My husband likes to make proclamations.  Every so often he comes into a room that is not his (like the kitchen or basically any room except his office and the bathroom) and makes an announcement that he believes will be profound.  “We need to __________” This isn’t my first marriage, so he never experienced that naive new bride who waits with bated breath to hear her liege fill in the blank.  He got me.  I don’t do naive.  I do bitchy.

At first, I thought the proclamations were kinda cute.  “We need to be greener!” ” Isn’t that cute.  The guy who would drive back to his office if we could get a golf cart in the door wants to go green.  He who has thrown away enough Coke cans to pave a road to the moon  and back is becoming Captain Conservation.”  Back then I listened  and waited to see what he was going to do, and then I decided whether or not I was going to support it.  As it turned out I was good with this greener proclamation, and agreed to jump on board.  At first it was okay.  He brought in the re-cycling bins and we begin sorting through the trash like civic minded raccoons.  We changed the bulbs in the lights to the energy efficient type and actually began turning them off on occasion.  Then the new wore off.  I had to remind Captain Conservation more and more often that the bins were full.  His solution was to play reverse Jenga.  (switch to mind numbing marketing music) You just cleverly keep stacking the cans on the top of the pile, but watch your step!  One wrong move and….Junka!! (fade to black)

 We must have had 10 bags of aluminum cans in the garage that needed to go to the recycling plant (which is on the way to the golf course, but damn my luck…it’s winter). So I moved on to phase 2…subtle bitch.  I placed the re-cycling bags on things that were imortant to him.  The unopened case of Cokes,  his tools, and the weekly, to the curb, trash container have all been home to the recycling bags.  He had to have noticed, but for months he never said a word.  When Halloween rolled around and we needed space in the garage to set up the boxes upon boxes of decorations, my genius husband comes up with a great idea…hey you clean out the garage and I’ll take the recycling to the plant.  I want you to know that he managed to pull back into the garage at exactly the same time as the last piece of dust was swept into the dust pan.  I swear to you it was planned that way from the first day he suckered me in to going green!

So today when he swaggered into my house and began “we need to”… “WHAT!  What do WE need to do?  I need to shower and I need to dress.  After that I will need to eat…You need to realize that when you say WE you are actually speaking for both of us and I have a voice.  Now tell me what YOU need to do, and I will decide whether or not I am going to help you.  My sweet, gentle, loving husband who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouth full of it looked at me as if I had grown a third eye and said in a somewhat stunned voice, “Put up the Christmas tree.”

My IQ is high enough.  I do well in social situations of my own choosing.  I have worked in the public eye and with the unwashed masses, and for the most part I have behaved admirably.  However; when you put me in a situation like the one I tried to illustrate for you in the paragraph above, anything can happen.  Most of the time now I blame it on menopause, but in truth I’ve always been emotionally erratic.  I might get caught laughing at inappropriate times, or saying things purely for shock value, but the one thing that will always cause it to happen, is when I don’t get the response I expected from the person I’m dealing with.  So here I am, all 5′ 3″ of me ready to take on my 6′3″ husband who I just know is going to say something stupid like “we need to join a nudist colony,” and I hear “put up the Christmas tree”.  Well, I just errupt in a fit of laughter.  The stunned look on his face is absolutely priceless, and I’m pretty sure the man is convinced I’ve lost my mind.  I’m rolling around on the floor in tears.  My husband isn’t my first love, but he is my last…and the way I figure it if I keep acting like I just escaped from the 5th floor of the local hospital he isn’t going to be stupid enough to take on another woman after I’m gone.  He may be wise in the ways of recycling but I’m wise in the ways of him.   Maybe if I keep laughing at him when he says “we need to”  eventually he’ll just give up, like some sad Pavlovian response.  No…not my husband…no way in hell!!!

