My mother sent me flowers today.  It was the first time in my life that my mother has sent me flowers.  She sent them for my birthday.  What happened was this…I had spent the week talking about how much I love purple tulips.  We were talking about my green thumb.  I have lots of houseplants.  They just flourish for me.  People give me their dying houseplants and I resurrect them.  However; when it comes to blooming plants (especially purple) I have no luck!  My grandmother had a beautiful lilac bush in her backyard.  The rent house we had when the kids were little also had a big lilac bush in the back.  Each spring when the lilacs would bloom the intoxicating smell would just fill the house.  It is a memory that I can’t get out of my head…I also can’t reproduce it.

When my grandmother passed away my older sister dug some of the lilac bush out of the ground to preserve it and now has it growing in her yard.  When I told her how much I had loved the smell of lilacs, she offered to dig up some of granny’s lilac and give it to me.  I readily accepted.  It took me two years, but I finally killed it.  I grieved for a year, and then told her what had happened.  She dug up another piece for me and I killed it too.  After that I had a friend give me a piece of a white lilac (it is supposed to be more hardy).  My friend told me not to give up, that it normally takes from three to five years from the time it is planted for a lilac to bloom.  Well, the white lilac was hardier.  It lasted three years before it died.  It would have probably bloomed that spring.  I tried once more…I bought a purple lilac at the nursery and had the yardman plant it for me.  It would have been four this summer, but the ice storm damaged the pear trees that stood beside the lilac bush and when they removed the trees they removed the broken trees they pulled up the undamaged lilac bush as well.  Thanks so much Golden Rule Tree Removal.  I’m Done.  At least with lilacs. I was telling mom that I had no better luck with my favorite flower, purple tulips.  The only way I can get purple tulips is to buy them for myself in the spring.  I planted a mixed bunch of tulip bulbs in the backyard and each and every tulip that came up was yellow.  I asked the yard man to plant mixed tulips in the front flower bed, with the express wish that some of the bulbs be purple, and each tulip was red.  The only way I can get purple tulips is to buy my own.

This is no longer true.  My mom heard me complain, and she sent me purple tulips.  She will remember too.  She always does.  From now on, on any gift giving occasion when she can get purple tulips she will.  I’m okay with that too.  They are sitting on the kitchen table, so spring like and happy.  They just make me feel like all of the cold weather is almost over and spring is just around the corner, even if it is thirty degrees outside and they are predicting snow tomorrow.  Each time I walk by the table I take a second to look at their silky little heads reminding me that soon the warmer weather won’t come and go…it will come and stay.  I just can’t wait.  It seems I finally complained to the right person and this year I didn’t have to buy my own tulips.  Of course, I will still have to hear about the snow storm that occurred in 1960 and how spoiled I became because of it…but it was totally worth it.

 

 

I had a day!  As my dear, very Southern, friend down the street would say “girl…hold on.  I’m about to unleash some learnin’ on ya.”  My day started out pretty evenly paced, started rolling down hill, hit a pot hole, then ended on a fairly good note.  Imagine my best Bette Davis and “Buckle up.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

I was going to treat myself to a massage today.  Yea!!  It was my little birthday present to myself. (In case you are sending me something and think you missed it, you still have a couple of days.)  I spent the morning looking forward to it.  Abby…my massage therapist…is absolutely the best.  She is a great friend in addition to being a massage therapist and an hour and a half with her is absolutely a little like heaven.  Plus, having a massage is a good excuse not to put on make-up or do your hair.  I jumped in my little convertible, Patsy Cline blasting on the speakers, and roll out of the garage when I notice that the temperature sensor says that it is sixty-four degrees outside.  Shut the F*** Up!  I immediately take the top down!  It is glorious!  I have a seven minute drive to an appointment that is in fifteen minutes.  I should have known someone would F*** it up.  At the first major intersection while waiting for the light to change some jackass decides the thing to do is let some other jackass in a monster truck pull out in front of him on a green light.  Bad enough, right?  Oh, no way!  The jack ass in the monster truck wants to pull across two lanes of traffic (straight across) and block three lanes of traffic…including mine…while doing so.  No one in the two lanes to the right of us was going to let him through and it was two more green lights before he was able to cross the lanes.  I am honking like a maniac at the fool who let him in in the first place.  He sticks his head out of his stupid window and yells, “what did you want me to do, lady?”  What a stupid question.  I obviously didn’t want him to let this fool out and I told him so, and just in case he couldn’t hear me over all the other horns I used some sign language.  Needless to say I was late.  It didn’t matter to Abby, but it just ruined my happy mood.  How dare he?

