1
MOVING DAZE
In September of 1977, my husband, two children and I moved to the country.
The house was solid brick built on a half acre of land.
I packed all our belongings into boxes, dozens of boxes, and labeled them, kitchen, living room, books, knick knacks, and so on, all very professional.
The day we moved, I had a lot of help from friends who came out to
clean the house and move boxes and the furniture in.
All the boxes were piled in the center of the hallway in no particular order.
I took one look at them and left the room.
My first day in the house I had questions hurled at me from all directions.
The most disturbing one,
“Where do you want all these boxes?”
Doesn’t sound like too difficult a question,
but at that moment my brain went to the off position and I hadn’t a clue as to where the boxes were to go. I just thought if we were never
ever going to move again I would have several years to determine where the boxes would go, never mind the contents.
Apparently, my helper’s brains were fully functional and they insisted on taking
everything out of the boxes to put them in their proper places. Panic set in.
I had no idea where to put over half the items I had packed.
I just knew that the place my helpers would choose to place them would
not be where I would eventually put them.
I was going to spend a month looking for these items if I didn’t say something.
However, I was too tired to object, so these human dynamos continued to remove items from boxes asking,
“Where do you want this put?”
When ten people are asking this question simultaneously, eventually the brain goes into overload — then it goes on vacation.
It wouldn’t have made any difference if I had been able to tell them where the items were to go, they, in the infinite wisdom of someone who
was not going to live in this house, they decided for me where the best place would be for my kitchen, livingroom, diningroom, and other
household items.
It took me a month to rearrange and move items to suit my taste. That’s
about how long my brain was on vacation.
When it finally came home it had no knowledge of where it was and how it got there, let alone who put the kitchen utensils away.
When we finally left our country home, I had added nine more years of stuff and four more children. That meant more beds, dressers, clothes, and twice the amount of boxes than the first move.
Most of these boxes went into the basement where we moved next and there they sat until I couldn’t find something I knew I had.
In that event I went downstairs, rooted through the boxes until I found it.
And then re-closed the box. I never unpacked everything, which made it a whole lot easier for the next move.
Another move occurred on July 1, l991, and this time the boxes were numerous. It was a long day moving out of one place and moving into another, this time to different town an hour away. I had a lot of help and during the afternoon quite
a few boxes were unpacked and the items put away. About five o’clock, someone asked where I wanted to put the item in the boxes marked
“kitchen.”
I took one look at her, then the boxes, and my brain took off again.
Over the past three years my brain has gone off on these trips more times than I care to admit. I have no idea where my brain goes but it must like it there because it leaves often and just hates to return. Occasionally, when I really need it, it may look at the situation from afar, decide if it’s important enough to
return or not. If it really has to return home, it usually informs me that I’m not get too used to the idea of it staying around; this is just a temporary visit.
We moved again in December, 1994. Fortunately it was a warm December. We had eliminated lots of things before the move. My husband was going to Brockville every week so we moved a van load each time.
This should have made it easier when the
moving day arrived. No! Not by a long shot.
By the time we got to our new home, we had more than enough items to take out of the truck. I was so tired I just sat in our new livingroom amid boxes and directed people as they came in the door. Downstairs to the left, upstairs to the right, downstairs to the right, and so on. It was all very exhausting.
It took several days to unpack everything and put them where I could find it again. Our books, five boxes in all, had to be put in the basement as we did not have any place to put them. Eight months later, they were still down
there.
On May 1, 1996, we moved again. This time was the absolute last time. I realized I was getting too old for all the nonsense of packing and unpacking, and trying to figure out where to put things.
As for me, I was where I belonged. I liked the neighborhood and house and there was no way I intend to pack another item unless of course it was to help my oldest son move out but it doesn’t look like it would be anytime soon.
“Soon” however came in 1997 when my 18-year old son moved out to go to college. A month later, my 21-year-old moved out as he was getting married, so that was two in one summer. A couple of years later my daughter turned 18 and move out. This was looking even better.
Okay, Okay! One more move, and we are
done.
In February of 2000, we moved to the house next door.
The lady passed away, the house was nicely decorated, and the garden was
the best. It was just across two driveways and my husband had a couple of his brothers help him move the big stuff.
Here we are, 2001, and the nest is finally empty. We took our last child to Guelph,
Ontario, where she intends to make a home for herself.
Now my only worry is getting used to the empty nest. But I think I can manage that without too much difficulty. My daughter is taking furniture from one bedroom; my son will empty another. This kind of gives a whole
new meaning to “empty nest”.
All children out of the house, and no one has moved back home.
Everyone moved out of the house before we died. Which is what we all want from our children.
CLUSTER FLIES
The day we moved into our country home was the day I became acquainted with cluster flies; so named because they would cluster in great numbers on the windows.
I don’t know where they came from, they just emerge from the woodwork, usually
awakening in the fall. In fact. I would have more flies all winter than in the spring or summer. They weren’t too much of a problem where my husband was concerned, but their very existence was an affront to me.
