At Play...

Here I was using the word 'Sabotage' earlier and I'd totally forgotten our 'fun-filled' week! A colleague was plagued by evil gnomes or something...every night his computer connection might be unplugged, his podium turned around, belongings randomly placed in odd places....
Eventually a lookout was posted one day and the poo later hit the fan: wiring the telephone cord together, taking off the chair back, hot-gluing a cup to a desk, packing peanuts filling drawers to the brim, vaseline on the handles... and hole-punchings spilled everywhere! Darn those gnomes. They apologized by email later...the 5 that participated, plus about 30 more that didn't--tee hee!

The Invention of Sabotage

The old Dutch door to our kitchen’s been shut in attempt to keep the living room warm with a space heater but it’s a real drag opening up the top half to reach inside and flip the lever to swing the bottom half open—the bathroom is through the kitchen. The door is extremely plain and very old; no wooden crossbars that resemble a barn (thank god), and the old varnish has crackled and separated into a rough beaded texture as has all the wood trim here, being built in 1897. So one evening Brigham says “Pull the fishing line” as I attempt to open the latch yet again. I stood back baffled and finally spotted a very thin invisible line looped from a straight pin that had been stuck in the wood near the top of the frame. I pulled it and the entire door swung open at once…YEAH! This is what I’m talkin ‘bout! Using the old noggin. Problem solving. Innovation. His friend Jesse came over later and spent quite some time finding the line and following it up to the pin, over the top to the other side, by another straight pin and down to the latch where it was tightly tied. Very cool, simple, and useful. Yes, the human race is lazy.

On TV, I saw a few instances of items made by felons—styrofoam cups melted/heated into hardened shivs, newspaper spears (the whole reason I don’t use flour and water for paper mache is that it dries rock hard and is nearly impossible to scrape off a table once its cemented itself on), and even a handmade gun from metal and JB Weld.

When Brig was a 5th grader, we’d been in field collecting monarch and other caterpillars and found a heavy metal serrated triangle to bring home with our jar of creatures. I heard him out later…ransacking scrap wood and hammering away…Viola! Fishing line, a wooden brace, and a falling triangle—all set to guillotine the head off a grasshopper. The contraption worked—it would also cut a banana and hard grapes (not that we ate them after insect murder), but it would not cut into the skin of your finger, thus making it marketable and safe for youth everywhere who felt the need for pest control or to provide mother with help in the kitchen(not). I believe the remains of this device reside in the basement, minus the blade since I always got a kick out of it…

Boys and their toys. Older brother was into technical and electrical aspects…as a grade schooler rigging the computer so that any pics that mom saved would disappear in 24 hours and having it play an annoying little song if I typed in certain words. Tiny lights on the desk nearby that would light up as keys were pressed; then the old broken Nintendos that were converted to a computer games with the use of a soldering iron and other things that I can’t recall…then using the soldering iron on the back of ID cards trying to use them in pop machines for a free one… ”That’s a felony to add money to a card illegally!” Luckily that trick never got above 3cents thank god, or him and the friends got tired of failure and went on to write more Doom levels, with a dry-erase board and stolen calc book. There were always language books all over and then little snippets of other games too (‘mom, can you draw the outline of an aircraft carrier here?’) or ‘Watch my character run and jump!’ The boys waited until ‘the day of’ to submit a labyrinth/mousetrap device which could light a match at the end…to the chagrin of their teacher—and it actually worked.

My brothers created all manners of funny little explosive devices and meddled with welding tricycles together into weird elements and played with fireworks in a safe manner, as far as I know. I’ve also come home to the smell of sulfur in the air and strange black grains in my pie pans—“Don’t light gunpowder in the house!” and when I saw it lit in the backyard that phrase changed to “at all!” I was afraid the cops would come from all the smoke...whoosh!
And since I am getting sidetracked, I’ve probably written this before…fishing line allover the entire backyard like a giant laser web to catch good old mom and the true Vietnam experience: a low invisible trip wire to send my coffee cup flying through the air…!

