Getting Good Help

 

It started with laundry.

Who knew it would escalate into . . .

Well, maybe I should explain.

Youngest Daughter and her youngest daughter (hereinafter known as Littlest Helper, or LH for short) were doing laundry (see above).

Generally, this included such things as: Sorting. Sitting on the floor to untangle various underpants from overpants. And giving the easiest jobs to almost-three-years-old LH.

Oh. And I should probably mention that LH was currently wearing her older sister’s snake sock puppet on her dominant hand.

Truth be told, said snake (or Mr. Snake as he came to be known) was the one actually doing the work.

Ahem . . .

At first all went well. The little pile of clothes on the floor in front of LH was steadily being dealt with by Mr. Snake, who proved remarkably knowledgable as to what went where and why.

Then, trouble.

Mr. Snake started having difficulties picking things up.

A true disaster when one’s only assignment consists of . . . erm . . . picking things up.

Mr. Snake received a stern and fairly volume-ific ‘talking to’, which in itself was—how can I say this?—humorous. Being forced, as he was, to face his accuser and submit to a firmly shaken finger.

Work resumed.

I really can’t say how it happened, but, by this time, not only was Mr. Snake struggling with his original assignment, he had adopted a rather cavalier attitude.

“SNAKE!!!” LH exclaimed, shaking him.

Finally, as no improvement was forthcoming, Mr. Snake was stripped of his increasingly dubious abilities by the simple act of being stripped from LH’s arm. Then, using the patented two-hand method, he was raised high in the air . . .

And dumped. In slow motion.

Just like that.

No notice.

No back pay or benefits.

Just . . . summarily relieved of his duties. Right there and then.

It was a crime.

Stories shall be penned of the outrage.

The unfairness.

Watch for them here.

 

P.S. Before you feel too sorry for Mr. Snake, however, you should probably know that apologies were forthcoming sometime during the afternoon, because by bedtime, Mr. Snake was in his usual spot—cuddled in the soft, dimpled arms of his mistress as she wandered happily off to Dreamland.

That is all.

Sunday Rest

A treat from Mom's journals.

How did this . . .

 . . . become this?

Sunday at the Ranch was a day of rest.

We slept in!

Instead of getting up at the uncivilized hour of 5:30 AM, we got up at the uncivilized hour of 6:30 AM.

The Wrangler assigned for the day saddled up Slow Poke and rode out to bring in the horses.

The other cowboys swept out the barn, fed the animals in the feed lots and milked the cow.

The man who drew the short straw got cow-milking duty.

Not a favourite chore.

Especially on Sunday.

And a cause for real irritation to whoever got stuck with it.

'Horse Play' usually erupted around or near.

Let me explain . . .

Hans, an animal lover came down the stairs from the hay loft, Cyclone (the aptly-named barn cat) purring in his arms.

Seeing Joe seated beside the milk cow, grouchily taking his irritation out on poor Jenny-the-cow, Hans got an idea.

Okay, not a great one, as it turns out, but an idea none the less.

He set the cat on Jenny's back and pulled his tail.

The cat's, I mean.

Cyclone's claws instantly contracted into the innocent old cow's hide.

Bellowing in pain, Jenny lunged forward, kicking wildly to free herself.

The milk bucket flew into the air, spilling its contents all over Joe as he scrambled for the door, desperate to get away from the flying hooves.

Cyclone flew through the air like a rocket. Five feet off the ground. He shot through the door with legs spinning, all of his nine lives in jeopardy.

With Jenny, intent only on finding the nearest far-away place, right behind him.

Just as the Wrangler arrived on Slow Poke.

Horse, cow, cat and cowboys met.

Completely out of character, Slow Poke erupted. With great heaves and grunts, he flung himself into the air.

Sunfishing.

Twisting.

Switching ends.

Pounding the ground.

The Wrangler catapulted into the sky in a beautiful arc.

Over the corral gate.

Everyone stood mesmerized in a total state of shock.

The dust settled.

