This gem was written by my good friend, Mystery Guest Blogger. When I first heard her tell this story, I knew I wanted her to write it down. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
This summer, I was in Winthrop, WA, which many people know for its quaint Old West theme, with wooden sidewalks, Little House on the Prairie-style hand-painted false fronts on very modern stores, and hitching posts. I love Winthrop, but not for it’s kitchy charm; to anyone who loves the outdoors, the entire Methow Valley surrounding Winthrop is a veritable Mecca of outdoorsy adventure – hiking, climbing, swimming, paddle boarding, river kayaking, mountain biking, road biking, rafting, you name it. This summer, I was there to conquer the 5400’ Washington Pass on my road bike. My friend and I started from Winthrop, pedaled 30 miles and 4000’ up to the pass, then turned around and headed 30 miles back to Winthrop. Covered in sweat, sunscreen, car exhaust and road dust, we stopped to dip our sore legs in the pleasantly cool Methow River, which winds right through the center of Winthrop and meanders south through the small towns of Twisp and Carlton. This makes it very convenient – and popular - for the locals to drop a car in one town, put in rafts or inner tubes in Winthrop, and float downstream back to the car.
For a moment, dear reader, I would like you to imagine the typical local who lives in a town 100 miles from anywhere and snowed in for months at a time. True, there is the quaint and slightly eccentric 50-something artist who owns a boutique in town, paints sunset scenes with watercolors, and dresses in flowy dresses and scarves, a la Stevie Nicks. And yes, there is the ruggedly handsome man with a close-cropped beard and plaid shirt who makes his own wooden furniture. Oh, and let’s not forget the power couple with the custom-built summer home overlooking the Sawtooth Range and the valley. But then, there are the flabby, tanned, cut-off sleeved, beer-swillin’, snuff-dippin’, hard-fightin’, course-tongued folk who populate the dilapidated huts and deteriorating single-wides that litter the back roads of the Methow Valley. As my friend and I sat on the river rocks in our bike shorts, enjoying the fingers of cool water massaging our aching muscles, we were treated to a glimpse inside the life and times of this latter type of Methow local.
First, we heard the guttural roaring of un-muffled engine behind us. I turned toward the noise, and saw a beat up Suburban spit out five guys of varying ages, clad in cut-off T-shirts and swim trunks, clutching cold cans of Busch Ice with cigarettes perched between their stubbly lips. Amused, we watched the guys unload several tubes, including one tied to a cooler, and make their way down to the water, which took a few trips. Thankfully, there were no mothers of small children around to recoil in horror at the barrage of swearing and dirty jokes that followed in the wake of these trips. As the guys gradually relocated to the water’s edge, I noticed that there were two extra inner tubes, and for a fleeting moment thought they might be meant for my friend and me – but who carries two extra inner tubes with them just in case they happen to meet two athletic and attractive ladies at the riverside? Soon, the tardy occupants of the extra tubes came on the scene.
I have to pause here to justify myself for the remarks I am about to make. Though I am athletic, by no stretch of the imagination do I have a bikini-worthy waistline. I have a tattoo in a very visible location. I love ice cream cones. I have floated rivers while drinking cheap beer many a time. I have nothing against any of these activities.
My friend alerted me of their presence by tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, “Is that girl pregnant? Because if not, she really shouldn’t be wearing that shirt.” I turned and looked back toward the parking lot. Making their way toward the river were two women wearing bikini bottoms, battered flip-flops, licking rapidly melting ice cream cones with pierced tongues. One of them was wearing a T-shirt cut off at the midsection, which exposed a vast expanse of what my friend had thought was a pregnant belly, but indeed, it was not. It was so vast, in fact, that it was folded over her bikini bottoms so that from the front, she appeared to be wearing nothing below the ragged T-shirt. She was licking her ice cream cone with gusto, trying to catch the drips of melted goodness before they touched the fingers holding the cone, which in a feat of multitasking balanced both cone and a cigarette. As I watched, she shifted the cone to her other hand, took a drag, then replaced the cone, all the while waddling her way to the river’s edge and to the group of men that awaited her. I grimaced a little at the thought of ruining such a delicious treat with ashy cigarette flavor. The cone was gone by the time they reached their companions, but her hands were quickly filled with a Busch Lite tallboy, which she enthusiastically cracked open. However, she had not considered the logistics of wading into the river and settling into the tube while holding a full, open beer and a lit cigarette. As she lumbered into the river and contorted her body to mount the tube without spilling or burning herself, her cut-off shirt slipped even further up her large backside, and there, dear reader, I witnessed the tackiest tramp stamp I have ever seen.
