Friday, April 17, 2009
Where's The Lint Brush
WHERE’S THE LINT ROLLER
It’s that time of year again. Spring. I do not start cringing because it is allergy season, or it has been raining for five days straight, or even that my weekends are booked solid with weddings, graduations, and garage sales. I cringe because I cannot see my couch under the dog hair. I cannot walk through the house without a hair cloud forming at my feet. I cannot get the clothes from the basket to the drawer without them all looking like a cashmere sweater. (Cashmere underwear is not cool.)
I have two beautiful, hairy, Shelties. Nine months out of the year I love them dearly. Come Spring that love…well…shall I say, wanes. Two weeks ago I started vacuuming twice a day. Masking tape lint rollers became my best friend. I put a sign on the front door. “People in black clothing, enter at your own risk.”
My husband has tried to stay up with the brushing. Last time we collect enough to make a queen-size pillow, for a moment…just a moment…I gave credence to that idea
After brushing the youngest, Bella, I became concerned. “Oh my gosh, William, something is terribly wrong with Bella.”
“What are you talking about” William replied while shaking his head at the hysterical sound of my voice
“She’s emaciated. She must be sick. Quick get the phone and call the vet.”
“Honey,” he sighed. “Bella has always been that size, you just thought she was fatter because of all that fur.”
I jumped up and headed down the hall.
“Therese, were are you going?” William said, concerned he had hurt my feelings.
“To shave my head and body.”
“What?”
“Well…if losing hair makes Bella look skinner…maybe…”
The look on his face brought me back to reality. Oh well, it was a glimmer of hope for a moment.
I heard a gagging sound from the other room. I went to investigate. Blue, the older of our Shelties, just threw up a hairball. I thought only cats did that! Another bad assumption. As I cleaned it up and was rethinking dog ownership, I heard our daughter shouting from downstairs, “Mom, the dryer quit running.”
“What are you washing?” I shouted back.
“My bedspread”
The dogs sleep with her. “Check the lint trap, I bet it is clogged with dog hair.”
“Ew, its really gross.” She whined. “Oh, also, have you seen the lint roller?”
“I just bought a five pack, look a little harder, surely they can’t be gone already!”
Time for a nap, I think to myself. As I lay back in my lazy boy I wondered, can you donate dog hair to Locks for Love?
It’s that time of year again. Spring. I do not start cringing because it is allergy season, or it has been raining for five days straight, or even that my weekends are booked solid with weddings, graduations, and garage sales. I cringe because I cannot see my couch under the dog hair. I cannot walk through the house without a hair cloud forming at my feet. I cannot get the clothes from the basket to the drawer without them all looking like a cashmere sweater. (Cashmere underwear is not cool.)
I have two beautiful, hairy, Shelties. Nine months out of the year I love them dearly. Come Spring that love…well…shall I say, wanes. Two weeks ago I started vacuuming twice a day. Masking tape lint rollers became my best friend. I put a sign on the front door. “People in black clothing, enter at your own risk.”
My husband has tried to stay up with the brushing. Last time we collect enough to make a queen-size pillow, for a moment…just a moment…I gave credence to that idea
After brushing the youngest, Bella, I became concerned. “Oh my gosh, William, something is terribly wrong with Bella.”
“What are you talking about” William replied while shaking his head at the hysterical sound of my voice
“She’s emaciated. She must be sick. Quick get the phone and call the vet.”
“Honey,” he sighed. “Bella has always been that size, you just thought she was fatter because of all that fur.”
I jumped up and headed down the hall.
“Therese, were are you going?” William said, concerned he had hurt my feelings.
“To shave my head and body.”
“What?”
“Well…if losing hair makes Bella look skinner…maybe…”
The look on his face brought me back to reality. Oh well, it was a glimmer of hope for a moment.
I heard a gagging sound from the other room. I went to investigate. Blue, the older of our Shelties, just threw up a hairball. I thought only cats did that! Another bad assumption. As I cleaned it up and was rethinking dog ownership, I heard our daughter shouting from downstairs, “Mom, the dryer quit running.”