Then the casualties began to moan and move.

Slightly.

This shook everyone out of their trance.

Mark grabbed his vet bag and began to check for cuts, broken bones and heart beats, prodding gently at each limp form. He swabbed and bandaged and dispensed pain killers.

Then Joe sat up, rubbed his eyes and lay back down. "Wake me in the morning," he said, "I just had a nightmare!" He opened one eye. "I should have gone to church!"

The boys carried Joe to the bunkhouse.

All of the other casualties limped or dragged themselves away to the nearest safe place.

Where they collapsed into a heap.

Everyone survived.

But it was some time before Jenny, Joe, Slow Poke, Cyclone, or any others involved in the spin off would approach the barn without apprehension.

Sundays. Truly a day of rest.

50 Day Wednesday #13

Dottie imagines herself a do-it sort of person—but is defeated at times. (Lawnmower? Still in pieces on her garage floor.)
One day she had a screwdriver out to dismantle an ‘uncooperative’ vacuum.
I smiled. “Why don’t you just take it to the garage and show it the mower?”

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

When the Tough Get Going

You see a fence post. We see . . . 

Okay, I’m apologizing up front for this story.

It’s . . . gritty. So to speak.

Ahem . . .

I’ve always wondered about toilet paper ads.

Softer. Stronger. More effective.

I mean, why advertise this stuff?

Are there people who are not buying it?

Actually . . . yes.

Think of the people who live in places where dropping over to the local grocery store is really not a possibility. Like those in the deepest, darkest part of the jungle.

And their banana leaves.

Okay, I understand. Soft. Strong. Effective.

Now think of the cowboys on the wide, wide prairie.

Where there are no trees at all and leaves simply aren’t an option.

What are they going to do when nature . . . hollers?

Case in point . . .

Dad was out with his dad doing . . . cowboy stuff. Fencing and exploring the joys of barbed wire.

They were far from the ranch house and even farther from the miracle of indoor plumbing and its accoutrements.

Grandpa had to go.

You know what I mean.

He turned to Dad. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Dad nodded and continued with what he was doing.

Grandpa set down his fencing pliers and pulled out his pocket knife.

Dad stared at him, confused. Didn’t he just say . . .?

Grandpa walked over to one of the cedar fence posts and, using said knife, shaved off several pieces of wood.

Then he smiled at Dad and disappeared over the nearest hill.

Can anyone say ‘ouch’?

Grandma Hearing

 

For years, poor Grandma’s hearing had been slowly growing worse,

T'was steadily much tougher for her loved ones to converse,

And so she got a hearing aid to stop her daily strife,

Was told: ‘With perfect hearing, she’d a whole new lease on life!’

 

A few weeks later, back she popped for further tests and such,

Her doctor asked if life had changed. She told him, “Not that much.”

“The hearing aid you chose is number one,” he said. “First-rate!”

“Your family must be pleased, now that your hearing’s gotten great!”

 

But Grandma merely smiled. “I’ve yet to tell them anything.”

“I sit around and listen to the chats of my offspring.”

“They don’t know I can hear their many sordid gripes and crimes,

“But I can tell you, doctor, dear, I’ve changed my will three times!”

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week we promise will be fun,

Cause our topic will be PUNS!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

New Lease (November 1) Today!

Puns (November 8) 

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hanukkah/Holidays (December 6)

Ice Cream (December 13)

Music (December 20)

Fruitcake (December 27)

Sleep (January 3)

Time Off

“And I found this to wear at the beach.” Norma held something up.

Now, I’m assuming, because she said she would be wearing it and the word ‘beach’ was used, that what she was holding would fall under the classification of ‘swimsuit’.

So much for assumptions.

The garment she was displaying so proudly was a mid-calf length dress made of some dark blue material with puffy sleeves and a huge sailor collar. I could see bloomers of the same material lying on the bed behind her.

“Norma—” I was almost afraid to ask, “—where did you get that?”

