Ewwwwwwwwwwwww, The Precious was in a mood yesterday.  I know I get cranky when it’s hot, but I didn’t realize The Precious had the same issues.  That is, until yesterday.  He showed up last evening with his pint sized body sweaty, and his galaxy sized attitude intact.  Buckle up….you know it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

I was sitting in my recliner, minding my own business…when I heard, “helloooooo….Emmy?”  It was the monkey man.  I am enjoying the air conditioning but I know that the chilled air is only temporary, because I am about to go outside and play.  Aunt vag. daughter held him off for awhile.  She’s always exciting when she’s here.  I think it’s the abscence making the heart fonder thing.  Anyway, about 15 minutes into the visit it’s, “Emmy, let’s go outside.”  He wanted to play on his swing.  He slid for a few times and seemed to be in an overall good mood.  Then he decided to swing.  We didn’t get him a fancy swing.  If Boppy had his way, The Precious would have had one of those log cabin gone wild swings.  You know, the ones with the rock climbing wall and a fort?  Well, I got my way and The Precious got a plain, old, 2 swings-slide-and glider swing.  The swings have the flat, hard plastic, swings that every child since the invention of the swing has had.  They were good enough for me and they were good enough for his daddy and they are good enough for him.  Right?…..Wrong!  The Precious has difficulty placing his round booty on the flat swing, and he panics when he feels that he might fall.  He wanted what he called a “diaper swing.”  Google “diaper swing” and see what you get.  I got everything from Pampers to sex swings.  What I didn’t get was anything that I would attach to the swingset currently residing in my backyard.  So after his slippery little ass fell off the swing (and before he could work up a good fit), I told him to come on we’d go to Toy-R-Us.  I told him we would get one toy.  “How many toys?”  “One toy.”  Groovy….so off we go.  “I have to buckle in.   Right Emmy?  Cuz’ we’re goin’ a long way.  Right?”  So I buckled him in, and off we went.

Have you ever taken a three year old to Toys-R-Us on a July day after telling them you can only get one toy and you mean a swing but they have a whole different idea in there heads?  Well, let me tell you…I have trouble keeping up.  We made it through the pool toys.  Although I was seriously worried that he was going to need a wading pool.  We made it through the Ironman, Spiderman section.  We barely made it through the sports equipment…he thought he might need roller skates…and a helmet…and pads.  This is the kid who broke his arm standing on a Sit-N-Spin, and he thinks I’m going to put wheels on his feet?  Please!!!!  I told him that he could barely walk through the house without falling when he has nothing on his feet.  He doesn’t need all the owwwies that would come with roller skates.  A lady next to me gasped.  Apparently telling a toddler they are clumsy is akin to beating them in public.  I know that, as of now, he has inherited my grace.  I’m not going to be irresponsible.  Anyway, having talked him out of roller skates, we went to an aisle that has blow up buildings that you can jump in.  I know that you have seen them at fairs and things.  This is the same thing on a smaller scale.  Kind of like the things you can rent for birthday parties.  Well he said, point blank, “I want it.”  I uttered that rarely heard word….No.  “But I want it.”  “No, it’s too big for Emmy to put in her backyard.”  “You said one toy.”  “Yes, but we already have a “diaper swing” that’s your one toy.”  “But I want the castle….”  “Yes, everyone does, but not every one gets it.  It’s too many dollars.” ($330 of them as a matter of fact)  “Come on and let’s pay the money and go to Emmy’s.”  Out comes the lip, and the head goes down….the corresponding shoulder droops as he turns his head away from you so that you are now viewing his back and the side of his head.  “I sad.”

We walked out of Toys-R-Us with the swing.  And a box of 250 gumballs, and a Wally The Whale (which didn’t work at all).  We got home and I unplugged him from the car.  He grabbed the swing, leaving Wally (which was a bribe to keep him from whining about he castle) in the car, and the gum balls in the drink holder.  He dragged the swing across the lawn and into the house.  He briefly showed it to his mother and then he took it out to his swing.  “Do it Emmy!”  So I began to unhook the old swing, and put up the new swing.  When I went to get it, The Precious was sitting in it.  I told him he would need to move his butt before I could hang his swing.  “I want it!  I want to swing!”  I finally wrangle his toddler butt out of the swing and hang it.  I put him in it and lock him in when he begins screaming. “The other way…I want it the other way….behind me!”  “I am behind you.” “Not you…my swing…my swing, behind me!”  I stopped the swing and begin to take him out.  This set off another cacophony of screams.  He didn’t want to have to get out of his swing.  I tried to explain to him that I am unable to hold him by two ropes while attaching the swing to the swingset.  He is unmoved.  I finally get his bellowing butt out of the seat and get it turned around.  Finally.  His swing is now officially behind him.  I began to push.  Like every child since the beginning of time he begins to shout, “higher, higher.  I want to go higher.”  I’m pushing for all I’m worth.  I’m sweating like the pig that knows it’s dinner, and my shoulders are screaming with each and every push. “higher, higher…my daddy goes higher.”  I can do nothing to please the little darling.  I refuse to try and explain the physics of swinging to a toddler.  I also refuse to get a longer rope to get him to his desired altitude.  If I get a  rope at this point, it’s not going to be the swing that’s hanging from it.  After 3 to 5 minutes of taunting about how much better his dad is than me, I decide I will just stop the swing, remove the precious cargo, and take him and his little attitude into to the house to get his dad and his bulging, swing pushing, muscles.  Stopping the swing starts the  screaming again.  I’m hot.  I’m sweaty.  My shoulders are on fire.  I’m 50 years old and have no ability left to reason with little people.  I used all of mine up on my kids.   I leave The Precious buckled in the swing and head for the door.  I stick my head in the door and yell, “someone else needs to push this kid, and he would prefer his daddy.”

