can be created by third party designers. Therefore not only do I still not know exactly what it was that caused the reaction, I also have no idea whether this was a one-off reaction or if more products could affect me in a similar fashion. Breakfast could become my own version of Russian Roulette! (Don’t ever leave me, coffee…)

You aren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover (except for mine because my cover is awesome), but I didn’t realize you weren’t to judge a product by its label too (up until now I thought that was the point of the thing). Maybe one of these days I’ll learn a lesson the easy way. Here’s to truth in advertising!

On your mark, get ready to race…

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it
Monster Jam, Anaheim Stadium, Anaheim, CA
Image courtesy of Flickr

My eldest son is currently enrolled in year-round school which means that he goes to school for nine weeks and has a three-week break. As our day jobs don’t provide the same flexibility of schedule (especially after two weeks of snow days), and because the last time we left kiddo unsupervised for a significant period of time he racked up over $90 in app store charges (time to change ye ole password), we decided it was best to find him some alternative dedicated care for his next break. Thankfully his various grandparents offered to take him in.

We packed his bags and sent him on his way leaving his brother, aka my Little Lord Tyrant, as the sole representative of their generation. I’ll refer to him as LT from hereon for simplicity. Based on previous days apart, I had expected LT to wander around the house in search of his brother. There was wandering, but it wasn’t in search of his brother, it was in search of his brother’s things. It was enough to make me wonder if LT had actually been the one to purchase all those apps in the first place (he is diabolical like that).

Being a second born myself, I thought at first how nice it must be for him to be the center of mommy and daddy’s attention for a few days, but as they say, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. “Blaze! Bouncy Tires,” my boy demanded for the 100th time in two days (the DVR is both blessing and curse). Resistance would be futile, and everyone knew it.

For those of you who have not had the good fortune to have caught this show, it is about a monster truck named Blaze and his monster truck friends who have adventures structured around words like adhesion and inertia (it’s actually a pretty good show…on the first few viewings). Each episode features a song about the episode’s topic, many of which catchy enough to remain stuck in your memory for the next fortnight, but not enough for you to particularly enjoy them being there.

The show has only been on the air for a single season meaning there are only a few episodes, but as far as my son is concerned they could have stopped at one, “Bouncy Tires.”

Summary:

Human mechanic orders tires that bounce instead of roll (why these were originally ordered is never explained. There are also tires covered in feathers. It is best not to question her supply chain management strategy). A talking truck which looks like a dinosaur installs them without mechanic’s permission and without understanding the consequences. High stakes drama (gasp – will Blaze reach his friend in time?!?) and problem-solving ensues.

As the theme song began, I desperately sought a diversion. Thankfully I recently received a copy of “What If” by Randall Munroe. The book’s tagline states it is a book about scientific answers to absurdly hypothetical questions. Yep, that’ll do.

Speaking of questions, why is it that children so love watching a single show over and over again while the same activity threatens to transform an adult brain into a quivering pile of gray pink goo?

The answer (according to The Atlantic) is because repetition is the easiest way to process information. There is so much their growing minds are trying to process day in and day out that seeing the same show, or reading the same book for the millionth time is like a vacation. Repetition then is chocolate for your brain. Yes, it can potentially cause rot and decay if used to excess, but can make a number of new ingredients a lot less threatening.

“Here, try these roasted grasshoppers!”

“I’ll pass.”

“They are covered in chocolate…”

“How much chocolate?”

“Triple dipped.”

“Hmm, maybe just one.”

Full disclosure – I’ll try any food at least once (except dog – you have to draw the line somewhere).

As I mentioned last week, I have finished rewrites for my second novel and am in the process of polishing it to a high gloss (or at least an eggshell finish), but then what? Do I wait for feedback and give my creative mind some time off? That would be the easy thing to do, but then it would make getting back into the creative habit that much harder. Like LT, I have to keep up my routine. I guess then the only choice will be to begin work in earnest on my next project while I wait.

…1, 2, 3, Let’s Blaze!

At least I get to keep my miles

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

I was standing in the middle of a pre-dawn parking lot in Florida dressed in a crumpled tee-shirt and pajama bottoms waiting for the booming horn and pulsing strobe light to signal it was safe to return inside the building while hoping beyond hope that my boss wouldn’t see me. Actually I preferred no one see me. This is not how I planned to start my day.

Some of my Asian based colleagues were visiting the US and several of us were asked to accompany them on customer visits. I am not a huge fan of business travel, preferring to sleep in my own bed, or at least travel with my family, but you do what you have to. Perhaps I should have protested a little more.

My travels began yesterday. The first plane was late arriving at its gate. It must have experienced some technical issues earlier on the day. I was immediately hit with a dry heat the moment I entered the cabin. We were told that one of the auxiliaries was out and that air conditioning couldn’t kick back in until we began taxing for take off.