She laid it on the bed and smoothed the material fondly. “I found it in a trunk up in the attic. Don’t you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Well . . .” Cutest? For a moment, I pictured puppies. Kittens. Baby seals. Even Reggie. “Umm—”

Norma made a face at me. “You’re just jealous because I got it before you could!”

I coughed. Politely. “Well—” I was trying to think of something positive to say. “You—umm—won’t get cold.”

She nodded happily. “It was a miracle I found it. I probably wouldn’t have if the trunk hadn’t tipped over just as I was crossing the floor. This little beauty simply fell out and—here we are! And it fits me!” She leaned toward me. “You know I never would have consented to our little beach vacation if I didn’t have this in my wardrobe.”

“You were going to turn Edith’s friends down?”

“You can’t expect me to stuff all of my parts into one of those skimpy things they call a ‘swimsuit’ can you? Think of the stories!”

I scratched my head and glanced at said parts. She did have a point. Even hidden under several layers of cloth, there certainly seemed to be a lot of them.

Norma looked up from her careful folding of the beach costume. “It was the oddest thing.”

“What?”

“Well, I was downstairs, confiding to Reggie my hesitation in accepting this invitation from Edith and her friends. Then I heard a noise coming from upstairs. I thought it was you.”

“I’ve been downtown all morning.”

“Yeah. I forgot that. Anyways, I came up here to investigate and there was the trunk. And the suit.”

“Really.”

She nodded. “As soon as I saw it I knew I was meant to go swimming.”

I would have known as soon as I saw it that it was time for a rummage sale. But then Norma and I never have thought along the same channels.

“Oh and I brought your suitcase up for you to start packing. I put it—” she turned to point, just as the case she had been talking about suddenly tipped over.

I smiled. All at once the reason Norma ‘found’ her suit became clear. Someone was looking for a weekend alone.

I wonder if Elvis is coming over.

Playing It Loud

 I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.

Hmmm . . . Maybe I should recap.  

Norma, my elder sister, and I have been roommates since the death of my husband three years ago. Norma never married and, in a move that was at once uncharacteristic and generous, asked me at the funeral to sell my home and move in with her.

It took me a while, but I finally decided that it would be much more practical for us to halve our expenses by sharing living quarters. Two days after the funeral, I was cramming my bed and furniture into her spare room.

This was new territory for us.

With the gap in our ages—she is twelve years older than me—we had really never ‘shared’ anything. Before I was old enough to be a friend, companion, or even a ‘spoiled-brat-hiding-under-the-bed-to-listen-to-her-and-her-pals’, she was gone, working in the big city.

Now was our chance to make up for it.

At first, all went well. I put up with her rabid attachment to her smelly old bird, Reginald, and she put up with my need to poke pins in her ego at key moments.

All was well.

Until we discovered our visitor. Our fragrant, albeit invisible boarder.

Then everything changed.

Reginald developed a nervous disorder resulting in bowels even more active than usual. Her words, not mine. (I mean, how is that possible?) And finally forced her to send him (temporarily) to our cousin, Edith.

Something that still doesn’t sit well. With any of the three involved parties.

Once good old Reggie was out of the house, Norma, using his future return as an incentive, took it upon herself to expose and terminate our boarder.

I probably don’t have to mention that issuing an eviction notice doesn’t work with invisible visitors. That was the first thing she tried.

Her most recent attempt included dried grass.

And a lot of sneezing.

Effective in exposing our visitor.

But in no way allowing us to capture. Or evict.

And that brings us to today. And her next challenge.

I walked into the sunny front room and stopped. “What are you doing?”

Norma looked up. “I just had the best idea! I’m going to . . .” her words faded to a mumble as she bent over the old stereo that, until this moment had resided in dusty splendour in the basement. She straightened. “What do you think?”

I looked at her. “I think you’re crazy, but that has nothing to do with this. What did you say?”

“I’m reinventing my strategy. I’m going to change the atmosphere here.”

I glanced from the stereo back to her. “And?”

