Funny Blogs!

To tell the truth, dish detail was not popular even when our dishwasher worked. But since we held a watery funeral for our pot-scrubbing friend, there's been a mutiny of sorts. No one wants to wash the dishes by hand. I tell them to be grateful they even have hands, but it apparently it's not enough gratitude to stand in front of a sink full of soapy hot water and scrub plates and bowls clean.

Honestly, I don't mind washing a sink full of dishes or two. It's the two hundred that gets to me. I'm not the only one eating in this house. Why, when I was a girl, we were given chores, and we did those chores, and we never got to play, and we always had dishpan hands and floor scrubbing knees. That is, unless we escaped and ran outside to play. Then Mom was too tired to come find us.

I remember one night when it was my sister, Bev's, turn to do dishes. Someone else had cleared the table, then run off to play, their duty done. But when Dad happened to walk past the kitchen door, he heard a noise that made him cautiously peek around the doorjamb. Yes, it was the unmistakable sound of laughter. What, he wondered, could Bev find so funny about the dreaded job of washing dishes for a family of 10? As soon as he saw what she was doing, he quietly assembled the rest of us to peek around the door frame. What I saw made me want to get my hands in the dishpan.

Bev scooped the dish bubbles into a mound in the center of the sink. Then she took a funnel, wide side down, and slapped it onto the bubble mountain. A stream of bubbles shot out the narrow end the funnel high enough to shame any erupting volcano. Bev giggled and gathered her bubbles into a mound again. This time, she slapped the funnel so hard, the bubble stream hit the ceiling. Bev laughed out loud. We started laughing, too. She whirled around, her mouth a surprised "o," her eyes wide with surprise.

Dog Tails Are Super Glued To Their Butts

          It was the stuff of dreams; my 8-year-old landed the dog's part in the school play. I'm not saying that he drew a bad part, I'm saying that he got the part of a dog. Since he had his lines down pat, ("Rowf, rowf, rowf,") all he needed was a costume. I made the mistake of asking Michael what he wanted the costume to look like. "I want a long tail."
          "Is a pipe cleaner tail long enough?" I asked hopefully.
          You would have thought I'd punched my son in the stomach by the look on his face. "No, Mom, that would look stupid." Ah, those halcyon kindergarten days when imagination could make popsicle sticks into the coolest cell phone you ever saw.
          "How about wearing your old cow suit?" I asked. "It has spots, just like a dog."
          "Those are COW spots," Michael informed me. "They're different than DOG spots."
          Now I knew. But I didn't have the time, material, or energy to make a full body dog costume, especially since there's no one after Michael to grow into the suit. I was all about ease and thrift.
          Michael and I made a trip to the store to see what doggish ensemble we could both agree on. In the boys' department, we were both delighted to find a brown hooded sweatshirt on sale for half off. Michael said it was warm, and I said it was the right price. We looked all over for brown sweatpants in his size, but we couldn't find any. The brown cargo pants were too big. But wait... what's this? Black sweatpants, and they fit!
          "But, Mom, they don't match."
          "Come here, Michael, I want to show you a secret." (This is one of the best mommy tactics ever for gaining cooperation, at least temporarily.) I led my curious son over to the craft section where we riffled through rectangles of felt. We unearthed brown and black pieces that matched his new clothing so well, they could have been from the same dye lot.
          "Look," I said, holding up one of each against the hood of his jacket. "You could have one brown ear, and one black ear."
          Michael's eyes lit up. "Then I could be a brown and black dog!"
          I sagged with relief. "Yes, you could."
          "And I could have a black tail with brown spots."
          I tensed up again. "A short tail," I said.
          Michael shook his head. "A long, furry tail."
          I sighed and bent over the felt rectangles again. I had really hoped I wouldn't have to break out the sewing machine this time around. I picked up some extra brown and black felt squares and paid for our purchases.
          When we got home, I went to work. The ears were easy, especially since after I cut them out, I safety pinned them to the sweatshirt hood. Then I got busy sewing brown felt together, bending a wire to fit inside, and wrapping the wire with stuffing that tapered to a point. Then I top-stitched the felt squares along the stuffing, leaving the extra hanging down from the tail tip to where it met with the thick part of the tail near the body.
          Okay, if you're not following this, don't try any more. The point is, there was some fabric hanging down from the tail that we cut into fringe, or hair if you prefer. Michael was delighted. So was I. (We were almost done!)
          Michael glued black spots on the brown tail with a hot glue gun as fast as I could cut the spots out. When he finished, he admired the tail, then asked, "How are we going to keep it on?"
          This was when it was most tempting to point out to my son that the pipe cleaner tail would have been far superior in the attaching department of costumery, but it wouldn't have done any good.
          As I studied the problem, Michael said wistfully, "Real dogs' tails are super glued to their butts."
          And with that simple statement came the laughter, and the sudden gladness that Michael and I had worked together to make his costume into one that he felt good wearing, and still meet the quality of being one that I could tolerate putting together.
          Finally, with a belt and a few slits in the felt-from-heaven (no fraying, so no hemming needed) we buckled that tail on Michael's behind, and his performance resulted in gales of laughter from the delighted audience.
          That perfect dog tail now resides in our costume box. Anybody need a Fido outfit any time soon? No super glue required.

