Category Archives: Laura Grimes

Dance, General, Laura Grimes

The weekend gadabout report

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Pollice Verso, 1872, by Jean-Léon Gérôme/Wikimedia Commons

Hand me a hanky. I’m considered a – a – a  –retinue. Bless me.

So says Mr. Mead of Blogorrhea fame. It’s not to be confused with something in your eye.

Instead, I’m a retinue … to Mr. Scatter’s gadabout.

Ukelele Loki's Gadabout Orchestra

Lest you think I’m talking nasty, this comes from a communicable blog award that’s considered, um, a good thing. You have to be prolific to get it. It’s really called the Prolific Blogger Award.

This is like an accolade. It’s a nice gesture from Mr. Mead.

Mr. Scatter is the prolific one. I’m just the retinue. Which means I drop in now and then. Or act like a groupie. Or drive the car. Or something. Combine all this and what I really do is drive-by blog posts now and then.

The Large Smelly Boys get to be retinue, too. But we don’t let them drive yet.

Mr. Scatter is so prolific that he sits in his cute little kitchen nook and types away. We call him for dinner. We leave the hall light on for him. He just continues to tap-tap away. We leave crusts of bread on the table for him now and then. The Large Smelly Boys have grown mustaches since you last saw them, Mr. Scatter.

Mr. Scatter says he’ll have to acknowledge the honor more formally soon in the blog scroll. Actually, he said, “I’ll have to pass it along.” I’m not sure Mr. Scatter realizes that a condition of receiving the award is that on the site he has to add his name to Mr. Linky. I fully realize the irony of suggesting my husband will be both communicably prolific and the more responsible one in crafting a response.

Speaking of prolific …

*****

“I just sold a vasectomy.”

Continue reading The weekend gadabout report →

General, Laura Grimes

First comes love, then comes marriage …

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... then comes baby in the baby carriage.

Mr. and Mrs. Scatter know all about the sacred naming process.

In a recent post, Mr. Scatter waxed beautifully about William Faulkner and H.L. Mencken, Sir Toby Belch and some guy named Flem. As Mr. Scatter put it:

“Naming was a serious and sometimes flowery business. … Naming is an almost mystical occasion, an assigning of an intensely personal yet communally meaningful identification for life.”

Mr. Scatter is not kidding. This is a seriously important matter to him. And he’s serious when he says that his grandfather’s name was Virgil Homer Hicks (who married Lizzie Lou Willingham).

Before Mr. and Mrs. Scatter’s firstborn came kicking and bleating into the world they had to wrangle with the Little Matter of Naming.

They began to notice the name tags on waiters and to sit through the entire credits at movie theaters, straining to catch every name that scrolled up. They yelled out road signs. Vader Ryderwood! They suddenly remembered long-lost relatives.

One day while Mrs. Scatter reached over her big belly and rummaged in a cupboard for Maalox, Mr. Scatter got a far-off gleam in his eye and said, much too sprightly, “How about Virgil Homer Hicks?”

Mrs. Scatter, cursing the child-proof cap on the container, was surprised and a bit proud of her husband’s wry humor and was about to cut loose a big loud snort of approval when Mr. Scatter sighed and said, all too wistfully, “It’s too bad my grandfather already has that name.”

Mrs. Scatter was still smiling, thinking the follow-up was a nice touch and her clever husband was playing this one beautifully with just the right tone of mock seriousness. She finally flipped the lid off the container, poured a few chalky tablets into her hand and put one on her tongue. She was about to reward Mr. Scatter and let out one of those long carefree chortles when Mr. Scatter said, with a genuine note of lament, “It just wouldn’t be right to take the same name.”

Mrs. Scatter stopped and stared at her husband. She popped another Maalox. “You’re serious!”

“Of course. The great Greek writer and the great Latin writer.”

All at once Mrs. Scatter:

  1. Desperately wanted a do-over.
  2. Was immensely relieved her husband insisted on being original.
  3. Didn’t want to think about what would happen if the name hadn’t already been taken.
  4. Prayed there was still a joke in there somewhere.
  5. Worried for her husband’s safety.
  6. Wondered why she didn’t vet her partner’s naming process before the house and furniture and marriage and, oh yeah, FAT SWOLLEN BELLY.

