The Greeting Card

I happened upon the soon to be closed Hallmark store by accident.   I would have walk past had I not noticed the "90% off Entire Store" sign in the window.

As you would imagine, the store was 1) a mad house and 2) completely picked over.

In fact, the remaining inventory was extremely targeted.  Cards like:

• Congrats on coming out!
• Get well after your brain surgery!
• Congrats on the birth of your triplet boys!

And, of course, the congrats on your dance recital card:

Was I discouraged?  Of course not.  I persevered in my search for 90% off cards that would some day be relevant to me.

I snatched up a sympathy card for losing your pet hamster.  My nephew had one.  It, surely, would not outlive me.  I passed on the 'Congrats on buying your new unicycle' card and the inspirational, 'You can beat Lime Disease' cards.

There were a few "normal" cards but they were well hidden.  I found an adorable baby card stuck between two 5,000 piece puzzles boxes and a retirement card in the 'Congrats on your Bris' section.

About 6 months later somebody at work had a baby and I went to my 90% off Hallmark card pile and found that baby card.  

Oops.

Alas, I had to drive to Food Lion and spend $4.00 on a baby card.

Fast forward several years and Kimmy texted a picture of the card to me with this note, "Just found this while looking for a blank card to give to Jenn.  Were you planning on giving it to Linda or me?"

And she added the most annoying emoticon.

I responded, "So, Linda didn't tell you?"

Kimmy, who clearly inherited my brains, and not my gullibility texted me, "So you didn't have your reading glasses with you on that shopping trip?"

Oh, well.  I'll get even with her.  I've got the perfect card:  "Sorry to hear that you've been cut out of the will."

The History of Havelock

I know that this may surprise my readers, but I fancy myself somewhat of a history buff.

Stop laughing.  Especially you guys from Niagara Wheatfield who observed me sleeping though History class.

OK, so maybe I’m not in the same league as Mel Brooks.  But I do love the soundtrack to Hamilton. 

At any rate, here is your first Nerdling History lesson.

The year is 1707.  The founding fathers of the small settlement in Eastern North Carolina are concerned about containing the growth of their community and keeping the commoners out.  

They hold a secret meeting on a plot of land that will someday be home to The Dollar Store.

“We have to find a forgettable name for our community,” said Obadiah.  “One that the riffraff will forget.”

“How about Yearjust?” suggested Absolom.  

“Too memorable,” said Obadiah.  “I like Withwere.  Withwere, North Carolina.”

“Better, but we need something more obscure,” said Jedidiah.  “I've got it: Havelock.  Nobody will remember Havelock.”   

They nod in agreement, and snicker in unison.  They name their settlement Havelock, North Carolina.

And more than 300 years later I say to Dave, “Can you book us a hotel in Headlock?”

“Where?”

“You know.  That place where Linda’s stationed.  It’s not Headlock?” 

“No.  Guess again.”

“Locklear?”  

“No." He tries to give me a hint. "Do you have a lock on your head?”  

“What?  I already said Headlock.”  (I was beginning to get irritated.)

He tried again.  “Do you HAVE a lock on your head?”

“Lockness?”

“Havelock!”

When we arrived at the Dreadlock Holiday Inn Express I understood why I was having such a hard time remembering the city.  It’s really kind of unmemorable. 

There’s no Target in Landlock.  Only WalMart and a Dollar Store.  And, not surprisingly, there are quite a few gun stores in Padlock.

NO!  It’s Havelock.  

I have a mental block against that stupid word.  I decided to google Havelock.  Maybe if I learned more about it, the name would sink into my brain.

I was shocked to learn that Havelock is named after Sir Henry Havelock.   

I know what you’re thinking.  Who the hell is Sir Henry Havelock?

Apparently Sir Henry Havelock was a British General known for his recapture of Cawnpore from rebels during the Indian Mutiny of 1857.

OK, but what does Sir Henry Havelock have to do with North Carolina?   

Ah-Ha!

I guess I my history lesson wasn’t that far off.   

