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)….

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{July 2, 2013}   A Bunch of Blog Wash

Laundry is a lonely world in my house. It sits and compiles like a garbage dump site.   The only thing missing from this mountainous scene are the seagulls hovering about looking for a morsel.  That would explain the missing socks.  No one wants to acknowledge the hamper overflowing like a volcano looming over the Bay of Naples.  No one wants to flock to the Whirlpool that awaits its daily meal of detergent and fabric softener…………. except me.

Oh, my family members know how to run the washer and dryer, and they know how to find the necessary materials to help the machines do their dooty.  They just turn a blind eye to the domestic scene. The collegiate sector of this household have been away and forced to launder their garments.  They know.  They know how it ALL works. They know how to do laundry when their hands are TIDE(d).    To them, this agonizing chore is nothing to CHEER about. They would sooner I WISK this tedious deed out of their idle Summer Break hands and move the SUN & EARTH for the cause, but there would be nothing to GAIN with that METHOD.

My kids need  a FRESH START and BOUNCE  back from this  SNUGGLE(y)ERA of  mom will FINISH the XTRA load. If you catch my DREFT.

OK, let me clean up this  abrasive jargon and scour the real reason I’m venting through a clogged filter…..

HOW can people living in your house not SEE the assortment of attire strewn about their rooms as if it’s been washed ashore by a Designer Tsunami. How…

I own Machinery that talks to you.  My General Electric’s are equipped with bells and whistles that continually chime until someone gets off their keister to turn the dryer off.  It is an intermittent “beep” that starts out long and loud then silences itself for a few nano seconds only to take a breather to start up again with a two minute warning that the “LOAD IS NOW FINISHED, COME GET ME OUT!”.

I am thinking of contacting the Heads of General Electric and share my ingenious idea of my version of a talking washer and dryer. A new twist on Smart Appliances.

It would be programmed for different members  of my household who happen to be lurking in the hallways with headsets on listening to their Electronic du Jour.  I would ask that GE make it a wireless unit that is capable of  breaking into their leisurely head banging music.   Kind of  like an Airline Captain who interrupts your inflight movie to  describe the Colorado Mountains.   You know that inopportune time……when the twist comes into the flick or that  long awaited punch line…..the Deus ex Machina.  Or MACHINE(a) .   There you are, engulfed at the end of the Departed when Matt Damon gets shot and groceries drop to the ground while the camera pans to a bootie covered foot, and your eyes are glued to the screen, and just as you are about to see the culprit the Captain breaks in with his weather update.

THAT’S what I want my GE laundry machines to do.  I want the Washer  and Dryer to penetrate my sons Ipod in the middle of his hit Itune with sporadic statements reminding him to take the wet load out of the washer and put it in the dryer.  It would be my voice invading his wireless “hood”:

“Good afternoon son, hope you are enjoying your day, we have reached an altitude of five feet of laundry blocking the entrance to your room and it looks like there could be a delay in obtaining clean clothing for that special date tonight. So sit back, relax, and ENJOY your smelly clothes…..”.

  And if my son ignores the command he will be met with periodic follow-ups of reminders.  Every two minutes.

The Washer will start out speaking in ultra soft tones, maybe add a personal touch and call him by name, then if he is still oblivious to a directive, the Dryer will then kick in with harsher attributes:

Dryer: ” Son, I don’t think you want to ignore the washer. Remember what happened last time, you forgot about  your Ipod in your jeans pocket and left the wet laundry in there for two days to ferment….oohhh..your Mama was mad…”.

This will become cyclic and programmed into all his electronics. There will be no escaping the demands to get the laundry completed in a timely manner.  I will instruct General Electric and Whirlpool to use my voice as the prompt.

In fact, I have decided to install wireless Mother Voice commands throughout the house.  They will be implanted throughout. I will have the alerts activate upon entrance. They will be individually formatted for each member of the household who have been pooh-poohing the Matriarch of this family…..:

1) “Kindly remove your muddy soccer cleats at the door”

2)”Your wallet and keys are on the counter where you leave them every night”

3) ” NO, I did not take your lip gloss, it is buried under your make-up pile spilling onto your dresser”

4) “Could ONE of you please take the dog out for a walk?” ( I would program that one into the couch facing the TV).

5) ” If you are standing and staring into an open refrigerator with one arm hanging on the door looking for something to eat that isn’t there…….close the damn door!”