*****

Friends recommended trying out names, as in imagine yelling them at the top of your lungs in a crowded grocery store. Everyone now. Try it with me:

“VIRGIL HOMER! GET BACK HERE!”

Hmm. I’m not sure that does it for me. Let’s try this one:

“VIRGIL HOMER! PULL UP YOUR PANTS!”

Still no luck? You get my point.

*****

Dear Aunt Janet,

Thanks loads for the baby name book. It will join the fray to come up with The Perfect Name. I can’t wait to find out how Bob will use this latest weapon to good – and devastating – advantage. He still thinks Homer Horatio Hicks will look great on that first book. I think he’s equally excited that the initials would make a great cow brand. Maybe God will deliver me before I deliver this baby.

Love,
Laura

*****

Mr. Scatter couldn’t help but read out loud not only every name but also every meaning of every name. He read name after name, meaning after meaning, page after page.

“Charlotte. Little and womanly.” What do you think about “Charmaine. A Latin clan name?”

“It’s not bad, but it sounds like a brand of toilet paper.”

He wasn’t daunted. “Chloe. Greek. Young, green shoot. Cynthia. Greek. Goddess from Mount Cynthos. Cleva. Middle English. Hilldweller.”

“What do you think about Jessica?” I dared burst in.

“I’m not there yet.” He didn’t even turn his nose.

“What do you mean you’re not there yet? Can’t you turn a few pages?”

“I’m only on the C’s right now. Did you know that Claudia, a Latin word, was a clan name that probably meant ‘lame’?”

*****

“Hadden. Old English. Hill of Heather. Hadwin. Old English. Friend in War. What do you think about Hadwin?”

“No, Honey.”

“Haig. Old English. Enclosed with hedges. Harden. Old English. Valley of the hares.” Harden Hicks. Or maybe Harden Hadwin Hicks. Hadwin Harden Hicks? I know. Harden Haig Hicks: Valley of the hares enclosed with hedges.”

“Honey, I’m trying to watch the pregame show.”

“Heathcliff! Middle English. A cliff near a heath.” Heathcliff! What do you think about that?”

“It sounds too much like ‘Wuthering Heights.'”

“People this day and age probably think it’s a cartoon cat. You don’t like Heathcliff?”

“Honey, the game’s on.”

“What game?”

“You know. The game we paid for? The game we rushed to finish dinner so we’d be able to watch?”

“You don’t like Heathcliff?”

*****

The alarm clock blasted its nasty beep, and Mrs. Scatter groggily staggered to the shower. The comforting water began to lift her haze. She felt secure, assured in her little space, her senses cocooned by the pelting water, the warm steam and the whir of the ceiling fan. She turned off the shower and wrapped a big, fuzzy towel around herself.

“PRUNELLA!” A voice boomed through the door. “A small plum! That ought to be a good one for when the kid’s old and wrinkled!”

Mrs. Scatter shook her head and breathed deeply. “What’s the difference between a plum and a prune?”

“I’m not sure. I always thought a prune was a dried plum, just like raisins are made from grapes. But then those long skinny plums are called Italian prunes.”

“Look it up!”

“I’m not there yet.”

*****

Of course we finally came up with The Perfect Name. In fact we liked it so much the first time, we used it again. You don’t have to imagine yelling it in a crowded grocery store. We did one better than that. We just quietly hit publish and told it to the world.

Large Smelly Boys.

Heaven help them if they ever find out what their dad really wanted to name them.

General, Laura Grimes, Poetry

Blog comes on little cat feet

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HELLO? MR. SCATTER? ANYBODY HOME?

to evewybody else: shhh! be vewy vewy qwiet. let’s see how long it takes mr. scatter to notice i’ve posted something.

(hey, what’s up with the dreadful new digs?)

*****

My timid, sneaky she-cat

Behold. My own blog sign-in. Not that I have bloglegs to go with it. I’ve had the superblogpower for a while and have been mulling over the perfect first post. Big? Little? Not that the passing days mattered a wit because I didn’t have time. As I kicked around ideas and poked in the cobwebs of my inner files, I kept coming back to a quiet little place I think of as a beginning. It’s my cat, really. My timid, sneaky she-cat.

