There are members of my family who exist without filters.  Some of these family members are also hard of hearing…add a social situation and you sometimes get a powder keg.  Yup, it’s talk about mama day at the O.K.  corral.  I love my mom.  Believe me when I say this, she is one of the sweetest, hardest working people you will ever meet.  She is also naive, sheltered, and has led a very isolated life.  The town she lived in for most of her life had a population of about 10,000 people and one ethnicity…hick.  When we moved her here she immediately became concerned about other races (mostly that she might live next to them) and we reinforced that she would be fine.  I was as worried as she was.  This is the woman that I took to the mall in Birmingham, Alabama and she said (always too loudly) “I have never seen so many blacks in all my life!”  Why does the earth never open up and swallow you when you really need it to?  I explained to her, after our swift departure, that we were in the minority in Alabama…and most definitely in that shop, so it would probably be for the best not to point that out to large quantities of large black women.  Especially  ones who looked like they could snap us in two while holding their purchases in the other hand and never break into a sweat.

These types of situations have become less common over the last two years and I thought we were making headway into diversity training….until last Saturday….when my son graduated…with a little person.  I knew we were not going to be early for the service, but as it turned out we were stuck in the stairwell with several other family members (not our own) as the graduating class walked in front of us entering the auditorium.  She commented on the Asians, she commented on the Blacks, she definitely commented on the large number of Hispanics, and then (proof that God has a sense of humor) out of the corner of my right eye I see a small person.  I quickly try to divert mom’s attention “Oh look mom it’s raining toads!” but it was too late.  “A MIDGET’  Do you see that little ol’ midget?  Back there, way back in the back…it’s a midget.  I wonder if they had to special order her coat?  you know JoElla?  Bob’s wife’s sister-in-law?  Well she had a boy that grew up to be a midget.”…It went on until we were seated.  Then when her name was announced and she accepted her diploma I thought mom was going to break my ribs jabbing and pointing on stage. I just smile and nod and look at her like I have no frigging clue who she is.

My dad was just as bad, or worse.  We would always turn him in a different direction if we saw someone of Asian descent approaching.  You see, Dad was convinced he could speak Chinese.  So he did.  Loudly.  We have a local Japanese steak house that serves people at the grill and has a little show as they prepare your meal.  It seemed we had forgotten that Pa couldn’t be trusted around our eastern friends.  Our waitress came out and took our orders, and that went smoothly…but then came our chef.  Our chef was a somewhat heavy, very Asian, man that spoke little to no English and didn’t smile much.  Well, I guess Pa assumed that if you can’t speak English you can’t understand it either so he leans over to my son and without whispering says “if anyone had told me back in WWII that one of these bastards would be serving me dinner…I would’ve shot him.”  (crickets chirping) We”re glad Pa doesn’t eat much and that we were watching the cook prepare the meal. And more than once on The Great Western Vacation upon seeing anyone with almond shaped eyes he could be heard chirping “chinky, chinky, chonk” which is Pa speaking Chinese.  Now even if they didn’t speak English I’m pretty damn sure they knew that wasn’t Chinese.  Pa would just cackle with glee, and damnit you would end up laughing too…mostly at him because he was so tickled.  So there we were the idiot laughing racist family traveling cross country in our mini-van (cue banjos-fade to black).

I’m sure if you ask my children they would tell you that if my filters aren’t gone they are seriously impaired.  I believe, however that most of my snafus occur because I am not always aware of who’s around me.  A problem that is worsening with time.  I’ve been known to make snide comments about wait staff, boyfriends, girlfriends, and restaurant guests that were seated closer than I realized.  My family tells me that I am too loud, too honest (is that even possible?), too short…oh wait that’s not…unaware of my surroundings…the list goes on and on.  Perhaps it’s just that children are always embarassed by their parents, even perfect ones like me.  Yet, I rarely went out of my way to embarass them like my dad did.  He would order possum in restaurants, or ‘coon and then upon being told they didn’t have these things ask what roadkill they did have.  He would tell my dates that the weren’t nearly as ugly, bow-legged, pock-marked, stupid … as I had said they were.  Once, a date asked if he might use our phone, “sure”, dad said “just flush it when you’re through.”  Poor kid nearly ran out of the house!  Never asked me out again…probably told people too because I didn’t get asked out much.

In some ways I kind of hope my filters go.  It would be kind of nice to get away with even more under the guise of senility.  “you’re ugly and tomorrow you’ll still be ugly’ Okay, I need to work on my zingers.  Recently we had a cold snap and our temperatures plummetted into the single digits.  My sister came for  a visit.  Now I must tell you that my sister exaggerates everything.  She’s never hungry, she’s starving.  She’s never cold, she’s freezing and if she’s sick she’s about to die.  Well, she walks in the door in all of her cold gear,  i.e. gloves, hat, scarf, and coat.  First she announces that it’s colder than a well digger’s (and this is a direct quote) “you know what.”  You might think she’s too ladylike to say ass except that her next statement is “I think I nearly froze my ass off.”  Without even thinking I said, “Oh, it’s never been that cold!” ….so that transition into senility and no filters may be a lot smoother than I thought.