“What are you washing?” I shouted back.
“My bedspread”
The dogs sleep with her. “Check the lint trap, I bet it is clogged with dog hair.”
“Ew, its really gross.” She whined. “Oh, also, have you seen the lint roller?”
“I just bought a five pack, look a little harder, surely they can’t be gone already!”
Time for a nap, I think to myself. As I lay back in my lazy boy I wondered, can you donate dog hair to Locks for Love?
Friday, April 3, 2009
WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?
HAVING AN ARGUMENT WITH MY SIXTEEN YEAR OLD REMINDED ME OF THIS JOURNAL ENTRY I WROTE A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO. IT SEEMS A TIMELESS TRUTH.
What Would Jesus Do?
I’ve heard the term; What Would Jesus Do? In fact, it is a big market term these days for Christian entrepreneurs. It is sold on T-shirts, bracelets, and stickers, all in the hope of influencing our teenagers into better behavior. They supposedly hear this yelled at them by their parental unit, contemplate their actions and change them accordingly. However, when I tried this tactic, suddenly Jesus becomes the all to human man. The name dropping backfires on my intent to bring about the corrected behavior in my teen. Instead all too clever children, shoot back what they think Jesus would do, or has done. Here are a few of my favorites:
A friend of mine looked at her son’s disheveled appearance, hair unkempt and a hole in each knee of his jeans. She innocently asks him to walk a couple of feet behind her so no-one will no he is hers. He blurts out, “Jesus loves us just the way we are.” True, She thinks, but then he doesn’t have to put up with the stares of neighbors that know she drives a Porsche and can afford to dress her child properly. Is that sirens she hears? The child neglect unit maybe?
Another friend’s son came home with alcohol on his breath. She scolded, “How could you drink?” She then reminded him of his Sunday school teachings. “ What would Jesus do?”
“ Well,” he replied, “ Jesus drank, in fact mom, his first miracle involved alcohol. Remember, he turned water into wine! In fact he did it for his Mother!”
My best loved one was; as entering my teenage daughters room and discovering that it was very close to being the worlds third largest dump, I yelled out at her, “What’s wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?”
She very quickly replied, “Jesus was born in a barn and he turned out okay didn’t he?”
I can envision it now, Mary, yelling at Jesus when she finally found him in the temple, “What were you thinking running off like that?”
Jesus rolling his young eyes at his earthly parental unit and responding, “Making sure future teens have an excuse.”
Aahhhhh! Wait, I think I have it. I tell my child, “ If you don’t straighten up, no i-pod, no cell phone, no computer, No Technology! JESUS had no technology.” That brings about complete silence.
Bless All, Therese M. Guy
What Would Jesus Do?
I’ve heard the term; What Would Jesus Do? In fact, it is a big market term these days for Christian entrepreneurs. It is sold on T-shirts, bracelets, and stickers, all in the hope of influencing our teenagers into better behavior. They supposedly hear this yelled at them by their parental unit, contemplate their actions and change them accordingly. However, when I tried this tactic, suddenly Jesus becomes the all to human man. The name dropping backfires on my intent to bring about the corrected behavior in my teen. Instead all too clever children, shoot back what they think Jesus would do, or has done. Here are a few of my favorites:
A friend of mine looked at her son’s disheveled appearance, hair unkempt and a hole in each knee of his jeans. She innocently asks him to walk a couple of feet behind her so no-one will no he is hers. He blurts out, “Jesus loves us just the way we are.” True, She thinks, but then he doesn’t have to put up with the stares of neighbors that know she drives a Porsche and can afford to dress her child properly. Is that sirens she hears? The child neglect unit maybe?
Another friend’s son came home with alcohol on his breath. She scolded, “How could you drink?” She then reminded him of his Sunday school teachings. “ What would Jesus do?”
“ Well,” he replied, “ Jesus drank, in fact mom, his first miracle involved alcohol. Remember, he turned water into wine! In fact he did it for his Mother!”
My best loved one was; as entering my teenage daughters room and discovering that it was very close to being the worlds third largest dump, I yelled out at her, “What’s wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?”