It’s not my he-cat. He often lies in a basket next to me as I work. That is, when he’s not rubbing his white hair against my black pants and clawing my thigh. By most accounts, he’s a demanding brat. He’s big. And loud. Though I find his penchant for carrying around little stuffed animals adorable, I’m not so keen about his nosings-around on the kitchen counter.

She, on the other hand, takes off for days. She goes back to the old stomping grounds a few blocks away. Sometimes she walks home with me at night. But only if it’s really black outside. Even in the dark, she skirts the edges and the byways. She comes to me sideways and looks up past me. If she lets out a soft little trill my heart skips. Because it’s so hard to come by.

I pick her up and hug her to my cheek and smell poetry. Elusive. Mysterious. A silence like no other. A wellspring.

She disappears. But she always comes back to me. She bumps her forehead against mine. I smell the rich loam buried deep in her fur. This is how we say hello. She lets out a soft little trill.

She is where I started to write a few years ago.

A sweet little poem came out. And then a funny thing happened. It became a prelude. This is how it went.

Two cats: A prelude
One is strong and cocky.
He jumps on the counter
when he knows it’s wrong
and dines fine
in a beam even,
meowing loudly.
He rubs my thigh
broadside
and laps my love
no matter what.

The other is quiet and shy.
She slinks in under shadow
and finds food
in the dark.
Curled in a hollow,
she sleeps in the small space
pressed next to me,
speaking nothing.
In the night
when all is silent
I touch her softness
slowly
stroking
and she carefully
turns her belly bare
to meet my hand.

General, Laura Grimes

A Screenplay with a Sweet Subtext, in One Act

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Mr. and Mrs. Scatter, together again

The Pantsless Brother (TPB), who was so concerned about Mrs. Scatter overexposing his predicament about getting gas out of his pants, recently said, “So you haven’t written for a coupla weeks.”

Charles Deemer commented on Mr. Scatter’s recent post about – in no particular order – hairy beasts, barista whelps, a little town some miles south of Portland known to locals as “San Francisco,” and Harrison Ford’s tendency to shout in irritation.

What did Mr. Deemer say? To quote: “I don’t know of a blog with a sweeter subtext. I want to write the screenplay.”

That led Mr. and Mrs. Scatter to ruminate about what subtext he could be talking about. Meeting hairy beasts in the woods? Meeting barista whelps? A glitzed-out hotel in San Fran? Yelling dialogue?

Ah, sweet mystery of wife!Mrs. Scatter preferred to take the more romantic view and suggest the sweet subtext just might be relying on blog comments to send a message to her far-flung long-lost husband to pick up milk on the way home.

It’s true. Mr. and Mrs. Scatter have been toiling lately in diverse locales and occasionally blowing kisses to each other through the windows of passing motorcars. By coincidence, just yesterday, Mr. and Mrs. Scatter were going in separate directions to hobnob with blog buddies – Mrs. Scatter to have coffee with MTC and Mr. Scatter to have lunch with MUW.

As Mrs. Scatter stood in the shower with warm water cascading over her back and the soft hum of the fan filling the air, she thought about how much she appreciated the few precious minutes she had with her beloved husband before hightailing it out of the house.

She began to wonder what a screenplay with a sweet subtext would look like. She began to wonder if it was possible, without giving too much away, to share a rare behind-the-scenes peek of Mr. and Mrs. Scatter, of the delicate nuances of their romantic tryst, of the all-important underpinnings of their strong marriage.

Mrs. Scatter tried not to think of the baskets full of clean laundry sitting in the middle of the living room and tried not to wonder whether Mr. Scatter would have time to fold it or whether she would have to strong-arm the Large Smelly Boys. Instead, she tried to imagine a sweet, sweet subtext.

And then, as if on cue, as if the screenplay were writing itself, this absolutely true, completely unaltered exchange happened. Mr. Deemer, we are so here to help you.