P.S.- To my daughter who was offended by my “Wrap Star” blog…it’s nice to know I can croak and the family traditions will be safe in your hands.  I still feel I can show you a thing or two though, so I hope you won’t mind if I stick around for awhile longer…only 50 years or so.

You lucky bitches.  Your Christmas is probably over.  You’ve probably survived the  last minute trips to the grocers and the travels to grandma’s and grandpa’s house.  You may even be looking forward to going back to work tomorrow, so that you can rest.  Well, not so for la diva loca.  Around here things are just gearing up.  My daughter flew in to town tonight, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the head I so diligently pushed from my womb without medication so many years ago.  My middle child will be in tomorrow (sometime, don’t wait), and the children who live nearby I don’t expect to see before Saturday at the earliest.  We fetched my husband’s godmother from up north today and his brother and sister are already here.  The remaining in-laws arrive Friday night.  The children aren’t nestled all snug in their beds and visions of Gold Patron Margarita’s are dancing in my head.  When what but a dumb ass, bible belt,  hick state law would appear?  Said you can’t get your drink on in Arkansas on Christmas.  (I know it doesn’t rhyme.  It probably would have if I could have had that margarita.) Archaic? Yes!! Antiquated? Certainly? Drunk?  Not yet…but to quote my dear friend Scarlett “tomorrow is another day.”

At a time of year when more people deal with family than any other, why would any reasonable lawmaker deny them hooch?  I have 3 sisters, 3 brothers-in-law, 1sister (who’s not a vaj sister but is more than an in-law), 8 nieces and nephews, 10 great nieces and nephews, the aforementioned godmother, my mother, my father in-law and his wife that are all part of the group that we subtitle family.  Don’t deny me booze.  These people don’t seem to understand…to turn me loose sober after having dealt with Christmas arrangements for my children and our Christmas (which doesn’t happen for another 4 days) is like turning an Iraqi loose in a shoe store and letting “W” man the register.  Shit will be flying.

I am not an alcoholic.  I rarely drink actually.  I’m what’s referred to as a social drinker.  I need to drink in order to be social.  Actually, there a few people out there who become calmer when alcohol infused.  I unfortunately am not one of them.  When my oldest sister was dating her future ex-husband, whom I didn’t like and didn’t pretend to, I made the mistake of having a little too much cheap sangria.  I promptly went up to my future ex-brother-in-law and told him that I used to think he was a belligerant a*#hole, but now I didn’t  think he was at all belligerant.  I can’t imagine why, with the love and support of family like that, those two kids couldn’t have made it work.

We are forced to endure a zillion commercials and billboards and songs that tell us Christmas is love, and Christmas is family, and the true meaning of Christmas is not what is under the tree, but what is in our hearts.  Well, tomorrow while I am baking and pouring love into the freshly baked cookies, and cupcakes and lovingly preparing our Christmas buffet for our family I will be happy.  Because I am one day closer to being with the ones I love?  Yeah right…cause the liquor store will be open, and I’m heading there first!

 

The last damned present has been wrapped.  I say it this way because I thought I had finished wrapping presents weeks ago, but my children and others in my life had different plans for me.  Remember, my right arm is still in a cast up to my collar bone (and I’m right handed), and I can’t sign my name to any legal document but apparently I can still gift wrap better than any one else in the family.  Iknow this because on Saturday my son and I went birthday and Christmas shopping for his wife.  He purchased about nine items and left them with me to wrap.  He didn’t even tell me which were birthday and which were Christmas.  I personally wasn’t overly worried.  If you leave things with me without instructions I just make up my own.  And you had better not complain if I put my precious one armed self to the task of doing something you could easily do yourself.  In fact a little thank you would be nice, or a gift.  I like purple roses and anything chocolate.

I blame myself for this crap.  The artist in me doesn’t like to put a mundane package under the tree.  I usually try to jazz them up with some candy canes, or florist’s picks.  I make my own bows.  I hate those stinking factory made self-adhesive destined to fall odd ugly star creations that come 50 to a bag for $2.50.  I buy ribbon and I tie and I curl, and I use a ton of tape and when I finish a package it is almost to pretty to open.  It probably takes me anywhere from 10 to 20 minutes to wrap one package.  Everything has to be just right.  Then when we actually get all the kids home and get to celebrate Christmas they rip into those packages like a suicide bomber wiyh nothing to lose and a hunger for virgins and two seconds later all my work is torn into shreds on the floor and the vicious little bastards are off to another one.  My husband puts everything he gives me in gift bags unless they have free gift wrapping in the store.  I’m abused.

