Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Lobotomy vs Technology

See that look?

Yep, Mom is the master of the stink eye. Just so you know, this particular stink eye is aimed at all you Smelly detractors, but I digress, which is my right as first born daughter.

Did I tell you that Mom had a lobotomy?

Yep, that's right.

In the seventies she underwent brain surgery to remove a benign tumor and morphed into a technological free zone. Uh huh, can't even operate the remote control for the TV. (Just don't be so naive as to engage her in a cat fight, er conversation, over politics or religion.)

She also learned to swear, mostly at us, while we rolled on the floor belly-laughing over her first attempts at speech.

Hey, the surgeon told us not to help. He said Mom had to find her own words, and we coped in true family fashion. Once we know you'll live, we lapse into hilarity.
Dad was a bit startled to hear his wife call his lovely daughters dip-shits, but it brought stomach clutching tears to our eyes.

So I've set the stage, and I ask you, would you give this woman the new iphone 4S?

Me neither, but she insisted, and you've seen the stinkeye, so I give you the results of her first conversation with Siri.

Now, be tender with your comments. Mom can't
work a remote, but she's a whiz on the

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Short Circuit Clones

"The Wii won't work." 
"Hi Mom," I snug the phone closer to my ear, "whatever happened to hello?"

"Oh," she laughs, "Hello. The wii isn't working."

"And you think I can fix it from here?"

"Of course."

"Huh," I smother a laugh, "Is there a disc in the machine?" I ask, then hear Brat giggling in the back ground.  "Um Mom ..."

She cuts me off. "Never mind, it's working now."

"Uh huh, just tell me you love me best and get off the phone."

"I love you best."

"I love you too, but I should have been an only child."

"Kelly Louise ..."

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Crash Test Dummy

"You tried to kill me."

Really, we're doing this again? I set down a glass of cabernet and stare at my sister. Beamer is at her historical best. "I did not try to kill you'.

"You were out of control when you slammed into me."

"I hit an ice patch." My voice rises, so I breath deep and reach for my glass.

She smirks. "You could have killed me."

Oh for the love of God. "Did it ever occur to you, that you saved my life?"

Her brows wing up. "Uh huh, and how did I save your life?"

"I was what, fourteen, fifteen?" Sensing a trap, Beamer gives a slight nod, so I continue. "When I hit the ice, I was headed straight for a huge tree trunk." I hold both hands out from my sides. "Huge."

"You were out of control."

"Yeah, well, who knew skis had edges."

She splutters. "Of course skis have edges. Mom and Dad wouldn't let you ..."

Her voice trails off and I nod. "Mom only skied a few times and Dad, well Dad made it up the mountain to film us, but I'm not not too sure how he made it down again."

"Okay, but what about ski team, didn't they check our equipment?"

"Beats me, you were on the alpine team, but I skied cross country."

"Well," she purses her lips, "you stole my car."

Oh for the love of God.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Twisted Intentions

"Oooh," moans Brat, clutching her chest and doubling over, "oooh, oooh, oooh."

Brows raised, Beamer and I look at each other and then turn to stare at Brat. We're in the middle of the baby supply aisle when our little sister goes into a full body spasm.

Brat rubs a hand across the front of her shirt, and contorts her face. "That has to hurt."

Perplexed, Beamer stutters a laugh. "What has to hurt?"

"That," Brat points at the shelves.

Beamer studies the display, then turns to Brat. "The nipple brush?"

"Oooh," she nods, "oooh, oooh, oooh."

For a moment, we purse our lips and then start to laugh. I snort as Beamer says. "You don't use the brush on your nipples, you use it to clean baby bottles."

"Oh," says Brat, as shes saunters down the aisle, "nevermind."

Monday, December 5, 2011

Domesticated Shrimp

"Honey, please, don't carry the kitchen trash through the house." I say, but Rob clutches the trash can liner and disappears into our bedroom. After a moment, he reappears, pads across the living room and out the front door. He leaves a trail of tiny wet spots.

Arms crossed over my chest, I'm waiting when he gets back. "Dammit Rob. Bags leak. People do not carry trash bags across carpet."

At his blank look, heat prickles the back of my neck. I stab a finger toward a series of small stains. There's a similar trail between the kitchen and the lanai.

"Don't worry," he says, "When Simon's gone, I'll buy you new carpet."

"The dog," I hiss, "Is not the problem."

Puzzled, he looks at me. "What do you mean?"

I press a finger against a blood vessel to keep it from bursting and point at the bait bucket in the middle of the den. "You're the problem."

"Oh that." His shoulders relax and he grins. "If I put the bait bucket on the tile, the bubbler is too loud. Besides, it's cooler in the house."

"They're Florida shrimp," I shout, "they don't care."