I spent my time trying to eradicate them from the face of the earth. Failing that, I
concentrated on the ones that had the nerve to invade my private domain. At first, I didn’t notice them until everyone had left and my
husband and I walked through our new home, with every box unpacked, I might
add. That’s when I could see them on all the upstairs windows.
“Why do we have all these flies in the house?”
“They are cluster flies,” my husband told me.
I didn’t want their names, I just wanted them dead! I couldn’t find my fly swatter, so we went into town and bought a couple, plus a can of Raid. We were going to war. Little did I realize I was never going to win this war.
Back home, my husband went into the attic with a flashlight. The opening to the attic was a small hole in the ceiling, which required a ladder to reach. He moved toward a chimney covered in some black stuff.
When he went to touch it, the entire chimney moved.
He found where the flies were hiding out. There were
millions of them.
“Hand me up the Raid!” He yelled.
Flashlight in one hand, Raid in the other, he advanced. You could almost hear them talking to one another.
“Who’s the guy with the light?”
“Hey! Douse the light!”
“What’s that he has in his hand.”
“Uh, Oh!”
“RAID!”
“Everyone...fly...get out...quick!!!”
They came out through that hole in a big hurry and were literally dropping (excuse the pun) like flies. It was something I never want to witness again.
My husband nearly died in the onslaught.
We had to get the vacuum out and suck up the dead and dying. We had to keep it upstairs, because that was the only way to handle them.
We just couldn’t kill one or two, heavy artillery had to be brought in.
Usually they didn’t live too long, a day or two at the most. I couldn’t wait that long. After awhile they would drop to the floor and buzz
around on their little backs and Swat!
I could get them with the swatter if it occurred in the dead of night.
I would wake up, turn the light on (my husband didn’t like this
part very much) hunt the little dying critter down, and put it out of its misery. I would then return to bed, turn off the light and attempt to
go back to sleep until the next one decided to die. I would keep it up
all night if I had to.
When I did go to bed and I wanted all the flies in one room, I would turn of all the lights except the one in the bathroom , then as they walked across the ceiling, I would shoot them down one by one. How I hated those flies!
In the spring, they disappeared and the ordinary house fly showed up. I could handle them as they came in. They weren’t as plentiful but I knew come September the cluster flies
would return and so would the war.
Anyone who has ever lived in the country knows what it is all about. Keep the vacuum on call and a fly swatter for those that fall tothe floor and do the death buzz. Just kill them quick and they never know what hit them.
Probably they were happy that you put them out of their misery. Let me tell you, I
did not let my brain go on too many outings when they were around. I needed all my faculties to defend my home against the
invasion.
I was so glad to move from that house and those awful flies. The house fly I could handle.
I just left those cluster flies to the new owner.
BATS
This next subject may cause most people go to absolutely batty. Yes, it’s about the flying mouse. I like mice, I think they are kind of cute. I also like birds, but put this combination together and cute goes out the window mighty
fast. I hate bats, perhaps I am even petrified of them. I don’t have any sane reasons for being so, but if I see a bat, especially in my home,
insanity takes over. I freak.
In fact, this is one time if my brain is on vacation it better hoof it back on the double.
I will simply not tolerate it being gone when my life is being threatened. The first time I encountered the flying fur ball it came soaring
out of my sons’ bedroom. I thought it was a bird.
Then I saw what it really was and I absolutely panicked. I ran into our room and
shook my husband awake.
Now, when my husband goes to bed, and is comfortably asleep, that’s it, he is down for the night. He’s not getting up for anything.
He was not impressed by a lunatic wife screaming in his ear that a ten ounce mouse on the wing was loose in the house. His response: leave it alone and it will go away.
Yeah, right! To where? No way was I going to leave this thing alone.
This bat was history.
I picked up the only weapon I had on hand. The fly swatter. Right! Like this was really going to do it. I will make history if I killed it with that.
I cornered the beast in the washroom and managed to get in a couple of swats before it flew downstairs. Our cat watched this flying
thing and he wanted nothing to do with a mouse that could fly. The ceilings in our house were nine feet high and it was no small feat trying to hit it as long as it kept landing on top of the curtain rods. I got a kitchen chair and climbed on and off it in a futile attempt to get in a few more whacks.
This was not getting the job done. I needed a new plan of action. It was then that I spotted the vacuum cleaner. Now you must to understand the workings of my frenzied state.
This flying pest that had invaded my home had to die. Logic had nothing to do with my actions.
I had the thought that if I could suction his little body to the end of the nozzle, I may be able to get it outside. Good plan - in theory.
However, when I put the end of the nozzle up to the bat, nine feet off the floor, the critter was slurped all the way down the hose and into the innards of the machine. No one was more surprised than I, with the possible exception
of the bat, of course. What a wonderful device!
It not only made short work of those flies but even bats were no match for it! It beat my mother-in-law making birdies out of them.
She kept a badminton racket upstairs to combat their invasion.
This was even better. The little bodies were disposed of quite neatly.
Another encounter with this mammal was when we moved to our latest home. The attic harbored them and we weren’t bothered until we opened the trap door. Then they found their way into the house.