I didn’t have to deal with such rude behavior on my way home, but upon returning I found that the heating and cooling company had called and they had the part to fix my heater.  Finally.  (Did I mention that it was sixty-four degrees?)  I told them to come on and fix it.  I was planning to be home for the rest of the evening.  They said it might be awhile they had another job to finish first and they would call before they came.  Peachy.  I went upstairs to check my email.  Such a wrong move.  I had an email from a friend (very loosely interpreted) who preceded to ream me out for several things.  This chick was my best friend from third grade through high school.  We lost touch for awhile and reconnected at our thirty year class reunion.  Well, I had been sending emails, and she had emailed back some.  We met once for coffee, and we both had shown up at a basketball game in support of a team that a mutual friend coaches and it was while we were at this game that I noticed she seemed sort of out of sorts.  When we got home I emailed her and asked her what was wrong.   Man, did I get a response!  She laid into me like a hungry dog would a T-bone steak.  She was busy.  She had a job,  Her husband and her family were her top priority.  I was a snob.  I spend all day on the computer.  She likes to work out and stay healthy (that one hurt…I mean I would if I could).  I am competing for the attention of our mutual friend…WTF?  At first I was so hurt I had to step back and do a little reality check.  You know the, am I ______? kind.  I filled in the blank with everything she had accused me of in her email, and it’s true I don’t have a job.  I don’t work out and I’m not very healthy.  I spend a lot of time on the computer, but usually it is with a purpose, and generally speaking I don’t have to compete with anyone for attention (okay that sounded a little snooty, but not snobby).  I don’t think anyone in my family would ever say I don’t put my husband and my family first.  They are my job, and the reason I don’t have time to work outside the home.  I have several diseases I fight on a daily basis that keep me from working out…she didn’t know this because I try not to bore people with the day to day crap that is my life.  When she looked at me she saw an overweight woman who wasn’t working out.  She never thought to ask if there was a reason.  It seems to me that maybe she is more of a snob than I.  That’s the final straw.  Me.  A snob.  Holy shit!  I really don’t believe anyone who knows me would ever use that word to describe me.  They might use a lot of words with negative connotations and I might have to acknowledge ownership of them, but not that one.  I’m about as down to earth as the earth itself.  I have been kicked around by life and still bear the scars.  I am the daughter of two simple people who have never put on airs.  I try to be kind to everyone I meet.  I’m not going to tell you that I don’t talk about them once their back is turned.  I’m human after all, but I would never say it to anyone who would let it get back to them, and if I think it needs to be said to them…I have no problem saying it to their face.

I got up from the computer with my little hurt feelings and dried the few little tears that  had the nerve to fall down my face and I got mad.  I was mad as hell and I just wasn’t going to take it any more…more or less.  I decided the problem was hers…and how dare she.  From a few hour of conversation and a half dozen emails she judges me and deems me unworthy…I deem her unworthy.  Psycho!  My life was fine before she came into it and will be fine without her.  I saved the email though…just in case I ever think I’m getting to big for my britches, I’ll take it out and read it again.  I’ll probably get mad again, but sometimes a little mad does a lot of good.  My hubby doesn’t mind as long as it isn’t aimed at him. 

So now I think I’m going to go and circle the bath tub with candles and fill it with some kind of soothing bath salts and hope that the low light and soft scent melt away the day and help me to remember that deep down where I keep my secrets, I am a good person.  I need to keep that in mind, because the heating guy couldn’t find any gas in the gas line and he said they would be back in the morning.  While I hope that means ten a.m.  I know it’s going to be more like eight, and I really don’t do eight a.m.  I barely do eight p.m.  Boy, do I need to soak!

All wives do it.  We talk behind their backs.  We have to.  We can’t tell them how imperfect they are.  They wouldn’t believe us if we did.  So we huddle up and talk about them, and compare notes.  We laugh at their similarities, and gasp at their total lack of sensitivity to our needs.  We act like total bitches, because we would die if they did this to us (newsflash…they do) but we rake them over the coals. 

I used to think all men were alike.  I totally believed that God had made one kind and slapped them in different shapes with different faces.  It made sense.  Adam was made in his image, and everyone else descended from Adam…you do the math.  I figured Adam was a real jerk.  I never really understood why Eve caught all the crap on the whole apple deal either.  I know she ate of the forbidden fruit, but so did Adam.  He could have said no.  No one was holding a gun to his head.  There weren’t even any guns to be held!  Yes, he had a naked woman in front of him, and most men don’t really think too clearly in those situations, but still he was the one who took the bite.  He should shoulder some of the responsibility.  But what did he do when God asked him why he was hiding? “Woman ate of the apple”.  What a skeez.  He went on to say he took a bite too, but he had to rat Eve out first, and this is why we talk about them.  They don’t admit when they are wrong, and they never take the blame.

We love them.  We truly do.  It’s because we love them that we feel we have earned the right to talk about them.  I do mean earned.  It’s hard work to be with the same man day in and day out.  They will tell you that it is easy, but that is because they are with a woman.  Many has been the day that I have wished I had a wife.  If someone else would just do the laundry and the dishes and the cooking and run the errands so that I could elect to do something else, I might be in a better mood at the end of the day.  When I fall asleep on the couch watching television, he thinks it is so precious.  It’s not precious!  It’s exhaustion!! 