There are just some things that mean more to some people than others.  I don’t think it has ever occurred to my family that I am a gift wrapping superstar.  I’m just mom.  I do what I do.  I bake, I clean, I sew, I wrap. I bitch and I excel at pretty much all of it.  I make a lot of threats that I am going to go on strike, but I don’t want to have to clean up the mess when the strike is over or I finally give in (either of which would result in my having to clean up the mess).  I have always done it and it is assumed I always will with both hands tied behind my back if need be because I’m an effing super hero who can do just about anything.  Alas…a cape fits over a cast really well! 

When I am gone I hope that I am able to watch over my family from which ever dominion I find rest in.  I want to see this little pin heads get by on their own.  No one will be able to ever have a decent Halloween costume.  All my great-grandchildren will be wearing the nylon ones from Wal-Mart and their precious faces will be hidden in those oven masks I’ve despised for years.  No one will no how to make alot of their favorite dishes because they have never taken the time to learn.  Peaches and cream cheesecake will just be a talked about memory handed down from generation to generation.  Poor little chilrun ain’t ever gonna’ taste Emmy’s good cookin’ cause their parents were to lazy to take the time to ask me to teach them how.  No one will be able to recreate the retreating bunny butt that has been the easter bunny’s signature for 31 years and counting, and no one is going to know how to perfectly wrap a Christmas present, using just the right amount of paper so that you have enough, but not too much overlap.  They won’t understand that you can never use too much tape, and that nothing says I love you like a handmade bow (especially when you only have one hand). 

So all the damned presents are wrapped, until UPS or FedEx brings something someone else needs to have wrapped and they bring it to me and say “will you do it?  You do it better than me.”  And of course I will, because this is how I take care of my family.  It’s what I do…and I do it well. 

I’m intelligent enough to get most of the reasons for hair distribution patterns over the human body.  We have hair on our heads because so much heat is lost through the top of the head, at the armpit to hold moisture and maintain cooling, and so on and so forth.  However; I can see absolutely NO reason for the three hairs that grow on my chin!  Not only do they grow there despite my best efforts to rid myself of them, but they are as coarse as wire and tend to break off when I try to pluck them.  I know they lurk there like three giant trees on the plain of my face and I can’t keep my hand from reaching up in a constant quest to find them.  They feel as if they should be at least a half inch in diameter and made of solid steel, and once I find my way to tweezers and a mirror I can’t find them.  It has been years since I have been so confused by something so small feeling so large…really!!  But here’s my point, why do I need three chin whiskers?  Is the right lower quadrant of my chin in a freeze warning area?  Should I be concerned that if I pluck the offending whiskers I put myself in danger of suffering from frostbite on that dime sized area of my face?

I understand the mustache, I don’t like it, but I understand it.  I don’t understand women who don’t do anything about it.  You really can’t ignore two fully formed caterpillars head-butting one another just below your nose.  Even if you don’t have a mirror, and refuse to look in one when you go out you have to feel the weight on your upper lip and the tickling sensation when the wind blows!  However; I see women all the time walking through life with full-on staches.  What gives?  Have they never walked down the razor aisle at Walgreen’s, Wal-Mart, Target or about a zillion other stores that sell health and beauty aids.  Hell’s bells they’ve got removal systems for hair of every kind.  They’ve got depillatory creams, they’ve got wax, they’ve got trimmers (better for some places than others), they’ve got little pads now that apparently sandpaper the hair right off your skin, and some battery operated laser removal systems so why in the hell would any woman go through life looking like Dennis Weaver?

My great nephew was playing with his mother one day when he was about three years old.  She was standing up and he was on the ground looking up at her and she felt his tiny little hand tug on hers.  She gently looked down into the beautiful brown eyes of her baby boy and asked him what he needed.”Mama” he said, “when I grow big will I have mush-mashes like you and daddy?”  Much wisdom doth come from the mouth of babes.  Of course, we never saw or heard from the kid again, but she’s had a clean upper lip ever since.  If I had my way (and if I wasn’t allergic to whatever is in it) I would bathe in Nair right up to my eyebrows.  I’m always cold anyway, I might as well be hairless to boot.  I’d keep the hair on my head though.  I like it. 

Our very southern neighbor came calling the other day, and when she walked in she said “girl, be glad you’ve got hair.  I miss mine.”  Now first of all, she has never begun a sentence that didn’t start one of three ways:1. “Girl…”  2.  “Let me tell you” or 3.  “The Lord God…”  Anyway she went on to tell me that as you get older your hair starts to thin and you’ll just never be able to have a pretty hairstyle again.  I’m looking over at my  77-year old mother who still has to go to the beauty shop no less often than every five weeks to keep her hair coiffed in that perfect Jane Hathaway style she likes, and still has her brows and lip waxed as often as she can get someone to do it for her, and I’m thinking since she was the less hairy of my two parents…I’m set.

