Put Down The Quarters, And Step Away From The Dryer

For many years, before city water came to my rural community, our well went dry with the regularity of someone on Metamucil, forcing me to undertake the loathsome chore of Laundromat Duty.

This was similar in many ways to military K.P., however, there was no dog-faced drill sergeant pointing out a mountain of spuds waiting to be peeled. Instead, there were several children who had worn the same jeans for so long one could stand them up in a corner for the night (the jeans, not the kids). And maybe, there was a husband with a few tender words. He takes my hand, looks into my eyes and says...

“Honey, dinner was great and the candles were a lovely touch, but this is my last pair of clean underwear.”

My options at this point were few. 1. Down to the creek to beat seventeen loads on a flat rock. 2. Hire someone else to do the wash at a rate high enough to buy new wardrobes. 3. Just face the music and haul three week’s worth of ripe laundry to the local Wash-a-teria.

Off we go. Saturday morning at the laundromat.

As usual, the bleach spilled in the car and formed yet another pink amoebae-shaped blotch on our otherwise burgundy upholstery.

And upon arrival, like every time before, there was no one around when I needed help schlepping the behemoth baskets through the door. Yet, like magic, as soon as I did, the place filled up while I played doorman for everyone else. I watched my washers get pirated by a sweet, little ninety-year-old who told me she only had a few dainties to do.

Then, there was the question of etiquette. Should one introduce oneself to one’s laundromat mates? Who speaks first? Should one speak at all, given the fact that the guy hypnotically watching his army blanket twirl around in the dryer, is a dead ringer for Charles Manson out on a weekend pass and looking edgy?

I chose to talk to a five year old whose mother (the one smoking two Camels simultaneously and chugging a 32 oz. Red Bull) snapped at her daughter, “Don’t talk to strange people!”

The first order of business (after the lady with my washers was finished with her dainties) was making change in the innocent looking dollar-changing machine where I spent the next thirty minutes in a battle of wills, flattening and re-flattening my bills, in hopes that the evil contraption would accept them and give me my quarters. This can be very hard on those already suffering from low self-esteem. One must try not to take it personally, it’s your money that’s being rejected, not you.

When my wash was finally in, I realized I had left my book at home. How to amuse myself for the next two hours? There was always the complimentary reading material, Newsweek, vintage 1983, pages stuck together with a scary gelatinous substance vaguely resembling FlufferNutter.

Eventually, my attention was diverted (halleluia) by my machine lurching out of its place from the orderly line against the wall, like a soldier gone berserk--breaking ranks. I pretended I didn’t notice until all my ‘mat-mates had, in turn, mumbled “not mine.”

I stood in front of it, tried to stare it down. There was nothing else to do, of course, since it was one of those washers that, until it's finished, is sealed tighter than the lips of the folks who know which contestant will be kicked off of Idol next week.

Trying to push it back into place could be fatal, so I stared at it a while longer and muttered something astute like “stupid machine.”
(Note to reader: Make sure at least one other person hears you, this absolves you from any further responsibility.)

The final indignation was the THIRTY SECOND WAITING PERIOD AFTER THE WASHER HAS STOPPED BEFORE YOU CAN OPEN THE DOOR rule. What could possibly happen if it’s opened before the little red light goes out? One might be sucked in to some parallel universe, alarms and sirens go off, immediate arrest and hard time?

“Laundromat police, you’ll have to come with us, Mam.”

Maybe, it’s like those little tags on mattresses, simply a passive aggressive method of world domination and humbling of the masses. At any rate, we conform for the most part, and are obedient children.

But, not this day! No sir, I wouldn’t be bullied any longer!

As I gave in to temptation and choked back my fear of becoming the next episode of Cops (even though I have all my own teeth, do not own a tank top and to the best of my knowledge, have never kept a python in the garage), I tried the handle, in hopes that it would release my soggy clothing thirty seconds sooner than promised.

Oh, the joy! Thirty seconds stolen from the tyranny of laundry automation…

Imagine the possibilities.

This is me getting ready for my flight to Florida, one can never be too prepared. Ignore the mustache. It was a really stressful day, I didn't have time to wax.

Of Cognitive Therapy and Barf Bags

Don’t think for one moment that vacationing in Florida is all fun and games. There are real hardships associated with a trip like that. No, really. I had to fly. Not my favorite thing. For me, it ranks right up there with a root canal or an IRS audit.