My very favorite bone to pick with my husband though (and it’s not an argument it’s just a peeve) is when he tries to parent me.  My husband is almost twelve years my junior.  Yet, he is very much more elderly than I am in many, many ways.  He is more mobile, but I have more zest for life.  That’s not exactly right.  How should I put this…I would be much more likely to embarrass you in public.  Yup, that’s about it, and Jr. feels it is his responsibility to correct this error in my nature.  It ain’t gonna happen.  He sometimes tells me that I need to lower my voice. (UGH!!)  But my favorite, by favorite I mean the thing that makes me want to reach across the table, or room, or car, or whatever, and deliver a solid blow to the top of his skull that will definitely change the look on his face to something more likely to be seen in a Dick Tracy cartoon, is when he raises his eyebrows at me in a totally dad face.  Yeah, that’ll probably work.  I didn’t mind my parents well.  I adored my grandmother who lived with us and was my primary caregiver until I was eight, but I didn’t mind her.  I minded in school (as far as they knew).  As he well knows I only semi-sorta followed the rules in college.  I’m probably not gonna start towing the line now.  Just stop.  Don’t waste your time.  Don’t strain your eyebrows.  Don’t strain your milk.

That’s the thing.  We don’t change.  We marry the people we love, because they are who they are.  I married the goofball I married because he compliments my nutty behavior.  He knows he can’t rein me in.  He thinks it’s funny that I am such an unpredictable little imp. I think he is amazing because he is a romantic dreamer who optimistically thinks everything will work out.  We won’t change.  We will always work, because we aren’t surprised when we act the way we do.  We only worry when we don’t act the way we should.  He knows I talk about him.  He denies that he acts the way he does.  He insists that I over sell his behavior.  Those who know him, know better.  We each think the other is funny.  Listen up those of you looking for romance…funny is better (it will last longer!)  We always have fun together.  He is a slob.  He cannot meet a deadline.  He has his days and nights mixed up.  He doesn’t like my cooking.  He won’t shave.  He is very tall, but tip toes everywhere he goes.  He is a golfaholic.  He is never wrong and he is all mine.  In the last sixteen years plus we haven’t had a day that we didn’t say how much we love one another.  Just don’t ask us why.

Love is weird.  You never know who you will end up with or why.  Be glad when it works.  Don’t worry about talking behind their backs.  That is how we create our sisterhood.  They do it too.  They have a brotherhood (primary example: my son has taught my grandson when asked what all the ladies say, to respond “nag, nag, nag”).  I like to think they aren’t as kind as we are, but who knows.  I’m sure they think we aren’t as kind as they are, but we know we love them…warts and all. 

 

 

Yesterday I went to lunch with my mother and my sister.  In the spirit of the event Perhaps I should repeat myself…YESTERDAY I WENT TO LUNCH WITH MY MOTHER AND MY SISTER.  You probably won’t believe it, but I even typed that slower.  It was like I was speaking to them.  I think I have mentioned before that hearing deficits run in my family.  Well, with these two they quit running and landed.  Mother is so deaf in one ear, hearing aids won’t even help.  She does wear one in the other ear, but swears it hasn’t been properly fitted (I happen to agree) and it should be returned to the company for repairs.  My sister, on the other hand, is in denial about the severity of her hearing loss.  She insists we just go on about how bad her hearing is to bug her.  I assure you we don’t.  She can’t hear herself pass gas.  I can’t imagine how these two have a conversation when no one else is around.  All the confusion swirling about must really create a fog.  I would imagine that afterward no one knows what has really been said, and I hope it was nothing of grave importance, but anyway…about lunch.

We went to eat at OK China Buffet.  My hubby and I love to joke about this place.  Mainly because they don’t over sell themselves.  Our running joke is “How was it?”   ” It was OK.”  “Ladies and Gentlemen the comedic stylings of Doombah and Sloopy Chickentush!”  (insert applause)  When we entered the first complaint was the giant statue in the foyer.  It has a sign on that says “Do no touch.  You break  You Pay”  and yes it says “no” and not not.  My sister had to point out that people should not put things that are that fragile in public places where children can see them and of course want to touch them.  It was then, that I noticed that my mother was touching it. (Small children my ass)  There are two doors off the foyer.  Above each door are signs that say…wait for it…in and out.  Wow!  My mom is standing there waiting for someone to come and get us, and getting angry that no one is.  I take her arm and  point out the “IN” door.  “We need to go in for the hostess to seat us, mom.”  As we move forward, she says back to my sister “Well, they could put up a sign or something.”

Now I have already mentioned the name of the place, right?  Buffet is in the name, right?  So we make our way to the table and the waitress asks us, in very broken English, what we would like to drink, and then leaves.  “Well, I didn’t get a menu.”  This from my mom.  “None of us did.”  This from my sister.  “It’s all buffet.  You don’t need a menu.  Just walk to the back and fix a plate.”  This from me.  We walk towards the back and I begin fixing my plate and I notice that mom is just sort of wandering around.  “Mom, whatcha’ doin’?”  “I’m looking for cashew chicken.”  “You may have to make it.”  “What to do you mean?”  “Well sometimes at buffet places they cook the chicken and the sauces separately so they don’t go mushy, and you have to put them together.”  “Well, if I have to cook, I might as well stay home.  I don’t even see anything that looks like it might end up being cashew chicken.”  “Well then, let’s ask someone.”  I proceeded to try and find someone, but alas I was not quick enough.  My mother had gone back to the table and cornered our poor waitress.  “Do y’all have cashew chicken?”  The poor girl looked like she was being mugged.  “Cashew chicken?” mom repeated.  Nothing.  “Chicken with nuts on it!!”, she practically screamed.  The girl shook her head no and ran…I mean ran, away.  “Mom, can’t you eat something else?”  “I reckon’ I’m gonna have to.”  Much to her surprise, she likes honey chicken.  Who knew?

