We have a haunted house village.  We have built it over time and it has developed a life of its own.  We have children in costumes walking the streets of our town.  We have haunted structures such as a fortune teller, movie theatre, radio station and diner.  On the streets of our town you might find a gentleman pulling a hay cart, a dad carving pumpkins, or any of our other residents hob-nobbing with Dracula, Frankenstein or his bride, and a friendly witch or two.  We have a sea port and a wrecked ship with a swarthy pirate on look out.  We have a water wheel with a skeleton fishing off the back porch of the mill.  Obviously I don’t need to tell you that the over all aura is spooktacular.  I have looked at this village for years.  I think it is around ten years old or so, but I never really saw it until I looked at it with my grandson.  It is all he can do to only look, but he knows the rules.  Still we go over the entire village at each vist.  He frowns his charming little frown and recounts all of the people and places that we have gone over a million times.  He knows that the children are flying around the house.  He knows there is a horsy.  He looks for the punkins.  If a piece gets moved he knows where it should go.  This town is locked in his memory.

A few days ago The Precious was looking at one of the haunted residences and he was telling me everything he saw.  “It’s a bat!”  “Yes, it is a bat.”…”It’s a punkin’.”…”Emmy see the black cat?”  “Yes, I see the black cat.”  “What’s that?”  “That’s a gargoyle.”  “Dardoyle?”  “Yes, it’s a gargoyle.”  “Emmy, see the moose?”  “What moose?”  “The moose right there.”  He is pointing furiously at one house.  I can’t see the moose.  He knows he is not supposed to touch the village pieces…only point.  “Show Emmy where the moose is.”  “Right there.”  Still no moose that I can see.  I got my daughter down beside me to try and find a moose.  “See the moose Aunt Ninna?”  We were beginning to think the kid had been in the backyard feasting on mushrooms or something when Ninna finally asked him to gently touch the moose.  “No touch it!”, he told her with his little finger in her face and a full on scowl on his.  We assured him that on this one occasion it would be okay to touch the piece.  He looked at me for confirmation.  “It’s okay this one time.”  “One time?”, he asked his brow furrowed like he believed we had been pigging out on those mushrooms.  He pointed a little closer to the structure.  “Right there.”

Somewhere in the adult recesses of my mind a tiny flicker of light came on.  I looked at The Precious and pointed to the top of a tree above the haunted house.  “Is this a moose?”  “Yeth.”, and the smile on his face was absolutely angelic.  I had heard and understood.  Perhaps there was hope for me yet.  Ninna still wasn’t getting it.  She was looking at the both of us as if we had lost our minds.  I asked the Precious to tell Aunt Ninna what the moose said.  He looked at her with a perfect smugness on his angelic face and said “Mooooooose.”  I cracked up.  That was when Ninna got the joke.  I asked him to tell her again what the moose said and once again he puckered his cupid’s bow lips and said, “mooooooooose.”  It was quite a sight to see.  He emoted “mooooooooose” beautifully.  We were all three laughing now.  Two of us chuckled because we had seen the moose through the eyes of The Precious.  One of us laughed because he had been understood.  There was indeed a moose in the tree.  The only problem was the moose was a ghost and the ghost said “boooo!”

He teaches us new things all the time, this one.  We now have a language of Precious speak.  “La-loo” is love you.  “Pa-sicker” is popsicle.  “Hold you me” is pick me up.  The greatest thing about hold you me is that his daddy said it and so did his uncle and aunt.  I think it is amazing that hold you me has been handed down to the second generation.  Sports are easier to understand…”touchdown” is crystal clear.  “Baxketball” is self-explanatory.  You might not understand “Go Chees” unless you noticed his jersey and the fact that Boppy and Daddy are also both cheering for the Chees.  The Chees, my darling ones, play  buttball…in Kansas City.  They have evolved from “eyeball” players.  The only thing I could figure out for the football to be called eyeball was the shape.  That seemed really advanced for a child of 15 months or so, but hey…I’m his Emmy.  I went with it.

I hope you are all close enough to be part of the life of a two-year old.  You will look at things quite differently.  Remember, it is possible to be standing in the middle of a totally spooky Halloween village and see a moose.  In a tree or in the attic of houses, moose are everywhere.  Just think like a child.

A friend of mine was telling me recently about shopping for a “training bra” for her 10 (or maybe 11) year old daughter.  She was telling me how all of the girls in her class were wearing them, and so she had to take her daughter shopping so she wouldn’t be left out.  While admitting that she wasn’t sure her daughter needed said bra she did say that she had boob buds and so developmentally she was right on track.

This made me remember taking my daughter on the same shopping trip several years ago.  It began with me telling her she needed a training bra.  “Training bra”, she said in that way that only eleven year olds can.  If you haven’t had an 11 year old girl, let me try and explain the tone.  It is a scoffing tone that says both “did you really say what I thought you said?” and “you are crazier than I’ve been telling my friends you are.”  I said that she was beginning to develop and she needed both something to cover her boobie buds and give her a little protection against the flying elbows of boys who think boobie bud pain is funny.  “You just need a training bra.” I told her again.  “Training bra?  What are they training for?  The Olympics?” In my disturbed mind I was envisioning boobs in the olympics.  Where, you might ask.  Obviously, swimming…the breast stroke (rim shot) the end. 

