Our dirty lil bar of soap.....

"Have you noticed that if you haven't got something to worry about, you make something up to worry about?"~ My Dad

Okay, so I guess my mind was getting a bit too uncluttered and that means that obviously it's time for a new obsession.

Somehow Googie and I got on the subject of bar soap verses soft soap.

"I think it's disgusting that we all use the same bar of soap" she said, sitting pretty on her high horse.

Suddenly I remembered watching a comedian do a routine about shared bar soap. I was a teenager at the time and when the comedian joked about the whole family sharing the bar he talked about how he could envision his sister taking the soap bar and using it to wash her nether region...then he jumps in the shower after her and grabs the bar and washes his face, he then swipes his ass (I'm quoting here) and leaves the bar for his dad.

I was on the floor laughing...it was hysterical.

Then I thought of my own dirty baby brother...probably just a stinky tween at that time.

He'd purposefully wash his rear with the bare bar soap.

Then laugh like hell when Susan or I used the shower after him.

I know he did this, I just know it.

I remember after watching this comedian that I had little trust that that bar of soap was safe to use. I remember knocking it off the side of the tub and into the water using my toes. I'd rinse it with hot water, before I'd even touch it. Then I'd pick it up and rinse it off again just to be safe. I used a wash cloth and never again used the soap naked.

Until I had my own children.

Then things got a little crazy.

So I admit I don't really remember if I washed all their faces first and then did their butts???

However, my memories of early child rearing have me doing everything beyond perfect sooooooo,

I'm quite sure I used three bars of soap and three sanitized wash cloths to do the job.

Of course I did faces first, for sure. I know it, I just do.

So if I'm remembering things in perfect, they all have been taught to hot rinse the bar before using, and to only lather up on their hands and then apply the soap to the sanitized wash cloth and proceed from there.

Keeping the bar as clean and sanitary as possible.

Okay who in the hell am I kidding?

Soft soap in a pump can be expensive...of course you can buy the cheap stuff, (if you want to itch like a dog with fleas) or you can decide to go el natural.

I can picture it now....

"MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!! There's no soap in here!!!!"

"YES, I KNOW DEAR.....CRANK UP THE HOT WATER"

*Edited to add...

Googie, looks like (money well spent) our recent college grad found a solution to our little problem....

Enjoy your day :-)

You belong to me.....

Saturday Centus time, a themed writing meme. This week's challenge is to write 200 words to add to the prompt started by Jenny Matlock from off on my tangent. It has to be Harlequin Romance style....(I don't believe I've ever read a Harlequin Romance novel...so forgive me if my "bodice ripping" is reserved for the imagination.)


The writing prompt is in itallics...

Without thinking I brushed back the bang that had fallen over his eye.

As my hand dropped he reached for it and held it for just a second.

That second was long enough to make my face flush. And my heart race.

A reaction as familiar to me as my own name.

I knew him well enough to know he felt it too.

“How long you here for?” I tried to make small talk.

“Just till Monday” he answered.

Three days. Not a lot of time, but maybe, just maybe, enough.

Come home and see your children I want to say. Come sit in your rocking chair and pet your dog. While you’re there maybe you can check out the furnace, its making that strange noise again.

“Where would you like the kids to meet you?” I ask.

I smell her, even before he looks over my shoulder to acknowledge her, I know she’s there.

Still, when I turned around I was startled to meet a green-eyed gaze...

My oldest, dearest best friend ever, the wrecker of my formerly happy home, within striking distance.

I want to bloody her perfect peach glossed lips.

They turn up at the edges in a smirk.

“He’s mine” her smile says “I had him first.”

Uptown....

My sister, brother and I were blessed with two wonderful grandmothers...they were both loving and fun and treated us like royalty when we visited their homes.

My mom's mom brought us to her home every year in time to go to the Street Fair, or Uptown as she called it.

Usually we'd go over at the beginning of the week and hang out until the Street Fair began on Wednesday.

Then we'd spend the entire weekend hanging out Uptown.

While there in her little neck of the woods Grandma K would let us do what ever it was our little hearts desired.

Often she'd let us play "Store"...

She'd provide a roll of masking tape, some paper to make play money, and a jar full of coins.

She'd also let us have free reign of her teen son's bedroom and all his belongings including his clothes.

Using the masking tape we'd tear off little pieces and print the "price" of the item, then stick it on.

One of us would paw through our uncle's things making choices of what to buy.

The other would play cashier and ring up the stuff.

