Charlywalker's Blog











{January 1, 2014}   Backfield In Motion

My son is home for the Holidays and I will say, he never ceases to amaze me with the way his brain is wired. I know his 19 year old intellect is still under construction and my crossing the yellow caution tape may lead to a hazard zone equipped with sink holes invading his infrastructure……but I continue to plow aHEAD as I bear witness to his teen logic.

Case in point: Since birth I have been privy to my sons underclothes all the way from his training pants to his XL Joe Boxers. I  have had this privilege not only as his mother doing his laundry, but also as a spectator during his youth.  I watched as he frantically raced down the stairs in his T-shirt and Power Ranger panties looking for something he urgently needed; like a small grey lego piece he left on the carpet over night that may or may not have been devoured by my vacuum.  OR ..fast forward to the present: His collegiate six foot frame harboring size 13 bare feet flapping down steps in search of his treasured cell phone lost in the couch cushions, wearing only his Christmas Boxers featuring Santa holding a Heineken.  My how the years breeze past us, from briefs to boxers is how I now measure my sons growth……..and maturity level.

It’s amazing what shows up when ready for prime time teens are independent and shop for their own clothing after they enroll in college. Possibly spending their college fund on seasonal items that cover their private areas and lay hidden beneath their worn denims only to surface when they bring their laundry home for the holidays. It’s amazing the barrage of unmentionables I happen upon publicizing clever jingles across their buttocks region, such as;  “Santa, Where’s My Ho’s?”.  OR, how about the ones with the red and green ornaments spread over the fly area touting: ” Like My Balls?”.   Oh how I miss those Sesame Street days when it was a Muppet dominating the BVD empire and little fannies  everywhere tooted Gonzo’s trumpet from behind….

Oh but I digress.

My son brought his Christmas break laundry home and nestled on top peaking out from under some crusty towels sat a lonely pair of white Briefs.   I asked my son as to when he switched his undergarments  from boxers to briefs, and then proceeded to expound on how Calvin Klein will have to decrease the Font size in order to encrypt their Holiday magic across those “whitey-tighty’s”.  Looks like there might be just enough space in the front to photo shop in one of Santa’s helpers.  “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”.  How can it? There’s no room.

My son didn’t laugh. He merely explained how he “bought the wrong kind”, and  he was looking for the new and improved Euro slim fit hipster comfy-style entitled:”Boxer -Briefs”.

Boxer-Briefs: The oxy-moron of the underpants world.

“Bought the wrong kind”:  The moron who neglected to read the packaging and fell victim to the buy -one -get -one- free syndrome who is now stuck with eight pairs of Calvin Klein’s never to be worn again mini-briefs at $19.50 a pair. Guess who will be comfy in his hipster briefs sitting in the school cafeteria with no money to eat……

My plan was to donate the items and write off the mistake. However..

One Sunday afternoon the temperatures in our area registered just above freezing and while I was carrying the laundry basket down to the laundry room I notice my son jolting out of his room wearing a short sleeve T-shirt with an NFL logo scrolled across his chest accompanied by knee length soccer shorts, and in bare feet.  He flashed past me beating me to the laundry room. He stuck his lengthy arm into the core of his piled clothing  and tore out a white cotton crumpled mass and held it high in his palm, and yelled, “YESss!”.

I said: “Son, that is the whitey-tighty error – in -judgement you are now holding.  Why did you just fish that pair out from the rest of your laundry and hold it up to the underwear god in praise?;  and, why are you dressed like you are vacationing in Hawaii when it’s sub-zero degrees in Pennsylvania?”.

” It’s game day and these are my lucky clothes. Every time I wear this my NFL  team wins”.

And the Mini-Briefs?

“Those are included in my lucky clothes, they complete me”.

Here’s hoping they make the play-offs….you have seven more pairs upstairs….

