Yesterday, my youngest son watched Dumb & Dumber on his phone while doing the dishes.
His Samsung is laid to rest on the counter top adjacent to the kitchen sink. The sponge and soap suds go round and round a plate in slow spirals, the plate is rinsed and placed on the drying rack, all without taking his eyes off the screen where a dead pet bird, with its recently fallen-off head taped back on, is sold to a blind boy.
I made myself a cup of tea and went to sit on the edge of my bed to drink it. I bent over to make adjustments to the dodgy charger charging my phone.
Sitting erect again, admiring the greenness on the other side of my bedroom window, I felt drops plop onto my left hand, the hand holding a cup of tea. I looked down.
I had dunked the end of my plaited hair (braided, if you prefer) that hangs over my left shoulder into the tea. At least 7 cm of it. With all the unpredictable head movements that were going on, it was also dripping onto the freshly laundered white fleece gown I wore over my clothes to keep me toasty warm.
I held the cup beneath my plait and squeezed the tea out of my hair.
Then I rubbed the tea dribbles on my gown into a wider area of fabric to encourage quick drying.
Then I drank my tea (I’m not a sissy, and I don’t like waste).
This morning I washed my hair.
I was not going to double shower yesterday just to remove a bit of tea and milk. Also, I fancied what the unintentional rinse did to the color – a golden syrup sheen – once the tips of my yeti locks had dried and stiffened.
Tomorrow, I’ll wash the gown. It’s raining today. Well, it was. It’s cleared now, but it’s too late to hang washing out.
The incident, combined with my son’s movie choice, had me thinking about dumb and dumber things I have done.
Cooking brown rice I had never cooked before, I was worried I had added too much water, and the excess was going to make the cooked rice a porridge. I’m not stupid, I know what rice sounds like when it’s simmering in water.
I lifted the lid off the pot, turned my head, and put my ear to the rice.
Ow! I jerked my head up.
Driving down Red Hill in Simon’s Town with three passengers – a big man in front, my boys in the back – I took a bend that rewards one with an elevated view of the ocean and harbor etc etc etc (you know how fond of a good et cetera I am).
The big man went WOW and said Stop.
Those of you familiar with Cape Town’s mountain roads will know there are dirt viewing spots, places on the edge of the mountain, where you swing your car off the road for a hop out and lookie-lookie.
I was abreast one of these when my excited front seat passenger said Stop.
Without hesitation, without reducing speed, I turned the steering wheel hard left, tires crunching madly over the dirt shelf that has but a few stones and knotted bushes dotting the edge, and slammed on the brakes. Stoooooop.
My darling Suzi Suzuki Alto stopped. The dust churned up by her skid settled around her.
My passengers had been flung forward, then back. There was stillness and silence. Then they said variations of Yisslyk! (slang for bloody hell or similar). Then they laughed.
Now, this is what I love about boys.
They had every right to be indignant, to berate me for being stupid and reckless, but no, they thought it cool and funny. Awe was mingled with pride, as in Our mom’s a crazy lady man.
Much better than Our mom is pretty dof hey. Dof means stupid.
The cherry on top was finding, upon exiting a shocked Suzi, that the sloping mountainside was glinting with many grape-scented, foil wrapped condoms. The boys tore one or two open, unrolled them, pulled and tugged at them, sniffed them (yup, it’s grape), and played guess-how-they-got-here.
I have no idea.
I also have no idea how I got here, writing dumb but fun trivia. No, you know what? I do know.
What makes me laugh stops me going daft in a world doing seriously stupid sh*t that isn’t funny at all.
If you’ve got a funny slap-the-forehead Duh to share, I hope you’ll consider doing so.
Closing with a ha-ha ta-ta ’til next time.
xxx ❤ TeaShell Michele