Compromise

“Let’s work this out.”

“I want to work it out but I will not compromise my principles.”

“Me neither. Do we agree that we’re equals.”

“Yes. Not exactly equal in every way, but added up, yes.”

“So when it comes to cooking?”

“You do the cooking, but cooking is part of the bigger picture.”

“And cleaning up the kitchen afterwards?”

“You also do that. Just part of the bigger picture.”

“And shopping to buy the food to cook?”

“It’s all part of the same thing. We’re not equal in every little detail.”

“Raising the kids?”

“I helped make them ha ha… But seriously, I take them to school.”

“Making their breakfast? Putting up lunches for school? Picking them up after school? Planning their time after school?  Afternoon snacks? Helping them with their homework? Play dates? Buying their clothes? Keeping them clean? Dentist? Pediatrician?”

“I took Timmy to Dr. Goldman that time.”

“Changing the sheets? Vacuuming? Keeping in touch with both our families? Sending out Christmas cards?”

“Look, Honey. It’s not a compromise but I’ll clean up my work area in the garage.”

“For the first time this decade?”

“I’ll pick up that stuff at the dry cleaners.”

“You mean your extra suit and your shirts with the stains from the pub?”

“I go to work every day. I earn my share. I’m not compromising, but what else do you want?”

“We both go to work every day. Counting my royalties, I actually make more than you do. I’m also thinking you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

“But I’m good looking ha ha… Listen, I will not compromise my principles but I will come to an agreement. Tell me what you want.”

“Let’s start with these dirty dishes.”

 

For Daily Post

Musk’s Tesla to stay in space for millions of years

That’s what you think. I’m going up to get it. I’ve always wanted one of those things.

Have you seen The Astronaut Farmer (2006)? Billy Bob Thornton? Based on the true story of a farmer who built a dad-gummed rocket in his barn and then (spoiler alert) flew it up into space.

Well get this. I’m a farmer, I live nearish to Houston where all the space stuff is, and I own the Astronaut Farmer dvd. Done deal.

Maybe Musk will want his car back, you say. Tough ti… tough patootie. You can’t park a car in space for a million years and expect it to just sit there. Your insurance isn’t going to pay off if it’s stolen. It’s reckless driving or something. The insurance companies will always get you on some technicality or other. When I bring the car back, I’m not even going to insure it. I’ll just drive it around on the farm.

This rumor about there being a body in the trunk, one of Musk’s enemies? I doubt it’s true but if it is and I find it, I’m going to leave it up there. Not bringing it back. It’s dead weight.

I assume that Musk left the keys in the car.

I was also reading that there is a ton of “space junk” up there, but get this. It’s not junk. It’s all kinds of equipment and satellites and stuff that they can’t or won’t go up and retrieve, so they call it junk to avoid embarrassment. I might snag a thing or two in addition to the car.

I saw a picture of an astronaut sitting in the car, waving. If I find anybody in it when I get there, I’ll just politely tell them to get out. Everybody at church tells me I’m a real diplomat but I will not compromise where the car is concerned.

my socks

When I buy a pair of socks, I mark one left and one right. Either new sock could be a left or a right before I mark them! It’s like they are being born when I open the package and then I tell them which is male and which is female. I always say it out loud while I am marking. Once marked, they are male or female for life unless I decide to change the markings.

I have different feelings about left and right socks. Every so often I will put a left sock on my right foot. Once a year or so I will put a right sock on my left foot. I always mention this at confession but my priest never offers an opinion. I cannot see his socks; his cassock hangs too low.

When I was a teenager and then in my early twenties, I would have trouble finding a matching left and right pair in my sock drawers. If I found two that matched in color, they would both be right or both be left. I missed more trains that way, searching.

After the fire, when I needed all new socks, I bought only one brand (Vulvue), one type (wool, over-the-calf, ribbed), and one color (brown). I keep the lefts in one set of drawers and the rights in another set on the other side of the room. I wash lefts and rights separately. I use fewer drawers for the lefts because I like to squeeze them in together. The rights get more room but sometimes I will ball two of them up, one inside the other. Once I balled up three. I haven’t told my priest about this.

When I was thirty, I hurt my right foot and had to wear a cast. By the time it came off, the left socks were more worn than the rights. I had to get rid of all of them and start over. I packed them in a mini-fridge delivery box and put them down next to a homeless person at the station. I told him that one of the socks had a ten-dollar bill in it, so that he would not throw them all away. It was really only one dollar but I wasn’t sure that would provide sufficient motivation for him.

I have some fuzzy warm cotton socks for cold nights in bed. I keep these on a shelf in my closet, in a box I call “the harem.”

I notice socks on others. Most seem unhappy.

 

 

Lecture

You have to lecture your kids. You also have to lecture your husband — and sometimes your neighbors or the mailman or a solicitor or the Jehovah’s Witnesses — or even, on a very bad day, Jehovah Himself.

That’s just the way it is.

I use a lectern. Lecterns have one purpose and lecturing is it.

I have an indoor lectern on wheels, for moving around the house, and an outdoor mobile lectern for trips to school, where my kids sometimes need my advice or a good scold during classes or recess. (Props to SNL and Melissa McCarthy for the outdoor mobile idea. That lectern is especially useful for following older my kids on their dates.)