I’m not going to go into the fireworks display that occurred when it was his mother and not his father who walked out the door.  I’m not going to talk about the melt down he had when Wally The Whale didn’t work and he couldn’t catch the fish with his little net.  I’m certainly not going into the screaming match that happened when his foolish mother took him from the side of the pool and placed his writhing butt in the nice, warm, pool water.  Oh no….I won’t go into those things.  What I will say is this: as we were leaving the toy store The Precious was sitting in his car seat with his mouth full of gumballs.  He has one hand in the box of gum, and one grasps his swing.  His foot is on top of Wally.  With a slimy, sticky, mouth he says, “Thank you, Emmy.  I’m so happy!”  And that makes it worth it.  Nine out of every ten times he comes to visit he is absolutely a treasure.  On that tenth visit, he could wear the horns off of a Billy goat.  But the nine far out weigh the one.  His mother just called and asked if they could come back tonight.  I think she knows I was at the end of my rope last night.  Of course, I said that they could.  That tenth one is out of the way….odds are we are going to be having fun tonight.  Thank God!!!!!

 

I got a notice today that it is time for my semi-annual teeth cleaning from my dentist.  I like my dentist.  His daughter and my daughter were very good friends in high school which is why I chose him.  He has an easy going nature, and a keen sense of humor.  He also lets me have laughing gas at any time I choose.  Good man.  So the point I’m getting to is this: I don’t mind going to the dentist.  I know some people have phobias about the dentist.  Truth is, out of every hour appointment, I see the dentist maybe 2 minutes.  I walk in, and the hygienist takes me back to the chair.  She takes x-rays, and cleans my teeth.  When everything is done the dentist walks in and looks at the x-rays and picks at my teeth.  He proceeds to tell me that everything is fine and that’ll be $125. Did you hear and understand that my dear friends…2 minutes of work and $125!

Normally the dentist is the one doctor I can go to and be told that everything is fine.  I count on him for that, but the last time he let me down.  My teeth are good.  I don’t get cavities, but what I do is grind my teeth in my sleep.  All of my molars are crowns.  The last time I went to the dentist he told me that two of my crowns had cracked.  He said that they needed to be replaced, and suggested that it would be wise to go ahead and do root canals at the same time, since I was experiencing sensitivity.  Have you priced crowns in the last year or two?  The crown alone cost about $1000.  Add to that the $300 for the root canals, and multiply by two and you are talking about a nice little sum of money.  “There’s your house payment” I half jokingly said to him. “I should tell you that porcelain crowns are inferior to gold crowns.  Gold crowns last longer and are better for chronic grinders.”  Personally I don’t see how that can be true what with gold being such a soft metal, but a few years ago (15 or so), a dentist talked me into a gold crown with the same argument.  “No one will see it.  It is in the very back of your mouth.  It won’t show and it will last a lot longer.”  Well, it’s lasted alright…and it has shown up in every picture I’ve had made in the last 15 years.  I have a big smile, and apparently you can see every tooth in my head.  Every stinking picture that I have with me smiling my natural smile (unposed) has a glint of gold.  I feel like a gangsta in those pictures.  Yo, Yo…it’s Emmy D, O, double G up in the hizzouse.  Which would be fine if I was into that kind of thing….but I’m not.  I’m funny enough to think that teeth should be white.  Actually the whiter the better.  If (God forbid) I should ever have to have dentures, I would want those puppies so white you would need shades just to look at me!  I’d be like that episode of friends where Ross gets his teeth whitened and they go to a party with a black light and all you can see are his teeth.  That’s the smile I want.  I just don’t want to mortgage my home to get it. 

I’ve gone through braces, and rubber bands from back to front, retainers, and splints just to have straight teeth and non-aching jaws.  I can’t control the grinding…I’m asleep…cut me some slack.  I wear jaw splints at night (along with all the other splints and crap I have to put on before bed) which are supposed to prevent me from damaging my teeth.  I have about a half inch of acrylic between my top and lower molars each night.  I have gone through four sets of professionally made bite guards in the last 25 years.  That averages out to 6.25 splints per year at a  cost of about $300 each, or the cost of one root canal and crown.  They have to be replaced because I eventually crack them from the pressure in my jaws as I clinch my teeth.  So here’s the thing…if gold crowns last longer than porcelain, and porcelain apparently lasts longer than acrylic rather than trying to sell me on gold crowns, they should be making my splints out of gold.  If they did that then I would only have to replace them every 20 years.  Plus I could go out in public without looking like Mike Tyson. 

So in a couple of weeks I’m going in for my cleaning, and when the hygienist is through and the dentist comes in and tells me that I still need to replace those crowns, I’m going to smile my golden, gleaming, blinding smile, and tell him no thanks.  I’ll keep using Sensodyne, and praying for a miracle (maybe dental caulk), and hoping beyond hope that I can last until there is some light at the end of the tunnel.  Maybe by the time I have the money there will be a third option available…or a fourth, if you count the dentures!

My Dad loved life.  In my late twenties we became friends.  Dad had gone through some major life changes and I was in a better place than I had been.  We reached a place where we could sit and talk as equals.  I could discuss anything with Dad.  We talked pro football, college basketball, politics or his favorite subject…the weather.  The point here is that we talked.  Dad had two things that were pretty consistent: he called all of his daughters sis (kept the confusion to a minimum), and he told us “it’ll all work out.”

