Yes, it certainly was.  You see, today I picked up The Precious and took him for a haircut.  All the way there we talked about getting a haircut.  He has had other haircuts, and this has never been a problem.  I felt good about taking him to get his haircut.  I had told him that after the haircut we would go get ice cream (always a good bribe).

Our hairstylist has had to find another job.  Apparently in a recession people don’t need as many haircuts, so she now works for a Vet’s office in another state.  So we were off to visit a new stylist in our old salon.  We walked in and all was cool.  We read a Highlight’s magazine.  He was cool going in to the salon’s interior, but then she put the booster in the chair.  OMG!!  He went ape crap!  He was like a child possessed.  He was crying at the top of his little lungs “NO, haircut!  I don’t want it!  No…” over and over again.  I tried the old “ooh…it’s mine and you can’t have it” routine and it worked right up to the point where he was supposed to place his precious butt in the booster and then he was off again.  More screaming, more circles, more glaring stares from old ladies under dryers.  Please, like I’m enjoying this…the kid looks like Ryder Hudson, something has to be done.  I finally just picked his Preciousness up and put him in my lap.  I held him down while he was getting his hair done.Neither of us wore capes so we effectively looked like missing links when we were done.  He screamed, he twisted, he pulled, he tugged and did everything but bite my hand.  You would have thought he was being water boarded.  When we were finally done he turned his little tear stained face to the beautician and said “thank you for haircut.”  Which came out like “tank too for hairtut”.  The salon staff melted.  I don’t know if it was because that last line was just too freaking sweet or because I tipped 50%.  Whatever.

When we left the salon I was going to take him for ice cream.  However; he was covered in hair from head to toe.  So was I.  So I decided we would go wash up a bit.  OMG!!  Round two commenced with tiny little arms flailing around pissing and moaning about not getting ice cream.  Try as I might I couldn’t convince him that we were indeed getting ice cream.  We just needed to clean up.  I took the now hairy, sweaty, snotty mess home.  I don’t know why I felt he needed to clean up.  When that was taken care of we went for ice cream.  Yes, I now know that cleaning a child before you take them for ice cream is stupid.  In my defense, this is my first grandchild.  I did have a spare t-shirt with me this time and my watch battery needed to be changed, so we went to JC Penney to get a battery for my watch.  I parked in the lower level because the parking is better, and I was thinking that the escalator would be a treat.  As soon as he saw the moving stairs he went nuts!  Again, with the screaming.  Again with the crying, but this time we added running like Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man to the performance.  Please add to this: me with a Budin’ thermos full of juice, a way too huge purse, and my orthopedic boot protecting my maimed foot, running full tilt after him.  He had no idea how to get out of the store so he is just running like a rat through a maze.  I grabbed him and held him down (again) just so we could go upstairs.  Now he is just heaving.  He is shaking…as my father would have said…like a dog passing peach pits as we go up the escalator.  All the while I am saying in a very soothing voice, “these are fun stairs.  I like these stairs.  Aren’t they fun?  Whee!!” and so on.  He finally calms down.  We go to the jewelry counter and the whole time he has his eye on the escalator.  As soon as we turn to go, it starts again.

By the time we get to my car he is chanting “go to Emmy’s house” and flinching every time the car stops.  You would think he was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.  I assured him that I had no desire to take him anywhere else.  I was heading straight home.  I didn’t plan to leave until his mother took him home, and then I intended to find the nearest bar with a swimming pool sized margarita and drink myself blind.  He cried again when he heard that he was eventually going home.  His mother came to pick him up around 6:30 pm.  He cried when he couldn’t watch fireworks on the computer.  He cried when she took away his potato chips on his Budin’ plate so that his dinner could be placed on it.  Although, he thank me quite sweetly when I handed him the food on his plate.  He cried when she gave him the wrong juice.  I swear if she had come in wearing the wrong look on her face, he would have had a melt down.  Through this all, he tells anyone who will listen about the “fun stairs” and his “hairtut”.  You would think he had a blast!!  So…after 5+ hours she mentioned that they were going home.  Guess what…he cried.  “My Emmy, My Emmy…help me Emmy”.  I helped him.  I helped him right into his car seat.  I kissed him.  I told him I loved him.  I kissed him again, and I sent him home.

