Things better left unsaid

We’ve all had those times when something comes out of our mouths that was meant to stay locked away forever. Except of course those things you can’t wait to share with your best friend and only if it’s behind the other persons back. I knew the meatloaf was horrendous and instantly thought meatlump, definitely not meatloaf. But in saying so, and using my most sweetest tone, a cataclysmic chain of events set in motion that made the Big Bang theory look like snap, crackle, pop. Apparently when asked if I liked it, I missed that suttle expression on her face. Men know that look. We have been genetically bred for thousands of years to aim ahead of the fleeing antelope, what formation to use against an attacking tribe, how to keep beer at that perfect temperature. At the top of all our survival instincts is knowing “that look”. That look of pride in knowing something they’ve done is remarkable. That look of, go ahead, say it, I’m awesome. It’s a twitch of the eyebrow, that certain purse of the lips, the look in their eyes. I totally missed it. Damn. And women have remarkable memories. It’s been 12 years since I’ve had meatloaf. I got it at Golden Corral one time and she made me put it back. Yes, we all say things that are better left unsaid. My buddy told me it has happened to him as well. The other night he and his wife were eating dinner and having a casual conversation. He told me, what I meant to say was “honey would you please pass the peas..”, but it came out “you fat cow, you’ve ruined my friggin’ life.” It’s been two weeks now and he’s still on my couch. They’re trying to work it out through counciling.

Laundry

Laundry

I hate doing laundry. I hate it so much that I wait until everything I own is dirty before I face it. Why is it that women know the difference between the colors and the whites? Men don’t. To us it’s simple. If it’s underwear or T-shirts it’s white, everything else is colors. We bought a new Samsung front loading washer. I know that Samsung makes TV’s, DVD players and Cellphones, all of which I can’t operate very well, why I would think a washer would be any different is beyond me. It has a Sanitizing cycle, Bedding cycle, Steam cycle, Normal cycle, Delicate cycle, hot wash, cold rinse, warm wash, cold rinse , cold wash, hot rinse, normal load, Jumbo load, large load, small load and automatic load. Why isn’t automatic load all there is? I’m sure this thing would get HBO if I could figure out how to hook it to the dish. With me it’s automatic load, hot wash and cold rinse. Period. Everything I own has a red or blue tint to it. I have come to think of this as a character trait and NOT a sign of failure. Once the washing is done comes the real work. Drying and folding. It always starts like this; Take everything out of the washer and throw it in the dryer. Set the heat as high as it will go so it will finish faster and I can get this over with as soon as possible. I start the dryer and then watch it like a hawk. When it’s almost completely spinning, I fling the door open, ignoring the burns from the steel tumbler and red hot zippers, and pull everything out into my basket. Like a nascar driver coming out of turn four, I open the garage door slinging it wide, and send my two dogs scrambling for cover in terror. I’ve cleared off the couch, the end tables and usually a TV tray that has become a permanent piece of living room furniture. I dump the basket on the couch and begin separation. I have a particular style of lint removal that I am very proud of. I pick each garment up and raising them over my head I snap them downward in a whipping motion that a ringmaster controlling a tiger would be proud of. It didn’t take me but twice to remember the ceiling fan. In one solid move two things happen. One, the lint is removed completely and two, the dogs bolt upright ready to fight or flee. The shirts and pants that need hanging are immediately removed from the pile and the lint removal process applied. I rush to the bedroom, grab seven hangers, rush back, put them on the hangers and then hang them on the door jamb. Now on to separation completion. It’s usually during this second separation process that I discover one of my wife’s favorite rayon, nylon, polyester, whatever, blouse, shirt, top or whatever, in the mix. It now fits an eight year old. Damn. Thinking quickly, I wrap it in a newspaper to conceal it and throw it away. One of my daughters will get blamed for stealing it eventually. I can live with that. I then start with my favorite logo Tee’s. I apply the lint removal process to each, smoothing them out and lay them on a flat spot on the couch. Next are the shorts and then the socks, underwear and white T-shirts. Now I fold, beginning a stack on the coffee table with my Logo Tee’s. Then the shorts, then the white T-shirts, underwear and socks. I leave the underwear until last because no one cares if they’re wrinkled or not. Well, maybe Mom…she used to tell me I should always have on clean underwear so if I got in an accident the EMT’s or Doctors wouldn’t think less of me. The dogs have came out from their shelter now, stretching, but still keeping a wary eye on me. I take the one sock that doesn’t have a match to my overflowing orphan sock drawer. I have socks in there from 1982. Making seven trips, I put everything else away. Done. Record time of…2 hours and 45 minutes. Now I feel like I’m a pretty darn normal person, but…is it like this in every household? I get up the next day, do my coffee thing, shower and get dressed. My clothes are wrinkled and have a red tint, but at least they smell like springtime in the Rockies. Or that’s what they’re supposed to smell like, I’ve never been to the Rockies….

Low Riders

Low Riders

Today I saw a kid, who couldn’t have been no more than 12. His pants were down over his hips and just above his penis. I am sure this appendage was the only thing keeping his pants from falling off completely. He would take three steps and pull them up, take three steps and pull them up. Without realizing, his taste in fashion, or lack thereof, is leading to a compulsive disorder that could possibly stay with him into adulthood. What is up with kids these days? Maybe his family lineage has a long line of plumbers. Maybe it’s really not butt crack just rear cleavage. Maybe his gene pool needs some chlorine. Is it a tough boy thing? Showing your crack builds street cred’s or something. There are probably degrees of street credits. Like, no belt, you’re cool, but a novice, 1 credit. No belt, small shoestring around two belt loops, add a slight droop 2 street cred’s and you can hang out behind the gym with the rest of the fashion challenged. Sagger’s, low riders, what do you call them? There is legislation in some states that actually prohibit this style of dress with fines and jail sentences for non-conformists. I guess it’s good that the government has stepped in to help the rest of us respectable citizens with real class.
I just hope they don’t make me remove my dangling bull nuts from my truck bumper…

Constant Struggle

I am always in a constant struggle in some part of my life. It’s a never ending battle of how to get by. I went to Brookshire Brothers to pick up some toilet paper and came close to a coronary when I saw the entire aisle filled with a virtual cornucopia of defication removal products. There was Cottonelle, Northern, Charmin and the list went on and on. I thought about the bears on TV, you know, the ones that have the toilet paper lint stuck to their butts? I couldn’t for the life of me remember what brand they used to keep the lint problem down. The prices were ridiculous. The cheap kind was one ply and I know what a bad idea that is. Are there people out there that use one ply? I will always wonder who they are and vow to never shake their hand again. Unless of course they’re of Arab descent. Their culture uses the left hand for this cumbersome, but necessary deed. I walked from one end of the aisle to the other. I remember thinking, “This is a booming business!” In the old days people used grass, leaves, fur, mussel shells and of course who doesn’t remember their grandmothers Sears and Roebuck catalog…at my age, my brain has become a 20 terabyte hard drive filled with useless information. To prove it, did you know that “splinter free” toilet paper didn’t come out until 1935? Can you imagine? After the fourth trip down the aisle and passing the Angel Soft I decide to not put myself through this any longer. I will put toilet paper out of my mind for good and let my wife deal with this. As I am leaving I pass a woman pushing her basket and I wonder, is she a “wadder” or a “folder”?