She smiled. “I’m going to play our old records really, really loud.”

I blinked. “Oookay. And that will do—what exactly?”

She looked at me, disgusted. “Well, obviously she likes it quiet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“And if we—somehow—make this place become more—undesirable, maybe she’ll just leave.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Norma. Maybe she’ll grow to like it.”

Norma reached into the stack of old LPs on the chair and slid one out. “Remember this one?”

I glanced at the cover. “You’re going to chase our ghost out by playing Elvis Presley?”

She nodded. “If it’s played real loud?”

If her plan was to get someone out of our house, it worked.

I’m now sitting at Edith’s.

With Reginald.

On a more positive note, I think Elvis actually showed up.

I’m quite sure he and our ghost were dancing up a bonafide storm.

I left before the rain started.

Room-bah

I love my little Roomba, cause he helps me every day,

Cleaning dust and dirt and crumbs and tucking them away,

I call my Roomba ‘Buddy’, and that’s what he is, to me,

A friend that cleans from wall to wall and everywhere between.

 

But today a door was opened and my Buddy got away,

Stealth’ly stealing down the walk and running off to play,

Who knows the mischief he will start? Or if he will return,

I have to tell you solemnly, I really am concerned.

 

But there’s a truth I cling to and that gives me peace of mind,

Even though my Buddy’s gone and (so far) him, we cannot find…

He has no natural predators, there’s none would bite and chew,

It’s not because he’s handsome, though his looks I’d not eschew!

 

And it’s not because he’s armed—equipped with weapons of defence,

So why am I not worried bout his actions’ consequence?

It’s because I know a secret, which I’m glad to share with you,

Nature abhors a vacuum. There. Now you’ll not worry. Too!

Today's post was a challenge from the inimitable and totally awesome Karen at Baking in a Tornado and Mimi at Messymimismeanderings.

Hop over and see what they’ve done with the theme!

Ghoul-ergies

More Spooky Sputterlings...

“Norma. Watching you sneak around like that is just really . . . creepy.”

She looked at me. “For your information, I am not sneaking!” She lifted her nose into the air with attitude. “I’m tiptoeing.”

Should I say it? My sister is, for want of a better word, bulky. Yeah, I’m going in. “Well, when you do it, it’s creepy.”

This time, I got a glare.

I grinned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to trap our ghost!”

I should probably mention to any first-timers out there that my sister and I have a ghost. Well—our house has a ghost. Or some sort of resident.

One that smells nice.

I introduced you to him or her (I’m going with her) here.

I felt my eyebrows go up. When I’m talking to my sister, they do it a lot. “How are you planning to trap our ghost?”

“I’ve figured out what she (my sister agrees on the sex of our secret inhabitant) has a weakness for. And I’m going to bait a trap with it.”

My eyebrows went higher. “And the tiptoeing?”

She looked at me. “I’m trying to keep her from finding out about it until it’s too late.”

“Norma, do you honestly believe that our ghost can’t see everything you’re doing right now?”

She thought about that for a moment. Then, “I’m going to go with no. For one thing . . .” she stepped into the tell-tale spot “. . . I can’t smell her perfume.”

“Oh.” I thought about that one. Maybe she had a point. “Ummm . . . so what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to put down this handful of hay.” She held up some dull green grass.

Okay. Eyebrows again. “Hay?”

“Yes. And when she sniffs it, she’ll sneeze. Then I’ll have her!”

“Norma. When you sniff hay, you sneeze.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I don’t.”

She just kept looking at me. “And?”

“Norma,” I said patiently. “Not everyone is allergic to hay. And besides, she’s a ghost. Ghosts don’t sneeze.

“But when I wave it . . .” Norma did so. And sneezed violently.

It echoed weirdly around the room.

I suddenly felt something go creepy-crawly down my back. “Norma,” I said quietly. “Do that again.”

She waved the hay. And sneezed.

This time, the echo was a little behind.

And a little to the right.