I’m leaving on Friday and won’t see him for almost a week.  I nearly always see him on Sunday’s and I was concerned about how much I would miss him.  Don’t get me wrong the love is still there, but the worn out is definitely taking precedence.  Maybe he will be in a better mood by August.

If you are one of the twelve people on the planet who haven’t seen Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince do not read further.  I am going to discuss the movie and you may want to hurt me.

Boppy and I finally got the chance to go see the newest installment of the Harry Potter movies tonight.  We have always been movie buffs.  When we bought our home, Boppy installed a movie room that had surround sound.  He was always high tech with the equipment we purchased to view movies.  Movie watching was a key part of our relationship.  We used to go to the movies often, and we loved it.  We raised our children to be respectful movie watchers.  We taught them don’t talk during the movie.  Be considerate of others, turn your cell phone off.  For our children it worked.  However; I only raised 3 people…all of the others had parents who didn’t give a rat’s ass and just come to the movies to socialize (loudly), make out (also loudly), or text.  I get so irritated that I have trouble keeping my mouth shut, so Boppy doesn’t take me out very often.

Tonight was no different.  I have learned not to expect anything while watching the trailers, although I enjoy the trailers and wish they would shut up.  It seems most people just think the trailers are commercials about upcoming movie.  I was surprised the young folks in the lower rows calmed down when the movie started.  I thought they were going to be the problem.  I was wrong.  It was the couple in front of me and the couple to the left of me who were the trouble makers.  The couple in front of us had apparently mistaken the movie theatre for a hotel.  They spent all night making out.  They were very loud and kinda slurpy.  It was gross.  The couple to the left of me were up and down all night long, because apparently some drama was happening.  I’m guessing this because she couldn’t stay off her cell phone.  She was texting and receiving texts during the whole movie.  I think that she (and other people) thought texting was okay because her phone wasn’t technically ringing.  Guess what?  I saw every single message because the blue back light from her phone annoyed the living crap out of me!

I have heard that there are wonderful theatres that block signals from cell phone towers.  Ahhh…that would be the life.  We could probably start going to movies again.  I can’t imagine only having to deal with the smoochers and the talkers.  It’s bound to be better.  I wonder if there is anything that will block vocal chords and lips.  Now that would be a great theatre! 

Now as for that spoiler alert…Dumbledore dies.  I didn’t want anyone to be disappointed!

So today I was standing in the kitchen talking to Boppy and I noticed that he is not making eye contact.  This has become more common lately.  This glazed look of a man married long enough to be secure is not new.  It happened some where around year eight.  This time he had been the one talking though, not me.  So I had to ask what he was looking at.  “The skunk swimming in our pool.”  Sure enough, there was a full grown skunk paddling for its life in our pool.  That begged the question of what to do.  We debated calling animal control, but this was the adult skunk.  I knew there was a baby somewhere who needed his mommy, and I just couldn’t send her off.  I had Boppy net the poor thing and then he placed it, something like gently, on the lawn.  Two hours later the poor thing wandered off.  I had hoped that she would be grateful enough to keep her sprayer under check for awhile, but tonight we have once again been blessed with skunk scent.

About 9:00 p.m. tonight there was a loud banging on the door.  The bell rang more times than is usual for door to door sales people and since it wasn’t Saturday, I felt certain that it wasn’t the Pentecostals or Watch Tower people.   I went to the door and saw my daughter anxiously mouthing “skunk” repeatedly with panic in her eyes.  I opened the door and she ran in.  Apparently the baby skunk was in the azaleas by the window.   I opened the door in time to see the tiny little stinker streak by the front door and off the side of the porch.  He promptly sprayed the side of our house.