In the middle was the most cliché of all tramp stamps: a butterfly with purple, pink, and turquoise wings, obviously not modeled after an actual butterfly. Flanking the outstretched wings on both sides sprouted a series of mushrooms, which I’m sure someone thought was the cutest drug reference ever. These mushrooms went the edge of either side of her love handles. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “you’re right, Mystery Guest Blogger, that is one trashy tramp stamp!” And oh, dear reader, I wish the description ended there. Stretching above the fleshy field of butterflies and mushrooms were two words, written in inch-tall, Old English lettering. Those words, very close to the anatomical region to which they referred, were BAD ASS.
Stay classy, Okanogan County.
RULES FOR FRIENDS
If you are going to claim to be my friend, there are just a few rules.
First of all, we need to establish some guidelines regarding the times you can call my house. Back when I was young and hip (Kind Reader, you are so right - I still am!), my good friend Kristin made it clear that we were not to call each other until there were double digits on the clock. This meant no 7 a.m. phone calls to talk about last night's Survivor show. It was fine, however, to call each other during 7:30 p.m. Jeopardy and stay on the phone for the duration of the game, shouting out answers and chiding Alex Trebek for his condescending tone. These days, we both have children. Everyone knows that there is no way on this green Earth that either one of us can sleep until there are double digits on the clock, so if you can hold off until 8 a.m., then I give you permission to dial away. Please be aware that, young and hip as I am, I may be falling asleep before 8 p.m. and thus will not be able to mock Alex with you. This may also be attributed to being a parent of a child with Spirit.
Next, we should discuss being the passenger in my car. Just because you are my Friend does not mean that you can change any of the controls at your own personal whim. You may not adjust the temperature or change the radio station without expressly asking for and receiving permission. Feel free to roll down your window or adjust the air vent on your side of the car. I am considering a ban on all beverage containers in the car unless they have screw top lids, with a doff of my cap to my good friend Larry H. (he will deny that this is his rule, but believe me, it is), and it is absolutely not permissible to consume dairy products in the car at any time.
If you are my true friend, you will alert me when my appearance is not up to snuff, whether in public or not. This means that if I have a head of lettuce in my teeth, or merely a frond, you will kindly point it out to me before I go grinning at every stranger on the street. If I have toothpaste on my shirt, please do not allow me to walk around in oblivion. Is my skirt tucked up in my underwear behind me? Please, tell me before I go teach teenagers. Do I have a string hanging from my clothing? It won't hurt my feelings if you tell me. Is my shirt buttoned wrong, or worse, not at all? I would like to know about it from a friend, not a stranger. Is there a spot on my pants? I have a Tide Stain Stick to use if you would only tell me that I need to use it. If we are at the Friday Market in New Denver, B.C., do not let me peruse the booth of every single vendor in town with the zipper down on my shorts (Aunt Helen, and every other member of the Family Reunion who was on that field trip). Chances are, if the situation were reversed and it would embarrass you to appear this way, I will be grateful to be informed of the perceived problem.
Now that that is all settled, do these pants make my butt look big?
First of all, we need to establish some guidelines regarding the times you can call my house. Back when I was young and hip (Kind Reader, you are so right - I still am!), my good friend Kristin made it clear that we were not to call each other until there were double digits on the clock. This meant no 7 a.m. phone calls to talk about last night's Survivor show. It was fine, however, to call each other during 7:30 p.m. Jeopardy and stay on the phone for the duration of the game, shouting out answers and chiding Alex Trebek for his condescending tone. These days, we both have children. Everyone knows that there is no way on this green Earth that either one of us can sleep until there are double digits on the clock, so if you can hold off until 8 a.m., then I give you permission to dial away. Please be aware that, young and hip as I am, I may be falling asleep before 8 p.m. and thus will not be able to mock Alex with you. This may also be attributed to being a parent of a child with Spirit.