 “How about Gereral Washington?” suggested Absolom.  

“Too memorable.  I like Lafayette,” said Obadiah.  “Lafayette, North Carolina.”

“Better, but still easy to remember,” said Jedidiah.  “I've got it: Havelock.  Nobody will remember Havelock.”   

Tyrannosaurus Rex Arms

I used to think that my inability to touch my toes in gym class had to do with flexiblity.  Or lack thereof.  True, I'm inflexible, but the underlying issue is my TRA.  Tyrannosaurus Rex arms.

Linda has just the opposite problem: gorilla arms.  She can scratch her ankle without bending her knees.

I became aware of this contrast when the girls were in school and had to abide by a dress code requiring their skirts to be no shorter than their fingertips.

As a result, Linda dressed like a Puritan, whereas I would be allowed to go to Middle School dressed like a street walker. 

Even with TRA I've always been able to scratch my back.  But now that I've torn my Rotator Cuff?  Impossible.

Which puts me in the market for a Back Scratcher.  I started my search on Amazon.  

I ask.  Why should cats have more options for scratching their backs than I?

Not to mention the fact that all the "people" Back Scratchers were boring.  Certainly no Barbie Back Scratchers to be found.

I decided to make my own.

I assembled four contestants for my Barbie Back Scratch Pageant Contest.

It's a little known fact that Barbie feet make excellent Back Scratchers. Unfortunately, Handicapped Barbie was quickly eliminated, since she has no feet.

Then there were three.

Pooper Scooper Barbie refused to remove her shoes so I gave her the boot.

Then there were two: Makeover Barbie  and Barbie with the Reattached Head that won't go all the way on.

I held a Back Scratch Off and it was no contest.

(Let's just say that Pooper Scooper Barbie should get a job at the Food Lion spa.)

Barbie with the Reattached Head has earned the position of Nerdling Back Scratcher.  

And it's a good thing she uses her feet.

Because her arms are really short.

Blog Envy

Blog envy has once again reared its ugly head.

With Linda gone from the house my blog ideas have dried up.  Like a raisin. 

Linda was my treasure-trove.

It was almost like cheating. A humor writer with a daughter like Linda has an unfair advantage. 

Now she’s gone off to the Marines.  Leaving me blog-topic-less.

It’s depressing.

It used to be so easy.  All I had to do was wait.  And watch.

In the meantime, blog topics seem to surround my friends like ants at a picnic. 

One of my friends (let’s call her “Esmeralda”) just returned from a visit to her parents, where her sisters and brothers and their scores of children congregated. 

Well, it turns out that poor, unsuspecting, Esmeralda and her husband were exposed to head lice, introduced to the close nit family (sorry, I couldn’t resist) by one of her nieces. 

“No fair!” I said. 

“What?” asked Esmeralda.

“Blog envy.”  But I realized that I was being selfish and let her tell the rest of her story.

Apparently, Esmeralda went to CVS to purchase some head lice remover, and was very relieved to discover that, although the store was bustling with activity, no one was in line.  

When she got to the cash register the clerk picked up the box, looked at Esmeralda and loudly announced, “Oh, my daughter had head lice last year and she has hair exactly like yours.  It was really hard to get rid of those buggers.”
 
Esmeralda, who was trying to get out of the store as quickly and anonymously as possible, didn’t respond.

(I groaned with envy at this point in her story.)

"You have exactly the same hair color and texture as my daughter," the clerk bellowed.

"Those head lice are going to be really hard to get rid of.”

“That is so funny!” I whined.  And I actually heard myself saying, “Why can’t I get head lice?”
 
Of course Esmeralda never had head lice and the treatment was just a precaution.

And I’m ashamed of myself for my blog envy.

To add insult to injury, blog envy hit even closer to home this morning when Dave said to me, “I can’t believe that at 62 years of age I’m still learning things.”
 
“What?” I asked.

“If you get toothpaste in your eye it hurts.”

Damn him.

The Burrito

As I watched Linda pack for Marine Combat training I wondered,  "Who is this confident young woman and what did the Marines do with my Linda?"

