Rainbow in the Dryer -or- The Sock Queen

Another shoebox classic . . .

Guess what a blue crayon, a pink crayon and a green crayon make in the wash . . . a rainbow in the dryer. Normally, I am a quite fond of rainbows, but for some odd reason I found no beauty in the brilliant colors splashed across my last good shirt, my socks and every other wearable article of clothing I owned.

As I began pulling my ruined wardrobe from the dryer I spotted them, a little yellow (blue and pink and green) pair of shorts which more than obviously did not belong to me, so in my loudest, meanest mommy voice I shrieked for their owner. She appeared in the doorway with a look of fear and feigned innocence in her eyes.

After a few renditions of “It wasn’t me!” and “I haven’t even used crayons in years.” I pulled the paper wrapper from a blue crayon out of the pocket of her little yellow (blue pink and green) shorts. “Oops, I guess I forgot I put them there.” was her only reply. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk or brightly colored melted wax. What was done was done. I tossed around the idea of tye-dying all of our clothes in case it ever happened again but decided it would be best to just check pockets a little better from that point on.

The laundry room is my least favorite place in the house aside from the kitchen, the kid’s rooms and their bathroom. I just know someday I’m going to go in and never make it out. I suppose it’s my own fault for letting the kids wear clean clothing day after day.

When I was a little girl I dreamed of becoming an archeologist, of traveling to far off lands and uncovering buried artifacts from days long since past. In some small way my dream has been realized. However, instead of some distant shore on the other side of the earth it’s the cold garage in the back of the house and instead of discovering long lost treasures I simply find LEGOs and coins and candy wrappers . . . and unfortunately the occasional crayon.

I keep a large flower vase on the shelf above the dryer. I use it as a collection bin for all the little trinkets that find their way into the laundry room by way of un-emptied pockets. Someday it will serve as a memory jar for them. I will present it to the first one who complains their dryer has become a rock tumbler at the hands of the precious grandchildren I may one day be blessed with.

I have another jar up there for found money. I never give it back or inquire as to whose it may be. Most of it is their hard earned, as little as I can get away with allowance money which I simply use to pay their following weeks allowance with. I rarely have to dip into my own pockets to pay their weekly bribe money, they practically pay themselves!

Another aspect of laundry I despise, perhaps most of all, is socks. Don’t get me wrong. I love the warmth they give on a winter’s day and the comfort they provide in my favorite pair of tennis shoes, but when it comes to their care and maintenance I shudder at the thought of them.

First, there is getting them into the washer to be laundered. Sounds easy enough right? Well, it’s not. At least two of my boys take the foul things off in such a way they are rolled into little balls or donut shaped rings. I need a gas mask and a haz-mat suit just to straighten them out. Once they are in the washer, no problem. Throw them in the dryer, piece of cake. Taking them out is where the trouble begins.

I have only myself to blame truthfully. I have a sock basket. It is a tradition passed down from one generation to the next in my family. The idea is to have a small basket next to the dryer to place the clean socks in while you fold the rest of the laundry. Seems like a great idea except I never quite got the hang of it, I have a rather large sock basket. Okay, it’s a full size hamper, but with six pairs of feet in the house there are a lot of socks. My problem is I leave them in the basket until every last sock in the house has been dirtied, cleaned and deposited there. When that happens, I become The Matchmaker . . .

They assemble before me each week, huddled together in anticipation for they know by day’s end their solitary existence will be over. I carefully sort through them to find each one its perfect mate. Sadly though, every now and then, there a few I simply cannot pair up and they must return to the basket alone. The sad soles. When my task is complete I take the newly matched socks to the various closets and drawers they will call home. I wish them well and bid them adieu. Unfortunately, they never stay together long. They always come back alone, waiting for me to find them another perfect mate.

I’m one day going to come out with my own line of children’s clothing. I will specialize in socks. They will have brown soles made from the finest of stain resistant materials, no toes will ever peek through and no heels will ever wear thin. They will be crafted in such a way they cannot be taken off inside out and they will remain together in every wash, guaranteed.

I will be known as the Sock Queen and mothers all around the world will adore me. Come to think of it, there may be an offshoot for children’s underwear along these lines as well . . . School uniforms with a mustard, ketchup and playground dirt motif. I may just end up famous after all.

I suppose for now though I will gather together my supplies and trek off into the laundry room. Who knows what wonders I will uncover on my expedition.