This was Dad’s life philosophy.  When I came to him to talk about my marriage being on rocky ground he told me it would all work out.  When my ex was making my life miserable I got the same phrase.  No matter what the situation was I was told “it’ll all work out.”  At the time I found it irritating.  I was looking for advice.  I wanted to hear sage wisdom not foo foo platitudes.  I wanted him to tell me that he would talk to him, or that he would help me in some way, but I never got that.  I got, “it’ll all work out.”  At the time it didn’t seem like it was any help at all, and I wondered why when we could talk about anything if I needed help this was all I got.  But you know, looking back, he was always right.  It all did work out.  Not always the way that I hoped or the way that I had planned but it did work out.  Whether the solution was for the better or for the worse it still worked itself out…probably in the way it was intended to. 

I’m going through some things now that I’m not happy with.  The other day I was seriously wishing I could talk to Dad about it.  After thinking about it for awhile I knew what he would say.  He would listen to everything I said and  after seeming to think about it he would tell me that it would all work out.  Only now I know that he’s right.  Whether it works out the way that I wish it would or not remains to be seen, but it will work out.  But here’s the clincher…I get it.  All of those times that he told me those tiny little words of wisdom I thought he was full of crap.  Now I am trying to live my life with the gentle ease of my father.  It will all work out.  There are usually only two options to this…it will work out for the best, or it will work out for the worse…but it will work out.  I get it.  Now I try to just go with the flow and hope that it works out for the best.  I know that if my kids come to me for advice I will use these words.  The difference between my dad and me is that I don’t always stop there.  That is why I have raised children who come to me for help instead of standing on their own two feet.  I know they are reading this, so I have to admit that a. they don’t always come to me for help and b. as they get older it gets better.  I think I should be able to fix things.  My dad thought I should be able to solve my own problems.  I think in some ways he just had more faith in me or in a greater power.  Him telling me that it would all work out probably forced me to find my own solutions or be willing to accept the outcome.

So it’s Father’s Day.  I can feel his presence smiling at the fact that I got it.  Dad had a great smile.  His life wasn’t easy, but he loved it.  He loved growing up on a farm with a ton of brothers and sisters.  He loved my Mom and he loved his daughters.  He loved God.  He loved life.  The best way we can honor Dad is to love life like he did…to smile like he did…to keep going on without him, not because we want to because we have to.  He didn’t waste a minute worrying about what would happen next.  He knew it would all work out!  Happy Father’s Day!

My non-vag. daughter was water boarded last night.  She wasn’t being held as a terrorist or anything along those lines.  She was swimming in the pool.  Not to minimize my role in this, while she was being assaulted, I laughed my ass off.  Please allow me to enlighten you…

Last night my oldest, his wife and The Precious came over.  It began with The Precious and me watering the plants out front.  That lead to The Precious shucking down to what nature gave him.  As we were coming  inside  I noticed that “Dave” had once again sprung a sprocket and was shooting water all over the place.  I made the comment that Boppy was not going to be happy.  Allow me to digress…Boppy hates pretty much everything pool.  He doesn’t enjoy it.  He doesn’t like paying for the chemicals.  He doesn’t like cleaning it.  He really hates repairing it.  However; because I can whine like an m’er f’er, he will (if he must) take care of “Dave” because Dave will keep the pool clean without paying or feeding him.  Today we had to go to the pool supply store and purchase a part for “Dave”.  The part was a little plastic connector for “Dave’s” hose, and it cost over $30.  Let me tell you, I got an ear full on the way home.  This man who will spend $40 a week on golf balls bitched for 15 minutes about the amount of mark up on this connector.  We finally made it home and he attached the part and soon thereafter he went golfing (insert gasps of shock here).  Okay…back to the story…so when I saw that “Dave” had sprung a sprocket again I knew this wasn’t going to be a great evening. 

Well, The Precious wanted to see what Dave was doing.  We went outside and sat on the glider and watched for “Dave” to surface so we could have a sighting.  Now you know it’s a pretty laid back life style when you get your kicks from watching the automatic pool cleaner break the surface, but that’s what we were doing when The Precious suggested that we take a closer look.  So I went to get my swimsuit on and we got in.  Within a few minutes we had navigated to the deep end to take a look.  Shortly his mama came out.  By this time we had “Dave” trapped and were playing with the loose hose.   The Precious was totally digging playing with the hose.  It is something to see a kid in a huge pool playing with the hose from a broken pool cleaner.  This was more fun than the pool had ever been, and the pool has been plenty fun!  Little did we know that far greater fun was minutes away because you see, when my non-vag. daughter got in the pool The Precious went to her…hose in hand…and accidentally sprayed her a little.  Well that was the funniest thing ever so he started doing it on purpose.  I’m going to try and describe this without missing anything.  He turned the hose on her on purpose.  Caught off guard she does the only thing she can think of to do…throw her head back to get out of his way.  Well this caused the water to go straight up her nose.  Now she has The Precious in the deep end of the pool.  She is hanging onto the edge with one hand and the baby with the other, meanwhile she is getting a full sinus irrigation and gulping gallons of water at the same time.  She can’t really make him stop because to do so could cause the kid to go under.  He definitely would if she let go of him, and he might if she let go of the edge.  I am doing my part.  I have a raft…maybe 2 feet away…and I am laughing my ass off…because I can see her face and she is utterly tortured!  He is laughing that hysterical deep belly laugh that totally tickled toddlers get, and she’s laughing a little too because it’s hard not to laugh when a baby is laughing that laugh.  She finally risks letting him go to put her hand up, and this causes some of the spray to fall back on him.  He’s done.  He drops the hose and quits laughing.  Not me.  I’m still laughing.  Writing this and thinking about the look on her face I’m still laughing.  Well, once she gets things under control she looks at The Precious and tells him, “…your Emmy is a very bad word.”  That’s enough to send me into further gales of laughter.  Before they had gone home, Boppy came in from golf and The Precious told him, “you’re not gonna be happy.”  He proceeded to drag him outside to look at “Dave.” That brings the story of the hose to my non vag. daughter’s attention once again.  Well she’s shooting for sympathy, which Boppy might have given her had I not erupted in laughter from the other room.  My son was never going to empathize because he has the same sick sense of humor that I do.  So while she’s telling the guys what a bitch I am  I told them my version of the story.  I told them the baby had water boarded his mother.  My son asked her, “was it torture?”  She said yes with a look on her face that had me rolling on the floor yet again.