Since she’d returned from Boot Camp nine days earlier I noticed a LOT of changes, the most endearing of which was a preference for hanging around the family vs. going out with friends.

But the biggest metamorphosis?  Her packing skills.

This is how Civilian Linda would pack a suitcase.

Civilian Linda would throw loose items of clothing into a suitcase when packing for a trip.  Actually, into multiple suitcases.  She would pack 4 times as many things as she’d need because "it was faster that way."

As I watched Marine Linda pack up her gear for Combat Training my jaw dropped.

I watched in awe as she rolled her clothes into burritos.  She would start by placing underwear, a sports bra, socks and shorts on top of her t-shirt.   

Then she’d fold the sides of the t-shirt over top of the stuff and roll it tightly starting at the top of the t-shirt.   When she got to the bottom, she'd magically pulled out the end of the t-shirt to hold the burrito in place.

It was magic.

The nerd inside of me had never been prouder.

Then she asked me for a ruler.

“You want a ruler?”  I said, barely able to hide my excitement.

“Never mind,” she said.  My disappointment was short-lived as she reached for her own ruler.  She had her own ruler.

It should be noted that I couldn’t get Civilian Linda to use a ruler when she was doing algebra homework.  She’d freehand the X and Y axes. 

Oh how I tried to convince her that it would be SO MUCH EASIER to plot the line y=mx+b if she used a ruler.  

Now she had her own ruler. 

Marine Linda used her ruler to position the insignia on the front of her uniform.

(Civilian Linda may not have noticed if her t-shirt was on backwards.) 

I have to confess that Marine Linda made quite an impact on me.  

I was headed out for a walk with Becca at Harbison Lake.  But you never know when disaster might strike and a walk at Harbison Lake could turn into an overnight camping trip.

To that end, I created my own emergency burrito pack. But keeping in mind the imptorance of hydration, I made an adjustment.  

I'm sure Marine Linda would be very proud.

The Stamp Fairy

Linda left for Marine Boot Camp eleven days ago.

My brave daughter, who is "too tired" to take our dog Kevin for a walk if she has had fewer than 10 hours of sleep.  

Whose bedroom consistently looks like it has been struck by an F5 Tornado. 

Who has to take a nap if she sneezes.   

Who has, on occasion, come home missing a shoe.

 
And who has never made her bed.  In her life. 

As you might imagine, I am a wee bit worried about her survival at Parris Island.

I’ve been engaging with the Parris Island Facebook Group for the families of the recruits who are in Linda’s “company.”

This Facebook group has been a lifesaver for me.  The administrators provide details about what’s going on each day and what to expect in the days to come. 

But what’s even more helpful (and therapeutic) are the posts from other families.  The people experiencing the same struggles as I am.

I read a post from a distressed Mom who cried herself to sleep in her son’s bed the night he left.  And  from parents who never got the call saying their son or daughter safely arrived at Parris Island. 

These parents, like me, live in a world of angst and worry.  All are baring their hearts to complete strangers on this wall.  We’ve become a virtual support group- BFFs from across the country.

Our latest fears relate to addresses.  Word started getting out that some parents had their kid’s addresses and some didn’t.  Those who didn’t were rightfully worried that their kid would be the only one not getting a letter from home. 

As you can imagine, the posts on this wall are oozing with emotion.

We’re talking Nicholas Sparks ooze.   

Well...

Until Megan M.’s post. 

Now to be fair, Megan M. is young.  Perhaps the girlfriend of a recruit.

In the midst of these highly emotional posts, Megan writes, 

It made me laugh out loud.

Why Megan, don’t you know it's the Stamp Fairy who brings stamps to your house? 

But she doesn’t go down the chimney like Santa. Rather she slips in, elusively, through the dryer vent, and gracefully descends to the desk, where she carefully places the stamps. Sprinkled with magic pixie dust.

And Megan, if you’ve been a good little girl, the Stamp Fairy will bring you fun stamps.  Like Harry Potter.