I guess it’s true that you always want what you don’t have.  I want the figure I had in 1975,  the money from 1995, the knowledge I have now and no wrinkles, no sags, no scars, my husband to court me again (rather than just kind of harumph when I enter the room or when he does pay attention say “honey, can you get me a Coke?”), children with no problems, better cheaper insurance, and if it’s possible a health upgrade…but I’ll settle for perfect eyebrows that never need waxing, no mush-mash, and an end to these three damned chin hairs.  Is that too much to ask?

 

Old southern women love funerals.  Not the actual death of the loved one, but the funeral.  I have suspected this for sometime, but what with the sudden increase in the number of funerals I’ve had to attend, it has been confirmed.  There is a whole process to a southern funeral.  This is true whether the deceased is a member of the family, a cherished friend, or a casual acquaintance.  It begins with the phone calls.  It is important to get settled in to a comfortable chair with your iced tea or coffee (seasonal choice) because this is going to take a while, after all you are going to call everyone you can think of.  Then you start dialing and answering all the questions.  You have to ask about who is taking the family what…”well, I thought I would take a fruit salad.  You know Nettie Sue will be baking that horrible Chess pie she always thinks is so good.  What are you taking, and don’t say ham.  I was over there yesterday and they had ham coming out their ears!” Then you have to discuss clothing…”what are you wearing? I figured I’d just wear a nice knit pantsuit if I went to the visitation, but if I go to the funeral I’ll wear my blue floral dress.  You know, the one I wore to church a couple a Sunday’s back when we had that guest preacher come?  But don’t worry about what to wear.  When John Earl died Sylvia wore pants to the service! Pants!…and her the widow…shameful is what it was. But people just wear anything nowadays.” (You’re beginning to see why you need a comfortable chair and a beverage aren’t you?) 

My father passed away last April, and I had the unpleasant task of being on the receiving end of the love and concern of several old southern women.  I quickly learned that some were truly trying to comfort, and some were just fishing for details.  “Was your mama with him at the end?…Did he go in his sleep?…Did he leave enough to keep your mama taken care of?”  I knew better than to be rude too, because if word got around to my 77 year old mother that I had tongue lashed some nosy biddy, she just might have taken a switch to me right then and there.  Now remember, all of this is before the  actual funeral service.  This is when you are still just dealing with the shock of what has happened. 

The next step, after you have gotten the details, is to discuss whether you are going to the visitation or the actual funeral.  There are a lot of factors that determine which service an old southern woman will attend: can she drive at night? (visitation is almost always in the evening), will her flowers have arrived at the funeral home by then? (you don’t want to get there before your flowers/plant), who else is going to be there?  I described the idea of the visitation to one of my children as the last family reunion the deceased will ever attend.  There is a lot of truth to that.  If it weren’t for the corpse and the crying family one could almost believe there was a party going on. There will be pictures passed around, and stories told, and “I haven’ seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper!”, and “you don’t look like yourself!” which is always a head scratcher, and occasional hugs and kisses for the bereaved, who if they have been truly southern raised will either be standing at the coffin weeping openly or working the room like Jerry Lewis on Labor Day.

I have never understood the need for an open coffin.  I don’t like people staring at me now, I sure as hell don’t want them gaping at me when I’m dead and can’t do anything about it.  And I can’t say that any of these observances are limited to the south, I just know that they happen there…frequently.  Back to the subject, the corpse  is lying on a pedestal at the front of the room like a bizarre center piece that everyone must pay homage to.  And they do.  At this point you will hear the most unbelievable comment that will ever come out of one person’s mouth, “Don’t he look natural?” (I know it’s grammatically incorrect, but you’re in the south fool).  The answer is… No!  I have never been to a single service where I would have said yes to that question.  My dad was wearing makeup and looked Asian for God’s sake!  He never did that!  “Why he looks like he could just sit up and talk to you.”  Well, the first thing he would say would be, “get this damn makeup off of me” and that would be followed by “who told them I was a Chinaman?”

The finale…is the total number of visitors who sign the guest book.  Each man, woman, and child crossing the threshold must sign the guest book.  I once believed that this was so the family could realize who had attended, after the fact.  I know now that it is more than that.  It is a pissing contest.  “She didn’t have a very good turn out.  I bet there weren’t fifty people there.” Or, “there were people standing in the aisle waiting to view the body.”  And my favorite, “You would have thought there were a lot more people there than there was, but I counted the names in the guest book and if everyone signed there was only eighty-two.”  I know it sounds petty but that’s what old southern women are sometimes.  I’ve been taking notes because in thrty years or so it will be my turn to pick up the flag and carry the colors.  I want my mama to be proud.

I mentioned before that death in the south is less about death, and more about the fact that you’re still the one outside the coffin.  I have no reason to believe that is going to change anytime soon.  I think maybe the open casket thing is so all the old folks can go up and look and make sure it’s really not them in there.  I don’t know,  I just know that my aunts and uncles are reaching there late 70’s - 90’s range so my research on the southern funeral scenario is far from over.  Every time the phone rings and it’s mom calling I wonder if she’s in her comfy chair with her ice water ready to ask “did you hear?”