Old (made up) Proverb – Women who sort laundry by color have too much time on hands.

Crystal R. Cook aka The Sock Queen

Woe is me.

Aug17

I have a headache. It sucks. It bites. It’s not cool. It’s just not right. It’s lame. It’s a bummer. It’s a downer. It’s for the birds. It’s the pits. It’s whacked. It’s pathetic. It’s not even funny. It’s super crappy. It’s not fair.

Maybe it isn’t a headache, maybe it’s a tumor. Judging by the above I’d say it just may be. Maybe I have finally lost too many brain cells or maybe I am actually going to have that nervous breakdown I’ve been threatening my husband with.

Nah, I don’t have time for a nervous breakdown. I don’t even have time for this headache. Sitting here at the computer reading and writing isn’t helping I’m sure, but neither will doing the laundry or going grocery shopping.

At least the house trolls are still asleep.

Well, that’s all. I didn’t really have anything to say. Just thought I’d moan and groan a little and see if anyone would feel sorry for me.

I’m off to raid the medicine cabinet for some Advil and find an ice pack.

If you’re strong, you’ll survive it. (Prompt – prophesy.)

Aug10

Mother looked out the frost covered window of her darkened room, staring into the heart of night. She pulled her blankets close as she watched the giant snowflakes fall beneath the ominous glow of the yellow streetlamps. She knew all too well what this could mean and the thought sent shivers right to her bones.

Her mind drifted back to the stories her grandmother would tell on nights such as these, stories that have haunted her ever since. They were terrible tales and always ended with what amounted to a prophesy from her dear grandmother, “You wait, one day it will fall upon your house as well. If you’re strong, you’ll survive it.”

Still looking out at the snow falling heavier by the minute, she knew this could be the moment her grandmother said would come, the signs were all there, the night seemed so still, too still. The moon was wrapped in a bluish haze she could faintly see though the snow-filled sky. The ground was a blanket of nothing but white. Mother knew sleep would not find her peacefully, she grew ever more anxious, grandmother had warned she would need all the strength she could muster.

Thoughts of what the morning might bring plagued her dreams each time her weary eyes fell shut and she would awaken to the deafening silence of snow crashing outside of her window. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her thoughts, “If you’re strong, you’ll survive it.”

The long night gave way to a bright morning, the slumber she’d fought so hard to find was ripped away from her by the sound of her children’s screams. Their screams pierced her heart and she buried her face in her hands. Tears began to fall as she realized she didn’t have enough strength to do what had to be done. A cheerful voice from the radio interrupted her despair.

“Goooooood mornin’ to ya,” the DJ chimed.

Mother glared at the radio. “What’s good about, hu?”

“It’s six forty-five in the AM hour, and if you haven’t yet heard, last nights record snowfall has blocked the roads and closed the schools.”

With that, mother turned off radio, the last thing she needed was the voice of a chipper DJ ringing in her ears. She did her best to pull herself together. Her greatest fear had finally come to pass, her grandmother’s prophesy was being fulfilled. School had been cancelled and there would be no escape from her four, young children until it reopened.

She was sleep deprived and emotionally drained, but she knew she had to find the strength to make it through the day. She slowly made her way to the kitchen where the children’s excited chatter bounced around inside of her head like nails in the spin cycle. She reached for the coffee, she knew caffeine would be her only ally. Her heart sank as she realized the coffee tin was empty. Grandmother’s grim warnings could have done nothing to prepare her for the true horrors that were unfolding . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Pixie Farts & Snot Bubbles – A Baby Fix

Aug9

I often hear veteran moms talking about needing a baby fix, it sounds kinda seedy and back alley, but it’s not, I promise. Sometimes we just get a little nostalgic for those long ago days when our children were brand new.

Personally, I don’t need them. I’m good. I will admit though, to every once in a while being lulled back in time when I see a newborn babe nestled in its mothers arms, or smiling sweetly and cooing from a carriage.

I guess you could say I got my baby fix, not that I was in need of one, at Walmart the other day. A chubby little cherub smiled up at me from his cute little monkey car seat, he let out an itty bitty sneeze, it sounded how I imagine a pixie fart would sound. His little face smushed up for another sneeze, but this time it was more like a full on pixie explosion.