(This dialogue has not been edited for brevity or clarity. This is reality blogging, people. Normally, the dialogue would be upper- and lowercase, but that’s just not the case here.)

A Screenplay with a Sweet Subtext, in One Act

0. INT. ART SCATTER WORLD HEADQUARTERS. BATHROOM. MORNING.
Silence, except for the gentle sound of streaming water and the soft hum of a fan. Steam envelops the elegant bathroom with clean, monochromatic colors and antique tile floor. A skylight frames a cheerful view of blue sky and bare tree branches swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. A bluebird flits from branch to branch.

MR. SCATTER

Heard from a long way off behind a closed door. (Incoherent blah blah blah.)

Startled, MRS. SCATTER rinses shampoo from her face.

MRS. SCATTER

WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU! THE FAN’S ON! COME CLOSER AND YELL LOUDER!!!!

MR. SCATTER

Heard through the door, closer this time. SOMEONE SCREWED UP THE KITCHEN LIGHTS AGAIN!

MRS. SCATTER

WHAT? Confused for a moment. OH! YOU MEAN THE LIGHT SWITCHES AREN’T THE RIGHT UP AND DOWN?

MR. SCATTER

YAH! THEY’RE ALL SCREWED UP! SOMEONE DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO LEAVE THE CORRECT ONE UP AND THE CORRECT ONE DOWN!

MRS. SCATTER

Reaching for the conditioner. GO AWAY! THAT DOESN’T MATTER!

Clomping footsteps heard retreating from the bathroom door.

MR. SCATTER

(Harumphing grumbles.)

MRS. SCATTER

BUT THE TOILET PAPER BETTER GO OVER!

MR. SCATTER

Heard from afar, like a faint echo, from a bit down the hall. WELL, OF COURSE! WE’RE MARRIED! WE GOTTA AGREE ON THAT!

****

— Laura Grimes

General, Laura Grimes

Blogging by the seat of our pants: Part Two

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Gas station in Pie-Town, New Mexico, October 1940. Photo: Russell Lee via Library of Congress. Wikimedia Commons

In honor of the guerrilla tactics of people climbing onto MAX trains without wearing pants, we’ll pretend we have an important news angle and tell this tale:

My brother* showed up at my house wearing pajama pants.

We hugged. He hauled his suitcase into the guest room. He was casual for a while and then felt compelled to come clean. He looked away, paused a long time, then said, “Ummm … I hate to tell you this …”

Slowly, he started to tell how a short way into his long drive he had stopped to fill the gas tank. He was in a certain state to the north of Oregon** where people have to fill their own tanks. He didn’t want to get his hands dirty and smell like gasoline for the whole trip so he used a paper napkin to grip the pump.

The gas tank filled. As he removed the pump the napkin started blowing around so he grabbed it, accidentally engaged the pump and spilled gas all over his pickup truck and pants.

Scrunched in the cab, he opened his suitcase and got out his pajama bottoms.

Wikimedia CommonsAs he was taking off his pants they started to vibrate. His phone was ringing.*** It was his daughter.

“Where are you, Dad?”

“I’m, uh, at a gas station.”

Of course, he was neglecting to provide a key piece of information. One tiny prepositional phrase would have made that statement completely truthful. So let’s try it again. What he really should have said was:

“I’m, uh, at a gas station … IN MY UNDERWEAR!”

He finished the call and changed his pants. He stuffed the gas-soaked pants into a large, black plastic garbage bag.

He continued on his way. The cab smelled like gas. He pulled over.

He put the black plastic bag in the back of the pickup.

He continued on his way. The black plastic bag started blowing around. He pulled over.

To anchor the black plastic bag, he wedged (wedgied?) it in the side of the tailgate and shut it. He complained how putting up the tailgate produced extra drag and lowered his gas mileage. (Did he miss the irony of producing extra drag?)

Then he came to why he was telling me all this (as if he could keep quiet and not give me blackmail fodder for the rest of his life): “I’m not sure what to do with my pants.”