Yes, I think this could work.  I think I will work on General Electric to do this for me.  Then I will approach Apple next to send numerous Texts of Motherly Instructions that get overlooked.

What…..you don’t think they will take me SIRIously?

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The day the Earth stood still was two weeks ago when my son’s Smart phone decided on it’s own to dummy down and quit.

I learned this had happened through his sister who Stumbled upon his Facebook message to a friend commenting that: “His Phone Died”.

I am grateful that my sons lines of communication are open to his thousands of Facebook friends and refuses to add his mother as a bosom buddy.  He does not want  (me) to be privy to his status while away at college.  He thinks his mother will spend her days stalking, (or creeping as they say), on his infamous site, where the Full Monty of Freshman life is displayed and revered.  Like I have time for that. OK, I sneak a peak every so  often when Facebook isn’t looking.  I have eyes in the back of my FACEbook.

It’s amazing how this generation ( xyz?) seem to run amok when an electronic is on the fritz. It’s as if one of their brain waves collide  with an HD air-wave and severed the wireless connection that adheres the Smart phone to their palm, resulting in their  opposable  texting thumbs to short circuit.  Ive seen those thumbs work that virtual keyboard like greased lightening,  while sucking down Kentucky fried wings. Those thumbs slip- slidin’ on the screen not missing a beat of LOL or TTYL or POS. ( Parent Over Shoulder).

My son programmed his smartie phone  messages to modulate the night- watchman in a  Navy ship yard.  It sounds off with two bells every time a text is received.  In the olden days of sailing , watches were timed by a thirty minute hour glass and bells would be struck every time the glass was turned.  My son watches the glass of his phone every second, all day and all  night, no matter which way its facing.

I hear his phone clanging in a Bell  pattern of pairs :

Morning Watch: ding-ding

Forenoon Watch: ding-ding-ding

Afternoon Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding

Night Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding-ding

WEE -Hours- While- Family Members- Sleep-Watch:  DING – DAMNITY- DING. 

I  lie and wonder  for whom the Bells Toll every second as my sons phone shouts out a “new message received”.  What news is so urgent to be shared every minute of the day and night amongst his mates.  And now, here he sits with his dead phone, and I wonder ; what could possibly be going on in his head now that his entire fleet of friends are unable to reach him and text their one syllable messages. 

I have witnessed he and his crew hanging out and barely speaking in full sentences to each other. I  have watched as this collegiate Armada sit around in silence dancing their opposable thumbs across their phones as a multitude of ships bells chimed in unison…sounding alarms….signaling functional and ceremonial uses of considerable significance as to whether one  of them scored a date for the night.

I think about when I was his age and the readiness of communication while out and about, was finding a working payphone.  In my day, there wasn’t a lot of emphasis on  repetitive contact with one another.  If you had something to say, or relative info to convey, you dialed a number,got to the point, and made your arrangements.

There was no need to go back and forth with responses, you knew what to do and when and where to do it. There was no need to hold twenty people on the line to confirm what dress you were wearing to the dance. There was no need to speak every minute to someone via the phone as we were all speaking in PERSON when we got together.  If everyone related all their conversations ahead of time we would have nothing to talk about when we congregated.  Well, well, well..maybe that explains why my son and his friends are silent when they assemble. They are TEXTED-OUT, OVER-MESSAGED, PINGED TO THEIR LAST WORD.

I  will say my son’s faulty phone may have prevented future last minute changes in his life, but all in all he handled being cell-less quite well.  I half expected him to come off his Buzz with certain side affects, maybe a possible cellular detox causing a network disruption and  a communication breakdown of his opposable thumbs, therefore rendering him speechless.

There was a day or two of minor moping and staring at his thumbs trying to figure out their future should texting become obsolete while his phone is incommunicado.  It didn’t take long for him to wander over and pick up the controls to his ill forgotten Xbox collecting dust and play a childhood game or two.  I’m sure its to keep his opossable thumbs conditioned until his phones replacement battery arrives……

…….in 5 to 7 business days…..

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“It’s raining…..It’s pouring…..my husband won’t stop snoring……He went to bed…turned his head…and I kicked him out this morning”….

