As people grow up, create their lives, start a family, they bring bits and pieces of their life with them as gentile reminders of where they come from or how far they have gone. My mom’s objects were very simple, sea shells from the beach, which was 20 miles from our house and a few family heirlooms that seemed to anchor the house with their presences. There was Great Uncle John’s piano that moved from our house to my brother’s house and now resides with my niece, and a dining room set from my Great Grandmother on my Dad’s side of the family, which now is at my house, and books. My mom loved books. Some were old; some were new. No matter how busy mom’s life was as a single mother, she always read to us. Some people have to have a swing set in the yard, ice cream in the freezer, candy stashed in the bottom of a drawer (It’s the secret candy that everyone knows about ; everyone eats, but for some reason, everyone sneaks into the drawer as if it was a hidden treasure).
These are the things that we choose as comforts to give us peace and a sense of belonging. Then there are the things that for some reason just seem to plague us no matter where we go in life. We can move out of state, move up or down in the social latter, be unemployed or a millionaire. But for some reason, you always end up with a house with a rose bush and you hate roses, a boy dog that loves to jump the fence and chase down girl dogs in heat, the relative that seems to eat at your house more than their house, or you always seem to break mirrors (hand or wall mirror doesn’t matter you will break one very 2 to 3 years). For me, I would gladly take one of the above inconveniences.
What do I get?
Poop. Yep. You read that correctly. My life has been plagued with crap. For a woman who is naturally constipated, I certainly have a lot of fecal matter issues to contend with for one person.
It all started when I was young. You see, my mother believed that administering a lukewarm enema would cure most common ailments from the common cold to food poisoning to mental illness. “You’ll feel much better after all that stuff clogging you up is gone.” From an early age, I learned to monitor my bowel movements for signs. After writing that statement, I am completely surprise that the study of BMs did not require chicken bones and a brewed concoction of chamomile and eye of newt with a pinch of licorice root although it would account for my fascination with the forensic sciences and the occult world.
In Kindergarten, I found out that being afraid to go the bathroom in the middle of class has various side effects. One of which is a really bad nickname that can stick with you for several years and is only relieved when one changes schools. The second being that labeling of human waste as dirt when discovered on the floor near your shoes fools no one, not even other 5 year olds.
From this point on, my life seemed to take a turn for the better with only a few incidents of an old dying dog with weak bowels or a niece or nephew to change their diaper during a babysitting gig. Even after having kids, the monitoring of my family’s bowel activities was something I did quietly in the background of living life in the suburbs.
Then one day I did something that was totally out of character, and it must have thrown the Fecal Gods into a tizzy. I decided I would travel France to visit my brother and sister-in-law and to take a book art class. I am not sure how this offended the Gods of Shit, but it did. I had just finished up a day of book making when a screaming email came to my attention. Back home, the family dog had just crapped all over the house. My then husband had to take off the rest of the afternoon from work to clean it up. The next day, a similar email arrived from home only this time, the dog had wrecked havoc upon the master bedroom. This lead to a total melt down in judgment, and my x-husband decided to wash one of the Dupioni silk curtains in the washer and then run it through the dryer. From a small reading nook located in a turret of a 16th century chateau, a horrifying scream was heard for miles. After the news that bathroom cleaner, which contained bleach, was used to clean the celery colored bed skirt from the Pottery Barn, I simply passed out from the shock of it all.
My relationship with bodily waste was improving and then a warning sign came from nowhere. After walking the dog one evening, I notice dog poop on my shoe. Now typically, this happens from time to time when walking a dog along the same path in the woods. However, I knew something was askew when the poop was on top of my shoe and nowhere else. I promptly called Dateman to inquire if he was breaking up with me. He said no. A few weeks passed, and I completely forgot about the pending doom that was before me. Then it came from nowhere in the middle of the day. College Dude (my son) called my cell phone frantically. The call went something like this…
“Mom, the dog just crapped all over the house, but mostly in the kitchen.”
“OK, where is the dog now?”
“Outside. We opened up all the windows because it stinks in the house. We thought we were going to throw up. I think she is sick because it looks really red.”
“OK, take the dog to the vet;’ I’ll meet you there. Make sure you take a stool sample for the vet to test.”
For a stool sample, a large size Tupperware container filled to capacity with poop was transported to the vet’s office. The Vet tech commented on the “ample amount” of the stool sample the boys (College Dude and neighbor side-kick) had gathered and praised them highly for their efforts.
$200.00 later…we all were back home. The boys ran across the street to the neighbor’s house so they didn’t have to finish cleaning up. I walked into a kitchen with dried diarrhea covering floor and a serving spoon lying in the middle of it. To collect my composure, I closed my eyes and thought of the beach for 10 seconds then turned on the radio, grabbed some paper towels and a garbage bag and sang as I cleaned. After the Hazmat team certified that the house was now fit for human occupancy, the dog and College Dude both came back into the house.
Quietly, I monitor the fecal cycle of everyone in the house and wait for the next bowel explosion to occur.
MythKeeper
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Friday, June 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Mowing the Lawn
Monty Python’s Flying Circus Presents…
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…
The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”
Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.
Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.
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