A Public Shower...Embarrassed

My most embarrassing moment occurred when I was a teenager. I was taking one of those marathon showers that pissed my mother off when I heard the horrifying sound of the door lock popping open.

The door swung inward and my elderly father (already in his late 70’s) wandered in wearing white long-johns. He blinked at the bright light but thankfully hadn't noticed me, naked, behind the clear glass shower doors.

Mortified, I started to call out to him to let him know that I was in the shower but what if he looked over and saw me, you know, naked?

Unfortunately, he whipped out his willy and started peeing. Gross, no fifteen year old girl needs her first look at a real penis to be her father’s ancient one. That’ll put a girl off sex for life.

Blushing furiously, I was deeply relieved when he closed his pant's flap and started to leave the bathroom. Then, he hesitated, leaned out the door and yelled, “George, do you hear water running?”

George, my mother, showed up at the door with two of my brothers, my uncle and one of my sisters. They all peer in and see me, in the shower, without clothes. God, I begged, please let me die now.

“Oval, can’t you see she’s taking a shower?”

I’m bright red and trying to cover myself with nothing but a wash cloth when my dad answers, “Who?”

From that day on, I could take a shower in under 3 minutes.

The Yellow Sweater and other Crimes

The following is a family crime that at turns annoys me and makes me laugh hysterically.

My sisters are all much older than me. Much, much older. Now, I hope they finally read my blog so they can complain about that terminology. Due to some crafty math, good genes, and a little plastic surgery in one case, they've manage to slow aging to a crawl.

In real life, all of them are fifty plus this year and I'm stilling hanging on the ass end of my thirties with a death grip. That's life. You get old or you die. Both smell pretty bad.

Because of the age difference, I missed out on the sisterly bickering, fights, back-stabbings, and the yellow sweater. The three kids before me were boys. My testostone buffer so to speak.

I don't believe all three of my sisters have lived in the same house together since the 1970's.

Yet occassionally one of them brings up the yellow sweater. Over the years, the details have gotten ragged, the story complicated, but the bitterness has never faded. As far as I can tell, this is what happened.

My oldest sister, J, graduated high school and purchased a lovely, brand new, tags still on it yellow sweater from her work cash. In a family of eight kids, new was rare. Brand-new, well that was something to talk about.

Now in some versions of the legend, my second sister, R, bought the sweater. But I believe this to be a fallacy. First, she married at 18 and if she was still living at home, she was single and poor like everyone else.

J bought the sweater. R borrowed the sweater. R said she had permission, J said she didn't remember giving it but even if she had, she would never have agreed to let R loan it to the third sister, E.

The sweater came back stained and stretched out.

J had a hissy fit.

All my sisters are flat chested to certain degrees. A, Double A, and Triple A in bra size. If you don't know what a Triple A is, look at a slice of bread out of the toaster. It has about as much boobage as a Triple A bra holds.

To this day, someone will occassionally bring up the yellow sweater. R claims E stained it and stretched it out. E, while admitting to wearing the sweater with R's permission claims there was no way she stretched it out (triple A) and she doesn't remember the stain.

Since she is usually smudged in some way when claiming this, we believe half her story.

R says she did nothing to the sweater.

J says no one had permission to wear her sweater to begin with.

This same arguement has now went on for more than twenty-five years.

The sweater is long since gone.

The sisters have worked their way through several wardrobes, styles, and husbands and still they discuss this 'crime' in their youth.

And to be honest, the whole family looks hideous in yellow. Liked curdled lemon peels.

So, right now, I'm confessing...I TOOK THE SWEATER. While I was toddling around the house in my diaper, I put on the sweater, stuffed the front with grapefruit and ate dinner.

Then I climbed into J's closet and hung it back on the rack even though I've never voluntarily hung anything up in my life.

Now can we all move on?

Nope, I probably ower 15.49 for an ugly misshappen yellow sweater.

Tirz

The Dollar Christmas

I do my Mother's Christmas shopping each year and each year I have to find new and inventive ways to be cheap. My mother gives everyone cash for Christmas BUT she wants something under the tree for them to unwrap.

Because she's giving them a sweaty wad of cash, the budget for gifts is low, really low. This year I have approximately forty-four gifts to buy on a $120.00 budget. Actually, that's a pretty good budget for a mom holiday. I've done it on forty bucks before.

Back when mother did it herself, some of the gifts were interesting. One year she found a multi-pack of men's socks on sale. She bought the socks and wrapped each of my brother's one pair. Yep, one pair.

Only it turned out the socks were boy's not men's. So they were about 6 sizes to small. But Mommy Dearest got offended when the boys had a sense of humor about it and tossed their unopened gifts back and forth between each other, pretending to fight over which pair of socks they received.

Don't think the girl's fared any better. We didn't. Goodwill shirts in garish turquoise or fushia, usually several sizes wrong. Polyester and double knits are so classic. Hah. My mother loves bright colors. Sometimes, the girls got packs of 99cent pantyhose. Those I didn't mind, you can always use pantyhose.

But somewhere over the years the mantle of frugal shopping has been handed down to me.

How do I do it?

Well I laugh at store sales. Roll in the floor, crying laughter. Something on sale for twelve bucks would have to satisfy three people at the very least.

And coupons are useless.

The key is to find one good item for a dead low cost. One year, I found 1 dollar umbrellas. They were acceptable and we all need one. I got about half of the people umbrellas. I put the extra cash into the children's gifts. The kids usually get any money overflow.

Things I've discovered:

Kid's love rubber balls on a string for some reason.
Rubber band Racers are always adored.

Don't need umbrellas?

One year, I found film on clearance. I snooped and found out how many relatives had cameras and what kind. I bought them film. This was before digital was the end all of everything.