It had been seventeen years since my last flight, so my anxiety level was running high enough to rupture a major artery. I had to get myself under control. Two trips to the restroom before boarding. Dramamine for motion sickness, Sudafed and Bubblicious for ear pressure (unfortunately, I was in such a state that I swallowed the Bubblicious and chewed the Sudafed), headset playing “Soothing Woodland and River Sounds”, and lots of prayer.

And don’t tell me the airlines are not packing us in tighter than I remember. I was in a section of three seats per row. The cheap seats. All three of us in my row were what you might call portly. This made for some interesting maneuvering to get comfortable.

The guy to my left claimed the armrest between us as soon as he sat down. I could tell because he stuck a little flag with his name on it into the vinyl upholstery and played some sort of National Anthem on a comb and piece of waxed paper. Ha! I commandeered his pillow when he stood up to salute his flag. He had the last laugh, though, he kept his elbow in my ribcage the entire trip.

The woman to my right kept trying to adjust the waistband on her queen-sized panty hose. I could empathize with that, but the sound effects that went along with this gymnastic event were rather disconcerting. Something akin to Darth Vader in an iron lung machine. I gave her a 9.3 for artistic merit, but in all honesty, I couldn’t give her more than an 8.4 for execution. She didn’t stick her landings.

Take-off, for me, was an exercise in Cognitive Therapy Self-Talk. (I knew someday there would be a use for all those mail-order psychology courses.) What follows is what would be discovered by the FAA on the Black Box recorder, had my worst fears been realized. You be the judge.

Taxiing: “Just think of this as a big car, Gloria. Visualize yourself in a big car, a very big car. Or a very big bus.”

Taxiing faster: “A very big bus, Gloria. Big, fast bus. A very fast bus! Fast bus! Fast BUS!”

Even faster: “FASTBUSFASTBUSFASTBUS!”

Take off: “Breathe, Gloria, BREATHE!”

Turbulence: “Think pot holes. Visualize pot holes. Just big pot holes. Big bus hitting big pot holes. Very big pot holes. Breathe, Gloria, BREATHE!”

Landing: Repeat everything in reverse order.

It was tough but I made it. I’m not sure what happened to the King of Armrestovia or Darth Vader in the queen-sized pantyhose. They got up and made for the attendants area sometime around “Fast bus! Fast bus!” What really matters is, I conquered my fears and the “friendly skies”.

And to prove it, I brought home the unused barf bag as a trophy.

I've always had to have pants with pockets. But, on those rare occasions when I do find myself in pocketless pants, I end up pulling out my old stand-by sweater. The one with deep pockets that can hold a day's worth of collecting all the odd bits of stuff that seems to have found its way to somewhere it ought not be.

My intention is to get these odd bits back to where they belong, before I found them under bed, under sofa, under bookcase, under desk, under tree.

Each day I empty out my pockets, and once in a while, I just have to smile at what I find.

The Rural Rites of Spring

It’s an emotionally dangerous thing to develop a fondness for squirrels. Because sooner or later, you’re going to run over one. And so begin the rites of Spring.

Around the time the sap starts to rise, these little gray bandits start to fall. In their excitement to be running footloose from branch to limb, they get a little careless, particularly when trying to cross power lines that span the streets and highways.

This is where I come in. I seem to be some sort of tragedy magnet where the animal kingdom is concerned. If squirrels had a post office, my face would be posted on the wall.

They seem to know, somehow, the worst possible moment to lose their usual sure-footedness. As I am about to motor under the wire, they drop like the Flying Wallendas on a bad day. Tiny, furry acrobats without a net. Then, it’s my choice. Usher in Springtime by flattening a squirrel or go head to head with a Peterbuilt. Avoiding the semi appears to be the wiser choice.

Another sign of Spring on our roads is the ever-changing, always-surprising surface conditions of the pavement (or the lack thereof). Before your daily commute to the city, if getting stuck in the mire of your own driveway doesn’t wake you up; the heave in the road around the corner, caused by the last night’s freeze, will likely get your attention. Then, an afternoon thaw will turn the heave into a buckle and catch you on the return trip home.

And, of course, there is the mud-today-dust-tomorrow challenge. This causes seemingly no-nonsense people to believe that writing WASH ME PLEASE on the trunk of someone’s car is the height of intelligent wit.

The streets of Springtime become busy, too, with another kind of traffic. Walkers. Treadmills and aerobics on DVD are abandoned for the call of the open road. My little neighborhood makes a perfect one-mile-around track. Ten stray dogs as escort, no extra charge.

There are the serious, health incentive walkers, easily identified by the eyes; straight ahead, no looking around. Concentrating on even breathing and dreaming, no doubt, about carbohydrates. Then there’s me. Eyes everywhere, looking all over, concentrating on nothing (as usual) and mentally counting the change in my pocket for Ben and Jerry’s Chunkey Monkey at the corner store.

