Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
July 22, 2007 -
Hello Brother. I’ll bet on Friday, shortly after lunchtime, a gaggle of strippers checked in, then some big, stocky men wheeled in the kegs. Sorry I didn’t get the invitation, but a happy belated birthday to you, all the same.
The world is in the grips of Harry Potter Mania with the release of author J.K. Rowling’s seventh and final book, something that you probably could give a rip about. At least half of our family does, though. As I sit here discussing this with you, my husband and his girls are discussing, in a very serious tone (a tone reserved for action committees or board meetings) the ministry of magic and why a certain spell was cast at the beginning of the show. Ali has just told Raye to “shut up” so it is heating up in there.
The last month has just been a blur. We have been hosting my husbands family relations, a week at a time, a family at a time, and Sunday Raye and Ali will fly home. We will then commence to resuming our normal, or something like normal anyhow. This morning I woke to a dumped box of cereal on the floor, which I have yet to pick up. Obviously the dogs are still outside, for their potty. (My husband's first chore of the day) It could still quite possibly be good for breakfast. Is it a 10-second rule or a 10-minute rule anyhoo? I would blame that incident on my son, except he is at his Dad’s this week. His typical breakfast usually consists of something like Smart Start Multigrain cereal, Lays potato chips and a Dr. Pepper.
I am exhausted and have cooked everything I know how to cook for this clan, and now I am craving fast food. The only problem with that is…it is now Saturday night. Tomorrow is Sunday, and my favorite, favorite joint (Chic-fil-A) is closed in observance of the holy day. (sigh) My second-favorite fast-food joint USED to be Taco Bell, until I went into their restroom one evening. Some zitster had pinned up a home-made sign over the sink that read, “Employees must stick finger in ass before returning to work.” Kris always used to crack me up by telling me that Chic-fil-A is “healthy white Christian meat.” ) Pointing out the fact that you never, ever see a brother in one, plus alluding to the Sunday closure) My children just…torture me.
Speaking of children…
It is interesting, if one were to be a fly upon the wall around this home, observing my children and step-children. For instance, the fly would overhear Raye and Ali discussing female golfers, classes they are taking next semester, football conference games (??), current chic-flick movies, summer camp nightmares, Harry Potter and the latest Christian best-sellers and their authors.
Same said fly would overhear my daughter and her pals having discussions such as… “A big portion of my hair is broken off pretty bad from when I got in a fight with that girl at Ozzfest -- so the bitch pulled my hair, and since I had just bleached my hair the day before, the second she grabbed hold, that shit just snapped off.”
(sigh)
Or THIS is classic…. “I'm going to be starting cosmetology school in the fall -- and I'm very fucking excited about this.”
And this is the absolute richest…from the pregnant friend, of course… “like…I guess I will have to, like, get rid of my cat now since, like, there’s some chemical in cat poop that will make my baby retarded, or something.”
My teens have a vague language that is baffling to me. For example, I dispense with wise advice to my daughter such as... Honey, you will regret every single tattoo once you are a mother. She responds with her big girl voice, “Yeah, except for not really.”
Whuuu (?!?) Seriously, I do not know from where my children harken. Amazing….
*** August 1, 2007 -
Hello, I’m back. Many weeks later. I think of you every single day, especially this time of day, when I crave being in the sun room with a cup of coffee and some poor, captive soul to vent to. I have made notes for topics to discuss with you, but I just haven’t found the necessary block of time, plus the required mental spunk it takes to fire off my shit cannon for you. And then…attempt to print, drive to Best Buy to get more toner, reprint, find postage and walk this puppy to the mail box. Excuses…
In the middle of August I will be joining three awesome girlfriends in Dallas for a full week of half-assery -- and also a court reporting convention may factor into it somehow, I just don’t know. I’m required to earn CE (continuing education) points to keep my licenses current.
I haven't told you much about my most recent work assignment -- in case you want to know. Lately I've been doing a lot of captioning for a production studio somewhere in California. It is about the coolest thing I've ever been blessed with. Remember Byron Allen of "Real People"?He is a very charismatic character and has great Hollywood connections.
From Wikipedia online ….
Byron Allen (born Byron Allen Folks on April 22, 1961, in Detroit, Michigan, USA) is an American stand-up comedian and television talk show host.
Allen is one of many notable graduates from Fairfax High School in Hollywood, California. He began doing stand-up comedy as a teenager in Los Angeles.
In 1979, he was named one of the hosts of the weekly NBC television series Real People. After that series was canceled in 1984, he returned to stand-up comedy, and in 1989, became the host of a short-lived weekly (eventually becoming daily) syndicated late-night interview program in the mold of The Tonight Show called The Byron Allen Show. Two years later, he also started hosting and producing a seasonal music video countdown program syndicated to local TV stations called Jammin. This show later was renamed Kickin' It.
In the Fall of 1994 his talk show, Entertainers with Byron Allen, premiered and is now running in its eleventh season. [1] Since then, Allen's Entertainment Studios production company (formerly CF Entertainment) has expanded. Today, he produces and distributes about a dozen lifestyle-related and interview programs for television syndication. He currently hosts "Comics Unleashed", a comedic talk show similar to that of Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn. Many of Allen's shows, Entertainers in particular, are produced on an extremely low budget and are some of the few programs produced for the express purpose of occupying low traction timeslots.
While being interviewed by Byron Allen, Ronnie Lott said that he and Marcus Allen would not have graduated from college without cheating with the help of Byron Allen [1] [not in citation given]
Well…Byron now has an online entertainment empire. Sorta fancy-pants, B-rated stuff -- which our young, nouveau riche (but how??) society just gobbles up. There is a celebrity chef segment -- and they are rock stars, brother, I tell you. These guys work at hoity resort/spa restaurants such as Azur, Spago, The Bellagio, Rockenwagner’s, all types of celebrity- and chef-owned resorts.
Then there is the Entertainment segment, interviewing famous actors and comedians. There is also a Beautiful Homes segment, basically a luxury home show. I have a blast doing this work. There’s also an automotive segment that is very cool called Automotive Vision.
Back to the RecipeTV show, the French chefs just kill me, though. I don't think anyone could ever polish off a French brogue completely… and make it 100% understandable to the English-speaking clans. It’s like listening to a Spanish TV station, and you know enough Spanish to think you are a smarty pants. The words simply blaze and blur by you, and then you finally understand what they are trying to say -- when you hear it for the FOURTH time. Things like… lope-stair’ (lobster), and boot-air' (butter).
And then when the celebrity chef accents aren’t fluffy French, they are usually rich, boisterous and very Gaybonics. They all give really pretentious, high-brow aliases for common foodstuffs. For example, “pea tendrils” are the new bean sprouts. “luscious bibs of micro greens” are molested little pieces of lettuce, plucked before full maturity. Also, there seems to be a foie gras renaissance going on (goose and duck liver pâté’) -- and that’s just damn gross and cruel, if you ask me.
Nah zwee zwill poot a tush of boot-air' on zee sheek-en'…. and then very shortly afterwards… my ears start to bleed.
The new generation of young men are now comfortably metrosexual (the new-age Marlboro Man) who comfortably saunter into these restaurants, wearing expensive, embroidered girly jeans, Broke Back Mountain boots & buckle, and confidently instruct the waiter to inform the chef to hold the crème fraiche in their girlfriend’s pasta
(the chatty, self-important 22-yr-old girlfriend is gabbing on her $500 cell phone about really important things and can‘t order for herself. She is also garbed in what appears to be a cross between Frederick’s of Hollywood and astronaut gear (??) The boyfriend continues…“Oh, and please add jicima to the salads, with a spritz of black truffle oil, please.
And I’m serious. Just as comfortably as our generation uses “pass the salt and pepper, please.”
It is especially puzzling watching this society evolve and gentrify through my own children. When we go out, and during the salad-ordering phase, in lieu of Ranch Dressin’, my kids now chime in with, "Balsalmic Vinegrette, please, with some feta cheese sprinkled over the top. Oh, and do you have toasted pine nuts here?" The waitperson doesn't even flinch.
Also, the kids can now detect various herbs in food, especially the ones that they are not crazy about. One evening we were having green beans and my son says, “Mom, gross. Why did you put Rosemary in these?” (Well, because I found this new recipe, Son… OK!) I had also served grilled chicken with crushed garlic, Kosher salt and dried Lavender (which he likes.) All of those trendy herbs are becoming commonplace and expected. As Stephen King would say in his “Dark Tower” series, “The world has moved on.”
Maybe you are laughing -- or just have a perplexed look on your face -- but can you believe that Sam's now carries all of these fancy-pants herbs in the grilling section? Another thing you need to know, before you get sprung in May 2009, is the world is also "going greener by the day”.
I happen to think this is a pretty excellent idea, by the way. Humans burn through natural resources like birthday candles. And when you start paying attention to things such as urban sprawl (flooding that results), polar ice caps, ozone alert days, the water table and such, it’s pretty darn alarming. People are starting to get the old proverbial ball to rolling by opting in favor of gas sipping hybrids (they look like a Dutch boy shoe) instead of SUV’s. Oh, except for a few aging soccer moms, who buy certain things because they want to feel sexy -- opting for obnoxious yellow Hummers instead.
I’m getting pretty sick of opening up a vein just to fill up my little car, then opening up a damn artery to fill my daughter's jeep. I can’t even imagine a Hummer. I told her that she is on her own, as far as gas and maintenance go from now on. Maybe she‘ll stop burning up the roads all willy-nilly if I pull her off my teets.
My gawd, is lovely El Reno getting all of the rain that we have been getting? My yard is not likely to be featured any of the weekly radio shows around here. Unless perhaps there is something called "The Natural Way." Or perhaps a show that gives examples of what not to do. And I’ll bet you’d rather be in a dentist’s chair than having this one-sided discussion with me right now. (sigh)
We are now at the phase in life that my little one has started to wear the state of his genitalia on his sleeve. He’s angry, confused, goofy, hysterical and funny all at once -- and he’s announced he’s moving in with Chadd. This should be interesting, considering that Chadd only eats country-fried steak, chicken wings, corn and hamburgers -- period -- and Jacob has a hankering for things seasoned with Lavender, smoked Paprika and Oregano. But... our boy is also an immensely loyal young man and insists that it is “his Dad’s turn.”
I am confident that he will be ready to return home by the fall… but isn’t confidence usually what one feels before one fully understands the situation? To be perfectly honest, I look forward to being the fun, novelty parent. Chadd’s and my motto used to be “anything worth fighting for is worth fighting dirty for.” But that is a maturity issue the we have worked though. Plus, it is horrible for the kids to be caught up in that.
I know you already know this, but while we’re over in Iraq, killing for peace, I’ve just found out that Kris will be sent there in October. Actually, he volunteered for this. And that’s all I’m willing to talk about on that subject for now.
About the Pea patch… an amazing, full week of frivolity and fun was had by everyone, but I’ll start with a low point -- one that is quite memorable, embarrassing and entertaining.
This year I, unfortunately, had to break my lifelong vow to never, ever, ever take a crap in the presence of other people, especially in the woods, downwind of other people. Well, I shattered a 20-plus-year streak of being master of my own colon.
