We are fast becoming members of the What’s Going To Go Wrong Next? club as it pertains to our home.  It seems like every time we turn around something is needing repair.  I tried to quit turning around, but that’s harder than it sounds.  I keep thinking our home is new because it was when we bought it, but the fact of the matter is it is creeping up on twenty years old.  I know that hardly makes it a stop on the scenic tour of antebellum homes, but it is old enough to have things go wrong…I should know.

The first thing that happened (at least I think it was the first) was the leaky roof.  It leaked in the theater room and in my daughter’s bedroom.  I didn’t notice the theater room until the ceiling actually started to peel and the roof started to buckle in the kitchen.  This required a drywall repairman, they are very colorful by the way…not dry at all, and more money than you would think yet not enough to file a home owner’s claim.  The leak in my daughter’s bedroom was noticed much sooner.  It happened right over her vanity and at the time she was living at home and spending quite a bit of time in front of her mirror.  Having raindrops fall on her precious head wasn’t her idea of good grooming and you can believe me when I tell you we heard about it shortly after it happened.  My husband’s idea of repairing that particular leak was to go up in the attic and put a bucket underneath it which filled and fell and warped her ceiling which still needs to be repaired, although we did repair the roof, finally.

About six months ago, I started complaining that the kitchen smelled like a basement.  It smelled musty and dank.  No one else smelled it.  Yet the smell got stronger.  I kept telling people that somewhere under the kitchen sink there was dampness.  No one else could smell it so no one paid any attention to my ravings.  Fine, I started removing all of the cleaning supplies from under the sink to see if I could find the source of the stink and as I did I noticed that all of the things in paper containers were damp.  I soldiered on and after completely cleaning the cabinet out saw that the floorboard was more warped than my sense of humor.  The last straw was the mold on the back wall.  Before I took mold and mildew cleaner to the back wall I made everyone come sniff to smell what I had been smelling and then called a plumber.  The plumber said that some piece had jarred loose from the garbage disposal and he put it back on and told me I should call the insurance company because their could be black mold under the cabinet floor.  Great!  I called the insurance…they don’t cover mold.   Super great!!  I told my husband that we would have to call someone to tear out the cabinet bottom and replace it.  He told me he could take care of it himself.  Now I am worried.  Five months (and lots of complaining later) he breaks out the floor.  The mold is non-existent but the basement smell is rampant and the concrete floor is wet.  At about this same time I notice that the silverware to the right of the sink is beading with sweat during the day.  I am smart enough to know that there is moisture under the sink coming from somewhere.   I start moving all the things that can be affected by moisture away from the splash zone and find that it is hot behind the kitchen drawers and there is a standing puddle of water.  While all this is going on, my husband is out of town.  When he comes home, he notices the smell I’ve been smelling for six months and has a cow and calls the plumber again who notices (now) that the hot water heater has been over flowing and draining hot water outside which had backed up and flowed back into the house.  (Did you catch the part at the start where I smelled this six months ago?  Sheesh!)

 The pool drained over the winter last year.  It still has a star in the shallow end. The heater went out during the real cold spell we had just after the ice storm.  The air conditioning is out now.  The A/C unit is the one we replaced just last summer.  There is a crack in the ceiling where my hubby stepped off one of the beams in the attic and cracked it.   The carpet has developed a hump.  The tile in front of the fireplace is cracked where the painting above it fell a few years ago and cracked it ( the painting was destroyed).  I dare not even think of all the things that are lurking in the shadows waiting to go wrong.   I still look at the ceiling when it rains.  I check under the sink when I use the garbage disposal.  I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I don’t usually have to wait too long.   Like right now the A/C dude just walked in and told me that he can’t find the leak in the air conditioner.  He has it up and running right now, but it will go out again  (probably late on a Friday in the hottest part of summer) and he’s added something to it that will leave a trace when it leaks.  There’s nothing to do now but wait.  I suggested something…replacing the whole effing unit!  I’m beginning to wonder if there was anything wrong with the unit we replaced last year.  It was doing this same thing and they said it had a leak.  Why do all air conditioners for this particular area of the house leak?  Perhaps they are all post-menopausal.  I just wish I cold stick a panty shield under the air conditioner and solve the problem. 

 You are taught to believe all of the cliches about all of the crap life hands you…if life gives you lemons make lemonade, it’s always darkest before the dawn, and which you reach rock bottom there’s no where to go but up.  Bull crap!!  There are such things as bad lemons that won’t make lemonade, eclipses, and plains that are flat for miles and miles before you get to start up again.  You don’t lose hope of course, but sometimes it brings to mind that other wise saying…sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is and oncoming train.

 

I succumbed to an infomercial.  I can’t believe I did it but I bought an “AS SEEN ON TELEVISION” item at Walgreen’s.  It’s the one that promises to remove hair and all you have to do is just gently rub it in a clockwise motion.  I had mom with me and I saw it and commented that I figured it was just a crock, but mom said that she had used the same thing years before and it worked.  Suddenly I was intrigued so I bought it and took it home to try.