This kind of shopping is all about the moment. I'm good at the moment. But it involves hours of combing through Dollar Stores, General Stores, and the occasional Thrift Store.

Do I enjoy it? No, no, no.

I hate it.

When someone at work brags about getting a deal on a video game for their kids for 30 dollars or someone going on and on about how they can only spend fifty dollars per person, I want to vomit.

And the gifts I'll receive will be on the same level as the one's I wrap up.

Ugly scarves, books from discount bin, and one year Barbie shoes. Don't ask, you don't want to know.

I wouldn't mind the books but they are always authors I can't stand like Jackie Collins or some hideous book on self-empowerment. I do not and never will want to read 'The Secret'. It's like bumper stickers for the soul.

So this year, I've been working on a geneology project. I'm printing each family their chart and framing in a cheap frame. More work than money.

No one will care.

I made homemade fabric padded cover albums one year and put pictures in them, my brother gave his to his kids to use in their tree house. My sister sold hers in a yard sale.

I don't suppose it matters.

Perhaps, I should get them all socks?

Nah. Jock straps.

LOL.

I have a little shopping to do. There are Pez dispensers and rainbow suspenders to purchase.

Happy shopping.

Wish me luck.

Tirz

My Sister Married a Yeti

What is a Yeti? A Yeti is a bigfoot, a sasquash, a big hairy man beast from the woods.

And yes, my sister married one. This is my third sister, referred to as my Third Sister from now on to keep life simple and me out of small claims court.

Her hubby, the Yeti, is tall with a full beard. The beard extends around his neck and down his belly in a festive pelt to keep him warm in the winter months. I know from a horrifying experience that involved a shorty robe and a loose belt, the body hair extends everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

But the Yeti can't help the body fur. That's just the nature of a Yeti.

What he can help is the sweaty rope sandals with the yellow toenails hanging over the edge. Click, click,click just like a dog on concrete when he walks. Those nails...click, click, click.

Shudder.

He could also be gainfully employeed but my sisters rarely marry or date the employable. What's sad is that the Yeti has a law degree. Sis put him through real estate school, built him a labratory to experiment in. Experiment on what I have no idea.

I don't want to know.

When the cops show up, I want plausible deniability.

So you think, he spends all day at home, doing what he wants without even having to do housework, you think he'd at least be romantic. You know grease the marital wheels but no, not him.

He bought my sister floor mats for her birthday last year. Floor mats. How...wonderful?

This year he bought her a fixer-upper sports car. My sister is a tiny woman with a bad back, sniff knees. He loves working on cars. I wonder who that gift was for. Exactly.

I suggested she get him a body wax for his birthday. Sis thought I was kidding.

But no family member is perfect without a lobadomy and the drooling gets on my nerves so you learn to live with the occassional quirk in a relative. That's life.

What kills me is that on holidays, he brings a giant tome of some forgotten lore and spends the day with his nose buried in the book, ignoring the whole family.

Why can't I do that?

Brother-in-Laws!

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, who else can I tell? My family already knows. And I'm sure he loves me as much as I love him. Is my sarcasm showing? I hope not. I work so hard at being subtle...LOL.

Family is family.

But still when I hear the click, click, click of his nails on the floor, I do close my eyes, in case he has on the shortie robe.

No need for me to see the South Pole.

This Christmas I'm buying him a life time suppy of boxers...and maybe a body brush.

Would that be rude? Probably.

HAH.

I do need to get started on my Christmas shopping and then my mother's. Geez. Did you hear a click? I thought so.

I'm out of here.

Tirz

My mother, the goat, my brother, and me

I blame my mother;she blames my brother, he blames the goat. For my twelfth birthday, I asked my mother for a computer. I would have settled for a typewriter. My mother, being my mother, bought me a nanny goat at a yard sale. Yes, a goat at a yard sale. It was a helluva deal, they threw the chain in for free.

Goats, by definition, are nasty animals. They eat anything, knock over garbage, climb on the cars and they are hell to leash break. This brown nanny goat was particularly destructive. She killed my Dad's two prize peach trees, destroyed our wooden door, and the paint job on a classic Camero. I am pretty sure the neighbors had a shoot on sight order out on her. I don't blame them.

After the nanny goat demolished the car, my mother decided that the animal should probably be in a fenced area. A free roaming goat seem to attract trouble for some reason. I can't figure out why. Realizing that I'm dangerous with a hammer, my mother put my brother in charge of stringing barb-wire to keep the goat contained and I was sent to the store for milk.

Thinking back, I should have felt the impending doom. I'm walking home on the trail from the store, gallon of milk in hand. Since the trail heads downhill, I'm picking up speed at an alarming pace. Just as my house comes into view, I realize my brother has strung one roll of wire at ankle level at the bottom of the trail and, as usual, wandered off. I start windmilling my arms, trying to slow down but there is no hope of stopping now.

I trip over the wire, the milk jug flies high into the air. As I collide with the ground, I manage to kick the goat. The goat screams and runs. Only she is chained to a tree and she is yanked off her feet. The milk jug hits the ground like a bomb. Milk sprays everywhere, the goat screams again, and I am dripping wet.

Our spotted mix breed terrier runs off the back porch and starts licking up the milk. The enraged goat attacks the dog. The goat has horns; the dog is losing. I try to pull the dog away and get bit. I have a sprained ankle, a rabidly mad goat, a squirming dog, and I'm sitting in a milk pond with a bleeding hand.

I hear the back door open, I turn, expecting sympathy, and my mother says, "I hope you're going to clean up this mess. I'm not the maid."

I still blame my mother. She bought the darn goat. All I wanted was a typewriter.