This brings to mind another Springtime amusement. I’m always fascinated by what is revealed along the roads, in the ditches and in the yards after the snow melts. Some things we might prefer to remain snow covered. However, Barbie and G.I. Joe, who went MIA sometime around Thanksgiving, will be found after the meltdown along with your extra car keys, two or three stick-to-the-dash coffee mugs that unfortunately didn’t stick to the roof of the car, a window scraper, forty-seven Wal-Mart circulars no longer stapled, a sneaker, a dish towel that blew off the clothes line and some folding money, if you’re lucky.

Treasures of Spring. Ah, life is grand.

(c)g.Slater

photo courtesy scarysquirrelworld

Woman vs. Wild

We finally bought a new sofa. And to make sure it doesn't go to waste, I've been watching a lot of TV lately. I might as well, since there just happens to be a television set directly in front of it. In most American homes, the sofa's placement is scientifically determined by the position of the TV. There's a formula and everything.

"The circumference of the sofa is one half the radius of the television, times pie with whipped cream, divided by the amount of time it takes the kids to change the channel to the Cartoon Network."

I've always been good at math.

When I can get the remote away from the children, I've been particularly fascinated by reality shows, especially the ones where some guy with the survival skills of Crocodile Dundee, Jeremiah Johnson and the combined armed forces of the United States, is dropped off in the middle of a barren wasteland or rain forest or some other inhospitable terrain like Buffalo. Then, for our viewing pleasure, he has to spend a week trying to find food, shelter, and water, all while attempting to stay within the proper camera angle so the viewers don't get a peek at the boom mics hanging from tree limbs or the catering table set up just outside the scene's perimeter.

In each episode, our survival heroes find themselves in even more dangerous situations than the week before. Coming closer to a death from exposure, starvation, dehydration, or the worse case of Montezuma's revenge on either side of the border. You'd swear they're competing to see who can eat the most revolting, live and slimy creature, in the most extreme, nausea-inducing, camera close-up.

"Why do you watch this stuff," my husband asks?

"You never know when you'll need these skills," I say.

Learning to turn a hiking boot into a three course meal could come in handy someday, given my culinary expertise. Yes, if anyone is going to have to know how to repel down the face of an Arctic crevasse while filleting a Polar bear with her free hand, it's going to be me. Why just the other day...

* * *

From the safety of my living room, the landscape outside may look like a beautiful winter wonderland, but looks are deceiving. Yes, today I'll be stepping out my front door and going to...the mailbox. (cue dramatic theme music)

I know it sounds crazy, but yes, the mailbox. And I'll be completely and utterly alone. Except for my cameraman.

I'll be making my way across the treacherous, snow-covered expanse with no provisions or equipment, save for the Trusty Swiss Army Knife given to me by my Brownie leader when I was only six.

"Gloria," she said, "never go anywhere without your Trusty Swiss Army Knife, especially to the mailbox."

I've never forgotten those words. How could I? They're tattooed on my left bicep. Don't tell me Brownies aren't tough.

No food, no water. Not even a compass to guide my way across the frigid topography. Yes, without sun, moon, stars, or Patagonian Sherpa to lead me, I could wander for days unable to find my way. (Warning: Outlandish Aside Alert)

Why, just last year, on a day quite like today, a woman foolishly attempted to make it to her mailbox in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and was (cue suspenseful music)...

Never.

Seen.

Again.

Let's hope I don't meet the same fate as she, but rather, demonstrate how to survive the hostile environs of The Front Yard, despite the fact that I have mysteriously developed a British accent and am talking REALLY LOUD.

WELL, I'VE MADE IT TO, er, I've made it to the porch steps by sheer will and determination. Now I must descend without the aid of climbing gear. As my Brownie leader use to tell us before cookie sale time, "Don't panic. Always take time to assess the situation. In every worst case scenario, there's a solution, if you just keep your wits about you."

And, there it is. The solution. The extension cord on my cameraman's battery adapter (hey, we've got a tight budget here, do you know what those batteries cost these days?). I'll just fashion the cord into a repelling line and tie it to the belt of my bathrobe. There, that's got it. I'll be down these icy steps in no time.

What's this?! Blimey, my line's gone slack!

Me: "What's that you say? You think I should turn back?”

Cameraman: "Yes, there's no mail delivery today. It's a government holiday."

