Slips, Freudian and Strait Laced

This is too funny not to share.

My husband is strait laced.  He is honest.  He doesn't play mind games.  He doesn't have evil thoughts.  This man is as straight forward as they come.   He's also kind and fun.

We've both just barely entered a new decade of our lives, we've been married over 30 years, and our days have become a bit routine and predictable.

When the big slip happened, I was in the midst of suggesting that we stir things up.
"Remember when we lived in our first house, and you'd get up before me and write me a poem on the chalk board before you left for work?"

"The kids aren't around anymore, we could take walks on the water and feed the birds?"

"You could cook me a romantic meal."  At this suggestion he responded with, "Me?  Moi?  Cook?"

On the television Frasier had just said, "Oh, Niles get a grip!  You're not being asked to do anything that none of us hasn't done before in our own kitchens in our own homes.  Now quick, kill five eels."

Looking over at my darling hubby, while the sitcom Frasier gave way to a commercial break, I checked out his demeanor.  I turned the conversation a bit, gave it a curve ball,  with a reminder, "You know our anniversary is coming up soon?"

And, I kid you not, I'm not lying, this actually happened, I saw it, I saw it all.
HE SHIVERED!  From his head to his feet, he shivered!
His shoulders shivered first; that shiver traveled down his arms, down his chest and circled his waist.  His whole body did a "someone's just walked over my grave" cold chill!

His eyes looked at me and, he got that dismayed, disbelieving, "I didn't do that on purpose" look.

I busted a gut!  I laughed my head off!  I laughed and laughed and couldn't stop laughing.

Yet, the evening didn't end there.  Another slip, the Freudian type, was on it's way.

My right foot has had broken bones, dislocations, and hematomas.  I've been babying it for well over 6 months.  He's been very kind helping me prop it at night, bringing me the occasional drink, and giving me a hand when going down steps.

Tonight it was hurting from doing so much walking while out shopping.  I'd asked him to please bring in the pan from the bathtub that was full of hot water.   He was willing.  Yet, he made a slip of his tongue.

"Why?  Do-ya need to soak your head ... I mean foot!"

Tree Bush Man & Pretty Birds

"Pretty bird."  "Pretty bird."

We've all said it.

My sister's bird used to say it.

My great grandpa had a black macaw.  He used to say it.

Grandpa's bird said other things, as well, not so nice things.  But when grandpa got the bird, he got the parroting, too.  We didn't love that bird.  He was bigger than most, his sound was not easy on the ears, and he was black, all black - a bit daunting, "Pretty bird, pretty bird."

Remember Tree Bush Man, I think that was his nickname, on television about 30 years ago?  He'd come on the air during the morning news to feature outdoorsman advice.  This one segment I watched he told all about birds.

Birds have a nature and according to Tree Bush Man they like yards and areas where there's lots of foliage coverage so they can flit from bush to lower tree branches to fence rails to small pockets of water and the fly back to tops of the trees.  Especially, if the yards are cat and dog free.

Tree Bush Man told how one bird will twitter on a tree branch as a scout, while another will dip into a puddle of rainwater.  Or one will stand guard while others eat from a bird feeder.  Some birds are top feeders and they scatter the seeds as they eat.  Other birds scrounge around on the ground for the scattered seeds.

I've seen birds act in tandem where one will land on a tall dried tommy knocker, and his weight will make it bow to the ground, then another bird will come along and pick and peck all the seeds falling out of the tassel top of the tommy knocker.  It was captivating.

So I told Mom all this.  I told her all about the interesting characteristics of birds, and how if the guard spies danger like a dog bounding around the corner the bird will give out a warning call.  Then they all fly into the nearest evergreen tree like metal shavings sucked to a magnet.

After watching Tree Bush Man, I watched our birds, and sure enough, that's exactly how they conducted themselves in our front yard.  I watched with binoculars, and camera, and 2 identifying bird books nearby.  We have a birdbath, an enclosing fence, bushes, trees, small man-made water feature, and feeders in the maple tree, and nut tree.  All happened like he said.