We set off for Dillard’s, but I wasn’t sure whether we should go to the children’s department or the women’s department.  I chose the children’s department.  Wrong.  It seems children don’t wear bras.  I was told I needed to go to the women’s department. Unless of course I wanted to take her to Wal-Mart and force her to wear Underroos.  She really was against putting her boobies in a Barbie, or Gem and the Hollograms bra.  Might I add that bra is a very loose description of the garment.  It was more like a little undershirt that had been cut off at the ribs and had elastic placed around the hem.  Anyway…off we trekked to the ladies department at Dillard’s.  First, she had to be measured.  She was, well let’s say put out.  She didn’t appreciate lifting her brother’s sweatshirt from her leggings and letting a stranger put a tape measure to her.  Then (tragedy of tragedy) she needed a real bra, not a trainer.  I won’t mention the size, just suffice it to say that we should have seen that as an indicator of things to come.  We purchased three.  She might have worn one.  Years later she won’t take her bra off, except to shower…as far as I know.

I told my friend to be glad her daughter was such a girly-girl.  My daughter was not.  She can be now (if she must) but she can also belch with the best of them.  She has two older brothers.  She really is quite at ease with the boys.  My friend’s daughter has one brother and he is younger.  The differences are great!  My daughter was raised pitting Barbie against G.I. Joe in the cage match at the “Gardens”.  Madison Square, I presume but I would have to ask my youngest son to be certain.  My friend’s daughter is not usually a girlie-girl.  She is kind of rambunctious and doesn’t mind getting dirty.  I love her to the moon and back, don’t get me wrong.  I’m just saying she’s not a prissy little thing.  Anyway, after two sons I was really looking forward to pink dresses, hair bows, and all the trimmings.  When she was small I could force her.  By kindergarten, she was her own person…a little girly and a little tom-boyish.  I told my friend to cherish the moments when she could.  Enjoy and always remember the training bra shopping.  Look forward to homecoming and prom dress shopping.  Enjoy the temper tantrums and the foot stomping because who knows how long they will last.  I mean seriously, who knows?  It has been twenty-four years…anyone?

We have a message chalkboard in the kitchen.  The original purpose of the chalkboard was to leave messages telling other members of the household about phone calls, where one is going, call me, and such.  It is a handy little item that has become a family joke.

The chalkboard has always been a favorite of The Precious, so frequently it is covered in multi-colored squiggles or Spongebob, trains, monster trucks, and anything else with wheels or landing gear.  Boppy uses it to draw a little character we call Bob.  Bob often is left with nothing said.  He wears a top hat on St. Paddy’s day.  He has been known to wear a diaper on New Year’s day, a heart on Valentine’s day, have rabbit ears on Easter and so on.  Lately Bob has started talking.  He tells us of golf trips, and trips to Golf USA.  He is polite enough to tell us Happy Birthday, or Happy  Anniversary and so on.  My daughter uses the chalkboard to leave us little messages.  She often states where she is going and writes “I love you both!”  Recently we were gone over night and the little chalkboard was waiting for us when we got home.  It said “Missed you guys.  Welcome Home!”  We had a chalkboard message on our anniversary and recently one that told us she had to go to work early.  I’m telling you it is a handy little wall hanging.

I love my little chalkboard, but you never know what you will find on it.  A lot of people see it as an invitation to write any old crap they think is funny.  Once Boppy’s friend wrote, “happy anniversary limp dick and squeaky tits”.  That had to come off before my mother came over and there was serious explaining to do with the kids.  We have had random bits of trivia on the board.  Pumpkins are common in October.  Santa arrives on the board in early December (replaced on the 8th and 21st with birthday wishes for Boppy and my non-vag. daughter).  I am sure you see the pattern.

Well this week it has been a competition to see who can write the funniest thing regarding what you are doing.  It started with Boppy.  He was going to play golf (shock and surprise) and left the message “gone golfing”.  The next day my daughter was going to a concert and she crossed out golfing and wrote “partying”.  The day after, Boppy wrote above the crossed out golfing “golfing again”.  Then my daughter wrote “working”, but kept Boppy’s again.  Well I was feeling really left out.  I don’t golf or work or do anything that is interesting enough to write about on the chalkboard or anywhere else.  I thought about “gone vacuuming” but that really didn’t make any kind of sense.  I considered other choices but they were equally ridiculous.  Finally I thought I would just write the truth so I wrote (in bright pink) “I’m Not Doing a Damn Thing”.  It was a hit.  My daughter thought it was just too funny.  Boppy liked it too.  Here’s the thing…they think I wrote it because at the current moment I wasn’t doing anything and that was true.  What I meant though, was “don’t ask me to do anything today because I won’t”.  I guess the last laugh was on them.

