The Word of the Day is Schmutzwortsuche. Yeah, you read it right. It’s what many of us do, given that we’ve a lot of time on our hands and are bored. Well I do anyway! Write a Poem, story or anecdote, inspired by this word. Please create a ping back to your post by including […]
via Word Of The Day – Schmutzwortsuche — sparksfromacombustiblemind
Buzzy was glad to retire. When we first adopted him, Bud worked nights. I worked days. The poor little guy had to help Bud sleep from mid-afternoon till I got in from work. He’d get up then and help me till my bedtime when his second sleep shift started. Fortunately, we had Sissy, another American Eskimo Dog to share the sleep load. Sadly, when Sissy died, Buzzy had to do it all till we adopted Squeaky, a rag doll cat. Squeaky was an expert sleeper, but wouldn’t necessarily follow dog sleeping rules, or any rules, for that matter.
His willfulness eventually led to his demise. Squeaky was exclusively an indoor cat. Despite his neutering, from time to time his hormones acted up leading him to attempt escape. One night he shot out the back door, never to be seen again. I suspect he made the acquaintance of one of the coyotes we sometimes heard yipping.
Croc with baby
Poor Buzzy was on his own again till he retired a few years when we did. Not too long ago, we adopted Croc, a Mastiff mix. We now have two dog beds on our bedroom floor. Buzzy usually starts out in bed with us, then moves to his doggy bed. Croc yearns to get in our bed, but can’t jump. It is common for one or both of the boys to get hot during the night and move to the hardwood floor for a while. We have to leave a night light on to avoid stepping on dogs when we get up at night. A Mastiff takes up a lot of floor space, especially when he drags his baby and pillow with him. I forgot to mention Croc’s amazing ability to fart and snore, so it’s impossible to forget he’s around.
Firstly, with the results of sleuthing on the Internet are some funnies from Debby Gies followed by some jokes from Sally. D.G. Writes is where you will find an archive full of wonderful posts across several subjects including writing tips, social issues and book reviews. Thanks to Debby for finding this treasures… please give her […]
via Smorgasbord Laughter Lines – August 11th 2020 – Hosts Debby Gies and Sally Cronin — Smorgasbord Blog Magazine
My brother Bill realized he was a comedian just as he had his school picture made. All his friends loved it, but Mother had no sense of humor. “I’m not buying those ridiculous pictures!” She fumed.
”Oh yes we are!” Daddy put his foot down. His family had never been able to buy school pictures, so he was rewriting his childhood. He would not be shamed.
Daddy ruled the roost, so Mother seethed as she sent a check to school on the last possible day. Billy wasn’t worried. He’d already impressed his friends. He had endured an impressive lecture and threat of grave repercussions should he pull that stunt again, but that was a condition he’d learned to live with, so it wasn’t a problem. All his buddies wanted a picture. He was flushed with pride.
It wasn’t long till the class picture came out. His teacher opened her copy before she passed the envelopes out to the students. She was livid, landing on him like an old wet hen. He’d enjoyed so much success with his individual school pictures, that he’d repeated his trick in the class picture. There he sat, sat prominently in the front row with his tongue out and crossed eyes. This picture would be in the yearbook!
The teacher was mad. Mamas were mad. I’m sure the photographer was mad since he wouldn’t have sold many prints with a clown in the front row. Needless to say, my parents didn’t buy one. I am sorry I couldn’t find one for this post, so I substituted my own first grade class picture. I am the eighth girl in the second row, remarkable for the wild hair.
My blood ran cold with the teacher’s announceme “School pictures tomorrow! Make sure to wear something nice. Some of you need to get a haircut or curl your hair!” Of all things I hated, dressing up nice and getting my hair curled was the worst. Mother had always longed for curly hair and was determined to curl vicariously through her stringy-haired girls. I hated hearing the news that we were obligated to show up for pictures with curly hair. I’d have gladly left Mother in the dark, but my righteous older sister made sure Mother got the message. Phyllis hunted up rules to follow.
Upon learning of “Picture Day,” Mother put her “Saturday Night Plan” in action. After a bath and shampoo, Mother clamped me between her knees and went to work with Dippity-Doo and hard metal torture-curlers. From her mood, I infer she hated the operation as much as I did. Dividing my fine, limp hair into sections, she’d isolate a tiny section, dip a skinny comb into the slimy, pink, Dippity-Doo and slather a strand of wet hair. I can still feel the slime trail running down my neck. Burdened with no skill, as often as not, the slimy hair had to be redone, stretched over the curler, and twisted as tight as possible against my screaming scalp. “I don’t want to get up in the morning and find a curler fallen out.” I am just glad she had no access to a stapler. She’d snatch me back into place when I wiggled, complaining throughclenched teeth. “I hope you have fifteen girls and everyone of them has straight hair.” God must have been on my side. I had one curly-haired girl. Once she was through, she wound a scarf tight around my head and sent me off to bed for a sleepless night.
The unveiling was devastating. My normally-lank hair was kinked-up like my reprieve had come through after the warden threw the switch. A wild corona fanned madly about my head like a nest of stinging worms. Nothing about this do was natural. I was at least four inches taller than I’d been the day before. MMother sent me off to school furious, knowing this was absolutely not what the teacher meant by “curl my hair.” Mother brooked no complaints, declaring it looked good. “Don’t dispute my word! Now get on that bus!”
“Disputing Mother’s” word was a sacrilege. It would be better to step in front of a bus than “Dispute my word.” Clearly, Mother was deranged.
The only comfort was finding someone who looked worse than I did. One evil mother had given all three of her girls a home perm and sent them out to face the world still wet. Their heads looked like lion’s manes. I will always be grateful to their mother and to the family of boys who came in with gapped home haircuts. Then there was the kid whose sister cut her bangs. Too bag there wasn’t a competition. There were so many prize winners!
Since Mother ensured me a lot of bad school pictures, out of fairness, I went back and dug out a few of hers.
I have been AWOL for a while due to some family situations, so I have some updating to do. First of all, I’ve always posted a lot about Mother. She is fine at ninety-two. We avoid getting out because of corona virus, so it was a treat to go blueberry picking a few days ago. We only saw a couple of other pickers far afield, as happy to avoid contact as we were.
The sky was a pure, crystal blue and mountainous, cottony white-clouds transformed above us. Had I been nimble as a five-year-old, I would have stretched out in the grass watching clouds change from horses to gnomes, to a covered wagons. Six decades certainly interferes with the pleasure of prolonged cloud performance. A slight breeze brought welcome comfort in the Louisiana heat as we lounged with lemonade at a picnic table shaded by a giant oak.
I do believe this cloud was working up to the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
Mother still works in her yard almost every day. She comes from long-lived stock. Her grandfather lived to ninety-six, before succumbing to stubbornness. He might still be with us otherwise. He had a numb leg from a Civil War injury. An iron bedstead did him in when he hung a toe on his iron bedstead heading outdoors to the toilet, tripping and cracking his head.. A brain bleed did him in four days later.