The first time it happened was in the dead of night. I sensed, rather than saw, that we had one of these dreadful visitors. This time my husband could not ignore my pleas. In fact, I dropped to the floor beside the bed screaming hysterically that he better get rid of it. Now! I managed to get to the door while he was getting the vacuum. I could hear it flying around trying to evade the nozzle. When I heard the
unmistakable slurp and realized that the vacuum had eaten its victim, I knew it was safe to go back to bed. I felt better now that I knew my
husband would defend me against this threat.
Not long after that, another bat once again flew into our room. I often wondered why they chose our room. This was a big house, why
did it always find our room?
When I heard it fly in, I got up right away.
My husband was already up, so I just said we had a visitor and could he please get rid of it.
Again out came the vacuum. It was the only thing that seemed to work for us.
It wasn’t long before this one, like his predecessors, was swallowed up.
The next morning, I told him to get rid of the body.
He took the vacuum outside and opened the hatch. What we saw was this tiny fur-ball hanging upside down inside the bag with little dust balls sticking to his face. He blinked with the light.
This one had survived the feeding. My fourteen year old son came out to see this
wondrous sight.
“Isn’t that cute?” He said, laughingly.
I have a lot of colorful adjectives for bats, but cute is definitely not on the list. While we watched, the little thing reached up with his
wings and gripped the top of the bag, then flew off. Since then we have had the trap door fixed and thought the problem was solved.
But the other night, around four in the
morning, I heard a funny noise. There was a rush of air, like a fan, and sure enough, there it was flying around in our twelve foot ceiling
house. I quickly got out of bed and waited until it flew out of the room. I then closed off the doors before it could fly back in. I could hear
the bat flying against the door. After awhile I got up and turned on every light downstairs and searched for it. I even left an outside door open hoping that it would fly out.
I have no idea where it went to but I have no desire to
meet up with it again. This time though it better know how to swim because our vacuum is one that operates with water inside, so its
either sink or swim. So, whether you have a problem with cluster flies or bats, the vacuum is a good implement to have around. It’s not
just for cleaning the rug. Remember that.
THE WOOD STOVE
When we moved to the country, my husband rejoiced.
He could finally install a wood stove. He spent a few hours installing pipes and
frustrations reigned for a time.
I conveniently stayed away during this time. Finally he had the thing set up and as we had moved in.
September, it was the perfect time to test it.
He went in search of every scrap piece of wood he could find and there were plenty around. He was in his glory. His cast iron stove was flaming
away and we had heat. Unfortunately that wood didn’t last very long, so he bought himself a couple of chain saws and went into the woods
and cut down any tree that had the misfortune to be dead.
Again he was in his element and before long the woodshed was full.
That old cast iron stove lasted a few years and then it was replaced by a “Baby Bear” cast iron stove.
The door was a little smaller than the former stove so a nightly ritual began each
winter. He would go into the woodshed and select a large piece of trunk with a knot in it and bring it into the house.
I could see in an instant that the door opening and the piece of wood were not going to match. He was trying to put a round peg in
a square hole.
Why he couldn’t see the same thing was beyond me. This time his brain went on vacation.
I even mentioned this to him.
“That is not going to fit into that stove.”
“Sure it will.” Ever the optimist.
I just sat down to watch this impossible feat.
He positioned the log just so and started to jiggle it in. It was tight, very tight.
Before long he had to admit that it wasn’t going to be easy to get that log in.
Isn’t that what I just said?
Not to be daunted by this insurmountable task, he went out and came back with a sledge hammer and started to knock that monster into
the stove. The only thing that moved was the stove. Several inches to be precise. The pipes were in mortal danger of being undone.
When I pointed this out, he just took the hammer to the back of the stove to reinstate it to the original place. By now, the part of the
log he had managed to get in was now on fire and burning merrily.
My husband, intellect that he was, surveyed the situation.
“Well, your right, it’s not going to go in.”
I could have told him “I told you so,” but I would not have missed this performance for anything.
The next installment of getting the stove ready for the night was even more entertaining.
Now that he had admitted it was not going to go in, he had to get it out of the stove. And it was jammed in there pretty good, thanks to
the sledge hammer.
He started to jiggle it back and forth and all the while the fire was a raging inferno inside the stove.
He finally managed to dislodge the burning log, he hurried outside, and doused the flames in the snow. Out came the axe and off came the offending knot. In it came once again and this time it went in easily. But now there was a three
inch hole beside the log that would have to be filled, so he went out and retrieved the knot and slid it inside the stove. He closed the door, fixed
the draft, and declared we could now go to bed, which was something we could have done an hour before had he listened to me.
Over the nine years we were in that house, that stove kept me awake many nights.
I awakened to the smell of smoke and when I went downstairs the stove was belching it out.
As I could not awaken the dead, namely my husband, I opened doors. In the middle of winter this was not a pleasant task. As the smoke went out, the cold air came in, and I started to freeze.
The next thing I did do was wave a wet towel around the rooms like a maniac while the one who caused this problem was upstairs
fast asleep. And he wondered why I was so tired in the morning. I was keeping the house from burning down and ourselves being overcome by smoke inhalation.