The Smooth Awaycomes with two mitts.  One is large for large areas of your body and one is small to handle smaller areas.  It is basically really fine sandpaper that sticks to these mitts and you just rub the hair off your whatever.  Actually, I didn’t use it on my whatever.  I used it on my face.  It worked too!  As you all know I have complained about the chin whiskers,  well I rubbed those m’er f’ers right off.  I was sold!  I started rubbing my upper lip.  The cookie duster came clean in about 2 minutes.  Awesome!!  I looked at the peach fuzz that has been gathering on my face ever since menopause has set in.  I couldn’t stand it.  I started rubbing.  It came off too!  Not only was my face fur free I was now blessed with a rosy glow.  It was awesome.  The look of my skin was similar to that of someone who has just had an acid peel or a deep tissue facial.  It was amazing.  I was so impressed.  I went ahead and got in the shower to get ready for my day and when I got out I applied my moisturizer like always.  Holy Mary Mother of God…they forgot to mention that your face might be sensitive to products like your moisturizer right after you use sandpaper on it.  It never even entered my mind because up until then it didn’t hurt, and my moisturizer is by a company called Skyn from Iceland  and it has some type of cooling product in it.  Geez-a-lou it was like putting Icy Hot on a rug burn on my face!  I was upstairs in just a towel running around my bedroom nearly in tears saying “bring on the cool..bring on the cool.”  Finally the cooling effects began to kick in but seriously I thought no matter how good my face looked I might never do that again.

Then the hair started to grow back in.  It never occurred to me that I would have stubble.  The infomercial never discussed the coarse hair that would grow back in.  Seriously, I might as well have shaved!  I got the rosy glow (especially after the damned moisturizer) but I hadn’t counted on four o’clock shadow!  Fortunately it  took a few days before this showed up, as hairy as I am I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the same day.  Let me tell you, there would have been no way sandpaper was going back on this face that day.  I was really doing some thinking about whether or not I was going to even attempt the whole process again,  but some kid thought I was Colonel Sanders and that cinched it.  Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration but still I decided that if I were to swap the moisturizer for something a little kinder maybe it would be okay.  It was.  No pain!  I still got the rosy glow, but I didn’t have the stinging and burning so I don’t know if it was just that particular moisturizer (which I can still use on the days I don’t use the mitt) or if it was just the initial shock of my skin or the combination.  What I do know is that this product works.   But, you knew there was going to be a but didn’t you?  It is very slow going.  I wouldn’t want to use it on my legs and they are only about 28 inches long. It took the better part of 15 minutes to do my face, and I have a little face.  If I were to do my legs I would   A.) have to go without shaving for at least two days  and  B.) have to set aside half a day for the procedure.  I’ll just shave.  It’s boring and time consuming but at least I know it works and I don’t have to worry about which lotion I’m going to use.

I don’t usually buy stuff that I see on television.  I used to buy it for my dad because he thought all of it was great, and he used it too.  He had just about everything gadget you could think of and he loved each and every one.  We joked and joked about just getting Pa’s Christmas presents from the As Seen On TV aisle at Walgreens and one year we did.  It didn’t phase him a bit.  He loved it.  One year my husband bought me the  Magic Bullet because we loved the infomercial.  The premise was this young couple had these people drop by for a party and they could make all the party food and even Margaritas with the Magic Bullet.  The best part was the cranky old Aunt who lived with them.  When she came out of her bedroom in a floral quilted robe with curlers in her hair and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth begging for booze, I knew I needed a Magic Bullet.  I’ve used it maybe twice, and I’ve never used it to make Margaritas.

Anyway, do what you will with the info.  I’m just saying that it’s out there and it works and if you have nothing to do for several minutes, hours, days…you could always rub the hair off your __________(fill in the blank).  My hubby thought he was going to rub the hair off his face, but it would have taken a power sander not the poor little Smooth Away mitt I had.  I had to break the news to him that the instructions clearly state that it is not to be used on a masculine face…which is odd, because I have seen some women with masculine faces…and he just couldn’t understand what the difference would be.  It’s kind of the difference between an S.O.S. pad and a Cotton Ball.  Still the thought of him spending the days it would have required to get rid of his beard was funny to me because he only spends the ten minutes it takes to shave about twice a year.  I hated to tell him it wouldn’t work.  So as long as your not a heavily bearded man or if you are only a moderately hairy woman I strongly recommend the Smooth Away.  I would love to use it on my legs, but I just don’t have the patience to stay with anything for that long.  If you do, more power to you.  With my luck it would just erase some of the leg that I have and I really don’t have any to spare.  

 

So here’s the thing, if you are a guy you might want to stop reading now.  This is not going to put you in a good light.  I can’t help it.  I’m going to lightly male bash.  I am a woman, it is my right.  Furthermore, I am a married woman.  It is my domain.

As women we all know that men, all men but specifically our men, have faults.  Some faults are unforgivable, like  abuse either verbal or physical.  While other faults are just a pain, like leaving the toilet seat up.  The trick is to find a man whose faults you can live with.  Then you mess with him.  I swear!  It is your inalienable right as his wife.  They mess with us all the time.  They think they are right when you know they are wrong.  They refuse to do something they have promised to do since before you were engaged.  The list is a mile long and a half mile wide and you know that another man is just going to take at least as long to break in and do you really want to go to all the trouble so you do the next best thing…you mess with them.

My husband hates wire hangers.  He could be Joan Crawford on a bad day about wire hangers.  He just goes on and on.  When we first got married I brought a ton of wire hangers into the house.  I swear for six months every time we went to Wal-Mart we bought plastic hangers and threw out wire hangers in an attempt to banish wire hangers from our closet.  Here’s the thing…I never threw the wire hangers away.  I knew that you always need hangers.  So I just put them in the hall closet and then they weren’t visible to him and all was well.  That was year one.  We were newlyweds.  He wasn’t bugging me yet.  Yet.

