It was only our second or third date when my husband, Cowboy, brought his best friend to meet me.
As I peered into the cardboard box nestled into the cab of his truck, I was greeted by a fuzzy brown and black face with a big wet nose looking back at me.
"This is Rush," Cowboy told me.
Rush, just a puppy at the time, was one-fourth lab and three-fourths pit-bull. I didn't know what to make of him at first.
Rush wasn't a pretty dog, at least not in the way that collies or poodles or dachshunds are pretty.
Rush was 100 percent dog -- and a Republican dog at that, named after the windy and rotund Rush of talk radio and television.
Being somewhat afraid of dogs with a reputation -- you know, Dobermans, rottweilers, and pit bulls among others -- I didn't take to Rush immediately.
Rush didn't seem to notice much or mind though. He'd pay me a polite nod or sniff, but he was Cowboy's dog in every sense.
As Rush grew up, I still feared him a little but was constantly impressed by the devotion he showed Cowboy.
You could tell easily by the look in his dog eyes that Cowboy was his world.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that when Rush was a pup, he contracted the Parvo virus and nearly died.
Cowboy set out with the determination of a miracle worker to nurse him back to health, caring for his friend day and night, feeding his tired body the electrolytes it needed to get better.
I think Rush was always grateful.
Cowboy was always proud of his dog, who followed his every step, every command. With wide shoulders and muscles that protruded like a weightlifter's, Rush was every bit a man's dog -- Cowboy's dog.
Though he had jaws strong enough to tear the limb right off a tree -- or I suspected maybe even a person -- Rush knew Cowboy was his master, and he would answer each command to sit, lay down, stay, with only the fierce wagging of his tail to show that he was eager to play.
I don't think any dog was ever happier than Rush, with Cowboy rough-wrestling with him in the grass.
While he would bark or emit a low growl to others who may tease him or try to take his food, with his master he was a pussycat.
Cowboy could take a piece of meat right out of Rush's mouth with Rush just waiting submissively for him to give it back -- never offering even a dirty dog look. He was Cowboy's dog completely.
The more I got to know Rush, the more I began to trust him. While I'd never bother his dinner dish or put my hand to close to his colossal jaws, I did begin to feel a little safer knowing Rush, a fantastic watch dog, could protect me from harm.
I knew I had come to care for Rush when one day, afraid he would follow me from the farm across a busy highway where my husband was working, I opened the car door and invited Rush in.
He didn't have to be asked twice. Rush sat in the passenger seat of my Pontiac polite as pie as we made the trip. In fact, once we arrived across the field, Rush decided he didn't want to get out. Cowboy had to call him before I could get his hefty body out of my car.
The only time I ever really got angry at Rush was a few weeks ago when my husband was working on our new house, ready to put the windows into our sun room.
He had them laid out on the floor, ready to install, when Rush strolled in the open door and made himself at home by walking right across the panes.
As soon as I saw him do it, I screamed at him to get off. CRACK! There went the first pane under a big hairy foot.
The more I screamed, the more Rush danced around, apparently confused, taking another window paine with him before Cowboy could get him back outside.
It wasn't a banner day for Rush in my mind.
But only a week or so later, with the angry wheels of a busy highway, Rush was taken from Cowboy's world.
Cowboy knew there was nothing he could do -- no electrolytes could save Rush this time. So he sat with him.
Though Rush was so badly injured, he still never offered to snap at Cowboy, as many hurt animals might have. He put his head on Cowboy's lap and looked up at him with the look that only a loved dog can reserve for his master.
And he died.
Only those who have had the God-given fortune of a cherished and loyal pet can understand how equally heartbreaking the loss can be.
Cowboy -- tough and ornery like his dog -- doesn't like to let his feelings show, but I know.
And if I could bring Rush back, I'd knock out all those sun room windows myself.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Show gives new meaning to "Go Soak Your Head"
People will do anything.
No matter if the boundaries of stupidity reach from here to eternity. Somewhere, somehow, there's at least one person harebrained enough to attempt the absurd.
This general lack of faith in the smarts of the human species was the result of too much time parked in front of satellite television last week.
Admittedly, that time spent doesn't say much for my own IQ. But I did learn something.
While flipping through the million channels of nothing on, I happened across the Discovery Health Channel. Folks, it's become my newest addiction.
You just never know what you're going to see.
Case in point. One of the episodes followed three seemingly normal people through their varied odyssies into the world of plastic surgery. Now I know that there are some very legitimate and medically necessary reasons for plastic surgery, but folks, this episode didn't include any.
I watched a woman get white hot acid poured all over her face (a chemical peel) to reduce her fine lines for her impending wedding. Her face literally was burned off. Of course after several weeks a new face grew back.
I sat in awe as a man with a dome as slick as a cue ball succumbed to hundreds of little needles being stuck into his head as he went under the knife for a hair transplant. He hoped it would make him more of a Don Juan.
The man had sections of hairy scalp removed from his head. Then, that section of skin was sewed shut. The hairs were extracted from the donor scalp area and poked under his unruly scalp. It was perfectly awful. The man was awake throughout the procedure and smiled as he pictured his future fortune impressing the ladies.
My eyebrow shot involuntarily up to the top of my head as I watched another young woman undergo a nose job and chin implant.
Doctors took some kind heavy metal implement, shoved it up the woman's nostrils, and then started banging away at it with a real honest-to-goodness hammer.
Crack!
Then, as pieces of bone and cartilage broke away, the doctor would reach down into the far recesses of her nose with the longest pair of tongs I've ever seen, pulling the unwanted nose debris out and depositing it nonchalantly into a metal pan.
Ping!
He turned her bottom lip inside out and cut a huge gash to implant her chin. When the operation was over, the woman's head looked like an old catcher's mitt that had been left out in the rain for a couple of seasons. However, when the cameras tracked her down again months later, she was grinning from ear to ear with her new nose sniffer and chin chopper.
A few nights later, the episode followed the trials and tribulations of teenage girls whoa re getting plastic surgeries as gifts. One 14-year-old girl got the birthday gift of liposuction from her mother.
And to think I was happy with a pair of jeans.
Another 18-year-old girl got what all teenagers need: a brand spanking new set of breast implants. These were a gift from her father. Now there's a conversation I could never imagine having with my parents.
"Mom, Dad... I have two little (well, make that two BIG) favors to ask."
What in the world goes through these people's minds?