I stopped laughing long enough (not really) and went to the Google and typed in “How to get gas out of pants.”****

Of course I was being goofy, and was slightly disappointed Large Smelly Boys didn’t pop up on top, but the first item was titled, no kidding, “How to get gas out of pants.”*****

Tip No. 1 suggested laying the pants out in the sun. Like that’s going to happen in January in Oregon.******

We looked out the window at the rain. We considered how attractive a pair of smelly jeans would look splayed out on the front porch. We decided to hang them in the garage.

After a brief discussion about spontaneous combustion, I got the key, opened the industrial-strength lock on the garage and my brother hung the pants over a handcart.

Afterward, he settled in at the dining table with his pajama pants and a warm drink. Like he really needed to say it, but he did anyway, thankfully giving me a great quote: “You know the whole irony of it? I was trying to keep my hands clean.”

Epilogue: He left yesterday. As he was packing up, he asked – you can’t make this stuff up –” “Do you have the key to my pants?”*******

***************

* Yes, Art Scatter regulars will know him as the same brother who has sprayed cold water on me with a garden hose while I was in a second-story shower and cleaned puked pasta out of my sink.
** Geography points if you can name the state above Oregon.
*** Imagine the headline: “Cell Phone Ignites Pants.”
**** For journalistic integrity, I really typed in “How to get gasoline out of pants,” but who cares?
***** For journalistic integrity, it was really titled “How to get gasoline out of clothing,” but who cares?
****** Geography points if you can name why it’s nearly impossible to lay out gasoline-soaked pants in the sun in January in Oregon.
******* Extra credit if anyone has the key to his pants.

***************

My brother was worried about telling me all this because he didn’t want a big public ordeal. I promised I would only tell his story, show his picture, and give his name, phone number and e-mail.

I was kidding him, but here’s a picture of him anyway:

Laura was the adoring kid sister even back then.

I was kidding him, but here are his initials anyway (props to the Large Smelly Boys and Mr. Scatter):

Tough Rat Gonads
Two Rowdy Gerbils
Twin Reproductive Glands
Terminate Religious Guppies
Tranquilizer Reaches Gut
Testosterone Rattles Girlfriend
Totally Real Gore
Teacher’s Really Gruesome
Toss Rocks at Goliath
Teeth Get Rotten
Totally Rad, Girl
The Robust Girls
That Rascally Gal
Tch! Really, Guys?
Timberwolves Rally Gazillions
Tiny Rectal Glitch
Tonic Rattles Gizzards

— Laura Grimes

***************

PHOTOS, from top:

  • This is not the station where Laura’s brother stopped to gas up. Nor is this his pickup, although he might prefer it. And the men hanging around did not help him change pants. But the photo was taken in Pie Town, New Mexico, in 1940, and we don’t get many chances to type “Pie Town.” Photo: Russell Lee via Library of Commerce. Wikimedia Commons.
  • These are not the pants that got soaked with gasoline when Laura’s brother was trying to be all Felix Unger. But we think it’s nice that the parts are labeled. Wikimedia Commons.
  • Laura and her brother. She was the adoring kid sister even back then.


General, Laura Grimes

Penny dreadful, part 5: the best seats in the house

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1948 American Standard pink bathroom

Many months ago I showed up at a friend’s beach cabin and before I could walk even a few feet in the door she regaled me with a story about how when she arrived at the cabin the kitchen was perfectly pristine except for a piece of paper, conspicuously propped up. Excited, she picked it up, thinking a family member had left a special note. It said something close to:

Milk
Eggs
Thyme
Toilet seat

Puzzled, she looked around. She checked the fridge. She checked the toilet seats. She wondered what someone was trying to tell her. She called her mom. She pressed me about what it could mean.

I stood there still wearing my coat and holding my bags, and we fully discussed how it was a tiny town and there wasn’t a hardware store around for miles. We discussed how you couldn’t just run to the little local grocery store and buy a toilet seat. We discussed that at a store you couldn’t just stick a toilet seat on a conveyor belt with milk and eggs. We discussed that you would have to buy a toilet seat in the city and bring it with you, but you wouldn’t buy the milk and eggs in the city.

Why was the list at the beach? Why was it displayed so prominently? Like a message. Like a toilet seat is a perfectly normal thing to have on a grocery list. We looked at each other, baffled. This was a strange mystery we couldn’t crack.