We have tried to be kind.  We saved their furry asses.  We didn’t call animal control or set up traps (which my oldest son suggested).  We did spray some environmentally friendly skunk repellent around the house, which did absolutely no good.  I read online that lighting the house up like a Christmas tree (exteriorly) will keep them away because they dislike light.  Really?  When they camp out on my very well lit porch it makes it hard to believe.  I’m at a loss.  On the bright side, the skunk smell is covering the rotting carcass I can’t find, quite nicely.  I guess it’s true.  Life is all about trade offs.

There’s another smell going on, and I am (once again) the only one who can smell it.  Quite frankly, it smells like ass.  If you are the one responsible for the cooking let me describe it like this…if you have ever fixed chicken for dinner and put the absorbent layer from the packaging in the trash without rinsing it and a week later you want to gag when you open the trash…that’s the smell.

I told Boppy something was dead beside our house.  He went outside and came back claiming that my sniffer was out of whack.  “Nothing back there.  Don’t know what you thought you smelled…must have been from next door…” blah, blah, blah.  I walked out the door and smelled it immediately.  I went to the side of the house and the neighbor was doing laundry.  You could smell the vent from the dryer and it was definitely not ass.  I have a convertible.  I have driven near enough decomposing carcasses of animals who had attempted to see why the chicken couldn’t cross the road, to know decay.  This is decay.  I tried to explain this to Boppy.  “Maybe it is rotting grass.”  I don’t think he gets it.  I also know the smell of rotting grass.  Before we had a pool in the backyard, we had a swamp.  It stunk, but not like this.

I wish my super power was something other than having the nose of a bloodhound on crack, but it is what it is.  I have smelled plenty of things no one else has until it got to the point that it would gag a maggot, so why don’t they believe me when I say something stinks?  I was lying in the pool yesterday with my hat over my nose so I could at least block out some of the malodorous essence, but to no avail.   I gave up and came in.  When you can’t enjoy your back yard for the stink, it is time to do something.  But here’s the problem: the grass around the storage building is relatively tall and I fear there may be snakes back there.  In addition, I fully believe there may be a family of skunks living under the storage building and I have an aversion to being sprayed (as does Boppy…which is why I believe he can’t smell the stink).  Yep, we have a family of skunks on the property.  We have seen a mommy and a baby in the yard at night, and one of the babies fell into our pool and drowned.  I think they may have been feeding under the storage building and something they have been feeding on is stinking to high heaven.  I googled skunks and apparently they will eat anything.   Perhaps the creature died and now they are just completing the circle of life…I don’t know.  I just know that for the last two nights in addition to the pleasant aroma of rotting carcass we have had the aroma of pissed off skunk.  They really like to search for bugs in our flower beds, and every time we walk inside or out, they respond in a skunk like fashion.  So far none of us have been sprayed, but our house reeks!  Last night the smell was so bad I got a headache. 

My daughter can smell the skunks.  No one gets the rot.  I think it is because I have this huge schnoze.  Boppy and my daughter have tiny little non-existent noses.  Perhaps a bigger nose means a better smeller.  I don’t know.  I know that bigger ears don’t mean you can hear better, because Boppy has the most teensy tiny ears and he can hear a flea fart.  However, I have no proof that my larger probiscus is the reason for my blessing of smell.  I just know that when something stinks I always get to smell it first, and therefore for far longer. 

Obviously there is no solution to the rot problem.  That is something that I would have to take care of because I am the only one who can smell it.  (Perhaps that is why I am the only one who can smell it)  I can however take care of the skunks.  I am going out today and spread flour around the shed and then I can see whether or not small white foot prints come out from under there.  If that is where they are nesting I am calling animal control tomorrow for a relocation intervention.  If that’s not it I am getting some commercial skunk repellent and placing a barrier around the house.  I am going commando on skunks!  I shouldn’t have to deal with more than one stink at a time. 