The workers in my husband’s office are well familiar with my lecterns. The indoor lectern attaches to the larger outdoor lectern so that once I get to the skyscraper, I can just roll on in.

The White House has the most famous lectern, with a big seal on its front representing the President or the U.S. or whatever. My seals are nothing fancy like that one. Just my face with a stern look on it.

The main thing about lecterns, and you should remember this in case you’re ever standing behind one, is that you don’t necessarily have to tell the truth to your audience while you’re there, whether it be your family or anybody else. You’ll notice this with the Presidential Lectern, for example. There is something about fielding tough questions from your listeners that requires an occasional slide into fabricationhood.

How many times, oh Lord, have the kids or the hubby called out, “Yeah, but what about you?”

“What about me?” I reply. “Let me tell you how much I love you. I have been teaching you, guiding you, explaining things to you, badgering you, threatening you,  reporting you to the police and other authorities, snitching on you to your best friends, and posting embarrassing homecam shots of you on Facebook since the day you were born, or in the case of Frank, since the day we were married, and have I ever asked for thanks? No. This lectern is three inches shorter than when it was new, from me pounding on it.”

But I’ve got to go. I’ve had the bathroom door widened so I can get this thing through it when a family member requires a lecture while using the facilities.

For Daily Prompt

Woman spots mold on new tampon

[Headline, Huffington Post]

If an ice shelf the size of Texas breaks off the continent of Antarctica and floats away to melt in the sea, it will not directly affect my day, at least until sea levels rise high enough to flood my neighborhood. That sort of global-warming consequence doesn’t trouble me. If all the polar bears disappear tomorrow, I don’t care. I rarely hunt bears, on foot or from a helicopter with a high-powered rifle. I never go to the zoo. They say that when you get the kids every other weekend, you should take them to the zoo, but I’ve never done so. My favorite bar lets me park my children in an empty poker room as long as they keep quiet, so I just take them there.

But global warming vis a vis tampons is another matter. When warmth-loving molds and fungi and viruses begin to invade my personal space, it’s time to take action. I don’t personally use tampons, except perhaps occasionally on my “strange” days, but if mold can go there, what’s to stop it from showing up on, for example, my doobies?

Remember that molds reproduce more quickly than we do, and I’m not just complaining here about the lack of action in my life. Molds evolve quicker. That’s why a mold has already learned how to eat a tampon. Humans have evolved to the point of eating at McDonald’s, true, but McDonald’s is not Modess.

I don’t want to live in a world where I have to compete with an evolved mold for my job. I’m already losing out to our neighbors to the south. I might never work again. Say, could that be an upside to this mold invasion?

But seriously, if molds can learn to eat a tampon, why can’t they learn to eat the tamponee, or tamponess? I don’t wear underpants, but if I did, couldn’t the mold move in there and stage itself for an attack? I’m freaking myself out here.

My buddy tells me that there are molds that can talk. I think that’s what he said. How is that even possible? I guess molds must have mouths or how could they eat? But how tiny those mouths must be. When they talk, you’d be lucky to hear even a squeak. Plus, once you pull the tampon, I’m not wanting to hear the mold’s comments. Or get my ear near it, neither.

Why can the mold feel the global warming and I can’t, anyway? I’ve been spending my nights in the car and it’s cold out there. They say that there are more tornadoes, or is it hurricanes, but all I’m seeing is rain. Cold rain. Cold rain and mold growing on everything.

It hit the spot

I shot an arrow in the air. It came to earth I knew not where, until Mr. Humphrey cried out.

It hit that spot on his left ham that we had made such fun of at the nude beach (from behind him since it was on his behind).

I should not have shot that arrow up in the air like that. It had to come down somewhere unless it hit a bird, which would have been worse. I was the only one holding a bow, a dead giveaway.

“You, Fred,” Mr. Humphry said. “I’ll whip you now with your own arrow. Lucky for you it was no more than a glancing blow.”

Not lucky for me. If the arrow had penetrated his ham, he could not whip me with it. The barb would have secured itself in the wound.

“May I fortify myself, Sir,” I said.

“Do so and approach,” he said.

I took a long draught of the strong stuff, against the pain to come. It hit the spot.

I’ve lost my home of 20 years

It started out as a box.

The former tenant, a dishwasher, had vacated, and I moved in.

This was in the trash-bestrewn lot behind Moe’s Used Appliances. I was living in a canvas pup-tent bag at the time. To reside in an actual box was heaven, plus I had the lot to myself, not counting the vermin.

Later, I stole tape to add to the box a large carton emptied of its frozen turkeys. I’m not proud of that crime. Later I replaced the tape with staples. This didn’t absolve me of the original theft, but I felt better not staring at the tape all the time. I stole a stapler to do this.

By the time the rains and then the snow came, I had my home waterproofed with a tarp I borrowed.  Time passed in a blur. It’s like that when you get situated securely in life, right? Your kids, or in my case, rats, are born. They grow up and leave home. You put in your time as a member of society, in my case begging in front of the butcher shop. Next thing you know, you’re older.

I’m not as sharp as I was but I’m still game. I took a wrong turn somewhere but I’ll figure it out. The town has grown but it’s still my town. My home is out there somewhere. If I keep looking, I’ll find it.