But if you’ve been naughty, the Stamp Fairy may bring you some Jesus stamps.

(Just say a couple Hail Mary's over the letter before you mail it.)
 
And if your grades are not up to par, she will probably bring you an Albert Einstein stamp. 

Now, perhaps I’m being a bit hard on poor, unaware Megan.  Who most likely used up the last stamp without her parents knowing it.

Because guess what? 

Megan’s post was a welcome distraction from my fears and anxiety.

It reminded me to look for the humor in this crazy whacked out existence.

So, yes, Megan, there is a Stamp Fairy.  She exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.

Let’s just hope that there’s also a Basic Training fairy.

And Linda finds her.

Salami in the Tin Foil Drawer

“I found the phone,” Dave announces as I enter the kitchen.

 “I didn’t know it was lost.”

“Yeah", he says.  "I’ve been looking for it for 10 minutes.”
 
“Well, where was it?”

“In the cupboard.  Next to the cereal.”  He raises one eyebrow and adds, “Why did you put it there?”

Here we go again.  He thinks it was me.  I know it was him.  

 “Not me,” I flatly deny.  “Must have been the same person who put the salami in the tin foil drawer last week.”
 
One thing’s for sure.  It couldn’t have been Linda.

She never puts anything away.

But there’s no way it was me.  I would never put the phone next to the Rice Krispees!
 
Although I did pour Diet Coke in Kevin’s water dish the other day.  

And then there was that tiny mishap with the clogs.

(I bought a new pair of brown clogs and dropped off my old pair at Good Will.  Except I gave away one shoe from each pair.)

OMG!  Maybe it was me!!  And it’s only likely to get worse.

If there was only some way to make lemonade out of this lemon.

Wait. One. Minute.

Reality TV! 

It will be a cross between Keeping Up With the Khardashians and The Real Housewives of Atlanta. 
 
I'll call it: Keeping Up With Stuff Misplaced by the Real Old People of Columbia.
 
It will be the biggest hit since Hoarders! 
 
I can just imagine the chatter in break rooms around the country.  “Did you see Keeping Up with Stuff Misplaced by the Real Old People of Columbia last night?”

And the ratings will go through the roof when I accidentally brush my teeth with Kevin’s Chicken Toothpaste.

Chip Off the Old Block

It was a work of art.  The most realistic fake turd I’d ever seen.  Artfully created from the Poo-Dough kit I’d purchased at Walmart.

I stealthily crept into Linda's bathroom, even though I knew she wasn’t home.  (Stealth always adds to the adventure.)  I giggled as I placed the turd on the toilet seat at just the right angle.

I waited impatiently for several minutes before calling her to see when she'd be home.

“Um, when are you coming home?” I asked, attempting to sound normal.

“I don't know, why?”

“Just wondering,”  I said, and hung up before she got suspicious.

I walked back upstairs to admire my artwork.

  
Still there.

Linda came home about 20 minutes later with her friend Katerina and they went right upstairs to her room.  Perfect.

I waited.  And giggled in anticipation.  I could just hear it:  “Mom!!!” Linda would say and roll her eyes, pretending to be embarrassed at her immature Mom, while inwardly proud that she has the coolest mom of all.

I waited.  And waited.

Nothing.

I decided to check in on the situation.  Linda’s door was cracked open and girls were chit-chatting away.

They must not have seen it yet. 

I peeked into the bathroom. 

The turd was gone.  Vanished!
 
It was inexplicable.  How could the girls not have reacted to a fake turd on the toilet seat?  They should have screamed!!!

And where had the turd gone?  

My question was answered as I looked in the toilet and saw a dark shadow lurking deep in the exit tunnel. 

I was bewildered.  I had no choice but to approach the girls. 

“Hi,” I said as I entered the bedroom.

“What?” asked Linda.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Talking….. Mom what do you want?” Linda asked, getting annoyed. As usual.

“So,….” I said, looking from one suspect to the other, wondering who pushed the poop into the toilet.  Clearly, one of them was guilty.

