by Kathy Brasby | Jul 14, 2015 | Stories
I have a friend who claims to love doing laundry. She’s still my friend, which, I hope, reveals a ton about my tolerance level.
My children were all instructed in the operation of our washing machine so that, by the time they could climb, they could do their own laundry.
A result of teaching the kids to do their own laundry is that they now can use their bedroom dresser drawers for books and computer programs because those drawers never see clothes. They draw clean clothes from the laundry baskets.
At least that’s the theory. Sometimes clean and dirty co-mingle on the floor.
I did mention I’m tolerant, right?
I cannot blame my upbringing for this laundry tolerance. My mother was a Type-A laundrist. A laundrist is someone who takes the chore of laundry seriously. Even to the point of folding and stashing clothes on the same day they were washed.
I’ve resisted such nonsense.
One day my husband came home with a story about the wife of one of his customers who ironed all her husband’s underwear. It wasn’t a hint. My husband has no illusions about my laundry abilities.
I don’t even fold my own underwear. Why would I iron his?
But recently our washing machine went belly up and my husband decided he wanted a front-loading set, those new energy-efficient machines that should save water and electricity.
So we have a new set with portholes facing into our laundry room. My husband is bummed that the dryer doesn’t fold the clothes, but he’s adjusting. I’m bummed the clothes don’t come out on hangers. I’m adjusting, too.
But I do have one concern. Our grandson, at 18 months, now likes to stand at the glass windows and watch the clothes tumble.
And I’m worried that this might be planting the seeds of a whole new generation of laundrists.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jul 10, 2015 | Seasons
“I’ll wait outside.” Mabel settled on a bench outside the brick building, her arms pressing her purse to her bosom as tightly as the clasp on the patent leather bag.
“Mom, come on in with us for just a little while. When will you have a chance to do this again?” Her daughter’s voice softened her grip.
“I don’t know. I can just wait here for you.”
Mabel’s daughter laughed. “We’re in Las Vegas, Mom. We’ll never be here again. Let’s go into the casino for a little while. It’ll be fun.”
Mabel shifted positions and straightened her cotton dress. “I can wait here.”
But a few minutes later, Mabel found herself sitting at a metallic box with red and yellow panels and a long handle. “You just put your money in this slot,” her daughter said. “Pull down the handle and watch the fruit.”
“But I don’t gamble,” Mabel said.
“It’ll be fun.”
Mabel sighed and dug into her coin purse. Squeezing a nickel between her thumb and finger, she dropped the coin into the slot and gripped the red ball in her palm. She pulled the handle and images spun in a rainbow of colors before settling.
And then two nickels clattered onto the coin cup.
“You won!” Mabel’s daughter laughed. “Wasn’t that fun?”
Mabel nodded and reached for the coins. She rubbed each between her thumb and forefinger before popping open the coin purse. In slid the two nickels. “Pretty good return,” she said. “I’ll wait outside now.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Jul 7, 2015 | Stories
If it wasn’t for Jeff Huddlestern, I might think my calendar was absolutely perfect.
I am not one of those people who alphabetizes their to-do list and writes down the content of their chest freezer.
But I do keep a meticulous calendar.
Finding a calendar that synched between my computer, my phone, and my tablet was perfect because I have a tendency to lose those cute paper calendars that fit in your purse or pocket. Apparently, those climb on some shelf in my office and then flatten themselves under a stack of books for about four years when they leap onto the top of my desk to announce that I’ve forgotten that dentist appointment in 2012.
My ears still sting from the piano teacher who reamed me after the fourth time in three months that I forgot to take the kids to lessons.
I’m not bitter. I’m desperate.
But these days you’d be so proud. I can log in my next lunch appointment on my smartphone while sitting at the table with my friend and I can send her an email reminder before we pay the check. When I get home, my computer calendar already knows about the next lunch date.
And here’s the best part: I can set alarms to kick me out the door for an appointment. Think military boot kicks.
So I’ve been sashaying around doing the “yeeeesssss” dance just like the football guys after a touchdown. I may not be organized but I had this.
Until Jeff Huddlestern showed up on my calendar.
And Simon Jettison and Terry Montgomery.
Who are these people?
Exactly my point. I do not know.
Why would these unknown people plant their birthdays on my calendar? I think they joined me when Corpus Christi popped up on my calendar.
But I can cope. The alerts still work. My lunch appointment is still logged in. I didn’t lose the family birthdays.
My calendar system is good but I’ve quit doing the victory sashay.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jul 3, 2015 | Seasons
Howard stepped off the city bus, straightened his jacket, and limped into the nursing home.
“I used to do that job,”he told me, pointing his head at the bus. “Before I retired.”
He made his way into his new job. Howard’s home was an assisted living facility across town.
His wife, Mildred,had been transferred to the nursing home a few months ago.
Howard spent his days with Mildred. “I get my breakfast at the Oaks then take the bus here. The last bus runs back to the Oaks right after dinner so I can eat lunch and dinner with Mildred before heading back. ”
Later Howard sat with Mildred at a round of bocce balls, a game a little like shuffleboard but using only balls. He took his turn, aiming his ball at the target. “Turn left. More!” He directed his ball. “Aw, it doesn’t listen very well.”
Then he gently pressed Mildred’s ball into her gnarled hand. “Roll the ball. Knock that blue ball out of here. ”
Mildred stared at the floor. After he urged her two more times, she lifted her head and dropped the ball. It listed to the left and stopped.
“Pretty good,” Howard said. “Maybe our team will win.”
Later he pulled out matching red cowboy hats. Mildred wore hers all day without saying a word. In fact, she didn’t say much any day.
But Howard came every day.
“We’ve been married 15 years,” Howard told me one afternoon.
Long enough to cleave for a lifetime.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jun 30, 2015 | Stories
My rich uncle in Nigeria – the one who wanted to help me inherit the million bucks – appears to have abandoned me. So has the thoughtful lady who emailed me stating that my resume is so impressive that she’ll send me money just for laundering hers.
That’s an impressive resume, but I digress.
Recently I got an email from my sweet employer informing me that I am eligible to get some of my pay in advance. “We know it has been a difficult month for everyone, so this is to make life that little bit easier.”
And who hasn’t had a difficult month? Wow, I mean I dropped an old glass in the kitchen and had to sweep up the broken pieces. Plus the mailman was late one day and I had to go to the mailbox twice. And, as the final straw, the last lightbulb went out above our dining room table.
I needed this.
My boss also included a link that contained “goldbar.” Who would question that?
I only had to verify that this was my account. I glanced to the top of the email, where I was clearly identified as “Hello.“ And there was the link again, with the gold bar buried in between a menagerie of letters and numbers.
Dollar signs were doing the cha-cha before my eyes.
Just for clicking that link, I would receive over $2,890 with the rest transferred at the end of the month as normal. Heh, heh, my boss had obviously forgotten that the last time I’d gotten a check for over $2,890 it was for the quarter, not the month.
But this was my account and this was my thoughtful employer. And there was the gold bar.
All I had to do was click a link.
My mouse hovered. My mind spun. And then I remembered. I’m self-employed.
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