Another Discovery health Channel program was all about men and women who undergo sex change operations. I won't even go there. Suffice it to say where there's a will, there's a way.
I thought by then I'd seen it all. There couldn't be anything stranger than that.
then I tuned in the other night to the episode on cryogenics. You know, freeze-drying yourself so you'll be fresh for the next lifetime.
Evidently, people with more money than sense have decided death is too much of a bummer, so they're just going to avoid it all together.
When it's their turn to croak, they're having themselves frozen. They figure they can remain in this state for how ever many years it takes for science to cure what killed them. The truly filthy rich are having their entire bodies frozen.
but for those on more of a fixed income or whose bodies have been mangled beyond further use, never fear. If you'd like to join the carefree world of the cryogenically preserved, you can just have your head frozen.
Yep. Believe it. Otherwise rational human beings are making plans for their own deaths that include beheading. That way, when scientists figure out how to do head transplants, they'll be the first in line.
Unfortunately, I fell asleep before I was able to learn where these heads will get their new body parts.
Maybe they will call the toe truck. Or, could be they'll ask for hand-outs. Maybe they let someone else give them a heads up. Someone should really put their foot down.
Either way, I don't think cryogenics is for me. I bet it costs an arm and a leg.
No matter if the boundaries of stupidity reach from here to eternity. Somewhere, somehow, there's at least one person harebrained enough to attempt the absurd.
This general lack of faith in the smarts of the human species was the result of too much time parked in front of satellite television last week.
Admittedly, that time spent doesn't say much for my own IQ. But I did learn something.
While flipping through the million channels of nothing on, I happened across the Discovery Health Channel. Folks, it's become my newest addiction.
You just never know what you're going to see.
Case in point. One of the episodes followed three seemingly normal people through their varied odyssies into the world of plastic surgery. Now I know that there are some very legitimate and medically necessary reasons for plastic surgery, but folks, this episode didn't include any.
I watched a woman get white hot acid poured all over her face (a chemical peel) to reduce her fine lines for her impending wedding. Her face literally was burned off. Of course after several weeks a new face grew back.
I sat in awe as a man with a dome as slick as a cue ball succumbed to hundreds of little needles being stuck into his head as he went under the knife for a hair transplant. He hoped it would make him more of a Don Juan.
The man had sections of hairy scalp removed from his head. Then, that section of skin was sewed shut. The hairs were extracted from the donor scalp area and poked under his unruly scalp. It was perfectly awful. The man was awake throughout the procedure and smiled as he pictured his future fortune impressing the ladies.
My eyebrow shot involuntarily up to the top of my head as I watched another young woman undergo a nose job and chin implant.
Doctors took some kind heavy metal implement, shoved it up the woman's nostrils, and then started banging away at it with a real honest-to-goodness hammer.
Crack!
Then, as pieces of bone and cartilage broke away, the doctor would reach down into the far recesses of her nose with the longest pair of tongs I've ever seen, pulling the unwanted nose debris out and depositing it nonchalantly into a metal pan.
Ping!
He turned her bottom lip inside out and cut a huge gash to implant her chin. When the operation was over, the woman's head looked like an old catcher's mitt that had been left out in the rain for a couple of seasons. However, when the cameras tracked her down again months later, she was grinning from ear to ear with her new nose sniffer and chin chopper.
A few nights later, the episode followed the trials and tribulations of teenage girls whoa re getting plastic surgeries as gifts. One 14-year-old girl got the birthday gift of liposuction from her mother.
And to think I was happy with a pair of jeans.
Another 18-year-old girl got what all teenagers need: a brand spanking new set of breast implants. These were a gift from her father. Now there's a conversation I could never imagine having with my parents.
"Mom, Dad... I have two little (well, make that two BIG) favors to ask."
What in the world goes through these people's minds?
Another Discovery health Channel program was all about men and women who undergo sex change operations. I won't even go there. Suffice it to say where there's a will, there's a way.
I thought by then I'd seen it all. There couldn't be anything stranger than that.
then I tuned in the other night to the episode on cryogenics. You know, freeze-drying yourself so you'll be fresh for the next lifetime.
Evidently, people with more money than sense have decided death is too much of a bummer, so they're just going to avoid it all together.
When it's their turn to croak, they're having themselves frozen. They figure they can remain in this state for how ever many years it takes for science to cure what killed them. The truly filthy rich are having their entire bodies frozen.
but for those on more of a fixed income or whose bodies have been mangled beyond further use, never fear. If you'd like to join the carefree world of the cryogenically preserved, you can just have your head frozen.
Yep. Believe it. Otherwise rational human beings are making plans for their own deaths that include beheading. That way, when scientists figure out how to do head transplants, they'll be the first in line.
Unfortunately, I fell asleep before I was able to learn where these heads will get their new body parts.
Maybe they will call the toe truck. Or, could be they'll ask for hand-outs. Maybe they let someone else give them a heads up. Someone should really put their foot down.
Either way, I don't think cryogenics is for me. I bet it costs an arm and a leg.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
This paint job was a horse of a different color
In the great game of practical joke tag, apparently I’m “It.”
I don’t know about your household, but in the Reed-Lambert abode, we’ve always had a little bit of unspoken rivalry in practical joking.
Sometimes my husband Arnie and I might go for months and not think of a dastardly deed to pull on each other.
And then, just when we think the other one’s guard is down, WHAM, down the hammer falls.
(hee, hee, hee.)
Except this time the joke’s on me, and I wish somebody could help me think of a good one to top it.
Arnie got the last jab when I went off to church one Sunday night not too long ago. Arnie stayed behind, having been horse riding and not getting home in time to clean up and get ready.
I never saw it coming. But when I crested the hill toward my house on the way back from church, I definitely saw where it had landed.
Folks, the joke was on me, and this time that man I married went too far, dragging my poor horse, Grady, into the mix.
If you’ve ever been around horses or cows, you’re probably familiar with the purple iodine mixture that’s used as first aid for the occasional cut or scratch.
As far as staining power goes, it’s there for the long haul.
Well, as I drove up my road, from nearly a mile away, I saw that Arnie had transformed poor old Grady into a big white walking billboard.
There on my beautiful white horse (the horse I love and the one Arnie is forever teasing for his “slight” weight problem) written in huge purple iodine letters were these words: “Horse for Sale – Cheap!”
My jaw dropped as I pulled into the driveway. As Grady m moseyed through the field, I saw there was more. On his other side, looming for the world to see was yet another “For Sale – Kid’s Horse.”