Now…we had to have a brief explanation of why anyone would be in doubt (W.) as to whether or not this particular event would be considered anything other than torture, but I think…torture or not…I will do my level best to see to it that she never has the tail end of “Dave” while I’m holding a three year old in the deep end of the pool with one hand holding onto the side and no way of getting away from her, because let me tell you dear ones…she will drown my ass!

 

For many reasons, I love summer.  I love the lush countryside. I love the warm, even hot, temperatures.  I love the smell of water on hot pavement.  But mostly I love lying in the sun in the pool.

The pool is my sanctuary.  No one else gets to enjoy it as often or as much as I do.  My vag. daughter is in beauty school and is gone 5 days a week from 8:00 until 5:00.  And Boppy would rather eat glass than swim in the daytime.  Many long years ago, Boppy received a bad sunburn…one of the blistering kind.  He was at a water park with his cousin, and in typical little boys fashion they outlasted their sunscreen.  He has never forgotten.  And he extends his phobia unto others.  I am constantly reminded to use sunscreen.  Even-though, my moisturizer has sunscreen in it I rarely take a topless trip in my convertible without being asked, “do you have sunscreen on?’ It doesn’t help that we have no shade around our pool.  Around 5:00 in the evening the sun goes behind some neighboring trees and casts the deep end into shade.  For this reason, I always make sure to keep sunscreen for everyone who might swim.   I keep everything from a SPF4 to and SPF50.  When I was placing last years sunscreen in the cabinet I learned that we were out of several strengths.  So  Boppy and I headed off to Wal-Mart to buy sunscreen. 

We didn’t have to search to find it.  Luckily every store in Arkansas has a big kiosk of sunscreen available.   Finding wasn’t the problem…agreeing on what to buy was the problem.  I don’t like sunscreen that smells like coconut.  Love coconut, hate artificial coconut scent.  Boppy can’t smell the coconut, or he just doesn’t care.  I tend to buy Coppertone products because they don’t have “that” smell.  It is slightly more expensive so Boppy wants to buy Banana Boat products….they reek!  The intensely sweet smell gives me a migraine. I had to tell Diamond Jim to suck it up and pay the extra .50 because it was lots cheaper than my migraine prescription which our insurance doesn’t cover.  Reminding him of the cost of Treximet did the trick.  We picked Coppertone.

I am dark skinned.  Not Native-American dark, but olive toned enough to tan easily.  Boppy is opalescent.  He burns easily…he does tan, but you have to see his covered skin to prove it.  Trust me when I say that will not happen.  So I pick out a SPF8 for myself.  As soon as he saw the number on the bottle, Boppy told me that I would be just as well off putting on water (he tends to over exaggerate).  I reminded him that I am darker skinned than he is (so was our albino bunny, by the way.) He keeps it up. “I don’t know why you even bother…you’re going to look stupid when you get skin cancer…you’re not setting a very good example….” and so on.  Again, I reminded him that if I did indeed get skin cancer it would probably be from tanning when I was young and using butter on my body…or baby oil and iodine…or the fact that I nearly lived in tanning beds until 1990.  I also reminded him that my dermatologist checks my body yearly for skin cancer and that he told me that the sun protection factor number was less important than how often it was applied.  Now dear ones, I know you don’t know Boppy, but he gets a look that is hard to describe when he is faced with logical information that flies in the face of his beliefs.  It causes his brow to knot up and his eyes to narrow.  The irises change from a azure blue to a gray.   He becomes….his mother!   Ignoring all of his arguments, I purchase the sunscreen that I wanted.  Of course he insists that he must have a different one.  I agree because putting an 8 on him is likes putting oil on a chicken breast on an open flame.  I pick up a 50….it’s for babies.  It comes in a pink bottle with teddy bears.  The look returns.  I find a 70.  Now it has become a treasure hunt and the goal is to see who can find the highest SPF.  He finds an 85.  OMG!  I don’t see how in the hell I can beat that.  I look on the back side of the display.  Eighty-five after 85 appear on the shelves.  Then I hear a triumphant yell from the other side.  In typical Boppy fashion, he doesn’t speak but holds the bottle in front of my eyes so I can see for myself (it’s kind of a passive aggressive neener neener).  100!  Keeping in mind that the number reflects how much longer you can stay in the sun than you could without sun block…the one minute he has, has now turned to 100.  That’s almost 2 hours!  I ask him why he can’t just roll in mud like other pigs.  The look returns.  I’m laughing my ass off now, partly because of the pig comment and partly because of the look.  He turns to me and seethes, “skin cancer” and turns to go to the checkout.

Yesterday I got to lie in the pool.  I sunburned.  Life sucks sometimes! 

The Precious turned three this week.  In a fashion typical of our family, he had two birthday parties.  The first as a quiet little family event with about a dozen people…mostly adults.  The second was a pool party (at our house) with eight kids ranging from six to two (almost three).

Now before I go further let me say The Precious is sick.  He is recovering from an ear infection.  His allergies are giving him fits, and as if those things weren’t enough, he also has hand, foot, and mouth disease.  That presents as tiny little blisters in the back of his throat.  He had this once before, but it presented as blisters on his hands and throat.  It apparently begins as a fever, feeling lethargic, and then the blisters.  Needless to say, he wasn’t feeling well.