At the table the fun really began, because that’s where the conversation (and trust me, that word is used in the most liberal form possible) took place.  “How’s your chicken?” “What?” “How’s your chicken?” ”It’s better than I thought it would be. It looked dried out.” ….enter sister “Well, it is fried.  They fry it and then they put the honey sauce and sesame seeds on it.”…  volley back to mom…”Oh.” Enter me “Mom you may want to put some soy sauce on your rice.  Be careful though, it’s salty.”  And she just starts glugging it over her rice. “Mom! You are drowning your rice! I told you it’s salty.”  “Well, if it’s too salty, I won’t eat it.  (pause)  It’s too salty.”  Deep inside me some inner child wanted so much to say “NO Crap?” but I held my tongue and just looked at my sister who is busy eating her crab rangoon, and I’m pretty sure is oblivious to the whole conversation. “I can’t believe they didn’t have cashew chicken.  I’ve never been to a chinese place that didn’t have cashew chicken.”  “I thought you liked the honey chicken.”  “I do, in fact I think I like it better than cashew chicken.  I’m just saying.”  I thought my head was going to explode.  I look at my sister.  Still chewing.  “Well mom, perhaps on the way out I should tell the manager that you have a request that they put cashew chicken on the buffet, even though you really prefer the honey chicken, you were really disappointed that you were forced to try something new.”  It was then that I got the mom face.  “Did I raise you to be a smart ass?”  Of course I erupted in laughter.  I just looked at her and said, “hell yes you did.  You and dad both did.  I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of dodging the smart ass gene.  I knew these things from the beginning of my existence.  I was going to be short.  I was going to have blue eyes, and I was going to be a smart ass.  Everything else was up for grabs. ”  It was then that my sister looked up and said “what are you all talking about?”  Mom and I both started laughing then.  Even mom realized that she hadn’t paid one bit of attention to anything that had gone on prior to our outburst of laughter.  

I also have my dad’s hearing, so far.  Thank God.  My sense of humor is my own.  It’s kind of a combination.  My mother is kind of slapstick and dad’s was wellllllll,  let’s just say unique.  All in all it was an interesting Saturday afternoon.  And make no mistake dear ones, it took all Saturday afternoon.  When you are lunching with little old ladies it’s never just lunch, and lunch is always long.  My sister can turn eating into a marathon event.  I have seen her eat pie for days.  We went to lunch at two and I was home by six.  My sister was still at my mom’s when I left.  Life is good.  I tease about mom because I can.  We’re fortunate that she’s in such good health, other than her hearing, and she can’t hear us tease her about that.  I have already told my kids they won’t have that luxury.  If my hearing starts to go I am consulting every specialist available to me to have it restored.  I’m not letting those smarmy little beasts talk about me the way I talk about my mom!

 

My husband has been gone for a week.  I don’t mind really.  I mean I miss his existence in the house, but I can certainly survive alone.  I have.  I was a single mom for quite a while.  Once while I was married, and once while I was not.  The problem is this: when I am alone I get bored.  When I get bored I clean.  I hate cleaning.

My mother-in-law, Tootsie, loved a clean, well organized house more than almost anything.  The first time I spent the night at her home (my hubby and I were just dating at the time) I realized the extent of her obsession with cleanliness when my post shower routine was interrupted with a knock at the door.  Suspecting a house fire, I opened the door to find Tootsie with a bottle of Pine-Sol and a rag. “Can I come in?”  Stunned beyond belief, I of course said yes, and she cleaned the shower while I watched shivering in a towel.  I do not share my mother-in-law’s love for clean or cleaning.  I enjoy having a clean house.  I do not enjoy getting it there. 

I want a housekeeper.  I cannot afford a housekeeper.  What I really want is a maid that will work from about noon till about eight at night, but if I can’t afford a housekeeper who could come in weekly, you can bet your butt the maid thing is probably not going to work out.  Life is not fair.   I ask for so little.  I am vexed by so much.  The last housekeeper I had was a jewel.  She could clean sin off your soul, and I mean that literally.  Every time she came in she wanted to pray over me.  She could clean like a m’er f’er, but she preached the entire time she was here (and yes I recognize the irony of saying she could clean like an m’er f’er).  I could ignore the preaching.  I was, after all, raised Baptist.  So as long as she cleaned well she could preach till the sheep came home (get it…Jesus was a shepherd?)  Anyway, she stayed with us for awhile and then she got into it with some of the ladies in the neighborhood and just dumped the lot of us.  She said it wouldn’t be fair to clean for some and not all.  I say Bullshit!  She was mad at them not me.  Doesn’t matter now though…I couldn’t afford to pay her anyway.  My dad used to have a saying “I’m so poor I can’t afford to pay attention.”  I’m there. 