Over time the constantly not being wrong (I can’t say he was always right…I can say he thinks he was), the locking me out of the bedroom, the talking to me while I was on the phone and so on got to me.  I am only human.  About this same time, I separated our closets.  We no longer had a joint closet with another closet for clothes that were out of season.  He had a closet and I had a closet.  Now I do all the laundry.  Not because I am a woman but because I prefer to not have my clothing ruined when it is washed.  I wash it, dry it, fold or hang it up and all he has to do is take his and put it away either in the dresser or in his closet.  It never happens.  His clothes inevitably are hanging in the laundry room or are in the floor of his closet where he has thrown them.  Do you have any idea how irritating it is to do laundry only to have it thrown in the closet floor?  So…I have begun rotating the wire hangers back into service.  This project has been ongoing for about two years now.

For the longest time I thought he hadn’t noticed.  Nothing had been said.  Then about two weeks ago I told him I was out of hangers in the laundry room would he pull the empty hangers out of his closet.  He started ripping through his closet pulling out wire hangers.  “Where in the hell did these come from?  I can’t stand wire hangers.  We’ve got plenty of hangers.  Why are my clothes hung on these?”  I looked up at him innocently and said “I guess from the store.”  “Well, there must be twenty in here.”  To which I replied, “Well, don’t throw them out.  It looks like you have at least thirty things in the floor that need to be hung up and you’ll need those hangers.”  Well, then it was on.  No he didn’t.  Yes, he did…and so on until finally in order to prove to me he was right he had to hang up the things in the floor of his closet.

Well, of course he didn’t need the wire hangers so I threw them out (sure I did), and all of the things that needed to be hung back up in the bottom of his closet are back in order.  I haven’t exactly figured out how to Brer Rabbit him into putting all of the crap in the bottom of his closet into the dresser yet, but I’m working on it.  He knows better than to leave his closet like that too.  He told my mother that if his mother could see his closet she would kick his butt.  I’m thinking of channeling her seance style.  Probably wouldn’t work though, he didn’t listen to her either.  I wouldn’t take such pride in tricking him into doing things if he wasn’t such a smarty pants about avoiding such things.  He knows that I have obsessive compulsive disorder and can’t really relax unless things are in their place and leaving crap in the closet floor is his way of messing with me. 

When my children were small I became convinced they stole my intelligence.  I said dumb things all the time.  Part of that was because they limited my otherwise colorful vocabulary.  The other part of that was sleep deprivation.  I remember telling my oldest once that if I had waited until he was fifteen to have other children I wouldn’t have.  At the time, his siblings were thirteen and eight.  I have used so many sentences with oxymorons while trying to explain things to my kids that I am surprised they were able to comprehend most of what I was trying to convey at all.  For awhile I was worried that it was just me, but then I started paying attention to my non-vag daughter.  She an excellent mother, but she’s just as nutty as squirrel poop when it comes to dealing with the Precious.  Allow me to elaborate.

On Friday my non-vag daughter and I found ourselves without husbands so we decided to take the Precious to dinner.  We aren’t insane.  We took him to a local Mom & Pop Restaurant which is never busy and could withstand the sometimes contrary attitudes of an overachieving almost two year old.  (Translation: he’s taking the terrible twos to a whole new level) First he didn’t want a high chair.  Then he did.  Then he wanted a booster seat.  Then he didn’t.  He wanted a drink of my tea.  Then he was digging the ice out of my glass with his chubby little mitt.  I ordered him a paper cup of ice to dig in so I could drink my tea.  He poured the ice out and still chub-fisted my tea.  I ordered another tea.  When the food came (he had grilled cheese and french fries) the fries were too hot so he just ate ketchup by the spoonful until his Mommy caught him.  Then he began chunking food at the floor.  Needless to say, mom had had enough.  She took him to the car while I took care of the check and by the time I got to the car it was a train wreck.  The Precious was in the car seat bawling his eyes out, snot streaming out of his nose, legs pounding the seat in front of him, head shaking back and forth…full on tantrum.  His mommy is looking a little haggard and like she’s torn somewhere between getting really drunk or risking the death penalty.  I love it!  Actually, I wish my son was here.  He is the one I placed the curse on (you know…I hope you have a child just like you) but he is in Florida on business. 

The Precious takes a breath…finally, and recovers enough to point a finger at his mother and shout “No!”  I have to tell you, I don’t know what her problem was.  I thought this was freaking adorable, but she looked into the rear view mirror and said, “No sir, you don’t tell me no!”  A fresh batch of tears sprang to his eyes, but much more briefly this time and a little more quietly he pointed and said “No!”  It wasn’t quietly enough though because mommy looked in the mirror again and said “That’s enough. Don’t you tell me no!”  There were no tears this time but there was a look in this child’s eyes that would have challenged Hannibal Lecter for pure, cold, emotionless, well calculated hatred and I saw him quietly raise that little pointer finger up by his nose and just above a whisper say “No.”  Sadly the poor unfortunate creature has a mother who is blessed with good hearing, and once again she unleashed on him.  “That makes three times I’ve told you not to tell me No.  Do you want a spanking when we get home?”  Now normally I don’t butt in.  I turn my head when he’s in trouble and I’m laughing.  I try not to pick him up when he’s asking to be picked up after they have disciplined him.  But this time I just had to say something.  I made sure he wasn’t paying any attention to me (and he wasn’t.  He was squalling like someone had decapitated his Teddy bear) and I said to my daughter “you really didn’t leave him any way to answer that spanking question.  You just told him not to tell you No, and then you asked him if he wants a spanking.  What’s the poor kid supposed to do?”  I can only see her eyes in the rear view mirror but I can see where the kid gets that Hannibal Lecter thing.  She sort of whispers, “shut up.”