One memorable occasion happened on a Thursday evening we had returned from an evening out and I was putting children to bed, my husband went about his nightly ritual of getting stoves ready for the night. After I had done my task, I went downstairs and started to read while my husband was doing what I considered a strange thing, (not that I didn’t think everything he did strange). He would
go down to the basement where one wood stove was housed, then come up and go outside.
Then back down he would go, and then back outside, I was going to ask him what he was doing when I heard a funny noise; not funny ha ha — weird funny.
I got up and went into dining area where the insulated chimney connected to the stove downstairs.
It was going Snap! Snap! Crackle! Crackle! Snap! Snap! and when I felt the
chimney, instead of being cool, it was hot.
My husband came in from outside and I asked him what was going on?
He said we had a chimney fire. Oh, just wonderful! and when was he going to inform me?
I asked him, “Shouldn’t we get the kids up
and out of the house?”
Not yet, he says, he is trying to get it under control.
Then I noticed coming out of the ceiling from the pipe - smoke! Can I panic now?
“Maybe you should get the kids up,” he says.
I was halfway up the stairs by then.
“And when you come down,” he says, “call the fire
department.”
Now, real panic comes to the fore. I got the kids up, put their coats on, and as they
waited by the kitchen door, I made a call to the fire department. By the time the firemen made it to our driveway, my husband had managed to contain the blaze in the basement stove. They went up into the attic to make sure nothing was burning there, and checked over the stove to make sure it was okay. Then they
left without even getting their hoses out.
Now! you people out there, who have wood stoves, a word of warning:
Do not burn old railway ties in your wood stoves.
You really don’t want to mess with the heat that they produce.
Along with the cluster flies, the wood stove comes a
close second why I was so happy to move.
Fortunately, in the years that followed, the houses we moved into did not afford
themselves to a wood stove, and for that I was eternally grateful. I did not need to go through that again.
The house we moved to in Smith Falls had a decorative fireplace and after inspecting it a familiar gleam appeared in my husband’s eyes.
No, definitely not, over my dead body, not in
a million years was he not to light a fire in that fireplace. I threatened him with dire consequences if he ever lit that fireplace.
However, it fell on deaf ears.
One Sunday, while I was out, he lit the thing. I came home to a
roaring fire in the hearth. The wall was hot and when I went upstairs to check the room above, its walls were hot, too. I wanted it put out, but he had a chair in front of it with his feet up and rejoicing in the fact that he could
light the fireplace. Fortunately, he only lit the thing that one time, thank goodness.
I am done with stoves that need wood to fuel it. I just want my electric stove, the one I don’t have to take a match to. He now has a real nice gas barbecue and that has replaced his desire to light a fire anywhere.
Yes, we have moved again, and just yesterday, our insurance people called to ask a
few questions about our new place. One of the questions was, do you have a wood stove?
Never again! NO! Not in my lifetime!
TRAVELING - WITH CHILDREN
We have done a lot of traveling in the years that we have been married, and with the coming of the children, traveling became a bit more interesting. The most memorable trip was in 1987, the year we purchased a seven
passenger van. Since we had five children, ranging in age from two years to eleven, we felt the trip would be relatively uneventful as each child would have their own seat. Not so, for we learned there is nowhere you can sit five
children where each one will be happy and won’t want to sit somewhere else.
If one child became territorial with a particular place in the car, heaven help the child who decided it was his or her turn to sit at that place.
As the children got older, it was harder to keep the peace among them. They would start to bicker about nothing in particular and it took several miles to tell them to tone it down or Dad would stop the car and go back there
and settle it for them. Sound familiar?
There were times that he did stop the car to settle their hash, so to speak. Children would be moved around so they could not touch one
another. Usually he sat back there to make sure they were on their best behavior, (whatever that means) and I would have to take over the
driving.
Now, I don’t know about the normal traveler, but before a trip began, all suitcases
we owned came out of storage.
I neatly packed all the clothes we needed for the trip.
If we were to be gone a week or so, a lot more was crammed into the suitcase than what we would ever need. When we arrived at our destination,
out came the suitcases and they were be deposited in whichever room we were assigned. Throughout the week, we lived out of those suitcases. I came to hate those suitcases. After the week or so, the suitcases were repacked,
though probably not in the same orderly fashion it arrived in.
When we finally got home, I did not want to bring those suitcases into the house. They were left in the car until we ate and relaxed. It was usually my husband who went out to unload the car. All the suitcases were be placed
by the front door and it was assumed that the owners would immediately take them to their respective rooms. Yeah, right! Several hours later, I was still tripping over them and yelling at whoever didn’t put his or her suitcase away.
I should have yelled at myself. I hate unpacking a suitcase I spent a week living out of. In fact, if I ever saw that suitcase again, it would have
been too soon. I didn’t ever want to see those clothes again. This has been brought out quite vividly when my husband said,
“Haven’t you unpacked that suitcase yet?”
And the dirty clothes that come back with us? Well just don’t
get me going on that subject.
The hardest trips were taking the kids to family reunions, especially those involving my husband’s family.
The reunions were usually my husband’s family since mine rarely got
together. We have a policy that every family member attend whether they wanted to or not.