* * *

Ah, it's just as well. The way things usually go for me, I'd probably end up as one of those Outlandish Aside Stories. (cue poignant but catchy music)

I can picture it now, my lifeless body discovered by a very surprised meter reader sometime during spring thaw. Besides, I think I dropped my Trusty Swiss Army Knife down between the sofa cushions.

(cue commercial)

©g.Slater2008

Got Them Ol’, Clothes-Don’t-Fit-Gotta-Lose-
Fifty-Pounds-Can’t-Refuse-
French-Fries, Low Self-esteem Blues.

Daddy’s frying taters, (da-DAH-da-domp)
Better get on outta town. (da-DAH-da-domp)
Ain’t never seen no tater,
That this poor girl won’t wolf down.

Yeah, I got the blues,
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, pass me that Quarter Pound,
Low self-esteem blues.

Drivin’ by McDonald’s, (da-DAH-da-domp)
What’s that before my eyes? (da-DAH-da-domp)
Get thee behind me Satan,
And your box of Super-sized.

Yeah, I got the blues,
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, make that a hash brown,
Low self-esteem blues.

Went shoppin’ this morning, (da-DAH-da-domp)
Bought a skirt just for fun. (da-DAH-da-domp)
Tried to put my two legs in,
But there’s only room for one.

Yeah, I got the blues
Got them low-down blues,
Got them low-down, I ain’t messin’ ‘round
Low self-esteeeeeem...ba-lu-uuuues.


(c)g.Slater2007

gloria's nice thing of the day

Thought I'd share this with my faithful readers. If this doesn't brighten your day, well then, just go back to bed, you're unbrightenable.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q8b_Uus3A7g

I've never tried to include a music link, so I hope this works. If not, hie thee to ye olde record shoppe and pick up anything by Steve Goodman. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

RIP, Steve.

Fry Anxiety

Health care professionals will tell you that fast food joints are hazardous to your health. What they don’t tell you is, there’s another danger that may be even worse than an expanding waistline. I’m talking about FFAD, Fast Food Anxiety Disorder. You’ve probably never heard of it because I just made it up. It helps if I can put a name to my problems.

A typical FFAD scenario goes something like this. For explanation purposes here, I will use myself as an example. That way no one gets sued.

The typical Fast Food Anxiety sufferer (that would be me) walks through the door of the typical fast food joint and immediately begins to do the fast food two-step. This is a little dance wherein I attempt to avoid the maze of railings provided by the FFJ (fast food joint). The railings are suppose to keep the waiting line orderly, kind of like the lines at Disney World only without ‘It’s a Small World After All’ playing non-stop at a decibel level of an F16 fighter jet.

Staying out of the line within the Disney-esque railings for as long as possible is crucial for me. This is because I find it nearly impossible to read the menu while simultaneously marching along in the queue. The menu is posted so high above the counter it requires a deep-space telescope to see it. With each step, I lose my place in the menu and must begin again with the Value Meal section. Anxiety sets in.

Eventually, though, I must take the plunge and join the line. Herded along, I near the counter, but I still cannot locate the drink section of the menu. My steps become slower as I try in vain to stay on task. This leads to muttering from the ranks in the railings behind me. These are the people who know exactly what they want when they walk in, have their debit cards firmly in their grasp, AND are able to carry on a coherent conversation with the customer next to them as well.

It’s a safe bet that now I’m stuck in the Combo Section of the menu where there are way too many choices. With cheese or without. Fries, wedges or baked potato. Chives or sour cream. Regular, SuperSize, or Elastic Waistband.

Ready or not, I’ve made it to the counter where the FFJ cashier asks: “Muh tuhkya uhrrrrr?”
(This is not what he said, actually, but it’s a close facsimile to what I believe I heard, due of course, to my rising anxiety levels.)

“Muh tuhkya uhrrr?” he says again.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not quite ready to order yet,” I stammer, “maybe you should take the next person in line.”

Now I make a really bad move. A really bad move. I step behind the person behind me. This upsets the entire natural order of the Fast Food Waiting Line Ordering System. Everyone is now forced to take a step backward, which elicits more muttering, which causes my anxiety levels to rise yet again, which causes me to function even more slowly, if that’s possible. (Note: The FFADer’s anxiety level is directly proportionate to the amount of discernable muttering in the waiting line.)

Somehow, I finally place an order with no less than two substitutions, one cancellation, and a request for something not even on the menu.

“Can I have the wedges from Combo Number Two instead of the onion rings from Number Five, but without cheese on the burger from Number Forty-seven, and I’ve been reading about all the health benefits of legumes lately, you wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”

And now it’s time for possibly the most anxiety-ridden part of the whole fast food experience. Money.