When they got ready to leave our house that night he was ready to send mommy packing and move in.  I asked him if he just wanted to live with me and he said “Yeth.”  I’m not stupid and this is not my first trip to the dance.  I told him “tough, you’re going home if we have to walk.”   And I carried him to the car.  I did bribe him with some chocolate just to keep the crying down to a minimum.  But see here’s the thing…I’m just sort of starting to not say really dumb crap since my kids aren’t home any longer, and I know that senility is just a heartbeat away so I figure I’ve got to maintain gray matter while I can.   The other thing is just the whole justice issue.  This is the offspring of my oldest child.  My starter child, if you will.  Now I made a lot of mistakes with that kid and he made me pay for each and every one of them.  I have seen bumper stickers that say grandchildren are your revenge….I totally get it.  Now I am making him pay, and I feel that one of my Emmy duties is to point out their parenting discrepancies.  You know, like the spanking comment.  I also will be there to tell my grandchildren all the dumb crap their parents did or still do.  Just in case that senility kicks in early, I’ve got this blog as written testimony.  You are all my witnesses.  Be prepared to testify.

 

 

I have finally received my official papers from the Office of Title Registry (Britain).  I am an official Duchess.  Actually, I received them about ten days or so ago but at that point nothing funny had happened (or at least nothing worth writing about).  This has changed.  When I received my Title, one of the documents was an official name change.  It stated that my name has gone from just plain old Sloopy Chickentush to the fabulous Duchess Sloopy Chickentush and the paperwork that came with these documents suggested that you have your credit cards and checks and personal documents changed…mostly so you can get free crap if people are impressed by titles…so I did because I want all the free crap I can get.  I went about a week ago and had our checks changed and my credit cards changed and thought everything was taken care of. 

I received my new debit card and checks yesterday.  The debit card and checks proudly proclaim that I am Dutchess Sloopy Chickentush.  Did you see what I just wrote?  That wasn’t a typo.  The card and the checks both said DUTCHESS.  My husband was out of town on business.  I called him.  “Hey Sweetie, I got my new debit card and the new checks.”  “Oh yeah.” You could tell he was wondering why in the hell I had called him to tell him this news, since it was hardly earth shattering.  “Um Hmm.  They say right on them that I am a D.U.T.C.H.E.S.S.”  insert the sound of crickets chirping…”apparently I am not so much titled as I am a small woman from the Netherlands with wooden shoes.”  Then it hit him and the laughter ensued.

I have to say there was a part of me that was tempted just to keep the dutchess card and checks (by the way AMEX did better).  I kind of felt it was like when you wear a Rollex watch.  You know, I’m not a real Duchess…I’m a Dutchess.  Anyway, I went to the bank and went to see the child that had helped me before.  I walked in and the little thing remembered our conversation because as I approached her desk she said, “how can I help your grace?”  I said “well, you can learn to spell Duchess.”  The poor little thing turned every shade of red in the book.  When she saw that I was amused and not pissed she began to laugh as well.  I pointed out to her that these documents had gone through several people’s hands and no one had stopped and said “is that how you spell Duchess?”  She promised to expedite the new documents and made me promise not to execute her and after she found a blue sucker for the Precious, I granted a full pardon.

I know at some point this is going to wear off, but for right now I am having a lot of fun.  My hair stylist’s husband told my husband that he really didn’t think mine was an ego that needed to be fed in such a manner.  However; at that point it was too late.  The damage had been done.  The child at the bank offered to let me keep the checks.  I declined.  I can’t imagine sending those out unless I want people to think Dutchess is my first name.  I certainly don’t look Dutch.  Swiss Miss is as close as I have ever gotten to that particular area.  I would like to go, but they probably wouldn’t take a check or be impressed if my name was Dutchess with a T.  My brother-in-law has already compared me to a dead cat that shared the name, but even the cat’s name was spelled correctly.  The cat probably wouldn’t have been able to pass a check either…especially out of the country, at least I have a passport.  The passport doesn’t say Duchess or Dutchess…yet.  I will need to update that soon and have a new photo made.  Perhaps I shall wear my tiara.  My lovely Barbie tiara, and I will carry my Barbie scepter that matches.  If I had a pink Barbie fur cape to wear as well I would truly look like a Dutchess…with a T as in Mr. T.  I pity the fool who doesn’t bow down to her grace!  Or something….anyway, I am not from the Netherlands.  My title came from Britain.  I am no Dirtwater Duchess.  I am a real downtown, honest to God, dyed in the wool, Duchess.  I am trying to think of a name for our property so that I can say that I am the Duchess of blah, blah, blah.  So far, I’ve come up with things like Pear Treeless Swamp, and Toads Aplenty Mess.  Needless to say I’ve left the naming to my hubby.  Afterall, he is the one of us who has all the imagination.  Hard to believe, isn’t it? 