My weight is ballooning. Understand that when I say ballon it’s less of a “oh look, a party!” and more of a “hey mom, can we ride that?”  I weigh more now than I ever have, and that includes the three times I was pregnant.  Well, actually only the last time because with each progressive pregnancy my start weight was more, so it only stands to reason… (Why is that?  Do they leave something behind when they come out? ) I read somewhere that if you are in a happy marriage you tend to gain one pound each year, if you don’t follow some diet and exercise plan.  I’m so happy I’ve just about tripled that estimate with no end to my happiness in sight.  Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so freakin’ happy.

I know that part pf the problem is the medications I’m on.  At least three of them list weight gain as a common side effect.  Just my luck.  Some of them have groovy side effects like weight loss and hallucinations…not to mention the fun you could have with dementia, but no, I get weight gain!  My mom is taking one of the meds I take, and while she’s not giving out numbers I know she’s gone up two pant sizes because she and I are wearing the same size now.  She used to inherit my cast offs. Now she is just inheriting my crappy attitude about medication with stupid side effects.  I also strongly suspect that she may be taking the one that lists dementia as a side effect, but if she is she can’t remember.

My hubby, who’s chubby, and I have decided to seek help at Jenny Craig once the holidays have passed. This won’t be our first foray into the diet world.  It will be somewhere around the fifth or sixth.  I hate it.  We have been on so many diets I’m surprised we haven’t developed our own plan and made some real money…but if you saw us you might understand why that might not work.  We’ve done Jenny Craig…together we lost a sixth grader.  We did L.A Weight Loss…together we lost a full sized female.  We tried to do Nutri-systems and quickly figured out the secret to their success, the food is just to horrible to eat!  So now we are back to good old Jenny Craig, and together, if we are successful we will  lose a Sumo wrestler.  The worst part of it is for every pound I lose he will lose three. Plus, not only will  I oversee my diet plan, I will oversee his.  “What else can I have?  Did I have all my fruits? Do I still have a starch?” and so on.  And since he’s a man, and a foot taller than me he gets to consume twice as many calories as I do.  So at the end of the day when I’ve completed my list of foods he will still be gnoshing away.   However; as you can tell I’m a kind and patient woman who would never set him up to fail by giving him the wrong foods or calorie counts.  How can you even suggest such a thing?  I’m also concerned that the medications (and not at all the fact that I’m older) won’t allow me to lose the weight like I have before.  When I asked my skinny, athletic, ridiculously unsympathetic doctor about it he told me that it was a real Catch 22.  Take the meds, no pain, be fat.  Don’t take the meds, have pain, be thinner.   Ta-Da!!  It’s good to be me!  The good news is I have some kick-ass pain killers on me at all times; the bad news is I need them.  The other bad news is sometimes they wear off.

So I am going to diet.  I am going to be happy and positive and reduce my fats and carbs and flavors.  I shall be svelte, and as long and lean as 5′3″ gets.  This will be the lie that I tell myself every day as I throw out the food and eat the boxes it came in.  “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels”.  I don’t know who said that, but a bigger crock never came out of anyone’s mouth.  Thin doesn’t have a feeling.  I know.  I used to be it…once a long time ago.  Now I’m two thins joined together in the middle.  Anyway, back to that crappy saying…it may have actually been on a poster or something somewhere, but whoever said it was probably young.  I know because I have experienced some pretty delicious food in my life (true Italian gellato being right up there at the top) and if my whole body didn’t ache 24/7 I probably would just continue my search for the world’s best of almost anything with chocolate, or any combination of brown sugar and butter.  I would follow these searches closely with my search for the world’s most comfortable (and forgiving) stretch pants.

There are many motivators for losing weight.  Not mundane things like high blood pressure and diabetes, my blood pressure and blood sugar both run low, I do have high cholesterol but I take a pill for that…(see meds that can cause weight gain).  Oh sure, one of you skinny little Nancies is going to swear that if I lost the forty pounds I need to I wouldn’t need that pill.  Whatever, I had high cholesterol when I was thin too so neener-neener!  Don’ get between a fat bitch and her pills! Anyway, real motivators, like the one a woman feels for her family.  One of my primary motivations for wanting to lose weight right now is to stay healthy for my grandson and all the grandkids to come.  That dear sweet little face.  Those two little arms that reach for me and the smile I get when he first sees me.  There is nothing so dear…except revenge.  I love being able to extract a little revenge.  I called my son the other night just to see what was going on, and in the background I heard my grandson crying (screaming, pitching a hissy).  More importantly, I heard fear in the voice of my son.  “Mom, did any of us kids ever cry for so long at that pitch that was just outside of that range that only a dog can hear that you thought you might actually do yourself harm?” I knew then that some small part of him knew that a being only eighteen months old was in charge of his home.  He was very afraid.  It was then I knew that there was no way in hell I was checking out early.  I knew my prayers would be answered.  He would raise a child just like he was when he was a kid!  Glory to God…all things are possible!  Not only are these battles worth sticking around for, I’ve got two more kids I cursed with the same curse, and they haven’t even thought about having kids yet!  Hot Damn!  I got a lot of living to do! 