My uncle was a "cool guy", a far-out banging 70's hippy bomb dude.

AND....he played guitar in a long haired rock and roll band.

Impressing chicks was his favorite pastime.

The poor guy had no clue we were using his bedroom as our store and his things as our merchandise.

The game came to an abrupt end one Saturday morning.

After a gig the previous night our uncle was putting the moves on some foxy chick...she was all impressed by his long hair and fancy guitar licks and with it being the early 70's and all, he figured (and rightfully so) that this honey would probably take him home for a little free luv.

They were hammerin out the details when suddenly she leans in and picks something off his shirt sleeve.

It was a piece of cream colored masking tape.

"Wow" she said "you forgot to take the price tag off your shirt."

He spent the better part of the next thirty minutes trying to convince the girl that he had no idea where that tag came from.

We were never allowed to ever ever step even one foot into his bedroom ever ever again.....

Part 2 of Uptown to follow soon.

A baby's brain and an old man's heart.....

The lazy days of a summer vacation probably should be over for my just graduated son.

He's chomping at the bit to get on with his life...get a decent job, begin college.

He's also suggested that maybe he'd take a year off before starting college....

Ummm, no.

"18, he gets confused everyday."

His cousin left for the Marines and his oldest friend is scheduled to leave for Camp Lejeune in December.
 
"I'm a boy and I'm a man."
 
Yesterday, I was brain dead slumped in Daddio's Lazy Boy watching some cheesy made for tv goofball movie when he and his buddy walked in.
 
They both wore shit-eatin grins on their faces.
 
"What the heck is up with you two?" I asked
 
"Just passin thru" my man-child answered.
 
"I'm in the middle without any plans"
 
They went upstairs, downstairs, outside.
 
Then, inside, upstairs, downstairs, outside.
 
Didn't take long, they were out the front door.
 
 "Seeeeee ya ma" my kid yelled.
 
"Well I gotta get out of this place
I'll go runnin' in outer space, yeah, yeah"
 
A bit later my boy came home alone.
 
"What'd you guys end up doing?" I asked
 
"We bought an air horn and went to a golf course" he said.
 
"You should see how pissed off the guys get when they're just about to tee off and we blow the horn"
 
I try hard to stifle my giggles.
 
"You're going to get your assed kicked one of these days" I warn.
 
"Yeah, there was one guy who got pretty mad, he was yelling at us." he admitted.
 
"Did you take off then?" I asked.
 
"Nah, we blew the horn at him so all we could see was his mouth moving".
 
Never in your life will you be 18 again....
 
Oh how I wish that weren't true.
 
I think I'd give just about anything to be 18 again...(but only for one day.)
 
"I'm a boy and I'm a man

I'm eighteen and I like it
Yes I like it, oh I like it, love it, like it, love it
Eighteen, eighteen


Yes I like it, oh I like it, love it, like it, love it
Eighteen, eighteen
I'm eighteen and I like it " ~ Alice Cooper

Put me down....

I took a week off from the Funny Farm.

 I needed a rest.

 And my house is a sty.

And summer is passing me by, again.

The loveables, the other staff and I have been busy...busier than usual.

I agreed we'd take a "catering job" which entailed preparing food for an extra 50 people every day for eight days straight.

Thank God....last Thursday wrapped that extra duty up.

I am no caterer.

You can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear.

Or something to that effect.

One of the loveables, a pint sized strong man who goes around picking people up picked me up the other day.

He came up behind me and threw his arms around my arms and up I went...feet dangling in the air.

50 year old feet dangling.

In the air...

I'm pretty sure I laughed at first...I think I was so caught off guard and shocked that that was my first emotion.

Then I hollered "PUUUUT ME DOWN!!!!"

One of my coworkers was standing near and ordered him to "LET HER GO!!!"

When my feet were planted firmly on the ground once again I had a strange thought....

My own boys have picked me up before...and when ordered to "put me down" they respected me and did as I said.

When my brother did it, and didn't put me down I elbowed him in the ribs and donkey kicked him in the nuts...he dropped me, then ran like hell.

Okay so while I didn't feel threatened...I also didn't feel the respect that I should be gettting from this youth.

So how to handle something like that???

If I had ordered him to put me down, and the other staff hadn't been in the room to order him as well...I wonder how long the "game" would have gone on???

He has no idea I used to pound my siblings into the ground.

They knew one thing about my fighting style...

God help and pity the fool who takes her off her feet.

The plea "self defense" worked before...

I have no doubt it will work again.

