Be it Never So Humble, This is Our Home

In the cosmic struggle between order and chaos that takes place on a daily basis on the great battlefield known as my home, the one sure loser is the house.

When we moved into our latest residence, I kept waiting for the Posh police to come by and forcibly evict us. "I'm sorry, you folks exceed the toddler tolerance policy as prescribed by fancy homes everwhere. You will have to leave."

Slowly, the house had to acclimate to the plethora of grubby fingers that left marks on walls and door knobs. The ceiling had to come to terms with th occasional super ball that would bounce against it and the airplanes that sometimes glided from the second floor onto the crown molding. Wooden floors found themselves tasked with children engaged in sock skating and carpets have found themselves, the home of more than 1000 legos. The gourmet kitchen served toasted waffles and peanut butter and jelly on an almost daily basis, and the showers had little mermaid, army men, tub tints and bath crayons, bubble bath and monkey shower curtains.

We tried fancier bedding, furniture and lighting, but twelve bulging laundry baskets frequently injured any ambiance the large master bedroom. The plastic portable infant tub, port-a-potty and toddler bath chair in the master bath also hampered any air of sophistication that our home might otherwise have.

Late at night, I swore I could hear the joists and the beams of the house creaking and moaning, "Where are the Eglands?" "When are you coming back?"

Two years into home ownership, I bought a shoe organizer and a closet now looks like it might possibly not be taxed beyond physical capacity as a result. One room down, fifteen to go. At this rate, the house will be in perfect order in thirty years, by which time, I hope the house is wondering, "Where did everybody go?"

Airport Security Depends

It’s always a cheap shot to talk about the hassles of travel, but when the flight attendant announces that the bathroom on the plane is inoperative ten minutes before boarding, when life hands one something that choice, that absurd, that rich with possibilities...well, I just couldn't resist.

People raced to take care of things and fretted when the stewardess reminded us that drinks would soon be served. It didn’t help the collective mood of the passengers when the pilot asked us to reshuffle seats prior to take off to “balance the load.” Had the co-pilot taken the effect of full bladders into account when considering how the weight needed to be redistributed?
As the plane began its taxi down the runway, preparing to leave ground and reasonable walking distance from working facilities for the next two hours, I heard speculation about what other essential non-essential equipment on the airbus might not be fully operational. Those of us who had decided we had camel kidneys and would grit it out, began to experience flyer’s remorse.


As the news traveled through the back of the plane, the woman next to me who had missed the announcement at the gate asked “What are we supposed to do? Open a window?” I had seen Goldfinger and said, “I hope not.”


The first thirty minutes passed uneventfully, except I was keenly aware of the fact that there was at least 1000 miles to go and 30,000 feet between me and the nearest restroom. Turbulence became an issue, making those of us who chose fortitude over the expedient stress of trying to go through a line longer than the one for security in less than ten minutes, even more regretful. Our agony would be prolonged and exquisite, just as theirs had been intense and brief. As the star bellied sneeches on the plane, they could rightfully gloat at those of us who had none upon thars and we prayed for brisk tail winds and no funny jokes or sneezes that might make sitting in the middle row a bit awkward.


At this juncture, the stewardess, who had overheard the word “bathroom” from our conversations, discovered that we thought the bathroom was broken. “They announced it at our gate ten minutes before boarding.” We explained.


Going back to the front, the stewardess spoke to us all, “Our bathroom is working. They must have gotten the wrong flight number.”


I’ll say. Some other flight has some really good material for a humor column, particularly if it was the flight boarding from DC to Vegas.


Day One of the Erma Bombeck Conference...I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, try www.humor-blogs.com!