I have had it with people who misuse the word literally.  Literally means that it actually happened in the manner you described.  When you say I was so scared, I literally s@#t my pants…you should find yourself walking around in dirty drawers.  I was in Wal-Mart (where else?) on Thursday and this young girl checking me out at the register was recounting her day to me.  She told a very long story involving work and her boyfriend and she ended it by saying, “I am literally worn down to the bone.”  I said to her, “No sweetie, you are figuratively worn down to the bone.  I know this because I am looking at you, and flesh is evident on your frame.”  Well, she gave me the befuddled gaze of the well educated and said, “you know, right?”

No I don’t know.  I don’t know what is being taught in English classes these days.  I don’t think people think before they speak.  But I truly believe that people have mangled the language for so long that it is unrecognizable.  I cringe when people say, “I couldn’t care less.”  That is not what they are trying to say.  What they want to say is “I could care less.”  The phrase (in all its glory) is used to imply indifference.  If you say “I couldn’t care less” then you are implying that you have cared but you have reached your maximum.

I have issues with people who “umm and ahh” while speaking.  “Say it damnit!”  If you think before you speak, you then know what to say.  Therefore fillers are unnecessary.  That includes “know what I’m saying” and God help us “like”.  I live in a college town.  Every kid in the state says “like” without even realizing it.  Like has its own definition.  It is not a filler word.  “Like if you use like every time you are like talking to someone, like you are probably like not making a lot of sense.  Like if I said I thought you were like pretty and you said like thanks, I probably would like not notice that you had like put an extra word in like the sentence.”  OMG!!  These are the people we are sending out into the work force.  It is just embarrassing.  It is no wonder that our language is so hard for other to learn.  We mangle it on a daily basis.

Now we even have a separate language for people who have IM cell phones and twitter accounts.  “OMG, WTF, and LOL are just a few of the “fill in the blanks” words.  My daughter’s fingers fly across the keyboard of her cell phone as she sends a message.  She does it driving.  She does it when she is eating dinner.  She does it all the time, and she swears she doesn’t use the abbreviations.  I don’t know.  I don’t read her messages.  I don’t know if I can.  It makes my brain ache to have to think that hard.  I have a friend who sends me text messages and uses the abbreviations in the body of her texts.  I have to get a piece of paper and a pen and decipher the puzzle like it is some cryptogram.  If I mess up the whole message is screwed, so I screw up my already furrowed brow and set to it.  If the message is totally ridiculous, I assume I have made an error somewhere.

I also take issue with people who mispronounce words.  Our fiftieth state is Ha-y-e, not Hi-y-ya!  You don’t get tor-till-ya chips with your salsa, but by all means eat tor-tee-a chips and maybe some K-so would be nice. No one has ever warshed clothes.  They are washed.  When the creek is subjected to temperatures that are below freezing it will in fact be frozen…not froze.   Next there is a personal preference of mine.  Technically cheese can be plural.  In my mind,  cheese is a single entity.  You do not want to use the word cheeses.  It sounds like Jesus.  You may have three or four kinds of cheese.  You may put multiple slices on your sandwich…but please don’t put the Lord between bread.  It is disrespectful.  My father-in-law takes issue with the way I pronounce “PICTURE”.  He says I pronounce it “PITCHER”.  Well, let me say this…I don’t think that I do, but even if I did, one small infraction would hardly compare to the butchering he does on a regular basis.  I know when I was small I was told, “people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”  Well his is a crystal palace laden with stones, and he just keeps pitching away.

I try very diligently to curb my corrective tongue.  Especially when I hear strangers say things that make me cringe.  I don’t want to be the a-hole who corrects everyone in the family.  But when it comes to vocabulary and word usage I will correct them when they are speaking about something and  sound stupid.  Please look up, and learn, the difference between literally and figuratively.  Or just leave them out and say what you want to say.  You sound stupid when you say “I literally died.”  Obviously you didn’t.  You are telling the story.  Instead try, “I thought I would die.”  Or if you really feel the extra word is needed try “figuratively” instead.  For it is the correct term…unless you’re a ghost and you did literally die.  In which case I apologize.  Say whatever you want.

I do not suffer fools lightly.  They truly annoy me.  As an example, let me tell you about an incident I had with the phone company.  One morning I woke up and attempted to call my mother.  The phone was dead.  I used our second line to call the phone company and ask whatsup.  I knew the bill had been paid, and I was really confused about the missing dial tone.  The first question the “fool” at the phone company asked me was, “are you using that line to make this call?”  WTF?  I had already told her that the line I was reporting was dead, and in her absolute brilliance she determined that I had magically managed to call her on a phone that was inoperative.

Recently I was at Wal-Mart (where else?) and I picked up several bags of the Green Giant steamers and added them to my  cart.  The young lady who checked me out noticed the bags of veggies and said “are these good?”  I sincerely wanted to say “No.  I decided to spend $20 on crappy vegetables.”  Instead I told her that yes they were good and she should try them.  To which she replied, “I don’t really care for vegetables, except for french fries.”  Fine.  Then why did she care whether or not these veggies were good?   And why did she think I would purchase 10 bags of crap?  If you don’t like veggies don’t question why other people do like them.  Just accept it for what it is.