Next, we should discuss being the passenger in my car. Just because you are my Friend does not mean that you can change any of the controls at your own personal whim. You may not adjust the temperature or change the radio station without expressly asking for and receiving permission. Feel free to roll down your window or adjust the air vent on your side of the car. I am considering a ban on all beverage containers in the car unless they have screw top lids, with a doff of my cap to my good friend Larry H. (he will deny that this is his rule, but believe me, it is), and it is absolutely not permissible to consume dairy products in the car at any time.
If you are my true friend, you will alert me when my appearance is not up to snuff, whether in public or not. This means that if I have a head of lettuce in my teeth, or merely a frond, you will kindly point it out to me before I go grinning at every stranger on the street. If I have toothpaste on my shirt, please do not allow me to walk around in oblivion. Is my skirt tucked up in my underwear behind me? Please, tell me before I go teach teenagers. Do I have a string hanging from my clothing? It won't hurt my feelings if you tell me. Is my shirt buttoned wrong, or worse, not at all? I would like to know about it from a friend, not a stranger. Is there a spot on my pants? I have a Tide Stain Stick to use if you would only tell me that I need to use it. If we are at the Friday Market in New Denver, B.C., do not let me peruse the booth of every single vendor in town with the zipper down on my shorts (Aunt Helen, and every other member of the Family Reunion who was on that field trip). Chances are, if the situation were reversed and it would embarrass you to appear this way, I will be grateful to be informed of the perceived problem.
Now that that is all settled, do these pants make my butt look big?
NEVER SAY NEVER
One day Girl6 brought home an invitation to a birthday party. It was going to be at a local waterpark. We had driven by that site nearly every day since the day they broke ground, and every day my daughter would ask me when we were going to go there. I would whisper to myself, "never", and then murmur, "Oh, I don't know!" The party was to be an overnight party at the lodge. Girl6 had never stayed overnight at a friend's house before, and this was not going to be the first of many. I told her she could go to the party, go swimming, and then I would bring her home. She dejectedly accepted this compromise. When I called to RSVP, it was not the mom who answered, but the grandma. I explained that Girl6 would not be staying over night, and she said for Girl6 to be sure to bring her swimsuit.
The big day came. As I circled the lot, looking for a parking space, I noticed the tribal police car zooming into the lot. I remember wondering for a millisecond what would bring the tribal police to the water park and lodge. After finding a parking spot, I shouldered the swimming bag and the birthday gift and we headed toward the front door. I noticed the policeman walking in with a man in a stocking cap.
The lobby was very crowded, but Girl6 spotted some of her other friends there. We gathered with them and I reacquainted myself with one of the mothers, a wife of one of my former students. I asked her if the birthday family was already on the premises. She nodded toward the serpentine in front of the reception desk and said they were waiting to check in. She stood on her tiptoes to try to spot them, and when she couldn't, she said, "The dad is wearing a stocking cap." My head whipped around to stare at her. "The one who came in with the policeman?", I asked her. She nodded in assent.
Finally the family got to the front of the line and checked in. It turned out that the birthday girl's grandma was springing for the payment of the room. She said, "OK, see you all later! Have a good time!" The other mother and I looked nervously at one another. There was no birthday mom in sight. The birthday dad, while passing out water park bracelets to the kids, was still being spoken to by the policeman. I strained my ears to hear what was going on. I heard the phrase "bodily injury", but everything else was drowned out by my own daughter clamoring to get help with her bracelet. The other mother, Diane, and I looked again at each other, and telepathically said in unison, "I'm sticking around!" A third mother, after witnessing all of this, kissed her daughter goodbye and said, "see you tomorrow!", and left. The birthday dad said, "Well, let's go up to the room!" Diane and I heaved our swimbags on to our shoulders and followed the kids down the hall and up the stairs. Some child at the front of the pack had decided that we didn't need to take the elevator, so we climbed four flights of stairs.