There are, I’m sure, powerful new technologies to track a 19 year old’s development to investigate their brain functions and connections. When they are connecting. And I’m sure this research will reveal factors that impact a teens behavior that might provoke vulnerabilities and cause an erupt purchase of “the wrong kind” of underwear to only be worn on Game Day at $19.50 at pair. I know that during the formative years there is a decline in volume of grey matter, which I found out, is necessary for maturation, however, I did read that a turn around happens in their early 20’s, and one of the Hallmark’s of this turn in behavior is the ability to “Plan aHEAD”……

 even if your sons “Plan aHEAD ” may be Brief(s)….

spread the humor.




I like the sound of my house in the morning. It begins with a serene calmness surrounded by an abundance of quiet, and ends with a clamor of energies erupting from a mixture of tyrannical teens, a traveling husband, and a wayward dog.

I fancy the stillness to inspire me to write…or…er..scribble down thoughts, however, the only thing materializing in my brain is “still” trying to transpire.  I need a muse.  Maybe the sound of music  might amuse me and become museful to help with motivation which could  ignite and spark a plethora of  musettes to clear the cobwebs visiting my minds museum.

Too much quiet seems to have a Sesame Street affect on me and it’s forcing me to spew an assortment of M’s & more M’s.  Might as well face it I’m addicted to love  of alliteration. It’s a nasty habit, but it’s really just for the pun of it.

For the new year I was trying to get a blog in edgewise at least once a week, but I would find myself sitting and staring at the computer hoping that the keyboard would miraculously take it’s alphabet and form an idea or two….

Sometimes I rest my hands on the keys in the typewriter formation that I learned in eighth grade from a teacher who was missing three fingers, and I would sit in a trance awaiting  an idea to hit that compels  my fingers to vibrate across the raised letters like a divining tool over a Ouija Board.

Sometimes I find myself sitting at the desk with my head in my hands closing my eyes with all my might in hopes that an anecdote will squeeze out from the darkness.  The only things that appear to pop through from that ritual are new wrinkles in the corners of my eyes from clamping my lids shut.

Sometimes I walk around the house looking for anything to stimulate a brainstorm , but, usually I end up facing a  few messy rooms that look as though they weathered a storm and curse at the dirty laundry that  is multiplying faster than bunnies.

Sometimes I jump into my mom uniform and take the crazy dog out for a walk in the “hood” hoping to grab some outdoor information that could trigger some hyperboles of life.  My dog was my original muse when I started this blog adventure, but now we both just walk amongst ourselves  in silence soaking in scenery and leftover urine floating atop the grass. Even my dog carries the “No Vacancy” aura atop is pea brain.  Lately it feels like I’m taking Eeyore for an apathetic walk…

Sometimes I check my email and witness an assortment of blogger’s have been busy at blogging.  I admire the folks that are able to write once a day and even sometimes twice a day.  Sometimes I find my Inbox is inundated weekly with subscriptions that I am too caught up in reading and I find I have left no time to formulate my own  mental material. I wish I had the time to blog every day or even every week.  I tried once, on January 1st of each year since the onset of this blog, I tried with all my mighty imagination to transcribe daily.  A day turned into two days….then three days….then a week….then a month….then I found myself caught up in living life instead of attempting to write about it.

Sometimes I load my brain cells with caffeine to try and jump start a synapse.  I step and fetch myself a warm cappuccino thinking the lovely aroma of my Italian espresso blend will activate an afflatus.  All it seems to produce is a  mild movement towards a quiet ladies room.  I never afflatus in public.

Sometimes I just want to stop all this blogsense and quit.  Maybe free up my stagnant legs that  hide under the desk while the varicosities await their first thrombosis.  Maybe give the chair cushion a break and let the micro-foam have a breather and work the dent out.  Maybe give my eyes a break from the vibrant glare on my screen….oh…wait…I have transition lenses.  I utilize the Hunter  S. Thompson technique….minus the cigarette.

Yes, I like the sound of my house in the morning that harbors a unique calmness before it’s inundated with the walking dead teens and  a tumbling dog chasing a husband who checks in and out and leaves his keys at the front desk.