 

Today’s Pa-ism: If life was a sow, I’d be on the hind teat!  Definition: Things suck   

Since my kids were little any illness was “the cookie disease”.  Why?  Because they felt crumby! (Sound of rimshot…then silence) I am convinced that I am having a severe reaction to the dust and allergens nesting in our Christmas decorations.  My husband is equally convinced I have bubonic plague.  Either way I don’t feel real well and pretty much all that can be done is to treat symptoms.  So, we went out today and bought everything under the sun to treat runny nose, stuffy nose, sore throat, headache, and the chest congestion that I’m sure will follow in a few days because I’m asthmatic, and of course cough drops.

I chose Hall’s Canada Dry Ginger Ale flavored cough drops.  I did this primarily because I despise the medicinal taste of cough drops, but love Ginger ale.  Imagine my disappointment upon learning that these amazing sounding cough drops tasted just like…cough drops.  There’s no ginger, there’s no ale, there’s just menthol in a kind of lemony nasty hard candy.  It’s enough to make you wish your taste buds were afflicted.  Right now I am at the point where I can’t decide if it’s better to drip like a faucet or be so congested that every time I bend over I think my head is going to explode.

If you’ve been reading you know that my mom has been coming over to help me out what with my arm in a cast up to my shoulder and my cootch still in rehab, well I called her today and told her she might want to stay away until we figured out whether this was a cold or allergies.  “You got my cold.  I knew better than to come over there but I did it any way and now you’ve got my cold.  I just knew better.  I told myself when I got it that I shouldn’t come over there, but you needed the help so I did and now you’ve got my cold.”  Well I don’t know who gave me whatever I have but I sure as hell wish they would come and take it back.  I’ve always been told if your snot is clear it’s probably allergies.  I don’t even think it much matters what color your snot is, in my opinion if you’ve got snot you’ve got problems.  Thank God for Afrin.  It is the only medicine in the medicinal arsenal available over the counter that makes any recognizable difference in the way you feel.  The clincher is you can only use it briefly or it may be habit forming.  My other fav is NyQuil.  I can sleep like a rock after taking that stuff.  I don’t know that it makes me feel better, but for the eight or so hours I’m sleeping I don’t realize how miserable I am.

None of this is news my darlings.  Just me venting about how crappy I feel without actually straining my voice to do so personally (that, and me being kind enough not to seek you out and share germs.)  On the bright side cast comes off 01/05/09 and the cootch release date is fast approaching so it seems only fitting that I should find another malady to fill my days.  Take care of yourselves and stay well.  Otherwise your sick mothers will have to come and take care of you too, and we wouldn’t want them to have to suffer with the guilt. 

Today’s Pa-ism: That’s all a steer can do.  Pa’s answer when you said you would try.  Used in context: (Me) I will try to complete this task. (Pa) That’s all a steer can do.

 

Our hometown is awash with exterior Christmas illumination.  There are neighborhoods that you can see for great distances, and for awhile the local newspaper even had a competition to see which neighborhood could come up with the best display.  I suppose there was an award, but our neighborhood never won.  When we first moved here, the homeowner’s association agreed that we all would line our property wity luminarias.  They were beautiful.  People would drive in after dark and circle our cul-de-sac looking at the brightly lit little bags.  From our upstairs window it was just a wonderland looking down on the street after dark.  Then the widowed biddies moved in.  Suddenly it was too much trouble, or it hurt their backs, or the wind blew the bags off the forms and they had to go chasing all over hell and back to find them…and one by one the lights went out until we are the only ones left who still put the little lamps out at Christmas.

We love the holiday and adorn our house both inside and out.  We have Christmas trees in each room of the downstairs.  We put out Christmas figures, and the Christmas china.  We even have melamine Christmas dishes we use daily…so I speak as someone who knows when I say “Please don’t mess around with your Christmas lights!”  I don’t care what you do with your yard decorations.  I would prefer that there be some kind of theme, or at the very least some size consistency, but I’ll survive.  Little kids probably think a 4 foot tall Santa can drive a little red wagon pulled by 6 pink flamingos and one ceramic bulldog with a red nose across the world in one night.  God bless ‘em, that optimism is why hundreds of stale cookies and warm glasses of milk will get pitched in the middle of the night (be sure to wash the crumbs down the drain). However; even the smallest Who in Whoville knows that icicles don’t come in multi-colors!  And for the absolute love of God, don’t put those suckers on twinkle!  Even worse are the losers who run multiple strands and some twinkle and some don’t.  I HATE YOU!!  I don’t know who the idiot was who came up with the blue icicle lights, but dude BLUE ICE IS DEADLY!!  Remember Titanic?  Have you ever watched Ice Road Truckers?  Ask Bear how cute and festive blue ice is…he’ll kill you.  And Ice doesn’t have to twinkle, people.  Twinkling is a reflection of colors on a smooth surface.  It can “appear” to happen on steady white lights when the wind blows.  Duh!!