I know snoring is no laughing matter, especially to the other person occupying the the right side of the bed who can’t sleep, due to the massive logs being sawed next to her…more like a buzz saw emanating from those nostrils.  How does this rhythmic rhino sleep through his own band of breaths.  How does he manage to open the floodgates of  an airway to bring in ‘da Funk, bring in ‘da Nose….relentlessly causing him to  not Breath Right.  This is nothing to sneeze at.

The only semi cure to calm his turbulent turbinates is to roll him on his side so his schnoz is facing East.  If he is resistant to that change in venue and chooses to remain on his back pausing to inhale; he will face the pillow of doom hovering over his face as he’s Waiting to Exhale.

  I tried that once. It was a mere threat…..in jesture .  My  recidivist  snore hog (snog)  awoke to the Scent of a Woman who uses too much fru-fru fabric softener in the laundry, so he hurled a ginormous sneeze onto the pillow case:

“Were you holding a pillow over my face?”…..he asks Eyes Wide Shut incrusted with sleep particles.

“No, darling,  you were dreaming.”….she coos, replacing the deformed microfoam  to the head of the bed…for Her Eyes Only.

“You were holding a pillow over my head thinking to smother me with down feathers,”…he smirks with laughing Eyes.

“Don’t be Batt(y) sweet heart,  that material contains too much airspace, if I truly wanted to off you I’d use the fiber- filled decorative  throw pillows;  everyone knows Polyester doesn’t breath”.

“So..you were trying to kill me in my sleep.” ….He spills out trying to suppress laughter.

“Not exactly honey -pie,  it was more like adding a muffler to your mouth piece.  You’re snoring”.

“I don’t snore.”..he deniably stated  looking through the eyes behind his head.

(Oh..that’s right, how could you possibly hear yourself snore over the the clamor emitting from your palate as you lie there in your sleep number coma, oblivious to the affect is has on your neighboring bed mate.  She beamed through her Betty Davis Eyes….).

That was the last time I tried the Muffle effect.

My next approach was during a visit out  west staying with relatives and  I tried the Extended- Arm -Prop- to -the -back technique. This enables your snog to remain on his side for the night, quieting the rumbling gasps;  however, it will leave you Sleepless in Seattle with an Achy Breaky Arm in the morning.  One night I chose to use the retractable-limb method: Once your snore victim (snortims) is on his side, your arm repeatedly jumps out into action with the slightest inkling of him turning onto his back.  Sometimes this method calls for two arms to be utilized as you are dealing with  unconscious weight.  Weight that has been tipping the scales of  late night snacking.  There are repercussions when using this tactic, especially if you work out at the gym three to four days a week, as my husband once fell victim to the floor:

“You pushed me out of bed?”,   he blew out after the THUD landing.

“No darling, you were dreaming”,...she winces, eyes squinting in guilt.

“You could have killed me”,   he puffs out.

“No sweetums, the chili peppers you loaded onto your late night burrito will kill you, thus the THUD when you hit the carpet, I was merely administering a minor love tap to your back helping the jalapeno’s adjust”,  she quips as her eyes search for a Eurythmic’s lyric….

“Would I Lie to you honey?…..ok..ok….you were snoring.”

“I don’t snore”,  he freely denies …again…

This lead me to my third and final modus operandi: Which is a full proof  formula so easy a dog could master it. This ritual  not only works but will provide your slumbering snog the  body of evidence that which he is being accused of: Disturbing the Peace(ful) sleeping wife:

I video taped him.

I filmed him in all his snore glory.

I showed him my presentation after I jiggled him awake.  Just try and deny the snoring now my little sweet apnea…

“You filmed me sleeping?”, he says as as his Eyes roll to the Heavens.

“Yes, pumpkin, now there is no confusion as to your snoring or not. Here you are, In Living Color, lying on your back, breathing and expiring the snuffle shuffle through your nose to the tune of She Drives Me Crazy”. 

“So what do you have to say now Mr. I Don’t Snore?”.( Her EYES have it!).

“THAT’S NOT ME”,….rolls over….fade to black..

(EYE GIVE UP!)




I have been trying  for months to sit down and tackle my keyboard to try and coerce some nonsense out of my brain. I believe my mind has been on hiatus longer than a new hit series featured on HBO. It was as if the harder I tried to think of something to write about ,the more  the thoughts escaped and tunneled out faster than Andy Dufresne through the sewers of Shawshank. It just stinks when that happens. 

It’s like I’m held prisoner in my own head and I am facing a cell block that refuses to sing a Schwann song.  In order to get the synapses in sync, I  usually will take long walks with my dog or tackle the Elliptical at the gym. I stress the word usually. 