It all started with an organized group of trail riders meeting up at Topher and Gigi’s house. There were about 20 of us, roughly about 12 or so four-wheelers. The customary launching pad would be at Melba’s Diner -- through the hills and over the woods literally, in the next township.
In case you are wondering about the photo of that gorgeous blue plate meatloaf special I have included… that is the perpetrator that caused me to break my solemn vow. To add insult to injury that morning, I ordered a side of onion rings. First off, I never order sides; secondly, I never eat onion rings. Good Gawd, was it ever delicious -- as you can probably deduce from that picture. Greens, smothered meat loaf, lima beans, corn bread, fried okra, a side of onion rings….then our little posse was out of the starting gate and down the road. Almost immediately this really sharp abdominal pains hit. I go through my mental “abdominal pains” checklist, and pretty right away I rule out everything -- except for delicious, greasy, low-brow, soul food.
Ohhhh….noooo….
My husband is on his Yamaha, I’m on the back of a 4-wheeler with another friend named Shane. Instantly beads of sweat began breaking out on my forehead. I’m in such pain now that I’m about to go into animal instinct mode, anything to relieve this ridiculous pain. Concentrate, concentrate, squeeze hard, sister, make it go away! Not now, not here! Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please heal me!! Well…wrong again.
I will skip that story, other than to say Shane stopped that beast on a dime. I barely made it into the thickets. It was the first time I had ever “cleaned myself up” with leaves and various forest foliage. And quickly my prayer changed from, please heal me to, please do not let chiggers and ticks attach to my ass! Someone very kindly tossed in a big bottle of Ozark water. Whew. Have you ever been so relieved from pain that you couldn’t possibly be embarrassed by anything? Like pulling your leg out of a bear trap, I suppose. Everyone (mostly people our age with their kids) was so awesome, offering help and big, dumb-ass grins. Their kids will always think of me as that crazy lady who came out of the woods, smelling like poo-poo. If that had happened to me 10 years ago, I would have been so embarrassed that I would have never, ever shown my face to those people again. Some things just take a little maturity to laugh at, ya know? Good times.
We cooked, visited, kayaked, cooked, visited, floated the river…over and over and over. To sum 4th of July 2007 up in a few words: It was a huge success -- and then everyone stampeded out by 7:00 a.m. on the following Friday morning, hangovers be damned.
On the way home from the Pea Patch (to Houston), we took a detour in Jefferson to go to Springhill to see Papa Ro. My husband about shat himself and immediately starts spouting out all of the more direct interstates that could have gotten us to Springhill -- an hour ago!! I start crying and getting all emo. And all of this emoting is totally fake, because my happy pills do not allow me to accidentally cry anymore. He knows this, but still, tears in any form manipulate him into action.
(**Dear Gawd, hold on. I’m being distracted)
I just walked outside to hear the music my daughter is listening to. It sounds like a Riccola cough drop commercial from hell. Echoing chants, fast rockabilly guitar and such. The guys sound like the Sex Pistols but are not. I forget what she said. “The Havanas“ or something like that. “Bela Lugosi is dead” is the name of the song. Well, that’s not surprising, is it?)
All right, where were we? My husband gets manipulated to drive to Springhill -- and he’s wearing a real crappy expression on his face. I spill my crocodile tears, my face puffs and I start working on my makeup five miles out of town. I have this weird de ja vu. I vaguely seem to remember mom and dad doing a lot of this frivolity on the way to Springhill years ago??
As soon as we pull into town, I am gripped with charity and concern. We really cannot afford to do this after vacation, but I instruct my man to please pull over at Piggly-Wiggly to buy dad some groceries, promising to take no longer than 15 minutes and to only come out with one bag. ( -- so what of it? I’m my mother’s child.)
An hour and three minutes later, I am accompanied out by a young football star/sacker. I have been gripped by charity, therefore the young man is having a tough time with a fully-loaded basket of goods: Fresh fruit, canned vegetables, perishables of all size and shape, dog food, cat food, toilet paper, paper towels, razors, deodorant, tooth paste, you name it.
My husband has already called dad to see if he felt up to going to Dock Masters for catfish, so now the charity tap is wide open. We get there and knock at the garage entry. No answer. Hanging in front of the garage are tattered sheets of plastic tarp. The whole garage is carpeted with green shag carpet, matted with animal hair and heaven only knows. Stacked against the wall, under the window unit, are cases and cases of Bartles & James wine coolers -- all empty!! What the hell??
That old German Shepherd, Trixie, has been SHAVED, except for her big, old puffy head and tail?? She is growling uncharitably, so we back off and go to the forbidden front door. Knock. No answer. My son is nervous. I tell him to wait and I go in. Dad is kicked back, passed out on a big smelly recliner in front of the TV. The only way that I can possibly describe to you how this man looks now is think Civil War Soldier. Long, gray hair and beard, missing teeth, tattered clothes, swollen legs, wheezing lungs and a limp.
I thought, my God, he’s dead. I shook him awake eventually. He was thrilled to see us. He immediately chided himself for not writing you a letter. He thought his grandson was his granddaughter -- because of the grandson's “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful” locks of golden hair. My boy turned pretty red but got over it. I instructed my fellas to start hauling in the groceries and went to the kitchen clear counter space. I wasn’t prepared for how run-down the place had become. The ceiling was sagging and covered in water stains. The counters were covered in -- I just don’t even remember. Cats were jumping off of everything. I started opening cabinets and the refrigerator to stock him up and…holy cow, if I had only known, I could have saved myself the money and effort at the PIG. Apparently different friends and charitable groups around Springhill are doing a good job. I honestly had to cram that stuff wherever I could find a place.
There were stacks of dog and cat food against the wall in the dining room. He said the guy from the SPCA and the vet keeps him loaded up with animal food. Well…I guess so.
The best way that I can describe that house is that it looks like a house boat that’s been under the ocean for 20 years, then someone finally came along, pulled it up and started living in it again, sans repairs.
He has unusual things lying around there. I about wet myself when my hand brushed against something cold. I looked down and it was a cane -- with a big, nasty, brass cobra head for a handle!!! He uses his money/disability(??!) on stuff like this -- and also old guitars, stereo equipment, gadgets, VHS tapes of sucky B movies, and who knows what. Grandmother’s bedroom is now an indoor barn. Her furniture is gone (??) I guess he donated it to somebody that really needed it. The carpet is so matted down with mud and ??
The back door was standing wide open. The air conditioner was running full-blast. It was freezing in the whole house. I said, “Dad, we’re going to the restaurant now, and shouldn’t we close that back door?” He replies, “Oh, no. I need to leave it open for my animals. It’s so hot out there.” Well, I was so bowled over by his response that I did not have one of my own. I was pretty torn though, especially since Ken had just told me that Dad had called him a week ago because the air conditioner was not working. It was a hardship on Ken. A big financial hardship and a pain. He had to convince the repairman to go back to the house (the repairman eventually stopped returning Roland’s calls) The repair guy sent Ken a whopper of a bill. Ken pays the utilities and taxes also. And here is my crazy, old dad leaving the back door wide open (not cracked open) for the animals. I don’t understand. It makes me crazy. Ken should be retired by now but can’t. My dad doesn’t have a clue. I wish I had sent that money to help Ken pay that bill.
Enough. I’m done with that.
Speaking of Uncle Ken and Aunt Donna, it was great to see them. They are quite a pair together. They are so much fun to be around. They are definitely joined at the hip. They have finally, after 40 or so years, built their home. It is a steel home. Just plain-damn awesome. Aunt Don designed it. It has an Asian influence. (She never forgot her trip to China 15 years ago) She does not care much for decoration, yet the beauty and design make it incredibly beautiful and peaceful. (slate floors, black marble counters, contemporary cabinets, lighting and fixtures, Pella windows, full open porch with Asian-influenced ironwork) It is a testament that one can build a lovely home without wasting money on crap. It is nestled into the side of a hill and overlooks the bury garden and hills. Below them is the goose pond and tomato garden. They are very proud, as they should be. I would live there in a heartbeat.
Just up the road Chris and Gigi have just finished their new steel home also. It is a lodge, let me tell you. Chris does well with his dozer business and Gigi is an oncology research nurse. They lived in the trailer for years and just stuck all that money into the bank. It has paid off. Their home is gorgeous. It is seriously like a ski lodge. The high ceilings are all cedar planks. The smell is amazing. The cabinets are monsters and custom. The light fixtures look like something in Cabella’s or The Great Outdoors. Their floors are all buffed and stained concrete. The fireplace is double-sided and serves the den, as well as the screened in porch/bar area. They have taken huge, misshapen logs on the property and made mantles and furniture with them. The bathroom sinks are big, stone bowls. They have one upstairs room that can be shut off if need be. It serves as a game room and guest room. The house is on a hill and their view is amazing. They have a huge deck with a fire pit on it. It is like heaven. Just down the road, Bridgette and Marty have a home much like Aunt Don and Uncle Ken’s. Asian influence. Bridgette went to China with Aunt Don. The only difference there is Bridgette is a master gardener (licensed) and they have a long stone wall against their deck with a small water garden. Their back deck overlooks a stream against the woods. Very nice place up there. I am so proud for all of them. They all lived in little dwellings for years and just saved, saved, saved. I need to take that lesson to heart.
I’m not working as much as I did last year (I can’t) and we are feeling it. My husband is looking for opportunities in London -- and there are plenty -- and don’t be surprised when we pull up camp and set down again across the pond. We need to do a little corrective action before we get ready to retire -- plus see Europe on Halliburton’s dime. The plan is to get some teeny little place over there and live simply, stick money in the bank. I think this proverb is Danish. It goes like this: Don’t fret too much about the planning; the outcome will be different anyway.
My interpretation of this means…don’t skip the planning, by all means; the planning ensures a successful means to an end. Or something like it anyway.
Good grief, brother, I need to hang it up and take a shower now, or else CPS is going to show up and take my children away from me. Ha! What am I saying!?! I practically don’t have children in my home anymore. Woo-hooooo!!!!
Hello Brother. I’ll bet on Friday, shortly after lunchtime, a gaggle of strippers checked in, then some big, stocky men wheeled in the kegs. Sorry I didn’t get the invitation, but a happy belated birthday to you, all the same.
The world is in the grips of Harry Potter Mania with the release of author J.K. Rowling’s seventh and final book, something that you probably could give a rip about. At least half of our family does, though. As I sit here discussing this with you, my husband and his girls are discussing, in a very serious tone (a tone reserved for action committees or board meetings) the ministry of magic and why a certain spell was cast at the beginning of the show. Ali has just told Raye to “shut up” so it is heating up in there.
The last month has just been a blur. We have been hosting my husbands family relations, a week at a time, a family at a time, and Sunday Raye and Ali will fly home. We will then commence to resuming our normal, or something like normal anyhow. This morning I woke to a dumped box of cereal on the floor, which I have yet to pick up. Obviously the dogs are still outside, for their potty. (My husband's first chore of the day) It could still quite possibly be good for breakfast. Is it a 10-second rule or a 10-minute rule anyhoo? I would blame that incident on my son, except he is at his Dad’s this week. His typical breakfast usually consists of something like Smart Start Multigrain cereal, Lays potato chips and a Dr. Pepper.