But why had they not reacted?  Screamed.  Or Laughed.  Or something.  

It was incomprehensible.

I told Linda I needed to talk to her in private.

I came clean about my “prank” and suggested that Katerina pushed the poop. But Katerina promptly pleaded innocent to any and all wrongdoing. 

Linda said, “Kevin must have eaten it.”

"Kevin didn't eat it,"  I said. “I think it’s in the toilet.”

We walked to the crime scene and looked into the bowl.  The girls gave a collective, “Gross.”

I was about to flush when it occurred to me that play dough may not be flushable.  I reluctantly grabbed a handful of toilet paper and got on my knees to begin my fishing expedition.

As I attempted to wrap toilet paper around the elusive, slippery turd, I had the most distressing, disgusting epiphany.  Ever.

If Linda and Katerina wanted to prank me back, what would they do?

I know what I would do.  

OMG.  I was fishing a real turd out of the toilet.

Or was I?  God please don’t let her be a chip off the old block.

But then I remembered that the girls are not nearly as crafty and clever (or immature) as I am.  

It was just a soggy, very realistic Play-dough turd.

That thankfully, didn’t smell.

Having a Ball!

Sometimes the best products fail because of a poorly executed advertising campaign.  Such is the case with Japan Trend Shop's newest pet product: The Oppo Food Ball for Dogs. 

Here's how it is advertised;

The Oppo Food Ball for Dogs is designed to help your pooch get more out of a meal. It will move around as your pet munches away on the food inside, helping the contents gather at the bottom and making it easier for the animal to get to that last nourishing lick. After all, there's nothing more upsetting than a frustrated canine! 

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the Oppo Food Ball for Dogs essentially turns a dog's meal time into a game of bobbing for apples.

They need a new marketing strategy.  Their advertising is completely off target.   Being the marketing genius that I am, I've decided to share some ideas with them.

It is the holiday season, after all.

Concept #1:  Does your dog inhale his food?  Does he have
indigestion from eating too fast?  Break bad habits with the Oppo Food Ball for Dogs.  Make dinnertime last hours instead of seconds.  Guaranteed to increase his mealtime by 800%.

Concept #2: Are you tired of taking your dog for endless walks?  Let him exercise himself with the new Oppo Food Ball for Dogs.  Sit back and relax while Rover works out as he eats.

Concept #3: Has your dog been naughty?  Show him who’s boss with the Oppo Food Ball for Dogs.  Make him earn every kernel of food he eats.

OMG!  I just had a scathingly brilliant idea.  

The Nerdling Food Ball for Teenagers.

Fun with Craig's List

Linda was nervous.  She had listed a cell phone on Craig’s List and we were meeting the buyer at a Waffle House parking lot.    

“What if this is a trap, Mom?” she said as we headed down I-26 toward the St. Andrew’s exit.  “What if he robs us?”
 
“It’s broad daylight!  We’ll be in public.  Nobody will hurt us.”
 
She was unconvinced.  “You don’t know that.  He could have a gun.”
 
I told her not to worry.  We would be completely safe.  

But Linda’s watched way too many scary movies.  “What if he’s a rapist?  Or tries to kidnap me?”   

By the time I pulled into the parking lot, she had converted this cool, calm nerdling into a bit of a neurotic.  I looked around for evidence of Isis militants and strategically picked a parking spot between two innocuous looking cars.

“Text him and tell him we’re in the red Elantra,” I told Linda as I shut off the car.  

Her phone buzzed with his text.  “OK please with in gas now.”  Linda and I looked at each other and said in unison, “What?”   She texted him back. “What”
 
“Please wit”

As I glanced in my mirror I noticed four thugs heading straight for our car.  “OMG!” I said in an unsuccessful attempt to remain calm “LOCK THE DOORS!!!!  I hope they don’t have guns!”  
 
They walked right past the car and into the Waffle House. 

At that point I decided to back into the parking spot so I could make a quick get-away.  Which is always an interesting maneuver.  For me.