The brown sparrows will call out when a cow bird is nearby.  When you see a bright red cardinal just flicking this way and that on a branch, you'll know to look for his female mate, who's not so brightly colored, feasting nearby.  If suddenly all birds fly away with warning sounds, look again and your yard could be full of nasty shrill sounding grackles.  Pretty yellow finches come to visit quickly, but red robins stay and build nests above the outdoor light.  Haven't yet figured out which birds, but some sing when I play the piano.

All these discoveries I told Mom, including, "If a scout bird sees a human coming out of the house, he'll give a sharp loud cry of warning.  Then all the other birds fly at once into our pine tree."  Then I got an eye-opener.  Mom always had a new thought; a different take on a matter.

Surprisingly, she said, "I liked it better when I thought of them as just carefree "pretty birds" singing sweetly in the trees."

Tricks In Pockets

"Pocket, Pocket, what's in my pocket?"  We used to play that game in third grade.
Educational for sure for 7 to 9 year olds.  But it never ends, does it, the game of "What's in my pocket?"

My brother carries tidbits in his pockets.  When he looks down at his shirt pocket, uses two hands to widen the opening and retrieve some slip of paper, you never know what treasure he'll withdraw.  It could be an old black and white photo, a list, or a quick jovial cartoon.

A war veteran, Mark Eklund, kept a piece of paper with kinds words from his fellow students written on it until he died.  At his funeral, his teacher and relatives shared their own papers they'd kept.

Reading Ann Landers was entertaining and  inspiring.  She would repeat anything pertinent or timely.  One such letter was from a husband who'd found her column in his wife's belongings.  Ann Landers titled it "A Wife's Message of Love From the Grave".  The wife had written hilariously self-deprecatingly about her aged body, then ended her note with this thought, "Now, my love, is it lights on or off?  I'm yours - you can make book."

Grandpa Mac, who was actually my great grandpa, was a jolly people lover.  He loved to tease kids, too.  On Sunday, after church services, you could count on him giving you some sweet treat from his pocket.  It might have pocket fuzz, but we were kids, we didn't care.  It was still sweet, all the way 'round.

My mother used to laugh telling about cleaning out the boys' pants pockets before dropping them into the clothes washer.  One time she fished her hand into a pair and came out with brown wiggly worms!

My pockets these days carry notations of punch lines.  In fourth grade, I was to give an oral report.  Mom suggested, "Instead of you looking down at your paper all the time, you need to look at the class, so just jot down a few notes to trigger what you want to say."  That advice has worked well over the last 50 years in so, so many ways.

At TJMaxx during a company meeting I'd solved a hangman type puzzle presented to a group of about 40 people so quickly that the managers exclaimed, "Who said that?"  Well, after I'd owned up, the district manager came over and gave me a Fun Meter button.  I wear it.

I wear it tongue in cheek.  I'm not really all that fun.  But, hey, I can take a whack at this.  I'm game.  Now I carry my own little cheat sheet (actually it's a yellow post-it note) in my pocket.  This way I can tell customers a joke while we're waiting for the pinpad to read their credit card chip.

You know how it is if you have one.  You stand there and patiently wait for the "beep, beep, beep" indicating it's been accepted.  While waiting, I smile and voice that ole Jimmy Fallon one-liner, "Let's have a moment of silence for the chip reader."

If the customers' purchases are substantial, if they're taking a little more time to ring up and bag, I quickly retrieve the notes from my pocket to  regale them with jokes.  Tricks in my pocket.   Couldn't be better!  

Busing Kids, in Sketches

He can't whinny, but he can croak!  That means he's not a little horse but very hoarse. Poor darling hubby's been sick a lot this winter.   When he coughs it's a deep, fill-your-ears-with-sound, cough.  Like I said, he's coughed so much and so hard that he's hoarse.

Little Lolly on the bus told him today, "We want your voice right.  You need to fix it. When you talk over the radio to us to sit down, you squawk."