While driving home the other day I found myself in a two lane, left turn lane.  I was behind one other car in the outside lane.  The inside lane had several cars in it.  When the light turned green the car in front of me gunned it, put himself in the inside left turn lane, and went straight!  Horns went wild at the stupidity of this moron, and I still can’t believe I saw it.  This is a light where several accidents occur.  Mostly because people don’t recognize that a red light means stop.  They seem to feel that there is a 5 second rule after the red light.   However; when these same eager beavers are on the opposite side of the road, they believe green means start immediately and without regard to the fools running the red.  But this fool put stupidity on a whole new level.  I seriously thought about taking his license plate number and calling the cops…but I really didn’t think they would do anything.

I also live in a college town.  There are perks to living in a college town.  We are a community that lives based on our college students.  You can find shows, clothes, and all things Razorback.  They bring money into town and therefore help business. On the downside, we have thousands of new people unfamiliar with our traffic situation, young and invincible, and always in a hurry to get to class driving on our city streets.  Usually it gets better sometime after Christmas.  Don’t even think about shopping for anything for your home at the end of August.  They shop in droves for dorm room decorations.  They bring with them cranky parents who have already spent way too much money on their education, and who are now being hit up for decorating their itty-bitty rooms.  I got behind a mother-daughter team in Wal-Mart (where else?) who were arguing over the decor of the sorority house she was evidently being asked to join.  It seems the other people sharing the room with her had a lot of alcohol, and very specific posters.  The mother was doing her best to tell the poor young thing that she would be better off living in the dorm.  In this case, the mother was the fool.  In the first place, there is alcohol all over the campus.  To assume that she would alcohol free in her dorm room was insane.  Secondly, no girl who has been accepted to a sorority is going to live in a dorm.  It’s just not cool.  The final straw was when the mother begged me to tell her daughter she was right.  Don’t involve strangers in your drama.  I looked at the woman and said, “I would, if I agreed with you.”  The shock on the mother’s face was equal to the smugness of the daughter’s.

A lot of life is just common sense.  I don’t know why they call something so uncommon common sense, but they do and it’s not.  It is as simple as thinking before you speak.  If you look through history, the worst faux pas occurred when some fool just rattled off some crap and the people who were beneath them had to go with the flow.  I also have a problem with the residents of this town who complain about the quality of the schools, but refuse to vote for  millage increases.  I have issues with people who say they need to make friends but don’t ever leave there house.  And don’t even get me started on doctors who bill you if you are not on time for your appointment, and then are consistently behind schedule.  My time is as important as theirs, yet I don’t get to bill them for keeping me waiting.  Ughh!

I know blogging about this won’t change a thing, but I get to vent.  Thank you for reading my anger.  I can’t even begin to tell you how much it means to me.  On the other hand, if you don’t read it and think it is absolutely fantastic…you are one of the fools who anger me!

My mother went on her first date since my Dad passed away, last Wednesday.  She met a man in church that she has determined is a good man.  He calls her nearly every day and checks up on her.  He is eighty-six and has been widowed for about 5 years.  As I mentioned in a previous blog, she asked me and my sisters what we would think if she went out with him.  I don’t know what my sisters that live in different towns said, but my oldest sister and I told her to go for it.  Well, she took us up on that and off they went to watch my niece perform in Eureka Springs.
My niece’s show is a country bluegrass thing that attracts a lot of older people.  I have been a few times, and I nearly always feel like one of the youngest people there.  Anyway, that is where mom and her friend went.  I asked here how it went.  “Well,” she said, “he was very much the gentleman.  He opened my car door for me, and then he helped me with the seat belt.  Then when we got to the show he opened my car door for me and helped me into the building.”  I was pretty impressed.  My dad never treated my Mom with that kind of respect, and she was married to him for 62 years.  I asked Mom if they were going out again and she said she didn’t think so…”we just didn’t have that much in common.”  Really?  Mom is seventy-eight and the gentleman is 86.  They are both widowed.  Mom for a year and six months and the date for five years or so.  They both have children.  They both go to the same church.  They both like country music.  They both admit that they are lonely and would like to have a companion.  Yup, she’s right.  They don’t have a thing in common.

I think on some level she thinks she is cheating on my Dad.  She was only fifteen when they got married, and they were married for so long that she doesn’t know how to deal with any one else.  She told me, after her evening out, that she had had the best and no one else would do.  I told her to quit comparing other men to Daddy.  It’s not fair to them or her.  Dad was one of a kind.  He certainly wasn’t perfect, but it seems he has become perfect over time.  My only problem with Mom seeing this guy is that he is eighty-six, and I am not sure she could handle burying another husband.  She insists that she is through with dating (after one date…please) because she was tired of hearing the same old stories by the end of the night.  I found it interesting that this fellow had become all widowed men.  I told her it was just one night.  She didn’t have to marry him.  Good lord, she let me have it with both barrels.  “That is the farthest thing from my mind.  Where did you get that.  Oh my gosh!”  I thought it would be crude to mention that upon meeting this man she said nothing could ever come of the relationship because he spends winters in Arizona with his kids and she wasn’t leaving her kids for the whole winter.   It seems to me that either my Mom was talking about shacking up or marriage by what is implied by that conversation.  I don’t think shacking up was an option.