And then we laughed our guts out. We couldn’t stop laughing. We cried. We laughed so hard we kneeled nearly to the ground. I had to kneel. I’d been driving a long time without a pit stop.

We got up the next morning and both confessed we had woken up early, thought of the list, and convulsed silently into our pillows so we wouldn’t wake up the other.

So when I decided to buy toilets, I sent her an e-mail: “I have a grocery list that includes two toilets. Do you suppose I can find them at the beach?”

She said, “Absolutely!” and recommended a certain kind. She said she loves hers. And then she wondered if that was possible.

Apparently so.

Just ask a plumber. Or better yet, don’t.

Because otherwise you’ll learn all about top-of-the-line deluxe model toilets and a whole lot more than you bargained for.

You’ll learn about his own toilet, which has a bidet, a warm seat and a hot water thermostat that can be programmed for different temperatures for different people. And it comes with a remote.

You need warm water?

Yeah, apparently at first his wife thought the toilet was a waste of money, though he explained he got it for free. But now she likes the warm water.

Really?

I tried to act very cool and nonchalant, like it was a perfectly ordinary, everyday thing to stand in my kitchen talking to two men who were total strangers and listening to how this guy’s wife likes warm water on her tush.

What are you going to say? Tell me more about her habits?

He didn’t look away or shuffle his feet. This was serious plumberspeak.

But I get that. I talk writerspeak. Mention commas and I get all juiced up. I can go on for days about quotation marks. Singles and doubles.

I figured I could unabashedly talk plumber with the best of  ’em. “It comes with a remote? Like a TV?”

Let’s just change the channel and end it there, shall we?

–Laura Grimes

*********************

1948 American Standard bathroom. Not a remote in sight.

Environment, General, Laura Grimes

Penny dreadful, part 4: DIY port-a-potties

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An ancient Roman public toilet. Wikimedia Commons

E-mail to colleague first thing: “I won’t be at the office this morning. I’m getting new toilets.”

And just in time. The hard-to-lift boxes had to get out of the Large Smelly Boymobile before Dungeons & Dragons Dad picked up six Large Smelly D&D Players.

Sound familiar?

The last story started there but veered to pants. And kilts.

Mr. Scatter pointed out in a baffled, you-gotta-be-kidding voice, “You don’t talk about toilets again?”

Mrs. Scatter: “Uh … no.”

Mr. Scatter: “What happened to the toilets?” (As if he personally doesn’t know how the story ends and what’s in our bathrooms.)

Mrs. Scatter: “Uh … I ended up talking about pants.”

Mr. Scatter (in the same incredulous voice): “When are you going to finish talking about toilets?” (As if this were a perfectly normal question.)

Mrs. Scatter: “Uh … in another post.”

Let’s refresh the story so far – including the wayback blog parchment days ago:

Which somehow brings us to chauffeuring toilets all over town.

An 1800s Dutch bidet with Chinese porcelain. Wikimedia Commons

  • On a sunny Sunday afternoon, two muscly guys lifted two heavy big boxes full of spanking new toilets into the Large Smelly Boymobile.
  • The two boxes were way too heavy to get back out of the Large Smelly Boymobile.
  • The two boxes were way too big to leave around the house.
  • The two heavy overbig boxes were left in the van.
  • I called a plumber and left a message.
  • I drove the two heavy overbig boxes to the office.
  • I started to worry when I didn’t hear back from the plumber.
  • I drove the two heavy overbig boxes to a meeting with a lot of colleagues.
  • I drove the two heavy overbig boxes to a board member’s house.
  • The plumber called, and we made an appointment for Thursday morning.
  • Thursday was perfect, I thought. Just in time to get the hard-to-lift boxes out of the Large Smelly Boymobile before Dungeons & Dragons Dad picked up six Large Smelly D&D Players.

Sound familiar?

The plumber arrived. He made a bunch of noise in the bathroom and then said, “Where do you want the old toilets?”

“Great,” I said. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

I opened the back of the van and realized a chunk of my day would be shot getting rid of crappy porcelain.