I happen to be a purist when it comes to Christmas lights.  Colored lights can twinkle when they are not made to look like icicles.  White lights…ditto.  The same holds true for blue lights, but for my money really it should be either multi or white.  When you start singling out colors after that, and you live in Northwest Arkansas you really run the risk of someone thinking you’re flashing gang colors.  Especially in a neighborhood full of over sixties.  Finally let me just say in passing, if you find yourself in a quandary about whether or not to buy the “twinkling” snowflakes….don’t!  Our neighbors bought two that barely fit in a 6′ x 6′ window and the twinkle is more of a nervous twitch.  Every time I see them I speak for them, “Oh my God.  Is it getting warmer?  How close to the equator did you say we are?  Was that UPS guy wearing shorts?  I need to be refrigerated if it gets above 32.”  My husband, who thought it was cute at first, is beginning to look at me kinda like he knows where to hide a body.

So there you have it my dear ones.  Christmas recomendations that will help you and your loved ones make it through the holidays with maximum enjoyment and minimal pain.  Remember, I know where most of you live!

One addendum- My Dad had so many things he said over the years that we (his daughters) just took for granted because he was always saying that stuff.  Well, my husband loves the quirky things “Pa” said and has asked me to give you a “Pa-ism” a day for as long as I can.  So in honor of my father, and my husband here is Pa-ism number 1.

“Don’t strain your milk” - Don’t work too hard  (Used in a sentence) I would have added a shed to the house, but I was afraid I’d strain my milk.

Whatever happened to public floggings?  Granted, I wasn’t actually around when they took place (probably just as well actually) but I have a feeling people were more well behaved.  Think about it, if you acted up in public you got tied up to some post or something and had the crap beat out of you.  Now that’s incentive to behave!  Today’s parents not only don’t spank, they give Jr. choices.  Don’t get me wrong I gave my kids choices too, do what I said or get a spanking.  They turned out alright.  I think I mentioned before that none of them have prison records.  I am one proud parent.

Now don’t think for one minute that I am advocating torture or abuse.  I’m talking about spankings, the kind we all received back in the day.  The kind that have become taboo, because parents are afraid to spank Johnny because DHS might show up on their door and take him away.  That fear gives Johnny the upper hand and the upper hand is something parents cannot afford to lose.  Not so long ago my oldest son told me (like he is divulging a state secret) that my spankings had never hurt.  I told him I had never intended to hurt him.  I just wanted to stop the behavior he was indulging in and let him know it was unacceptable.  Now, he’s a parent.  He says that he intends to spank the lad when the situation warrants it, but that he will always remember what I told him about spankings.  I told him I was so glad I had touched him in a positive manner and to always remember…don’t leave marks and there should be no witnesses.

Parenting must be harder with your hands tied.  I know my Dad had his bluff in so well that just a change in his tone of voice could totally change my behavior and I can’t remember the man ever laying a hand on me.  He had a way of lowering his voice and asking me if I was going to settle down that let me know I was going to whether it was my first choice or not.   I guess I inherited some of his magic because I remember being in public with my children when they were being rowdier than I would have liked, and all I said was “hey!” and the older one said to the younger one “cool it!  She’s got her mom face on.”

Some parents don’t get it and may never.  I was out shopping a while back and I had the misfortune of getting behind Zach and his Mom.  Zach started irritating his mom as soon as they entered the store.  He wanted the cart that looked like the car…she said no.  He whined.  She threatened to spank him.  He cried.  In the produce aisle she picked fruit he didn’t like and he didn’t like any veggies.  Throughout the whole store it seemed I was behind “Zachy” and his mom and all she said for the entire hour was “do you want a spanking?  If you don’t settle down you’re going to get a spanking.  I’ve just about had it mister, you are just asking for a spanking.”  Over and over again….she could have just recorded it and played it for all the good it was doing “Zachy” or anyone of the disgusted shoppers in the store.  When she and Zachy finally arrived at the checkout, who should they pull up behind but little ol’ me.  Well, Zachy started climbing the candy display that is always beside the checkout and once again I heard “Zachy!  Do you Want A Spanking?”  Well, by now Zach and I both knew she wasn’t going to spank him, but I alone seemed to be the only one who knew that’s what he needed.  So I leaned over my cart and asked her, “Ma’am do you want me to spank him for you, because frankly I don’t think you’re going to.”  She looked at me as if I had slapped her, but didn’t say a word.  When the cashier started laughing at me…she muttered something akin to “I never in all my life” which I was pretty sure of and she quickly wheeled her cart and Zachy to another aisle.  Yes, I know it was a bitchy thing to do, but I was able to load my cart in silence.