Lately I have found it harder and harder to get out there during the winter months, which seem to drag on longer than Holiday visits from my Mother-in Law.  The motivation to dress in layers, jump into a cold car, drive in sleet , just to arrive and  get out of a now warmed car into the cold, and enter a gym that smells like…like…… a gym;  then strip off the soaked layers and step up onto a piece of equipment that was formally occupied by a wet Wookie………..has left the building.  

As far as the long walks with my dog are concerned?  He avoids nasty weather and will withhold  potty-time longer than a camel craving an oasis.

A lot of my inspiration would attack  me at random times. Times when I didn’t have anything handy to jot the idea down. This frequently  happens while driving to the store and circling the parking lot for a space, at the same time, averting run- a -way grocery carts searching for a head on.

One time was in a bank as I stood eleventh in line during rush hour.  I found myself digging through my  bottomless pit of a purse for a pen.

A PEN I always carry in the zipper portion of a pocketbook which inevitably gets devoured by the hand bag monster lying in the abyss below the hole in fabric lining.

A PEN that sits there in clutch camo teasing the grasp of my pre -arthritic fingers ,sticking it’s partially opened tip out leaving it’s mark on my manicure to let me know it’s” there “and “unattainable at the moment”.

A PEN that refuses to surrender by the time I reach the front of the line to make my deposit; In addition, the bank employee reprimands me to sign the check and offers me a pen.  There I stand with a Pen and Teller and “No Vacancy” written all over my brain…

And as fate will have it, my thought for the day had vanished ,only to possibly resurface during another inopportune moment.  Much like that PEN of inequity did  when it decided to show itself as I returned to my car outside the bank.   Never  walk and blindly fish for keys in an open receptacle whilst trying to recapture your initial brainstorm, it leads to  a dropped hand bag adjacent to the car door causing an accessories crisis spill onto the the black top and watching a PEN that is mightier than my satchel, to roll under the car.

I got down on all fours to locate its final destination.  I tried to retrieve that slippery shut in, but  it was out of my reach and I risked bumping heads with a header pipe……and that would exhaust me…….

Gathering ideas to stimulate a blog thought is not an easy task and can prove to be hazardous depending on your surroundings at the time.  I’ve had many  afflatus attack me in the middle of a shampoo while showering.  Maybe scrubbing the scalp stimulates that a fore mentioned “cell ” block and whips a body out of the bath, dripping without a towel, sliding towards a pen spotted on the countertop……only to land on the cold tile floor in the process.

Which brought my brain to a conclusion that all ideas brought on during that scenario are………….

(wait for it)……..

SLIPPERY WHEN WET.

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{November 30, 2012}   Twinkie Defense

I am sorry to hear that Hostess will no longer be offering their Twinkies to the public, mind you, I don’t buy or eat Twinkies.  I had one once in the 60’s.  A grade school chum offered me the second Twinkie in her double pack after school one day.  I remember the Twinkie  being larger than my hand and I can still remember the taste and texture of that Twinkie today.  I remember the soft spongy yellow cake oozing the cream filling with every bite.  I don’t think I had ever tasted anything like it, as my mother didn’t let us eat sugary pre- processed food.  Maybe a home made chocolate cake for a siblings birthday,  or an under baked  tart from my easy bake oven, but never a Hostess Twinkie, Fruit Pie, Ding Dong, or Ho-Ho.  I guess I can thank my mom for my impeccably clear arteries to this day…

Twinkies came on board around 1933 and now they will become extinct and for some reason that saddens me. I’m sorry Hostess had to declare bankruptcy, couldn’t they just repay their creditors with  an abundance of sweet snack cakes?  Twinkie’s  developed quite the resume besides clogging coronaries  and sending children into sugar coma’s.  The Twinkie found itself costarring in movies, like Grease, Die Hard, and Ghostbusters and also wound up in the courtroom at the 1979 murder Trial of Harvey Milk, where Dan white claimed he overdosed on Twinkie’s an was acting under a delusional influence of a  sugar high.  Hmm..maybe he needed a glass of Milk.

I think Twinkie’s were a part of our society whether we indulged in their cream fillings or not.  I am guilty of offering a Twinkie to my children when they were young, around the same age when I had my first Twinkie.  My son came home from school and wanted to try a Twinkie.  I of course objected and then after a lengthy conversation with  a six year old who ended all my statements with “Why?”; I decided to give in.