We live in Arkansas.  A typical Arkansas summer has temperatures in the nineties with 90% humidity.  Saturday was no exception.  The children were seriously doused with sunscreen, placed in their life vests and floaties and plopped in the water.  They paddled around like little top  buoyant dolphins.  There was a slip and slide for them to bust their tiny little butts on.  And, a “bouncy thingy” was blown up and ready to go.  It was kid heaven.

The adults, on the other hand, were dying.  The mommies and grandmas were watching the little ones.  Occasionally they would get in the water, but their could be no conversation with other adults while they were in the pool.  Children in pools demand 100% of your attention.  They will climb you as if you are ladder.  They splash you.  They want you to throw a ball for them to catch while they jump off of the diving board.  It is crucial that you time the throw just right, because any missed catches will be blamed on you.  It is also imperative that you respond to the constant cries of, “watch me!” 

The party was from 1:00 to 3:00 pm.  This had me concerned, because of it falling in the middle of nap time.  I wasn’t as concerned that children would be sleepy as I was that they would be cranky.  I needn’t have worried.  The only crankiness came when parents announced that it was time to get out of the pool.  Children who hate taking baths will scream to stay in a pool.  Now remember dear ones, the Precious doesn’t feel well.  On the best of days he doesn’t like sharing.  His toys are his and only he can decide who plays with them.  It is also important to remember that all the toys are his.   As an example…a few days ago he invited his BFF who lives 2 houses down the block to swim with him.  The kiddos were playing in the pool with water guns.  These are water guns from last year, and one worked pretty well and the other hardly at all.   His friend wanted the gun The Precious had, because it was the better gun.  The Precious knew this and was guarding the gun with his life.  As soon as The Precious put the gun down his friend jumped on it like a duck on a June bug.  This did not go over well.  Once the friend put the gun down The Precious performed the June bug manouver and grabbed the gun.  The Precious came to me and asked if he could go inside.  Thinking he probably needed juice or to go to the bathroom, I got up and opened the door.  He went inside and promptly hid the good gun under a beach towel and announced, “I’m through.”

So, here are all these kids and they are playing with his toys…and his mommy and Emmy.  Many times we looked around and found him inside (with all the daddies and Boppy).  He barely got into the water.  His little cheeks were beet red, and he was very sweaty.  He did show up for presents…although his friends wanted to play with his new things and that wasn’t cool.  He also blew out his candles, but he didn’t eat much cake.  He just felt crummy. You could just tell that probably what he needed was air conditioning and a nap.  I know that’s what I needed.  Yet when his mommy said it was time to go, he gave her the usual fuss.

Now, I have written all of this to make this point.  I don’t think kids really care so much whether they go or not.  I think it’s about the fuss.  They knew coming in that at some point they would leave.  Yet each and every well-behaved little munchkin was upset when it was time to leave.  I think they are testing the waters.  I think they know they will have to leave, but if they can set that back for 10, 15, or even 30 minutes, they win.  Little kids don’t get to win much.  Their parents get to win a lot.  So any small victory is a huge win to them.  I understand this.  I don’t get to win a lot either.  I get really excited when I get to put a W in the results column.  Who doesn’t?  And this is what sets grandparents apart from parents.  We let them win.  A discussion about whether or not  he can have a cookie before dinner results in a cookie before dinner.  “I need a new ______”, results in a trip to which ever store can provide the necessary item.  In theory, this can continue until the child can provide for himself.  It’s a pretty sweet deal…for the kids…and the grandparents (because they come off looking like heroes), but the parents are always the villains.  So my advice to parents is this: let them win occasionally.  Pick your battles.  If an extra 10 minutes has you as the hero instead of the villain, isn’t it worth it? 

Maybe I’m just old and tired.  Actually, there is no maybe about it.  But I just don’t have the fight in me anymore.  It’s easier just to give him the win.  If it’s not illegal.  If it’s not immoral.  If it’..s not going to result in death…just give in.  I tell my kids all the time, “give him what he wants and he won’t cry.”  It’s sound advice.  It has always worked for me!

 

My eyebrows are disappearing.  When I was young I had very heavy eyebrows.  Around 13, I developed a unibrow.  It was then that my mother decided she needed to pluck my eyebrows.  That Sunday she showed up with tweezers and announced that it was time.  I laid down across her lap…face up and proceeded to be groomed.  When I went back to school on Monday I looked like I had seen a rat.  My eyebrows were arched like Bozo the clown.  Kids at school knew that something was different, but thank God they didn’t figure out what.  I kind of had to maintain that look for awhile (it’s effing hard to grow out eyebrows once they have been…minimized), but around the time of Brooke Shields appearance I decided to grow them out.

For 20 years I maintained my full brow look.  I loved it.  Minimal plucking and maximum impact.  Then I noticed that in the center of the right brow was a patch of gray hair.  It looked kind of like I had a bald spot.  I started using an eyebrow pencil to fill in the gap.  Then I noticed the gray was showing up at different locations.  I filled in more and more over the years.  I finally reached a point where I felt like I was close to becoming one of those women who just draw eyebrows on.  Then recently I noticed I was developing a drag queen look.  I have decided to forgo the pencil for the time.