Last year when I was looking for class members I ventured onto facebook.  I don’t know if you are familiar with facebook or not, but it is an odd little idea.  You go on and create a profile of yourself.  You write a brief summary, interests, hobbies, lies….you get the idea.  You can add pictures if you want to, but the basic idea is that old friends and potential new friends can find you and you can catch up if you like.  According to some web news, it has become really popular especially among women in the mid forties.  I have a facebook page.  I hate it.

Here’s the thing…it takes way too much time, and it’s way too much a girl thing…in my opinion.  When I started my page I checked it daily and I answered all the little “requests”.  Now, a year later, I’m just annoyed by it.  It’s always something….so and so has sent you an easter egg, so and so has sent you a vacation request,  so and so has sent you a sasquatch.  The most recent tirade is “two of your friends think you are an idiot.”  Apparently two of the people on my “friends” list have taken an IQ test and they’ve challenged me to score higher than them.  Well a) you have to pay to take the test  b) I don’t need to take the test to know I’m and idiot  and  c) I’m still smarter than they are. 

I know these people.  I have seen their intelligence at work.  I’m not paying to take a test to prove what I already know.  Besides they posted their scores and one of them had a 113 and one of them, the brainiac scored a 120.  The last IQ test I took was a little over a year ago and I scored a 131.  Bite me, bitches!!  Actually one of them is a guy, and he has challenged my hubby too.  I’m kind of surprised the old hubby didn’t take the challenge.  He hates anyone thinking that they can better him at anything (especially smarts).  Which brings me to another point.  My husband has a facebook page.  He keeps in contact with his friends via facebook regularly.  I have like eleven friends on facebook, he has approximately 60, and most of them are female.  Yes, I’m miffed.  I have two guy friends…one is gay, and the other one might as well be…he is one of my husband’s good friends. 

Every time I log onto facebook someone is chatting with someone.  I use the phone.  Someone is sending someone some cartoon something.  It hardly seems heart felt if it is a mass produced message that anyone who is willing to pay can send to anyone anywhere in the world.  And everyone knows that everyone lies.  People put up Glamour Shots photos, or photos from that one summer that they lost 50 lbs.  They use the picture that places them in front of their rich friend’s home, or the ten year old pictures from the one decent vacation they’ve ever taken in their life.  It’s like dating on the internet, but worse because you are trying to fool several people at once. I have not hidden my disdain.  I once wrote in the blank that says “Sloopy is _____”, trying to decide if facebook is as lame as I think it is.   I think some people spend all day filling in that blank.  Really?  Is anyone vain enough to think that there is someone out there who cares what they are doing every moment of their day?  “Sloopy is obviously typing on facebook you morons.”  My photo isn’t even me, it’s my grandson.  I don’t even pretend.  If anyone sees that baby and thinks he can type all that crap and has money to send them all that junk then they deserve to have their stupid heads messed with.  So I’ve decide to rewrite my profile.  Tell me what you think.

I am thirty-esque Wiccan Goddess of short stature but wide girth who speaks first and thinks later.  I don’t do animals, and you can take that however you please.  I like to lie in my pool, ride my horse, and irritate my husband and children.  I do all of these things well.  I have even been called an expert.  I have no organizational skills.  This is one of the things I like most about me.  I either love people or I hate them.  I do not deal in gray areas.  Gray hair yes, gray areas no.  One of my biggest concerns is losing my hearing.  One of my super powers is smelling.  My eyesight is right on target. I touch who I please and spit out things that taste bad.  Life is too short to be miserable.  I have been known to eat dessert for dinner…and lunch and breakfast.  I believe you really are what you eat…so I make it my goal to only eat cute food.  I am a whore for shoes.  It is impossible to have too many.   I have bought shoes in anticipation of someday having an outfit that they would match.  I think the proper shoes can shape your destiny.  I like to have a purse to match each pair of shoes and a wallet to match each purse.  I don’t think your belt has to match your shoes or your purse but that’s mostly because I rarely tuck.  I never re-apply makeup and I don’t use hairspray.  It’s pointless because I love going topless (in my convertible) and do so whenever possible.  I don’t worry about what anyone thinks with the possible exception of my husband.  I need to know what he thinks so I can irritate him.  I think everyone should get to know me, because I am fabulous.

Yes I know it’s a bit wordy but did it make you smile?

 

I have a keen sense of smell.  If that were a super power it would suck!  The world is full of smells, but you really notice the unpleasant ones most often.  My husband has fantastic hearing.  He can hear a new can of tennis balls being opened over a block away.  Super sonic hearing is a great super hero power.  I can smell milk going bad three rooms away.  Not good!

I found out a long time ago that I had better than average olfactory senses.  For the first forty-three years of my life, I could only breathe out of one side of my nose.  A birth defect had left me completely blocked on the left side.  Much like that old adage, when one sense goes bad another improves, well my one nostril could sniff things out like a bloodhound.  Case in point: a very long time ago when the children were small I kept smelling gas.  Not petroleum, but natural gas.  This was in the summer and the heat wasn’t on and no one could smell anything but me.  I kept complaining, I kept being told I was crazy.  I was smelling my upper lip and such nonsense.  Finally, I called the gas company and they sent someone to check the line.  The repair person found a minuscule leak in the line that was leaking gas.   That is but one of many episodes of my nifty nose’s natural ability to pick up scents.  I have sniffed out lots of mold, things that should have been thrown out and weren’t, leftovers that were left over a little too long, and most recently a water leak under our sink.  Then a new stink slithered into town.