It was a full flight and I was stuck in a middle seat only a row or two from the lavatory. Perhaps it was my proximity to the facilities or perhaps one of the other passengers experienced a bad dinner, but periodically the smell of old fart wafted through the air like some twisted automatic air freshener. We only cruised for thirty minutes, but I felt every one of those minutes.

The next flight wasn’t nearly as notable. There was a brief turbulence that made you feel like you were riding a bull at a rodeo and a rumor of yet another mechanical issue, but overall nothing to compare with the first. Soon I had joined with my traveling colleagues, collected the rental car, and was on my way to our final destination. Along the way, we discussed our itinerary for the following day. We had another round of travel immediately following Thursday’s visits which would take us into the wee hours of Friday morning, however our first meeting of the day Thursday wasn’t until mid-morning.

It was a good thing we discussed the plan while we were still in the car. Although it was close to midnight on a Wednesday night the lobby was anything but empty. Speakers blared as a handful of guests sang karaoke a few feet from the registration desk. It turns out that the hotel hosts karaoke one Wednesday night each month and we were just lucky enough to arrive on the big day. I quickly grabbed my key card and made my way to my room as fast as I could drag my roller bag with me.

As I settled into my room for the night I looked at the clock and was excited to realize I didn’t need to schedule a wake up call. It was a glorious feeling. My youngest has recently figured out how to open doors. I am grateful that he lets me pee alone (most of the time). Sleeping in then is rarely an option, and I was going to make the most of it.

That is, I was, until the fire alarm triggered this morning sending me in all my bleary eyed bedtime splendor out to the hotel’s parking lot. As I darted back inside, after given the all clear, I realized I had a story. You gotta laugh sometimes otherwise you might cry.

This is not the piece I planned to publish today, but just because an opportunity is unexpected it doesn’t mean I won’t seize it. I had scheduled a short piece announcing that I had finished re-writing my second novel from end to end and that it just needed a bit more polishing. It was a piece about celebrating small victories. And I am celebrating that milestone. Or at least I will be. Later. Much, much later. Right now, I will settle for just celebrating another cup of coffee.

Isn’t travel grand? At least I get to keep my miles.

Luxury travel
Not even close to my typical business travel experience (image from flickr)

Law and Order: Snowman Victims Unit

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

Snow day in Canada

As mentioned previously, US Southerners do not handle snow well. The mere threat can send entire cities into chaos. In my hometown we usually see one or two winter storms per year consisting of the occasional flurry, but freezing rain is more the norm. This year we saw several storms back to back. The snow from one storm would melt only for the weather to double down on its next hand. Schools were closed (again). Garbage service was cancelled. Those restricted to a milk and bread diet were in danger of starving.

You might say it has been a trying month.

After being housebound off and on for several days, my family decided we had to escape. Bundled within an inch of our lives, we faced the cold and valiantly made our way down the front steps. The most recent storm had resulted in a sticky snow, perfect for making snowmen. We did just that. Soon our snowman was close to my height, which is an impressive snowman height for our part of the country (though not so impressive for a human), and was positioned proudly in the front of the yard for all the neighbors to see.

The next day, temperatures (finally) began creeping back up and the snow began to disappear from the rooftops, but most snowpeople were still standing. Most, but not our giant. Its three sections lay in pieces like large white bolders on the lawn. My sons were disappointed, but they understood that all snowmen eventually melt (Valar Meltghulis). I told them he was too big to last. Then 6 pointed out that there were words written in the snow at the base of our yard; “R.I.P Snowman.”

snowman crime scene
Image by Robert Donovan via Flickr

I suddenly realized that our snowman may not have met his end through natural causes. He might have been murdered. Cue the Law and Order gavel sound.

But why? What possibly could have been the motivation behind such a crime? Did my snowman make eyes at some other snowman’s snowoman? Did the local architectural review board deem our giant an eyesore? (They don’t take kindly to additions in the front yard without proper permits.) Did the roving pack of wild dogs deem our snowman a threat that had to be taken down? None of those theories explained the presence of the note.

Ultimately, I was forced to conclude that the culprit was likely some kid trying to impress his or her friends. He or she probably thought they were hilarious as they scratched their message into the snow. I’ll never understand why some people go out of their way to destroy something that they didn’t create, or otherwise spoil another’s experience as a mere whim.

There is nothing quite like muttering under your breath about those darn kids to make you feel old.

I have chosen to interpret this experience as a compliment. Out of all the snowmen on the street, they choose ours to destroy. Therefore it had to be special in some way. It caught an eye. It stood apart and was therefore worthy of notice if only for an afternoon.

As Dr. Seuss put it, “don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

The neighborhood kids might have taken our snowman out (and gotten away with it), but they won’t take us down. We did something right once. We can do so again. We will rebuild, we will make the next one bigger, stronger, or at least mightier than before, but…hopefully not until next year – I am so over this winter.