She very quickly replied, “Jesus was born in a barn and he turned out okay didn’t he?”
I can envision it now, Mary, yelling at Jesus when she finally found him in the temple, “What were you thinking running off like that?”
Jesus rolling his young eyes at his earthly parental unit and responding, “Making sure future teens have an excuse.”
Aahhhhh! Wait, I think I have it. I tell my child, “ If you don’t straighten up, no i-pod, no cell phone, no computer, No Technology! JESUS had no technology.” That brings about complete silence.
Bless All, Therese M. Guy
Thursday, November 6, 2008
PANNING FOR GOLD
By Therese M. Guy
“Aren’t you horrified?” My friend asked me the other day, referring to the state of the economy.
“ I’m a little nervous,” I said, “cause I run a leisure based business and that is sometimes the first to be let go when people are cutting back.”
“Only a little?” She replied, panic edging her voice. I guess when someone is panicked they fell better if they can spread that fear so she continued on that track.
“A friend of mine was laid off his job and lost his home the other day.”
Been there, I thought.
“Another friend lost his retirement and might have to declare bankruptcy!”
Done that, another silent reverie.
“We are going to have to cut back on our Christmas giving.”
“Horrors!” I thought sarcastically. Opps, I accidentally said that out loud. My friend took the rather obvious hint and changed the subject. Later that night I replayed our conversation in my head, and thought, why am I not as panicked?
One answer is I have already survived my husband’s disability and loss of income, loss of a home, and sparse holidays and survived. Some of my best memories were of Christmases that required very little to enjoy.
One Christmas I spent with my sister on an Indian reservation in Northern Minnesota.
Things were tight for my sister. We had no money for fancy decorations. Out comes the string and on goes the popcorn on the stove. Well, my sister was so poor; she had the pan but no lid. So when the popcorn began to pop it was flying all over the kitchen. We chased after the flying popcorn catching it in our bowls, laughing the whole time. We trimmed the tree with popcorn and cranberries and paper chains. Okay, some of the popcorn went in our mouths but the point is we did not need fancy trimmings to enjoy each other.
My other thought was that man has always been attracted to owning stuff. Maybe for those who believe in evolution we are really descended from the pack rat!
This summer at my family reunion the theme was western. We played all sorts of western competitions; wagon train races, stick horse races, fastest squirt gun draw, and panning for gold. During the panning for gold game we were divided into teams and had to run down to a pool filled with; water, sand, and rocks painted like gold nuggets. We picked up a sorting pan and sifted out the gold nuggets and ran back to our team to fill a jar waiting there. The first ones to fill their jar won. As I contemplated this game that emulated life with acquisitions, I realized how rich I really was. No, there were no real gold nuggets in the pool, but I had family that took time out of their lives to be together and play. Wow, I knew I had plenty of friends who were not that rich.
So how do you survive hard economic times? First look at the brighter side of hardship. I know if gas goes up again and I have to walk to work I might lose a few pounds and I don’t even have to go to an expensive gym. I know if I cannot afford to go out on the town I can invite a few friends over for a potluck, because all contributing to a nice dinner is cheaper. Finally, hugs are free and they make you feel so good!!!!!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
YES, MOM I'M WEARING CLEAN UNDERWEAR!
“Yes Mom, I’m wearing clean underwear.”
There is a flaw in this protective memory ability given to mankind. Take for example the capability to forget the pain of labor. That is not just to relieve the poor mother of the trauma of childbirth, but also to dim the memory of pain so you do not take it out on your children. Some women’s memories are better then others and this causes them to yell things like, “You know how getting into heaven is like taking a camel through the eye of a needle? Well, bringing you into this world was like taking an elephant through that same needle! You sooooo owe me!”
Memory failure is an affliction that has no gender prejudice. Males too begin to forget things, as they grow older. For instance the other day my daughter returned home late from high school. The school is located directly across the street from our house. Her father began lecturing her on staying late to talk when she had homework. I reminded him later that when he was seventeen He was in the Marines and had a tattoo, had been drunk, and made a few other unwise decisions. Seems like he had forgotten his youthful hyjinks.