A snot bubble starting forming out of his left nostril which quickly became the size of the little guys actual nose, then, he sneezed again and that oozing bubble made an audible pop as it burst. The busted bubble bits quickly began drying into cemented snotcicles on his cheek and part of his eyebrow like frost on a winter windowsill.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing that spewed from his button nose, the rest of the vile fluid was being hungrily lapped up by his tiny pink tongue. I had to hold in my lunch and wait it out, or lose my place in line. Walmart was packed, I was not going anywhere. Just as the nausea began to quell, I smelled it. It was like . . . death. Death in a bayou garbage pit at the peak of summer.

He was still greedily eating his own boogers when his momma leaned over and kissed his snot frozen cheek and said, “Did you do a stinky? Did you? Did you?” He answered with a smile that grew almost as fast as the next snot bubble it came along with. She again nuzzled the now whitish-green, booger speckled cheek and asked him again if he did a stinky.

I just wanted to shout, YES, he did! Stop asking or he’ll blow another mucus balloon and I will definitely throw up, probably twice! But then I saw that little twinkle in his eyes, it may have been dried snot, but it reminded me of what a precious moment in time it was for both of them. Then I began to think about the gallons of bodily fluids I had smelled, wiped, and gagged at over the years.

I realized how thankful I was I survived it all, how grateful I was I no longer had to wonder what the weird taste was when I kissed my precious babes. I knew right then I had to run because the sound and smell which yanked me back to reality even made that poor mommy take a step back. I decided it wouldn’t kill me to wait in a new line, but the beautiful mess in front of me just might.

So, if I was to ever, ever, feel some longing for a new life to cradle, I would simply need to make a trip to Walmart, there is always a baby fix to be found there . . .

Crystal Cook ~ Veteran Mommy

Coffee Haiku

Aug8

My dear coffee plant
thank you for giving your seeds
so I can wake up

I think he’s out to get me – Silly rhyme time

Aug8

There’s a mouse in my house
I just saw him run by
he’s freaking me out
I’m not gonna lie

He’s not a shy little critter
looked me straight in the eye
he’s sizing me up
and I want to know why

He didn’t seem scared
I think he’s looking to fight
the buggers just waiting
till the moment is right

He’s forming a plan
he’s waiting to strike
he’s gonna nibble my toes
while I’m sleeping tonight

I know what you’re thinking
and I’m not a big sissy
I’m telling you now
he looks kind of pissy

He’s got beady little eyes
and sharp little teeth
tiny little paws
with claws underneath

He’ll scratch at the walls
he’ll poop in my shoes
my man won’t be happy
when I give him the news

He’ll set out a trap
he doesn’t like mice
I hate those darn things
they aren’t very nice

But I don’t want to live
with that thing in my house
Oh, stop looking at me
you damn little mouse

Crystal R. Cook

How I came to know my Bacon number.

Aug8

This morning as I was doing dishes, okay, putting them in suds to soak, I had a little tune stuck in my head. I don’t know how it got there, those earwurms are insidious little things. Anyway, it was the little jingle they used to play at the drive-in theaters, let’s all go to the movies, let’s all go to the movies, so I sang it for my son who looked at me like I was a weirdo. He’s a weirdo, anyway again, I said the last time I could remember hearing it was maybe when I watched Grease.

He reminded me he has yet to see the song and dance spectacular we call Grease, I never said I was a perfect parent. He then started naming off other movies he’s never seen, including Footloose. I’ve made a few parenting mistakes, I admit it. I apologized and told him we’d check Netflix. This is when his brother walked in and asked who Kevin Bacon was. Did I raise these kids? This led to a lengthy discussion of the many roles of Bacon, which led to the logical and inevitable arrival at Bacon numbers.

Next thing I know, they are at the computer checking The Oracle of Bacon to find out the Bacon numbers of their favorite actors. Apparently Benedict Cumberbatch has a Bacon number of two which reminded me of when I met Dirk Benedict, better known, to me at least, as Lieutenant Starbuck of Battlestar Galactica fame. The old one, the original one, the bestest, most cheesy, one – so we typed in his name.

His Bacon number is two which would then, by my calculations, make mine three. Score. I’m not a particularly huge Kevin Bacon fan, but knowing my Bacon number is for some reason extremely satisfying. My son is right, I really am a weirdo.

Crystal R. Cook

*The Oracle of Bacon does not personalize anything, I added the arrow and my name –

Why can’t I remember?

Aug2

I know there was something
I wanted to say,
it was there for a moment
then it slipped away.