The plumber’s boss arrived.

We got two new toilets that flush and don’t wiggle.

*******

After the plumbers left, I zeroed in and got a bunch of work done. The clock ticked away. It inched into the afternoon. Long past lunchtime. And then I remembered. I had old toilets in the back of the van. I had to drive to the recycling center in the hell-and-gone suburbs and be back in time for D&D Dad to take the van. It was either that or he would have to chauffeur six Large Smelly Boys while two toilets clunked around.

I had a deadline. I had to scoot. As one of the plumbers said, “Be careful around the curves. That bowl can go flying.”

To be continued … one more time.

— Laura Grimes

***************

Illustrations, from top:

An ancient Roman public toilet: The group approach was perhaps the rise and fall of the Roman Empire … going … going … gone. Wikimedia Commons

An 1800s Dutch bidet with Chinese porcelain: A creative mix and match elevates the idea of crappy porcelain. Wikimedia Commons

General, Laura Grimes

Penny dreadful, part 3: skirting the issue

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Highland soldier, 1744. Shot 'em? Darned near kilt 'em!/Wikimedia Commons

E-mail to colleague first thing: “I won’t be at the office this morning. I’m getting new toilets.”

And just in time. The hard-to-lift boxes had to get out of the Large Smelly Boymobile before Dungeons & Dragons Dad has to pick up six Large Smelly D&D Players.

On a recent sunny Sunday morning, I got out of the shower, slipped on my fuzzy slippers, flushed the toilet, heard an all-too-familiar gurgle, said something that toilets are supposed to dispose of, and while I stood there wearing only my fuzzy slippers (don’t picture that) and plunging mightily away, I thought, That does it. I’m driving to hell-and-gone suburbs today to buy new toilets.

Did I say it was sunny? I had planned to finally rake those leaves moldering by the day in the backyard. I had fancied maybe baking. Instead I hollered up the stairs to one of the Large Smelly Boys, “Get your pants on! We’re buying toilets!”

What was in it for him? Felix/Martha wanted Christmas lights.

And pants that actually fit.

Pantalone in 1550. Illustration: Maurice Sand, 1860/Wikimedia CommonsIn 3 months we had been to no fewer than 6 Boy Pant Stores (otherwise known as Chasms of Hell), some of them multiple times, and many more online shopping sites. None of the pants were the right size, the right color, the right material, the right no-buttons, the right pockets, the right plain ordinary solid-color no-frills gotta-fit STUPID PANTS!

The list? No patterns, no buttons, no logos, no zippers. No sweats, no jeans, no fabric that’s slick. No green, no red, no gray, no black. Only blue, only khaki, only khaki that’s light. No brown, no yellow, no any other khaki. No belts, no words, no stripes, no strings. No cammo. No danglies. No so-many pockets. No baggy ugliness.

This wasn’t my list. I would have lived with baggy ugliness. As long as the pants fit in the washing machine. I would have lived with so-many pockets you could pack away a deluxe salad bar making sure the kidney beans were always stashed separately from the mini-corns. I just wanted pants on my kid that didn’t fit like capris and didn’t have rips up the wazzoo.

After our first neverending Brush With Pants-Shopping Death, I posted this on Facebook:

“I’ve been to hell and it involves shopping for boy pants. Stores: 4. Pants: 0.”

Then the sympathy votes rolled in. A sampling:

OMG, I SOOOO share this hell!

Try kilts.

If they like them, they don’t fit. If they fit, they don’t like them.

Worse than bras?

Oh, just put them in sweat pants!

Pants shopping here tonight: Stores: 1, Pants: 1. Target, baby!

That did it. By then I had had more Brushes With Pants-Shopping Death. I finally had to respond:

“Been there! Done that! No luck! Stores: 5. Pants: 0. We’ve even gone online to find the right size in the right color only to have a rude, red “out of stock” sign pop up. Wearing only skivvies is perfectly acceptable at school, right?”

Days, weeks, months went by. I was getting queries how it was going. Finally, I posted an update:

“Stores: 6. Pants: 0. Online shopping: Zilch. My son now wears capri pants and doing laundry every few nights is getting old. I’m liking the kilt trend more all the time, but he wouldn’t be caught dead in plaid.”

