Friday, March 16, 2007

A Good Laugh

I have to say up front that I did not write this. But it was so funny I just had to share. It brought back memories of when Britt was little and I'd take her to the restroom. She would always tell me, "You go first, Mommy." She was no dummy.

What Public Restrooms are like for Women

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors Every stall is occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall.

You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter. The dispenser for the modern "seat covers" (invented by some one's mom,no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn't - - so you carefully, but quickly, drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance." In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake.

You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance." To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the EMPTY toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mom's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the one that's still in your purse. That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail. Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topples backward against the tank of the toilet.

"OCCUPIED!" you scream, as you reach for the door dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly on the TOILET SEAT. It is wet of course.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

You know your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain, her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.
At that point, you give up. You are soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out conspicuously to the sinks.

Now, you can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting.
You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED

You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it into the woman's hand and tell her warmly,
"Here, you just might need this." As yo u exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks,"What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?

"This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restroom (REST??? - You've got to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs.
It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Attack of the Dust Bunnies

Although in my case it’s more like the attack of the dust trolls, giants and gargoyles. I got very industrious last Saturday and determined to rake the leaves out front. When I realized how many there were, I decided the leaf blower was a better idea.

It was a lot less work and so much faster. Once I got most of the little critters in the street, I started blowing all of them into a big pile. That’s when I got into trouble. I felt like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoon strip. The dust and other trash set off my allergies like you wouldn’t believe. By Saturday night, I could hardly breathe.

Yesterday morning I made the mistake of singing in the choir at the 11:00 o’clock service and was starting to lose my voice. Then we had a two hour rehearsal for the Messiah and I sang again. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

Today I sound like an adolescent boy in the early stages of puberty. As I talk, my voice rapidly runs the gambit from a deep alto (or even tenor) to a soprano and then back again. The worst part is the barking like a seal. This is not fun.

Now add to this the fact that every Bradford pear tree in McKinney is in bloom ( there must be thousands of them); along with the redbuds, plums, pears, magnolias and peach trees. In fifteen years this is the prettiest I’ve ever seen them, but not good for the sinuses.

Well anyway. I’ve included a few pictures I took on the way home tonight. They don’t even begin to show the splendor of all these white trees in bloom in large masses. They look like trees made of millions of snow flakes. So I guess I’ll just have to keep snorting, sniffling and snarfing for the next week or so.

This little tree is right out front of our house. Most of the time it's scrawny and unimpressive, but look at it now. And of course you can see some of those pesky little leaves I didn't get raked up.

Now, last but not least, three weeks ago we had 14 degrees when we left ot go to the hospital for Jimbob's eye surgery. Yes, this really north texas. You never know what you'll wake up to.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Daylight Savings Time

Oh my! Kind of like lions and tigers and bears, oh my. Rude awakening this morning on my way to work. Daylight savings time starts this weekend…three weeks early. I’m getting too old for this kind of abuse. It’s hard enough dragging my butt out of bed in the morning as it is without loosing an hour. Whose idea was this anyway?

This reminds me of an incident when JC was in 6th grade and the time changed. He called me at work and said, “Mom, I tripped on the ladder to my bunk bed and hit my head so hard it knocked me out.” Knowing my darling son, I didn’t buy it. Maybe because the next words out of his mouth were, “Since I’m late can I stay home today?”

Needless to say, I was not a happy mother. I made it very clear that he was not staying home and he’d better be ready for school by the time I got home. I also told him I wanted to see the bump on his head where he hit it. He said, “It didn’t leave a bump.” I didn’t believe that either.

I got in my little Dodge Caravan and lead footed it down Hwy 121 to McKinney. JC was ready when I got there…just barely. After a few more attempts to convince me that he’d hit his head and passed out, he finally admitted that he’d gone back to sleep. But he was still asking if he could stay home.

When I finally got him in the car he asked, “Mom, will you tell them I had a doctor’s appointment?” I wasn’t buying that one either. At school, the girl at the counter asked if she could help me. I said sure, you can talk to him. I was mean and nasty and made JC explain why he was late. No doctor’s appointment, either.

On another note, Jimbob asked his mother last night if she wanted to go along with us to rehearsal for the Messiah and she said yes…then she said no…then she said yes…then she said no she was going back to bed ( she didn’t get up until 3:00PM). Ten minutes later she came out of her room dressed and ready to go. Go figure.