I guess I have forgotten a little what it was like to be a teenager also. My daughter says that I embarrass her. “Honey” I pleaded just the other day. “I just asked you if you were wearing clean underwear before the tournament in case you were knocked out and had to be taken to the hospital. I was trying to save you from the embarrassment of dirty skivvies.”
“Mom,” she replied agitated. “You were the announcer and you didn’t turn off the microphone!”
I had to admit, I had used that protective memory loss to get past all the distress my parents had caused by their loving but humiliating interference in my budding teen independence.
The road goes both ways though because teenagers also suffer from recollection deficits.
They forget that not so long ago they crawled in under the covers with you when they swore the boogey man was under their bed. They forget that they embarrassed you when they laid on the floor of the store screaming at the top of their three year old lungs, “My mommy is mean.” They forget that giving you a kiss and hug in public does not cause the world to implode.
Right this minute I’m having a moment of clarity. I remember what it was like to be young, but I also remember that I am a mom, so honey, I love you and I hope your wearing clean underwear (just in case).
There is a flaw in this protective memory ability given to mankind. Take for example the capability to forget the pain of labor. That is not just to relieve the poor mother of the trauma of childbirth, but also to dim the memory of pain so you do not take it out on your children. Some women’s memories are better then others and this causes them to yell things like, “You know how getting into heaven is like taking a camel through the eye of a needle? Well, bringing you into this world was like taking an elephant through that same needle! You sooooo owe me!”
Memory failure is an affliction that has no gender prejudice. Males too begin to forget things, as they grow older. For instance the other day my daughter returned home late from high school. The school is located directly across the street from our house. Her father began lecturing her on staying late to talk when she had homework. I reminded him later that when he was seventeen He was in the Marines and had a tattoo, had been drunk, and made a few other unwise decisions. Seems like he had forgotten his youthful hyjinks.
I guess I have forgotten a little what it was like to be a teenager also. My daughter says that I embarrass her. “Honey” I pleaded just the other day. “I just asked you if you were wearing clean underwear before the tournament in case you were knocked out and had to be taken to the hospital. I was trying to save you from the embarrassment of dirty skivvies.”
“Mom,” she replied agitated. “You were the announcer and you didn’t turn off the microphone!”
I had to admit, I had used that protective memory loss to get past all the distress my parents had caused by their loving but humiliating interference in my budding teen independence.
The road goes both ways though because teenagers also suffer from recollection deficits.
They forget that not so long ago they crawled in under the covers with you when they swore the boogey man was under their bed. They forget that they embarrassed you when they laid on the floor of the store screaming at the top of their three year old lungs, “My mommy is mean.” They forget that giving you a kiss and hug in public does not cause the world to implode.
Right this minute I’m having a moment of clarity. I remember what it was like to be young, but I also remember that I am a mom, so honey, I love you and I hope your wearing clean underwear (just in case).
Friday, September 12, 2008
OH MY GOSH i MARRIED MY DAD!
Oh My Gosh I Married My Dad!
When I got married twenty six years ago people teased, “You know women marry their dads,” I could not even image that my new spouse was remotely like my dad. My father was in his sixties and my strapping young husband his twenties. I loved my dad but did not see any similarities.
I remember my dad’s sometimes irritating sense of humor. One Christmas eve my mom sent my dad to Walgreens (one of the few stores open on Christmas eve) to get some light bulbs and water softener. My dad returned home but took awhile to come in from the garage. When he came in he was laden with several Christmas presents. As he laid them under the tree my mom quizzed, “ Sy, where is the stuff I sent you to the store for?”
My dad replied, “oh, well you know I always do my Christmas shopping the day before Christmas, I guess I forgot the other stuff.”
My mom sighed and mumbled, “typical male never brings back what I ask for.” She was miffed at dad for the rest of the evening.