Then flowed the kilt comments. As if they helped. I got links to online kilt stores. As if they helped.

Black Watch kilt: Stylish, manly, and dig that purse in front. Wikimedia CommonsSo by Sunday, THREE MONTHS after our first scary non-encounter, Mr. Ripped-Up Capri-Wearing Smarty Pants had good reason to go with me to shop for toilets. Even as his Felix/Martha persona really wanted to buy Christmas lights. Because he desperately needed to not look like a waif from a Dickens novel. He needed pants. We had finally found 3 that worked. We had to go back to ONE store for the FOURTH time to find the rest. And guess what?

WE SCORED!!!! We’re not in RIP CITY anymore, people! We’re in PANTS CITY now!

Afterward, we went to a nearby coffee shop. We sipped smoothies. We celebrated our glorious pants success. And you wouldn’t believe what walked in the door.

A guy dressed in full kilt regalia! He had the kilt, the tall knee-high socks with plaid ribbons, the tam-o-shanter, the nifty jacket, even the jaunty leather pouch.

I couldn’t help but think: Back-to-school shopping wouldn’t have to stretch to Christmas season if I could just get my Large Smelly Boy to wear a skirt.

To be continued …

— Laura Grimes

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PHOTOS, from top:

  • Highland soldier, 1744. Shot ’em? Darned near kilt ’em! From “Clans and Tartans — Collins Pocket Reference,” Glasgow, 1995. An early picture of a Government Tartan great quilt. The plaid protects the musket from rain and wind. Where Large Smelly Boys are concerned, unfortunately, nothing protects from wind./Wikimedia Commons
  • Pantalone in 1550. Now, that’s a pair of pants. One piece, one color, just throw on a cape and you’re ready to go. Illustration: Maurice Sand, 1860/Wikimedia Commons
  • Black Watch kilt. Stylish, manly, and dig that purse in front. Wikimedia Commons
General, Laura Grimes

Penny dreadful, part 2: Looking for Mr. Goodpump

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Less than a week after I left my decades-long job on May 1, I found myself in hell-and-gone suburbs shopping for the perfect soap dispensers. And pillows. And those fluffy egg-crate-looking things that are supposed to make beds gooshier.

The perfect soap dispenser?I knew this was weird. I told myself this wasn’t an emotional reaction but that I was finally getting around to taking care of all the house needs that I had put off for a long time.

But soap dispensers? They required no less than umpteen stores. And several clerks. They had to be the right color and the right material. No schlock pumps for me.

If my career compass was spinning out of control, by god I was going to hunker into a nice home. And apparently wash my hands a lot.

I finally found the perfect dispensers. To replace the previous once-perfect dispensers that were caving in. All my sinks were beautiful at last and I could wash my hands in bliss while admiring my knack for decorating style.

And then the plumbing problems started.

To be continued ….

— Laura Grimes

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PHOTO: This soap dispenser comes from Lavish & Lime of Vancouver, B.C., but Mrs. Scatter didn’t have to drive to Canada to buy it. She just had to drive to hell-and-gone suburbs. It goes with the rest of the decor bee-yut-ee-fully.


General, Laura Grimes

Penny dreadful, part 1: perilously out of plumb

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More plumbing problems at Chez Scatter. Tomasz Kuran/2005/Wikimedia CommonsMrs. Scatter only reports in short e-mail bursts these days. Her long-winded farcical spiels have been reduced to quick knock-off observations. This morning she prepared to leave for the office …

She coiffed her hair in a perfect rumple, slipped on a pair of polished pumps, picked up her overlarge and overweight laptop case, kissed Mr. Scatter (whose bristly whiskers poked her in the forehead), waved and said, “I’m off to drive around my toilets.”

???

To be continued …

— Laura Grimes

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Photo: More plumbing problems at Chez Scatter. (OK, we’re lying. Actually, it’s a seatless, or “squat,” outhouse near a tourist hut in Poland.) Tomasz Kuran, 2005, Wikimedia Commons.