Anyway right now, to quote the small ghost buster in Poltergeist “This house is clean!” Someone asked me once if my OCD included housekeeping.  I responded by saying that you could eat off of my floors.  The only problem was, I wouldn’t have to cook.  My house is clean enough for company and dirty enough for family.  Don’t you hate it when you go into a home that feels like a museum.  Everything is so perfect you are afraid to touch anything.  Your hostess asks if you would like a drink, and you truly would love something but you are so afraid you will make a mess that you don’t dare imbibe.  You suffer the whole time you are there and duck out to the nearest Sonic ASAP for a limeade.  That is not my home.  Put your feet up, set your drink down, and when it’s time….get your butt out!!  That’s my house.  Just the way I like it.  It is also kid friendly.  It kinda has to be. 

Anyway, there are only a few more rooms that need to be re-vamped.  I’ve cleaned out all the cabinets, re-organized all the drawers, vacuumed, dusted, mopped (somewhere Tootsie is soooo happy) all of the downstairs and most of the upstairs.  I think it’s something like four more days before he’s home and I’ve got maybe three more rooms and two of them are small.  I need to pace myself.  If I run out of rooms all that is left is closets…the only thing worse than cleaning is cleaning closets.  I need a hobby!

Someone sent me an email last week that basically encouraged adults to be more childlike.  The excercise took one through a maze of substitutions that once successfully accomplished would give you a new name.  Allow me to introduce myself…I am Sloopy Chickentush.  I am not an original Chickentush. I was born a Dippinfannie, but in 1995 I married into the Chickentush family and I have been firmly perched here ever since.

My husband’s family is not exceptionally large.  His father Snickle Chickentush married Tootsie Chickentush when they were quite young and they had Funky.  Later in life they had a little miracle that I call husband, and the rest of the world calls “Doombah”.  About that same time, Funky married his college sweetheart Dinky.  They had a son and named his Dorfus.  Many years later when Doombah reached maturity he also married his college sweetheart and I became a Chickentush.  My oldest son loved the Chickentush line so much that once my husband and I married he had his name legally changed to Chickentush and now he is known as Snooty Chickentush.  My two other children kept the name of their sperm donor and are known chronologically as Crusty and Sloopy Chickenburger (yes, my daughter is named after me.)  When my son married my non-vag daughter she of course became Dorky Chickentush.  When Crusty marries the lovely young woman he is dating, I assume she will drop her maiden name of Humpdunkin and become Dorphus Chickenburger.  I’m only guessing.  She’s an actress, so it’s anyone’s guess. My daughter is dating a young man by the name of Sleezy Dippingizzard.  I think they may be serious, but I’m always the last to know. He has a little boy named Farcus…thank God…the last thing we need in this family is another Dorfus or Doombah!  As you know, the light of my life is young master Snickle Chickentush.  It wasn’t until I went through this renaming that I realized that he was named after his paternal great-grandfather.  However; his middle name is Sloopy so he is also named after me a little as well.  He looks a little like Doombah though and that has a lot of people scratching their heads.  Snooty doesn’t like to talk about it at all, but Dorky just laughs it off.

I haven’t spoken much about my side of the family.  It’s not that I’m ashamed.  In 1946, Dinky Dippinfannie took the hand of Boobie Battyhump in marriage.  They had five daughters.  Dorfus, Dinky, Tootsie, Doombah, and Sloopy.  While Tootsie died as an infant, the other four girls survived and are still going strong.  Dorfus married and became Mrs. Dorfus Pottydoodle.  She has two daughters and six grandchildren.  Dinky is now Dinky Gizzardlips and she and Mr. Gizzardlips had three children and three grandchildren.  Doombah married a Dippindoodle and had a boy and a girl and just last April her daughter blessed her with a little girl named Boobie Rhinonose.  She’s just precious!  Of course you can just read all about me in the previous paragraph.

In the past I have been somewhat reluctant to mention names in the body of my blogs.  I know it can be embarassing for my family members when I out them.  However; if any members of the Chickentushes, Dippinfannies, Pottydoodles, Gizzardlips, Dippindoodles, Dippinfannies, Chickendunkins, Chickenburgers, Dippingizzards, or Humpindunkins are upset by the use of their proper names I place all the blame squarely on the shoulders of my friend Sloopy Gizzardbrains.  She is the one who sent me the original email explaining the procedure for renaming yourself.  Sloopy…it’s all your fault!