  

I know I’m not the first to notice that feminine products are advertised on “girl” shows, and masculine products are touted on “guy” shows.  That’s not news.  It’s when the programming crosses over that things get awkward.  I don’t really enjoy sharing the details of “that not so fresh feeling” with my husband, but try explaining yeast to your adolescent son.  Then bake some bread with him…see where I’m going?  Men are just not equipped to handle the inner workings of the female person.

I think most of us don’t realize how sadly lacking our sons may be in instruction in female anatomy until they are involved in adult relationships.  They all know where the boobies are and what size they like, and they can come up with some rudimentary term for a vagina. Now speaking only from my experience with my sons that was about it.  If asked they could tell you a woman is “on the rag”  once a month and there was some extra trash in the bathroom at least that often.  In addition it seemed like their step-father played a lot more golf during that time. But they couldn’t have given any kind of informed conversation and commercials weren’t going to change that.  To be fair, my daughter wasn’t much wiser.  After having used pads throughout the winter months she was going to be “big” and use tampons so that she wouldn’t have to give up swimming while she was on her period.  Several disasters later I’m talking through the door, “spread your legs…”( you know). When my level of frustration became as high as hers I screamed at the top of my voice “just cram it in the hole!!” and she responded with equal gusto “I don’t have one!”

 One day while forcing my son to watch a little Lifetime with me, there was a commercial on for Monistat. (This has been a while back…so don’ give him grief about it.  We both were mortified) “Hey mom, what is that stuff for?” Now I tried to put it to him in language a 14 year old boy could understand…”it’s what ladies use when they get jock itch.”  OMG!!  I thought  I was going to have to get a jell-o mold to pour him into.  He was all over the place laughing.  After about ten minutes I’m beginning to get a little ticked cause I still think I gave a pretty good answer, so I try to find out what’s so funny.  “Women don’t wear jocks, Mom!  What do you think they would put in ‘em?  It’s for something really gross and you have it cause I saw that junk in your bathroom and you don’t want to admit that you have cooties!”  And then I endured the twenty minutes of cootie taunting that followed.  By the end I found myself screaming back at the child “…well you’re a cootie!” and things pretty much went down hill from there.

Guys commercials are never for anything truly embarassing like “cooties” (although they should be because God knows it has been scientifically proven that they are the cootie carrier monkeys).  Their commercials are for beer, trucks, tires, and electronics.  I sorta get that I guess, but I’ve known plenty of women who drink beer, drive trucks, change their own tires, and are electronics geeks.  Yet I’ve never seen one guy figure out how to put that tiny little glycerin ampule on the end of that inserter and take care of their own yeast infection.  That takes real balls. Usually it’s more like, “hey hon..when your at the doctor getting your stuff checked out see if he’ll give me sumthin’ too.”  And he will because if he’s a guy he gets it, and if she’s a woman she knows if she doesn’t you’ll get it again.  I don’t even know if guys could go pick up the stuff at Wal-Mart if it didn’t have jock in the title.  Makes them sound athletic…”baby I’m a jock and I got the itch to prove it!”  Listen now and hear me later…it’s jock itch, damn it and we should be glad they share.

Anyway, after that experience with my son, I decided just telling them about the birds and the bees isn’t enough.  That’s telling them how fun the playground is and forgetting to tell them that the grass is asbestos.  No, I decided that all the men in my life should know a few things about women.  We have discussed periods.  Why women have them.  Why they don’t.  We discussed childbirth…natural, Caesarean, breech.  We have discussed breastfeeding and breast exams and each medical procedure I have undergone in depth.  I call them with the results of my mammograms and pap smears.  I let them know when I re-floored the dance hall.  If there is something going on in my life or in my body that might embarass my children I make sure to tell them.  It’s working pretty good so far…we rarely hear from them.