The room was a suite, with 2 double beds in one room and one in the adjoining room. The kids all dumped their bags and started springing around on the beds. The birthday presents were in a pile on the table. The birthday girl, Susie, asked if she could open them. Nobody seemed to object, so she started ripping in to them. The dad had brought a garbage bag full of wrapped gifts up to the room, and it became obvious that his mother had bought the presents. He had no idea what they were, nor was he paying attention. Every one of them was some sort of Barbie. Each present was ripped open, glanced at, and tossed aside. No one was writing down who gave which present. I decided at that moment not to expect a thank you note.
After the presents were opened, we all sat around and stared at one another awkwardly. There were 2 little girl guests, the birthday girl, a younger brother, an older sister, and an older cousin. I estimated that the sister and cousin were in middle school. The sister was dressed gangster-style, with long basketball shorts and a baggy shirt, and her hair skinned back in a pony tail. The cousin was dressed in tight pants and a tight camisole top with all sorts of straps showing. The cousin had magically produced a curling iron and plugged it in, and was standing in front of the mirror doing her hair and makeup. At that moment, I couldn't imagine two worse role models.
The dad reappeared and looked at all of us. "Hey, you guys!", he said excitedly, "do you want to go to the Arcade?" The children all cheered as if they were going to see the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. I was pretty sure that my own six-year old didn't even know what the Arcade was. Mister (as I had grown to call him when speaking to Diane), pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and peeled some off the top. He gave the bundle to the sister and said, "Here's fifty dollars. Take the kids down to the Arcade and split it between them." The kids were already running out the door and down the hall. Diane and I grabbed our swim bags and dashed after them. Mister stayed behind. Diane and I trotted to keep up with the kids. Every once in a while, we exchanged wide eyed looks with each other, saying with our Mom ESP, "Can you believe this?"
The Arcade was dark and seemed smoky, although smoking was not allowed in that particular area. We got our supply of coins and set out as a unit of four: Diane, her daughter Lizzie, my daughter and I. I may be dating myself, or maybe exposing how dull I am, but I don't think I had been in an arcade for about twenty years, if ever. Neither Diane nor I could figure out how to make the games work, and we lost many a coin because we didn't know what we were doing. Our girls didn't seem to mind. I kept looking at my watch. I hissed at Diane, "It would be pretty awful to leave before the girls got to go swimming, wouldn't it?" She nodded in agreement. I kept looking around, trying to keep track of the other kids in our party, who didn't seem to have a parental unit. It seemed to me to be a perfect place to lose a kid. I spotted Mister. He came over and told us that he had ordered pizza.
When the pizza arrived, we all trooped back up to the room. Mister had bought several cheese and pepperoni pizzas and some Coke. The kids ripped in to the pizzas and attempted to help themselves to the 2 liter bottles of soda. I sprang to pour and Diane jumped up to dole out the pizza. The kids sat around on the beds eating, to my disgust. I watched as they spilled pizza sauce on themselves, wiped their hands on the bedspreads, and balanced plastic cups of Coke on the mattresses. I couldn't bring myself to have anything. I could hardly keep from looking at the time every five minutes. The party was dragging on for what seemed to be an eternity, and the kids hadn't gone swimming yet.
Finally each child had had her fill of pizza and once again we were staring uncomfortably at one another. Mister said, "Well, what do you want to do now?" I almost screamed, "Isn't it obvious?! We're at a WATER PARK!" Luckily the kids all answered him and he responded with, "OH! You want to go swimming?" Each kid raced for a bathroom or other private spot to change into her swimsuit. I scurried around, throwing soggy napkins and leftover pizza away, lest it get left under the covers.
By some miracle, the workers at the water park were not standing at the door inspecting the incoming and outgoing guests. Diane and I marched right in with our daughters and right down to pool side. While everyone else was in their bikinis and Speedos, I was in boots, jeans, a T shirt, a sweatshirt, and a down jacket. Diane had on a rain coat. We each still sported a swim bag, both of which looked to be overflowing with clothes and towels. We dragged some chairs over to "our spot" and plopped ourselves down right next to the wave pool. We knew that not only did Mister not know the names of our kids, he didn't know if they could swim or not. With all of the people in the indoor water park, it was doubtful that he could even recognize our daughters once they were in the pool.