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Emblazoned across Grady’s hefty backside was – I swear – my phone number.
I could have croaked. There was my sweet Grady, munching his grass buffet in the pasture, just as proud as you please, completely oblivious to the ridiculous message he was sporting.
When I stormed into the house, Arnie was innocently watching television. I, however, was not amused.
I let him have it with both barrels. While I’d been sitting in church, innocent as an angel, Arnie had been a little devil.
Heathen!
It was only a few minutes before a still-laughing Arnie was alternately hosing and scrubbing Grady down. The skin nearly turned pink but the trace of the purple iodine message – like Arnie’s laughter – lingered.
Eventual rain and sun have now faded the message beyond legibility. And I’m thinking it’s payback time.
If I could just think of something equally evil… similarly sinister… comparably conniving.
I thought about painting a white shoe polish message on Arnie’s brown horse, but that lacks originality , and I don’t want to drag another hapless creature into the mix.
I could short sheet the bed… maybe sneak up and pour a glass of ice water over his head when he gets in the shower…
(Nope, I’ve done those before.)
There’s always the old “clear plastic wrap over the toilet bowl” trick… or putting a UK bumper sticker somewhere on his vehicle. (He’s one of those strange birds who roots for even stranger birds at a school slightly to our north.)
Better yet, I could put some Groovy Grape Kool-Aid powder in the shower head just before Arnie gets in and wait for his reaction to the ensuing purple hair-do.
Heh, heh, heh.
Arnie may not care so much for purple hair.
But then neither, I’ll wager, did Grady.
I don’t know about your household, but in the Reed-Lambert abode, we’ve always had a little bit of unspoken rivalry in practical joking.
Sometimes my husband Arnie and I might go for months and not think of a dastardly deed to pull on each other.
And then, just when we think the other one’s guard is down, WHAM, down the hammer falls.
(hee, hee, hee.)
Except this time the joke’s on me, and I wish somebody could help me think of a good one to top it.
Arnie got the last jab when I went off to church one Sunday night not too long ago. Arnie stayed behind, having been horse riding and not getting home in time to clean up and get ready.
I never saw it coming. But when I crested the hill toward my house on the way back from church, I definitely saw where it had landed.
Folks, the joke was on me, and this time that man I married went too far, dragging my poor horse, Grady, into the mix.
If you’ve ever been around horses or cows, you’re probably familiar with the purple iodine mixture that’s used as first aid for the occasional cut or scratch.
As far as staining power goes, it’s there for the long haul.
Well, as I drove up my road, from nearly a mile away, I saw that Arnie had transformed poor old Grady into a big white walking billboard.
There on my beautiful white horse (the horse I love and the one Arnie is forever teasing for his “slight” weight problem) written in huge purple iodine letters were these words: “Horse for Sale – Cheap!”
My jaw dropped as I pulled into the driveway. As Grady m moseyed through the field, I saw there was more. On his other side, looming for the world to see was yet another “For Sale – Kid’s Horse.”
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Emblazoned across Grady’s hefty backside was – I swear – my phone number.
I could have croaked. There was my sweet Grady, munching his grass buffet in the pasture, just as proud as you please, completely oblivious to the ridiculous message he was sporting.
When I stormed into the house, Arnie was innocently watching television. I, however, was not amused.
I let him have it with both barrels. While I’d been sitting in church, innocent as an angel, Arnie had been a little devil.
Heathen!
It was only a few minutes before a still-laughing Arnie was alternately hosing and scrubbing Grady down. The skin nearly turned pink but the trace of the purple iodine message – like Arnie’s laughter – lingered.
Eventual rain and sun have now faded the message beyond legibility. And I’m thinking it’s payback time.
If I could just think of something equally evil… similarly sinister… comparably conniving.
I thought about painting a white shoe polish message on Arnie’s brown horse, but that lacks originality , and I don’t want to drag another hapless creature into the mix.
I could short sheet the bed… maybe sneak up and pour a glass of ice water over his head when he gets in the shower…
(Nope, I’ve done those before.)
There’s always the old “clear plastic wrap over the toilet bowl” trick… or putting a UK bumper sticker somewhere on his vehicle. (He’s one of those strange birds who roots for even stranger birds at a school slightly to our north.)
Better yet, I could put some Groovy Grape Kool-Aid powder in the shower head just before Arnie gets in and wait for his reaction to the ensuing purple hair-do.
Heh, heh, heh.
Arnie may not care so much for purple hair.
But then neither, I’ll wager, did Grady.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Father's love wrapped in little pink boxes
Well, by the time you read this, another Valentine’s Day will have come and gone.
To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be glad.
Some years I can jump right into the romance of it, indulge in the sweetness of the Hallmark moments that Feb. 14 invokes.
I know I’m lucky to be married to the greatest cowboy in the world. And it’s nice to have a holiday that really encourages you to show it.
But this year I don’t feel like a red hot. In fact, I feel blue. I’m missing my little pink box of candy.
You see, when I think of my memories of Valentine’s Day, sometimes I picture the ones I spent as a little girl.
Every Valentine’s Day my mom and I were the object of my Daddy’s affection. She’d get a big red heart-shaped box, full to the brim of the prettiest chocolate candies you’ve ever seen.
And Daddy didn’t forget his other valentine. There was always a smaller box – a pink one – just for me.
Just picturing us lifting the lids to our boxes still invokes the faintest trace of the scent to my nostrils. The white paper pushed aside, we’d gaze at the morsels contained within.
I’ll have to admit this here. I come from a family of pinchers.
Maybe that’s why the first gaping look into the box was so memorable. Maybe I knew it wouldn’t be long before the thin plastic cubbyholes would be empty, their sweet indulgences sweetly indulged upon.
And, left in their wake, would remain the pinched-up smooshies. These were the least favorable of the lot. In my own case, those would be the orange-filled variety.
Yuck.
Just picturing the bright orange center cocooned inside the deep brown chocolate sends me cringing. Much less the taste of it.
So pinching became a part of the ritual. And I’m afraid this habit was inherited from my mom, no slouchy pincher in her own right. We’d pinch and poke and peek at the confectionary innards.
Then, upon confirmation that the center of the candy in question was not offensive, we’d dine in style.
Mmmmmm.
But those days passed on when Daddy did.
I don’t know if everyone who’s lost a loved one remembers the little things more around holiday time. As much as I still miss him in my day-to-day life, it’s usually ten-fold when there’s something to celebrate.