Generally, if not consistently, the children did not want to. At times I didn’t want to. But I forced myself to go for the sake of my husband, although sometimes I was unable to attend.
On these instances, he went with screaming kids who felt if I got to stay home, they should be able to. What they didn’t understand was that I wanted the house to myself.
The main reason the children didn’t want to go to the family reunion? Because it is family and in their minds that is what makes it boring.
Now where have we heard this before?
We tell them it will only be boring if they make it so. Somehow kids will not see the logic in that.
The worst family trip was in 1993 when my husband’s niece got married. We traveled to Prince Edward Island.
We started out early enough, and the younger children slept for the first hour and a
half. By the time we made the first pit stop they were awake and ready to start making life absolutely miserable to whomever was driving. On that
trip my husband spend most of the time in the back of the car.
We got into Prince Edward Island around 9:30 p.m., and were shown to the cottage we were to occupy.
Most of the family were too tired to complain where they were laid there heads. The next day, they would complained endlessly.
We went to Sand Spit, an amusement park, which the children absolutely loved. I brought a video camera with me and taped them on
the rides. My husband and I decided to leave the two boys at the amusement park and took the three girls with us to visit the two museums
close by. The first museum wasn’t any major attraction for us, but second which was King Tut’s tomb was really interesting.
After Sand Spit, we tried to get the children interested in other attractions, but all they wanted to do was to have “fun.” The kids and
I have different viewpoints on fun. They enjoyed the horseback riding, but not the wax museum. Go figure!
By the time we left Prince Edward Island ,I resolved not to travel with ungrateful children to many places. However, there was only one
event we insisted they accompany us, our “boring” family reunions. It’s not possible for them to have fun all of the time.
Now that we have an empty nest, my husband and I can go for a drive without all
the arguments in the backseat. It is peaceful now — at last!
A couple of years ago (2006) my husband bought a little Mazda Miati, a sports car. That makes if difficult for us to take anyone with us. It’s child proofed.
Our 4 year old granddaughter loves it, and tell her grandma she can’t ride in it because there is no room. So, I take my own car.
WHY IS IT?
I often wonder why it is when the man of the house goes upstairs to lie down and have a rest, no one in the family will bother him. Even when I tell them they can ask their father, they will not go near that room lest they die.
However, that is not true when mother decides she is tired and wants to do the same thing.
These same children who will not bother the man of the house in slumber feel it is quite all right to disturb the rest of the woman of the
house.
My room is like Grand Central Station. My daughters will come in one at a time or three at a time, without knocking and ask the most
inane questions.
“Can I get my ears re-pierced?”
“Do you love me, Mom?” (No, not at this particular time.)
The last time I decided to “rest” my youngest came in with a comb and hair spray
and asked me to sit up so she could comb my hair.
Like I needed to look good at the supper table. If I am listening to my 50’s and 60’s music, they will all come through the door and start dancing. This is not conducive to resting.
Sometimes they will come in and lay down beside me and start asking me silly questions or just informing me of something they feel I
should know about.
I tell them for the umpteenth time that I cannot rest if they keep
coming in and disturbing me. They leave and I settle down and close my eyes. Now, the door opens once more and who is standing there but my husband. He decides to join me because he is also tired. I have now been upstairs for an
hour or more and still have not accomplished what I had set out to do and if you all will excuse me, I must prepare supper.
Men are funny creatures. You know who you are, and the women who live with you, they know who you are as well; so don’t try to hide. Why is it that when a man asks where something is, you can tell him it is in the second
cupboard from the stove, second shelf, beside the salt? You think you have given him enough information to find whatever it is he is trying
to locate and he tells you he can’t find it and asks you where are hiding it? You get up from whatever it is you are doing, go to the cupboard you said it was in and discover the item is behind the salt rather than beside it. Does he
thank you for locating it? Oh no! Instead, he accuses you of hiding it from him, like it is a conspiracy against him.
My husband has a place for everything and everything has a place. Woe to the person who decides differently. It is a national offense to move anything from where he put it. This is his kitchen and I am only allowed to enter
when he asks me to help him prepare something. Most of the time he can do this
himself, but occasionally, he loses it and cannot do a thing without me beside him.
Then when I start to do the chore, it isn’t being done his way he shows me the right way to do it. While he is showing me, I leave the room.
I have a fourteen-year-old daughter, I know, it’s a dirty job but someone has to do it. She is a clean nut, everything has to be tidy. Now normally this is a good thing, but she goes beyond what is reasonable.
The newspapers are put into the recycling bin before we have a chance to read them.
I don’t know how often we have retrieved them from that bin. Catalogs go in there, some I didn’t even know came into the house.
Subscription magazines, some I really want to keep for a while, go in the recycling bin and I have to fish them out. If anything is missing, the first place we look is the recycling bin.
Important papers, like my birth certificate, report cards, photographs, pens, pencils, anything at all will be put in the garbage. I have even been out on the street on recycling day rooting through the papers I need because
I can’t find them and this is the only place I
know they can be.