The nest morning we opened presents. My mom had the stash with her name on them in front of her. She opened the first and it was a nice bottle of perfume from dad. The next two pristinely wrapped presents contained the light bulbs and water softener my dad had purchased the day before. He was grinning ear to ear; she on the other hand, was not amused.
Flash forward 26 years.
Our daughter has moved back in with us to have her baby while her husband is serving in Iraq. My husband has been teasing her about how much toilet paper she goes through. My daughter countering that the baby is sitting on her bladder and she cannot help it if she has to urinate a zillion times a day. It was her Birthday yesterday and she opened the envelope from me, a gift card for a pedicure. She unwrapped the present from her sister, a six-pack of Snickers. She then unwraps the present from her father, yes; you guessed it, a roll of toilet paper! He was grinning ear to ear and our daughter was not amused. It was then that it hit me, oh my gosh, I did marry my dad!
My dad was also the king of trivia and constantly corrected our English. If I asked, “dad how do you spell cow?” He would say it was the Latin derivative of mesey, misey, mosey, and half an hour later I would find out how to spell the word. We would stand corrected on all sorts of subjects that we considered not life altering information.
Again this trait is dominant in my husband. He is the king of little known facts. At least He claims them as facts, but I’m not quite sure of his sources. His need to pass on this information is a compulsion. In falls in the realm of OCD. If you cut yourself and were bleeding profusely he would explain the circulatory system and the chances of infection before handing you the damn Band-Aid.
I must admit though, if he owns these similar irritating characteristics he also owns the ones that endeared me to my dad. My dad was fiercely loyal to my mom and us children. We always knew we were loved and respected, and it is true with William too. So in this world were fidelity seems to be a lost concept, marrying a man like my dad seems to have been a great choice.
When I got married twenty six years ago people teased, “You know women marry their dads,” I could not even image that my new spouse was remotely like my dad. My father was in his sixties and my strapping young husband his twenties. I loved my dad but did not see any similarities.
I remember my dad’s sometimes irritating sense of humor. One Christmas eve my mom sent my dad to Walgreens (one of the few stores open on Christmas eve) to get some light bulbs and water softener. My dad returned home but took awhile to come in from the garage. When he came in he was laden with several Christmas presents. As he laid them under the tree my mom quizzed, “ Sy, where is the stuff I sent you to the store for?”
My dad replied, “oh, well you know I always do my Christmas shopping the day before Christmas, I guess I forgot the other stuff.”
My mom sighed and mumbled, “typical male never brings back what I ask for.” She was miffed at dad for the rest of the evening.
The nest morning we opened presents. My mom had the stash with her name on them in front of her. She opened the first and it was a nice bottle of perfume from dad. The next two pristinely wrapped presents contained the light bulbs and water softener my dad had purchased the day before. He was grinning ear to ear; she on the other hand, was not amused.
Flash forward 26 years.
Our daughter has moved back in with us to have her baby while her husband is serving in Iraq. My husband has been teasing her about how much toilet paper she goes through. My daughter countering that the baby is sitting on her bladder and she cannot help it if she has to urinate a zillion times a day. It was her Birthday yesterday and she opened the envelope from me, a gift card for a pedicure. She unwrapped the present from her sister, a six-pack of Snickers. She then unwraps the present from her father, yes; you guessed it, a roll of toilet paper! He was grinning ear to ear and our daughter was not amused. It was then that it hit me, oh my gosh, I did marry my dad!
My dad was also the king of trivia and constantly corrected our English. If I asked, “dad how do you spell cow?” He would say it was the Latin derivative of mesey, misey, mosey, and half an hour later I would find out how to spell the word. We would stand corrected on all sorts of subjects that we considered not life altering information.
Again this trait is dominant in my husband. He is the king of little known facts. At least He claims them as facts, but I’m not quite sure of his sources. His need to pass on this information is a compulsion. In falls in the realm of OCD. If you cut yourself and were bleeding profusely he would explain the circulatory system and the chances of infection before handing you the damn Band-Aid.