For 17 years, Daddy brought me little pink boxes. And the memory is as sweet as the treasure those boxes contained.
I know I can never go back and relive my childhood. But sometimes I wish I could.
My Daddy wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was more the strong, silent type, always on the ready, protective to the core. He didn’t gush or put his feelings into words very often.
But you always knew he was there.
And now he’s not.
I know there’s so much to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. There’s so much fun in exchanging cards and gifts and being allowed – even encouraged – to show your feelings to the world.
I know, Lord willing, Arnie will have gotten me a valentine. He’ll have hugged and kissed me and told me how much he loves me. He might even bring me home some candy in a big red heart-shaped box.
We’ll laugh and inhale and let the pinching begin.
But, oh, how I miss those little pink boxes.
* Originally published 2-16-00
To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be glad.
Some years I can jump right into the romance of it, indulge in the sweetness of the Hallmark moments that Feb. 14 invokes.
I know I’m lucky to be married to the greatest cowboy in the world. And it’s nice to have a holiday that really encourages you to show it.
But this year I don’t feel like a red hot. In fact, I feel blue. I’m missing my little pink box of candy.
You see, when I think of my memories of Valentine’s Day, sometimes I picture the ones I spent as a little girl.
Every Valentine’s Day my mom and I were the object of my Daddy’s affection. She’d get a big red heart-shaped box, full to the brim of the prettiest chocolate candies you’ve ever seen.
And Daddy didn’t forget his other valentine. There was always a smaller box – a pink one – just for me.
Just picturing us lifting the lids to our boxes still invokes the faintest trace of the scent to my nostrils. The white paper pushed aside, we’d gaze at the morsels contained within.
I’ll have to admit this here. I come from a family of pinchers.
Maybe that’s why the first gaping look into the box was so memorable. Maybe I knew it wouldn’t be long before the thin plastic cubbyholes would be empty, their sweet indulgences sweetly indulged upon.
And, left in their wake, would remain the pinched-up smooshies. These were the least favorable of the lot. In my own case, those would be the orange-filled variety.
Yuck.
Just picturing the bright orange center cocooned inside the deep brown chocolate sends me cringing. Much less the taste of it.
So pinching became a part of the ritual. And I’m afraid this habit was inherited from my mom, no slouchy pincher in her own right. We’d pinch and poke and peek at the confectionary innards.
Then, upon confirmation that the center of the candy in question was not offensive, we’d dine in style.
Mmmmmm.
But those days passed on when Daddy did.
I don’t know if everyone who’s lost a loved one remembers the little things more around holiday time. As much as I still miss him in my day-to-day life, it’s usually ten-fold when there’s something to celebrate.
For 17 years, Daddy brought me little pink boxes. And the memory is as sweet as the treasure those boxes contained.
I know I can never go back and relive my childhood. But sometimes I wish I could.
My Daddy wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was more the strong, silent type, always on the ready, protective to the core. He didn’t gush or put his feelings into words very often.
But you always knew he was there.
And now he’s not.
I know there’s so much to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. There’s so much fun in exchanging cards and gifts and being allowed – even encouraged – to show your feelings to the world.
I know, Lord willing, Arnie will have gotten me a valentine. He’ll have hugged and kissed me and told me how much he loves me. He might even bring me home some candy in a big red heart-shaped box.
We’ll laugh and inhale and let the pinching begin.
But, oh, how I miss those little pink boxes.
* Originally published 2-16-00
These socks are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do...
Socks will venture forth where pantyhose fear to tread.
Somebody should make a science fiction movie about it.
This was the conclusion that I came to as I was folding last week’s load of whites and found six more socks than there were mates for.
I don’t know about your house, but I have just about decided that the Lambert family laundry room has some kind of kinetic powers to perform a 100 percent cotton disappearing act.
It’s always the same. I gather up the laundry, and knowing that socks have a tendency to take off, I make sure the mates are all in the same load together.
But, no matter what precautions are taken, somehow between the washer, the dryer and my laundry basket, the escapees become AWOL.
Mateless wonders, I call them. And I’ve started to fill up one whole drawer of nothing but these lonesome leftovers.
One theory I’ve pondered is that socks aren’t especially happy about their lot in life. After all, they have to go on people’s feet. They get stuck in shoes or boots all day.
And when they’re worn, sometimes they stink. And I’ve noticed in some cases, they become just plain foul. (Just ask any sock that’s had the misfortune of being worn home by my husband after a long, hot day at work.)
My guess is that some socks see the laundry as their only way out, just like in some of the old prison movies.
They speak to each other in the sock drawer, barking out secret code words for the breakout.
“The red dog barks at midnight. Pass it on.”
They act nonchalant as they go through the wash and get sudsed off. But by the time you come to get them to take them back to their respective drawers, they’ve already hatched their getaway plot.
I can imagine the lone sock, anxious to seek a new way of life, stretched as flat as it can get against the inside of the dryer, up toward the top rim where you can’t see it. After you take the rest of the laundry away, it sticks its toe out.
It checks to make sure the coast is clear, and then it inches its way out of the dryer vent and into the world.
To be honest, I have foiled more than one sock’s getaway since I’ve wised up to this plan and began feeling all the way around the top of the dryer.
But this isn’t the only theory I subscribe to.
Perhaps socks are like black widow spiders. They have a tantalizing tango through the spin cycle before eating their mates.
Or it could be that socks have varying degrees of shelf life. Some socks may last a long time, while others may be only good for a few wearings before they suddenly pop and disintegrate, with the only clue of their existence being an unusually large puff of lint in the filter.
My favorite theory, however, the one that should be a movie of the week, is the theory of time travel.
I don’t have all the mathematics worked out yet, but here’s the basics: The socks go in the dryer. The rising temperature, mixed with the tumble motion combine with a chemical reaction to the elements in the April Fresh Downey. As the dryer spins them faster and faster, some of the socks are eventually transported through a time travel portal in the dryer.
You open your dryer, you put together the mates, and it never fails. Your mateless wonder is waiting there for you. The solitary sock. The lone footy.
I may never prove it, but I’d be willing to bet that somewhere back in time there’s a land where the only inhabitants are dinosaurs.
And they’re all walking around in only one sock.
Somebody should make a science fiction movie about it.
This was the conclusion that I came to as I was folding last week’s load of whites and found six more socks than there were mates for.