LOL, that's firecracker Lolly.

After one of his morning runs, Darling Hubby handed me an index card explaining, "The kids are singing this silly song."  He grins and laughs, "And Corey wrote it down for me." 

When he sung it to me it almost sounds like the chorus to 7 Little Girls who sing these lyrics, "Keep your mind on your driving, keep your hand on the wheel, keep your Snoopy eyes on the road ahead."

Here's what the bus kids sang,

"Park your rear in your seat.

Park your rear in your seat

And we will head home."

I laughed.  "Where'd they get that, John?"

DH said, "Our bus is the 4th bus in line of about 20, if we stall we hold 'em all back. So, I grab the mic and tell them,

"Put your butts in the seat.  We got TO ROLL!"

"John," I laughed and exclaimed, "you don't really say butts, do you?" 

"Yes, I do!"

One work day last week, actually Friday, Darling Hubby John missed.

And when he realized the other bus driver whose name is also John was going to take his run, he was jealous.  I'd never seen him jealous before, LOL.

The next time he ran into John II, John II said, "You have good kids!"

So, my John took them candy canes on a non-treat day, told his kids thank you for behaving themselves and for getting a good report.

"And then" Remember that song by The Coasters, Along Came Jones? 

"And the-en..."

Then, the transportation head came up to DH and said one of the girls' fathers has a complaint about Friday's run!  

"You'll be getting a call."  LOL

Let me set the scene.

John the bus driver is behind the wheel.

They're driving in the fog heading for school.

Up from the back comes Lolly.

She's been on the bus 10 minutes.

".....Ble-eck," heave, gasp, "ble-eck,  ble-eck!"

She's trying to puke.

He hands her a puke bag.

She says, "I have a fever of 99.3 but my grandma says I have to go because it's ISTEP."  ".....Ble-eck," heave, gasp,  "ble-eck,  ble-eck!"

DH says she puts on shows, that she's a drama queen, and when she didn't get enough reaction from everyone she just sat in her seat.  

The proof was in her final cry, "Somebody on this bus made me sick!"

"She'll fit!"

It was a beautiful building!  Tall spires in the back with red arches and crosses atop, right angled peaks, shorter blue spires in front with crosses atop, clocks in the towers -- all set in mature evergreens as tall as the front steeples with a slight knoll in forefront and gentle blue clouds as background giving a restful feeling to the whole scene.

While I was sorting through a stack of miscellaneous papers I caught a glimpse of this ornate church.  It was the front cover of a paper pocket folder darling hubby and sons brought home after an afternoon out.  It was a packet full of literature that stated "Your choice for a simple sacred way."  Okay, that was nice.

I'd stayed home feeling a bit under the weather.
They'd went to the Indianpolis Home Show.  It's a big building with exhibitors and booths promoting anything from flowers to roofing to cabinetry to recreational vehicles.

When they came busting through the front doors, they were all excited, everyone talking at once, bounding through the house, one to the bathroom, one to the refrigerator (just like a teenage boy, right?) and one to the kitchen closet.  Hummm, that last one was interesting, not much in there except cans of paint, garden supplies and my tool box.

Then they all laughed and giggled in conspiracy (yes, boys can giggle) but I temporarily ignored them because I had questions.  I'm always curious as to what was their favorite thing, did they get something to eat and bring me a treat, would they like to go again, did they get along, any trouble with traffic, etc.  I'm always full of questions so that's what I was doing when it happened.

I got measured.

One boy asked, "How tall are you, Mom?"  I was distracted, didn't pay attention.
Another one chuckled.

Third boy comes up to me and stretches out the tape measure.  Now my antennae start to rise.  What are these munchkins doing?  Somethings up.

"I'm 5 foot 3 and a half, why?"

"She'll fit."  And they laughed heartily.

"Here, Mom," and they handed me this pocket folder with the Abbey on front, "they're having a sale.  You can choose whichever one you want."

Durn their little hides.  They'd just measured me for an Abbey Casket!

"I'll Try To Act Natural."