Diane and I sat in the eighty degree warmth, scanning the pool area with eagle eyes. Not only did we keep track of our own kids, we kept our eyes on the little brother, who seemed to be unattended in a different pool, and the birthday girl. Mister arrived after a while, but then it was even hard to pick him out of a crowd without his stocking cap.
We sat as long as we could. We compared notes on how early we could leave without being rude, and while still being nice to our children. By 8:45 p.m, we had each had enough. We rounded up our kids, made them say thank you, and stumped off to a bathroom to get our kids changed. Mind you, our kids didn't go very willingly. Of course they wanted to stay longer. I could only think of one thing worse than stuck in a hotel room with a strange man, whose name I didn't even know, and that was leaving my six year old daughter there to stay over night. Emerging from the bathroom, we each dragged our daughter to the car. Waving goodbye, I realized that in all of that craziness, I had met someone else who had some sense. What did I learn from this? Never say "Never".
The big day came. As I circled the lot, looking for a parking space, I noticed the tribal police car zooming into the lot. I remember wondering for a millisecond what would bring the tribal police to the water park and lodge. After finding a parking spot, I shouldered the swimming bag and the birthday gift and we headed toward the front door. I noticed the policeman walking in with a man in a stocking cap.
The lobby was very crowded, but Girl6 spotted some of her other friends there. We gathered with them and I reacquainted myself with one of the mothers, a wife of one of my former students. I asked her if the birthday family was already on the premises. She nodded toward the serpentine in front of the reception desk and said they were waiting to check in. She stood on her tiptoes to try to spot them, and when she couldn't, she said, "The dad is wearing a stocking cap." My head whipped around to stare at her. "The one who came in with the policeman?", I asked her. She nodded in assent.
Finally the family got to the front of the line and checked in. It turned out that the birthday girl's grandma was springing for the payment of the room. She said, "OK, see you all later! Have a good time!" The other mother and I looked nervously at one another. There was no birthday mom in sight. The birthday dad, while passing out water park bracelets to the kids, was still being spoken to by the policeman. I strained my ears to hear what was going on. I heard the phrase "bodily injury", but everything else was drowned out by my own daughter clamoring to get help with her bracelet. The other mother, Diane, and I looked again at each other, and telepathically said in unison, "I'm sticking around!" A third mother, after witnessing all of this, kissed her daughter goodbye and said, "see you tomorrow!", and left. The birthday dad said, "Well, let's go up to the room!" Diane and I heaved our swimbags on to our shoulders and followed the kids down the hall and up the stairs. Some child at the front of the pack had decided that we didn't need to take the elevator, so we climbed four flights of stairs.
The room was a suite, with 2 double beds in one room and one in the adjoining room. The kids all dumped their bags and started springing around on the beds. The birthday presents were in a pile on the table. The birthday girl, Susie, asked if she could open them. Nobody seemed to object, so she started ripping in to them. The dad had brought a garbage bag full of wrapped gifts up to the room, and it became obvious that his mother had bought the presents. He had no idea what they were, nor was he paying attention. Every one of them was some sort of Barbie. Each present was ripped open, glanced at, and tossed aside. No one was writing down who gave which present. I decided at that moment not to expect a thank you note.
After the presents were opened, we all sat around and stared at one another awkwardly. There were 2 little girl guests, the birthday girl, a younger brother, an older sister, and an older cousin. I estimated that the sister and cousin were in middle school. The sister was dressed gangster-style, with long basketball shorts and a baggy shirt, and her hair skinned back in a pony tail. The cousin was dressed in tight pants and a tight camisole top with all sorts of straps showing. The cousin had magically produced a curling iron and plugged it in, and was standing in front of the mirror doing her hair and makeup. At that moment, I couldn't imagine two worse role models.
