Everyone But Me

laundromatPeople are crazy. I’m always asking myself: why can’t they be normal like I am? Why don’t they do things the way I do them, the right way, in other words?

And I know what I’m talking about. I get around. I go to laundromats for example. I watch the way people stuff their clothes into those washing machines. Crazy! 

SOME people – people in my own family, in fact – crowd up a washing machine like you wouldn’t believe. In go queen-size sheets, a few bath towels, a mattress pad, all in one load, and how is it going to get pounded clean THAT way?  I’d rather make a dress out of newsprint and wear that around than put on some of the clothes I’ve seen washed like that.

 Also, you hate to say it but a lot of people are crazy and nervy both. Young people, I’m thinking in this case.

 Young female people.

Who are my children. 

They won’t wear stockings, even in winters as frigid as this one just past. 

Their legs are purple. But will they listen if you mention this fact to them? 

They will NOT. And they then have the nerve to frame ME as some kind of throwback.  They even mock me, for the nice Queen Size Suntan pantyhose I happen to be sporting. 

Which, by the way, are wonderfully warm. 

AND make my legs look great. 

“Sausage casings!” they hoot. “You’re wearing sausage casings!” 

And speaking of nervy, Get this: I’m at the leotard-and-dance-shoe store stocking up on Zumba essentials this one day and I ask the clerk if she can point me in the direction of the tights.

“I’ll fetch them for you,” she says. 

“How tall are you?” she then asks, and I give her the same answer I gave at age 16 to the Registry cop who was filling out the paperwork after my road test.

“Five-seven,“ I said to him at the time, thinking, ‘Why not round it upwards, Terry? You’ll grow more …’

So, “Five-seven ” I say to the clerk. 

“Five-SEVEN?!” pipes up this perfect stranger beside me at the counter. 

“I’M five-seven and you’re totally shorter than me. Plus, look. I’m in ballet shoes and you’re wearing a boot with a heel. You’re no five foot seven!” 

I handed over my money and hurried away from that dame fast.

Damn fast, I can tell you.

So see what I mean about people? Nervy and crazy both.

Because isn’t a girl free to say what height she is?

I’m five-foot-seven! A cop said I am. He wrote it down. And his word lives on, right here on my license.  🙂

ottodrivers license



8 thoughts on “Everyone But Me

  1. I, too, am five-seven. Because the top of my head reaches the same point on my husband’s cheek it did almost 60 years ago when we met as teenagers. (That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.)

  2. Oh, Terry, you are so good. I would love to hear your views on thongs vs baggy whites. As for spandex on some ladies, Sul and I look at each other and say, “snausages”. The younger ones here agree with yours. Love you.

  3. “You’ve overfilled it. You can’t put so many bath towels in the washing machine,” the Unindicted Co-Conspirator tells me. Sure you can. It’s a Maytag. It says “Heavy Duty” right under the lid. You just have to arrange them properly so the spinning basket doesn’t sound like the Anvil Chorus from Il Trovatore and halt with a bone-shaking Thunk! when it’s off-balance.

    I’m a guy. I understand these things. :-p

  4. ha ha Bill! You’re a guy allright but would you be allowed to work at a five-star hotel like the one we got goin’ here at Ravenscroft Manor? A zillion people come through and stay on our third floor with overflow on the second . They all get the world’s cleanest 800-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets!

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