She is forever telling us to clean up the house, to put things away, etcetera, etcetera, and woe be to anyone who invites someone over without first tidying the place.
This includes getting rid of everything that is within her sight, then the vacuum comes out, the broom, and the mop. She drives us crazy.
Her room is a picture of neatness, and she just about shames the other two girls into cleaning their rooms. I said “just about” Now I know they can do it, I have seen their rooms clean and the shock almost kills me each time, but
for some strange reason, the rooms will not stay that way. My sons, ages sixteen and nineteen share a room, well it’s not a room I really want to venture into for any reason.
I keep that door shut.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the house is always messy, my excuse is that I have five children. they do their share of dropping things where ever they go. Coats, sweaters, mitts, socks, glasses, and so on. and one can’t always
be at them to clean up. But I don’t have to do that anymore. Nope, not at all. My fourteen year-old daughter has that job down pat.
Why is it that when one child wants a pair of shoes, they all need a pair of shoes? I cannot leave the house without one or two children wanting to come with me. They need something that will cost me a mint.
I try to tell them that I cannot afford all these things, but unfortunately, they don’t
believe me. They will go into my wallet just to see if I have any money.
Actually I believe think they think my wallet is their own personal bank account. When I do get out on my own, they always ask meto bring something back.
Chips, drinks, doughnuts, pizza, strawberry candy, whatever it takes to load them up on energy.
They eat just before they go to bed.
Usually, I just hold the chips at arm’s length and drop them, I’ve never seen them hit the floor.
There are a lot of “why is it” in everyone’s life. I can fill a book with them, well maybe a chapter, but they never fail to amaze you. Why
is it that those exercise guys you see on television never seem to need it? They choose the thinnest people to show “large-boned” individuals how to get thin. What I would like to see is a 200-pound person at the front of
the group trying to do what everyone else is trying to do. Lose weight.
And the ads on television about “Body Break?”
Body break, my eye! What kind of an ad is this? Some of the things that they want your body to do would indeed break it. Such things such as white water rafting, for example. I won’t even go on that ride at an amusement park.
There is no way I would consider going down a real live raging river.
Ever wonder why they call it an emergency room at the hospital? It better be an emergency, like you are bleeding all over their nice clean
floor or you are having a heart attack.
Anything else, and you can just wait in that infernal waiting room, with out-of-date magazines and a television so high up you can’t reach it put
on your favorite show. You can spend a lot of time in that waiting room, waiting for a doctor, waiting to be X-rayed, sometimes you wonder if they have forgotten about you are there. I don’t take to waiting very well. I wait for what
I consider a reasonable time, then I get up, go to the admitting office, and tell them I am sorry but I can wait no longer and I am going home.
If they don’t take me then, well, I just go home. Because whatever was wrong with me was cured by the long wait.
Case in point, I deliver for a chicken place, and as I was going out of the store with two bags of chicken, I slip on the wet floor, the bags go flying, and I find myself flat on my back, a bit stunned as it happened so fast. A lady having her meal saw it, and said to the staff,
“Someone just fell”
As I was prone, and my legs in the way of people trying to get through, I had a few ask me,
“Are you okay?”
Define okay!
Do I look okay?
I am laying flat on my back. Just thought I would take a rest before I delivered the next order.
As I could not get up, an ambulance was called. They came, managed to get me on my feet, but something was wrong,
I could not move my legs. So they brought the guerny in and got me on it, and put me in the ambulance. And drove to the hospital. At the hospital they got me off the guerny and put me in a wheelchair. I was then taken to the registration desk, where the nurse took vitals and asked questions.
I was then put in the waiting room where a policeman came over to me and asked if I saw the yellow caution cone.
If it was on the ceiling, yes, but no I didn’t.
I tried to call my husband, but he was sleeping.
I had gone in around 6 pm, and at seven I went back to the registration desk where they asked me the same thing the first one asked.
I could still not move my legs, and she said they would try to find a bed for me.
That was at seven pm.
Finally I got my husband and told him what happened and he came down to the hospital.
It was now 8:20 pm. No bed in sight.
At 8:45 pm, I told my husband it looked like I was going to live, and I may as well go home. The registration person wasn’t at her desk, so he just wheeled me out of the emergency room. Emergency, my eye!
When we got home, I managed to get upstairs and sit on the sofa. My husband then went to bring my car home.
While sitting there, the phone rang.
Lo and Behold! It was the hospital, trying to figure out where I was.
They had found a bed for me.
Well, I had found one too. And it was more comfortable than their’s.
Ever wonder why you can’t ever keep your husband waiting but he feels it is quite all right to keep you waiting? Must be a man thing.
Here is another man thing, well it can be a woman thing too, but mostly it’s a man’s domain.
I will wake up from a sound sleep, wondering why a Canada Goose is trying to get into the bedroom, Or out of the bedroom, I am not sure. But it’s just my husband snoring so loud, that everyone in the house is awakened by the noise. The only person he doesn’t wake up is him. It’s scary. I have found myself getting up and sleeping on the couch in the livingroom, but I can still hear him.
So, I go downstairs and try to sleep on the couch, which I can do, because down there I can’t hear him.