Oh! Now I remember!
No . . . that can’t be it.
I’m sure it’ll come to me,
just give me a bit.

Now what was I doing
when I first forgot?
If I could retrace my steps
it would help quite a lot.

If only I knew,
but I just can’t recall,
my poor mind is blank
and I can’t think at all.

Oh, just forget it.
I don’t have the time
to dust off these cobwebs
that have formed in my mind.

If it was important
I’ll remember tonight
when I close my eyes
and snuggle in tight.

My sleep will be robbed
and my mind will spark,
it always happens
as I lay in the dark.

I really wish I knew
why all my days are spent
trying to remember
where my thoughts have went.

Well, just never you mind
what I was going to say,
I’ll let you know what it was
if I remember it someday . . .

Crystal R. Cook

The day she found it.

Jul31

I have a dear friend, we couldn’t be more different, yet somehow perfect for each other. She swears like a sailor, I don’t. She is extroverted, I am introverted. She is loud, I am quiet. We’ve been friends since high school and I love her dearly.

Now, my friend can be a bit dramatic at times. Every year she has an age crisis, she’s convinced herself several times she will be passing away very soon. Little things can become very big things and when they do, she always calls me to assure her they are not as bad as they seem.

One such phone call left me in tears, the kind that stream from your eyes during a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Actually, it was a series of calls spanning nearly an entire day.

When I answered the phone she sounded angry, then sad, then angry again. It took me a couple of minutes to pry out of her just what it was that had her so upset. We talked for some time, she cried, I laughed at her. She called me a bitch, I called her an old lady. Before the sun set, we were both laughing and her world was turned right side up again.

I wrote her a poem about her day, as her friend I felt it was my duty to immortalize her ordeal. I was certainly not going to ever let her forget it.

I know a young woman
whose hair was blonde
until the day, that is,
she happened upon
a single gray hair
near the top of her head,
What the heck is this?
she angrily said.
When did this happen?
How can this be?
I wonder if anyone’s
seen this on me?
Should I pull it out?
Will it grow right back,
bringing more of its kind
in some sneak attack?
But then a light bulb appeared
up over her head,
she looked at that hair
and said, I’ll kill you dead.
She packed up the kids
and went straight to the store,
To the beauty department!
she said with a roar.
‘Wash away your gray
in a few simple steps’,
That’s just what I need,
that’s the one I will get.
As she lathered it on,
she said her goodbye,
so long gray hair,
I said that you’d DYE!

Crystal R. Cook

Scientific discovery.

Jul30

This week in science . . .

Researchers have have come to the painfully obvious conclusion that a quick knuckle tap is going to spread less germs than a full on hand melding.

My philosophy is simple, don’t touch people, you don’t know where they’ve been.

How about a smile and a head nod while holding your breath?

I wonder if you do the fist-bump followed by the explosive release of all five fingers you can fling off any germs that did make contact. Someone should study that. They should.

Touching, especially prolonged touching, spreads germs.

Good to know. I’m still not going to fist-bump.

Scientists discover fist-bumps to be more hygienic than handshakes

London (AFP) – Fist bumps are more hygienic than handshakes and drastically reduce the risk of spreading infectious diseases, researchers in Britain have found.

The study discovered that a handshake transfers 10 times as much bacteria as a fist bump, following a series of tests at Aberystwyth University on the west coast of Wales.

Doctor Dave Whitworth, who led the research, said the study could have a serious impact on public health.

“People rarely think about the health implications of shaking hands. But if the general public could be encouraged to fist bump, there is a genuine potential to reduce the spread of infectious diseases.”

Researchers were able to measure the movement of germs using sterile rubber gloves, one of which was dipped into a coating of the potentially deadly E. coli bacteria, before exchanging a range of greeting gestures.

The results of the research, published in the American Journal of Infection Control, showed that handshakes passed on far more of the dangerous bacteria than fist bumps or high fives.

The number of germs moving between people was reduced by more than half during a high five and 90 percent in a fist bump.

Experiments also found that a firmer handshake increased the level of bacteria shared between palms.

Fist bumps, famously employed by US President Barack Obama and his wife Michelle, are thought to be more hygienic due to their shorter duration and smaller contact area.

The study was inspired by the increasing promotion of cleanliness in the workplace, including the growing use of hand-sanitisers and keyboard disinfectants.