The dad reappeared and looked at all of us. "Hey, you guys!", he said excitedly, "do you want to go to the Arcade?" The children all cheered as if they were going to see the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. I was pretty sure that my own six-year old didn't even know what the Arcade was. Mister (as I had grown to call him when speaking to Diane), pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and peeled some off the top. He gave the bundle to the sister and said, "Here's fifty dollars. Take the kids down to the Arcade and split it between them." The kids were already running out the door and down the hall. Diane and I grabbed our swim bags and dashed after them. Mister stayed behind. Diane and I trotted to keep up with the kids. Every once in a while, we exchanged wide eyed looks with each other, saying with our Mom ESP, "Can you believe this?"
The Arcade was dark and seemed smoky, although smoking was not allowed in that particular area. We got our supply of coins and set out as a unit of four: Diane, her daughter Lizzie, my daughter and I. I may be dating myself, or maybe exposing how dull I am, but I don't think I had been in an arcade for about twenty years, if ever. Neither Diane nor I could figure out how to make the games work, and we lost many a coin because we didn't know what we were doing. Our girls didn't seem to mind. I kept looking at my watch. I hissed at Diane, "It would be pretty awful to leave before the girls got to go swimming, wouldn't it?" She nodded in agreement. I kept looking around, trying to keep track of the other kids in our party, who didn't seem to have a parental unit. It seemed to me to be a perfect place to lose a kid. I spotted Mister. He came over and told us that he had ordered pizza.
When the pizza arrived, we all trooped back up to the room. Mister had bought several cheese and pepperoni pizzas and some Coke. The kids ripped in to the pizzas and attempted to help themselves to the 2 liter bottles of soda. I sprang to pour and Diane jumped up to dole out the pizza. The kids sat around on the beds eating, to my disgust. I watched as they spilled pizza sauce on themselves, wiped their hands on the bedspreads, and balanced plastic cups of Coke on the mattresses. I couldn't bring myself to have anything. I could hardly keep from looking at the time every five minutes. The party was dragging on for what seemed to be an eternity, and the kids hadn't gone swimming yet.
Finally each child had had her fill of pizza and once again we were staring uncomfortably at one another. Mister said, "Well, what do you want to do now?" I almost screamed, "Isn't it obvious?! We're at a WATER PARK!" Luckily the kids all answered him and he responded with, "OH! You want to go swimming?" Each kid raced for a bathroom or other private spot to change into her swimsuit. I scurried around, throwing soggy napkins and leftover pizza away, lest it get left under the covers.
By some miracle, the workers at the water park were not standing at the door inspecting the incoming and outgoing guests. Diane and I marched right in with our daughters and right down to pool side. While everyone else was in their bikinis and Speedos, I was in boots, jeans, a T shirt, a sweatshirt, and a down jacket. Diane had on a rain coat. We each still sported a swim bag, both of which looked to be overflowing with clothes and towels. We dragged some chairs over to "our spot" and plopped ourselves down right next to the wave pool. We knew that not only did Mister not know the names of our kids, he didn't know if they could swim or not. With all of the people in the indoor water park, it was doubtful that he could even recognize our daughters once they were in the pool.
Diane and I sat in the eighty degree warmth, scanning the pool area with eagle eyes. Not only did we keep track of our own kids, we kept our eyes on the little brother, who seemed to be unattended in a different pool, and the birthday girl. Mister arrived after a while, but then it was even hard to pick him out of a crowd without his stocking cap.
We sat as long as we could. We compared notes on how early we could leave without being rude, and while still being nice to our children. By 8:45 p.m, we had each had enough. We rounded up our kids, made them say thank you, and stumped off to a bathroom to get our kids changed. Mind you, our kids didn't go very willingly. Of course they wanted to stay longer. I could only think of one thing worse than stuck in a hotel room with a strange man, whose name I didn't even know, and that was leaving my six year old daughter there to stay over night. Emerging from the bathroom, we each dragged our daughter to the car. Waving goodbye, I realized that in all of that craziness, I had met someone else who had some sense. What did I learn from this? Never say "Never".