 

My mother is obsessed with death.  I think that may be one of the top ten signs of aging…you really start to enjoy a good death.  Mom’s favorite is cancer.  She pronounces it cane-sir, but we all know if anyone gets it they are doomed.  I don’t think she is aware of anyone having recovered from cancer, and if she has she’s forgotten them immediately because they obviously didn’t really have it. When Dad was living Mom devoted herself to his care.  Every breath, bit of food, sigh, shift and bowel movement was noted by my mother.  They both loved to talk about who was ill and what illness they had and how old the patient was.  I decided it was kind of a game.  It’s not enough just to win, you’ve got to try and beat everyone else.  The best way to do that it seems is to out live everyone, and the best way to do that is to avoid cancer.

For example, my mother has a friend I’ve never met who has a husband who has cancer.   Our recent conversation went something like this: “Did you know Charles has cancer?”  “I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”  “Oh yes you have.  Charles and Wanda.  You know.  They had  that Airstream trailer that year over at the lake when your Aunt Lucille was there and all the grandkids.  Sarah made that chocolate cake you liked so much.  I got the recipe.  You know.  Well he has cancer.”  “Well that’s too bad.”  “I don’t know what they’ll do.  They’ll probably have to sell their camper, maybe even their boat.  I don’t imagine he’s gonna feel like pulling anything behind that truck.  You know they’ve got that dualie.  Probably don’t get 10 miles to the gallon.  I don’t see how they can afford it what with things being what they are and all.  And they’re not blessed with children who will help out.  June still lives out in Oklahoma with that drunk she married after her boyfriend ran off and left her with those kids, and David, you know the one they always called Doc? Well he won’t have anything to do with his daddy ever since he got messed up with them drugs.  I still don’t know where I put that recipe.”  (Of course I have changed the names to protect the hillbillies, but it doesn’t much matter because I have no idea who she’s talking about anyway.)  “Well, Mom…I don’t know what to say.  Maybe between Medicare and any supplemental insurance they have it will be all right.”  “Oh you can’t count on Medicare!  Nadine had Medicare when she got sick and they had to put her in a home and Calvin ended up having to sell her house and every thing in it!”  “She died in the nursing home didn’t she?”  “Well, yes but it would have been nice to have left a little something for her kids.”

Now I remember Nadine and her house.  It was awful.  Everyone down on the flat was pretty much living in poverty and I don’t imagine her kids had many qualms about selling momma’s house or her things once she passed.  My mother doesn’t see things that way because my mother won. Nadine was younger than her when she died.  And she says it with such pride you would think it’s an accomplisment she herself is responsible for.  It doesn’t even matter that Nadine had COPD and died from lung disease before inhalers and steroids were commonly used to treat attacks it only matters that she was younger than my mother.

My mother’s best friend is in failing health.  She can’t be left alone, and her husband who is not much better off than his wife sees to her daily care.  The other day he went to get the mail and stopped to chat with a neighbor.  She became concerned about how long he had been gone and went to check on him.  She stumbled on the porch step and almost fell.  To hear my mother tell it, she damn near broke her neck and if they don’t get full time help for them soon they (I think they is their children) are going to find them both dead…and the shame of it is, I think you know my source by now, she’s younger than Mom. I pointed out that she hadn’t broken her neck, and in fact hadn’t even fallen.  That was right before the weather turned real cold up here.  Woman can still cut a mean glance.  When I asked her what, other than age, was wrong with the man she told me she thought he had lung cancer.    Now the man in question has been a closet smoker for years.  We all kind of figured that the smoking would kill him, but we thought it would be because she found out and put a permanent stop to it.  Nope.  We were wrong.  Mom has diagnosed lung cancer.  If you have ever smoked in your life and cough in front of my Mom you have lung cancer.  My Dad passed away April 12th of this year from complications arising from a stroke. The fact is that he had high blood pressure, emphysema, asthma, degenerative spinal problems, and blood clots throughout his tiny little body, but no force on this earth will ever convince my mother that the doctors all missed the fact that he had lung cancer.  He, however; was not younger than my mother.