I am exhausted and have cooked everything I know how to cook for this clan, and now I am craving fast food. The only problem with that is…it is now Saturday night. Tomorrow is Sunday, and my favorite, favorite joint (Chic-fil-A) is closed in observance of the holy day. (sigh) My second-favorite fast-food joint USED to be Taco Bell, until I went into their restroom one evening. Some zitster had pinned up a home-made sign over the sink that read, “Employees must stick finger in ass before returning to work.” Kris always used to crack me up by telling me that Chic-fil-A is “healthy white Christian meat.” ) Pointing out the fact that you never, ever see a brother in one, plus alluding to the Sunday closure) My children just…torture me.
Speaking of children…
It is interesting, if one were to be a fly upon the wall around this home, observing my children and step-children. For instance, the fly would overhear Raye and Ali discussing female golfers, classes they are taking next semester, football conference games (??), current chic-flick movies, summer camp nightmares, Harry Potter and the latest Christian best-sellers and their authors.
Same said fly would overhear my daughter and her pals having discussions such as… “A big portion of my hair is broken off pretty bad from when I got in a fight with that girl at Ozzfest -- so the bitch pulled my hair, and since I had just bleached my hair the day before, the second she grabbed hold, that shit just snapped off.”
(sigh)
Or THIS is classic…. “I'm going to be starting cosmetology school in the fall -- and I'm very fucking excited about this.”
And this is the absolute richest…from the pregnant friend, of course… “like…I guess I will have to, like, get rid of my cat now since, like, there’s some chemical in cat poop that will make my baby retarded, or something.”
My teens have a vague language that is baffling to me. For example, I dispense with wise advice to my daughter such as... Honey, you will regret every single tattoo once you are a mother. She responds with her big girl voice, “Yeah, except for not really.”
Whuuu (?!?) Seriously, I do not know from where my children harken. Amazing….
*** August 1, 2007 -
Hello, I’m back. Many weeks later. I think of you every single day, especially this time of day, when I crave being in the sun room with a cup of coffee and some poor, captive soul to vent to. I have made notes for topics to discuss with you, but I just haven’t found the necessary block of time, plus the required mental spunk it takes to fire off my shit cannon for you. And then…attempt to print, drive to Best Buy to get more toner, reprint, find postage and walk this puppy to the mail box. Excuses…
In the middle of August I will be joining three awesome girlfriends in Dallas for a full week of half-assery -- and also a court reporting convention may factor into it somehow, I just don’t know. I’m required to earn CE (continuing education) points to keep my licenses current.
I haven't told you much about my most recent work assignment -- in case you want to know. Lately I've been doing a lot of captioning for a production studio somewhere in California. It is about the coolest thing I've ever been blessed with. Remember Byron Allen of "Real People"?He is a very charismatic character and has great Hollywood connections.
From Wikipedia online ….
Byron Allen (born Byron Allen Folks on April 22, 1961, in Detroit, Michigan, USA) is an American stand-up comedian and television talk show host.
Allen is one of many notable graduates from Fairfax High School in Hollywood, California. He began doing stand-up comedy as a teenager in Los Angeles.
In 1979, he was named one of the hosts of the weekly NBC television series Real People. After that series was canceled in 1984, he returned to stand-up comedy, and in 1989, became the host of a short-lived weekly (eventually becoming daily) syndicated late-night interview program in the mold of The Tonight Show called The Byron Allen Show. Two years later, he also started hosting and producing a seasonal music video countdown program syndicated to local TV stations called Jammin. This show later was renamed Kickin' It.
In the Fall of 1994 his talk show, Entertainers with Byron Allen, premiered and is now running in its eleventh season. [1] Since then, Allen's Entertainment Studios production company (formerly CF Entertainment) has expanded. Today, he produces and distributes about a dozen lifestyle-related and interview programs for television syndication. He currently hosts "Comics Unleashed", a comedic talk show similar to that of Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn. Many of Allen's shows, Entertainers in particular, are produced on an extremely low budget and are some of the few programs produced for the express purpose of occupying low traction timeslots.
While being interviewed by Byron Allen, Ronnie Lott said that he and Marcus Allen would not have graduated from college without cheating with the help of Byron Allen [1] [not in citation given]
Well…Byron now has an online entertainment empire. Sorta fancy-pants, B-rated stuff -- which our young, nouveau riche (but how??) society just gobbles up. There is a celebrity chef segment -- and they are rock stars, brother, I tell you. These guys work at hoity resort/spa restaurants such as Azur, Spago, The Bellagio, Rockenwagner’s, all types of celebrity- and chef-owned resorts.
Then there is the Entertainment segment, interviewing famous actors and comedians. There is also a Beautiful Homes segment, basically a luxury home show. I have a blast doing this work. There’s also an automotive segment that is very cool called Automotive Vision.
Back to the RecipeTV show, the French chefs just kill me, though. I don't think anyone could ever polish off a French brogue completely… and make it 100% understandable to the English-speaking clans. It’s like listening to a Spanish TV station, and you know enough Spanish to think you are a smarty pants. The words simply blaze and blur by you, and then you finally understand what they are trying to say -- when you hear it for the FOURTH time. Things like… lope-stair’ (lobster), and boot-air' (butter).
And then when the celebrity chef accents aren’t fluffy French, they are usually rich, boisterous and very Gaybonics. They all give really pretentious, high-brow aliases for common foodstuffs. For example, “pea tendrils” are the new bean sprouts. “luscious bibs of micro greens” are molested little pieces of lettuce, plucked before full maturity. Also, there seems to be a foie gras renaissance going on (goose and duck liver pâté’) -- and that’s just damn gross and cruel, if you ask me.
Nah zwee zwill poot a tush of boot-air' on zee sheek-en'…. and then very shortly afterwards… my ears start to bleed.
The new generation of young men are now comfortably metrosexual (the new-age Marlboro Man) who comfortably saunter into these restaurants, wearing expensive, embroidered girly jeans, Broke Back Mountain boots & buckle, and confidently instruct the waiter to inform the chef to hold the crème fraiche in their girlfriend’s pasta
(the chatty, self-important 22-yr-old girlfriend is gabbing on her $500 cell phone about really important things and can‘t order for herself. She is also garbed in what appears to be a cross between Frederick’s of Hollywood and astronaut gear (??) The boyfriend continues…“Oh, and please add jicima to the salads, with a spritz of black truffle oil, please.
And I’m serious. Just as comfortably as our generation uses “pass the salt and pepper, please.”
It is especially puzzling watching this society evolve and gentrify through my own children. When we go out, and during the salad-ordering phase, in lieu of Ranch Dressin’, my kids now chime in with, "Balsalmic Vinegrette, please, with some feta cheese sprinkled over the top. Oh, and do you have toasted pine nuts here?" The waitperson doesn't even flinch.
Also, the kids can now detect various herbs in food, especially the ones that they are not crazy about. One evening we were having green beans and my son says, “Mom, gross. Why did you put Rosemary in these?” (Well, because I found this new recipe, Son… OK!) I had also served grilled chicken with crushed garlic, Kosher salt and dried Lavender (which he likes.) All of those trendy herbs are becoming commonplace and expected. As Stephen King would say in his “Dark Tower” series, “The world has moved on.”
Maybe you are laughing -- or just have a perplexed look on your face -- but can you believe that Sam's now carries all of these fancy-pants herbs in the grilling section? Another thing you need to know, before you get sprung in May 2009, is the world is also "going greener by the day”.
I happen to think this is a pretty excellent idea, by the way. Humans burn through natural resources like birthday candles. And when you start paying attention to things such as urban sprawl (flooding that results), polar ice caps, ozone alert days, the water table and such, it’s pretty darn alarming. People are starting to get the old proverbial ball to rolling by opting in favor of gas sipping hybrids (they look like a Dutch boy shoe) instead of SUV’s. Oh, except for a few aging soccer moms, who buy certain things because they want to feel sexy -- opting for obnoxious yellow Hummers instead.
I’m getting pretty sick of opening up a vein just to fill up my little car, then opening up a damn artery to fill my daughter's jeep. I can’t even imagine a Hummer. I told her that she is on her own, as far as gas and maintenance go from now on. Maybe she‘ll stop burning up the roads all willy-nilly if I pull her off my teets.
My gawd, is lovely El Reno getting all of the rain that we have been getting? My yard is not likely to be featured any of the weekly radio shows around here. Unless perhaps there is something called "The Natural Way." Or perhaps a show that gives examples of what not to do. And I’ll bet you’d rather be in a dentist’s chair than having this one-sided discussion with me right now. (sigh)
We are now at the phase in life that my little one has started to wear the state of his genitalia on his sleeve. He’s angry, confused, goofy, hysterical and funny all at once -- and he’s announced he’s moving in with Chadd. This should be interesting, considering that Chadd only eats country-fried steak, chicken wings, corn and hamburgers -- period -- and Jacob has a hankering for things seasoned with Lavender, smoked Paprika and Oregano. But... our boy is also an immensely loyal young man and insists that it is “his Dad’s turn.”
I am confident that he will be ready to return home by the fall… but isn’t confidence usually what one feels before one fully understands the situation? To be perfectly honest, I look forward to being the fun, novelty parent. Chadd’s and my motto used to be “anything worth fighting for is worth fighting dirty for.” But that is a maturity issue the we have worked though. Plus, it is horrible for the kids to be caught up in that.
I know you already know this, but while we’re over in Iraq, killing for peace, I’ve just found out that Kris will be sent there in October. Actually, he volunteered for this. And that’s all I’m willing to talk about on that subject for now.
About the Pea patch… an amazing, full week of frivolity and fun was had by everyone, but I’ll start with a low point -- one that is quite memorable, embarrassing and entertaining.
This year I, unfortunately, had to break my lifelong vow to never, ever, ever take a crap in the presence of other people, especially in the woods, downwind of other people. Well, I shattered a 20-plus-year streak of being master of my own colon.
It all started with an organized group of trail riders meeting up at Topher and Gigi’s house. There were about 20 of us, roughly about 12 or so four-wheelers. The customary launching pad would be at Melba’s Diner -- through the hills and over the woods literally, in the next township.
In case you are wondering about the photo of that gorgeous blue plate meatloaf special I have included… that is the perpetrator that caused me to break my solemn vow. To add insult to injury that morning, I ordered a side of onion rings. First off, I never order sides; secondly, I never eat onion rings. Good Gawd, was it ever delicious -- as you can probably deduce from that picture. Greens, smothered meat loaf, lima beans, corn bread, fried okra, a side of onion rings….then our little posse was out of the starting gate and down the road. Almost immediately this really sharp abdominal pains hit. I go through my mental “abdominal pains” checklist, and pretty right away I rule out everything -- except for delicious, greasy, low-brow, soul food.
Ohhhh….noooo….
My husband is on his Yamaha, I’m on the back of a 4-wheeler with another friend named Shane. Instantly beads of sweat began breaking out on my forehead. I’m in such pain now that I’m about to go into animal instinct mode, anything to relieve this ridiculous pain. Concentrate, concentrate, squeeze hard, sister, make it go away! Not now, not here! Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please heal me!! Well…wrong again.