Yes, nothing strikes fear into the heart of the hapless person with Fast Food Anxiety more than paying for their order. This is because they (and when I say they, I mean me) find it humanly impossible to make any purchase without rifling through a bulging change purse stuffed with wads of receipts, unused credit cards, and approximately $15 in nickels and pennies, all of which shoots out of the aforementioned bulging change purse and scatters across the counter causing the cashier to exclaim, “Mwuh?!”

There is no way to know the exact number of people afflicted with Fast Food Anxiety Disorder, as very few will come forward for treatment fearing ridicule, shame, and the confiscation of their change purses. That’s why the FFJEFTBOFFJE (Fast Food Joint Employees For The Betterment Of Fast Food Joint Employees) are working tirelessly (well, they’re thinking about it anyway) to find a cure.

So the next time you’re in line at your favorite burger place, and someone with a change purse asks to step behind you, just save everyone a whole lot a trouble and tell the cashier, “she’ll have what I’m having…and put it on my bill.”

©g.Slater2007

image courtesy etc.usf.edu/clipart

It's Bunkhouse Bob Again!

Well, Ol' Bunkhouse Bob won't be doing much riding for a while. Seems he's been a little careless while outdoors. And just so's all you little buckeroos won't get yourselves into the same sort of pickle, Ol' Bob has written this little ditty for you to keep in mind.

Yep, he's just that kind of pal.

When out in the wilds and the woodlands,

Without the aid of a pot,

To avoid an embarrassing case of the ivy,

Be careful wherefore you squat.

(c)g.Slater

clipart by loti.com

I've Grown Accustomed To Your Face


I think there must be something about my face.
I keep checking to see if ‘Tell Me All About It’ is stamped on my forehead.

During a recent trip to K-Mart I was deep in thought in the sock department, contemplating the advantages of crew style as opposed to the tube. A woman approached and pulled her cart up next to mine. She randomly pawed through the sport socks with the little pom-poms on the heel. Then all I did, and I’m not lying, is look up and acknowledge her presence. With me, that’s all it takes.

She began.

“Had my cat neutered and declawed this morning.”

No “hello, nice day, these prices are really good”, nothing in a preliminary manner. She just started right in as though we were continuing a conversation we might have begun over coffee a few minutes earlier.

She went on.

“You know, I waited 14 years for my first cat to die so I could buy new furniture, they scratch things up so bad, you know. And now Harvey he brings home this new one, wouldn’t you know it. I’m not waiting another 14 years, oh no, not this time.”

How does one reply to a harangue such as that? Being a common occurrence for me, I decided to go with the moment, I said, “Well, you deserve new furniture after all those years.”

That’s what she was hoping to hear. However, my response is the wrong one if I happen to be in a hurry or don’t feel like having company on my sock expedition. For now she has followed me around to the other side of the sock department, almost into the shoe
department, and I didn’t even want to look at shoes. But I pretended that I did.

“We had the fish fry at the diner last Thursday,” she said. “You know, before bingo, Harvey and me. Do you think that’s strange, having fish on Thursday instead of Friday?”

She wanted an answer. “Do you like fish,” I asked?
“Sure, me and Harvey do,” she replied.
“Then I guess any night’s ok for fish fry,” I said confidently.

That was the answer she was looking for. Instantly I became her new best friend. And as such, my opinion was required, the barn boots for Harvey or the insulated Timberlines?

And on it went until a teenage boy sidled over from the men’s shoe department, another total stranger. He waited for the woman to stop for breath, then asked my advice on the best type of laces for his dress shoes.

“I have to go to my Uncle’s funeral and my mother won’t let me wear my Nikes, couldn’t find the laces for my shoes, think I used them to fix my basketball net, she said go buy some new ones and get the right color, do you think these are oxford, what color is oxford anyway?”

I turned to answer him, which obviously ticked-off the fish fry woman who took this as a snub. She mumbled something to the effect of “buttinsky kid” and said she needed to find the cat food department. She whirled her cart around and didn’t look back. Shoeless Joe and I are left to ponder the myriad color choices of shoestrings.

In the next four and a half minutes he told me that his Uncle died of cirrhosis of the liver and his grandmother is coming in from Pocatello, Idaho for the funeral and that no one knows where his Uncle’s wife is so they can tell her he’s died and that he thinks he’ll get out of school for the services and that’s ok except that he’ll miss his girlfriend and what do I think, should he ask her to the funeral, would that count as a date?

I think I have a new best friend.
Must be something about my face.

(c)g.Slater