Posted in Down on the Farm, Family, Just Funny, Uncategorized

PipeBusters on The Reality Channel

3:00 ET, 2:00 CST

Narrator’s voice:  On the pilot episode of PipeBusters, we find Stephanie rising at the crack of 8:15 and making her way to the kitchen. She hears a noise. A terrifying noise. An ominous sound. An ominous hissing sound. (cue hissing sound) She lurks around quietly, trying to discern the location and cause. Snake? If so, Stephanie and her family could be in danger. Grave danger. Freon leak? If so, Stephanie and her mangoes could be in danger. Grave danger. Just then, in another room of the house, her son starts the water for his shower. Instantly, the threatening hissing noise is silenced.Almost simultaneously, Stephanie’s phone beeps. A text. Who could it be from?WHO??? (cue suspenseful music)

COMMERCIAL BREAK

pipe busters leakThe synchronized stoppage of the strange hissing sound in sync with her son’s shower and the incoming text is an awfully big coincidence. (Of course, everyone knows, there are no big coincidences or small coincidences, only coincidences.) Still, she grabs her glowing purple cell, eager to discover who, WHO, has texted at this wee hour of 8:15 a.m.??? It’s the cowboy, who left for work just after discovering the hissing noise. Text: Wrench in garage. Leak under house. Turn water off at meter.

There is a leak under the house. A leak. A water leak. Under the house. What to do? WHAT TO DO? (cue William-Shatner-deliberate-pause reading style). The cowboy says turn it off. TURN. IT. OFF. But her son is in the shower, preparing to leave for Missouri in 42 minutes (cue ticking clock sound). Missouri! In forty-two minutes! This could be the last decent shower he has for months! And Stephanie has yet to bathe. And it is imperative that she leave for work in 3 hours. Three hours! Not to mention vital laundry to finish – whites AND darks. And teeth to be brushed – 60 between the two of them, as Stephanie’s wisdom teeth were surgically removed in 1979. They need the water.NEED the water. (cue suspenseful music, pt.2)

COMMERCIAL BREAK

There is a water leak under the house. A potentially disastrous water leak. The water must be turned off, and fast before the crawl space becomes an ocean(cue John Williams’ brilliant music from “Jaws”). Yet Stephanie and her son need the water to finish getting ready. Stephanie urges him to shower quickly,”Rinse and go, boy, RINSE. AND. GO!” Once out of the shower, Stephanie begins a load of laundry, doing the unthinkable: mixing essential colors with whites in the same load. Now the cowboy’s tightie whiteys are in danger of turning pink. PINK.(cue “Get the Party Started”) There is not a single western shirt in his closet that goes with pink underpants. Not one. If this happens, he will not be happy.Not be happy at all. But drastic times call for drastic measures. SONY DSCNow Stephanie runs her bath water while the washer fills, simultaneously her son fills 2 pitchers, brushes his teeth. Miraculously the laundry finishes spinning only moments after Stephanie’s legs are shaved…DONE! And in record time – only 38 minutes from text to wrench twist and the water is OFF!

COMMERCIAL BREAK

Stephanie and her son are ready in record time, and the water is off, stopping both the leak and the hissing sound (which, of course, are one and the same, but still). Two half-gallon pitchers of water have been filled, giving them enough clean drinking water for 24 hours. Twenty-four hours. Only one day.After that, who knows? What will happen to them? Will they call a plumber? Will they make it a do-it-yourself project? Will they die from dehydration?

Tune in next time for episode 2 of PipeBusters on the Reality Channel.

 

Posted in Just Funny, Quirks and Other Weirdness, Uncategorized

Dances with Wools

Things I Hate:

Injustice. Litterbugs. Mosquitos. Wintergreen. Comb-overs. Fluorescent lighting. People who have to “one up” your stories. Having only vowels in a Scrabble game. The smell of sardines. Using “would OF” and “could OF” when you mean “would’ve” and “could’ve”. Cheese Whiz. Not being able to find my keys in my purse. People who mispronounce the word nuclear. Pumping gas in the winter. Three friends – two final pieces of sushi. Yogurt. The guy who decided Pluto could no longer be a planet. Getting all comfy in bed and realizing I forgot to pee. Reality shows with housewives or bachelors or anyone willing to compromise our intelligence for their 15 minutes of fame.

But the one thing I hate most?

Socks. Darn them.  

Cotton. Wool. Nylon. Striped. Solid. Argyle. Athletic socks. Trouser a socksocks. Ankle socks. Knee socks. Crew socks. Toe socks. They are evil in its purest form. Be a-frayed. Be very a-frayed. Masquerading as “essentials”, “comfort items”, “fashion accessories”, they are nothing more than vile, wretched, sweat-inducing, pedicure-hiding, foot-enclosures. AND. I. HATE. THEM. Wearing them forces my feet to go spelunking against their will. I don’t mean to be a heel, but it’s cruel and unusual punishment. And to add insult to injury, I’m pretty sure some of my toes are claustrophobic.

Three-fourths of the year my toes are happy little campers. Strappy sandals or microfiber mules or casual clogs – all sock-free. But then winter sets in and my feet either roast or freeze. And since I don’t particularly look good in blue…

Besides, my oh-so-comfy winter-weather leather loafers require socks. So, for Christmas, I asked my children to buy me socks. Cute ones. Cute enough to get your attention, but not so cute that you lose respect for me. And comfortable ones, though I know in my heart there are no such things. My children refused. Kacey even went so far as to Facebook her brother saying, “Do NOT buy our mother socks. No matter WHAT she says she wants, she hates socks. You don’t want to be remembered forever as the ‘child who bought her those stupid, awful, toe-torture devices’“… or something like that.

Now, I’m not stocking up on them, but I did break down and buy my own socks. And I broke down further and wore my own socks.

I think I may have to start a humanitarian group called “PETF” – People for the Ethical Treatment of FEET, or maybe the ASPCT – the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Toes.

The absolute worst is sleeping in socks. I don’t know if it’s the fact that my bed is on the north wall of the house, or that my cotton sheets lack warmth, or that I frequently sleep alone; regardless, I find myself often wearing socks to bed this winter. At some point during the night, Emma Lazarus calls to me… “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free… “ and my right big toe grasps the top of my left sock and frees my left foot and my left foot returns the favor by stepping on the toe of the right foot so my right foot can free itself, then both feet push the socks into the floor (“Out, out damned socks!”) while my ten toes do a little socks by the bedmiddle-of-the-night emancipation dance.


And for some bizarre reason, despite the fact that the kitchen is clean, the towels are always
tri-folded, the sheets are washed every Monday, and the dvd’s are alphabetized… the socks remain in the floor until their services are required again.

I don’t know why.

Oh yeah, because I hate them.