by Kathy Brasby | Mar 4, 2021 | Family, Humor, Stories
I’m not usually big on joining new fads, but I succumbed on this one.
I’m talking about a floor-sweeping robot: those little disks that motor around your house, vacuuming and sweeping the floor when I don’t want to. Which is pretty much all the time.
So I got the little guy and found a safe place for him in our library. On his first outing, our grandsons were here. Talk about cheap entertainment. They lay on top our bed for an hour just watching him go back and forth vacuuming the floor.
I think the youngest may have offered him a cookie.
His controls are connected via app to my phone and so I was asked to name him. “How about R2D2?” I asked the boys.
“Um, what were those letters again?” the oldest said. They knew nothing of Star Wars movies. Talk about instant aging. Me, not him.
The first time around, the little robot was R2D2. Then he started having issues. One day I got a text while I was out and about: R2D2 couldn’t start his route because his dustbin was gone.
What? Fortunately my daughter was at the house so I asked her to check the dustbin. It was in place and she sent him on his way.
Then he wasn’t able to trek over the same edge of the rug that he’d managed the week before. All seven days of it. This time, it was a mountain too high. He sent another notification.
He was able to map out the rooms of our house, which I could then label. The idea was that I could send him just to the kitchen or the bedroom. Yeah, well, he lost the map. Then he found it. But now, as far as I can tell, that map is in Bogota.
He got caught in a bathroom, swiveling from the toilet to the door, circling endlessly. I picked him up and put him in the hallway so he could return to his dock. He kept circling. I am not sure but he may have discovered perpetual motion.
So I deleted the robot on my app and started anew, giving him a new name. Robot Boy.
Suddenly Robot Boy found the map of the house. Apparently after journeying to Bogota.
And then it was gone again.
I could schedule a time each day for him to begin his cleaning chores. For two weeks, he would do a run at 9 am and another at 12.
I assumed I had accidentally bumped the two-times-a-day switch so I did a little checking on his website. The company apologized but they don’t yet offer two-times-a-day scheduling.
Except on Robot Boy.
I didn’t report Robot Boy. Would you want him scolded by his own company? I can live with twice-a-day cleanings.
He does try hard. Even when he’s caught under a chair, he doesn’t give up. Only a dead battery will keep him from his appointed duties.
He doesn’t scratch, knock off lamps, or climb up curtains and he’s very loyal.
But I think his next name will be Confused.
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 24, 2020 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
This story is one of my favorites about a Christmas we shared with our family several years ago. I hope you enjoy it:
Many years ago, when most of the kids were still at home, we put together a Christmas plan one year: We’ll use the money for gifts to put together a ski trip, condo and all, for right after Christmas.
The kids bought into this with great gusto because they loved skiing. All went well until Christmas day when it was time to leave for the trip: their father felt a little guilty at the lack of gifts under the tree.
So he suggested a special outing on the way to the condo in the Colorado mountains. We pulled away from our house on the afternoon of Christmas, heading for some major snow.
“Let’s stop at that nice steak house on the interstate,” he said. He loves that eating spot to this day, even though it’s now closed. We’ve eaten at the new restaurant out of nostalgia for the old place.
But back to my story. We pulled in at the steak house after savoring tangy prime rib and steaming mashed potatoes in our imagination for an hour. They were closed. It was, after all, Christmas day.
Hmmm. We hadn’t thought of that, so we continued to the next town and pulled in, hoping the Chinese restaurant there might work well.
Closed.
We were starting to see a pattern. But we had five kids in the car, and the Christmas cookies were wearing off. They were restless.
“Let’s try a fast-food place.” My husband had set his heart on a special mealtime family gathering, but his stomach was growling, too.
All closed.
Grocery stores were closed. Walmart was closed.
Did we have anything to eat in the car? We started to take stock of any energy bars that might have been left in coat pockets. Any half-eaten cookies? I wondered about the crumbs under the toddler’s car seat. Starving kids makes one delirious sometimes.
Just then, my husband spotted a 7-Eleven convenience store. It was open.
We turned the kids loose. “Find something to eat.” We didn’t even add our usual “try to find something healthy.” Just quiet those growling stomachs somehow.
The kids grabbed chips and popcorn and gallons of fountain drinks. If you can’t have a ribeye, apparently a beef stick and trail mix work well, too.
Their parents have felt guilty for years for not having enough foresight to avoid such a disappointment. We wanted to give the kids a nice steak dinner. Their special dinner included candy bars, rubbery hard-boiled eggs, and who knows how many Twinkies.
But I have been assured by our older son not to worry.