I will skip that story, other than to say Shane stopped that beast on a dime. I barely made it into the thickets. It was the first time I had ever “cleaned myself up” with leaves and various forest foliage. And quickly my prayer changed from, please heal me to, please do not let chiggers and ticks attach to my ass! Someone very kindly tossed in a big bottle of Ozark water. Whew. Have you ever been so relieved from pain that you couldn’t possibly be embarrassed by anything? Like pulling your leg out of a bear trap, I suppose. Everyone (mostly people our age with their kids) was so awesome, offering help and big, dumb-ass grins. Their kids will always think of me as that crazy lady who came out of the woods, smelling like poo-poo. If that had happened to me 10 years ago, I would have been so embarrassed that I would have never, ever shown my face to those people again. Some things just take a little maturity to laugh at, ya know? Good times.
We cooked, visited, kayaked, cooked, visited, floated the river…over and over and over. To sum 4th of July 2007 up in a few words: It was a huge success -- and then everyone stampeded out by 7:00 a.m. on the following Friday morning, hangovers be damned.
On the way home from the Pea Patch (to Houston), we took a detour in Jefferson to go to Springhill to see Papa Ro. My husband about shat himself and immediately starts spouting out all of the more direct interstates that could have gotten us to Springhill -- an hour ago!! I start crying and getting all emo. And all of this emoting is totally fake, because my happy pills do not allow me to accidentally cry anymore. He knows this, but still, tears in any form manipulate him into action.
(**Dear Gawd, hold on. I’m being distracted)
I just walked outside to hear the music my daughter is listening to. It sounds like a Riccola cough drop commercial from hell. Echoing chants, fast rockabilly guitar and such. The guys sound like the Sex Pistols but are not. I forget what she said. “The Havanas“ or something like that. “Bela Lugosi is dead” is the name of the song. Well, that’s not surprising, is it?)
All right, where were we? My husband gets manipulated to drive to Springhill -- and he’s wearing a real crappy expression on his face. I spill my crocodile tears, my face puffs and I start working on my makeup five miles out of town. I have this weird de ja vu. I vaguely seem to remember mom and dad doing a lot of this frivolity on the way to Springhill years ago??
As soon as we pull into town, I am gripped with charity and concern. We really cannot afford to do this after vacation, but I instruct my man to please pull over at Piggly-Wiggly to buy dad some groceries, promising to take no longer than 15 minutes and to only come out with one bag. ( -- so what of it? I’m my mother’s child.)
An hour and three minutes later, I am accompanied out by a young football star/sacker. I have been gripped by charity, therefore the young man is having a tough time with a fully-loaded basket of goods: Fresh fruit, canned vegetables, perishables of all size and shape, dog food, cat food, toilet paper, paper towels, razors, deodorant, tooth paste, you name it.
My husband has already called dad to see if he felt up to going to Dock Masters for catfish, so now the charity tap is wide open. We get there and knock at the garage entry. No answer. Hanging in front of the garage are tattered sheets of plastic tarp. The whole garage is carpeted with green shag carpet, matted with animal hair and heaven only knows. Stacked against the wall, under the window unit, are cases and cases of Bartles & James wine coolers -- all empty!! What the hell??
That old German Shepherd, Trixie, has been SHAVED, except for her big, old puffy head and tail?? She is growling uncharitably, so we back off and go to the forbidden front door. Knock. No answer. My son is nervous. I tell him to wait and I go in. Dad is kicked back, passed out on a big smelly recliner in front of the TV. The only way that I can possibly describe to you how this man looks now is think Civil War Soldier. Long, gray hair and beard, missing teeth, tattered clothes, swollen legs, wheezing lungs and a limp.
I thought, my God, he’s dead. I shook him awake eventually. He was thrilled to see us. He immediately chided himself for not writing you a letter. He thought his grandson was his granddaughter -- because of the grandson's “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful” locks of golden hair. My boy turned pretty red but got over it. I instructed my fellas to start hauling in the groceries and went to the kitchen clear counter space. I wasn’t prepared for how run-down the place had become. The ceiling was sagging and covered in water stains. The counters were covered in -- I just don’t even remember. Cats were jumping off of everything. I started opening cabinets and the refrigerator to stock him up and…holy cow, if I had only known, I could have saved myself the money and effort at the PIG. Apparently different friends and charitable groups around Springhill are doing a good job. I honestly had to cram that stuff wherever I could find a place.
There were stacks of dog and cat food against the wall in the dining room. He said the guy from the SPCA and the vet keeps him loaded up with animal food. Well…I guess so.
The best way that I can describe that house is that it looks like a house boat that’s been under the ocean for 20 years, then someone finally came along, pulled it up and started living in it again, sans repairs.
He has unusual things lying around there. I about wet myself when my hand brushed against something cold. I looked down and it was a cane -- with a big, nasty, brass cobra head for a handle!!! He uses his money/disability(??!) on stuff like this -- and also old guitars, stereo equipment, gadgets, VHS tapes of sucky B movies, and who knows what. Grandmother’s bedroom is now an indoor barn. Her furniture is gone (??) I guess he donated it to somebody that really needed it. The carpet is so matted down with mud and ??
The back door was standing wide open. The air conditioner was running full-blast. It was freezing in the whole house. I said, “Dad, we’re going to the restaurant now, and shouldn’t we close that back door?” He replies, “Oh, no. I need to leave it open for my animals. It’s so hot out there.” Well, I was so bowled over by his response that I did not have one of my own. I was pretty torn though, especially since Ken had just told me that Dad had called him a week ago because the air conditioner was not working. It was a hardship on Ken. A big financial hardship and a pain. He had to convince the repairman to go back to the house (the repairman eventually stopped returning Roland’s calls) The repair guy sent Ken a whopper of a bill. Ken pays the utilities and taxes also. And here is my crazy, old dad leaving the back door wide open (not cracked open) for the animals. I don’t understand. It makes me crazy. Ken should be retired by now but can’t. My dad doesn’t have a clue. I wish I had sent that money to help Ken pay that bill.
Enough. I’m done with that.
Speaking of Uncle Ken and Aunt Donna, it was great to see them. They are quite a pair together. They are so much fun to be around. They are definitely joined at the hip. They have finally, after 40 or so years, built their home. It is a steel home. Just plain-damn awesome. Aunt Don designed it. It has an Asian influence. (She never forgot her trip to China 15 years ago) She does not care much for decoration, yet the beauty and design make it incredibly beautiful and peaceful. (slate floors, black marble counters, contemporary cabinets, lighting and fixtures, Pella windows, full open porch with Asian-influenced ironwork) It is a testament that one can build a lovely home without wasting money on crap. It is nestled into the side of a hill and overlooks the bury garden and hills. Below them is the goose pond and tomato garden. They are very proud, as they should be. I would live there in a heartbeat.
Just up the road Chris and Gigi have just finished their new steel home also. It is a lodge, let me tell you. Chris does well with his dozer business and Gigi is an oncology research nurse. They lived in the trailer for years and just stuck all that money into the bank. It has paid off. Their home is gorgeous. It is seriously like a ski lodge. The high ceilings are all cedar planks. The smell is amazing. The cabinets are monsters and custom. The light fixtures look like something in Cabella’s or The Great Outdoors. Their floors are all buffed and stained concrete. The fireplace is double-sided and serves the den, as well as the screened in porch/bar area. They have taken huge, misshapen logs on the property and made mantles and furniture with them. The bathroom sinks are big, stone bowls. They have one upstairs room that can be shut off if need be. It serves as a game room and guest room. The house is on a hill and their view is amazing. They have a huge deck with a fire pit on it. It is like heaven. Just down the road, Bridgette and Marty have a home much like Aunt Don and Uncle Ken’s. Asian influence. Bridgette went to China with Aunt Don. The only difference there is Bridgette is a master gardener (licensed) and they have a long stone wall against their deck with a small water garden. Their back deck overlooks a stream against the woods. Very nice place up there. I am so proud for all of them. They all lived in little dwellings for years and just saved, saved, saved. I need to take that lesson to heart.
I’m not working as much as I did last year (I can’t) and we are feeling it. My husband is looking for opportunities in London -- and there are plenty -- and don’t be surprised when we pull up camp and set down again across the pond. We need to do a little corrective action before we get ready to retire -- plus see Europe on Halliburton’s dime. The plan is to get some teeny little place over there and live simply, stick money in the bank. I think this proverb is Danish. It goes like this: Don’t fret too much about the planning; the outcome will be different anyway.
My interpretation of this means…don’t skip the planning, by all means; the planning ensures a successful means to an end. Or something like it anyway.
Good grief, brother, I need to hang it up and take a shower now, or else CPS is going to show up and take my children away from me. Ha! What am I saying!?! I practically don’t have children in my home anymore. Woo-hooooo!!!!
Dear Brother -
I am really missing you especially bad today. I hope things are going well; that the shingles have faded from your body (but why is it too much to ask from memory as well --Please God?!) I’ve never actually met a person from the God-Awful Shingle Alumni who doesn’t get a pissed-off look when you so much as even utter a word that even sort of rhymes with the word shingle.
While on the way to a concert last night (6-24), Uncle Ken and Aunt Don called to get an updated ETA for the 4th of July festivities. They are excited. You know, talking over each other, but worrying about and saying the exact same things at the exact same time. Hehe. They, of course, want us to be there by 4:00 or 4:30 on Saturday, because everything starts at 7:00, then we are all expected to be down at the river by 8:30 a.m. the next morning to float. (wha?!) They both pass along their love and greetings (and sad headshakes and shoulder shrugs) to you.
Moving along…before I tell you who my husband and I went to see in concert last night, I will drop you a few smart-ass hints, but it won‘t help you a bit, I'm pretty sure…
1.) I’ve never seen so many sensible shoes in one gathering… in my entire life. (EZ Spirit, Rockport, New Balance, Hushpuppy, SAS)
2.) I kept overhearing snatches of conversations such as… “You ever heard of The Electric Light Orchestra? Man, I’d love to see them guys in concert.”
3.) It is possible that some of this crowd probably attended Woodstock -- naked, covered in mud and feces -- but it is also now a pretty sure bet that some of those same people now own gas-sipping hybrids, have paid off their mortgages and are about to dip into their decently funded 401(k) accounts.
4.) Sprinkled among the masses (approximately 10%) would be the S-Class-crowd; those fortunate enough to have far exceeded the $15K Maximum Contribution Rule. In spite of their pressed slacks, Cole Hahn loafers, Tommy Bahama shirts and expensive Blackberries (set to silent page mode) vague little indicators stick out…perhaps their hair is a tad bit too long, some even have pony tails, or maybe it is that faraway look of Aquarius in their eyes…
5.) At least 5% of these people are mild-mannered nonconformists (pre-hippies) outfitted in Birkenstock earth shoes, cushy calf-length socks and t-shirts with motifs of sea turtles, Alaskan grey wolves and other endangered wonders.
And now to the “Mystery Dude”. This performer definitely belongs to our (Warren) tribe: Ergo, he looks like he could be Grandmother Warren’s twin brother; he looks like Uncle Ken’s older brother; he looks exactly like…Papa Ro. I’m not exaggerating one…single…bit. Nope.