I went to the store and found the hostess aisle and searched for a twin packet of Twinkie’s.  There were none.  Apparently after thirty years Twinkie’s now came in a box of twelve.  My son was with me and was grinning from ear to ear with that bit of news. I managed to spot a double pack twinkie stand toward the checkout and grabbed one.  The first thing that hit me was the size. It was no longer bigger than my hand. In fact, it barely covered my palm.  The second thing that hit me was the price.

My son and I returned to the car with the Twinkie’s in hand.  I had as much anticipation as he did when opening the twin pack.  I gave him his half and watched as he bit into the yellow cake and licked the cream filling out of the center. I’m assuming that was Twinkie protocol.  I held my Twinkie for a few moments before taking the first bite.  I examined the cake and it appeared to be a little more on the orange side than I remembered.  I chose to break my Twinkie in half to witness the airy fluffiness of the spongecake and cream filling spilling out onto your fingers, but when I flexed the cake  it just seem to sag and bend. I wrestled with it’s rubbery texture until the cake pulled apart like my unbaked cakes cooked by a  60 watt bulb from my Easy Bake Oven built in the 60’s.

After successfully separating the Twinkie, I had to put my glasses on to find the cream filling. I guess this was the first indicator that Hostess was having difficulties; Cutbacks of the cream filling, followed by more red dye and gluing agents.  I took a deep breath before I took the first bite of what seems to be a deflated expectation.   There was something different about this Twinkie from what I remembered. It lacked something and I couldn’t put my tongue on it.  It was missing the the basic ingredient from the 60’s that gave Twinkie it’s popularity. It lacked TASTE.

I spat that wad of chemicals out into a napkin and turned to grab the remains of my sons Twinkie, but was met with him licking the sticky crumbs off his fingers, and a giant smile over his face.  He thanked me profusely for his snack cake and wanted another one.  I drove back home explaining to my son that “This was not the Twinkie I grew up with”. I expounded on the differences of our Twinkie generation gap, and how I would not be a part of a defamed Twinkie..an imposter you might say, a Twinkie lacking in character and taste and cream filling!

It grieves me to think that my son’s first Twinkie tasted like an over priced spongecake left on the shelf too long fermenting in it’s yellow dye. And to skimp on the filling was the icing on the cake…

When I heard that the Hostess Twinkie was no longer to be around I had an epiphany to go and buy one and stick it in my freezer. My son is in college now, and I don’t think he has had a Twinkie since our first encounter when he was in grade school.  He  was home over the holiday break and I mentioned to him that I was going to purchase a pack of Twinkie’s and I was going to stick them in the freezer, and come the day that  I should no longer be on this Earth I would like him to carry this Twinkie into the future and pass it on to future generations that may own a freezer.  I asked my son this one thing to do and he responded with a “No”.

I asked him “why?”; it was such a simple request to carry the Twinkie into the future. To keep the Twinkie alive in the deep freeze. He could be the owner of the last Twinkie standing.

He said ” he would just eat it”.

Not if they are selling for $5000 on Ebay…….

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I had a big foot sighting.

It was right here in my own home.

I saw it’s hairy extension propped motionless atop a California King mattress. I stood outside the entrance to where this Big Foot was resting it’s size 13 in silence, hoping not to awaken the beast. I haven’t done any research on Big Foot and their nocturnal habits and why they find themselves sleeping until noon throughout their Teen years.   I thought about grabbing an artifact from this Big Foot’s Den and poking him to arouse this body that has been Facebooking friends and streaming movies into the dawn.

I decided to approach this non- erectus Homo Sapien from another portal and cut through the adjacent bathroom to get a closer look at this Big Foot.  I waded through the natural habitat left behind by this boy beast , Yet I  was afraid he might awaken from his stupor and throw harried statements at me. I’d hate to have to Quash that Sass.

I tried to divert my attention to the relics covering his domain and in doing so, I managed to trip over a snowboard washed up on a wave of dirty laundry.  It appears this Abominable snowboy is oblivious to the hazards that surround him and does not fear the fungus atop his half eaten sandwich lying on the night stand.  This wild boy has many manifestations growing about his man cave.  One  might attempt to upset the atrocious smelling applecart by, say, grabbing a weapon of mass disinfectant and spraying the underbrush of his prideful dust collection into smithereens.  This might cause an unruly effect as this Hairy Hominoid defends his territory from intruders by placing land mines of stray shoes  disguised as trip wires upon crossing the threshold of his  sleeping lair.  This teen -wolf is the boss of his woods.