My mom’s birthday is Sunday.  She’ll be 78.  I called her yesterday to tell her I had bought a brisket for Sunday dinner and ask what type of cake she would like.  Immediately she went into a diatribe that included “you don’t need to do that.  You don’t feel up to it.  It’s just another day in the life of Riley.”  And my favorite, “Don’t get me anything.”

Every year for as long as I can remember my mother has said “now, don’t get me anything” when we speak of her birthday.  She knows we will get her something.  And it doesn’t matter what we get her it will be “too much”.  She will fuss much more than we will about her birthday.  She will carry on like you can’t imagine, but love every minute of it.

Now here’s my question…Why?  I did it too for awhile.  When my kids first went off on their own and they would ask what I wanted for birthdays, mother’s day, and such I would give them the standard, “you don’t need to get me anything.”  Then I realized that  is unfair.  They are sincerely asking for help with their shopping.  So I have started to give them lists.  I try for manageable lists that contain items within their price range.  I have come to realize that they are going to shop for me anyway so I might as well get things I would like to have.  Most recently I got a charm bracelet for my birthday.  It is precious.  It is not your typical old charm bracelet.  It is very modern with adorable charms on it.    For Mother’s day I got a new charm.  They now have something they can add to for each holiday.  I love it, and I think they do too.

I don’t think it’s rude.  I know about rude.  I certainly have seen and had my share.  I think it is just being realistic.  Rude would be asking for things that are expensive and giving them no options.  I would love just once to have my mom say, “I would like to have a new short set for my birthday.  I need a size ten.  I would like it to be a scoop neck, with short or no sleeves, and medium length shorts.”  I would be so happy to go to the mall with that list.  It would make life so much easier.   However, I don’t have any such thing going for me.  I simply have, “now, don’t get me anything.”

So sometime this week I will be going to the mall in search of a present that is very mother…something that gets harder every year.  I will search through an array of old lady clothing she doesn’t need, in search of something she will love.  Knowing full well, all the while that no matter what I get she is going to say she loves it.  She may never wear it.  It may hang in her closet until her dying day, but she will say that she absolutely loves it.  I am sometimes tempted to get her something that is so far out of her comfort zone it would challenge her to say that she loved it.  You know something like a wildly flowered muumuu.  I have considered an African printed caftan, maybe that would shake her up.  I won’t though.  I will do just as I said.  Shop.  Clean and simple.  I know my sister’s are in the same boat.

The other trick is the card.  It has to be either funny, but simple enough not to hurt her feelings.  Or mushy, but not to the point of making her cry in front of everyone.  This has been much harder since dad passed away.  It doesn’t take much to make her cry anymore.  I will probably go for funny.  It is more my style.  I can bet that at least one of the other three will go for mushy.

Anyway, Sunday is my mother’s birthday and we will celebrate.  There will be gifts and their will be family and things will happen as they happen.  Even if it is “just another day in the life of Riley.”

Okay, about The Precious and the 4th.  I started to tell you this when it was relevant, you know, like on the 10th, however my computer ‘effed up and well…’nuff said.

The fourth dawned bright and beautiful (in some parts of the country) or so I heard.  We always try to make a day of it on the fourth.  We stay home, sleep in, have a little lunch, I lay in the pool, my hubby plays golf…wait, that’s pretty much every day of our lives.  This year we feasted on hot dogs, apple pie, and watermelon.  I think that may have been a first, but this fourth we were excited about seeing The Precious see his first fireworks with us.  Last year his secondary grandparent’s were with him, and at three weeks he just wasn’t all that interested.  This year the primary’s are at bat.

We started trying to let him know days in advance of this wonder we were going to bestow upon him.  We finally got him to say “fireworks” with awe.  He would make some kind of an up in the air motion with his little arms and say “boom” rather quietly in that I can see this is important to you so I’ll play along way that he has with his dimwitted grandparents.  All day on the fourth his parent’s kept telling him that we were going to see fireworks.  All day long he kept repeating it.