At certain points in the evening I had to turn around in my seat and shoot my best Death Stare at a few (but only a very few) ignorant assholes and assholettes who were making remarks such as, “wow, he really sounds bad…” “he’s really aged, hasn‘t he…” “maybe it’s the acoustics….” OR the most insulting: “It’s a good thing we came to see him now, Roger…look how frail he’s looking.”
Well, excuse me, Joan, but he is a 70-something-year-old icon….. Roger, shut your bitch up, please.
And now to the dead giveaway… Let me drop more than a few solid lyrics for you…
*(The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald)…
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called gitche gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of november turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the edmund fitzgerald weighed empty.
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of november came early.
The ship was the pride of the american side
Coming back from some mill in wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the north wind theyd been feelin?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
Twas the witch of november come stealin.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of november came slashin.
When afternoon came it was freezin rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin.
Fellas, its too rough to feed ya.
At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, its been good tknow ya
The captain wired in he had water comin in
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say theyd have made whitefish bay
If theyd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
May have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake huron rolls, superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old michigan steams like a young mans dreams;
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below lake ontario
Takes in what lake erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of november remembered.
In a musty old hall in detroit they prayed,
In the maritime sailors cathedral.
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the edmund fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call gitche gumee.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of november come early!
Got it? If not, I’m saddened by this. Try this one.
Rainy Day People…
Rainy day people always seem to know when its time to call
Rainy day people dont talk, they just listen till theyve heard it all
Rainy day lovers dont lie when they tell ya theyve been down like you
Rainy day people dont mind if youre cryin a tear or two
If you get lonely, all you really need is that rainy day love
Rainy day people all know theres no sorrow they cant rise above
Rainy day lovers dont love any others, that would not be kind
Rainy day people all know how it hangs on a piece of mind
Rainy day lovers dont lie when they tell you, theyve been down there too
Rainy day people dont mind if youre cryin a tear or two.
Rainy day people always seem to know when youre feeling blue
High stepping strutters who land in the gutters sometimes need one too
Take it or leave it, or try to believe it
If youve been down too long
Rainy day lovers dont hide love inside they just pass it on
Rainy day lovers dont hide love inside they just pass it on
Sun Down…
I can see her lyin back in her satin dress
In a room where ya do what ya dont confess
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Shes been lookin like a queen in a sailors dream
And she dont always say what she really means
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
I can picture every move that a man could make
Getting lost in her lovin is your first mistake
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like Im winnin when Im losin again
I can see her lookin fast in her faded jeans
Shes a hard lovin woman, got me feelin mean
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like Im winnin when Im losin again
Gordon Lightfoot…an absolute…iconic deity to me. I cannot explain how this fellow moves me. My tribe. I know him, somehow. Even though I don’t personally know him. Whatever chemical my brain releases, that sloshes around in my meager gray matter and makes me “feel for Gordon” must be that same chemical that stalkers have in aces, because I felt this irrational urge to wait out by his bus just to hug him and have my picture taken with him. I just don’t know about that, because I didn’t even feel that way when I saw Aerosmith or even Steely Dan… but whatever “it” is, “it” feels irrationally wonderful and so right-on, man. I just love that old fella. You will never hear a stronger, more compelling, simpler bard than he.
He is also not much for chatting up the crowd, but he does interject occasional, funny remarks (serious to him) such as “This one’s a toe-tapper (in a Fargo-ish brogue) and then he busts out with an oldy but goody like “Cotton Jenny.” He did tell an entertaining story about the “breach birth” of one song in particular. The famous “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” was written by Gordon on commission. A song for Canada’s televised Centennial celebration. The end result was “The Canadial Railroad Trilogy.“ The funny thing about that is, Gordon wrote it not in a fervor of patriotism to his country but under duress, simply out of need, because he was in serious debt. Heroic. Essentially, it’s one of those songs that makes you feel your country is superior, just because you are born in it. Haha, good stuff.
Well, if I’m a stalker, it quickly became evident that I sat among even more enthusiastic stalkers than I. As I glanced around in the dark, mood-enhancing pulses and hypnotizing waves of synchronized light effects, I noticed that women were crying and men were swaying and singing along, word-for-word, murmuring, “thank you for coming to Houston, brother…”
…Thus I quickly lost sight of my goal of one good picture and a hug from Mr. Lightfoot. (Sigh)
To recap, the whole affair started out uncomfortably. The band takes the stage, and then a small version of “The Man” takes the stage. He is acknowledged by polite, unsure applause and a few gasps. He is a much, much older gentleman now. (hello?) Some just aren’t prepared for this reality. Remember that this theater is packed with an uncomfortable gaggle of older, mostly working-class people who have braved the rain on a Sunday night -- no small feat, since major highways seem to all be under heavy construction in Houston starting Sunday evening. In other words, this is a big damn occasion for some of these folks.
This scrappy old son of a sailor, early-60’s icon, Canadian (born in Orillia, Ontario, Canada)….is performing Live in Houston, Texas, and it’s been 14 years since Houston’s last seen Lightfoot.
In short order -- and after a very early intermission -- the old crowd has loosened up a bit and has begun sipping wine and beer. Suddenly, everybody seems to remember -- and perhaps the old man has taken a few swigs of whiskey to fortify his vocal chords -- and the whole damned thing turns magical.
It is ironic that I saw the VERY small advertisement in last week’s Saturday edition. I have been telling my husband for years…you’d better fly me “Up North” to see him before he dies. And I meant it too! Imagine my gratitude upon finding out that he would be performing live, in the Verizon Wireless venue, in Houston?!!!
I will never forget this concert, Shane. Perhaps it will be my favorite of all time. I was there simply to experience the man, not to hear what I already posses on his Greatest Hits CD. His voice was the same, yet only a small shadow, and sometimes yet just a whisper, of what he used to be -- Ceste’ la vie -- which makes it even sweeter, to me. He is 70 years old, and I love him. What an honor.
As I watched this “son of a sailor” hahumph and hayah into requiems sometimes so familiar to my heart, I sat, mesmerized. I’m not sure if I understand the feeling, or why, but I know my heart does. That’s always been good enough for me. Gordon Lightfoot is “My People.“ I’m so glad that I got to be with such a sage, frail master before his time here is done. Absolute gold.
He may well have been my father, my brother, my lover -- I’m not sure. I felt not one bit younger nor one bit older than him last night. As I have said to you before, time is the greatest mystery in life to me, Brother.
(Now on to more dog stories)
Moving on…Dakota is the equivalent of a 2-year-old now. She is insane. I am having a tough time deciding upon how to discipline her (and not that I want to either) since she settles in my lap every morning as I enjoy my coffee and newspaper. She isn’t the least bit afraid of that same newspaper when I roll it up to give her a corrective whap upside the head. To say the least…she also wakes up every morning about 2 a.m. in the laundry room and pisses on same said newspaper, so why should she be afraid? Riveting, I know.
Have you seen “Ice Age?” If you have, (forgive me) were you sober? If you have seen “Ice Age”, and you were sober, then you will definitely remember the main character: That Squirrel. That is what Dakota is, to a tee. She keeps us in stitches around here.
For my daughter's graduation Mom and Dad presented her with an oversized card and a hundred dollar bill. They hugged her, she thanked them profusely, they then strongly admonished her to * please* spend the money wisely, on something that meant a great deal to her…
She reciprocated by promptly piercing her nose and purchasing a book at Barnes & Noble entitled “Cunt.”
(Sigh) Really, it’s not what you are thinking. It is a forward-thinking account of progressive, earth-friendly women who wear Birkenstocks, are Vegan, and use sea sponges in lieu of tampons, etc. Dear God…pray.
I had an interesting day today. I captioned my shift, downed a couple of Advils, showered, put on a pot of coffee, cleaned the kitchen, put on 3-Dog Night‘s “Joy To The World” at full blast and watched my son stagger down the stairs, wearing a confused expression -- as if a 9.0 on the Richter scale had just rocked our house. (Huh?)
Let me back up a bit. I got a call last week from his summer school teacher, informing me that my son was : Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah….
In short order, my son is much too social and demanding (and beautiful) for a fast-paced, algebraic-concentrated summer school hell environment.
Well…that’s my boy. And I’m on his side, so I immediately withdrew him in order to recoup the funds expended to put him through summer hell. He and I decided to plug it back into electric guitar lessons instead. Nice save, huh?
I am now his MOST favorite person in the world. I have been taking advantage of my newfound hero-ism by dragging his bottom out bed earlier than he would like and doing “fun stuff. “ Such as going to Barnes & Noble, selecting a book from his “Summer Reading List” -- which concept he also detests.
To be honest, he would prefer to sleep in until 2 p.m., drag-ass downstairs, heat up a frozen burrito, drag-ass back upstairs and spend the remainder of the day on the Xbox and texting his friends.
His spelling sucks. Let’s face it. He’s going into the 8th grade and he still has 2nd grade handwriting and writes abominable sentences.
(sigh) And I just can’t have that, can I? I have Googled the 5th grade TAKS spelling list so that he can not only practice his spelling but his grammar and HANDWRITING! Well, excuse me!
And now he is ding-donging me about needing to go to the fireworks warehouse for his big 4th of July show. Remember how exciting that was as kids? I remember how hacked off Mom would get, because we’d get new Christmas coats every year (?!?), then promptly burn holes in them with the fireworks that Papa Souter bought for us. I also remember the older cousins chasing us around with assorted pyrotechnics and dropping them into the hoods of our new jackets. I also remember Folger’s cans being a part of the terrifying repertoire. Toads also. Bottle rocket wars, Roman candles, etc...
Fortunately, we are all responsible adults now and aren’t going to stand by for that craziness. (Yes, I have taken a child to the emergency room in Hot Springs on the 4th of July -- Kris's broken leg the first year we took the Yam's.) Yeee-fukkin‘-haw…. Never again. I will take my child to the local Caddo Gap veterinarian before I go to the Hot Springs emergency room again. Aunt Don actually went to the hospital director a few weeks later and “ripped him a new asshole” over that “situation” ... We now have a name to drop in case of another similar situation.
I had a funny memory pop up yesterday while in the back yard. A mosquito truck came wheezing by, behind our house. I hastily snatched up my puppy, attempted to cover my mouth and my wine glass at the same time while herding the other two dogs toward the house. Well, while in our youth, I have some vague memory of dancing around under Nanny and PaPa’s light pole in the front yard, whirling and twirling around in all of that lovely, mosquito-killing haze. (?!?) That spurred another memory: Riding along in Papa’s El Camino -- on the LEFT-HAND SIDE of the road! Is my memory failing me or did Papa only move over to the right-hand side of the road when a car was coming the opposite way?? Or remember going to the wonderful Dump? Good times, weren’t they?
People have different visions of Heaven. My vision is a place that allows me to go back and visit certain pieces of the past. We are lucky to have had Nanny, Pappa, Grandmother, Grandaddy, Melvin, Rebecca, etc, etc, in our past. Man, were we ever lucky? God has a pretty enticing bargaining chip, doesn’t he? “Just acknowledge me, and I will make it whole again -- but much, much better.” That simple. Amen. Simple. I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t keep me from believing and having faith.