One of the problem with the pencil was the limited color choices.  I am somewhere between light brown and dark blond.  There is nothing between light brown and dark blond.  Dark blond makes me look worse than the bald spots, and light brown is too dark.  I look like what my daughter calls a “Chola”.  I bought an eyebrow kit from Sephora that had several colors that could be mixed to achieve the correct color.  It also had something that looked like clear mascara that was supposed to set your color once it was placed on the finished brow.  I found a color that look similar to my natural color…until I stepped out in different light.  Then they looked like a funky burgundy new McDonald’s sign.  Well, no problem…I was just going to take a tissue and wipe the color off.  But, I had used the finishing crap.  Those eyebrows were glued in place.  It was going to take an act of Congress to bust through those walls.  This gunk was harder than a teenage boy at a cheerleader camp.  It took baby oil and tears to finally remove this stuff.

So now, my eyebrows are disappearing.  I won’t draw them in and I certainly won’t set them in cement.  I have decided to go au naturel.  I have noticed, with time, that hair shifts.  The hair on my head is thinning (though I’m nowhere near bald).  The hair on my legs and arms is lightening (thank God), but the hair on my face is thickening…just not on my eyebrows.  It’s like my eyebrows have fallen to just beneath my nose.  My cheeks have also developed, what I refer to as, peach fuzz.  I have quit using my Let’s Sandpaper The Hair Off Your Body because it creates stubble.  That’s a shame too since otherwise it worked well.  So now I look like a Caucasian Whoopi Goldberg with Dennis Weaver’s mustache.  I will wax, but I will not pencil.

There are things I enjoy about aging.  One is the mind loss.  Thanks to it I think there are things I enjoy about aging.  There are other things that just don’t make sense.  The loss of my eyebrows is one.  I have read this little quote somewhere that said, “Of all the things I’ve lost…I miss my mind the most.”  Well, I miss my eyebrows.  Boppy says I’m eyebrow obsessed.  Partly because I trimmed the caterpillars crawling across his face recently.  I told him that I am not obsessed, just observant.  It’s like that observation that when you lose one sense the others become sharper.  When I lost my eyebrows I became more aware of other people’s. 

Well, I’m through whining to you about my brows.  I know there is nothing you can do, dear ones.  I will have to deal with the slowly thinning brows until the day I die.  I don’t believe this is something science will be working on anytime soon.  I don’t think anyone has invented an eyebrow weave, but if they have…sign me up.  Until then I’m just going to keep cutting the mustache and using the eyebrow setting crap to glue it back onto my eyebrows.  I can’t lift them to show expressions, but on the bright side…I won’t be needing Botox anytime soon!

Don’t start with me.  I don’t want to hear it.  The elbow isn’t healing.  I’m doing all the damned things I’m supposed to.  Taking my meds and wearing the damned strap on it, but it just won’t heal.  I see my doc next Friday.  I hope he has a solution.  At this point he can just cut it off…I can’t use it anyway.  I’m pretty sure I could type with a stub…at least I could type as well as I already do. 

In December I went to the rheumatologist and he put me on some new meds…I’m sure you remember…well my ears started ringing.  I have been hearing cicadas for the last three months.  Boppy is a mumbler.  For one thing, his mouth is thirteen inches above my head.  The second thing is he talks like Mushmouth from The Fat Albert Show.  It’s making for a difficult relationship.  Tonight we decided to go to a place called “Louie’s” for dinner.  I had thrown several choices out and was waiting to hear what he had decided when I heard, “Igeswillgolous”.  Rather than say, “What?” yet again I waited to see where the car was head.  When we pulled into “Louie’s”  I had my answer.   It was anybodies guess until we pulled into the parking lot.  I kind of thought we might be going to a place called “Noodles”.  You can see where I would be confused.

Add to all of this, I think there is a splinter in the dance hall floor.  Having just revamped the whole place I’m a little pissed.  We just put in the new floor.  I have an appointment with that Dr. soon, not soon enough, but soon.  My oldest son told me a story about a woman who went into the ER with the complaint that she had a mouse in her dance hall.  The hospital was a teaching hospital and the attending physician soon turned this case over to a student.  The poor lad went in fully gloved and came out bug eyed stating that he had indeed been bitten, and there was a tiny tear at the tip end of his middle finger.  The attendant went in to see what the problem was.  He asked the lady to be specific.  She said that she herself had never been bitten, but that her boyfriend had.  Her husband (lol) had never complained of being bitten, but her boyfriend was refusing to have sex with her until something was done.  She ended the statement with, “I need you to pull the mouse out my vogina (long o).  The doctor gloved up and went in.  Her IUD string was hanging out her cervix and because it was metal it was poking those who were more endowed.  I do not have an IUD.  It would be pointless.  It would be kind of like putting an expensive lock on a door and forgetting to put up walls.  Here’s my dillema: do I tell my Dr. that there is a splinter in the dance hall floor, or do I tell her there might be a mouse in my vogina.  Can’t imagine wtf is going on.  It’s probably something exotic that no one has ever heard of before and will take a team of specialists to repair.  That is my luck.  “Oh, I don’t have any idea what is going on…um hmmm…in there, and I’m about out of gloves.  Let’s see if we can find someone who can help you.  Nurse…can you get the number for Terminex?”

Lately I feel like an abused ‘57 Chevy.  I’m dented and wrecked and all of my parts are outdated. Even my headlights are no longer aligned.  My tires are flat, and the springs in my backseat are busted.  The motor seems to be okay, but let’s face it…who has ever fallen in love with a car because of it’s motor?   If I was in a junkyard, no one would choose me to help out their car.  I would just sit there and rust.  Last year when I went through my blister phase, I thought that was the worst.  Little did I know that if I was patient, worse  things would come.  Woo Hoo!  When I hit 40 things began to ache.  I started to groan as I sat down, and as I stood up.  At 50, I also groan as I walk, or lie, or sit, or….well you get the picture.  My middle kid told me that 50 was the new 45.  I told him that 30 was going to be the new dead if he didn’t shut up.  He shut up.  That in itself was pretty amazing. 