My mother took care of my granny once she was incapable of taking care of herself.  She did a great job too, but it absolutely wore her down.  She has asked all of us to put her in a nursing home before she demands as much attention as granny did…and there are days when I find my little car driving towards retirement residences just to pick up a pamphlet or two.  I can’t do it though.  I promised my Dad I would always take care of Mom for him and he was always there for me so I’ll hang in there.  We recently found out that Mom’s brother-in-law and Daddy’s younger sister have lung cancer.  Mom’s gonna be busy for awhile. They have already had testing done and radiation starts next week.  Mom has said she will help my aunt if she needs it.  The brother-in-law lives to far away.  I can only imagine how many stories I’ve got coming my way.  Whether or not my aunt needs her help she will makes certain she is constantly updated.  You can think I’m as cold and calloused as you like, but I swear to you old southern women are running a race.  It’s not the get there first type either…you want to slide in dead cold last!  I’m putting all my money on Mom!!

I’m an Emmy.  No, not the award.  This is what my grandson has chosen to call me and I have chosen to allow it.  My mother is a granny.  She has been a granny since she was 34 years old, and that has always been fine with her.  All three of my sisters are grandmas.  They seem to be happy with that.  I know at least one of them was at least somewhat surprised, since she was introduced to her grandchild after it was a year old…but she recovered with grace and quiet dignity.  Currently three of the little monsters rule her life and she is as “happy as a hog in a waller.”  (for those of you who don’t speak hick….a waller is a wallow)  In addition, I have one sister who has waited far too long to be a grandma, and she wouldn’t care if the little darling called her a drippy douche bag as long as it was her grandchild saying it.  The remaining sister has six grandchildren and the poor thing just doesn’t have much of a mind left at all.  She’s deaf as a post, which is probably the only thing saving her, and has one of her grandkids almost every weekend.

I didn’t think I wanted to be a grandparent.  I encouraged my children to not take parenting lightly.  Over and over I explained that once that seed had germinated they were locked in for life.  With every argument, I made my point.  I spoke of the expense…the doctor’s bills, daycare, and miscellaneous other things that would keep them from ever experiencing quiet again.  I even told my son he might have to give up hunting.  (GASP!!) Almost exactly 25 months ago my son announced that they were expecting.  Not my daughter-in-law.  She was so convinced I would hate her she had locked herself in the bathroom.  Let me tell you,  I did some back peddaling that night.  I still was pretty convinced I wasn’t going to be a grandma in the same sense my sisters were, but I knew just like every other road I had taken, I would forge my own path.

Seven months later I was in the delivery room with my son and daughter (because she is my daughter just not my vaj daughter…as my vaj daughter says) as they made me an Emmy. I saw my sons tears stream down his face as  he saw his son for the first time.  I saw this new family commit to one anther there in that hospital room as they kissed first each other and then the new life held between them.  At that moment,  I knew that even if I never was his grandma (and I’m not) this little boy would know above all else that he was exquisitely and totally loved.

I walked outside that doot that night to tell my husband and my parents that the torch had been passed.  I had seen my son become a father.  He is a fine one too.  He often complains that he hears my words come out of his mouth when he is parenting.  I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.  Shortly after the baby  was born his paternal great-grandmother passed away.  She had been sick for a very long time, but she had seen and held her first great grandson before her passing.  The pride in her eyes was so obvious…it was just lovely to see.  Then nine months after that we lost my Dad, but there had been yet another baby born in our family.  The sister who so desperately wanted to be a grandmother got her wish.