FOLLOW THE LEADER
I have no follow-through. There. I said it. Reader, it feels so good to let it all hang out. Every once in a while it is good to do a little self-analysis, you should try it some time. It explains so much!
I have already admitted to Al Gore and his Internet that I am a horrible laundress. There are some people who are so happy to do laundry, it makes them all smiley and cheerful (come on, you know who you are!) to be surrounded by the fluffy, nice smelling, clean clothes. I hate that. I don't mind throwing the clothes into the washer, and it does make me a little cheerful. But not because of the clean smelling laundry baloney. It is because I have reduced the pile of dirty clothes that lives in another part of the house. For a blissful half hour, they are hidden from view. Out of sight, out of mind. I consider it a terrible drag when it is time to put them in the dryer. It shouldn't be a drag, and you are wondering why I would complain, but it is because of what is in the dryer. Lurking in the dryer are the clothes from the previous laundry event. I do not look forward to taking them out and folding them and putting them away. It is the putting them away part that really kills me. I wouldn't mind if I could simply fold them and leave them on the couch. There comes a time when A Person wants to have company, or when the neighbors creep over to your back yard and peer through the sliding glass door, and A Person doesn't want one's unmentionables wadded there in a mountain on the chair for the world to see. It is one thing, Nit Picking Reader, to blog about one's orange underpants ballooning out over the top of the low-riding, sparkly butt jeans, but it is another thing all together to have them on public display in one's living room. The putting away the clothes part is always tough, stuffing them in drawers, scootching hangers over in the closet to make room for just one more garment, and eventually plopping the whole pile in a spare laundry basket in the bedroom. Then the whole cycle begins again.
I have confessed to hating to floss and I know I will get flak for it at the dentist next week, so enough about that.
The story of the dishwasher is pretty much the same. I like loading it because it hides those dishes that have been milling around in the sink. Clearing it is where I start to drag my feet. It's the follow-through again! Even though I can clear it during a prime-time TV commercial break (yes, I've timed it), it is still challenging putting those bowls away, stuffing one more wine glass in the cupboard, and jamming that cake pan under the counter. Slam the door quickly before anything jumps out.
Follow-through, and my lack of it, explains all sorts of things. I love to buy the plants for that succulent garden, but I don't want to prepare the area and plant them, so there they sit, on the bench. Four years after acquiring the Weed-and-Feed, I finally got around to spreading some, but the bad news is that it has encouraged the grass to grow. Now I have to mow the lawn. I have bought bookshelves at IKEA with full intentions of speeding home and whipping them together with my handy tools. Those bookshelves sat in the garage in their boxes for a good six months before I drummed up the drive to put them together. I am wild to go cut up a branch or a limb with the chain saw, but am not so motivated to do something with the pieces that I have generated. I bought a whole flat of strawberries with honest intentions of making a full load of strawberry jam, but you know what happened, FaceBook Stalker that you are. I made seven jars and celebrated my burst of industriousness by posting pictures and proclaiming myself to the Best Jam Maker On Earth.
I planted some zucchini plants. Well there are a lot of follow throughs here. I had to water them, which I barely managed. I went on vacation and some very nice Garden Fairies did it for me. I don't mind pulling the odd weed here or there, after all, it is just a raised bed. You can already see it, Smart Reader! I am going to be buried in zucchini plants. I will have all sorts of dreams of making zucchini bread, and freezing it for baking soirees in the winter time. Have I ever told you that I have zucchini from 2008 in my freezer?
I may as well confess that I am not very good at any household chores. You are shocked, I can tell. Dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, window washing.... in the end they all require some form of follow through. There are cords to wind up, bags to change, brooms to put away, newspaper to collect.... It's a wonder that I have a real job.
Even my hobbies are starting to drag me down. Scrapbooking has all those, well, scraps. Even reading, which hardly requires a person to even move, results in major acquisition of books if one isn't a member of the Timberland Regional Library system. "Acquistion of books" really means that now I have to find a place for all of them. Collecting tea cups speaks for itself. Collecting. Putting them somewhere. Blogging is such a tidy hobby. I don't have to clean up the papers or pencil shavings when I'm done. Post and POOF! It's very easy. With that said.... POOF!