I must admit though, if he owns these similar irritating characteristics he also owns the ones that endeared me to my dad. My dad was fiercely loyal to my mom and us children. We always knew we were loved and respected, and it is true with William too. So in this world were fidelity seems to be a lost concept, marrying a man like my dad seems to have been a great choice.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
A Little Cheese With That Whine?
A Little Cheese With That Whine?
“The grass may be greener on the other side,
but it still has to be mowed. “
It’s been one of those weeks, the kind where you question God as to the misdeeds that deserved your current state of affairs. You know, not enough money for all the monthly bills, the shower door breaks, the sewer drain backs up, and your last good fitting bra tears.
A friend calls to find a sympathetic ear. I’m not in the mood. As she pours out her woes, I interrupt, “I’m out of gas, I had to walk to work.”
“You started walking to lose that fat?” she replied
She did not get it. I tried again, “The washing machine is not ringing the clothes dry enough and it takes three hours to get our clothes dry.”
She countered, “My daughter ran up 700 minutes of text messages.”
The contest was off. “My In-laws banned us from their premises”
“My daughter’s principal called and we have a meeting!”
“My husband is deaf.”
“My dog died!”
“Okay, you win,” I concede. She decides to call back when I’m in a better mood.
It is not that I have it worse then anyone else, I know plenty right now that are suffering maladies worse then mine. It’s just that these are my problems, and damn it; I deserve a little pity party. That is what I tell myself anyway. I decide to wallow in it and find the perfect mood music. I get out my one country western CD by singer, “Terri Clark.” I skip to the song, Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me. I begin to sing along. My dog joins in the caterwauling. I look at the spoiled mutt and grumble, “ I should have your life.” The look in his eye’s say, “I’m not howling about my life, it’s your singing!” Everyone is a critic! This did nothing to lift my mood.
Later in the evening I try calling another friend. My friend teasingly asks me if I want a little cheese with my whine. Cheese and wine that sounds good. Eating is always my emotional fix and the wine would make me sleep. After the phone call I head to the refrigerator. Crap! Someone left the wrapper open on the cheese and it is all moldy. There is no wine, only grape juice. I pour myself a cup and head for bed. I decide a good nights sleep will help and I remember the last line in Gone With The Wind, “ Tomorrow is another day.”
“The grass may be greener on the other side,
but it still has to be mowed. “
It’s been one of those weeks, the kind where you question God as to the misdeeds that deserved your current state of affairs. You know, not enough money for all the monthly bills, the shower door breaks, the sewer drain backs up, and your last good fitting bra tears.
A friend calls to find a sympathetic ear. I’m not in the mood. As she pours out her woes, I interrupt, “I’m out of gas, I had to walk to work.”
“You started walking to lose that fat?” she replied
She did not get it. I tried again, “The washing machine is not ringing the clothes dry enough and it takes three hours to get our clothes dry.”
She countered, “My daughter ran up 700 minutes of text messages.”
The contest was off. “My In-laws banned us from their premises”
“My daughter’s principal called and we have a meeting!”
“My husband is deaf.”
“My dog died!”
“Okay, you win,” I concede. She decides to call back when I’m in a better mood.
It is not that I have it worse then anyone else, I know plenty right now that are suffering maladies worse then mine. It’s just that these are my problems, and damn it; I deserve a little pity party. That is what I tell myself anyway. I decide to wallow in it and find the perfect mood music. I get out my one country western CD by singer, “Terri Clark.” I skip to the song, Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me. I begin to sing along. My dog joins in the caterwauling. I look at the spoiled mutt and grumble, “ I should have your life.” The look in his eye’s say, “I’m not howling about my life, it’s your singing!” Everyone is a critic! This did nothing to lift my mood.
Later in the evening I try calling another friend. My friend teasingly asks me if I want a little cheese with my whine. Cheese and wine that sounds good. Eating is always my emotional fix and the wine would make me sleep. After the phone call I head to the refrigerator. Crap! Someone left the wrapper open on the cheese and it is all moldy. There is no wine, only grape juice. I pour myself a cup and head for bed. I decide a good nights sleep will help and I remember the last line in Gone With The Wind, “ Tomorrow is another day.”
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