“I got a fistful of dill pickles,” he said. “Best Christmas dinner ever!”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 9, 2020 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
My mother’s love language included Christmas baking. From pfeffernusse to fudge, from peanut brittle to Christmas stollen, Mom always served up trays and trays of sweet goodies on Christmas eve.
So this story came about because I thought a mother’s love should include Christmas cookies. I keep telling myself that, anyway.
The cookie cutter set I found one November seemed to fit that goal. The box seduced me with photos of beautiful cookies in the shape of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus in a manger. A little piping of frosting, a few sparkles in the right place, and my family would have a unique nativity set.
This was not ours. This was what I dreamed ours would look like.
And the best part was that we could do this project as a family with everyone helping.
I bought the set.
Yes, I knew we wouldn’t get the cookies quite as perfect as the photos. We had a two-year-old at the time. He would produce a cute but goofy little cookie.
It was OK. I could overlook the children’s immature attempts.
However, I forgot to factor in their mother.
I knew we were in trouble when I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven. But there was no time to do another batch. The family was waiting.
Baby Jesus in the manger resembled a toasted marshmallow.
The sheep – and I’d made lots of them – all were blimps. Some had short fat legs but, since you couldn’t tell where the head was, the legs could have been prickles, too. Or maybe the head was.
Great. Christmas porcupines.
The camels’ longer legs had melded while baking.
“Is this a tree?” asked the six-year-old. Thanks, Dear.
The shepherds had morphed into tall planks of fencing. Or maybe a Volkswagen bug. It was hard to say.
Kneeling Joseph was now a giant S.
The kids were game, anyway. They slathered on frosting that was so thin that the blues and oranges for the wise men’s gowns flowed together, making a muddy brown.
Well, I thought those cookies were the wise men because of the lumps at the top, which I identified as crowns. Maybe they were cows with horns, in which case the muddy brown frosting made more sense.
There was a stable printed on the back of the box that could be assembled as the backdrop. I tossed that idea after our older son frosted an angel as though it were a donkey. I couldn’t see displaying these peculiar little figures.
When we were done, with sticky frosting on our fingers and sparkles drifting to the floor, I studied the blobs of icing and cookie.
“Well, this didn’t work out quite as I had hoped,” I told the family.
My husband surveyed the table, surrounded by sets of eager young eyes, and picked up a cookie. “Then we’d better destroy the evidence.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 21, 2020 | Family, Humor, Leadership, Stories
I didn’t really bungle this mission, although the word “oops” came up more than once.
A woman at our church had asked me to provide a meal for a family having medical and job issues. There are four adults and four kids in the family, so I knew I needed to cook up a lot of food. I made up a big pot of chili, a pan of cornbread, some home-baked cookies, and some carrot sticks. Lots of them.
I went to deliver the meal in the evening. The family lives on Elm Street, which could use some kind of city initiative to buy street lights because a camping tent at midnight had as much light. I pulled up in front of a house, saw a dimly-lit 205 by the door, and hauled my box of food to the front door.
An elderly woman answered. When I told her who I was, and what I had for her, she said, “How did you know?” I carried in the box of food and we unloaded it on her table. Her husband was watching TV and I didn’t see the other six people. Something started to wiggle in my brain at that point but I pressed on.
“We just got back from the doctor and I didn’t know what to do about supper,” she told me. “Thank you so much.”
So I must be in right place after all and the rest of the family was in the basement or looking at stars in the backyard.
Instead, I glanced at the husband, who had an oxygen tube threading across the floor to his nose and was just getting home from the doctor’s office. He must be the one having medical issues. Could I pray for him? Oh, yes. He rose, both of them took my hands, and I prayed for his health.
Then I walked out of the house and looked again at the number. 207. Oops! I had just delivered a meal for eight people to the wrong house. This couple was set for meals for a while.
I did a bit of prowling on the street and located 205 at the corner house. In the dark. I was lucky I didn’t trip on the black curb but that would have been just another oops in the evening.
So I had delivered a home-cooked meal for eight to a family of two and now I had nothing for the family in need. I ran to a grocery store a few blocks away. Although their deli section was pretty picked over, I spotted eight pieces of fried chicken that still looked plump.
Instead of chili, I delivered deli fried chicken, a canister of grocery-store potato salad, a bag of salad, and some cupcakes. I apologized when I delivered the meal and thought about inviting them to join their neighbors.
The family was gracious and appreciative of having any meal.