I began complaining a little over a week ago.  That’s not news.  I told my husband I was smelling something that was somewhere between soured milk and a rotten potato.  He didn’t smell it.  I smelled it when I walked in the utility room.  Now there is a lot of stinkiness that goes on as you head toward the utility room.  That’s close to the dishwasher, refrigerator, laundry (post-golf), trash compactor, recycling bins, and garage.  I sniffed as closely as I dared to as many things as I dared.  Nothing.  I bought new boxes of baking soda just in case and cleaned the garbage disposal, put a fresh box in the refrigerator, and freezer.  Nothing.  I plugged in new plug ins.  Now I had floral scented soured milk and rotten potatoes.  Yummy!  I thought maybe the precious had spilled his yogurt on the floor, why I would think such a thing is beyond me, but I bleached the tile floors.  The cacophony of smells spinning around in my nose was beginning to give me a headache.  I had used the last of the bleach and after I rinsed the bottle out I went to put it in the recycling bin and when I opened the lid on the plastics container I almost threw up.  Someone (my husband) who shall remain nameless (my husband) put a milk container in the recycling without rinsing it out.  I don’t know how long it had been there, but I was going to rinse it out and I couldn’t.  I think it was butter at this point.  I took yet another box of baking soda and put it in the trash with the milk container which I moved from the recycling to the regular trash.  I felt a little sorry for the rest of the trash having to smell this nastiness, but I took it outside pretty quickly.  At least I don’t have to smell it.

I wish people would listen to me when I say something smells.  I am rarely wrong.  I tell my husband I smell something and he waits until two weeks later when its really rancid then he says “Oh my God, what smells?”  Sometimes I have to resist the urge to punch him.  However; if there is a dirty diaper anywhere in this house he knows it.  He knows its in here and he wants it out and he wants nothing to do with any of the aforementioned actions.  I think that’s funny.  Not that I enjoy the smell of dirty diapers, I don’t, I do however enjoy his reaction to them.  It’s good fun!  I guess I should just be glad that sense wise I have something spectacular.  If your cat ever needs to find its litter box, give me a call.  If you have a smell you just can’t locate, I’m your girl.  Just don’t argue with me about what it is or that there is in fact an odor.  In fact, if I’m ever with you and you see me wiggling my nose, getting restless, and looking around for something chances are I’ve locked in on something.  It’s best just to leave me to my work.  We super heroes get cranky when you people interfere.

I think I’m a bad Emmy.  Thursday I picked the Precious up from daycare.   That goes back to Sunday when he cried because I didn’t go home with him and I said that I would pick him up from school one day this week and I did and now you are caught up.  I picked him up in the Duchess mobile, top down and Hot Potatoblaring from all speakers.  This was one happy kid.  We got home and the ice cream truck was right in front of my house.  Score!!  He got a vanilla cup with sprinkles.  We sat on the weeee!! (swingset…for those of you who don’t speak precious) and ate ice cream.  Then we did chalk drawings on the driveway.  We then tackled some Easter chocolate and some oreos and then we went out back to dribble, dribble, shoot!  The neighbor kids across the fence were playing baseball and I put the Precious on my shoulders so he could watch the game over the fence.  The kiddos gave him a baseball (like he doesn’t have 1,000 inside) then we played catch.  We blew bubbles and dandelions, and pulled weeds, and found a birds nest.  We wallowed around on old pool toys and took a walk to the neighbors and played some t-ball at my very dear, very southern friend’s home.  When mommy came to take him home, the Precious decided he wasn’t going.  My non-vag. daughter thought if she pretended to go without him he would come to his senses.  This has always worked in the past.  The Precious loves to go.  She waved bye-bye and went inside.  “Bye-bye mommy,” he said as he turned around and started playing again.  She walked back out.  “No mommy!  Mommy bye-bye!” was shouted at a pitch that startled the neighborhood dogs.  She gave him a few more minutes.  Forty-five minutes later (when it was too dark and cold to play ball) I told the Precious I needed some juice.  We went inside to get juice.    When mommy came at him with a jacket he could see the trap.  Arms stiffened, spine straightened, and screaming started.  “No jacket, no jacket, no bye-bye, no bye-bye, no daddy, no house!”  This was what I went through on Sunday that made me tell him I would pick him up at school one day if he would just chill out.  Like an idiot I catch myself saying again “If you will go with mommy now, Emmy will pick you up at school again tomorrow.  Okay?”  His little red eyes and cheeks and snot filled nose looked pitifully up at me as he lisped “Yeth.”  He still cried when I put him in his car seat and I didn’t get in with him.

His mother swore on Sunday he didn’t cry for very long.  Last night he cried all the way home and until he had his bath.  I picked him up from school today.  I thought I had a plan.  I didn’t take him to my house.  I took him to an indoor play area called Fun City.  He was able to swing and slide and play little toddler games and use tokens to “buy” toys.  After that we went to see his great granny.  He ransacked her house in about two seconds.  He found her Easter candy and chomped his way through anything Reese’s, then he tried to unpack anything she had previously packed and left two feet high or less.  He played basketball.  Indoors and without a net, but basketball all the same.  He picked apart the fridge and opened everything that looked interesting and ate nothing.  After about three hours of trying my best to just wear him out I asked him if he wanted to go bye-bye.  “Yeth.”  So I placed him in the car seat (after we had a brief discussion over who was going to dribe…no typo…it’s really dribe) and headed toward his house. 