Bad Red

          Since we're studying Book of Mormon history history in Sunday School, it was only natural that the subject of the New York Sacred Grove came up. As our teacher talked about the miraculous feeling in the grove, my mind skittered backwards to my childhood days when I visited the grove with my family. While we were there, looking up into the heavens and wondering about the events from so long ago, my two brothers had their eyes on the ground, and each one managed to catch a small snake from those sacred grounds. I don't recall if they asked our parents or if they smuggled them in their pockets, but those snakes made it home.
          My younger brother's snake was a mild gray color, and eventually had a batch of teeny little baby snakes which we discovered wrapped around the vents on the back of the old black and white TV set. (No, I don't know how they got onto the TV.) When I first saw them, I thought they were little black wires and I touched one. It was soft and it squirmed. I don't remember exactly what happened to them, but I believe my mother gathered them up into a shoe box, and then my memory fails me.
          My older brother's snake was a dusky red color, and with a fiery temper to match, was aptly named, "Bad Red." My brother would hold Bad Red's mouth up to his ear and let the snake bite his earlobe, then walk around the house to show off his snake earring. I thought he was terribly brave.
          Then, one day, Bad Red went missing. We looked for him, but had no luck until my mother went downstairs to get a load of laundry out of the washing machine. Her scream rose three stories, and brought my brother running. "Did you find my snake?" he asked. She had, right with the clothes flattened to the side of the tub by the spin cycle. The miracle is that Bad Red was still alive, and very much in the mood for biting earlobes. If you think a boy and his dog are a touching sight, you haven't seen a boy and his snake earring.

We were in St. George, Utah, for First Night, a New Year's Eve celebration that involves walking down rows of vendors and performers and games on blocked-off Main Street. Even though it was St. George, Utah's "Dixie," it was cold. I'd brought a coat, and my son supplied scarves and hats. When we started down the street, my husband pushed a pair of thick camouflage gloves into my hands. I slipped them on and enjoyed their comfortable warmth. We listened to music impersonators for Billy Joel, Elton John, Willy Nelson, and Shania Twain, among others. We savored the warm, sweet smell of funnel cakes and mouth-watering Indian fry bread offered for sale. We watched the 10:00 p.m. children's fireworks display before our daughter-in-law, Jamie, took our two-year-old grandson home.

While walking toward the midnight fireworks display site, I grabbed Bob's arm. He had his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. When I slid my hand down into his, his pulled it out of the pocket for a better grip. I noticed that one of his gloves had the forefinger cut out. "That's for my trigger finger," he said, holding his naked fore finger up. (He meant the "trigger" on his camera.) I noticed that his gloves were thin. "I gave you the warm ones," he said, stuffing his hand back into his pocket. "They're nice, aren't they?"