I don’t know about your house, but I have just about decided that the Lambert family laundry room has some kind of kinetic powers to perform a 100 percent cotton disappearing act.
It’s always the same. I gather up the laundry, and knowing that socks have a tendency to take off, I make sure the mates are all in the same load together.
But, no matter what precautions are taken, somehow between the washer, the dryer and my laundry basket, the escapees become AWOL.
Mateless wonders, I call them. And I’ve started to fill up one whole drawer of nothing but these lonesome leftovers.
One theory I’ve pondered is that socks aren’t especially happy about their lot in life. After all, they have to go on people’s feet. They get stuck in shoes or boots all day.
And when they’re worn, sometimes they stink. And I’ve noticed in some cases, they become just plain foul. (Just ask any sock that’s had the misfortune of being worn home by my husband after a long, hot day at work.)
My guess is that some socks see the laundry as their only way out, just like in some of the old prison movies.
They speak to each other in the sock drawer, barking out secret code words for the breakout.
“The red dog barks at midnight. Pass it on.”
They act nonchalant as they go through the wash and get sudsed off. But by the time you come to get them to take them back to their respective drawers, they’ve already hatched their getaway plot.
I can imagine the lone sock, anxious to seek a new way of life, stretched as flat as it can get against the inside of the dryer, up toward the top rim where you can’t see it. After you take the rest of the laundry away, it sticks its toe out.
It checks to make sure the coast is clear, and then it inches its way out of the dryer vent and into the world.
To be honest, I have foiled more than one sock’s getaway since I’ve wised up to this plan and began feeling all the way around the top of the dryer.
But this isn’t the only theory I subscribe to.
Perhaps socks are like black widow spiders. They have a tantalizing tango through the spin cycle before eating their mates.
Or it could be that socks have varying degrees of shelf life. Some socks may last a long time, while others may be only good for a few wearings before they suddenly pop and disintegrate, with the only clue of their existence being an unusually large puff of lint in the filter.
My favorite theory, however, the one that should be a movie of the week, is the theory of time travel.
I don’t have all the mathematics worked out yet, but here’s the basics: The socks go in the dryer. The rising temperature, mixed with the tumble motion combine with a chemical reaction to the elements in the April Fresh Downey. As the dryer spins them faster and faster, some of the socks are eventually transported through a time travel portal in the dryer.
You open your dryer, you put together the mates, and it never fails. Your mateless wonder is waiting there for you. The solitary sock. The lone footy.
I may never prove it, but I’d be willing to bet that somewhere back in time there’s a land where the only inhabitants are dinosaurs.
And they’re all walking around in only one sock.
Some valentines you will never see in the Hallmark store
Well, folks, Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us once again. That time of year to tell that certain someone how much you love them. (Or if you’re a high school student with thumbs attached to your cell phone, text how much you “lv” them.)
Enter any card shop, drug store or Wal-Mart and you’ll see the rows and rows of reds and pinks, heart shaped balloons, boxes of candies, and assorted gorillas that sing and dance in their boxer shorts to “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love” or “Wild Thing.”
Having been married for 14 years, I kind of dismiss all of these available tokens of esteem. Even though I am sure my husband will always be my hunka burnin’ love, I am in no need of anything that professes “Wild Thing,” And stuffed animals at my house either gravitate to our boys’ already cluttered room or more than likely wind up as a gift for the dog.
So saving the money on merchandise, I head for the card department. Rows and rows of cards declare those three little words. Some are funny, some are sweet, some are x-rated, and others… well, I am not sure I get it.
Valentine’s Day has become a marketer’s dream, with so many cards targeted specifically to everyone you can think of. Husband, wife, sister and brother are just the tip o’ the lovey-dovey iceberg. You’ve got the aunts, uncles & grandparents. Then here come the nieces, nephews & cousins. Can’t forget all the in-laws… Now you’ve got friends, best friends, boyfriends & girlfriends, teachers, and to those who are “like a mom,” or “like a dad.”
Lo and behold, there are even cards for your boss, hairdresser, pastor, and “significant other” in your life.
But I’m wondering if perhaps the folks at Hallmark and American Greetings aren’t missing out on another demographic entirely. While sending messages of love out to those we truly care for is wonderful, how would it be to send out little greetings of “love and inspiration” to those who fall into a slightly different category, namely the people we’d most like to see on a milk carton?
Here are just a few examples of valentines that I am certain could be best sellers but will somehow never make their way to the Hallmark Store:
To the person who broke your heart: “Violets are Blue, Roses are Red, It would tickle me pink if you turned up dead.”
A little over the top, but still lots of potential there.
Or how about the card for the auto mechanic who charges you through the roof while never fixing the problem?
“Roses are Red, Daisies are yellow, Fix it right this time you jerk, or I’ll pound you to Jell-O.”
I’m thinking this one has possibilities.
There could also be the card to the obnoxious soccer, T-ball or wrestling parents who do nothing but cheer and brag about their own kids all the time...
“Cherries are red, Mudpies are brown, Enough about your kid, already! Shut up & sit down!!)
(On second thought, this is not a good one. My own mailbox might not be big enough!)
My favorite is the card for the telemarketer who calls your house for the umpteenth time hawking his great deals on satellite television or for consolidating your credit card debt. This one would be delivered to his home as a singing telegram just as he’s sitting down to eat dinner. (Sung to the tune of “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog.”
“You ain’t nothing but a moron, hounding me all the time… You ain’t nothing but a nuisance, driving me out of my mind… Well, I ain’t buying what you’re selling, and you ain’t no friend of mine.”
Even better, if we change the song to “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love,” this telegram could be delivered complete with a hunka hunka burnin’ cow poop in a paper bag on the front porch… Ring the doorbell, then hide and watch with glee as the telemarketer tries to stomp the fire out!
Perhaps this is a good time for me to ad a legal disclaimer that I am NOT responsible for the results if you send any of these cards, and please do not actually light any cow poops on fire. That would be childish, immature, and not to mention immoral and illegal.
(And horse poops burn longer.)
Enter any card shop, drug store or Wal-Mart and you’ll see the rows and rows of reds and pinks, heart shaped balloons, boxes of candies, and assorted gorillas that sing and dance in their boxer shorts to “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love” or “Wild Thing.”
Having been married for 14 years, I kind of dismiss all of these available tokens of esteem. Even though I am sure my husband will always be my hunka burnin’ love, I am in no need of anything that professes “Wild Thing,” And stuffed animals at my house either gravitate to our boys’ already cluttered room or more than likely wind up as a gift for the dog.