Good morning, it's snowing.  Again!

I almost couldn't tell, I didn't have my contacts in my eyes, and I wasn't wearing my old prescription glasses, so my sight was out of focus.

You've probably been there.  Since 30 million Americans wear contacts, and since you've had occasion to have blurry vision for one reason or another, you can understand the it, right?

Well, that got me to thinking about contacts.  Back in the late 60's when I was a young chick, I wanted contacts.  It was a vain thing.  I admit it.  I wanted them for looks.

Most everyone supported me.  Some had advice.  Aunt Bertha said, "Don't do like other people I've seen where they hold their chin up and look down at you and blink a lot."
I laughed, "Okay, Aunt Bert, I'll try to act natural."  And I did.

Those things, now remember the year, those things were hard.  It was like somebody cut a dime sized circle out of plexiglas and said, "Here.  Stick that in your eye!"  You see, these weren't soft lenses, nor were they the gas-permeables, these were flower-power-hippy days.  You'd blink a zillion times, too, until your eye developed a hardened rim to be able to bear them.

Yep, after 2 weeks of increased daily usage, you no longer thought about 'em.  Well...not until the day one dried out and you couldn't find it.  I was at my first real job, in the restroom, trying to put a drop of solution on it while it was resting on the tip of my finger when it got over-weighted and fell.  Shoot!  Where'd it go?  I looked under the underside of my hand, down the front of my outfit, all over the floor, and was just about to ask for help (because I was now blind in one eye) when I spied it.  Suctioned to the floor length mirror it was!!!!

"You onery thing, you mirror, what are you doing hanging on to my contact?  Wanted to double check your vision 'cause you couldn't believe I was Snow White?"  LOL.

The first time I lost one, I did ask for help.  Mom said, "Let me go get a flashlight."  She was a smart lady, because there it was glistening in the beams.  The other lens I lost in that same bathroom was never found.  Maybe I'd better correct that.  It was found 4 years later when they remodeled the bathroom, snug as a bug in the rug.

Mercy, but you didn't want to lose one.  Those things were expensive.  And if you lost one, there wasn't another for replacement, not until you went to the doctor and begged.  Begging ensued because they always wanted you to get an current exam as well.

Back then if you came into a room and there were people crawling around on the floor, using spy glasses and flashlights, they weren't playing a party game, or imitating the dog, they were hunting sister's contact lens!

Oh, oh, oh, and color was better.  Get brown to match your eyes?  Shoot, no!  Get green so it'd show up on the floor or the top of your shoe, silly.

Let me digress here.  I'm from a family of 8, 2 sisters, 3 brothers, a mom, and a dad.  Dad came with habits acquired from not only being in the army but also being raised with 14 brothers and sisters.  One thing he always did, and I never knew why, was to grab a clean glass out of the cupboard, swish it under the faucet of running water twice, then fill it to take a drink.

A beautiful, sunshiny week in August found us all going on vacation.  I'd forgotten my contact case.  No worry.  Put some water in the bottom of the motel provided plastic cup and voila' a makeshift contact holder.  Crawl into bed.  Next morning?    No contact to be found.  Cup's upside down.

What the heck?   Where's my contact?  DAD!  "Da-a-a-a-a-ad!!!!!!"  That was one blurred out vacation; period.

And this is the last, I promise, it's a stunner.  Newly married.  Darling hubby and I are playing with rambunctious firstborn son on the blue couch in our first 2 bedroom home with bright yellow wallpapered kitchen.  Son is bare-chested, giggling, and has just learned to run; he's been walking, but now he runs.   He runs all around the house, through the first bedroom, into the bathroom, through the second bedroom and back to us.  What fun!  He had infectious giggles.

Contact pops out.  Darling hubby and I do the usual, hold your spot, grab some light, start from top, check all surfaces to the bottom.  Okay, it's not on me, it's not on the carpet at the feet, time to check the couch.  Check darling hubby, too, since we were horse-playing, check the baby.  No contact.  What on earth?  It couldn't have gone far.  There's no cosmic hole of vaporization into which it could vanish.