( Once I tried to move a blockade of unread school books to higher ground  where they  stood a chance to be saved and returned at the end of the year intact, but I was met with  snarls and shouts that could force one to the ground, declaring me to:

Leave his stuff alone”……. I want them there”.

I am disinclined to acquiesce to his request and overlook his adverbial particle of  speech dangling like his lengthy arms…

I retreated from this Skellring of firing words and the Big Foot’s bedroom  unscathed by any free-floating bacteria , only to returned at a later time after the boy beast stuffed his Big foot into his  designer DC’s and left for school ).

My curiosity climbed as I drew closer to this nocturnal Neanderthal enigma, and wandered to the head  that is attached to this Big Foot. I slowly circled the foot of the bedrock and noticed this distinctly human Big Foot with  phenomenally long toes that would unconsciously spread while he slumbered.  It took great restraint for me not to grab those giant digits and have a round of; ” This little Wookie goes to market…”, but I knew better than to startle the beast with childhood ploys.  An action like that would bring this bipedal to his Big Feet screeching his mantra……..”MOOOMMM GET OUTTA MY ROOOOOM!”.

Quietly I reached the head of the beast and witnessed a tuft of stiff black bristle protruding from his shaggy chin.  I noted his swarthy matted hair had taken an unusual form from lack of AXE hair products, and  the odor penetrating the environment screamed of over usage of cologne the day before.

  ……..YOWIE.…….he needed a bath. 

I did not hover too closely in fear of disturbing the Big Foot.  I realized this developing inhabitant likes his tranquil rest and to provoke him would result in this Great Teen Bear to rise and KIKOMBA my ass….outta his room.  This Big foot desires solitude from pestiferous parents lurking about their den of perennial inequity. A sleeping hairy big foot does not like to be encumbered with early risings and packing their goods for college.

Well…I’ll show him whose boss of these woods….I’m not gunna take it no MO-MO…..

Never underestimate the power of a MOM and her Cannon sure shot……..right SKOOKUMS???

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{August 27, 2012}   Eat My Blog!

Ok…bare with me….I’m going to go on a tirade that will get your juices flowing.

Recently I stopped into a Walgreen’s in search of a Slip-n-slide to entertain the twin boys  next door.  Now that my children are  off to college and surpass the height, weight, and age requirement posted on the front of this Wham-O box, I thought I might spread the joy onto another generation.

Although it’s the end of summer and the aisle’s in Walgreen’s are embellished with Halloween decor,  I just thought I might get lucky in the leftover  “Summer water-fun” section and happen upon a lonely re-taped box containing a Surf Rider for the lawn.  I ended up going to three different stores before I  finally stumbled upon my Product of Gold.  And I do mean stumbled Up On.

After countless minutes of wandering aimlessly through misdirected passageways offered up by the one purple haired  texting employee,  I turned toward the area that her rolling eye’s pointed to and tripped over a yellow and blue box waving it’s slip-n-slide tongue  at me.  I noticed the empty shelves of  all the Summer days drifting away and me standing alone at the end cap of aisle seven investigating the last Slip-in Slide exploding out of it’s cardboard casket.  It appears that I was not the only one in search of Summer Fun that afternoon as I witnessed a glob of amber synthetic petrochemical out pouching from it’s home.  It look like another patron did a little breaking and entering causing  an escapee of  fire retardants to seep through the strapping tape.

I slipped the collapsed slide from it’s pocket to inspect it for flaws; as I would hate to get the three year old twins jacked up for a round of belly-flopping and later find a tear and cause their Summer dreams ripped into seams…..Well-a well-a-well a- huh…

Ok.. I’ll tell you more… tell you more…

This isn’t about the slip-n-slide it’s about the box Angry bird fruit gummy’s I purchased as an after thought while exiting the store.  Angry bird gummy’s that eventually found themselves returned to the store because the Green Bird contained something dark and sinnister in it’s gummy belly. This was noted when a child was about to pop it in her mouth at the poolside. It was a good thing that this kid likes to investigate her food as if she were a cast member of CSI, before she passed it through her gums.  Her keen sense of , ” Hey, what happened to this angry bird gummy”, brought my attention to the small black spot burrowed in the belly of this Angry Green Bird.