I can only imagine how difficult it must be for her.  She waited on my Dad hand and foot.  She cooked him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it.  She didn’t wear shorts that weren’t fitted because Dad thought loose shorts looked sloppy.  When Dad passed away she didn’t know what shows were available because Dad always chose the programs that they watched.  She still watches bull riding, Mama’s Family, and Andy Griffith (which she pronounces Andy Griffin) because those were shows that Dad liked.  She has added a few programs that Dad would have had a fit if he had to watch…like Dancing With the Stars.  She really needs someone to need her.  She loves taking care of her family, but her family have all been doing things for themselves for years.  I try to find something for her to do over here at least once a week.  I’m sure she complains about doing it to my sisters and anyone else who will listen, but I know she is pleased to be needed.

I am hoping I will never find myself in her position.  I married a man twelve years my junior.  The odds are I will go out first, but if not (because the women in our family live well into their nineties) taking into consideration the fact that men go earlier than women, we should kick it at about the same time.  The other thing is I don’t wait on him hand and foot.  He would like it if I did, but most days I find it difficult just to wait on me.  Yes, I fix his meals but I don’t carry them to him.  I don’t make sure he has everything (and I mean everything) he needs before I begin my dinner.  I do keep the house relatively clean.  That means it looks clean on the surface but don’t go prowling around where you don’t belong.  I also despise doing laundry so often Boppy runs out of clothes before I do the wash.  This would make my mother cringe.  She does laundry every day.  The bottom line is, I just am not much like my Mom. 

I hope Mom continues to go out.  If not with this guy then with someone else.  I think it is sweet that she is looking for a companion.  I would like to see her get out of the house and go somewhere more exciting than Wal-Mart or the doctor’s office.  I don’t think she has ever been on many dates, and it would do her good to experience that.  The only problem is I’m just not sure she will keep trying.  In her mind, Dad was perfect and she has placed him so high on a pedestal that you would need a Sherpa to get up there.  She has told me a million times that he was her “baby” and she took good care of him.  Yes, she took good care of him, but I don’t think of my father as a baby.  Lord knows she had plenty of bona fide babies to take care of.  You would think she would know the difference.  Anyway, if my mother needs a new baby to take care of I would rather it be eighty-six than newborn.  At least the eighty-six year old has his own family that can take care of him!

It boils down to is this…Mom needs someone to fuss over and my older sister would rather it not be her.  She comes by daily for lunch, and then stops by after work to visit with Mom.  She goes way beyond her daughterly duty to keep Mom company.  I am not as good about going to Mom’s as my sister is, but I call her daily to check up on her.   I know I should do more, but my sister lives alone and I have a family to take care of.  I really do the best I can.  I try not to feel guilty about putting all of this on my big sister, but I do.  I hope for her sake that Mom can find a companion.  I think that would go a long way towards lightening my sister’s load.  On the downside, I am not sure  either of them could ever solve a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune by their selves.  Mother has said it takes them both to win.   Of course, Mother’s main concern is what Vanna is wearing, but I digress.  I want Mom to be happy.  I want my sister to be happy.  I think a nice Christian man would be perfect for Mother, but please not another saint. 

My father-in-law is bald.  I don’t know any way to state that without just saying it…my father-in-law is bald.  He’s not a chrome dome.  He wears his hair in what I call a horse shoe haircut.  That is to say his hair grows on the sides and along the back and the top of his head has no hair.  Get it?  The hair that grows falls in a horse shoe pattern.

Now the reason I mention this is not to point out the obvious.  I mention it because he and I have had a little run around about his hair.  You see he grows the first layer (at the top of the horse shoe) longer so he can comb it over the bald spot.   Now if any men are reading this let me just tell you no one can pull that off, not even the sexiest man alive.  You might as well just take a razor and shave your head.  It looks better.  We are not fooled by the comb over.  You look like you are desperately trying to go back in time to the place where you had a full head of hair.  But you can’t go back.  You can try Rogaine, or that spray they sell on late night infomercials but when you’re  hairless it’s pointless.  Yet, my father-in-law is totally convinced he looks better with the comb over.

I cut my husband’s hair.  I have for years.  He wears a very simple short guy’s hair cut.  I am not a professional nor do I profess to be.  So when my father-in-law asked me to bring my shears and cut his hair I thought he recognized that you get what you pay for.  Well, I cut his hair.  It looked damned good too.  I cut the sides short and completely eliminated the comb over.  OMG!  He threw a fit.  He told me he wanted it to look like he had hair.  I looked him in the eyes and said “I can cut your hair, but I can’t perform a miracle.  If you have a problem with your baldness talk to God.”  My husband said it looked good.  My mother-in-law thought it looked good, but he was pissed.   The next time we went to Harrison to visit my in-laws I called my father-in-law to see if he wanted me to bring my shears.  “NO!  I don’t ever want you to cut my hair again!”  Now, I was the one pissed.  I mean my gosh, he wanted me to cut his hair so I did.  It wasn’t something I wanted to do.  I did it because he is my father-in-law, and he asked.  I knew he didn’t leave the house a lot, because my mother-in-law was restricted to a wheel chair and he stayed with her.  I was more than a little miffed that he wasn’t grateful for the favor I had done him.  Plus, as I said before, you get what you pay for.  Well, miffed or not we went on to Harrison, and I played it off like my feelings weren’t hurt.  I went through the motions with him, and mostly talked to my mother-in-law.