*** (Buenos Dias, Senior)…
Another day has passed, I’m sitting here having orange juice and rehashing the afternoon prior, after I wrote the first half of this letter to you. Do you remember the conversation between my daughter and the psychiatrist? The one that established how ridiculous I was? Yesterday afternoon she had another appointment with her shrink. Yet I found myself sitting on the good doctor's couch instead. My daughter was a no-show. So I talk about my feelings towards my daughter. The doctor smiles wanly at me, then repeats my conversation back almost verbatim.
Wow, has anyone ever done that to you? I didn’t need that woman to emphasize that my daughter is manipulating me, trashing the few but very important cardinal rules expected of her while she is a very young adult living in our home.
The things the doctor made sure to put a fine point on: My daughter's behavior indicates that she is invincible. Now that she is a bonafide, 18-year-old adult with 2 unpaid traffic tickets, she thinks she is willing to sit in jail a few days to settle the score with Harris County (ahem) instead of paying the fines… She also has an order by her general practitioner to take tuberculosis medication. She and Kris were exposed. Not full-blown diagnosed, but still “at risk.“ In other words, her TB test pops positive. She’s a carrier but not infected. Not sure why I’m explaining this to a former corpsman. She refuses to take the medication, in spite of the risk to herself, her family and her friends (though minimal) because the medication would cramp her social activities. I think this pisses her doctors off more than anything. I can’t cram it down her gullet either.
Remember the pregnant friend who will deliver next month? I have picked up on little pieces of conversation regarding an sharing apartment. Those girls have no clue. I have tried to coordinate with my daughter a time to get with the counselor at the college, to set up her basics, but she is just not making that a priority. She is also considering THE NAVY. Why…why…why do my kids turn away from a firm hand, loving guidance to a total ass-whippin? Can you tell me? Makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.
Speaking of ass-whippins….
Yesterday, since the doctor’s luxury office suite is over by Central Market, I decided to take my son. My son decides to take his best friend, Jack. Central Market is like Disney Land of grocery stores, full of all sorts of yummy stuff from every country imaginable. Really. So I give them the usual stern admonitions, warnings, reminders….yeah.
Within 15 long minutes they get bored of filling my buggy with strange energy drinks and foreign candy -- and I lose track of them, at least with my eyes, but I can hear them. They are running around like little sexy action heroes. (the store is chock-ful of young high school and college-aged gals) I eventually catch back up to them in the exotically strange dairy aisle and start speeding toward them -- BUT not before preventing my son from hoisting up and over his head a specialty wheel of imported Parmigianino reggiano (about $350 worth of Parmigianino reggiano ) and almost dropping it onto his toes.
Needless to say, my little sexy action hero almost got his skinny little ass whipped by the “cheese lady”, who had also just arrived on the scene, except about one beat ahead of me. Both of us were pretty pre-clempt about the cheese-wielding incident. So what does Cheese Lady do? Cheese Lady immediately grabs MY arm and and starts preaching to the choir. But while she’s giving me the particulars of what it takes to get this particular wheel of cheese through customs, how much it costs, how delicate the rind is, what could potentially happen if it gets dropped…I am staring deeply into her bleeding eyes and thinking, Daaammnn….iittt….Lady…., just how many martinis a night does it take to get such scary-ass-looking eyes??
Well….the boys learnedlesson about “touching things”; I learned a lesson about what I don’t want to look like in another 30 years. Blech! Blech-it-to-hell. Enough!
In honor and respect of your shingles, I started this letter with a full-body shiver; I will now bring it down with a full-body shiver. (sigh)
Two more years… Thank God you won second place in that gay limbo dancing contest they call the federal court system.
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all of my life.”
- Oscar Wilde
I am really missing you especially bad today. I hope things are going well; that the shingles have faded from your body (but why is it too much to ask from memory as well --Please God?!) I’ve never actually met a person from the God-Awful Shingle Alumni who doesn’t get a pissed-off look when you so much as even utter a word that even sort of rhymes with the word shingle.
While on the way to a concert last night (6-24), Uncle Ken and Aunt Don called to get an updated ETA for the 4th of July festivities. They are excited. You know, talking over each other, but worrying about and saying the exact same things at the exact same time. Hehe. They, of course, want us to be there by 4:00 or 4:30 on Saturday, because everything starts at 7:00, then we are all expected to be down at the river by 8:30 a.m. the next morning to float. (wha?!) They both pass along their love and greetings (and sad headshakes and shoulder shrugs) to you.
Moving along…before I tell you who my husband and I went to see in concert last night, I will drop you a few smart-ass hints, but it won‘t help you a bit, I'm pretty sure…
1.) I’ve never seen so many sensible shoes in one gathering… in my entire life. (EZ Spirit, Rockport, New Balance, Hushpuppy, SAS)
2.) I kept overhearing snatches of conversations such as… “You ever heard of The Electric Light Orchestra? Man, I’d love to see them guys in concert.”
3.) It is possible that some of this crowd probably attended Woodstock -- naked, covered in mud and feces -- but it is also now a pretty sure bet that some of those same people now own gas-sipping hybrids, have paid off their mortgages and are about to dip into their decently funded 401(k) accounts.
4.) Sprinkled among the masses (approximately 10%) would be the S-Class-crowd; those fortunate enough to have far exceeded the $15K Maximum Contribution Rule. In spite of their pressed slacks, Cole Hahn loafers, Tommy Bahama shirts and expensive Blackberries (set to silent page mode) vague little indicators stick out…perhaps their hair is a tad bit too long, some even have pony tails, or maybe it is that faraway look of Aquarius in their eyes…
5.) At least 5% of these people are mild-mannered nonconformists (pre-hippies) outfitted in Birkenstock earth shoes, cushy calf-length socks and t-shirts with motifs of sea turtles, Alaskan grey wolves and other endangered wonders.
And now to the “Mystery Dude”. This performer definitely belongs to our (Warren) tribe: Ergo, he looks like he could be Grandmother Warren’s twin brother; he looks like Uncle Ken’s older brother; he looks exactly like…Papa Ro. I’m not exaggerating one…single…bit. Nope.
At certain points in the evening I had to turn around in my seat and shoot my best Death Stare at a few (but only a very few) ignorant assholes and assholettes who were making remarks such as, “wow, he really sounds bad…” “he’s really aged, hasn‘t he…” “maybe it’s the acoustics….” OR the most insulting: “It’s a good thing we came to see him now, Roger…look how frail he’s looking.”
Well, excuse me, Joan, but he is a 70-something-year-old icon….. Roger, shut your bitch up, please.
And now to the dead giveaway… Let me drop more than a few solid lyrics for you…
*(The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald)…
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called gitche gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of november turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the edmund fitzgerald weighed empty.
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of november came early.
The ship was the pride of the american side
Coming back from some mill in wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the north wind theyd been feelin?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
Twas the witch of november come stealin.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of november came slashin.
When afternoon came it was freezin rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin.
Fellas, its too rough to feed ya.
At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, its been good tknow ya
The captain wired in he had water comin in
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say theyd have made whitefish bay
If theyd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
May have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake huron rolls, superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old michigan steams like a young mans dreams;
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below lake ontario
Takes in what lake erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of november remembered.
In a musty old hall in detroit they prayed,
In the maritime sailors cathedral.
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the edmund fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call gitche gumee.
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of november come early!
Got it? If not, I’m saddened by this. Try this one.
Rainy Day People…
Rainy day people always seem to know when its time to call
Rainy day people dont talk, they just listen till theyve heard it all
Rainy day lovers dont lie when they tell ya theyve been down like you
Rainy day people dont mind if youre cryin a tear or two
If you get lonely, all you really need is that rainy day love
Rainy day people all know theres no sorrow they cant rise above
Rainy day lovers dont love any others, that would not be kind
Rainy day people all know how it hangs on a piece of mind
Rainy day lovers dont lie when they tell you, theyve been down there too
Rainy day people dont mind if youre cryin a tear or two.
Rainy day people always seem to know when youre feeling blue
High stepping strutters who land in the gutters sometimes need one too
Take it or leave it, or try to believe it
If youve been down too long
Rainy day lovers dont hide love inside they just pass it on
Rainy day lovers dont hide love inside they just pass it on
Sun Down…
I can see her lyin back in her satin dress
In a room where ya do what ya dont confess
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Shes been lookin like a queen in a sailors dream
And she dont always say what she really means
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
I can picture every move that a man could make
Getting lost in her lovin is your first mistake
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like Im winnin when Im losin again
I can see her lookin fast in her faded jeans
Shes a hard lovin woman, got me feelin mean
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin better when Im feelin no pain
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sundown ya better take care
If I find you been creepin round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like Im winnin when Im losin again
Gordon Lightfoot…an absolute…iconic deity to me. I cannot explain how this fellow moves me. My tribe. I know him, somehow. Even though I don’t personally know him. Whatever chemical my brain releases, that sloshes around in my meager gray matter and makes me “feel for Gordon” must be that same chemical that stalkers have in aces, because I felt this irrational urge to wait out by his bus just to hug him and have my picture taken with him. I just don’t know about that, because I didn’t even feel that way when I saw Aerosmith or even Steely Dan… but whatever “it” is, “it” feels irrationally wonderful and so right-on, man. I just love that old fella. You will never hear a stronger, more compelling, simpler bard than he.
He is also not much for chatting up the crowd, but he does interject occasional, funny remarks (serious to him) such as “This one’s a toe-tapper (in a Fargo-ish brogue) and then he busts out with an oldy but goody like “Cotton Jenny.” He did tell an entertaining story about the “breach birth” of one song in particular. The famous “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” was written by Gordon on commission. A song for Canada’s televised Centennial celebration. The end result was “The Canadial Railroad Trilogy.“ The funny thing about that is, Gordon wrote it not in a fervor of patriotism to his country but under duress, simply out of need, because he was in serious debt. Heroic. Essentially, it’s one of those songs that makes you feel your country is superior, just because you are born in it. Haha, good stuff.
Well, if I’m a stalker, it quickly became evident that I sat among even more enthusiastic stalkers than I. As I glanced around in the dark, mood-enhancing pulses and hypnotizing waves of synchronized light effects, I noticed that women were crying and men were swaying and singing along, word-for-word, murmuring, “thank you for coming to Houston, brother…”
…Thus I quickly lost sight of my goal of one good picture and a hug from Mr. Lightfoot. (Sigh)
To recap, the whole affair started out uncomfortably. The band takes the stage, and then a small version of “The Man” takes the stage. He is acknowledged by polite, unsure applause and a few gasps. He is a much, much older gentleman now. (hello?) Some just aren’t prepared for this reality. Remember that this theater is packed with an uncomfortable gaggle of older, mostly working-class people who have braved the rain on a Sunday night -- no small feat, since major highways seem to all be under heavy construction in Houston starting Sunday evening. In other words, this is a big damn occasion for some of these folks.
This scrappy old son of a sailor, early-60’s icon, Canadian (born in Orillia, Ontario, Canada)….is performing Live in Houston, Texas, and it’s been 14 years since Houston’s last seen Lightfoot.
In short order -- and after a very early intermission -- the old crowd has loosened up a bit and has begun sipping wine and beer. Suddenly, everybody seems to remember -- and perhaps the old man has taken a few swigs of whiskey to fortify his vocal chords -- and the whole damned thing turns magical.