I leaned against his arm as we walked. It's been a long time since Bob has given me flowers. He doesn't even say the words, "I love you." The closest I get are the words, "Luv 'em duts." But I'll tell you what, when it comes right down to it, I'll take a diaper changing, dinner cooking, glove sharing guy over lace and roses any day.

It looked heavenly, a soft yellow lemon filling crowned by a thick cloud of meringue. It wasn't hard to choose that slice of pie out of the apple, pumpkin, and chocolate cream sitting on the buffet table. I reverently lifted the slice in my hands, holding tight to the plate to keep the confection from floating away. Oh, yeah, this one was worth the calories.

I carried the slice back to my place at the dining table. I set it down at an angle worthy of a Southern Living magazine front cover. Then I settled myself in my chair and picked up my fork. I watched the tines descend to the point of the pie, the perfect place to start eating. The crust broke easily, promising a tender offering of pastry. I lifted the bite up from the plate, my tongue tingling in anticipation, my mouth opening just enough to let the pie slide inside. I closed my mouth around the tines of the fork and pulled the utensil free. Then I began to chew.

Instead of closing in bliss, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. The soft pie in my mouth sent out waves of flavor so metallic, my tongue cringed. If there was a garbage can by my side, I would have made a donation. Although the texture was all wrong, mouthing that pie was like chewing on a tin can. Augh!

Only because of 49 years practice, my ingrained table manners forced me to swallow that first bite of pie. It remained an orphan in my stomach, destined to digest alone.

What had possibly gone wrong with that beautiful piece of pie? I can't imagine. The mystery will go with me to my grave. One un-mysterious thing is the lesson of that strange Tin Can Pie. You can't know what something (or someone) is really like inside just by looking at them. You don't need to take a bite out of them, but you can carry them around a bit and probe them with words instead of a fork. Someone who may look like a mud pie dropped in the gravel and scooped back onto the plate may prove to be the sweetest friend you've ever had.

I was only looking for some human company at a craft fair when I carried my bowl of soup to an empty table, then glanced at the next table where a lady was filling foam bowls with soup from a quart jar for her two sons. I had opted to buy a single bowl of soup, not only to help the fund-raising dance troop that was selling it, but to help my empty stomach as well. "May I sit with you?" I asked the woman.

She looked up, her blue eyes round with surprise. Then her face softened into a slightly crooked smile. "Certainly," she said. "I'm Kathy."

"Thank you. I'm Shirley." I set my soup and breadsticks down and pulled up a chair. Just then, her husband, Kerry, came to the table with a loaf of bread from the food counter. I introduced myself. The first thing he said was, "Would you like some bread?"

I indicated my stiff breadsticks, which didn't look nearly as fresh and nice as his thick fluffy slices. "I've already got some," I said. As I ate, I found that if I dipped my breadsticks in my soup, they were more palatable and really quite filling.

My dinner companions and I talked about where we were from, how we enjoyed the craft fair, and what we did. I never expected Kerry to make me cry. As a home health nurse, he told me of a 106 year old man he'd taken care of for eleven years. "You get attached to them," Kerry said. "It's hard to see them go." His voice wobbled, and he picked up a napkin and dabbed his eyes. He went on to mention a pair of brothers with muscular dystrophy. "They depend on me," he said. "I get them up, get them washed, dressed, and fed. They can't do any of that for themselves. The older brother, well, when he turned 20, he said to his mother, 'I'm not a teenager any more, Mom.' That made her cry, because neither of her sons were expected to live past 20."

"Twenty Four. He likes to listen to music. It's all he can do to push the button." Kerry made his hand into a claw shape. "He gets as close to the stereo as he can, then he reaches out and pushes at that button as many times as it takes to turn the stereo on." Kerry made jabbing motions with his clawed hand, then shook his head. "He loves music. He's an amazing kid."

I stared into Kerry's eyes. "I'm so glad you care so much for them. They're lucky to have you."