I’m still not sure how I goofed on the house numbers but God took my “oops” and turned it into meals for two different families. That works for me.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 12, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories
I had just finished rinsing the shampoo out of my hair in the shower when my cell phone rang. I generally don’t take my cell phone into the bathroom, which allows me to ignore any calls during soap-and-scrub time.
But I could hear it and guilt rushed over me. Maybe this was important. I grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower to see who was calling.
It was my sister.
With dripping fingers, I carefully lifted the phone and punched the green button. Water ran down my just-showered body, drenching the rug. I usually toweled off before getting out. You didn’t want to know that anyway.
“Cover your eyes,” I said, draping myself with the towel.
She hung up.
Should I call her back? Should I dry myself off first? Caught in indecision, I stood and dripped.
The phone rang again. It was my sister again. I assumed she’d accidentally hung up. She does that sometimes. Or mutes me inadvertently. Or so she says. But I’m digressing again.
As I pushed the accept button, I noticed that she had used FaceTime this time.
Facetime is a video phone call and there I stood draped in a soggy towel with soaked hair.
Well, it was my sister and she only had to see my dripping hair as long I aimed the camera on my phone correctly. I carefully lifted the phone until it was capturing only my wet nose.
“Why are you FaceTiming me?”
“I wanted you to see my new tooth,” she said.
I remembered then. She’d gotten an implant the day before at the dentist. She stretched her mouth to reveal the bright new tooth, up close on my phone screen. I could see her new teeth and I hoped she only saw my wet nose.
She started giggling. “Where are you?”
But did she then say, “Call me back when you’re dry”? No, she did not. She pressed on.
“The dentist screwed this implant on and it matches really well, huh?” Then she snorted. Assuming teeth implants aren’t really humorous, I guessed she was laughing at my dripping hair.
“And I have to pick up my grandson today and take him to the park,” she said and then began giggling. What? Trips to the park produce giggles? All I knew was that I wasn’t re-adjusting my phone view.
“And later I’m going to run downtown for a manicure.” More snickering.
Good grief, girl. Implants, park visits, and manicures while I was drip-drying outside the shower. I was so pleased to be her morning entertainment.
When the techies worked on the chips and circuits that would allow us to combine phone calls with video, I think they had images of salesmen using charts to illustrate quarterly earnings. Or giggling babies reaching out to touch their grandmother who lived across the country. Or a soldier connecting with his wife and kids from a foreign country.
And I’ll bet all those things happen.
But I wonder if their vision ever included stretched gums, new teeth, and dripping hair.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 15, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories
When it comes to communication, I am a pathetic representative of my generation. I’d rather send an email than stick a letter in the mail. I’d rather text than call.
I quit giving cards with gifts to the family because they opened the card long enough to read who the gift was from and then moved on to the gift.
If they want to know who gave the gift, I can do that easy enough. I use a Sharpie to write my name on the outside of the wrapper. 
But I keep a few cards in a box for emergencies. I have a few generic birthday cards and some thank you notes. I am not totally without class.
Today I pulled out a nice “I miss you and glad you wrote to update me” card. It was decorated with soft blues and linen surrounding a gentle photo of an orange and yellow flower arrangement. I was impressed with the beauty of this card and knew that it was perfect for my friend, who prefers letters to email and cards to texting.
Technically, she requires letters because she doesn’t have an email address. It’s amazing we’re still friends based on my communication skills.
I jotted a few lines to my friend, wrote her address on the card, and then finished up the project by sliding the card into the envelope.
I had a new problem. The card and envelope didn’t match. The card was too big. What in the world? The envelope was even the same creamy linen color as the card. They had to match. But, nope.
Now I had a card with a handwritten note. I hardly wrote anything by hand after I learned to type. Cursive is over-rated when you can grab a keyboard. I wasn’t willing to re-write that note.
I went searching for another envelope in my box. I found a graduation card for my niece who has now been teaching middle schoolers for 9 years. A high school graduation card.
I found a birthday card to my brother, signed, sealed, and never mailed. Oops.
The last time I went to a funeral with my sister, she brought a sympathy card for me. She knew. My card inventory is like a six-inch rain in the desert: a drop every six inches.
So I went back to my perfect card and tried again, hoping somehow that the envelope would stretch. Maybe over time, it had mellowed into a larger size. Nope. Wishful thinking is sometimes synonymous with foolish thinking.
Then I spotted my paper cutter. I slid the top of the card under the knife. Zip. Voila! Now it fit.
I hope I didn’t cut off my signature, but what are return addresses for, anyway?
So that card is now in an envelope and ready to go to the mailbox.
With my track record for mailing cards, I hope I can remember how to do that.
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