They had to have dinner with some friends and then the friends were coming with them to watch the fireworks.  The friends have little girls 2 & 5.  The little girls were very excited about the fireworks.  The two year old kept telling my daughter “fireworks” over and over.  It sound more like “Ayaurks” but what the hell, not all children are as advanced as The Precious. Speaking of…we could see him in the backseat of the car wearing his KC chiefs baseball cap that his dad and Boppy have just been itching for him to get big enough to wear.  He was grinning from ear to ear.   He came bursting out of their car like a man with a mission…all thirty some odd inches of him.   “Fireworks, Emmy!  See fireworks!”  “You bet buddy…big fireworks.”  This went on with every family member in attendance.  “Fireworks, Boppy!  See fireworks!” so on and so forth.  He was running in circles blowing his train whistle and chanting “fireworks…fireworks…fireworks”, and we were all enchanted.
Then the fireworks started.  When the first crashing boom lit the sky in a star pattern of colors, the little guy was off and running.  “No fireworks!  I don’t want it!” he screamed and continued to scream.  He ran straight for his parent’s car and was begging for the car seat (usually a torture device) by the time his mother caught up with him.  I had his uncle from Chicago on the phone who wanted to talk to him,  so I very delicately opened the door and handed him the phone.  “I don’t want it, fireworks!” he quickly told his uncle.  “I don’t blame you little dude.  They used to scare me too.”  After five minutes or so the babbling got the better of his uncle, and I got the phone back.  He couldn’t believe how incensed he was.  I walked back to the display leaving the chaos to his mother.  Such is the joy of being the Emmy.

After the fireworks were over, my non-vag daughter motioned me over toward the car.  She rolled down the window and said my presence had been requested.  I sat down by The Precious and listened to him tell me (very exactly) that there was no need for fireworks.  The man who had invented them was a moron.  His parent’s were idiots for bringing him here, and would I please help him escape this unnecessary madness.  My sister opened the opposite door to tell The Precious bye.  “Shut the door!” he shouted at her, and when she didn’t respond as quickly as he felt she should have he repeated it over and over again, “shut the door…shut the door….shut the door!  Finally, she understood and came around to my side, stuck her head in quickly and made her exit.

I just know there is a moral to this story.  Maybe it is that even a two-year-old knows not to burn money.  I don’t know.  I do know this, next year we will spend all day telling him how wonderful fireworks are and maybe he’ll like them and maybe he won’t, but someday he is bound to get in trouble chasing someone with a bottle rocket, or placing firecrackers to close to the old people because he is a little boy.  This bliss can’t last forever.

I spent the better part of an hour last night writing a superb missive regarding The Precious and the 4th of July.  As I was approaching my summation (and it was life altering) my computer just went blank.  Blank!  And this is not the first time this has happened.  It is the reason I have blogged so irratically lately.  I became furious.  I asked Boppy for help and this is what I got…”I’m sorry honey.”  Well, fat lot of good that did me.  So this simple post is to let you know that when I am through fuming I will blog again.  After that it is up to the computer.

Well, it happened.  I took my very dear, very Southern friend shopping again.  Just as before, she had a few very specific items she needed.  A red jacket…plain red “you know Christmas red, anda pair of Ked’s…six eyelet, canvas, white in a size 9A.  I knew where we could find the Ked’s, so I stupidly thought this was a no brainer.  I am forever proving myself wrong.

We trotted off to Shoe Carnival because I knew they had six eyelet white Keds there.  I had purchased myself a pair just a couple of weeks ago.  I knew right where they wear and led her right to them.  We found the canvas six eyelet right away and began searching for a size.  Well Ked’s don’t come in narrow, so she had to try on every pair that might be a possibility.  Well that was easy, because there weren’t any 9’s.  She tried on an 8 1/2 and a 9 1/2 bet to no avail.  I found the right size and a good fit in the six eyelet white leather, but she had her mind set on canvas.  So off we went to Pinnacle Promenade in search of the elusive shoe.

