Okay, but.. a Shark?

           Last week California had a record-breaking storm. Buckets of rain, and amazingly, 61-mile-an-hour winds. 70 is a hurricane, so you can imagine tree limbs, roof tiles, and even garbage cans blowing sideways.

          It sounded like a freight train and caused several power outages. At one point I looked out at the front street and there, crumpled up on our lawn, was a shark!

          Okay, a pool shark.

          Okay, not that kind of pool shark. An inflatable one for a swimming pool.

          Although it would have been cool if various sea creatures had blown into the neighborhood, all the way from the coast.

          I ran back to grab my phone and take a picture. But in the few seconds it took, the shark had blown away, probably to San Francisco.

          Maybe those are the real lyrics to the song! I left my shark…. In San Francisco…

          We survived the onslaught with only some fence damage, but somewhere a family is missing its pool floatie.

          Weather-- or sharp teeth-- keeping you inside? That’s a perfect time to watch my Youtube Mom life hacks!

Bumber? Shoot!

          I don’t think husbands should be allowed to read minds.  St. Bob probably knows I am thinking this, but it’s still my position.

          Here is the latest example of an infraction.  For Christmas he gave me a FABULOUS McKenzie Childs umbrella. 

You know how crazy I am about this design line, because you read here about my painting my grandfather clock in that style.

This umbrella folds up neatly into a travel sized sleeve,

so I’ve been keeping it in my car for a rainy day.

The problem is that in March we get a lot of rainy days where I live.  So St. Bob decided to ask if I’ve tried out my gift, yet.

I paused.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re afraid to get it wet.”

And here is where I clamp my hands over my forehead and say, “Get out of there!  That's private property.” 

And yes, that is exactly the situation. I love my umbrella too much to use it.  Like those women (and you know who you are) who never use the good china or the expensive perfume.  I am now in your club.  So we have to agree to stop meeting and overcome our craziness.

This week I’m going to Seattle.  And I am USING my umbrella.

And while I’m gone you can surprise me by ordering one of my books! 

More Than a Little Hair-Raising

          Today I am blogging about my hair.  Okay, it’s not really about my hair; it’s about my brain. But my hair played a key role this week.

          First, we must acknowledge that our brain does not operate the same way other people’s brains do.  By saying “our” I feel less lonely in this trial.

What happens to me is what happens to two of my friends, one of whom calls herself on the phone and the other of whom used glitter glue on her shoes, thinking it was shoe polish.

          Except these women have excuses. One survived a brain aneurism and the other survived major head trauma from a car wreck.  So it’s like they have “Get Out of Jail, Free” cards in Monopoly.

          For the rest of their lives, people will sympathize and smile.  After all, they’re lucky to be alive.  A little forgetfulness here and there is to be expected.

          Not so in Joniopolios.  Joni has no such excuses for the many times she has called herself on the phone, hunted for her phone while talking on it, or tried dozens of times to get into the wrong car in parking lots.

          Which brings us to my curly hair.  Sometimes I straighten it, and sometimes I wear it curly.  Viewers of my Youtube Mom videos have weighed in on this, all of which I appreciate, basically because I’m just glad they’re watching my channel.

But this week was a curly week, so I was standing before my bathroom mirror, spritzing it with water to make it curlier, and suddenly realized I had picked up the sprayer of cleaner, not the water spray bottle.  In my defense, they are about the same size.  BUT NOW MY HEAD IS COVERED WITH CONCENTRATED DEGREASER/CLEANER.

And today it is raining, so the chances are that my hair, now glopped up with a cleaner much stiffer than any hair product you can buy, is going to foam up like a cappuccino machine. This foam will then obey the laws of gravity and run straight into my eyes, burning them and causing me to drop to my knees in agony.  

So if you see a woman out in public, drenched, screaming, crumpling to the ground, and foaming from the top of her head, you’ll know who it is.

Or you can avoid this possibility by staying inside, Christmas shopping online, and buying my books here.

Here Comes the Sun. I Mean Rain.

          For years I’ve had mixed emotions about sun roofs in cars.  On the one hand, you can let in some sunshine.  On the other hand, you’re not really getting the effect of a convertible and you’re just courting skin cancer.  So, despite having one, I really never open it. 

          Until now.  At the worst possible moment.

          You may remember my blog post here, about the torrential rain we can get in Sacramento.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it rivals the buckets and sheets and cats and dogs you hear about everywhere else.

          And it was just such a day, recently, when I was driving home, the wiper blades smacking back and forth, flinging the rain aside with the fury of a machete-weilding warrior.

          Remember, now, this is a new car and I haven’t learned all the buttons and gizmos, yet.  But I do know the garage door opener button is on the roof of the car, so I press it when I’m about three houses away, so the door will go up and I can go zipping into a dry garage.

          Except the door does not go up.  Instead, the sun roof hums open, allowing drops the size of almonds to pelt my head like a cartoon of a chipmunk firing nuts from his cheeks, machine gun-style.  Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam.  And the entire interior of the car is getting drenched along with me, like a surprise ice bucket challenge.

          Well, of course I scream.  But it’s raining like a monsoon so there’s no one around to hear me.  Wildly I press every button on the roof, but none of them will close the sunroof or open the garage door.  My hair and face are being pummeled, my clothes are wringing wet.  I am now in the driveway, screaming and soaked, with my sunroof wide open and the garage door clamped shut. 

          My purse and some papers on the front seat are saturated and I have no idea how I’ll ever dry the carpet or upholstery.  I keep pressing buttons and finally the garage door opens.  Incredibly SLOWLY.  The second I know the roof will clear, I zoom in, the antennae flipping like a rubber band.

          St. Bob, having heard the door go up, comes out into the garage to greet me and sees a dripping wet version of his wife, furiously stabbing at the roof to try to close the sunroof.  It will not.  I throw open the door and leap from my unheated hot tub, red-faced, humiliated, and totally sopping.  My hair is plastered to my face in rivulets and I am panting.

          Bob's lips curl into a smile. Calmly he reaches into the car, presses a button, and the sun roof hums closed. 

          “That was NOT working a minute ago,” I growl as I stomp into the house.  And like all good husbands, he knows better than to argue.

Next time you’re caught in a downpour, have one of my books handy to read.  You can find them here, and curl up with them by a toasty fire, wrapped in a nice, dry blanket.