To do.....

Saturday Centus time, a themed writing meme. The challenge is to write 100 words to add to the prompt started by Jenny Matlock from off on my tangent.


The writing prompt is in itallics...

The surgeon looked uncomfortable as I peppered him with questions and thoughts.

“What will the recovery be like?”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Pretend I'm your wife, or your sister."

“What would your advice be to them?”

He hesitated, then said “You’re 79 years old, is this surgery really necessary?”

I pretended to weigh my options, even though I knew what I was going to do.

"Are you sure that's the one you want?"

I felt a little lump in my throat as I peered down at my choice, held tightly in my hand. I didn't think this would be so nerve-wracking. Was I making the wrong decision? I couldn't agonize over this any longer.

I took a deep breath before managing to say, "... Yes, it is

“May I borrow your pen?” I asked opening my pocketbook.

I unfolded the tattered list and crossed off #98...

Acquire a set of 38 DD's.

Only two remaining.

Purchase long beige overcoat.

Locate Fabio.

When number seven goes missing....

I would like to extend my most sincere apology to you if you stopped by the last day or two and found nothing new to read...except Monday's old news, which really wasn't news at all.

I've been in a funk, a slump, a pile of poo.

And not necessarily in that order.

I'm uncomfortable in my bland skin, I hate the feeling of dull.

And blah.

I'd much rather be like a sparkler.

Than a dud.

Of course sparklers can get you into trouble.

Sorry mom...didn't mean to conjure up any bad memories or anything.

I don't remember who's idea it was to light the sparklers in the house using the kitchen stove.

I do remember running them through your house trying desperately to get the popping bits of fire out the back door.

I tried to contain the hot sizzling jumpers in my tiny hand.

In our defense, we weren't allowed to play with matches.

Your new linoleum was pretty messed up with pock marks from the hot sparkles.

I'm pretty sure it was Susan's fault.

(But don't tell her you heard that from me).

Last night I was laying upside-down on the couch, legs stretched and feet resting on the back. My head was on the floor...I was hoping the bag of fudge stripped cookies resting in my gut could morph into a pile of feel good endorphins, then rush to my brain and help me feel better.

Do rushing endorphins feel anything like a stroke?

I quickly decided I didn't care for the head rush and I righted myself.

I thought a walk might help.

Instead I ate a pound of super sharp cheddar cheese and a small bag of salty Sun Chips.

When it was too dark for a walk I thought about riding the exercise bike.

Instead I ate a hand full of Rolos and some stale gumdrops (Googie, don't bother asking about my stash...its bone dry).

Then I staggered upstairs, drunk on sugar and carbs to the computer room where I skipped around a bit from website to website until I remembered that Bear's Senior All Night Party was online...

He wanted me to see the clips of he and his classmates being hypnotized.

I wasn't sure I could believe that the kids were really hypnotized...until I saw my son.

I watched as my normally painfully shy boy jumped for joy and then cried when he got all the numbers to a winning $50,000.00 ticket the lady hypnotist had handed him.

I held my hand over my mouth and watched as he reacted to losing the Miss America beauty pageant.

I know that pout, and it was real.

I literally cackled when he and the others "lost" the number seven.

The hypnotist put them all to "sleep", woke them up and then did some math with them.

She had them count the fingers on their hands.

Ten was the number they all agreed on.

As sure as they were of their own names they knew they had five fingers on each hand.

Then she put them back to sleep and told them that they would not remember the number seven.

She woke them up and asked them each to count their fingers...

They would stretch out their hands and begin...flipping a digit at a time, one...two...three...four...five...next hand..six,

wait,

again,

 one...two...three....four....five...next hand...six...eight...nine...ten...ELEVEN.

Ahhh, yes eleven.

Eleven fingers.

They were in agreement.

She asked them to do it again.

Each and every one looked perplexed as they came again and again to number eleven.

Each and every one of them hesitated when they got to what should have been number seven.

They looked momentarily confused and then made the decision to leave seven behind and keep on until the job was done...

Eleven..they were as sure as they were about who they were that the fingers on their two hands added up to eleven.

Then the hypnotist had them go back to sleep. She instructed the ones she tapped on the knee to remember number seven once again.

Those few tapped were asked to count again.

They shook their heads up and down and nodded to each other...."yep, 10" they said.

The others, not yet tapped,  looked down at their hands and still were getting eleven.

On some level they knew that they should be getting ten and this was throwing them for a loop....

Maybe that's my problem...I'm missing number seven.