Well, about four or five weeks later we went to see them again.  My father-in-law’s hair looked just like it did when I had cut it a month ago.  I commented that perhaps his hair hadn’t grown at all to which he replied, “No.  It grows just fine, but the last time I went to the barber shop the guy I usually use wasn’t there so I saw a young female barber.  She cut my hair exactly like you did.”  I couldn’t resist so I told him “that’s because it looks better when it’s not combed over.”  You could have heard a pin drop.  It’s true though.  We have a friend who is the same age as Boppy.  He started to lose his hair in his early twenties.  He went ahead and just shaved his dome completely bald.  His wife insists that he tan year round so that his stubble doesn’t show through, and he does but the point is…he looks better bald.  Completely bald.  I have a brother-in-law who lost an arm in a tragic motor vehicle accident.  He shaved his head because with one arm it was just easier.  He looked better bald than he did balding, and he doesn’t even tan.

Bald happens.  Is it fair?  No. Fare is just what you pay to get on the bus.  It has no application in life.  My mother never had to shave her legs daily, but I do.  That’s not fair either.  Of course, I have a natural large bust and Mom doesn’t so I figure life is full of trade offs.  I would rather shave daily and have a nice rack, so I lucked out   The only problem is you don’t get to choose.  You’re just stuck with what you get.  Sometimes that is lucky and sometimes it is sucky, but you have to play the cards you’re dealt.  I can’t sugar coat my father-in-laws baldness any more than I can jump off a building and fly.  I was just doing my best with what I had to work with (which wasn’t much), and there was no gratitude at all.  I even asked him when I started to cut his hair, “what do you want?”  The answer was, “I just want it cut.”  Well by God, that is what I did.  I cut that shit off.   I guess in a way I truly lucked out, because he has held on to that “you will never cut my hair again” statement for years.  I didn’t want to cut it anyway, so I kind of won. 

I’ve never been attached to my hair before.  I think of it as an accessory, and it is constantly changing.  I have had it about every color in the book.  I’ve had black hair, brown hair, auburn and platinum.  It has been very, very short and really, really long.  Hell, in the eighties I even had a mullet.  I just really don’t care that much about my hair.  I have come to believe that is because I have more than a dozen thin strands holding the whole “do” together.   So for those of you who are so attached to your hair that you can’t even give up the few strands on top I say, “forget about it.  You are not fooling any one other than yourselves.”   If I ever find myself losing my hair I want you all to know that I intend to shave myself bald.  There you go.  It is in print now, so you can hold me to it.  I might tan year round though, so the reflection on my dome doesn’t cause any accidents when I drive with my top down.  It seems like the right thing to do.

 

I have begun Christmas shopping.  It may seem a bit early, but it is all about the budgeting.  If I buy one gift a week from now until Christmas then power shop whatever is left I should be good.  It is getting easier.  The great nieces and nephews are getting older so I mostly just give them cash or gift certificates.  The little ones are happy with anything they have ever seen on television.  That pretty much takes care of my family.  Boppy’s family comes over and we do a gift bag exchange with a limit so that doesn’t take long.  Girls buy girl’s gifts and guys buy guy’s gifts.  Obviously, I only have one gift to buy so easy peasy.

I buy 90% of all the gifts for our family.  I do this because Boppy loves to buy gifts for people he loves.  He has a hard time reigning himself in though, and the budget would suffer if he were allowed to buy for everyone.  Yes it is a little bit of a hardship to do all of the shopping myself, but it isn’t so bad if I do a little here and a little there.  It also keeps us from taking a hit in December when we have a lot of birthdays in addition to Christmas.  Another thing we do that varies from the norm, is have Christmas after Christmas.  Once the kids started having significant other and living away, we opted to have our Christmas on New Year’s Day.  That way, if they need to hang out with their in-laws for Christmas they don’t have to feel bad.  We also have to travel out of town for Christmas eve so it makes it a little easier for us as well.  That is why if I have to power shop at the very end, I can hit the post Christmas sales and save us even more money.

The Precious is easy to shop for.  A few clothes, a lot of toys…done!!!  I  don’t have any trouble with the girls or Boppy either, but my boys confuse me.  Somethings I can figure out…video games and DVD’s are no brainers, but you hate to give them nothing but those things so I have to ask for lists.  There are always a few games or videos that come out just before or right at Christmas.  So I leave a few spots open for those things and other things that I might see that are just too perfect.

There are certain traditions though that just have to be maintained.  The girls always get new pajamas and Santa always puts new Christmas boxers in the guy’s stockings.  Oh yeah, the stockings.  Santa doesn’t visit here anymore as far as bringing Santa presents go.  He does however fill stockings.  When he first started filling stockings it was just a matter of some candy and a few little gifts.  There were always some things that were gag gifts (especially for the guys) and a few basic essentials that the (college) kids would rather not have to buy for themselves…you know, nice shampoo, soaps, tooth whitening strips and so on.  Well, I found out listening to the girls talk one night that the stockings were their favorite part of Christmas.  No pressure!  So now I try to make sure the stockings are spectacular.  I think perhaps they knew I was listening, and they had decided to have this conversation to insure that the quality of the stockings didn’t diminish, since I have a direct line to Santa.