50 Word Wednesday #12

I looked at Jim. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You may not be far wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

He took a deep breath. “Remember that ugly yellow plaid suitcase that disappeared with Aunt Minnie two years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s standing in the front hall. Soaking wet.”

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using EXACTLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

For the rest of October, I think I’ll concentrate on things spooky.

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.

Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Spooky Sputterlings

  A few years ago, I serialized my stories about a pair of elderly sisters, The Sputterlings.

Things got a little...spooky. Perfect for this time of year!

I sniffed. “I smell it again!” I said.

Norma looked up from her newspaper and frowned, confused. “What?”

“That fragrance! That weird fragrance!”

She pursed her lips and sniffed, audibly. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Come over here. It seems to . . . cling to this exact spot!” I stepped to one side and indicated with both hands. “Right here!”

Sighing, Norma set down her paper and heaved her bulky self to her feet. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m only doing this because you’re my sister.”

“You’re a true friend,” I cooed, giving her just a bit more space.

Obligingly, she manoeuvred herself into the designated spot. “Okay. Here I am.”

“Now sniff!”

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Then frowned and did it again. “Huh,” she said.

“Right?” I watched her.

She stepped to one side and sniffed once more. Then stepped back and repeated the procedure. “Huh,” she said again. She looked around, then slowly dropped to her knees. “I only do this because I love you,” she said, glancing up at me.

“And I love you,” I said. “So what’s making that smell?”

She bent down and sniffed the carpet. “Huh. Nothing.” She sat back on her heels and stared thoughtfully upwards. Her eyes brightened. “Maybe it’s the spirit of some former resident,” she said.

I gave her my best ‘tell-me-another’ look. “Right. A former resident who haunts only this spot?”

“Well, maybe she died right here.”

“Don’t be morbid,” I said, moving a step away.

“No! I can see it! Her body laying here, crystallizing slowly.”

"Ugh!" I said. Then grinned and picked it up. “Her spirit hanging around till her mortal remains are discovered, then deciding in that instant that it must always stay . . .”

“Exactly!”

“Pfff! What will you think of next?!”

Norma made a couple of shuffling movements, then sighed and held up her hands. “Could you?” she asked.

I shook my head and reached out to help her to her feet.

Both of us sniffed the air again.

Suddenly, a whisper of sound. A . . . hissing. It burst inside my head. “Roommates!” it said.

I spun around, then looked at my sister. “Did you . . .?” I said no more. The look on her face told me everything.

Operahhhh!

 I always have loved music,
It reaches to my soul,
And cheers or calms, when troubles
Would threaten my control.

 

I’m grateful for my music,

As it has filled our home.

For gracious, cheering pieces

That set a happy tone.

 

Our family loved the musicals,
They’d happ’ly sing along,

And even join the dancing as

They sang those favourite songs.

 

And then my Husby introduced,

A whole new music style,

He took us to an opera,

Convinced that we would smile.

 

It was intimidating,

I do not have to say,

The show was titled ‘Carmen’,

(A rather famous play.)

 

But clutching shiny playbooks,

And seated in our chairs,

We watched the lights and orchestra,

Could do nothing else but stare.

 

And then the op’ning strains,

As the band began to play,

We smiled as music wrapped around,

And took us far away.

 

Then one specific phrase,

From violins, I think,

It caught our fam’ly by surprise,

Made Husby and me blink.

 

For it was so familiar,

Known from our childhood,

“Bugs Bunny!” we both said aloud,

Oh life (right then), was good!

 

With opera, we fell in love,

(Attended just a bit.)

Each story took us far away,

The music was a hit.

 

But though it was a passion,

New productions found us there,

We loved it most when ‘Bugs’ appeared,

Our silly childhood hare!

 

Now one last ‘note’ before I go,

And yes, I meant the pun,

How many got our opera firsts,

From that ‘hare’y one?

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week a New Lease, we will find,

For rent or life or peace of mind!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

Opera (October 25) Today!

New Lease (November 1)
Puns (November 8) 

Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) 

Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)