My Desk.

The desk that shelters the immobile legs and supports the bent elbows that hold the hands that clasp the head which contains the brain that is trying to channel amusements blogged by a jack of all trades…….

spread the humor.



{January 7, 2012}   In one Blog and Out the Other

I love the holidays. I am sorry to see them go.  I believe I could become one of those recluses who keeps their lights and tree up all year long just to keep the spirit alive, and have the home owners association fine me at the same time.

I love Christmas and all the festivities that accompany it.  In the past I use to get annoyed at the fact that the retail businesses would set  up Santa’s workshop in stores shortly after Labor Day, but now I love that the Holiday arrives earlier and earlier every year; It just means I get to revel in that carnival atmosphere a little longer.

Although they start the Christmas phantasm following the  August back to school sales, I still love that I can retreat to the basement and sort through my recently added purchases from last years after Christmas sales.  I don’t know what it is that triggers me to run to the nearest Target or K-mart and thumb through their empty shelves of the previous years leftovers. It is such a gratification to grab a box of netted multi lights for 75% off.   Ohhh…. and hold me back from the singing Elvis ornaments…..I am so glad I didn’t weaken one day and fork out the full price for that…. yes, I am an ornament junkie.

I have  been seen rifling through end caps located in a  targeted area that offer ginormous bins loaded with discarded Christmas paraphernalia in hopes of finding that Lost Ark to add to my temple of doom & gloom that surrounds my house pre- Holiday.

I have had a a house full of people these last few weeks, and enjoyed every minute of it. I love the hustle -n-flow of the teens traipsing through my house leaving trails of candy cane pieces that had set up residence in the couch.  And let’s not forget to mention the patches of dark residue embedded in the carpet fibers, which I mistook for “doggie surprises”, but later turned out to be traces of a Tootsie Roll…………Thank God it wasn’t the other way around.

I am going to miss wading knee deep in the aftermath of torn wrapping paper, and the sticky bows that adhere themselves onto my clothing and go unnoticed until the cashier at the return line in Macy*s peels it off my back like a piece of stinky lint.

My favorite Holiday episode is fighting with colorful tissue remnants stuck to my shoe.  I hated the looks I received when I exited a Sear’s Ladies Room  one day, when I was met with countless stares and titters as my Jimmy Choo waved a white flag from it’s three inch heel.  As I hoofed it past the customer service line, I found myself conjuring up a soliloquy to numerous strangers giggling behind their basket of returns :

“No, really….it’s Christmas tissue……really.…it is...honest…I..I have proof, check the gummy outline on the sole from last years Scotch tape fiasco…”.

The part of Christmas I tend to wrestle the most with is the Tree.  For most of my life we would always indulge in a Real Christmas tree. A Tree that you would stuff family members into a mini van and venture out to a far-a-way farm to spend hours in the cold choosing the right tree  to fit the family room.  I love the smell of Pine in the house and spending days trying to remove the pitch from my hands.  I especially loved the endless upkeep involving never ending vacuuming of piled- up pine needles.  Pine needles that continued to show up throughout the summer.  In fact I think I found a needle from Y2K.

I know this because it was then that I switched to  the fake trees.  They are very life like and are all inclusive.  No need to” just add water…..”.  You take them out of a big box and they pop up and plug in. They have Pine Spray should you miss the scent of a wooded area. The problem is when it’s all over and stuffing that little faker back into its original box.  I find myself in a half nelson with the branches as I roll the tree into the box and ask three people to sit on it until it settles down.  And…I still find myself grabbing the vacuum to suck up Fake pine needles.

I have a friend who has a fake tree in its own Bag.  Her Holiday regime is met with:

First:    Open a bottle of wine and pour a glass …

Second: Open bag and raise slowly from the bottom up and lo and behold an instant tree with lights and ornaments.

Third:    Bottoms Up! And  sit and enjoy the sparkling Spruce while listening to your neighbors cursing at their Evergreens to “stand up straight”.