So saving the money on merchandise, I head for the card department. Rows and rows of cards declare those three little words. Some are funny, some are sweet, some are x-rated, and others… well, I am not sure I get it.
Valentine’s Day has become a marketer’s dream, with so many cards targeted specifically to everyone you can think of. Husband, wife, sister and brother are just the tip o’ the lovey-dovey iceberg. You’ve got the aunts, uncles & grandparents. Then here come the nieces, nephews & cousins. Can’t forget all the in-laws… Now you’ve got friends, best friends, boyfriends & girlfriends, teachers, and to those who are “like a mom,” or “like a dad.”
Lo and behold, there are even cards for your boss, hairdresser, pastor, and “significant other” in your life.
But I’m wondering if perhaps the folks at Hallmark and American Greetings aren’t missing out on another demographic entirely. While sending messages of love out to those we truly care for is wonderful, how would it be to send out little greetings of “love and inspiration” to those who fall into a slightly different category, namely the people we’d most like to see on a milk carton?
Here are just a few examples of valentines that I am certain could be best sellers but will somehow never make their way to the Hallmark Store:
To the person who broke your heart: “Violets are Blue, Roses are Red, It would tickle me pink if you turned up dead.”
A little over the top, but still lots of potential there.
Or how about the card for the auto mechanic who charges you through the roof while never fixing the problem?
“Roses are Red, Daisies are yellow, Fix it right this time you jerk, or I’ll pound you to Jell-O.”
I’m thinking this one has possibilities.
There could also be the card to the obnoxious soccer, T-ball or wrestling parents who do nothing but cheer and brag about their own kids all the time...
“Cherries are red, Mudpies are brown, Enough about your kid, already! Shut up & sit down!!)
(On second thought, this is not a good one. My own mailbox might not be big enough!)
My favorite is the card for the telemarketer who calls your house for the umpteenth time hawking his great deals on satellite television or for consolidating your credit card debt. This one would be delivered to his home as a singing telegram just as he’s sitting down to eat dinner. (Sung to the tune of “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog.”
“You ain’t nothing but a moron, hounding me all the time… You ain’t nothing but a nuisance, driving me out of my mind… Well, I ain’t buying what you’re selling, and you ain’t no friend of mine.”
Even better, if we change the song to “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love,” this telegram could be delivered complete with a hunka hunka burnin’ cow poop in a paper bag on the front porch… Ring the doorbell, then hide and watch with glee as the telemarketer tries to stomp the fire out!
Perhaps this is a good time for me to ad a legal disclaimer that I am NOT responsible for the results if you send any of these cards, and please do not actually light any cow poops on fire. That would be childish, immature, and not to mention immoral and illegal.
(And horse poops burn longer.)
A $1.50 trip to Lowe's was just the start of icy adventure
It’s funny how a trip to Lowe’s for a package of packing tape can lead to white majestic mountain top splendor.
(Or something like that.)
My husband, Arnie, and I fought our way across the frozen tundra over the weekend to get the afore-mentioned packing tape to repair the big cardboard box we stuffed our Christmas tree in.
The trip to the basement caused the box to burst at the seams, nearly spilling all of its 9-foot pine-needled contents.
While we were at Lowe’s, Arnie’s eyes fell upon the new display – just set up for the season. Big plastic sleds with bright yellow ropes.
A grin crossed his face as he reached for one of the all-time great memories of childhood and stood it up on its end.
“Wanna get one,” he asked.
What was he, nuts? Did he think I was going to let him get out of that store with a sled?
“Well of course not,” says I. “You’d better make it two.”
So off we go with our packing tape and sleds. Our $1.50 trip has now cost us $15.50.
Then, realizing I no longer own the kinds of clothes you can go out in for snowy adventures, Arnie made a pit stop at Wal-Mart. There, we were able to purchase the most wonderful navy blue snowsuit with big old suspenders. It made me look like the Michelin Man. I adored it.
We grabbed a matching quilted jacket on sale. Then Arnie decided I’d better have a full-face ski mask to keep my ears and neck warm. (Always thinking ahead, that man. He’s definitely a keeper.)
You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a full-face ski mask in the year 2009. Why, in 1979 when my mom forced me to wear one when I went sledding, those things were in abundance. All us kids had the stupid things.
But I guess too many gas station holdups have resulted in fewer of those masks being produced.
Arnie and I spotted two that were close enough. Bright orange hunting toboggins with only a hole big enough for your eyes and nose to peep out of. And, since they were on sale, Arnie grabbed one up, too.
We were almost out of the store. Arnie added to our purchase a big padded pair of gloves to go with my new snow suit, and a pair of hunting socks with little pockets on the toes.
Inside these pockets, you place little pouches that heat up when you shake them. He thought these would keep my tootsies toasty. (I told you this man is a keeper.)
So, jackets and snowsuits and toe toasters in tow, we make it through the check out line, and our $1.50 trip has now cost us nearly $90.
It was nearly dark when we arrived home, but as soon as we hit the door, the purchases came tumbling out of the bags. We quickly changed into our winter gear and tore out the doors, me in my snowsuit and Arnie in his cover-alls.
Our horses, who’d been watching from the fence, tore across the field to get away from these two strange orange-headed spectacles.
We dragged those sleds up the hill in our pasture. (Pant, pant, pant.)
We got to the top, took a running step and “Whoooooooooooooooo!”
Down the hill we sped! Arnie, being the smarter of the two when it comes to sledding, went down on his backside.
I, however, got a running start and did a belly flop onto my sled, racing down the hill at top speed face first.
I laughed and had to close my eyes as snow sprayed in my face and winter weeds whacked me in the forehead.
It was an exhilarating, albeit too-quick ride. We tromped back up the hill, and “Wheeeeeeeee” down we came again.
We slowly, like two aged monks, dragged our bodies up the hill again.
Sweating like a pig in my snowsuit, my heart pounded inside my chest.
Arnie wheezed.
Down we slid one more time, and this time, when we got to the bottom, we lay there looking at each other.
“Well,” Arnie says. “It’s getting dark. Better head back in.”
“Yep,” I agree, trying to catch my breath. “Sure seemed like those hills were easier to climb when I was 10.”
Hand in hand, sleds dragging behind us, we made our way back to the house.
That $1.50 trip for packing tape sure took a detour. But the fun we had was priceless.
(Or something like that.)