When I turned right at the light instead of left.  He looked a little confused.  When I turned right to go down the street to get to his he looked pissed.  When I pulled up in front of his house he left me have it with both barrels. “Bad Emmy.  No Emmy.  No My House!  Emmy’s House.  Boppy!   Boppy’s House!  My Shoot!”  It might as well have been on a loop because it was just over and over and over again.  I told him I was going in and he settled down.  I gave him a bag to carry and wiped his perpetually runny nose, and off we went.  He rang the bell.  I think he was hoping no one was home and we could split.  No such luck, his dad answered the door.  He played close to me for awhile.  He was keeping me in sight.  Once his mother got home they told him they were going to a friend’s house that evening and he got really excited.  I thought, great this is just the excuse I need, I can go home now.  Wrong!  When I said bye all hell broke loose.  He was going with me.  Now first of all, I would have slipped out without saying good bye, but my son, the genius, shouts to the world “bye Emmy.”  Idiot.  The screaming begins and the only thing left for me to do is stay until they leave in the hopes that he will be okay since he is leaving too.  When everyone is ready to go to their respective places I pick him up to take him to mommy’s car.  Problem 1: We go by Emmy’s car.  Problem 2: We don’t get in Emmy’s car.  Problem 3: Emmy doesn’t get in mommy’s car.  The sturdy little toddler legs stiffen straight out as I try to press them into his car seat.  He screams and shakes his head.  This is a toddler who was born knowing how to pitch a hissy…a ring tail hissy.  Let me tell you, I pulled a bull rider.  I gave it 8 seconds threw up my hands and walked out of there.  I told my son, “I had to do this through three toddlers.  You handle this one.”  I got in my car.  “Chicken” he taunted after me.  “Ass” I yelled back at him.  I didn’t even dare check back with them until two days later.

Well today is Monday the 20th.  I went over tonight to have a little play time before bedtime.  We had been playing pretty good.  I had to watch a short quarter of Precious basketball.  I watched him drive his 4-wheeler.  I pretty much watched the Precious show until it was time for dinner.  When mommy called for dinner he pulled my keys out of my purse and said “dribe Emmy.”  I asked where we were going.  “Bye-bye.”  I felt kind of dumb.  I mean bye-bye was the obvious answer, but when I asked where he wanted to go he said “ice tream!”  I managed to barter a few bites of real food before we had to get ice cream but his daddy wanted  ice tream as much as he did so off we went.   After ice tream, and the inevitable bath, came p.j.s and bedtime and I would be lying if I told you that went peacefully.  No way.  He went out kicking and screaming with about a thousand kisses and hugs and attempts to get out of the crib…but no promises.  I’ve finally learned.

This is what makes me a bad Emmy.  I will do whatever it takes to make that little guy happy.  I hate to see him cry.  He has one of the best laughs ever and he is so darn cute when he smiles.  But that bad attitude (while sometimes it can be cute) is best avoided…if you know what’s good for you.  I have told his parent’s they need to pick their battles.  Some things just aren’t worth fighting for, but then again you do have to get your bluff in.  I don’t know.  I do know that when he runs to me and throws those chubby little arms around me and screams “Emmy” like I’m the best thing since sliced bread…he can pretty much have whatever he wants…and Boppy is worse!!

 

 

I love the warmer weather.  I wish it would just get warm and stay warm.  I am tired of this one warm day and two cold days.  Enough already.  Let’s have spring.  Really it’s not even spring that I love, it’s summer.  I love the heat.  I don’t hurt when it’s hot.  I can get in the pool and relax in the water.  I can go out to the barn and ride my horse.  I love just about everything about the warmer temperatures.  Everything with the exception of Snakes!!  This is the only draw back to summer.  I hate snakes.  I live in constant fear of snakes.  Each day when I check the skimmer baskets on the pool I harbor the fear that a snake has gotten in there.  Each time I go to the horse barn I make sure I have my boots that are super thick and go all the way up to my knees on so that (God forbid) if I should get bitten by a snake it probably won’t penetrate my boots.  I know though, that if I see a snake I’ll faint dead away and the icky thing can crawl all over me as I lay out cold on the ground andthen it will  bite me where ever it wants to.  I have a first aid kit in the barn and it contains a snake bite kit.  The first direction in the instructions is STAY CALM.  You bet.  No Problem.  I’ll stay calm.  I’ll calmly wet myself,  have a heart attack,  pass out and die probably without ever speaking a word. 

My fear of snakes is well known in this family.  One summer while working in the back yard a king snake crawled out from under one of the air conditioning units.  I freaked out.  He went under the a/c unit and I went into the house.  From the window in the kitchen I watched him under the air conditioning and from under the air conditioning he watched me.  Neither of us came out.  When my husband and my oldest son came home later that night, I told them about the snake and told them to kill it.  My son refused.  He said it was a “good” snake.  I took issue with that comment.  I even presented a way he could make it better.  He still refused.  Okay, I told them that the snake could live but they would have to do all the lawn work in the back yard because I was never going outside again.  Problem solved.  No more snake.