I have already admitted to Al Gore and his Internet that I am a horrible laundress. There are some people who are so happy to do laundry, it makes them all smiley and cheerful (come on, you know who you are!) to be surrounded by the fluffy, nice smelling, clean clothes. I hate that. I don't mind throwing the clothes into the washer, and it does make me a little cheerful. But not because of the clean smelling laundry baloney. It is because I have reduced the pile of dirty clothes that lives in another part of the house. For a blissful half hour, they are hidden from view. Out of sight, out of mind. I consider it a terrible drag when it is time to put them in the dryer. It shouldn't be a drag, and you are wondering why I would complain, but it is because of what is in the dryer. Lurking in the dryer are the clothes from the previous laundry event. I do not look forward to taking them out and folding them and putting them away. It is the putting them away part that really kills me. I wouldn't mind if I could simply fold them and leave them on the couch. There comes a time when A Person wants to have company, or when the neighbors creep over to your back yard and peer through the sliding glass door, and A Person doesn't want one's unmentionables wadded there in a mountain on the chair for the world to see. It is one thing, Nit Picking Reader, to blog about one's orange underpants ballooning out over the top of the low-riding, sparkly butt jeans, but it is another thing all together to have them on public display in one's living room. The putting away the clothes part is always tough, stuffing them in drawers, scootching hangers over in the closet to make room for just one more garment, and eventually plopping the whole pile in a spare laundry basket in the bedroom. Then the whole cycle begins again.
I have confessed to hating to floss and I know I will get flak for it at the dentist next week, so enough about that.
The story of the dishwasher is pretty much the same. I like loading it because it hides those dishes that have been milling around in the sink. Clearing it is where I start to drag my feet. It's the follow-through again! Even though I can clear it during a prime-time TV commercial break (yes, I've timed it), it is still challenging putting those bowls away, stuffing one more wine glass in the cupboard, and jamming that cake pan under the counter. Slam the door quickly before anything jumps out.
Follow-through, and my lack of it, explains all sorts of things. I love to buy the plants for that succulent garden, but I don't want to prepare the area and plant them, so there they sit, on the bench. Four years after acquiring the Weed-and-Feed, I finally got around to spreading some, but the bad news is that it has encouraged the grass to grow. Now I have to mow the lawn. I have bought bookshelves at IKEA with full intentions of speeding home and whipping them together with my handy tools. Those bookshelves sat in the garage in their boxes for a good six months before I drummed up the drive to put them together. I am wild to go cut up a branch or a limb with the chain saw, but am not so motivated to do something with the pieces that I have generated. I bought a whole flat of strawberries with honest intentions of making a full load of strawberry jam, but you know what happened, FaceBook Stalker that you are. I made seven jars and celebrated my burst of industriousness by posting pictures and proclaiming myself to the Best Jam Maker On Earth.
I planted some zucchini plants. Well there are a lot of follow throughs here. I had to water them, which I barely managed. I went on vacation and some very nice Garden Fairies did it for me. I don't mind pulling the odd weed here or there, after all, it is just a raised bed. You can already see it, Smart Reader! I am going to be buried in zucchini plants. I will have all sorts of dreams of making zucchini bread, and freezing it for baking soirees in the winter time. Have I ever told you that I have zucchini from 2008 in my freezer?
I may as well confess that I am not very good at any household chores. You are shocked, I can tell. Dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, window washing.... in the end they all require some form of follow through. There are cords to wind up, bags to change, brooms to put away, newspaper to collect.... It's a wonder that I have a real job.
Even my hobbies are starting to drag me down. Scrapbooking has all those, well, scraps. Even reading, which hardly requires a person to even move, results in major acquisition of books if one isn't a member of the Timberland Regional Library system. "Acquistion of books" really means that now I have to find a place for all of them. Collecting tea cups speaks for itself. Collecting. Putting them somewhere. Blogging is such a tidy hobby. I don't have to clean up the papers or pencil shavings when I'm done. Post and POOF! It's very easy. With that said.... POOF!
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