So…I’m sitting in my recliner.  I have a blanket up to my chin (because Boppy is allergic to heat) and my laptop perched on my lap.  My rhinestone encrusted readers are on the tip end of my nose.   My pain pills are within arms reach.  I have my TENS unit on my elbow, and it is hurting in a really good way.  I’m two seconds away from PJ’s, and two minutes away from Ambien.  That’s good enough for now. 

 

I’m not going to apologize for not writing sooner.  So, if that’s what you expect…read no further.

I lost another friend last week.  Man these women are dropping like flies.  Here’s the problem.  It’s me.  I’m intolerant of stupidity.  I tend to voice my opinions and rather loudly.  I can put up with stupid in the short term, but then that one statement pushes me over the edge and I give as loudly as I get.  In this case it was pretty loud.  You see apparently I am very liberal.  Which I have come to decide, means I think.  This particular friend used the term liberal to describe me in such a way that it came off sounding like m’er f’er.  To say she is conservative is a gross understatement.  Gross! Understatement! 

I tried for months to ignore the crap she was selling.  However, when she starting spewing bullshit I had to respond.  When I responded I was told that I had “no knowledge of economics and was ignorant of history.”  I took this revelation poorly.  I have never done well with anyone calling me ignorant.  I am a lot of things, but I assure you ignorant is not one.  All of this has to do of course with the current government, and in my opinion, her hate mongering.

 First she was shocked by my claims.  Then she told me that she had never used the words “ignorant or stupid” which is a direct lie.  I had commented that she “hid” behind her first amendment rights to which I was told that I could either read her stuff or not.  (Needless to say I chose not)  She then described our current President as wishy-washy.  He is not.  He is dealing with a senate that is unable to allow him to do the things he knows are right.  I cannot wait for the Democrats to quit being afraid of their constituents and actually pass some legislation without waiting for Republican approval.  I told her this and commented on the filibustering currently going on.  Of course, technically there has been no filibuster…technically.  So she jumped on this like a duck on a June bug. (Aaarghhhh!)  When I told her that the current pres. is well spoken and educated.  She threw Bush in my face, and told me he had attended Yale.  I don’t know how emphatic I can be about this…he attended Yale because he was a legacy.  He was barely a C student, and his IQ is so low if he committed murder in Texas he couldn’t even be put to death.  You betcha’ that’s the image I want to send out as the leader of the free world.  Please!!!!!!  She told me Obama couldn’t speak to 6th graders without a teleprompter.  Bush couldn’t speak. Period.

Recently a friend of mine died.  She was a single working mother of two little girls.  She had health insurance that didn’t cover well care.  She did not receive yearly mammograms because she could not afford them.  By the time she felt the lump in her breast she was stage 4.  I asked my “friend” to write a letter to her daughters and explain to them why we did not need health care reform.  She told me that health care reform would not have helped her.  I was told that I was ignorant of countries with national health care.  If I had not been I would have been aware of the dissatisfaction of the recipients of these benefits.  Well, my darling ones, when I worked for J.B. Hunt trucking I dealt with Canadian drivers who had national health care.  Their private insurance was primary and I had to know what would and would not be covered by these insurances.  It was also different per province.  I studied these things extensively so that when they called in I could tell them well this covers this, but not this and so on.  I know that elective surgeries are hard to come by…because they aren’t deemed necessary.  Many times these procedures were done in the United States.  I also know that they triage cases on a “1-10 scale”.  This is done in order to be certain that a life saving surgery is not usurped by a sterilization procedure.  Gosh, is it just me or does that seem to make sense?  Now granted, Canada’s health care isn’t perfect.  None of it is, but it is better than nothing.  A whole lot better…and I am also intelligent enough to know that American health care will not be exactly like any health care that has come before it.

I was insulted when she told me to check with a friend who was sitting in the middle of 44 inches of snow.  Therefore, there is no global warming.  Now the part that irritates me about this is that this woman called me stupid.  I kid you not, I could have reached through the computer and slapped her upside her head!  I sincerely wish the term global warming had never been coined.  If it had always been referred to as global climate change, maybe these morons could see that it is indeed happening and it won’t stop if we don’t do something about it and soon! She called it” bogus crap.”  I was accused of believing everything Al Gore said (guilty), and was told “many” scientists don’t believe it.  Well, honey, many more scientists do.  In addition, if I’m wrong about climate change the end result will be a cleaner environment and a better world for all.  If she’s wrong…we are all going to experience a life changing event.  The ice caps are melting.  The temperature is changing.  I don’t understand how anyone can look at the demise of so many species or the creation of new ones and deny that things are changing.  Remind me to send a donation to the polar bears. 

When I mentioned what a joke Sarah Palin was, and that I would rather move to Canada than have such an ignorant person in any position of authority.  I was lambasted again.  “Your (sic) probably one of the many uninformed people who believe Sarah Palin said she could see Russia from her house.  She didn’t Tina Fey said that on SNL.”  Well a) proof read…and b) while you aren’t making an exact quote of the interview…she did say that Russia was so close she could “practically” see it from her porch.  This was her entire foreign policy.  For God’s sake…if that doesn’t scare you, you aren’t paying attention!!!

I think her biggest point of contention (yes I know, there were many) was when I said that the Constitution needed a face lift.  Well, I stand by that.  This lovely document was written more than 220 years ago.  Things have changed more than a little since then.  When our forefathers gave us the right to bear arms it was because we lived in a country where arms were necessary to survive.  Most people lived miles apart, and many were their own security forces.  There is also a huge difference between a rifle and an AK-47.  No one outside of the military, let me say that again, no one needs an assault rifle.  Freedom of speech has always been open to interpretation but apparently for this friend it translates as “I’m free to speak…you keep your pie hole shut.”   Our forefathers could not have possibly had the foresight to create a document that would last for hundreds of years.  The technological advances alone have changed the course of human history.  They were men, not prophets.

