We've been packing slowly for a couple weeks. I strongly dislike moving. Mostly because of all the packing. We're getting down to the wire, though, but there are still random things all over the house that I'm avoiding. I walk past it, consider it for a second, and then move on and plan on dealing with that one thing later.
You know that scene on PeeWee's Big Adventure? Or is it only my family that quotes that movie incessantly? When the pet store is on fire and he's getting all the animals out, but he keeps passing by the snakes and then moving on to another animal, postponing the inevitable. That's me. Something is too breakable, or too heavy, or too oddly shaped to fit in a box, etc. So, I glance at something and then quickly look away, like if I can't see it, it can't see me.
The trouble is, sooner or later, I'm going to have to move those dumb things. And I keep having to really brainstorm to find other things to do instead of pack the random items. I'm running out of ways to procrastinate.
Hence, the random post. But now it's over. Now what am I gonna do?
Nope, that's not a misspelling, I'm not talking about denim in today's post. Actually, I'm not doing most of the talking in this post, I'm copying an email from my mother. I am sharing this with you for a couple reasons. One, I love my family and I think they are the funniest people on the planet. Two, if you didn't already know that my parents are the funniest people on the planet, you will now. Enjoy.
Okay. I apologize for this before I even start. I feel like a tattle tale. But last night, after 41 years of marriage, I do believe that something happened that I need to share. I am so startled and disbelieving about the whole thing that all I can do is go to the women I am closest to and ...........share. I was sitting in my bedroom with the TV on last night trying to watch House and Dancing With the Stars at the same time, not an easy task to begin with. All of a sudden out of the laundry room comes the most horrendous noise that you have ever heard in your whole life. I thought the washing machine (actually Melissa's washing machine) had blown up and was spewing parts all over the room. I jumped up and ran into the kitchen where Jim was doing Soduku on the computer. "What is that?" I asked with fear in my voice looking toward the laundry room afraid of what I would see. "I'm washing my GOLF BALLS. It's okay." "You're washing what?" I asked dubious to say the least. "My golf balls. It's okay. I've done it before." Not to my knowledge. Rather than risk an end to an otherwise long and long suffering marriage I stormed back into the bedroom and shut the door. A few minutes later the machine starts it's spin cycle.......with golf balls in it. Go ahead. Use your imagination. A washing machine in the spin cycle with golf balls:( I got up and walked into the kitchen......"Jim, I don't think golf balls need to go through an entire cycle. Just take them out!" "No," he says, "I wash them with bleach and soap and they need to rinse." "Jim, you can fill a bucket with water, bleach and soap let them soak and get the same results. You don't have to put them in the washing machine." "Yes, you do. It doesn't work the same." I hate to admit it, but at this point I was speechless. What more could I say? The man was convinced that what he was doing was perfectly normal and I was over reacting to the whole thing. I returned to House and Donny Osmond. I sat in the room for a while until the blood was no longer pulsating in my temples. I tried to laugh. (I can today, not last night.) After a while I decided I had too much invested to let golf balls in the washing machine ruin my day, marriage, life, etc. So I went in the kitchen, gave my husband a big hug, and told him I have no idea how his genes work. They say women are an enigma. Thanks for letting me unload. You notice I only sent this to my daughters and Sharlene. I was worried that maybe the gene slipped over to the sons and their wives would find this perfectly normal behavior. Sharlene would not let this happen in her house. I love you all, Mom
Seriously, you gotta love my Dad. Unless of course you are married to him, then you have tolove my dad. (Sorry, Mom).