Adventures with Geannii

 We’re walking into the Cap'n chaos concert and Brandy noticed Cat hair all over the back of my black slacks. Cat hair. Everywhere.   I  look like I rolled down a hill made of long haired Persians. Rob: “Did you sit on the cat’s couch?” (Important note: the cat has its own couch. Of course it does.) Me “NO.” Rob, already committed to the mission: “Brandy Brush off your mom’s butt.” Brandy: “I’m not brushing off my mom’s butt.” Rob: “Really? You think it would be more appropriate for Sir WhatTheHeck or ME to brush your mom’s butt?”   At this point, the entire family is standing in a circle debating who should de fur my backside like it’s a sacred ritual.   “Someone just brush off my butt — I don’t care who does it.” This is where the wheels come off, roll into traffic, and cause a five car pileup of laughter. Brandy: “I left my phone at home. With our tickets.” So back we go.   They get back in the car, Rob turns to me like Inspector Clouseau from the P...

 Cap'n Chaos Spring Concert. I went up a day early.   This was all in just one day. I had to keep notes in my phone. The trauma I mean drama was happening so fast.   Brandy wanted a new bra — not just any bra, but a statement piece. The moment we turned toward Victoria’s Secret, Rob and Sir WhatTheHeck peeled off like they were avoiding a crime scene and vanished into the LEGO store. They didn’t even pretend to hesitate. They were GONE.    Inside, Brandy found the bra — a beautiful pink one with wide, glittery straps. It won't be a bra strap showing, it will look intentional. Mother approved. Rob nearly choked at the sticker price, but he said she works hard for her money, get what she wants. She did.   Later at home, Rob brought out a little very adult puppet book about a male anatomy and it's many adventures. The boys were embarrassed as mom began reading this book. She was laughing so hard she didn't get far.  Earlier Brandy put on a white shi...

 Every now and then, life hands you a moment that makes you stop, blink twice, and ask yourself, “Is this really happening, or did I accidentally wander into a sitcom?” This week, that moment arrived in the form of a Facebook friend request. From: John (names changed I don’t really want to be on Judge Judy, she’s vicious.) Yes — that John. John, who I haven’t spoken to in… well, let’s just say “decades” and leave it at that. I accepted the request because I’m polite and occasionally curious. Within seconds — not minutes, not hours — seconds, I got: “Hey how are you doing today.” Which is exactly the tone scammers use when they’re pretending to be a Nigerian prince or your long lost cousin who suddenly needs Apple gift cards. I ignored it. Then came: “I am doing good and you.” At this point, I was 90% sure this was not a real human man but a bot wearing John’s face like a Halloween mask. But no — it was him. And that’s when the conversation took a turn into… Let’s call it “unexpecte...

  Good Grief It’s a Bow Uncle Ronnie gave Dad a bow set — bow, quiver, arm guard, the whole works. Dad was so proud you’d think he’d been knighted. He took that bow out and showed everyone. If the mailman had lingered too long, he’d have seen it too. Uncle Ronnie was serious about bow hunting. It was his passion. (He was later accidently killed while hunting — the thing he loved most besides his family.) That bow set wasn’t just sporting equipment. It was a piece of him. Then one day… it was gone. Not the guns. Not the ammo. Not the jewelry. Just the bow set.  Dad always believed someone in the family had taken it, he was heartbroken.  He looked like someone had stolen his dog, his truck, and his last slice of pie all at once. Fast-forward to my senior year. I took an Arts and Crafts class — which was a mistake, because we were pouring ceramics and our greenware kept cracking like we were running a pottery graveyard. I knew exactly why: we left it in the mold overnight. B...

   One Wild Ride We had a twin-sized air bed on the top bunk—over six feet from the bunk to the floor. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until the cell phone started ringing. Naturally, it was on the top bunk. Up the ladder I went, but just as I reached the top, Van turned a corner. Now, we weren’t pulling a trailer, which meant the ride was already "bobtail" rough. (Which is trucker-speak for 'bouncing like a pogo stick' because there's no trailer weight to smooth things out). We were also on a very rough gravel road, hitting every rut and bump at about 35 miles per hour. I was instantly off-balance—one hand, one foot, the rest of me swinging out into space like a confused circus monkey trying to cling to the ladder. I managed to scramble onto the bunk for safety, or so I thought. The airbed didn't offer safety; it offered a launchpad. The bed turned into a trampoline. I wasn’t just bouncing; I was a rag doll in a carnival game. I hit the ceiling, then...

    Most people think 80,000 pounds of steel and rubber can handle anything. They’re wrong. On an Oregon mountain pass in February, physics doesn't care about your cargo—it only cares about who’s in charge. And on this day, it definitely wasn't us. I have a fear of driving — or even riding — on icy roads. I didn’t always feel this way. When I was first married, DH was driving a propane tank. He was bootlegging… me. We crested over a hill — a 20 % grade — and at the bottom was a railroad track. The cross arms were down, lights flashing, warning of a train. The road was solid ice . We were in low gear, but eighty thousand pounds of propane and truck don’t care about low gear. Gravity grabbed us by the ankles and yanked us straight down that hill.

  Clothes were scattered along I-5 for miles. At first, it was just a single shirt lying in the shoulder. Then a pair of jeans. Then a sock — just one, because of course it was. You’ve seen it on television: clothes flying out of an upstairs window when a man is in big trouble. But this wasn’t TV. This was real life, and somebody’s laundry was telling a story. I could picture it perfectly. Huge fight.