I’m all for reasoning with children if and when they become reasonable people.  While they are sticky fingered little humans in training they need guidance not options.  Their little brains haven’t formed well enough to make logical decisions.  That’s why they leave food on their plates and eat boogers.  Don’t give them too much credit.  I love children.  Especially toddlers, they wake up in a new world every day and find joy in the smallest things, but they are not responsible beings.  Don’t treat them as such.  The reason they need parents is because they are incapable of making informed decisions, and if you have to hit that precious little booty every once in a while to keep them on the straight and narrow that doesn’t make you a bad parent.  Hell that makes you the best parent in the world…one that is willing to go to jail for your child.  And by the way, if you ever run across a child that says yes when you ask them if they want a spanking…that child needs a special kind of help.  Don’t turn your back on them, and sleep with your bedroom door locked…just in case.  In fact, to be safe, just do that anyway.

 

Oil of Olay claims to have a product line that will reduce the 7 signs of aging.  Seven…in my dreams.  I saw thirty in the shower this morning and my face wasn’t even in the count!  I wish I only had seven areas of concern…and I do, on my left eyelid.  Who are these people?  More importantly, what alien life form are they researching?  I mean sure I’ve got their seven, but please…their seven aren’t even major. Fine lines have been a given ever since I decided I looked better tan, and that was in the early 70’s, and free radicals make me think of Timothy Leary.  He would probably give you some hella good weed to make you forget your aging difficulties.  Dry skin is a recent gift, but I can’t use something as puny as regular body lotion for it.  Oh hell no!  I use axel grease and lots of it!  Age spots…hahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!  I have so many age spots that they have started piling up on one another in little age spot kingdoms with cloud cover from age spot clouds, but it never rains because (as you’ll recall) my skin is the Sahara.  Uneven skin texture brings me to the mole people who reside on the surface of my tundra surrounded by empty pools of large pores with gently slopping shores of sagging skin.  So that’s my left hand…

I remember once when I was about 12 or 13 years old, I walked in on my great-grandmother getting dressed one morning.  Great-grandma always wore a long sleeved blouse, a long skirt, stockings, an apron, and underneath all of this clothing she wore a full length sleeveless chemise.  My first shock was seeing my great-grandmother’s naked body as I walked in on her.  It has been 36 years (give or take) and I haven’t forgotten  the shriveled, dried apple, texture of her skin, or the complete absence of body hair…but the biggest, and I mean ginormous beyond comparison, thing that shocked me was how long her boobs were!  The chemise was a one piece garment that went on over her head (Obviously not soon enough).  Next came the skirt, which was floor length and zipped and fastened at the waist.  Now, hold on to your panties, Nancy, because it’s about to get ugly…great-grandma reached down through the neckline of the chemise and dropped her boobs over the waist of her skirt…DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I JUST TOLD YOU? She performed a full-frontal boob drop right in front of my eyes.  I was mortified.  I went home home and hugged my little boob-buds to my chest and begged them never to get long, and for the first 25 years or so it looked like they had heard and were going to behave.  One morning I was in the shower, I was probably 30 or so at this point and not disgusting like now, but past my prime…when my daughter came in to use the potty.  Sweet little cherub is watching me dry off and get dressed, then she blurts out “when I get big will I have long boobies too?” I sighed, and looked at this final child who had sucked the life out of me and said “if there is a God in heaven yours will be even longer.”

These are things I will tell to you my blog buddies.  I will never reveal them to my husband because he doesn’t need to see them.  It was actually in our vows…”to love and to honor, in obesity and grossitude, through old age and diapers, till death do us part.”  So I only have to worry about him killing me.  I was much thinner and less wrinkled when we met and fell in love.  He was barely out of high school.   It is possible that we have not improved with age.  I don’t point out that he is no longer the svelte youth I fell in love with, and he no longer threatens to turn me in for statutory rape, so we have it all worked out.

Everyone has a different way of looking at the aging process, but I remember being really sad once and my Dad told me a charming little story which I wll now pass on to you:

Once upon a time there was a robin’s nest with three eggs.  The mama robin sat on the eggs until time for her babies to hatch and they did.  Then she told her babies that she would keep them warm until she had to search for worms, and while she searched for worms they must stay quiet or the cat would eat them.  One day while she was hunting one of the hungry babies started squawking and the cat came, but before he could eat the loud baby the mama robin came back to fight.  She led the cat away from the nest, but was killed. As time went on, one of the babies who had remained  quiet starved to death, and one of the quiet babies froze to death.  Now the remaining baby was cold and lonely and his life began ebbing away…and as he fell from the nest he landed in a steaming pile of bullshit.  The longer he stayed there the warmer he became and he began singing.  The cat heard the singing and came back and ate him.

The morals to the story are these: 1. It’s important to know when to keep your mouth shut.  2.  Finding yourself neck deep in bullshit isn’t always a bad thing.  3.  If your happy with things (even if they’re shitty) keep your mouth shut.

My Daddy was a wise man. 

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