The issue for the past couple of years has been tending to my horse, Yo Mama.  She stays in a dark barn with lots of hay and feed (mostly corn) which attracts mice and rats.  The mice and rats attract snakes.  I go out to the barn alone.  That means if I see a snake I have to deal with it alone.  I really don’t know what I’ll do and I realize that the odds are real good I am going to get to find out real soon.  I don’t think I can get close enough to a snake to kill it.  I am afraid that if I am on Yo Mama and come across a snake she’ll rear up.  I’ve had her pitch me before and it’s really not a lot of fun and if there is a snake on the ground that’s really good motivation to hang on for dear life!  I can cling like static when I need to.  When my hubby and I were dating we were in a picnic area at a table.  We were just talking and he casually mentioned that he saw a snake.  Now he’s about thirteen inches taller than me, so I figured that was thirteen inches further away from the snake so I climbed him.  It’s a good thing he has a since of humor (and strong legs).

Anyway, Spring has sprung and the shire is greening.  I will begin my planting and pulling some weeds.  All the while I will be keeping one eye on the ground where the legless and creepy dwell.  I will make a hasty exit if they enter my territory.  I cannot promise it will be graceful or Duchess like, but it will be as quick as I can make it.  I don’t know what I would do if I saw a poisonous snake…I would probably do what I said I cannot do in the previous blog.  First I would say it, and then I would do it.  I hope I never know.  My dad used to say that snakes didn’t have ears but he could make them understand that he didn’t appreciate them.   I feel the same way.   With the exception that I think I can teach them sign language.  We were at the lake once when the children were relatively small.  I was lounging in a chair in the swimming area watching the kiddos swim, when I noticed a water snake (it was a baby) swimming toward me.   I flipped the chair, screamed for the kids,  grabbed children, water toys, chairs, and watched out for the snake all as I ran for the shore.  A man came to my rescue.  He went into the water and ended up finding 3 baby cotton mouths which he removed from the swimming area.  It was only after the fact when I went to thank him that I found out he was deaf.  My oldest child has never forgotten that when I saw that snake I yelled loudly enough for the deaf man to hear me.

I have IBS.  I know big deal, right?  Well, yes, as a matter of fact.  It is a big deal.  I think it needs to be named something different.  It sounds so sweet.  Irritable bowel syndrome.  Oh, are your bowels irritable?  Maybe they need a nap.  Cranky little bowels…you should be ashamed of yourself.  It’s a bright sunny day and you should be nice.  I think it should be called OMG I have the distended stomach from hell and the cramps to go with it get me some relief right now before I rip your head right off your shoulders.

There is no way this is a dignified disease.  For one thing it’s “bowel syndrome” that’s involving poop no matter how you look at it.  Now you can have IBS with diarrhea or with constipation.  You don’t get to choose and in fact some people are unfortunate enough  to get both.  I don’t pretend to think that one is better than the other.  I have IBS with constipation.  It sucks.  I have been hospitalized for it.  If I am lucky I have a bowel movement once a week or so.  When I do, it’s like I’m a toddler.  I come out of the bathroom and announce that “I made big potty!”  Everyone cheers and says “Yeah!” and it’s a real big deal.  I even mark it on the calendar because if I get sick I know my doctor is going to ask how long it has been since my last bowel movement, and if I haven’t written it down I won’t know.  I was feeling  bad on Monday and had to take some Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia which began to work on Tuesday.  When my hubby asked me how long it had been since my last BM I checked the calendar and it had been 11 days.

I prefer to think that I am a very immaculate person.  I just don’t create waste.  My body is extremely efficient and uses every bit of food I put in it.  My doctor has a different opinion.  He says I am just constantly full of shit.  I don’t know why I don’t change doctors.  We have tried Amitiza which is the only medication currently approved for IBS with constipation.  It gave me no relief from the constipation and gave me killer heartburn.  I constantly consume fiber.  I eat fiber bars for breakfast and whole grain breads.  I eat raw vegetables and fruits all day long.  I snack on bowls of hay and stems.  You would think I would pass wicker furniture, but I don’t pass so much as a toothpick.

There is a children’s book out that is entitled Everybody Poops.  The author obviously hadn’t met me when the book was titled.  I must challenge the theory.  A proper title would be Everybody Should be Able to Poop.  I wish I could live life without thinking about it.  In my family a common response is “I go 2 or 3 times a day!”  Well, yippee skippy.  I don’t.  The GI guy tells me it’s stress related.  I need to relax.  I tell him “you crap twice a month, see how relaxed you are.”  No one gets me.  I am really not writing this for sympathy.  I am not sure that those with IBS with diarrhea aren’t worse off.  Constantly looking for bathrooms, afraid to travel, wearing adult diapers, and so on.  I  am writing so those of you out there who have this ridiculous ailment will know that I have put a voice to it.  It won’t do any good.  It won’t change the fact that we still have this, but at least there is company in the misery.

And now I shall go have a bowl of Fiber One (and no matter what they say I swear eating the box would be tastier) with some blueberries.  I will wake up tomorrow and have a Fiber Plus bar with my coffee and pretend that I believe that tomorrow this will work and I will be normal.  That I will have two cups of coffee, grab a newspaper and retreat to the bathroom for a leisurely poop.  Oh wait, that’s guys.  I’ll just have to run in for a quick poop between loads of dishes and laundry and cleaning and bill paying and running errands and  what did the doctor say about stress?       

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