I snatched that gummy from her hand and inspected the foreign body lying inside the gummy bird. It looked like a small part of a bug.  This gummy had a bug up its ass…...now I see why they are called Angry Birds.

I went back to the store to return the box of Angry Bird  Fruit Gummy’s made in Mexico.  I did not go to the original store where I bought them, I went to a store closer to my home which is located in a different state.  I live south of the border in my state and have the opportunity to shop tax free  in another state on a daily basis.

I managed to track down a manager to present my Angry Bird Gummy case and produced the body of one disgruntled Green Gummy. I told her I read the ingredients on the side of the box and how it neglected to mention  any added protein to the mix.

 The manager was amenable as I handed her the receipt and I explained that I bought this item in a tax free state.  She counterclaimed that in my State most food is not taxed.  I was dumbfounded, as I thought all food was tax free. I asked about the gummy’s status in that genre of taxation. She expounded on the difference of percentages of Fruit in the food:

“If the gummy’s contain a high percentage of fruit they are considered Food”.

I asked her where is the cap line for the gummy birds and might this Gaggle of gummy’s not make the tax free cut.  Maybe the Red Angry bird has more fruit matter and carries the weight for the rest of the Angry flock. I asked if there is a flow chart that determines which gummy’s make it as food and which get (T)axed…and what about all the other products that contain Fruit. Like Orange Juice or Juicy Fruit Gum……W(r)igle(y) your way out of that one…..

I walked out of that store thinking about which elected official spending my tax dollars, actually sat down and thought this out to present to the government when the Food Tax  Addendum was in session.  I could just envision this appointed delegate entering the Senate with his/her box of Angry Bird Gummy’s to argue the amount of fruit contained in this Green Angry Bird.   I wonder if this dignitary presented the facts based on the history of the Angry Bird’s which shows that this Green Angry Bird can spin around and smash objects from the other side and is similar to and nicknamed; The Boomerang.

No wonder it came back to the store.

spread the humor.



{May 15, 2012}   Battle of the Blog’s

My Grandfather had a tool shed and in it he stored his shovel, hoe, rake, axe, hammers, and the likes of any tool displayed at a local hardware store.  He had many tools because his family owned a hardware store.  When I was young and would visit my grandparents on my father’s side, I loved being out in the garden and was fascinated by my Grandfather’s Tool Shed.  I think that is where I learned  a lot about different tools and their purpose in life.

I carried that  TOOL knowledge into my adulthood as I love to garden and perform yard work.  I found I utilized Tools in my career as well.  When I worked in the operating room and assisted in orthopedic surgery I grew efficient in operating  pneumatic 3M drills and saws.  It was there that I had the gift of memorizing drill bit sizes and millimeters of screw lengths.  I never realized how TOOL knowledge could come in handy.

My father was a lawyer yet, he  too had Tools other than the hammer of justice.  His Tool Shed lived indoors and had it’s own private section in the garage.  My father liked to tinker with tools.  On what spare time he had he would build things with the assistance of a table saw that snarled at me whenever I entered the garage.  I use to study the sawdust dangling from the teeth of that giant blade.  His Tool Shed consisted of drawers  full of nails, levels, wrenches, along with the latest power tools displayed on the wall like a specialized department at ACE Hardware.

When my son was young I bought him his first Tools.  It was a Junior set from Home Depot.  We never really built him a Tool Shed, because our lives were  far too busy to bother.  Like my father and Grandfather, my son enjoyed building with his tools. His Tool Box contained a mini hammer, a screw driver , a needle -nose pliers, a few non traumatic nails, and a retractable measuring tape, all of which carried the bright orange Logo representing the hardware giant.

I use to love seeing my son don his software  apron loaded with his hardware as he would venture out into the garage and find something he could take apart and put back together again.  He would remove his sisters roller blade wheels and nail them to a 2 by 4 remnant and adhere a large cardboard box on top and explain to me  how he was going to use this on the road in the neighborhood.

I watched as he towed his Indy 500 Box down the driveway drag strip and pushed off and jumped in to race down the block.   I watched a headless  brown carton sail past me as he was on the  down low.…..riding dirty…..because the box he emptied was the one I emptied my yard waste into………

Now my son has grown into an 18 year old young man and he has long since dumped his Tool box by the roadside and replaced it with a new and improved TOOL SHED that is up to his speed.  A TOOL shed his Grandfather and Great Grandfather are now rolling over in their graves with delight……………………………………….