Yes I love the holidays. The beginning, middle, and end.  I love the aftermath of  de- Ornamenting the tree and placing them back into their  bulbous home and dragging the Tubs to the basement to stow them in an area that is only reachable by a ladder. I love climbing back up the stairs to the bare space in the corner where a naked tree stands pointing it’s fabricated projections at me dangling two forgotten red balls…..

I love arguing with the wintered rose bushes that are holding the outdoor net lights hostage in their thorns.  Every year I keep thinking I’ll return into the house unscathed, but, inevitably I always lose that war of the roses and end up looking like something the cat dragged in……carrying Christmas lights.

LED….less energy……right.

The one thing that was different this year was my daughter having to leave to return to school.  The time seemed to fly by this holiday break and before I knew it she was packing her bags and loading them into the car for the trip back to Happy Valley.   It seems like only yesterday she arrived with baskets of  laundry and suitcases filled a mile high with clothing spewing down a mountainside of of unwashed unmentionables.

Oh..it is such a bittersweet moment when the Holidays end at my house.  One is saddled with the leftovers of  Christmas residuals and the minor deflation of the Spirit gone by the wayside until next year.  I watched through the window of my daughters empty room as the car pulled down the driveway heading down the road back to her future , and I felt a pang of emptiness as I retreated from the window to start the year with some post Christmas cleaning.  I turned around to head towards her closet and there was an unopened gift my daughter  had left behind for me……………

The basket of dirty laundry…….ohhh…. Happy New Year…

Spread the Humor




The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.



{September 12, 2011}   Blog-faced Liar

There are a few things in life that I have a low tolerance for:

One: My  screaming dog running after cars and people passing by.

Two: Coin operated laundromats.

and Three: People that pretend to be something they are not, especially while doing their laundry at a coin-op.

I have visited a coin-op laundromat a total of three times in three different states all  under duress. The first time was in Atlanta, Georgia.  My roommates and I did not own a washer or dryer nor did we care to. We were foot loose and fancy free flight attendants with disposable clothing and inter -changeable uniforms.

I drew the short Mai-Tai straw that month and was elected to do the bulk items, like towels, sheets, and my high maintenance roommates  collection of designer jeans.  I spent over two hours sitting between machines having time to observe who walked through the one way sliding door carrying their lives in a Walmart basket.

   I stuffed the laundry into the Big Mother Load and slammed the lid shut and dropped my coins into the allotted slot. I noticed a man glaring at me from behind a counter as I did this and slowly approached me laughing.  I don’t like to be slowly approached.

  He asked me if this was my “first time here”, and I reassured him it was and probably my last. He laughed again. He had a light airy accent from some Island in the Caribean. He asked me if my “clothes come out clean”. I responded that they do. He laughed again. I told him I was happy he found my laundry amusing and he laughed again and handed me a small box of detergent stating: “You need to add soap”.

” I know“, I said with my mind occupied with last nights frivolity. “Maybe my clothing has built in microbes that self clean when you just add water”.

 We both laughed at my laundry foible. This man owned the Coin-op and was from Trinidad. That day he taught me how to professionally fold towels so they stack like layered cakes on the closet shelf.

  I think it is important to try and learn something new every day and this crossed my mind when I returned home and smushed the pristine towels into the lower cabinet under the bathroom sink.

My second visit to the wash-n-wait society was twenty years later in Brooklyn, New York.  I was married  with one child and we lived in a building owned by the Camaretti brothers. Two well connected Italian boys. There were only two machines in their building which happened to brake down one morning and forced me to tote my laundry ,(which has  now graduated to include baby diapers), to an eclectic laundromat down the block.

I tossed my laundry into the machines and sat and waited for my load to finish.  It was during the rinse cycle,  that I noticed a man enter the area wearing just his trousers and shoes and carried a crumpled New York Times that appeared to be dripping moisture. I looked around an noticed I was alone in this place and the attendant  had quietly vanished out back to have a smoke.