Whoever created geese was wrong.  I realize I am opening myself up for a backlash of criticism from all of the people who believe God doesn’t make mistakes, but let me tell you (before you get on your soap box) geese are hateful, nasty, hissing, creatures that have no purpose other than bullying other fowl.   If you doubt this take a loaf of bread (and some pointy toed shoes) and head to your nearest duck pond.  I promise you will soon find that you hate geese at least as much as I do.  Here’s why:

Yesterday, I took my sweet angel faced grandson to the duck pond.  This was a first trip for the two of us together.  He loves birds.  He spots them in the car and gets so excited he can’t stand it.  I thought a trip to the duck pond would be just the thing.  We took a bag of stale popcorn, a few pieces of stale bread, and our little short legs and off we went on our little adventure.  When we arrived he couldn’t have been more excited.  There were birds everywhere.  They even came up to the car in anticipation of treats.  He couldn’t wait.  As soon as I unhooked the car seat, he was ready to go.  His little legs were a blur as he headed, popcorn in hand, to the duck pond.  Travelling behind him with equal verve was an army of ducks and a few Canadian geese.  He was in heaven.  Once in a while his little beaming face would look at me and say “ducks!” with such pleasure that my heart was melting.  This was as great as I thought it would be.  Now, if I could just keep him out of the water. 

He very carefully picked one kernel of popcorn at a time out of the bag and threw it at the swarm of ducks.  The geese intercepted every throw.  Now at 20 months, his arm isn’t exactly major league and the ducks seemed to realize they needed to adjust…so they got a little closer.  He threw another few pieces.  The geese were still quicker on the uptake.  He started trying to just hand it to the ducks…imminent disaster…I begged him to please throw to the duckies…they like to play catch.  With the next throw the piece of popcorn landed in the hood of his jacket behind him.  He was confused as to where it went and began turning in circles looking for it.  His hands were out in a “where did it go?” gesture as he was circling and as I moved toward him to retrieve it I saw that a very large Canadian goose had spied it and was going in for the grab.  I really don’t know if I was more scared or angry.  I knew that goose was going to peck at the popcorn, but I was afraid that hard bill was going to hit that precious baby’s head on the way in, and I knew it was going to scare the freaking hell out of him when it did.  So, I did the only thing an Emmy with any sense can do…I screamed “NO…get away from my effin’ baby you effin’ goose!”  and drop kicked a goose across the park.  Now you would think that would scare a child too.  You know, seeing his grandmother screaming like a banshee and drop kicking water fowl, but amazingly my grandson didn’t bat an eye.  In fact, he seemed relieved that I was screaming at the goose and not at him.  However, when I kicked the goose it honked a honk that was so impressive my grandson stared in astonishment.  Then he looked at me and absolutely doubled over in laughter.  Not just chuckles, either.  He was doubled over in that deep belly laughter of babies that absolutely no one is immune to.  He had both hands on his knees and tears in his eyes when h e finally was able to catch his breath he used the American Sign Language sign for more.  It seemed he wanted me to kick another one.  (I kinda wanted to as well) I spent the rest of the afternoon on goose guard and he spent it trying to mimic the honk.  On the downside, I’m pretty sure that I ruined a pretty good pair of shoes.  I don’t know what was on the underside of that goose or whether it was there before or after the kick but it doesn’t come out of canvas.

My sister had told me, last summer about some friends of hers who were walking on a park path in town and  were accosted by a goose.  She said they got so scared they ended up leaving the park.  I couldn’t believe two grown woman would let a goose run them out of a park, and told her that I thought they should have just kicked the hell out of it.  After having experienced the thrill of flying fowl at the tip of my tiny foot I feel even more strongly about it.   You really haven’t lived until you have retaliated against one of God’s creatures that is menacing you.  Obviously, you have to be careful about repercussions.  You can’t randomly drop kick humans and if the ASPCA had been there (or PETA) they might have had something to say, but in that moment…given the choice of that precious blond head or that feathered hateful hissing thing, there was really only one choice…the feathers were going to fly.

I believe in evolution.  Perhaps God didn’t make geese as mean as they are now.  Perhaps they have evolved into these creatures because small children in parks torture them or perhaps when we are not looking the ducks make fun of them and their only recourse is to steal their food when they get the chance.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that they behave like street thugs and they need to be taken out of public parks.  I don’t exactly see how that is going to happen, but if you are taking small children to a duck pond any time soon beware of the geese.  Watch closely…and wear pointy shoes!!!

 

I have been reading everything I can read about the “Octomom”.  I know this is just sensationalism, and I don’t really condone it.  I just like that the media is calling her the “Octomom”.  I wish I had been a cool enough mom to have a moniker.  I would have probably been the “Cusses like a Sailor” mom or “Can’t seem to get shit done” mom.  You’ve got to admit, love her or hate her, “Octomom” has a nice ring to it. 

It sounds like instead of eight preemie babies she has eight long tentacled arms and is able to do several things extraordinarily well.  I’m beginning to believe in her too.  She has her B.A. in Science and is planning to go back to school in the fall to get her Masters.  Apparently we are all gonna foot the bill for it too, because when she was asked if she had anyway of paying back the student loans she was applying for she quite honestly said no.  Her parents deliver all her kids to all of their appointed schools and return to take care of the smaller ones while she is seeing the babies at the NICU, and up until recently she had a publicist who was taking care of book, movie, and t.v. deals for her.  Seems the big chicken dumped her when he got a few death threats for handling her.  She’s got 14 kids under the age of 8 and he’s afraid of death.  Typical guy.   Speaking of guys…the 14 kids all have the same sperm donor, and I say sperm donor not dad because he is a friend of hers who would only donate if she would promise that under no circumstances would he ever have to help out financially with these kids.  They actually signed an agreement.  I signed that same agreement with my kids sperm donor.  It was a marriage license.  (insert rim shot) 