My husband, Arnie, and I fought our way across the frozen tundra over the weekend to get the afore-mentioned packing tape to repair the big cardboard box we stuffed our Christmas tree in.
The trip to the basement caused the box to burst at the seams, nearly spilling all of its 9-foot pine-needled contents.
While we were at Lowe’s, Arnie’s eyes fell upon the new display – just set up for the season. Big plastic sleds with bright yellow ropes.
A grin crossed his face as he reached for one of the all-time great memories of childhood and stood it up on its end.
“Wanna get one,” he asked.
What was he, nuts? Did he think I was going to let him get out of that store with a sled?
“Well of course not,” says I. “You’d better make it two.”
So off we go with our packing tape and sleds. Our $1.50 trip has now cost us $15.50.
Then, realizing I no longer own the kinds of clothes you can go out in for snowy adventures, Arnie made a pit stop at Wal-Mart. There, we were able to purchase the most wonderful navy blue snowsuit with big old suspenders. It made me look like the Michelin Man. I adored it.
We grabbed a matching quilted jacket on sale. Then Arnie decided I’d better have a full-face ski mask to keep my ears and neck warm. (Always thinking ahead, that man. He’s definitely a keeper.)
You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a full-face ski mask in the year 2009. Why, in 1979 when my mom forced me to wear one when I went sledding, those things were in abundance. All us kids had the stupid things.
But I guess too many gas station holdups have resulted in fewer of those masks being produced.
Arnie and I spotted two that were close enough. Bright orange hunting toboggins with only a hole big enough for your eyes and nose to peep out of. And, since they were on sale, Arnie grabbed one up, too.
We were almost out of the store. Arnie added to our purchase a big padded pair of gloves to go with my new snow suit, and a pair of hunting socks with little pockets on the toes.
Inside these pockets, you place little pouches that heat up when you shake them. He thought these would keep my tootsies toasty. (I told you this man is a keeper.)
So, jackets and snowsuits and toe toasters in tow, we make it through the check out line, and our $1.50 trip has now cost us nearly $90.
It was nearly dark when we arrived home, but as soon as we hit the door, the purchases came tumbling out of the bags. We quickly changed into our winter gear and tore out the doors, me in my snowsuit and Arnie in his cover-alls.
Our horses, who’d been watching from the fence, tore across the field to get away from these two strange orange-headed spectacles.
We dragged those sleds up the hill in our pasture. (Pant, pant, pant.)
We got to the top, took a running step and “Whoooooooooooooooo!”
Down the hill we sped! Arnie, being the smarter of the two when it comes to sledding, went down on his backside.
I, however, got a running start and did a belly flop onto my sled, racing down the hill at top speed face first.
I laughed and had to close my eyes as snow sprayed in my face and winter weeds whacked me in the forehead.
It was an exhilarating, albeit too-quick ride. We tromped back up the hill, and “Wheeeeeeeee” down we came again.
We slowly, like two aged monks, dragged our bodies up the hill again.
Sweating like a pig in my snowsuit, my heart pounded inside my chest.
Arnie wheezed.
Down we slid one more time, and this time, when we got to the bottom, we lay there looking at each other.
“Well,” Arnie says. “It’s getting dark. Better head back in.”
“Yep,” I agree, trying to catch my breath. “Sure seemed like those hills were easier to climb when I was 10.”
Hand in hand, sleds dragging behind us, we made our way back to the house.
That $1.50 trip for packing tape sure took a detour. But the fun we had was priceless.
But would a foot by any other name still smell as sweet?
Discoveries are made sometimes under the most absurd circumstances.
Take, for instance, my recent discovery that there is a part of the body that has no name.
This discovery was made while talking to my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous.
It seems an episode of unbridled laziness has nearly cost her the top of her foot.
It started out innocently enough. All she intended to accomplish was to feed some burritos (left over from supper – not their usual fare) to her dogs.
However, it was raining.
(The plot thickens.) She didn’t feel particularly inclined to expound the energy of putting on a pair of shoes for just the two or three steps out on the back porch to give the burritos a heave.
So, she conjectured the idea that she would deftly take one giant step out onto the middle of the porch, give the burritos a “Grecian throw,” and then pirouette back inside the house, dainty as could be.
All went well at first. She took her giant step out onto the porch, hoisted the burritos through the air. But somehow, things went downhill from there.
Rather than making a dainty pirouette, somehow the foot intended to remain planted on the kitchen floor went slipping away. The other foot, bearing her weight to keep her from wiping out, was dragged upside down into the house across the bricks and metal doorplate.
Ouch.
She likened the top of her foot to ground beef.
It was at that point that I realized this body part has no name.
And somewhat startled by this discovery, my friend agreed with me. There is no name for this part of the body. No title that either one of us could think of other than “top of the foot.”
Think about this for a moment. Somehow a vital yet misunderstood and underappreciated body part has gone unnamed for all time.
What is it about the top of the foot that gets no recognition? Every other foot part has its own name. You have your heel, ankle, toes, sole, even a ball and an arch for the part that sticks up underneath. Yet the poor “top of the foot” has no moniker.
Now we got to thinking that somebody should do something. Everything from your scalp to your toenail has a name, and so, by gollies, should the top of the foot.
We could even write a song about it.
“Now I’m hopping through the desert on a foot with no name…”
After at least a minute or two of thorough research and polling random passers by for nominations, I think the top of the foot should hereupon be named the roof.
It makes as much sense as any other name, especially since it is on top of the foot. And if a nose can have a bridge, then a foot surely can have a roof.
It also makes sense in my friend’s predicament. When someone asks what happened to her foot, she can just tell them she fell on her roof.
Which leads to another medical question: Is the roof an area of the body that could be affected by shingles?
And if a brown recluse spider crawled across the top of your foot, would that be considered a fiddler on your roof?
Well, I don’t know about that. But I, for one, will sleep better tonight knowing that the top of the foot now has its own name.
And you should be glad, too. Knowing this fact makes you smarter than the average bear. You could say it gives you a “leg up” on the competition.
And if anybody questions the authenticity of this claim to a name, send them to me. I’ll tell them, “I toed you so.”
Take, for instance, my recent discovery that there is a part of the body that has no name.
This discovery was made while talking to my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous.
It seems an episode of unbridled laziness has nearly cost her the top of her foot.
It started out innocently enough. All she intended to accomplish was to feed some burritos (left over from supper – not their usual fare) to her dogs.