Sad Underwear

I was walking through a library aisle and saw a title that provoked a smile: Sad Underwear and Other Complications.
Ahh, yes. I was instantly reminded of life’s little complications; rushing about that morning, pulling on my socks, as I turned to grab my pants I luckily saw my reflection: a pair of my favorite underwear had 2 holes in the butt cheek—Thank God for that mirror! I’d thought all was ‘well and good’ for my physical therapy appt later where a youthful pretty gal would attach electrodes to my hip and ass muscle. Crap! I raced to grab a decent, new-looking pair and praised my lucky stars that I now would NOT have to undergo the humiliation of Miss PT raising her eyebrows at that sorry pair of sad panties. But did I throw them out? NO! They are ‘staying home not getting in a car wreck’ underwear now and reside in a drawer filled with their many sisters. In fact, I am hard-pressed trying to find something hospital-stranger-worthy while retaining some semblance of comfort at the same time. Alas. I usually don something pretty or lacey that ends up in my ass crack when I do the 5 minute Elliptical warm-up thingy.
I guess Sad Underwear is better than a friend’s ‘No Underwear’ story…L H is also having hip problems and rather than getting shots ON the hip bone like I did, her’s was to be inserted deep within her hip socket. “Hip.” You imagine placing your hand on your hip, your jeans ride your hip…well, the handsome dark-eyed XRay Tech asked her to take off her pants. And panties. Huh? Totally. And had to shave slightly…a certain area…you know…near the groin. Enduring utter embarrassment, she lay still for quite a while for this procedure, red-faced and clenching her fists because the ‘attention’ down there tickled! I don’t handle surprises well—I would of been horrified!
There was going to be much more to this sad underwear story…but ….gonna watch some bad tv….

Sittin on the Dock of the Bay

Every time I hear Otis Redding or a few bars of "Take My Breath Away" or anything else popularized in my mind by TOP GUN, it always makes me smile because I really enjoyed this 80's cult movie and if it appears on TV, I have to stop and watch at least a small part of it.
My kids grew up with it because one of their day-care providers stuck it (and Pretty Woman) in the VCR countless times--massive crush on Cruise, Kilmer, (Gere)--Tegan was even forced to sing "You've Lost That Lovin Feelin" in his Navy OCS. I always liked the way Iceman snapped his gum and the shirtless sand volleyball scene... and...and...and...

Despite my fondness for the film (a 2 hr Navy Aviation ad!) and soundtrack, I always must curl my lip just a little... I'm disgruntled 'cause I'd attended the movie with a blind date; someone my neighbor and her husband knew and he was 'fine' and 'a nice guy' (though she'd raised her eyebrow at that statement). Oh. Um. Uh. For the life of me, I cannot recall the guy's name (or any speck of conversation)...slightly bald, with all the personality of a doorstop. or a rock. or any other mundane inatimate object that sits still and reflects light off its shiny spots.
I guess this gave me the opportunity to immerse myself and enjoy the movie, (which was a rare thing for me while raising little kids) since I would have virtually no chance of being interrupted... rocks can't talk.
But here's the kicker! Afterwards, he wanted to drive out to his folk's house in the country and as we entered the driveway it was obvious there was a huge family picnic going on. Total humiliation. Everyone thought I was 'his girlfriend' (we'd never met before) and the way I was introduced to the parents...well, I got the impression that they thought we'd been together for a long time and had this big future... (Huh?? What??) Naturally I reacted with good grace but I really wished I could crawl under a rock...or a doorstop....or any other dull inatimate object. Oh brother!
I wonder what they thought later on... as I never went out with him again...

Character Flaw.

I just got back after forcing myself to don my winter clothes and walk 4 blocks to the post office and I sit here now typing up and thinking about what a horrible person I am. I've been sitting here for nearly 4 hours, staring at some cream-colored, addressed envelopes, into which I eventually tucked their matching cards and stuck on their stamps. I am so terrible. I don't understand why I am this way; why I intend to do good and can never follow through...
I speak about sympathy cards and the rush of sadness I feel when I hear or read that someone has passed away.
I run out and search for just the right card. I look at it and write names--family names, my name, begin a sentence or two....then fail. I mean well. I just can't say what I mean. I want to say something meaningful and respectful and caring, but everything I say sounds exactly like what everyone else will say, or said. I want to think of a positive or fond personal statement but I fear to cause someone a rush of tears that reads them. I try again and eventually come up with something, but it's doesn't sound quite right. Does a bereaved family read cards anyway? I know my mother did--over and over and over again. I couldn't bear it. I did not want to read them and did not want to listen to them being read outloud to me, and although I did listen I only actually heard the words of one...
Anyway, many many times over the years I have come across envelopes with cards; when I pull them out I am shocked to see the cards were filled out and never sent. I've found them under my vehicle seats, in drawers, in the glovebox, under magazines and am always encompassed in a huge wave of shame. 'I didn't mail that?' 'Oh, not again.' 'What am I avoiding?' 'You selfish idiot.' 'I meant to...' I thought I did...' 'What is wrong with me?' 'How can I be so terrible?'
So tonight I wrote the words and picked them up and carried them down the street to the 'in town' box knowing that if I waited til morning it would never get done. Perhaps this should be a new resolution....