It is ironic that I saw the VERY small advertisement in last week’s Saturday edition. I have been telling my husband for years…you’d better fly me “Up North” to see him before he dies. And I meant it too! Imagine my gratitude upon finding out that he would be performing live, in the Verizon Wireless venue, in Houston?!!!
I will never forget this concert, Shane. Perhaps it will be my favorite of all time. I was there simply to experience the man, not to hear what I already posses on his Greatest Hits CD. His voice was the same, yet only a small shadow, and sometimes yet just a whisper, of what he used to be -- Ceste’ la vie -- which makes it even sweeter, to me. He is 70 years old, and I love him. What an honor.
As I watched this “son of a sailor” hahumph and hayah into requiems sometimes so familiar to my heart, I sat, mesmerized. I’m not sure if I understand the feeling, or why, but I know my heart does. That’s always been good enough for me. Gordon Lightfoot is “My People.“ I’m so glad that I got to be with such a sage, frail master before his time here is done. Absolute gold.
He may well have been my father, my brother, my lover -- I’m not sure. I felt not one bit younger nor one bit older than him last night. As I have said to you before, time is the greatest mystery in life to me, Brother.
(Now on to more dog stories)
Moving on…Dakota is the equivalent of a 2-year-old now. She is insane. I am having a tough time deciding upon how to discipline her (and not that I want to either) since she settles in my lap every morning as I enjoy my coffee and newspaper. She isn’t the least bit afraid of that same newspaper when I roll it up to give her a corrective whap upside the head. To say the least…she also wakes up every morning about 2 a.m. in the laundry room and pisses on same said newspaper, so why should she be afraid? Riveting, I know.
Have you seen “Ice Age?” If you have, (forgive me) were you sober? If you have seen “Ice Age”, and you were sober, then you will definitely remember the main character: That Squirrel. That is what Dakota is, to a tee. She keeps us in stitches around here.
For my daughter's graduation Mom and Dad presented her with an oversized card and a hundred dollar bill. They hugged her, she thanked them profusely, they then strongly admonished her to * please* spend the money wisely, on something that meant a great deal to her…
She reciprocated by promptly piercing her nose and purchasing a book at Barnes & Noble entitled “Cunt.”
(Sigh) Really, it’s not what you are thinking. It is a forward-thinking account of progressive, earth-friendly women who wear Birkenstocks, are Vegan, and use sea sponges in lieu of tampons, etc. Dear God…pray.
I had an interesting day today. I captioned my shift, downed a couple of Advils, showered, put on a pot of coffee, cleaned the kitchen, put on 3-Dog Night‘s “Joy To The World” at full blast and watched my son stagger down the stairs, wearing a confused expression -- as if a 9.0 on the Richter scale had just rocked our house. (Huh?)
Let me back up a bit. I got a call last week from his summer school teacher, informing me that my son was : Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah….
In short order, my son is much too social and demanding (and beautiful) for a fast-paced, algebraic-concentrated summer school hell environment.
Well…that’s my boy. And I’m on his side, so I immediately withdrew him in order to recoup the funds expended to put him through summer hell. He and I decided to plug it back into electric guitar lessons instead. Nice save, huh?
I am now his MOST favorite person in the world. I have been taking advantage of my newfound hero-ism by dragging his bottom out bed earlier than he would like and doing “fun stuff. “ Such as going to Barnes & Noble, selecting a book from his “Summer Reading List” -- which concept he also detests.
To be honest, he would prefer to sleep in until 2 p.m., drag-ass downstairs, heat up a frozen burrito, drag-ass back upstairs and spend the remainder of the day on the Xbox and texting his friends.
His spelling sucks. Let’s face it. He’s going into the 8th grade and he still has 2nd grade handwriting and writes abominable sentences.
(sigh) And I just can’t have that, can I? I have Googled the 5th grade TAKS spelling list so that he can not only practice his spelling but his grammar and HANDWRITING! Well, excuse me!
And now he is ding-donging me about needing to go to the fireworks warehouse for his big 4th of July show. Remember how exciting that was as kids? I remember how hacked off Mom would get, because we’d get new Christmas coats every year (?!?), then promptly burn holes in them with the fireworks that Papa Souter bought for us. I also remember the older cousins chasing us around with assorted pyrotechnics and dropping them into the hoods of our new jackets. I also remember Folger’s cans being a part of the terrifying repertoire. Toads also. Bottle rocket wars, Roman candles, etc...
Fortunately, we are all responsible adults now and aren’t going to stand by for that craziness. (Yes, I have taken a child to the emergency room in Hot Springs on the 4th of July -- Kris's broken leg the first year we took the Yam's.) Yeee-fukkin‘-haw…. Never again. I will take my child to the local Caddo Gap veterinarian before I go to the Hot Springs emergency room again. Aunt Don actually went to the hospital director a few weeks later and “ripped him a new asshole” over that “situation” ... We now have a name to drop in case of another similar situation.
I had a funny memory pop up yesterday while in the back yard. A mosquito truck came wheezing by, behind our house. I hastily snatched up my puppy, attempted to cover my mouth and my wine glass at the same time while herding the other two dogs toward the house. Well, while in our youth, I have some vague memory of dancing around under Nanny and PaPa’s light pole in the front yard, whirling and twirling around in all of that lovely, mosquito-killing haze. (?!?) That spurred another memory: Riding along in Papa’s El Camino -- on the LEFT-HAND SIDE of the road! Is my memory failing me or did Papa only move over to the right-hand side of the road when a car was coming the opposite way?? Or remember going to the wonderful Dump? Good times, weren’t they?
People have different visions of Heaven. My vision is a place that allows me to go back and visit certain pieces of the past. We are lucky to have had Nanny, Pappa, Grandmother, Grandaddy, Melvin, Rebecca, etc, etc, in our past. Man, were we ever lucky? God has a pretty enticing bargaining chip, doesn’t he? “Just acknowledge me, and I will make it whole again -- but much, much better.” That simple. Amen. Simple. I don’t understand it, but it doesn’t keep me from believing and having faith.
*** (Buenos Dias, Senior)…
Another day has passed, I’m sitting here having orange juice and rehashing the afternoon prior, after I wrote the first half of this letter to you. Do you remember the conversation between my daughter and the psychiatrist? The one that established how ridiculous I was? Yesterday afternoon she had another appointment with her shrink. Yet I found myself sitting on the good doctor's couch instead. My daughter was a no-show. So I talk about my feelings towards my daughter. The doctor smiles wanly at me, then repeats my conversation back almost verbatim.
Wow, has anyone ever done that to you? I didn’t need that woman to emphasize that my daughter is manipulating me, trashing the few but very important cardinal rules expected of her while she is a very young adult living in our home.
The things the doctor made sure to put a fine point on: My daughter's behavior indicates that she is invincible. Now that she is a bonafide, 18-year-old adult with 2 unpaid traffic tickets, she thinks she is willing to sit in jail a few days to settle the score with Harris County (ahem) instead of paying the fines… She also has an order by her general practitioner to take tuberculosis medication. She and Kris were exposed. Not full-blown diagnosed, but still “at risk.“ In other words, her TB test pops positive. She’s a carrier but not infected. Not sure why I’m explaining this to a former corpsman. She refuses to take the medication, in spite of the risk to herself, her family and her friends (though minimal) because the medication would cramp her social activities. I think this pisses her doctors off more than anything. I can’t cram it down her gullet either.
Remember the pregnant friend who will deliver next month? I have picked up on little pieces of conversation regarding an sharing apartment. Those girls have no clue. I have tried to coordinate with my daughter a time to get with the counselor at the college, to set up her basics, but she is just not making that a priority. She is also considering THE NAVY. Why…why…why do my kids turn away from a firm hand, loving guidance to a total ass-whippin? Can you tell me? Makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.
Speaking of ass-whippins….
Yesterday, since the doctor’s luxury office suite is over by Central Market, I decided to take my son. My son decides to take his best friend, Jack. Central Market is like Disney Land of grocery stores, full of all sorts of yummy stuff from every country imaginable. Really. So I give them the usual stern admonitions, warnings, reminders….yeah.
Within 15 long minutes they get bored of filling my buggy with strange energy drinks and foreign candy -- and I lose track of them, at least with my eyes, but I can hear them. They are running around like little sexy action heroes. (the store is chock-ful of young high school and college-aged gals) I eventually catch back up to them in the exotically strange dairy aisle and start speeding toward them -- BUT not before preventing my son from hoisting up and over his head a specialty wheel of imported Parmigianino reggiano (about $350 worth of Parmigianino reggiano ) and almost dropping it onto his toes.
Needless to say, my little sexy action hero almost got his skinny little ass whipped by the “cheese lady”, who had also just arrived on the scene, except about one beat ahead of me. Both of us were pretty pre-clempt about the cheese-wielding incident. So what does Cheese Lady do? Cheese Lady immediately grabs MY arm and and starts preaching to the choir. But while she’s giving me the particulars of what it takes to get this particular wheel of cheese through customs, how much it costs, how delicate the rind is, what could potentially happen if it gets dropped…I am staring deeply into her bleeding eyes and thinking, Daaammnn….iittt….Lady…., just how many martinis a night does it take to get such scary-ass-looking eyes??
Well….the boys learned
Two more years… Thank God you won second place in that gay limbo dancing contest they call the federal court system.
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all of my life.”
- Oscar Wilde
We are all doing very well. Thank you for asking. Regarding the motorcycle and my son, he is all healed and chomping at the bits to get to the track again. Since Ricky Carmichael has come out of retirement (what a joke - he‘s 28) and is leaving Stewart eating his dust again, it’s been too much for him to contain -- he’s got to get out there and reinact all of that supercross glory drama on the F.M. 290 track. I have learned that if I want to have a decent conversation with him, I need to be prepared to discuss Ricky Carmichael, Travis Pastrana, Jeremy Mcgrath or Chad Reed.
My husband and I did go on a ride a couple of weekends ago to Austin (ROT - Republic of Texas Rally) On the last day of our tour around the hill country, his bike began having shifting problems.
And now I’m going to cut that long, painful, boring story short here by jumping ahead in the adventure: We considered a rental car, we considered chancing it on the bike (hell no was my vote) and then we considered the fact that Austin is pretty much a straight shot from the highway we live near.
So… my children drove to Austin to come rescue us! I kid you not. I was so proud. I was also a very nervous Mommy.
I watched as they pulled in off the highway, onto the service road and cruised up and under the covered porte-cochere of the hotel. Easy as pie. They looked like a young couple out for a Sunday drive. Wow. Their first road trip. And boy, were they prepared for the trip. You should have seen the oversized bags of chips, Skittles, beef jerky, 2-liter bottles of sodas and Gatorades that tumbled out of that little jeep when they opened their doors.
We took them for a spin around Lake Travis, and they loved it. Wow, that place is just sick. Did you hear that The Oasis burnt down a couple of years ago? The owner is in the midst of rebuilding it, and it is partially open -- and is amazing, of course. We took the kids, as a reward for being so grown up. That whole canyon where The Oasis is located is being built up Tuscan-style. Those homes have grape vineyards squiggling down their mountainous back yards. The whole thing is certainly a ruse, but wow, such eye candy to all of the peasants across the way, sipping on Lite beer and eating designer quesadillas (tapas) Good times.