I was online this morning checking Overstock for possible gifts and my daughter walked in.  She asked what I was doing and I told her I was Christmas shopping.  “Christmas shopping?  Shouldn’t you be birthday shopping for someone?”  (Guess who has a birthday next week)  I know she isn’t too worried.  Her birthday hasn’t been forgotten yet.  I told her that I had a specific thought in mind for my non-vag daughter and I was looking for this item before I forgot what it was I was looking for.  She agreed that what I was looking for was a good idea and that she would love it, but I think she still felt I was a little misdirected. 

Anyway, it’s a work in progress and I am progressing.  I have purchased at least one gift for everyone in the family at this point.  I haven’t begun to work on the extended family yet, but it will happen.  Then by December we will do birthdays and have my husband’s family over for Christmas, go to Harrison for my family, and power shop beginning the 27th.  I am not stupid enough to shop on the 26th.  On the 1st, while everyone else is trying to get past the hangovers, we will be sitting down to some biscuits and chocolate gravy for breakfast, opening stockings and gifts, then having a family dinner together as well.  It’s an all day long affair, but it is one we all enjoy.  These are our traditions, and it is the traditions that make our family.

The hubby and I celebrated our anniversary this week.  We aren’t new to this yearly tradition.  We have gotten past the giddiness and settled into a comfortableness that comes from being old hands at marriage.  We semi sort of dressed up and went out to a eat at a nice restaurant.  After our lovely meal the hubby asked if I would like to drive to one of the nearby casinos, and I gave him a big “hell yes!”  We love gambling and always have.  He prefers to pairs gamble, and I would really love just to do it all by myself but we compromise and do it his way.

We play slots.  We don’t play the tables.  There is a reason we don’t…the people.  I have been accused of being a snob.  My niece’s husband called my daughter and I snobs when he first met us, because we didn’t want his friend who had just gotten out of jail to come over for Thanksgiving.  One of my best friends (well, I thought she was a ”best” friend…turns out she wasn’t a friend at all) accused me of snobbery for a comment I made that was given in humor and twisted into something ugly.  Even my husband has called me a snob.  That, however, was because I was a cheerleader in high school and had more than one date with more than one guy.  He was (according to my daughter and myself) somewhat geeky.  He commented that I was a social elitist who probably wouldn’t have given him the time of day if we had been in the same high school at the same point in our lives.  He was probably right.  But back to my story… we don’t go to the tables because the people who hang around there are creepy.  Now to be fair, it’s not just the people who hang out at the table who are creepy.  The people who play the slots are creepy too.  We however, are mobile and we can leave if the creep factor gets too high.  It seems the only people who go to casinos in the middle of the week (it’s slightly better on the weekends) are people who can’t afford shampoo and smoke incessantly. 

On this particular night there was one gambler who had gotten incredibly drunk.  I saw him stumbling around aimlessly with glazed eyes and unwashed hair plus a lovely cigarette hanging from his thin lips.  He was a small man who was living large.  He had enough beer in him that he had become hard of hearing.  He shouted all over the place.  Every comment was uttered loudly enough for everyone in the casino to hear.  He commented on the band.  He commented on the slot machines.  He commented on the women walking by…I commented on a few of them too (not in a good way).  He commented on the fact that his wife wasn’t liking his comments.  At one point we heard his shouting from across the casino, “I did it!  I won that m’er f’er!”  We weren’t hearing any whistles or bells so I don’t know exactly what he won, but I am assuming it was either small or at the tables.  All night long, well as long as we were there, he shouted and he got louder, and louder, and louder.  Somewhere around 2:00 a.m. the hubby and I were playing video poker…which is to say the hubby was playing and allowing me to watch…the buddy system really sucks!…and I saw the drunk little man walking toward the bar once again.  He was intercepted by a woman who I am assuming was his wife.  She was a little taller than him.  She was a lot heavier.  She had on work boots and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt that looked like it had come directly from the construction site.  Her jeans (Wranglers) were covered in what I  believe was concrete, but could have been paint.  I’m saying she was a working woman, and she looked like she would have been good at her job.  The following conversation took place.  “Where do you think you’re going?”  “I’m headed to the bar.”  “No.  You are not.  You are coming over here with me.”  “I’m headed to the bar.”  “Get your sorry ass behind me and you keep walking as long as I do.”  This was muttered in a menacing voice that had been lowered to a threatening whisper, but the eyes (under the brim of her trucker hat) were pure evil.  The poor little dude fell into step.

I was intrigued.  If I had dropped my head and lowered my voice and said those words to my hubby…well, first he would have wondered why I wanted him to look at the top of my head, but secondly he would have laughed his ass off.  When you are 14 inches shorter than your husband it is hard to be a threat.  He also outweighs me a bit so I cannot be effective as a “can of whup ass”.  If I could have become the aggressor, like this charming lass, I wouldn’t have been looking around the casino while “we” were gambling.  I would have said “give me some cash so I can play poker too or I’m gonna whup your ass!”  Boppy doesn’t realize how lucky he is.  I can’t whup his ass.  I can barely reach it to bite it!  Luckily, I rarely feel the need to unleash on him. 