Kerry's eyes filled with tears that escaped his eyes as he said, "I'm lucky to work with them. I love my job. It's just so hard, because I get attached to them."

Things were getting misty, and I blinked. Things seemed so much clearer now. For the past few weeks, I'd bemoaned many facets of my life, a life that now bloomed as a spectacularly blessed one. What a selfish outlook I'd been harboring. Then along came this saintly man, caring for people who would die without help for the simplest tasks, things that I took for granted every morning. I blinked again and said, "You make such a difference in the world. And you've just told me what I desperately needed to hear. Thank you for letting me sit by you."

I placed my hand over his in farewell, said goodbye to his wife and sons, and, walking on my own legs, my flexible hands obeying every signal from my brain, I went to throw my soup bowl away.

It was supposed to be a fun ride, a clever way to lose a few extra pounds and get in shape. I never thought it'd be mistaken for a wheelchair. It's my new Tadpole EZ rider recumbent tricycle. Yeah, that's a mouthful, and if you've ever been on one, it's a sweet ride. I rode my sister's in Idaho Falls last summer and fell in love. I determined to get one... some day. Some day came sooner than I planned when I found the squirrely little buggars offered at an inventory reduction sale from a bike shop in Colorado. After extending my line of credit, I ordered the trike to be delivered to my house, even though the Fly Bike Shop wanted it delivered to another bike shop. Well, guess what? We don't have one in our town. Apparently, unless the little amphibian is put together by a professional, the 90 day warranty is void. Well, from where I'm standing in life, 90 days is not long enough to worry about. Besides, my nearly 14-year-old son was eager as all get-out to put the bike together. He's got quite a mechanical mind, so he read the book (which didn't have instructions for our model anyway) and started fitting things where they belonged, or looked like they belonged. You can learn a lot through trial and error. We recruited our neighbor, Doyle, to help with the project, and he said it looked like we had our machine upside down and backwards. Still, he was helpful and patient until Dad came rolling in to the rescue and put the chain on...twice. (The first time the trike would go forward only if you peddled backward. Thrilling!)

As soon as it was rideable, my sons were in line. They rode it into the night, even taping a flashlight to the front frame so they could keep on riding on the dark streets. I had to wait until today when they were all in school to get my turn. As I was tooling down the street, I saw my old 87 year old neighbor in his yard, so I called, "Hi, Roger!" and pedaled toward him. He slid his hat back on his head and looked at me in frank surprise. "Well, hello," he said when he recognized my face underneath my floppy sunhat. "I wondered who was that crippled lady yellin' at me."

After my ride, my thighs were burning. I could have used a wheelchair. I don't remember ever having such a fun workout.

While raising sons, I’ve discovered that each one has their own style. It does absolutely no good to take one boy and try to stuff him into his brother’s mold. If you persist in the attempt, they tend to yell a lot, because it’s not a good fit.

When my seven-year-old, Michael, showed delight over a huge cardboard box left over from an oversized printer his Dad ordered, it didn’t surprise me. It actually brought back memories of when I was a kid. I found a cardboard box on our front porch. No one seemed to want it, so I cut a doorway with a bread knife and forced a chair into the narrow end. It was a child-sized chair, and a tight fit, so in hindsight I realize that the box must have been narrow enough to ship a card table. But at the time, I didn’t care. I sat there in my own space, my own castle, for what seemed like hours.

Now think about your own childhood. You haven’t forgotten those racecar apple boxes, have you? Orange boxes work, too, as long as you pop the bottom flaps out. Holding the rectangle car up around your waist, you’d run around trying to smash into brother and sister cars that wove equally erratic paths around the yard. It was even cooler if you drew headlights and doors on your box. Once I even managed to turn a picture of an apple on the side of my box into a doorknob.

Now I was the Mom, and Michael asked if he could sleep in the box that night. Why not? It was no worse than camping. I figured he’d get tired of it after a night or two.