However, it was raining.
(The plot thickens.) She didn’t feel particularly inclined to expound the energy of putting on a pair of shoes for just the two or three steps out on the back porch to give the burritos a heave.
So, she conjectured the idea that she would deftly take one giant step out onto the middle of the porch, give the burritos a “Grecian throw,” and then pirouette back inside the house, dainty as could be.
All went well at first. She took her giant step out onto the porch, hoisted the burritos through the air. But somehow, things went downhill from there.
Rather than making a dainty pirouette, somehow the foot intended to remain planted on the kitchen floor went slipping away. The other foot, bearing her weight to keep her from wiping out, was dragged upside down into the house across the bricks and metal doorplate.
Ouch.
She likened the top of her foot to ground beef.
It was at that point that I realized this body part has no name.
And somewhat startled by this discovery, my friend agreed with me. There is no name for this part of the body. No title that either one of us could think of other than “top of the foot.”
Think about this for a moment. Somehow a vital yet misunderstood and underappreciated body part has gone unnamed for all time.
What is it about the top of the foot that gets no recognition? Every other foot part has its own name. You have your heel, ankle, toes, sole, even a ball and an arch for the part that sticks up underneath. Yet the poor “top of the foot” has no moniker.
Now we got to thinking that somebody should do something. Everything from your scalp to your toenail has a name, and so, by gollies, should the top of the foot.
We could even write a song about it.
“Now I’m hopping through the desert on a foot with no name…”
After at least a minute or two of thorough research and polling random passers by for nominations, I think the top of the foot should hereupon be named the roof.
It makes as much sense as any other name, especially since it is on top of the foot. And if a nose can have a bridge, then a foot surely can have a roof.
It also makes sense in my friend’s predicament. When someone asks what happened to her foot, she can just tell them she fell on her roof.
Which leads to another medical question: Is the roof an area of the body that could be affected by shingles?
And if a brown recluse spider crawled across the top of your foot, would that be considered a fiddler on your roof?
Well, I don’t know about that. But I, for one, will sleep better tonight knowing that the top of the foot now has its own name.
And you should be glad, too. Knowing this fact makes you smarter than the average bear. You could say it gives you a “leg up” on the competition.
And if anybody questions the authenticity of this claim to a name, send them to me. I’ll tell them, “I toed you so.”
Condiment tax leads to chicken anarchy
I’ve always considered myself a law-abiding person. But imagine my surprise to find out that deep down I’m really an anarchist.
Or something like that.
I’m still reeling from the discovery. It happened, as many discoveries will, in the drive-thru lane at McDonald’s.
There I was, minding my own business, not wishing any ill will on another living soul. I placed my order for a grilled chicken sandwich. A raging case of gallstones had made it necessary that I cut my fat content, so I asked for my grilled chicken to be served up naked with none of that good greasy mayonnaise. Only a little barbecue sauce, please.
(I even said please.)
But lo and behold, the voice of the god of the golden arches came squawking out of the box informing me I could have my chicken sans mayonnaise, but that I’d have to spread the barbecue sauce on it myself. I thought that to be a little strange, but I wasn’t really bothered by it.
Then the voice informed me that I’d be charged 16 cents extra for the privilege.
And that’s when my left eyebrow shot up automatically to the top of my forehead.
Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute, thinks I. I understand that maybe they don’t keep bottles of barbecue sauce on hand. I understand having to spread it across the naked chicken myself. But to be charged 16 cents extra for the privilege? It just ain’t right.
When I pulled around to the window to receive my bounty, I tried really hard. The rational, calm side of my mind was doing a tug-of-war with the Dr. Jeckyl side of my brain that wanted to scream, “This is an injustice and an affront to all people with gallstones.”
I bit my lip. I pinched myself on the leg. It was no use. I was no match for me. I had to ask.
“Could you explain to me,” I said, “why you would charge me 16 cents for barbecue sauce? Especially barbecue sauce that I am in charge of spreading on my own chicken?”
The teen-age girl at the window looked at me with a tired expression. I could tell she was probably praying she’d never get old and grumpy like me. At least not old and grumpy enough to quibble with somebody at a fast-food place over 16 cents.
(And just between us, it’s not the 16 cents that bothers me. It’s the reasoning behind it. I had to know why.)
Had barbecue sauce suddenly become an endangered product? Is there a global shortage of brown sugar? Did the city pass another occupational tax on people who eat poultry?
She told me the restaurant had to start charging because people had been asking for barbecue sauce to use on their – get this – French fries.
Oh, sweet Lord, say it ain’t so. The nerve of some people.
She told me the only people who can get barbecue sauce for free now are those who purchase some product in the six-piece-or-more chicken McNugget family.
Now, I didn’t continue into my investigation into the condiment tariff, but it did start me thinking.
If I’m understanding correctly, if I buy six little pieces of chicken, the sauce comes free. But if I buy one big piece of chicken, kiss those 16 pennies goodbye.
(Also just between us, I came dangerously close to asking her to slice my sandwich into six pieces and throw the sauce in for free. I’m proud to report self-control prevailed…barely.)
And it’s bad enough to be charged extra for the sauce. But the whole “do-it-yourself” thing just adds insult to the injury. I’ll grant you spreading barbecue sauce on a naked piece of chicken isn’t all that labor intensive. But I’ll be darned if I want to get charged extra for the thrill.
There is another issue here, even more important than prejudice toward single pieces of chicken. We as Americans have a fundamental right to complimentary condiments with the purchase of a meal.
If I want barbecue sauce for my six little chickens, one big chicken, French fries, or hot apple pie, it should make no difference. If I want to pour it on my head, that should be my God-given right as the customer.
What’s next? A tax on ketchup? Only two salts per customer, please. Sign away your first-born for a packet of pepper. Put down a deposit on that mustard. Would you care to take out a second mortgage for some tartar sauce?
I want to take my gripes to the person who came up with this little jewel of a rule and say my piece. I want to look him straight in the eye and say, “Who died and made you Mayor McCheese?”
Until that day, I’m going to have to come up with a way to beat the system. I just can’t, under any circumstances, be true to my ornery nature and still pay 16 cents extra for barbecue sauce.
Whether it means smuggling a spare bottle of sauce in my purse or pulling the old “What’s that behind you?” and grabbing a few packs from under the counter while she’s not looking. There has to be a way.
I imagine this is how the Hamburglar got his start in crime.
Told you I was an anarchist.
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