Travels With Mother (Part 5)

https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/05/the-low-down-on-lunch-with-mother/
https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/06/travels-with-mother-part-2/

https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/11/the-most-fun-youll-never-have-kathleens-amazing-bathroom-tour/

https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/14/its-not-what-you-tank/

 

 

 

Continuation

Once we’d gone enough miles it was unlikely we would be apprehended with bathroom destruction with malice aforethought, I pulled into a nice looking station/store.  This one looked like it was progressive enough to have excellent bathroom facilities, which we sorely in needed by now, since Mother was the only one who got to use the restroom at the last stop.  For neck she generously, encouraged her daughters to go first, which we lived to regret. I’d have loved to have laid the blame at her door for what we found. Marilyn, my youngest sister, rushed in to relieve her agonized bladder.  In three seconds, she rushed out, “Oh, my gosh!  You’ve got to see this!” 

She obviously hadn’t had time to take care of any business. As mother of two teen-aged girls, the manager of a call-center, and youngest of five children, it takes something special to rattle her.

Like an idiot, I followed her in.  Someone, a very healthy eater by the way, had obviously paid a visit. The nauseating smell of fermented feces greeted us as we entered the bathroom.  It was horrendous, but I’ve been known to raise a stink myself.

Upon opening the stall, I saw a perfect liquefied poop sunburst splattered above the toilet.  Obviously, someone in great distress had blown a gasket as just as they stooped to settle in for a satisfying moment of quality time alone.  The toilet fixtures, the wall behind the toilet, the floor, and the stall wall were covered artistically with a thoroughly natural medium.  It doesn’t bear thinking of the condition of that poor unfortunate perpetrator of the masterpiece as she exited the store! We scurried out to tell the disgusted clerk what we’d found, only to find numerous visitors had already enlightened her.  That’s when we learned about the worst job in the world.  An industrial service was on its way.

Once more, courting legal problems, we decided to stand guard for each other and use the Men’s Room. Normally, I would have been disgusted, but compared to what we’d just seen, it smelled like a rose.

To be continued.

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Banana Pudding Bowl Blasphemy

imageSee this innocuous-looking dish.  It doesn’t look like it could break up a marriage, but you just wait. Bud chose this dish when he and his sisters divided his mother’s belongings shortly after her death.  He brought it home, showed it to me, and told it was what she’d always made banana pudding in.  Not realizing the significance of that statement, I callously baked a chicken in it less than a week later..  He came in, was delighted to see “The Banana Pudding Bowl” sitting on the stove.  He attempted to lift the lid to admire the pudding and burned his fingers.  I never heard such howling and deprecations before or since. I came to understand that bowl was only for banana pudding

“It’ll Grow Back”

Phyllis BlondeI’m sure the hairdressers among you, as well as victims of bad haircuts, can relate to this sad story.  This is my sister Phyllis, over at Anchors and Butterflies.  Note the beautiful blonde hair.  Wouldn’t you just love to have hair like that?  Well, many years ago, in a land far away, she was home from college for the weekend, complaining that she needed a haircut, bad.  A person could be forgiven for thinking that she meant a bad haircut  I was just the one for the job.  I got right to work.

Like all jobs skillfully executed, hair cutting looks easy enough.  I’d watched it plenty of times and knew just what to do.  I wrapped her wet head in a towel and dragged a comb through her hair, despite her fussiness about a mole and her ears.   I kind of parted and pinned and got started.

I did pretty well at first, then took a wild whack on one side, getting it really short. When I tried to make the other side match, it looked awful.  It was a mess of gashes and ridges.  Her scalp shone through in spots.  It looked like I’d used rick-rack to cut a pattern. I felt horrible, but started laughing.  For some reason, I still thought I could save it, but the laughing gave me away.  She jerked the towel away, speeding to the bathroom to look.  When I didn’t hear anything, I dared hope she liked it.

“Wah!  Boo Hoo Hoo!  I’m gonna kill you!”  She came flying out of that bathroom gripping her hand mirror and hairbrush headed In my direction.. She chased me around the house three times before Mother got her stopped.  Fortunately, I had a good start or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

Mother tried to calm her with some worthless reassurances like, “It doesn’t look that bad.” and her old favorite, “It’ll grow back.”  Personally, I’d as soon have my teeth bashed in as be reassured, “It’ll grow back.”

Phyllis left later that day puffy-eyed, wearing a scarf.  Mother had scraped up ten dollars for her to get her hair repaired, reassuring her all would be well. Phyllis skipped her classes the next morning, hunting up a “good” hairdresser.  He told her he had seen worse haircuts — but couldn’t remember when.

I would like to have included an after picture, but there wasn’t one.

Clothilde

imageRepost:  I was almost named Clothilde. (KLO-TEEL.  Wouldn’t have taken mean kids long to rename Kotex) So were my three sisters. No matter what heinous deed my mother may have committed or may commit in the future, I forgive her because she stuck up for me when it really mattered. Daddy was raised in North Louisiana during the deepest of The Great Depression, one of seven children always on the brink of starvation. His father either rented a farm or sharecropped when he couldn’t manage rent. Daddy didn’t speak often about his family’s situation, but occasionally slipped up and revealed the difficulties they suffered. They were a troubled family, economically and socially and moved frequently. Continue reading

Your Girdle’s Wet!

Phyllis and I had been at it all weekend.  It was her first weekend home from college in 1965 and she was on top of Daddy’s good list. Daddy liked his kids a lot better when he hadn’t seen us lately, so Phyllis was basking in the warmth of his rare approval.  Since I still lived at home and was a smart-aleck, I was definitely was not on his good list.  His Continue reading

Clothilde

I was almost named Clothilde. (KLO-TEEL.  Wouldn’t have taken mean kids long to rename Kotex) So were my three sisters. No matter what heinous deed my mother may have committed or may commit in the future, I forgive her because she stuck up for me when it really mattered. Daddy was raised in North Louisiana during the deepest of the Depression, one of seven children always on the brink of starvation. His father either rented a farm or sharecropped when he couldn’t manage rent. Daddy didn’t speak often about his family’s situation, but occasionally slipped up and revealed the difficulties they suffered. They were a troubled family, economically and socially and moved frequently. Continue reading