After he’d slept on a pile of blankets in his box on the bedroom floor for three nights, I got him tucked in his bed and started reading a story. After a couple of minutes he said, “Mom, I’m cold. Can I sleep in my box?”

"What's that smell? sniff, sniff. It smells good, like...snowmobile fuel. sniff, sniff. Mrs. Bahlmann! It's you!"

"No, really, it smells good," he assured me. "When I'm out riding, sometimes I get behind the snowmobile in front of me just so I can breathe in the exhaust fumes."

Perfume shopping is one of the least desirable joys of my feminine life. After high school, when I went through my fruit basket phase (Lemon Sunburst body spray, Strawberry Fields essential oil, Peach Delight perfume), I've preferred to find one scent and stick with it. In college it was "Smitty." Then it disappeared from drug store shelves. After some painful, headache-inducing forays to the perfume counter, I finally found "Scoundrel." That was a relief, until they quit making it. There was one with an Italian name that I forget, which is just as well, because they quit making it, too.

"Then I'd smell like a guy," I said, and launched my next best plan. I took several small baggies and cotton balls to the department store. I spritzed cotton balls with sample scents and sealed them in plastic so the mixed smells wouldn't assault my poor nasal passages and make my brain ache. I wrote the perfume names on the outside of each baggy, and took my soggy little treasures home. Each day, I tried a different cotton ball behind my ears, on my wrists, and in the crooks of my elbows. Each day I asked my husband and sons if they liked how I smelled. None of them cared, until the day I dabbed on vanilla scent. "Do you like how this smells?" I asked, holding my wrist under one son's nose.

His eyes snapped open, he leaned in toward me and took a big sniff. "Wow," he said. "Are you baking cookies?"

Another son perked up. "Cookies! That's what I smell! When will they be ready, Mom?"

After I'd baked a quadruple batch of cookies, and eaten far too many myself, I sorted through my perfume baggies to get rid of the vanilla flavor. That's when I noticed that most of the marker labels had rubbed off, leaving me to wonder what smell was in which baggie.

Now, without even trying, I've found myself smelling like a popular winter sport. I have six bottles of this scent stashed in my underwear drawer. Ah, well. At least it doesn't give me a headache, and there are worse things I could smell like.

August 2007 - I had the greatest idea when I needed to go to the store and also needed my morning walk - I'd combine the two tasks. Trouble is, I walk with hand weights and I didn't want the burden of a handbag over one shoulder, so I tucked my credit card in my shoe. (All right, I can hear you wondering how I would carry my purchases home if I didn't want to carry anything. All I was after was an extension cord, and I planned to wear the plastic bag on my back. Yes, you can! Put an arm through one of each of the carrying handles with the bag at your back and slide the handles up to your shoulders. Let the bag hang down like a backpack and walk away!) So I got to the edge of the parking lot and one of my ankle weights fell off. (Inferior Velcro!) I was close enough to the store that I dug in the side of my shoe for the credit card. It wasn't there. I took my shoe off. It still wasn't there. With panic rising, I pulled my shoe on and hurried back along my route, scanning the ground for my lost card. A couple of times a stray turkey feather pretended to be my credit card. I prayed I'd find it, but when I got to my block I knew it was gone. Someone had picked it up, and I needed to cancel it the very second the bank opened. I popped in the front door, popped off my walking shoes, and my credit card popped out of the shoe I hadn't removed in the parking lot! Isn't it awesome when your prayers are answered so PLAINLY? (I just love it!)

July 2007 - All right, I'm domestically challenged, and I admit it. So when I used a box of red RIT dye and turned a white t-shirt (among other things) cherry red, I was pretty impressed with myself. After I washed the reds, I put them in the dryer, then did a bleached water bath in the washer to remove the traces of red. When I looked in the washer... AHHH! My t-shirt floated on top of the water, half red, half white! (How I missed it, I couldn't tell ya.) But my 7-year-old likes it tie-dyed, so I'm giving it the good old 60's try! * * * Laugh on...