I don’t know why I’m so melancholy today.  The grandbaby was here tonight and he is a house on fire.  He is eighteen months old and can’t be still.  His Boppy (grandfather) is his favorite person in the world and he yells for him about every two seconds.  He thinks all the toys should be dumped out of the toy box…so they are.  He eats marshmallows and oreos for dinner and plays the antique piano with his sticky little fingers.  Mostly whatever he does just amuses us, we’re not stupid enough to let him stay over night unless it’s an absolute necessity.  We do require a notarized document from a source other than his parents.   We do say no when his life is in danger.  Mostly we figure if we let him run wild doing whatever he pleases they won’t be in a hurry to leave him.  Truth is they don’t much.  They think he’s just as cute as we do and almost as cute as he think he is.  I knew he and I were going to have a special relationship the first time I picked him up in my convertible and he wanted the top down.  He knows that I am way to cool to be a Grandma and way, way, way, to cool to be a granny. He probably also knows I’m a pushover.  I thought I wanted to be an “M” but he knew better.  He took one look at me and knew I was going to be his Emmy.  So that’s what I am.  I thought just this once I could name myself, but I was wrong….and I couldn’t care less. 

A cousin of mine has made it her goal in life to change my political view point.  At first these little neurotic emails of hers were dismissed as an old woman’s worries, but the hysteria has grown to doom’s day prophecies.  Now here I am, so effing annoyed I am typing with one hand (the left one at that) to express my displeasure at all the narrow minded, bigotted, idiots who exist just to spread terror among those who are too young to have formed opinions.  This woman has grandchildren for God’s sake and they shouldn’t be forced to listen to her rhetoric until she dies!  It’s child abuse and it must be stopped. 

The first emails were to warn me that a Democratic president would undo all the good work that had been accomplished by the current administration.  I thought so, that was why I had planned to vote that way.  She then started sending emails about how aal of the other candidates (except McCain) were going to remove troops from Iraq.  She said this with such implied fear you would think she was a native Iraqi.  I wrote back and told her that since we had only begun this crap because Hussein made Old Bush look bad and it had never been about 9/11 or Bin Laden I thought it was probably time to bring our boys and girls home.  Can open…worms everywhere!  Did I know that Obama was a Muslim?  Did I know that the pastor of the Baptist Church he attended preached racial superiority? (Now wait is he Muslim or Baptist?)…that question went unanswered.  Did I know that his church had sent people to the Middle East? I just had to ask her if her church had ever sent missionaries to Africa, Israel, or someplace that might be taken out of context in a political contest?  Was I aware of his middle name?  Was she aware he didn’t name himself? and on and on and when Obama won I thought finally it’s over.  The first email told me how our current recession eas Obama’s fault..people are so afraid of the coming tax changes that they aren’t spending money.  But today…I got an email explaining why democracy can’t last.  I am dead serious.  She had phases listed and swore that we were currently in a phase of abundance that will be followed by a phase of dictatorship.  There was a grim God Help Us at the end.

Hell yes God help us.  If what we’re going through right now is abundance we need help!  I’m clipping freaking coupons for the first time in… ever!! I’m budgeting! BUDGETING!! The worst part of it is it looks like this is just the beginning and it started (Hold your knickers, Cuz) about a year ago!  The market fall really hurt us, but honey that was good ol’ “W”. I’m terrified of what other damage he can do in th next 48 days!  I may have to go back to work,  or else people may have to start paying back all the money that we’ve lent them and that won’t happen because they don’t have it either. 

It’s time for everyone to get their stinking heads out of the sand and begin to realize that like it or not we as a nation and as a world are in trouble.  At this point, it is much more about setting things right than placing blame (but we know who did this).  Now we all must suffer as our parents and grandparents did to return to the affluence we have known.  Plus we have the added burden of reducing green house gasses and our carbon footprints so that there will be something left for our own children and grandchildren.  Drill, Baby Drill= Kill Baby Kill.  Just changing our oil supply is no longer enough.

Okay, I’m coming down off my soap box now.  That cousin of mine gets me wound up tighter than a nun’s cootch.  I’m not going to change her, just like she’s not she’s not going to save me.  I do wish I could save the wee ones though.  Oh well, I’m just going to follow the serenity prayer…change the things I can, accept the things I can’t change, block the emails of idiots….I’m paraphrasing. 

Iam going to try (withou too much anger) to tell you the kind of crap this dipshit is spreading. 

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