 I was also accused of having no proof of any of my statements.  I was told I use talking points only.  I heard our President called a socialist who has already done more damage than all of the president’s before him (no proofs here…but I’m the one using talking points).  I commented that Obama couldn’t win with republicans and that I was sick of hearing republicans decry the stimulus only to be more than happy to have their pictures taken with the big check that saved their state from economic ruin.  I was told “Obama is a son of a bitch….Texas governor refused the stimulus cash…North Carolina governor tried to but was forced by the courts….” Now I have to do some research, but I was watching Rachel Maddow the other night and she showed at least 10 republicans smiling into the camera and stating how the stimulus had saved their states.  Not a single one had a gun to their head…or a court order.  Someone is just not listening….and it ain’t me. 

Finally, I told her that at some point taxes will increase.  They have to.  It is our taxes that fund public education and create jobs…which is desperately needed.  Road repairs, bridge repairs, and many other basic needs are met through tax increases.  I get so irritated when parents complain about the lack of funding for education, but then refuse to vote for millage increases that will improve the school system.  You can’t eat your cake and have it too.  I was informed that her daughters attend private school where each child is educated for 1/2 the cost of public education and their ACT scores are 4 points higher on the average.  Hooray for her.  Most people can’t afford private school.  My kids went to public schools and received great educations.  They had above average ACT scores and went on to receive scholarships.  I love our public schools, but they need help.  That is not theory, it is just fact.  We have several private schools in our area.  They do not, on average, have higher ACT scores.  I’m glad her daughters were lucky.  Many are not.

I’m stepping down off my soap box now.  Before I do let me state again…I’m not stupid.  I am a well educated, wife, mother, grandmother, and daughter who wants to see programs in place that will insure the continued care and survival of my family…extended and other.  I want to keep the American dream alive.  I don’t want to see the success of the few at the expense of the many.  I am not a socialist, but I believe that we must all work together to accomplish those things which need to be accomplished.  We have to quit being an “it’s all about me” society.  We are one people.  If a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, then we are only as rich as the most impoverished among us.  I believe change will come…I have to.  I would like it to be with this President, but I don’t believe it can come until both parties can come together and work for the greater good.  If that doesn’t happen then it is up to the majority to go medieval on the minority’s ass and get some things accomplished.  If you can’t see that, I can’t help you.  I would hate to believe that I really am ignorant or stupid…I choose to believe that I am aware.

It has already been pointed out to me that I have failed at my New Year’s Resolution.  My very astute non-vag. daughter pointed out that perhaps I had chosen a resolution that I knew I would fail at in order to be able to blog about it.  Alas, that was not my intention.  I began this blog with the intention of writing everyday.  At first I did.  Then my life got in the way.  Now I find myself being constantly audited by the very subjects I would most often blog about, and as such rules have been made.

It is the fault of my children, husband, sisters, and others that I do not blog any more often than I do.  Only The Precious cares little whether I blog about him or not, and I feel that will change as soon as he can read.  My children have asked that I not write about them.  If I do I must never mention names, and only mention scenarios in which none of their peers could ever recognize them.  I have tried to point out that I have never signed this blog with my name so how would their friends know…their answer has always been “I’ll know.”  Therefore, I can only blog about my children when doing so casts them in a good light.   They are written about very little.

I can’t blog about my husband or our sex life in anyway except using very broad brush strokes.  His brother and sister read my blog and God forbid they should either one find out that he has a sex life.  Just for clarification for them and my kids…we don’t.   We never have.  We never will.  Ours is a totally platonic relationship. We’re just two really good friends, who happen to love spending all of our time together.  There’s nothing dirty going on.  (Please contact me if you are interested in buying the Golden Gate bridge, or any of several national monuments.  Phone 1-800-GUL-ABLE…true spelling didn’t work)

I can blog about my sisters.  Correction.  I can blog about two of my three sisters.  One of the nasty bitches threatened to give mom by website if I don’t watch what I say about her.  That’s a shame too, because aside from mom she was my best blog fodder.  If I lose mom I might as well just shut down the site.  The other two I don’t really see often enough to rage on.  One lives about 2 hours away.  The other lives about 15 minutes away, but she doesn’t like me so we don’t see each other often.  If we did I can promise there would be plenty to blog about.  Fur tends to fly when we are together for too long.  I blame her…she of course can’t see her fault in matters.  I almost said what a bitch she is, but I took the high road (insert nah nah nah nah nah).

I can’t discuss a lot of things.  I haven’t been out as much to discuss the ladies of the block.  My very dear, very southern friend who lives down the street probably thinks I died.  I can’t always blog about politics and religion (one of which I am very adamant about and the other I have a much more relaxed view on than most family members).  I can’t discuss my exercise regimen, because if you know me you know that would be one effin’ short blog.  I can’t discuss garden club, book club, or bridge because I don’t garden.  I only read things that I think will shock people, and I think bridge is something you use to get over water.

So, my dear ones, loosen the restraints!  If you can’t do that, then for goodness sakes send me some topics.  I can talk about anything for a little while.  Do you want to know how I handled my hysterectomy?  Let me know.  Do you want to know if I think turning 50 is cool because you get free checking?  Just ask.  I set up the face book page for aging disgracefully.  Just do a search when you log on, and then leave me your comments, complaints and or questions.  Seriously, it’s your fault if I don’t have anything to write about.  I think all three of you should just be ashamed of yourselves!

 

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