The long winter's nap

It was early afternoon one cold winter day in Chicago. I never knew cold could be that cold. I was putting my little ones down for a long winter’s nap and explaining to them why we should always be respectful of policemen and never call them “cops”. Stressing how hard they work to keep us safe from robbers and kidnappers who would take them far away from their mommy. At that very moment, what to our wondering ears should we hear, but a very loud thump on our front door. The sleepy kid’s sprang from their beds to see what was the matter. As they were about to open the door, I hollered, “Stop”! Anxious, like race ponies before the bell, they looked back at me with that “but someone is actually coming to see us - look” and receiving “I am the mom and you will do what I say or else- look”. They pounced to the window and threw up the sash. When what to our wondering eyes should appear on our door step, but four heavily armed “policemen” piling on top of a run-away bank robber. The five police cars on the lawn with the new fallen snow gave a luster of sirens and flashing lights to the neighborhood below. The little lambs all exclaimed as they looked into the light. We are sorry we called you a "cop" alright, “Mr. Policeman, sir”.

Lucky Day

Have you ever met someone who seems to have all the luck when it comes to something? I know someone who seems to always be the victim in an accident and never the perpetrator. My grown son. What’s with that? Cars always hit him. He never hits them. He is a great driver. He has that good driver’s sense. It’s been a long time since he got a speeding ticket. I think he racked up his quota of speeding tickets before his run of good luck. The funny thing is that everyone who hits him has great insurance. Plus, his car, or mine as fate would have it in today’s accident, always looks better than before the accident. It runs better too. I should be upset. After all, it was my car. I ask about injuries, (I have to throw that in here as not to seem hardened) and there were none, I smile a little, shake my head and say a prayer of thanksgiving. I have learned to count the blessing in anyway the are given. My car needed a paint job in the worst way. Funny, but this may have been my lucky day.

Computer Serenity

Funny thing, I could convince you that the computer has a homing device that hums in our heads and beckons us to return and report. It is a parasite that sucks upon our minutes, hours, days and eye sight. The clocks moves faster, dishes lay in the sink, the kids come home much too soon and dinner hour is delayed. By law, all computers would have a time- out buzzer requiring it to shut down for fifteen minutes every two hours. That way it’s user could regain consciousness and come again to their senses. When did this become funny? When I realized that I needed my higher power to grant me more hours in the day. When the serenity prayer pops into my mind during extended computer hours. That’s when.
Funny because I am still the master of my ocean, the keeper of my bees. Or am I? Who are you inside that box? How did you get there? Take me to your leader so I can give him a peace of my mind. I know he’s in there. Oh computer, my computer, I shall not be lead into temptation of wasting my hours trouncing around your hard drive nor the enticing vastness of your internet. I am my ships commander. I am the motherboard of all motherboards and you will obey me. Away with you. Now, where is my typewriter?

Wet Pet

The Funny things come in a variety of shapes, sizes, boxes and messes just to name a few. Just today a funny thing jumped up on my lap and started shaking her just washed wetness all over me. Lucy, my grand dog. A one year old miniature Maltese. Lucy spends most of her time over at Grammy’s house. Her mommy, my daughter and Lucy’s rightful owner, works and plays soccer, not to mention all her work travel, so Grammy gets the dog. When my kids were growing up, I always told them, “It’s kids or dogs in this house and if we get a dog, I will have to get rid of you”! They never really ask seriously for an animal after that. Even though I must be committing some “political incorrectness”… to admit that I do not like dogs or other animals especially in my house. The funny thing is that I have fallen in love with that tiny, abandoned to her Grammy’s house, dog personality. Funny because, I love Lucy!

Dear Countertop, please forgive us!

In my kitchen, as in all kitchens, you will find a countertop. A beautiful countertop made of granite. It cleans with ease and hides all sorts of spills. It serves delicious meals and snacks. Its drinks are not intoxicating, yet satisfying and inviting. Upon inspection it is mostly clean and free of debris… all except the corner by the door. I wonder if that corner is not magnetized. Despite all my efforts to keep it free from clutter and swine flu, it never is to become liberated for more than a few hours at a time. Prisoner to mail, papers, ipods, Kleenex, purses, shoes, phones, and a myriad of homeless items belonging to those viable pass Byers if you will, dropping their load in search of sustenance around the bend.
Oh sweet and beautiful countertop, how can you ever forgive us? You serve us faithfully. You never complain. You shoulder our load year after year. How can we thank you? The funny thing here is that I am the one who should be thanked. I am the one person in this home who is looking out for the welfare of that countertop. I am the one who cares enough to lend the poor helpless countertop relief. I never complain about the burden of finding a home for all that “stuff”. Okay, that’s a lie, but it is poetic. I am the one who keeps it sanitized. I am the one who takes care to alleviate the load on that corner countertop. Is there any thanks? They never call, they never write.

Storage Room Funny

Funny thing about my storage room located in my basement. It can and does tell a visual history of my family. There are baby clothes in more than one of the boxes. My little girl’s dresses that would kill me if I had to part with them. Boxes of Barbies that I am sure will have value one day to a granddaughter. A box of clothes labeled… (I am not telling what size, but smaller than I am now). An old baseball case belonging to my thirty -something year old son containing that one in a million, spring centered bat which cost a small fortune 20 years ago. A stick horse belonging to my thirty - something year old daughter which may have sentimental value to her, or not. Old photos, old family genealogy, never used camping gear. My children’s unused belongings saved in faith and hope. My husband’s, mother’s, mother’s linen. Are you following me? Is that not a reason to laugh? My great grandmother’s tatting bedspread which must have taken most of her life to create and to be past down to the historical society in the unfinished part of my basement. The list could go back 50 or 100 years, or more. It’s funny that I can’t seem to part with any of those things. Funny still how my children can’t come over and get their stuff, take it to their homes and start their own family history storage room. It’s a funny thing in that I am willing to pass these things down, but just not toss them out.