And please note the  AXES in the front row……………minus the Hoe’s…

                     

spread the humor.  another generational mishap..




Now that my kids are soon to be vacating the house on a semi permanent basis I need to fill a void that has been lying dormant for years. Something that I have been aVOIDing to do based on my life as a wife, mother, dog walker, housekeeper, nurse, chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, laundress, accountant, gardener, psychiatrist, travel agent, consultant, sports authority, and sibling rivalry referee………

I am ready to Tap-out now and try my attempt at re-entering the workforce.  It has been years since I’ve held full time work and I am not afraid to go out into this world and show them exactly what I’ve got:

 

I’ve got a wardrobe from the 1990’s.

 

I’ve got the ability to apply my half -used free samples of Lancome products that I acquired over the years during  a Macy*s back to school sale.  Yes, I got a little side tracked at the Mall while hunting for back-packs and lunch boxes. 

In fact, I’ve got pulled aside by many mall make up artist’s who try to perform their magic on me.  I can’t imagine why they keep picking me out of the crowd of soccer moms.  I arrive dressed in appropriate attire when the doors open in the morning.  I see nothing wrong with waking up and sliding down my fire pole to slip into my uniform sweats that have been standing at attention all night, accompanied by dirty Vans and a Hoodie.  I carry an odiferous  aroma about my being ranging between Downey fabric softener and last night’s Pizza.

  I’ve got my hair in an erect ponytail and  I shield my puffy bags with over sized Raybans.  I can’t imagine why the make-up crews single me out……..

 

I’ve got the ability to clean up while driving and apply make-up at stop intervals. The drivers behind me hate it though, they keep honking at me just because I’m waiting for the Stop sign to turn green.  I thought it would buy me more time with the Mascara…. I find it takes two applications now.  One; to find the lashes, and two; to glue together the few that I have left…..forming a uni-lash.


The downfall about putting make-up on in a car are the bumps in the roads. They are always working on our streets and neglecting to refill the potholes, so when I finally reach my final destination ( usually the school drop off line) and park my car and get out, I notice people staring and kids pointing in my direction.

After transmitting my morning without coffee sneer to ward off evil onlookers, I take a quick pause into the ladies room to wash the morning gas of my hands from filling the empty tank left by my husband.  I looked up at the mirror as I rinsed the suds off  my paws and saw what the villagers were scoffing at:  My freshly applied make-up face resembled a combination of  Picaso’s Weeping Woman and Baby Jane Hudson’s as she delivered a Parakeet to her sister…….

 

I’ve got a pair of pumps that my feet haven’t felt in ages.  One cannot describe the agonizing pinch of  the toes that have been granted freedom in flip flops with arches that collapsed from the great depression of Ked’s insoles.  I took the time one late afternoon to strap on some heels and practice walking in them around the house  with no one around to witness the teetering and the giant fight against balance, except Charly-dog, who steered clear of my runway  in fear of a crash landing.

I spent the better half of the day shuffling about in my designer heels  that peeped out from my Yoga pants.  I practiced my walk until I felt I had it down to a science and stopped echoing a staggering drunk on some forgotten street.  I felt confident and assured that I had tackled the High Heel dilemma and ventured to take my stiletto’s to another dimension:  The Stair case.

Climbing up the steps was met with ease….. it was the descent that had me  clinging to the banister like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, avoiding a result mimicking Scarlett O’Hara’s demise  after her lunge toward a drunken Butler…….

 

I’ve got a resume.    Somewhere.   It hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration.   Just a minor indescretion oversight.

 

I’ve got credentials.  I’m accredited with incredibility. References available upon request.  Go ahead…..request.  Request until the cows come home.  Habeas corpus; I can produce the body……..it’s just a little rusty and needs a make over….which the Lancome staff has a signed commitment to uphold……

If you don’t like my credibility try my crudites. They are incredible, and edible, but not available upon request.

 

I’ve got the corporate beige panty hose that are tied up in knots from the last load in the wash cycle.

 

I’ve got a brief case from 1987 that needs airing.

I’ve got a boat load of humor stuck in me that is trying to float to the surface………………..

spread the humor.



et cetera
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