WHO THOUGHT THIS ONE OUT?
BUNGEE JUMPING:
This is a popular sport for those who wish to defy death or maybe even brain power. Who thought this one up? The conversation:
Let’s see now, what can we do? I know, let’s tie a 250 foot elastic band around our ankles and jump off a bridge, assuming that the drop would be more than the length of the elastic, of course. First however, the other end was tied
to an immovable object, lest that object precede them to the ground. That would not be good.
However, I am not sure one would wish to have a full bladder when gravity decides to kick in that bodily function fails to keep up its end of
the deal.
Perhaps that is why the jumper is lowered into the water afterward so it is not noticeable that the bladder did not do its job properly, less embarrassing that way.
Sometimes bungee jumping is done while flying in a hot air balloon. One guy who tried it didn’t think it was a whole lot of fun. His 260 foot bungee cord just did not allow for the 190 feet that the balloon was from the ground.
You can well imagine the thoughts going through the mind of the one who made money from doing this from the hot air balloon,
“Oh man, there goes the business. “Oh well, next?”
Would you want to be next in line? Would you say, maybe we should take this baby a little higher, or shorten the cord a wee bit?
I think not. And usually it is the younger generation that is getting a rush from doing this. You will not see a 75-year- old man doing this. Can but imagine someone saying this to an old man,
“Hey pop, how bout I tie an elastic to your ankles and then you jump off a bridge?” Right!
“No thanks, I’ve been married fifty years, if the jump doesn’t kill me, my wife will for taking leave of whatever senses I have left.”
Don’t do this, people! Getting a rush from jumping off a cliff or bridge or whatever and seeing the ground rush up to meet you is not the best thing to do.
Many think it’s cool to do this but remember the definition of cool is, “NOT SO HOT.”
SUBWAY SURFING:
Just who was the smart person who thought subway surfing would be a fun thing to try?
For those who are unaware of what this entails, it means standing on the roof of a
speeding subway train and trying to stay on. I can see someone suggesting this? Well, no, I can’t really see someone suggesting this... but who, even in their wildest nightmares, would want to do something so dangerous?
“Hey dude, want to go ride on a subway
train? Not inside, on top of.”
“Hey dude, cool.” (Remember the definition of that word.)
Something terrifying happens to these people’s brains.
They lose them, and I imagine quite literally when they don’t see that tunnel.
This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase,
“Riding the Rails.”
ANOTHER DEATH-DEFYING STUNT:
I don’t even have a title for this next stunt that some people do. One person described it as natural selection. I am not the smartest lady in the world, but I am certainly a lot smarter than someone who would lay on a white or
yellow line in the middle of a busy freeway and not expect to get run over. In fact, I would suggest if you see someone doing this, run him over just on the matter of principle. Or just for the heck of it, after all the person stupid
enough to consider doing this foolish thing, and then act on it, deserve to be run over, several times, if necessary. I often think of the next person in line, waiting to do the same thing.
When he sees his buddy being whipped all over the highway, does he say,
“I don’t think so”?
No, not him. He goes out and does the exact same thing, So drivers, start your engines!
ELEVATOR SURFING:
This next useless exercise is really bordering on insanity and whoever decided this would be beneficial to one’s health should be seriously committed to a mental hospital and for a very long time. It’s known as elevator surfing.
Now for those who do not know what this is all about, let me explain: You want to get to the 65th floor. You climb into an elevator then you climb out
onto the roof of said elevator and then ride the thing up and down until you end up in the funny farm. This, by the way, is illegal.
Nevertheless something illegal doesn’t stop someone from doing it.
Elevating surfing is for people who cannot find that 100 foot wave or the fast-moving subway train. Now, I know riding on top of a subway
train is not the smartest thing to do, but at least you have scenery flashing by. But what wondrous things do you see inside an elevator shaft, except maybe your life passing before your eyes. I can only hazard a guess here, but I presume the
scenery is the least of your concerns. I would imagine staying alive will be a problem.
I wonder why this is called a thrill sport, since the onlyhigh one will get is the 65th floor and the low is going to the basement or death.
Do us all a favor and ride the bottom of the elevator-now that would be a thrill.
TUNNELING:
Okay! If anyone out there hasn’t had the thrill you’re seeking and want to try something adventurous, may I suggest, tunneling? No, I don’t mean going into the great outdoors and finding a cave and wondering through dark
tunnels and encountering bats. The tunnels here do not have bats, just batty people, and it entails going into the great indoors and scampering through, of all things, duct work.
That’s right, duct work of high rise buildings. Doesn’t this sound thrilling? Makes riding elevators and subway cars seem pretty tame.
What would make someone think this up, let alone carry it out?
STAIR DIVING:
Yes, you read right. Apparently this next ingenious idea some brain came up with
requires only some grease. Doesn’t mention what kind of grease but that hardly matters to these people who decide to do this stunt. This is not called “Let’s slide down the banister.”
No, this is “Let’s slide down the stairs.”
And you have got to use grease, otherwise it’s falling down the stairs, and you could get hurt that way. (Trust me on this one, I know what falling
down stairs feels like, and it’s no fun). I think the grease cushions your fall, but what do I know?