Wait.  New thought.  Grab the baby again.  This time, check the diaper.  Back side, center spine, seam edge, there it was -- caught.  Shew!  Disaster averted.  Since the diaper was clean, it was a double disaster averted!  Get my drift?

If you hear the cry, "Don't move!"  and see search lights on the ceiling, you know someone in the house has lost a contact.  Grab an extra person, a flashlight, and for heaven's sake, "Stand still!"

"Put the gun down!"

When I was blue,

Didn't know what to do,

Hubby said, "Gun show!"

And wouldn't you know

I might be a sharp shooter.

Good 'nuff t'make men hooter!

So a beretta and a bearcat,

Not animals you'd pet,

Are my handguns - my fav!

Never use in a handwave,

Clerks collapse, they hide,

Best keep ’em at my side.

You're probably thinking there's a story here.  You're right!

It started with a bb gun pistol.  Darling hubby purchased my first at K-Mart.  It was fantastic.  I could shoot nasty birds out of the trees, and house chewing chipmunks scuttling along the foundation, and any little red pickup traveling north.  Well, ut-hum, that last one was an accident.

Let me ease your tender heart.  I don't shoot cardinals, turtle doves, or house wrens.  I shoot those rasping sharp horrible sounding birds that eat the eggs of my smaller birds.  Then, very respectfully, Ian buries them.

As for the chipmunks, they've been stockpiling walnuts in the wall between the house and garage.  If they'd have stayed in the trees jumping from limb to gutter and back, they could've survived, but once they started coming indoors, they had to go.  Yes, they were first given warning shots!

And, the um, well...the red pickup truck was an accident. I never in a million years thought a bb could go 200 feet!  At that time I never  thought I was capable of hitting a moving target.  When that bb made a "ping" sound, I knew I'd done something, I knew I'd made contact...ut-oh! 

Jumping ahead to after mother died, when I was blue, DH decided to help by sparking my interest in target shooting with him, and our boys and the Deacon.  We went to Gander Mountain,  Crack Shot, and Bare Arms.  

At the Tipton Gun Show I went around handling various pistols.  

Sellers wanted to know, "What price range?"  "What feature?"  "What'll you use it for?"  "Any particular gauge or style?"

Finally, I chose the one that fit the palm of my hand, a black sleek beretta.  Nice.  Two magazines.  10 bullets each.  Easy handling.  Nice.

Secretly, though, I was hoping for an Annie Oakley revolver; now SHE was a sharp shooter!  At age 5 she kept the family fed, and as an adult won rodeo shooting contests.  What a gal!

Ended up at Wyatt's Sports.  They had a lovely pink revolver.  Yep.  Just what I wanted.  At the display case, Mr. Wyatt kindly unlocked the back glass and handed me a Ruger Bearcat.

Single action.  .22 caliber.  6-round.  Compact.  Nice.  

I was a novice.  I turned to the left (handgun in right palm), opened my mouth to say something to DH, noticed his eyes were big, he was ready to gasp actually, but instead said very firmly, "Put the gun down.  You don't want to do that."  

What????

What was I doing wrong?

I looked back, and (like I said, I was a novice) I looked at my hand and I'd let my arm extend out, and the gun was weighing heavy in my hand, which was holding the revolver off kilter, kind of sideways, pointing toward the back of the store.

Take a breath here.

There were other clerks in this small 20 x 20 foot room; adult men were behind glass counters.  The counters were full of guns.  There were a couple of other big guys checking out available ammo, some other weaponry like bows, and other accessories.

Wyatt's face was grave. In my peripheral vision, beyond the camo-clothes racks the customers were dropping, on the far side of the counters the clerks were ducking.

"Pamela, put the gun down."

When I finally connected what was being said with what my gun holding hand was doing (waving the pink lady about) and what they were doing, it was embarrassing, later it was funny.  At that moment, it was embarrassing. 

Shoot!  It was time to duck out of there.  Run.