We left the casino after about four hours.  We hadn’t come out ahead, but we weren’t too far behind.  Neither of us had to worry about being stopped for DUI or waking up with a hangover.  We were definitely faring better than the couple I described.  We will still be married next year…them, I don’t know.  I do know this,  the next time we go I’m taking my purse, or at least my debit card.  I should have been looking down at a nice slot machine, not noticing the sad people trying to survive a Wednesday night at a casino.  I did have a thought while I was there.  I wondered what people thought of us….not drinking, well dressed, not fighting or smoking.  Then I knew the answer…they wondered why we would ever come to a casino after church.

 

I received an email recently from one of my dear friends that was about a girl whose name was Le-A.  The primary question was how do you pronounce her name.  Lee a, Leigh, Lei a, and several others were mentioned, but the child’s name was Ledasha.  Apparently, “the dash not be silent”.

Why do people do that?  I understand the need to set ones self apart from the crowd, but why subject your child to the embarrassment of constantly hearing “…and how do you pronounce that?”  Especially if you have a really difficult last name.  I remember when my daughter was playing softball, one of the little girl’s last names was Zbrieweski.  Upon going over the roster the coach came to the Zs and asked “…and how do you pronounce that?”  The witty father piped up “Smith.”  So here is the first rule to naming your child…don’t name them difficult names if their last name is ridiculous.  And as a parent you should know that if you have spent the majority of your life answering “…and how do your pronounce that?” your child’s first name should be Ann, John, Meg, Tim or some other easily spelled and easily pronounced name.  If your last name is Wojohowicz do not name your progeny Lazahonda or Ladarian or anything that contains more than one syllable. 

Which brings me to rule 2, do not name your child a name you do not know how to spell.  Since I have begun watching pro football I have seen about a thousand spellings of the name Dante.  Dauntay, Dawnte, Donte, and so on.  For God’s sake, buy a book on baby names.  Pick something that you can spell and other people can pronounce.  If you want to name your son Sean,  be sure you name him after Connery…not Johnson!  These kids are going to have to live with these names for the rest of their lives.  No wonder crime is on the rise.  These people are acting out because their names suck!  When the world was full of common names there was much less crime.  Even now when a crime is committed it is much less likely to have occurred at the hands of a Jim, John, or Adam.  This is not always the case, but I am dealing in a world where my theories haven’t been tested….yet!

The third rule is a pretty simple one.  When your child is born, look into their little face and see who they are.  Coming up with a name nine months in advance just doesn’t always work.  When I was pregnant the first time I was determined that my child (if it was a boy) would be named Austin.  When I looked into his face  he was anything but an Austin.  I re-named him on the spot, and I feel he has lived up to his name.  The next thing you should do is imagine them in their golden years.  Does the name you have chosen for them work just as well for an octogenarian as it does for an adolescent?  If it doesn’t you need to rethink your choice.  We are about to have a world full of grandmothers named Breath, Fleur, Meadow and so on.  It’s bad enough that they are going to be pierced, tattooed, and who knows what else, at least a regular name would give them a strong point to come from.

I have a name that is never available on any of the mugs, keychains, or other little things found in souvenir stores.  My name is a combination of both of my parent’s names.  I also had a last name that always had to be spelled and pronounced.  When I was young I hated it.  I always swore I was going to marry a Smith or a Jones.  My name is not as unusual as it used to be, but it isn’t common.  It took me a long time to appreciate my name.  I made sure that when my children were born they had names that had been around for centuries, with the exception of my daughter.  She was named after a friend from high school (but I spelled it in a way that made it easily pronounceable).  Well, to be exact, my ex-husband named my younger son…but I gave him his nickname which has stuck.  Regardless, when they were in school other children also had their names.  Their last name was a three syllable monstrosity that they couldn’t spell until third grade, so it was my intention that they didn’t have to hear “…and how do you spell that?” about both of their names. 

Finally, just let me say that in my opinion the father should never be allowed to name the child.  Primarily, because men are stupid, but also because they tend to think that “cute” names are good.  I have a nephew who said he was going to name his child Lunchbox or Cookie.  My son wanted to name my grandson Beau Hunter.  This is the reason they should be denied naming the child.  My ex named my middle son an old family name that hasn’t seen the dust brushed off of it since 1860 (hence the nickname).  I could go on and on, but you get the idea.  This is just my opinion and experience…you may have a husband or son or whatever who understands the basics behind naming a child and if you do…I apologize for generalizing…and congratulations!

So to all of the Le-a’s out there…I’m sorry.  I wrote this too late for you, but consider your embarassment when you name your own child.  To all of the potential parents out there, please be kind.  This is the rest of your child’s life we are talking about.  To my own middle child…I know you have come to accept your name and you no longer blame me for turning my back when the birth certificate was brought into the hospital room.  I would like to remind you that I am the reason no one knows your given name without your express permission.  To all my children…I’m sorry I didn’t marry a Smith or a Jones.

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