At least the weather was cooperating.  It was cloudy and about 80 degrees that day.  I was soon to learn that the weather would be all that would cooperate.  Let me go back a few steps and tell you that while we were on our way to Shoe Carnival my daughter called to ask what I was doing.  I told her I was shopping with my very dear, very Southern friend who lives down the street, and she said “Oh! Fun!”  At which time I asked her, “you wanna go?”  Her response was, “hell no!  I’ve been shopping with her before.”  Well, my very dear, very Southern friend who lives down the street heard my part of the conversation and said I was trying to pawn her off.  I told her that I had not.  I had been asked what I was doing, and when I told my daughter she said that sounded like fun, and all I had done was asked her if she wanted to go.  I never said I wasn’t going to go to.  So you are caught up now and it’s a good thing cause her comes the good part.  The first store we went in she told the salesperson that I had already tried to get “shed” of her.  The second clerk was told I had been trying to pawn her off all day.  By the end of the day she was telling people that I just hated to go shopping with her.  She said she had to drag me out of the house kicking and screaming. 

Now the first time she lied, it contained at least a little truth so I just kind of smiled and let it go.  The second time she lied, I told the clerk that I had only tried to pawn her off once.  At the end of the day I told the salesperson “She’s a damn liar. ”  Now I don’t know if that was why the day ended or if she was just tired and wanted to go home.  Whichever happens to be the case we were headed home.  Again after shopping the better part of the day we had made no purchases.  She came close at J.C.Penney.  She found the same damn leather, six eyelet, white Ked’s that she had pooh-poohed earliet and was at the register ready to buy it when I mentioned that it had been $10 cheaper at Shoe Carnival.  Me and my big mouth.  So while we headed home we stopped by Shoe Carnival and finally bought the GD shoes.

The misery is not over, dear ones.  As I dropped her off at her house amid a clutch of hug and kisses, she yelled back to me, over her shoulder and said “let me rest up a bit and then we can go shopping for that jacket.”  You know what they say about no good deed… 

 

Mother returned from Wal-Mart a few days ago, and was greeted by a covey (is that correct?) of cops.  They asked if she lived in the apartment complex.  She said she did and they accompanied her to her door.  Of course, like any human, she asked what was going on.  They told her that they were looking for a young man whom they had been told lived in the unit above her.  They told her he was to be considered armed and dangerous.  “Go inside and lock your doors.  Don’t let any one in you don’t know.”  Obviously they don’t know my mother.  Those are things she does out of habit, anyway.  Then they showed her a picture of “some black man” and asked her if she had seen him in the area.  Well bless her heart, she told them “you know, they all kind of look alike to me.”  Yes, we all shuddered when she told us what she had said.  But mother is an old southern woman.  The fact that she said black man is a sign of just how far she has come.  Believe me, before we all became more enlightened I have heard her say much worse.

Well, since then we hear daily about the cops coming to her apartment.  The story varies a little some days.  We might hear what the police officer said in a little different way, but the end result is always the same.  Go inside and lock your doors.  Don’t let any one in you don’t know.  Over and over…it has become her mantra.  The day after the incident, she called the local police station and asked them if the young man had been apprehended.  They told her they didn’t have anything in the computer about an incident occurring in her apartment complex.  Well that turned in to a conspiracy.  I tried to convince her the police officers might not have filed and incident report yet, and if that was the case there wouldn’t be anything in the computer.  She still insisted that it was really fishy that nothing was in the computer.