I just know when I fall down the stairs I don’t enjoy it and there is no amount of grease in the world that would induce me to take a
dive down the stairs. I’m sorry, but if that makes me un-cool, so be it.
“There is a gum that they make now called
“Thrills!” That is the closest I want to be to any kind of thrill.
GIFT GIVING
Okay men, I want to discuss gifts. I can see you squirming as you read this. Gifts can be a touchy subject. Men, as a whole, do not know what to get for their wives. That is the reason they forget anniversaries and birthdays.
Well, let me help you out here (which way did you come in?). One of the first criteria I would like to mention is that if you can plug it in, don’t get it; unless of course its a stereo which includes a CD player or a big screen color TV.
On our twenty-third wedding anniversary, my husband bought me a popcorn maker. He thought I would be all gushy over it. His logic declared he buy me this appliance because I loved popcorn. Yeah, so do all the children.
They used it more than I did. It now sits at the bottom of the cupboard because we do not purchase popcorn. I can also remember an anniversary when he got me, of all things, a new vacuum cleaner. The box wasn’t even wrapped. It did have a big red bow, however. I was not impressed. This is not something you
give your wife on an anniversary. Why would any husband think that a wife would get all teary-eyed over a vacuum cleaner? I think I did cry, but only out of frustration.
Flowers are a nice touch. Jewelry yes!
Definitely jewelry.
One year I got dusting powder, still in the bag from the store. My
husband, ever the romantic.
Please men, take the time to at least wrap the gift.
She may not like it, but she will say the paper was pretty.
Unless, of course, it’s wrapped in this week’s newspaper. Just make sure she’s read it first.
Supper is good. Book a nice restaurant, preferable not McDonald’s or Burger King.
This will not set the mood you will be looking for later. Take her to a movie, one she will enjoy, not an action thriller or blood and guts. This will not set the proper mood either.
Neither will watching television do it, so shut off those sport shows, it may get you heated up and her too, but not in the way you want.
One of the most useless gifts I can remember was a laundry basket. Yes, you heard
right, a laundry basket so I could do twice as many loads. I did say he was a romantic, didn’t I? And it did have a red bow on it as well.
I just keep coming up with them, or to put it more precise, my husband does. On another memorable anniversary, he got me two teflon
frying pans. Not wrapped and this time not even the traditional red bow. I keep thinking these are household items he feels we need but to make it more acceptable to me, he disguises them as anniversary gifts.
Last year, for our twenty-fifth, it was my mother-in-law’s turn to get us a really
interesting gift. It was a one-of-a-kind wooden cat, measuring about fifteen inches, hinged knees so it could sit, arms folded across the chest, and a face that would stop a clock.
It was painted black with green stripes. It was totally ugly.
Good thing it was one-of-a-kind, I would hate to think there were more of them.
Oh well, I guess it could be worse, she gave my husband’s brother and his wife a coffee table that was really different. It stood on real deer legs. Why would she think this was a good gift, especially with someone who had cats? They
just loved that coffee table. I think they ate it.
There were times when I just got a nominal card and sometimes not.
There was one time he took me to McDonald’s, and on our twentieth, he took me to a bar and bought me a couple of drinks. I guess he thought that would do it for me. A good rule of thumb, if you tick off your wife a week before your anniversary then ignore her completely all day on the day, and at the last minute think a couple of drinks will do it and then saying,
“This is our twentieth, isn’t it?”
Think again, lover boy. That tells us as far as romance is concerned, it is all rolled up into one brain that has left the building.
Of course, maybe I should deem myself fortunate. Some wives don’t receive anything, not even an occasional card. The husband saythey are not into anniversaries. Well, excuse me for getting married and expecting my
husband to at least remember the date we promised to spend our entire lives together.
Not into it? I’m sorry, not good enough.
My brother-in-law will only take out his wife if the anniversary date happens to fall on a Saturday.
Thank goodness for Saturdays.
Wives, if you accept what these men give you and sometimes it is nothing, then that is all you will receive.
Six months before our anniversary, I begin reminding my husband that it will soon be time to start thinking about that gift, night out, or flowers. Sometimes I get one of the above or if he’s really feeling generous, I may get all three.
Receiving a gift from your husband, if it’s not your anniversary or birthday, is the best gift of all. That often means you won’t get one on that special date because he will say you got your anniversary gift early or late so don’t expect
another. Sometimes ladies, you just can’t win.
Husbands are funny creatures and their logic defies imagination. Don’t try to understand them or you will short circuit your brain.
TAKE DRIVERS.. ANYWHERE BUT ON THE ROAD
There has been a lot said about drivers. Men say women are bad drivers, but I beg to differ.
I follow the speed limit. If my husband sees a 50 kilometer sign, he will go 60. If it says 70, he will go 80, and if it’s 80, he will go up to 100.
Most men may stay within the confines of the speed limit only if they are following
someone who is going the speed limit.
But if they can pass that slow poke — then they are gone. The speed limit only applies if the driver in front keeps it otherwise there is none.