This man seemed indifferent as to whether anyone was  around him or not as he unrolled his package to be placed in the washer. I raised my head higher to get a glimpse of what his delicate load consisted of and I saw him flop a shirt stained in blood into the machine. He then added his soap (with bleach?), slammed the lid down, popped four coins in and then gently turned around and looked at me. I looked back giving him a smile to insinuate that I know I could be his next victim featured on the front page of the Times, and bolted through the Exit, leaving my laundry for a future garage sale.

 My Third, but inevitably not my last, visit to the coin-op happened in  Delaware.  My puppy peed on both my sons and daughters comforters on the same day. I found a laundry facility located in an upscale neighborhood that catered to people that  looked as though they suffered from job transition, divorce, or living the Bohemian life in the City.

I was next in line for the Mega-Machine and patiently sat and read a Doggie magazine to bide my time.  Shortly after I arrived, a  tall slender man entered wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit assisted by a designer oxford shirt and a Bulgari Tie scuffling in his Bruno Magli loafers. He daunted ahead of me as if it were his privilege and entitlement to nab my machine.

The attendant kindly informed him that I was next in line.

He waltzed in my direction and towered over me with his tortoiseshell rims laying half mast on his nose and uttered “Oh?”, as if he had stumbled upon a pile of smelly laundry.

 He decided to downsize and opt for another washer that was readily available.  We both threw our items into our designated washers and stood quietly next to each other until he started to mutter comments regarding his surroundings.   Utter-ings that carried an undertone as if his being there is an after thought and he dare not be spotted by anyone from his Polo Lounge. Sheer rubbish.

That opened the proverbial dryer door for me to crash through and devour this DuPont wannabe.

We engaged in some small talk that lead him to  continue his bragging rights of a non confirmed Blue Blood. I listened intently as he boasted about his designer attire and lavish eateries where he “parties” with friends at the ripe age of 56.  He carried on about his divorce (during the drying cycle) and waxed and waned about the up -coming yachting season.

I had to ask. “What line of work are you in?”.

His head lowered and he half formed the words; “Car Finance, for a locally advertised used car lot”; escaped his exhausted lips.

A giant cheshire grin came over my menopausal face……he actually was trying to impress me with his hyperboles of life, just like when I was a young and inexperienced Ingenue who never fell for that stuff….ever…..well once maybe.

My Dog has more character than this character will ever have.

I didn’t know that laundromats were the new meat market.  I have been married too long.  I can’t imagine how this guy thinks a person could possibly be interested in a dinner date after witnessing his intimate monogrammed whitey -tighty’s  being thrashed about by a Whirlpool.

Besides…….. I’m a woman who prefers Boxers….they’re well bred.

Looks like someone needs to Heir their dirty laundry…..

spread the humor.



{March 30, 2010}   Blog-Faced Liar

There are a few things in life that I have a low tolerance for:

One: My  screaming dog running after cars and people passing by.

Two: Coin operated laundromats.

and Three: People that pretend to be something they are not, especially while doing their laundry at a coin-op.

I have visited a coin-op laundromat a total of three times in three different states all  under duress. The first time was in Atlanta, Georgia.  My roommates and I did not own a washer or dryer nor did we care to. We were foot loose and fancy free flight attendants with disposable clothing and inter -changeable uniforms.

I drew the short Mai-Tai straw that month and was elected to do the bulk items, like towels, sheets, and my high maintenance roommates  collection of designer jeans.  I spent over two hours sitting between machines having time to observe who walked through the one way sliding door carrying their lives in a Walmart basket.

   I stuffed the laundry into the Big Mother Load and slammed the lid shut and dropped my coins into the allotted slot. I noticed a man glaring at me from behind a counter as I did this and slowly approached me laughing.  I don’t like to be slowly approached.

  He asked me if this was my “first time here”, and I reassured him it was and probably my last. He laughed again. He had a light airy accent from some Island in the Caribean. He asked me if my “clothes come out clean”. I responded that they do. He laughed again. I told him I was happy he found my laundry amusing and he laughed again and handed me a small box of detergent stating: “You need to add soap”.