She won’t go out after dark now.  One of us must be with her for her to make an appearance in the moonlight.  She locks all three bolts on her door.  She watches absolutely everyone who walks down her side walk until they enter a building.  If the person on the walk is an African-American male, she is damned near convinced that “he’s back.”  Then we play Place the Neighbor.  It’s a simple game.  It begins when any male walks down the sidewalk headed for the apartment complex.  Mother starts with her usual “he’s back”, and then which ever daughter happens to be with her tries to place the neighbor.  Mother counters with “I can’t tell” and we continue with our descriptions of him so that she can help us place the neighbor.  The last time I played we started the usual way, but as the game came closer to and end I told mom that the man on the sidewalk was Caucasian.  That fact alone put him out of the running.  She countered with “Michael Jackson looked white too.”  Now personally I don’t think he did look white, but that has absolutely nothing to do withplaying place the neighbor.  The point of the game is to try to recognize the person outside.  Well, I didn’t know the man walking down the walk, but I knew one truth.  And this is what I told mother, “He’s not Michael Jackson.”  I thought that was enough, but mother is not one to be put aside.  She looked at me like I was the stupidest person on Earth.  “I know he’s not.  Michael Jackson is dead.”  So that’s the reason she knew he wasn’t Michael Jackson.  I thought there were other more obvious clues.  Like the fact that he was six feet tall and bald.  He also weighed about 250 pounds.  I could get ugly and say he didn’t have a Boy Scout Troop with him, but I won’t.

I’m thinking about creating a page and topping it with a header to make it look like a newspaper.  Then I am going to write an article about the incident at her apartment and have it conclude with the capture of this fugitive.  I may even include a quote from a  reliable source who lives in the apartment and use the words that mom says she used so she will know she was the source. (She would love that!)  Then when I list what he did, I’m going to say it was a hot check warrant.  Because right now in her mind he is a murderer or a rapist.  She is also thoroughly convinced that the weapon he was armed with was an automatic rifle.  So I think I am going to have him armed with a pocket knife.  I think this article would give her some peace.  It wouldn’t keep her from worrying.  Nothing does.  But at least it would keep her from worrying about taking her trash out after dark. To tell you the truth,  I’m surprised she opens her window curtains.  I guess she has to so she can place the neighbors.  She had to get out on the 4th to watch the fireworks show, but we picked her up and took her home and my sister was there with her so it was okay to venture forth.

Don’t ever get me wrong, I love my mother.  She is the sweetest woman on Earth.  She would do anything she could for any one of us.  She is always ready to help.  She never goes to Wal-Mart without calling and asking me if I need anything.  If any of us want any particular food all we have to do is ask mom and we will have it as soon as she can purchase the ingredients and cook it for us.  She is an absolute dear.  So trust me when I say that I am not making fun of her.  She is scared.  I feel that it is probably unnecessary to be as afraid as she is, but I am not the one living in her apartment.  I asked her if she felt afraid enough to want to move, and she said “oh no, that last move was really hard on me.  I don’t want to move again.”  And that’s fine.  I just wish she could relax.  On the other hand, I think she enjoyed the excitement just a little bit too.    Whatever is going on in her head is fine, as long as it is not tragic.  I don’t want her sitting around composing nightmare scenarios in her spare time.  It is just unnecessary. 

So if you talk to her and she tells you that she was in quoted in the paper, just smile and say “that’s great!” and go on.  Pretend that you are surprised, but please don’t ask for a copy of the article.  I’m about out of black ink in my printer and I don’t want to have to buy more…that s*@# is expensive!

I’m sorry I have kept you waiting so long for another blog, but I have had some issues.  Some have since been resolved and some are hanging on.  I know after the last blog you might have been concerned that I had committed suicide.  Nothing that juicy.  Too many celebraties are dropping right now for me to get the attention I deserve so I am hanging on.

Anyway, to one of my issues (actually it’s two)…I have a growth on my foot that is disguised as a blister.  This thing woke up with me on Thursday of last week.  One is just below the nail on my big toe, and then almost connected to it is a blister poser that looks like a small lake.  Now here’s the thing.  I didn’t do anything to cause these blisters.  I haven’t worn shoes that rubbed right there.  I haven’t burned my toes.  I would know these things.  Yet, here I sit looking at the twin peaks perched on my toe.