"Read those texts to me again, Linda," I asked, and after careful study I said, “Oh!  He must be getting gas and wants us to wait.”
 
Another text came in. “I pure ves my car.”
 
“See,” I said. “I was right!   He wants us to wit because he’s puring ves in his car.”
 
Then came another text.  “Nex 10 minutes stay dare.”
 
At this point, Linda was ready to bolt.  “Let’s just go home,” she said.  

“Are you sure it’s not one of your friends pulling a prank on you?”  She didn’t thing that was the case.  Obviously, this guy either had very fat fingers or could not speak English. Or both.

“You know what would be really bad, Linda?”  I said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“What?”

“If he were from Liberia.  Get it?  Here we are, afraid of getting raped or robbed by this guy, and what if he kills us with Ebola??!!"
 
"Very funny Mom."  

I thought I was.
 
Then came the most confusing text of all.  “Hi here babcok&more.”
 
“Let’s just go home,”  Linda said, emotionally spent.  

But I wasn’t ready to give up yet.  I can recognize a good blog topic when I see one.  Plus I saw the sign in the plaza down the road.  The sign that said, you guessed it, "Babcock & More".

Red flags were flying as I turned into the Babcock & More parking lot: Why was he in this large deserted parking lot instead of the prearranged Waffle House parking lot?  Was his assault weapon aimed at my head?  Was he going to sneeze Ebola snot into our eyeballs?  

Despite those suspicions, I bravely drove up to the lone car in the parking lot and Linda expeditiously executed the transaction.

“See, Linda” I said, as we drove away, my heart racing like a metronome.  “There was absolutely nothing to worry about."

Then I added, "Let’ go sky diving in Charleston!"  

"But  fis I have to I pure ves my car."

Aiming to Please

Good help is hard to find.  And it is near impossible to coerce either one of the two people I live with to take a stinkin' picture! 

In fact, they seem to have sunk to new levels.   

Linda is acting like I’m asking her to take a picture of a decomposing corpse.   “I’m not getting anywhere near that disgusting thing.”

“My Go-Girl is not disgusting”, I declared, defensively.

“You used it already, didn’t you?”

“Yes I did,” I replied.   “And it works great!”  

Of course I used it!  A good photographer does her homework:  studies the surrounding,  checks the lighting,  and tests the equipment prior to beginning the photo shoot.   

And after I test drove my Go-Girl I washed it with soap and warm water, as per the directions.   I left it on the counter to air dry.

“Mom EUUUUUUU!  Get that off the counter.  It’s disgusting.”
 
OMG, is this the same teenager who had mold growing on a plate in her closet last week?
 
“Make Dad take the pictures,"  she said, racing out of the room with her fingers covering her nostrils.

But the only way Dave will take a picture for me is if he can take it while laying down on the couch in the family room.  Between innings on the baseball game he’s watching.  

I really didn’t want to pee in the family room.   Who pees in their family room?
 
But Dave told me I could pee in the family room if I used a bucket.   

COME ON!  He is seriously missing the point.  You don’t need a bucket if you have a Go-Girl.   You can pee anywhere you want to with a Go-Girl! 

I could pee in the bushes in my back yard if I wanted to.  Just like a man.

BTW- Barbie had her own ideas for the Go-Girl.  Apparently, she was still pouting about the Nerdling Makeover and decided that the Go-Girl made a good hat.  That coincidentally hid her new hairdo.

Very funny, Barbie.

I get no respect in this house.  Who needs them anyhow?   In addition to being a gifted writer, inventor and cosmetologist, I take outstanding photographs.  Plus, I’m ambidextrous.

So I went into the bathroom, lifted the lid, and with one hand on the camera and one hand on the Go-Girl I proceeded to pee like a man.

And I learned an important lesson.  

It’s very difficult to aim a Go-Girl and a camera at the same time.  My aim was a wee bit off. 

Which reminds me of a sign I saw in a restaurant bathroom once.

 
That's when I realized just how effective my Go-Girl is.  

 I peed just like a man.