A recent article made the comment that “Octomom” was fascinated with Angelina Jolie.  Well, who isn’t?  What alien being is this Jolie creature who can raise six kids, make movies, sexually satisfy Brad Pitt, and live on airplane fuel?  I don’t see how she finds time for plastic surgery.  She is just amazing!  If she could act, no telling what she could accomplish.  “Octomom” outdid her though.  She took her measly brood and doubled it plus.  There was speculation that “Octomom had surgery to look more like the alien Ms. Jolie.   Duh!  Has anyone looked at a before and after photo of “Okky”?  Milk does not flow into lips.  Girl looks like a duck.  She can’t really even close her lips anymore.    Please….hasn’t had surgery about like Lisa Rinna hasn’t had surgery.   She had better be saving that surgery money for having dance hall rejuvenation.  First time she sneezes and pees herself she’s gonna be questioning the wisdom of those lips. 

My own theory of multiple pregnancy is this.  If woman were meant to have more than two babies at once, they would have more than two nipples.  In the animal world any animal that gives birth to multiples has a number of offspring equal to but not much greater than the number of nipples on there chest.  Yes, sometimes you will get a naturally occurring odd man out, but not six.  “Octomom’s” doctor was much more concerned with making history than the tiny lives he was creating.  When man starts playing God things start to go wrong.  Whether it’s placing babies in the womb or putting fat woman in spandex…just because you can doesn’t mean you should.  We have to learn to think more closely about the outcome of our action.   This woman is raising Jurassic Park!  Wanting kids is grand…it’s wonderful…it’s the way we are built.  Everyone who wants and can provide for children should have them.  Therein lies the rub…can she provide for 14 little mouths? 

“Octomom” is going to need to be a superhero.  She is going to need at least eight arms and all the help she can get.  She is going to need a real understanding set of grandparents and a cracker jack pediatrician…and if it was me a real good psychiatrist (although it could be that the barn door got left open on that one).  I’m glad it wasn’t me though.  I never had fertility issues, so I don’t understand that empty feeling of longing that women who can’t have children experience.  Even so, I never wanted a huge number of children.  I always knew that 2 or 3 would be my limit.  I think that is what confuses so many of us just plain humans…we are so happy just counting our 2 or 3 blessings, we can’t imagine going back to the IVF clinic for more when you have 6 at home.  What does that say to those 6?  Sorry, you just weren’t enough. 

Poor “Octomom”.  She was full, but was she fulfilled?  Only time will tell.  But if I were that sperm donor, unless I was an attorney and I knew that document was iron clad, I would be hell bent for leather…cause you know that some day assistance is going to run out, and she can only go to school for so long.   I mean, just who do you think she’s going to turn to when the chips are down?  Not the Dr. at the clinic.   That only leaves you, my friend….the judge ruled in my favor….and that’s all I have to say about that (14 times).

 

Did you ever have one of those days where just about everything pisses you off?  I’ve been having a lot of them  lately.  The doctor has changed my meds in hopes of improving my mood.  I’m still waiting.  So far my anger is in check.  Although the other day when a lady stole my parking space, I did say some pretty choice things in front of my mother.  Luckily she has reached an age where she thinks those things are funny.  Good thing too, because I really hated the taste of soap and I think I can take her now.

There really is no reason for my enhanced bitchiness.  It just is what it is.  My family physician calls it seasonal affective disorder.  I call it “can somebody do something about all these stupid people disorder.”  Well there are four seasons and I seem to have a disorder for all four of them.  So i guess it more like yearly affective disorder.  Instead of SAD I have YAD.  Call it whatever you want, I got my cranky pants on and they are attached firmly.  The storm of the century did nothing to lighten my mood.  I have been trying, ever since we moved in here, to grow a lilac bush.  The first one was a cutting from a lilac bush that had been my grandmother’s.  It died immediately.  The second one was one my sister gave me.  It lasted a little over a year.  Finally,  I bought one from a nursery.  It had lasted about five years.  Each year it grew a little taller, and each spring I checked for blooms.  Each year I found no blooms and no hope of blooms.  I finally asked my local grower what I had done wrong and he said that it takes three to five years to see growth on a new lilac bush.  This would be my year.  Then the ice storm came and now my lilac bush is gone.  There is just naked mulch where it used to be.

This is what I’m talking about, dear ones, this is the state of my nation.  For every five years of growth, I get a freaking ice storm of death.  For every five steps forward there is an avalanche of disaster that pummels me backwards.  Lately the only person to really put a smile on my face is my grandson.  Today when his mother told him it was time to go home he headed towards the car.  I asked for my bye kiss, and he shook his little head no.  Well, this is a game we sometimes play.  He says no, and I retaliate by kissing him all over his face.  So I got in the car to kiss his whole face, and he looked at me with total sincerity and said “Get out!”  There are days when you can’t win at all.

Settle in my dear ones.  I have promised to tell you this wicked, wicked story, and I shall.  Put on your jammies and grab your woobies it is time to hear of the ICE STORM OF 2009 (play scary music now). 