I know not to pop blisters.  I’ve been telling my children that for years.  You don’t pop blisters.  The skin beneath a blister is raw and painful.  If you pop the blister that skin will be exposed and can get infected.  See I know all that crap, but the thing that is keeping me from popping the blisters is simple.  They hurt now and I don’t think they are going to feel all that much better if I pop them.  So I baby this foot and keep all sharp objects away.

Here’s the other thing…they are growing.  When I woke up on Thursday morning I noticed these little pin sized bubbles and thought that I should probably wear shoes that wouldn’t rub them.  I chose flip-flops.  By the end of the day I had two blisters about the size of a dime.  Friday I woke up with one that was a little larger than a dime and one the size of a quarter.  By Saturday, no one could believe how large these blisters were and today they are ridiculous.  I told Boppy we need to take a picture because no one would believe how big these suckers are.

Everyone has a theory about what caused them.  The overall favorite is a bug bite.  The only bug I know that creates blisters is a (surely you can guess) Blister Bug.  I am fairly certain that I did not have a blister bug in bed with me on Wednesday night.  I think that I would have more to show for it if I had.  In addition, Boppy hasn’t got so much as a pimple anywhere on his body.  Now, I suppose it’s possible that an irritated blister bug jumped in bed with me, did his thing and crawled out without being recognized. (It wouldn’t be the first time some vermin crawled into my bed and did his thing and left without waking me up) I haven’t found him anywhere.  There is another theory that I wore shoes that rubbed these blisters on my feet on Wednesday, and then went to sleep only to wake up malformed.  I do take pain meds during the day.  I have never pretended that I don’t.  However; I don’t have anything strong enough to numb me to the point of not feeling the irritation that would cause these blisters.  I have received blisters from ill-fitting shoes or extremely long walks and I knew well before the blisters actually occured that I was going to have them.  Here is my theory.  I have taken so much crap for so many illnesses that my body is now producing acid and I am blistering from the inside out.  It’s like internal combustion but not to the point of flame…only to the point of extreme blisters.

I do wish my dears that you could see these mammoth blisters.  They look like very small mountain climbers should be along the front slope.  Sometimes I think I can feel their little hooks at the end of their tiny ropes piercing my skin.  Then I feel them digging their hands into non-existent hand holds.  They have no chance of reaching the summit because everyday it flattens more and spreads out to cover more area.  You know,  now that I think about it, it’s more like a liquid glacier.   Yes, I know that technically all glaciers are liquid but I also know that when we think of them we think of them as solid “ice” floes.  My blisters, however; are very gooshy liquid.  They feel really weird if I should happen to run my hand across them.  If that happens though, it is completely accidental because touching them hurts like hell!  I hesitate to wash them in the shower because of the pain.  My mother thinks I should contact the doctor because of the size of these things and the pain they cause.  I refuse to call our family doctor over a couple of blisters.  I know how to care for blisters (see the paragraph about not popping).

I suppose these creepy creatures adorning my feet could be the world’s smallest case of small pox.  Do you see the humor there? Small case of small pox?  Oh well, I was vaccinated with the other middle aged people in existence so I feel that small pox is out of the question.  I am still baffled by these things on my big toe.  I only have so many pairs of shoes that they don’t touch when I put them on.  You know like maybe 50 or so, only because flip-flops count.  So if you have any ideas about what this might be let me know.  You know, if I am not only one who woke up on morning and by the end of the day Vesuvius was on her big toe, share your ordeal and let me know how it all comes out in the end.  Other than that I will just have to keep you posted.  I do this as a personal favor.  You too could wake to ever growing gelatinous masses on your feet.  Wait, I saw this in a movie…it’s The Blob!

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