” I know“, I said with my mind occupied with last nights frivolity. “Maybe my clothing has built in microbes that self clean when you just add water”.

 We both laughed at my laundry foible. This man owned the Coin-op and was from Trinidad. That day he taught me how to professionally fold towels so they stack like layered cakes on the closet shelf.

  I think it is important to try and learn something new every day and this crossed my mind when I returned home and smushed the pristine towels into the lower cabinet under the bathroom sink.

My second visit to the wash-n-wait society was twenty years later in Brooklyn, New York.  I was married  with one child and we lived in a building owned by the Camaretti brothers. Two well connected Italian boys. There were only two machines in their building which happened to brake down one morning and forced me tote my laundry ,(which has  now graduated to include baby diapers), to an eclectic laundromat down the block.

I tossed my laundry into the machines and sat and waited for my load to finish.  It was during the rinse cycle,  that I noticed a man enter the area wearing just his trousers and shoes and carried a crumpled New York Times that appeared to be dripping moisture. I looked around an noticed I was alone in this place and the attendant  had quietly vanished out back to have a smoke.

This man seemed indifferent as to whether anyone was  around him or not as he unrolled his package to be placed in the washer. I raised my head higher to get a glimpse of what his delicate load consisted of and I saw him flop a shirt stained in blood into the machine. He then added his soap (with bleach?), slammed the lid down, popped four coins in and then gently turned around and looked at me. I looked back giving him a smile to insinuate that I know I could be his next victim featured on the front page of the Times, and bolted through the Exit, leaving my laundry for a future garage sale.

 My Third, but inevitably not my last, visit to the coin-op happened in  Delaware.  My puppy peed on both my sons and daughters comforters on the same day. I found a laundry facility located in an upscale neighborhood that catered to people that  looked as though they suffered from job transition, divorce, or living the Bohemian life in the City.

I was next in line for the Mega-Machine and patiently sat and read a Doggie magazine to bide my time.  Shortly after I arrived, a  tall slender man entered wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit assisted by a designer oxford shirt and a Bulgari Tie scuffling in his Bruno Magli loafers. He daunted ahead of me as if it were his privilege and entitlement to nab my machine.

The attendant kindly informed him that I was next in line.

He waltzed in my direction and towered over me with his tortoiseshell rims laying half mast on his nose and uttered “Oh?”, as if he had stumbled upon a pile of smelly laundry.

 He decided to downsize and opt for another washer that was readily available.  We both threw our items into our designated washers and stood quietly next to each other until he started to mutter comments regarding his surroundings.   Utter-ings that carried an undertone as if his being there is an after thought and he dare not be spotted by anyone from his Polo Lounge. Sheer rubbish.

That opened the proverbial dryer door for me to crash through and devour this DuPont wannabe.

We engaged in some small talk that lead him to  continue his bragging rights of a non confirmed Blue Blood. I listened intently as he boasted about his designer attire and lavish eateries where he “parties” with friends at the ripe age of 56.  He carried on about his divorce (during the drying cycle) and waxed and waned about the up -coming yachting season.

I had to ask. “What line of work are you in?”.

His head lowered and he half formed the words; “Car Finance, for a locally advertised used car lot”; escaped his exhausted lips.

A giant cheshire grin came over my menopausal face……he actually was trying to impress me with his hyperboles of life, just like when I was a young and inexperienced Ingenue who never fell for that stuff….ever…..well once maybe.

My Dog has more character than this character will ever have.

I didn’t know that laundromats were the new meat market.  I have been married too long.  I can’t imagine how this guy thinks a person could possibly be interested in a dinner date after witnessing his intimate monogrammed whitey -tighty’s  being thrashed about by a Whirlpool.

Besides…….. I’m a woman who prefers Boxers….they’re well bred.

Looks like someone needs to Heir their dirty laundry…..

spread the humor.



et cetera
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