 The sky was gray and unfriendly that morning as a gentle cold rain began to fall over Boringville, Arkansas.  Children went to school as usual and Adults went to work as usual but usual wouldn’t last long (cue scary music again).  I was making lunch in the kitchen  when I heard a noise that sounded just like a gunshot.  It was a real cracking sound and then a pop.  I didn’t think much about it.  I figured the old man next door had finally had enough of the old biddy he’s married to and done her in.  I mean the neighbors across the street had reported a gun missing about a month ago, it seemed like it was all falling into place.  Then I looked up and saw our pear tree fall across our back yard.  That was different.  I would’ve loved to have told someone “hey, did you just notice that our pear tree fell in the backyard?” but there was no one to tell.  My daughter was still asleep, and my hubby was in the shower.  When he came downstairs, I asked him the  tree question and he said that he had indeed seen the tree falling right after he heard the gunshot, so being intelligent people we then begin to believe that the gunshot was actually the tree cracking prior to falling.

All through the day you could hear the sounds of the trees cracking and popping and the loud crash as they fell.  At one point we were sitting at the kitchen table and just watching the trees fall.  It was that bad.  Then reports of power outages started.  My son called first and said they had no power.  I told them to come over.  We still had power.  They thought that would have been a great idea, had there not been two inches of ice on the road.  I called my mother.  She was also without power and so was my sister.  No one was risking life and limb to get out on the road and that included us.  I love my family, and had it just been snow and not ice, I might have tried it.  However; it was ice and it was thick thank you very much…but if I had managed to have driven up in front of my mother’s apartment in my car on ice two inches thick I would have received a tongue lashing that you would not have believed.  And, it would have lasted all the way back across the ice to get to my house and for two days after at least.  NO Thanks!!  I stayed home.  We had electricity, we had satellite, and we were good to go.

The next day road crews were working, (they had been working through the night) and the main and major roads were passable by noon.  They weren’t great, but if you were very careful, they were passable.  Using a great deal of caution we inched to my mother’s house and insisted that she come home with us.  She swore she was fine.  It was 57 degrees in her apartment and she could withstand that.  We bullied her into coming anyway, and we tried to bully  my sister into coming as well, but she held out for another two days.  Yes, you heard right.  Two days later she was still in the dark and without heat.  She gave in on Friday.   Then she and mother begin to try to see who would be the first to get to leave.  It was beginning to become a kind of demented little contest.  Let’s Play -  Who will get their heat back first.  (cue game show music)  “That’s right Johnny tell our two contestants what they could win” …cue gameshow announcer…”Well Chuck, our lucky winner will get hot and cold running water, and light to see how to shower.  But wait,  they will also have heat!!  Think that’s it?  Not yet,  We’re throwing in cable reception too!”  Every morning they would call their apartment manager’s and ask if they had power.  Every morning the answer was no.  Every evening they would drive by to check and see if the lights were on in their apartment  complex.  Every night they would come home to me, depressed.  It was the saddest thing ever.  I couldn’t wait for them to go home.  On Saturday, my sister got the call.  She danced all around the house (not pretty) and got up in mother’s face “I’ve got electricity” like a six year old who grabbed the last sucker.  Mom looked like she wanted to punch her.  I was willing to hold her down.  When mom left the room, my sister looked at me and said, “I think mother is jealous that I have electricity.”  I puked a little in my mouth. 

My sister went home, and my poor, elderly, homeless mother ambled up the stairs to take a nap (insert heavy sighing and much drama).  Now throughout all of this, several cell phone calls were made to report the destruction to relatives far and wide.  Cell towers were afflicted too of course, so about a zillion times I would hear, “hello, hello,…hmmm, something must have happened.”  This was followed by immediate redials.  I am not kidding here dear ones.  My mother and my oldest sister are the same person.  I don’t know how this is possible, I’m not going to make myself crazy figuring it out…it just is…’nough said.  In addition, if I explained once, I explained a million times why cell phones might not work when the weather is as nasty as it was that particular week.  “Hello, Hello…hmmm, I guess they hung up.”  Sometimes I wanted to cry.   On Monday, my mother got electricity.  She was so excited.  There was so much to do.  She had to clean out the refrigerator and the freezer.  She would have to go to the grocery store and restock.  OMG!!!  She was just beside herself with joy.  So many projects.  She was done by noon.  She wasn’t aware the power had been restored until ten. 

The ice storm will not be forgotten.  I promise you that.  The wreckage is visible everywhere in our town.  We once had beautiful trees as far as you could see.  Now, the ripped limbs, and torn branches are a reminders of what nature can do.  My backyard is as naked as naked gets.  All three of our pear trees are gone.  We have nothing.  Of course, we will replant but the real tragedy here is what happens when three old women are forced to live together for any time period at all.  It just shouldn’t happen.  I love the both of them and if they ever need to stay here again of course they will be welcome.  I am not unlike a meteorologist.  If I see that this might happen I will be forwarned and armed for the battle.  For I have been to my doctor, and he has seen to it that if nature must take its course I will be medicated.

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