Regarding the CEO…I found myself wondering what my stock would be worth this week if my little domain were a public company -- and came away thinking… not very good. As you know, my shaky little universe relies solely upon solid phone line connections, antiquated 56K external modems, moody notebook computers, precarious init strings to fool and manipulate my moody notebook computers to play nice with shaky USB port settings and 20- year-old station encoders. That also means complete “protection” offered by My Godfather -- AT$T.
God, I hate that bastard company. A couple of years ago, I got a letter from The Godfather saying it had detected “a lot of fax activity” on my accounts, about 9 hours a day worth. They accused me of being in violation with their fine-print, indiscernible, holy grail agreements clause. “So, what’s in New Jersey, Mrs. Potts?” “Didn’t you get a copy of our holy grail clause and read it word-for-word before signing your life away, Mrs. P??”
Uhhh….no. I tried in vain to describe that I worked in the service of poor deaf people; that the analog activity they had somehow detected was actually not a fax machine but my new computer setup connecting to an ancient encoder setup in the bowels of CNBC’s master control room. Yeah, so they’re in Joy-sey. What of it, bi-ach?
Well, they weren’t having any of that. To hell with all those deaf people benefiting from The Godfather’s reasonably priced “All Distance Plan.” And never mind, Mrs. P., that all of your services are bundled with us (alarm, cable, cellular phones, 3 phone lines) and you pay us a fortune each month as it is, Mrs. P. -- now we have an offer for you that you can‘t refuse...
So I gladly accepted the Small Business Package the Godfather offered. My phone bills are now roughly the equivalent to having a new Mercedes S-Class parked out in my driveway.
Whoah…I need to breathe into a paper sack for a minute. Hold.
Back to the CEO bit…I‘ve been down for two weeks. I had to give away all of my programming, while waiting for AT$T get their a$$s out here, test everything, tell me that everything was working juuussst fine on my end. Thank goodness I am now a CEO, because now I do not just close my front door softly and sob into my couch pillows. No. Now my new butch hairdo bristles up, my nostrils flair and this cool Clint Eastwood voice comes outta my mouth… “Well, looks like you better find out where the problem is originating from then…punk.”
Two days later a big, burly AT$T serviceman shows up at my door (Sunday 10 a.m.) and informs me that their “box out by the road” has a defective card, that it would take a couple of days more to get it replaced; that he would call me on my cell immediately when the work had been done. Then he just kind of leaves it at that, staring at me strangely.
Fortunately for me, there have been no horse heads left in my bed, and my phone service is now * seemingly back in order. But…
In the meantime, my steno machine stopped communicating with my computer. Totally separate issue than the phone line issue. My Karma is really giving me an ass-whippin’.
I got on the horn with my steno guru. He thinks the real-time circuitry is bad (machine is 10 years old) and will do diagnostics and probably replace the board.
During all of this downtime, this CEO took every troubleshooting initiative imaginable. I have replaced one and purchased an extra modem. I sent in my steno machine in for diagnostics and possible repair. I even signed up for a Vonage line as a backup. (?? This strange move still confounds me, but a CEO must trust her gut, right?)
I have now been down for two weeks. I am a bit panicked about my budget. If this is a blessing in disguise, it is certainly very well disguised. And now the only thing left to decide is… decide what to do.
Okay, I know what to do now. Chaos theory, I believe in you!!!
There. I feel the grip loosening...
Please forgive me for the lack of letters this past month. I’m sure you probably saw, better than I, what was coming around the corner, what with all of that activity and those milestone events -- and then the big “corporate crisis.” Thank you for listening. Hopefully my next letter to you will not be a fish wrapped in butcher paper. If so, will you stand up for me and say, “she fought the good fight”?
Now on to the mindless, half-ass frippery that just makes my life bearable….
I am alone this morning, and it is NICE. Mercedes and tiny Dakota are fighting viciously over their most coveted toy -- a turd. I am not kidding. It is a 2-inch-long brown, fuzzy “appendage” of some sort that one of them ripped off of another toy. They love it. I have thrown it away, then retrieved it from the trash at least 10 times. and every…single…time I walk into a room and spot it lying on the floor in front of me, I jump and scream like I’ve just almost stepped on a skunk.
My husband caught the summer cold I gave him and has been home for the last 5 or so business days. I enjoy having him home…except…he eats and snacks, eats and snacks -- and I am the waitress. Every hour and a half it’s, “Babe, are you hungry yet?” Code word for feeeeeeed meeee, I‘m staaaarrrving and my legs must be broken.
When I’m home alone, I work, fold, pay, scrub, shop, sort…. I used to laugh when Nanny and Grandmother used to say, “I’m just to busy to come visit for a weekend.” But now I understand. Keeping house, especially when kids are home for summer, must be like trying to herd cats.
I don’t do big lunches when I‘m alone. I don’t even snack. I grab a cheese stick and an apple, heat up leftovers, even forget to eat sometimes, whatever, and my lunch is done in about 6 minutes flat. Then I’m on to the next chore. So I am pretty thrilled that I don’t have to wait on anyone for at least another 5 hours or so.
My son is now attending an accelerated Algebra summer course (and I am now his least favorite person on earth) and Baylen is with her best friend, who is getting an Ultrasound!
Now this is an interesting story. The girl, Jamie, is uncomfortable with the young man who impregnated her (who also insists upon being at the ultrasound). Of course Jamie NEEDS Baylen to be there with them while they do a final check on this poor little baby boy, who will next month be brought into the vicious world of a single, amazingly immature mother, an equally immature, single and estranged daddy, a grandfather who is pissed as hell and a grandmother who finally stressed to the point of sickness and is just recovering from her first heart attack. (she had the heart attack the day after Jamie told her father that she was pregnant)…and the beat goes on.
Well… at least it’s not my grandchild, not my new ex-boyfriend-in-law, not my irate husband and most especially not my heart attack.
(sigh) I imagine I will play some role in mentoring Jamie and probably do a little babysitting, to boot. That’s okay. I love little babies, especially when I can send them back home.
The reason you saw Allen and Jerry’s signature on your birthday card was because they were here for my daughter's graduation. Did I sign that card?? God, I hope so. We were all sitting here at the breakfast table and it came around to me. I didn’t sign it right away, Mom looked panicked, and I said, wait, I need to think of something smart-ass to say. I just don’t remember how that all went down. So if I forgot to sign it, Happy Birthday, Brother. You’re getting old. When you get out, we can discuss our elder care issues together over coffee.
We had a fantastic time together during her graduation. I am going to haul my ass up to Target and print some pictures for you. The blue bird in one of the pictures is Pedro, mom’s new parrot. I’m sure you’ve heard all about him and all of Mom’s amazing miracles that took place in order for her to get him. Like for instance, this miracle: Our mother won $250 on a scratch-off lottery ticket. Instead of spreading it out over 20 years, she took the cash option and put it down on her parrot. And she only owed $250 to get her parrot of off layaway!! Imagine.
You are not going to believe that this is our Jerry. He looks amazing. We had a splendid time. We had our first crawfish boil here. Actually, I should call it Kevin’s first crawfish production, because I wasn’t having any part of it. One of the things I love/(I think!) about my husband is his attention to every single detail. He’s like the detail man (Brad Pitt) on Ocean’s 11.
Except for the day of the girl's graduation. Possibly he was still glazed over from the years of trauma and battle wounds of getting her to the point of really graduating on schedule. After your birthday card went around the table, the topic of the crawfish boil and the 30-some expected guests came up. He had assumed his only role would be to drive to this crazy, cash-only Vietnamese place, pick up a big bag of squirming crawfish, return home, then plop back down in his easy chair and catch the rest of his golf tournament.
So he says to me, how are you going to do this anyway? I say to him, “ ‘YOU’ HELL? How are YOU going to do this, husband?” Mom gets real panicky-looking and says something like, “Do you have Tony Chacherey’s! Red potatoes! Corn! White onions! Crawfish Boil!?”
No -- but we can get them.
Mom continues… “You DO have that big pot/butane burner rig that you are supposed to cook them with, right!?”
Well, no -- but we can get that too.
So we all quickly finish our fancy designer coffee, stuff your birthday card in its envelope and kick things into gear. We were supposed to sit out by the pool that day and all hold hands, or something, but we managed to squander it away at Gander Mountain and Sam’s. We managed to pull it all together in the nick of time, go to graduation, and the crawfish were finally ready to eat about 11:00 p.m. that night. We were all too beer-ed and guacamole-ed up to eat very much of it but a really good time was had by all. I now have about 30 pounds of frozen crawfish taking up space in my deep-freeze. (?!?)
Jerry and I ended up lounging on that big chaise lounger until 6:45 a.m. the next morning, just talking about life, drinking wine and smoking. My husband walked out on the porch and gave us the evil eye and that party was over. It was great.
(I don’t smoke - felt like hell the next day and tasted cigarettes in my lungs for a week afterwards - blech.)
** Earlier that day, after the graduates had flung their hats, Allen came up to me and gave me a big hug and kiss and said, “We did it.” I cried. I think he cried too.
Yes, we did it, Allen. I had a strange thought at that moment: That wouldn’t life be infinitely happier if we could be born around the age of about 90, then gradually approach 18? Passage of time is the greatest mystery of all to me, Shane.
Speaking of books, I’m reading Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series. I went to Half-Price Books and found all but one of the series. He is a fascinating writer to me, brilliantly scattered. He is one of the fortunate ones who learned to channel his thoughts onto paper; otherwise, he might have been your cellmate. I bought Dean Koontz’ "Frequency" after you recommended it. I will start on that later. I too would appreciate a humorous writer. I will go on the hunt for both of us.
This Friday my son will fly to Chadd's for the weekend. Can you believe he's been doing this every third weekend for the last nine years? Flying Southwest is cheaper than gas to Dallas and back -- and much safer, so we just do what we have to do. He has always been perfect on the planes -- except for that one occasion. It was Good Friday (of course), when he was about 6 or 7 years old. Upon lift-off, he and another little boy each flung a whole fistful of jellybeans backwards and up over their heads onto the belted-in passengers. It was a great time, until the stewardess snatched them both up and drug them to the jump seats.
My son got off the plane sniveling, red-eyed, pointing a shaky little finger at the other little boy. The other little boy was doing likewise. The furious stewardess was glaring at ME!
Well, we all had a serious “meeting”, then got over it. It was fairly traumatic for the boy. To aid in the healing process, he crayoned a home-made "I'm very sorry for throwing jelly beans on the plane" card and presented it to the nasty bitch. I still laugh about that now. Every time I see jelly beans, that is what I think of. I would absolutely love to fling a whole handful of jellybeans into an unsuspecting crowd upon liftoff, wouldn’t you?
We need to get up and see my father-in-law. His condition has deteriorated to the point that it has freaked us out, for lack of a better expression. For the last year the man hasn't been able to walk. He has tried so hard, and ends up falling and sometimes in the hospital, but during our visit last week, he was up walking! Or shuffling. My husband was amazed and thinks maybe someone has been working with him. I believe that Jack finally got angry enough to get up and start walking. He's been trying and falling, trying and falling. He tries to talk but my husband says he doesn't make a bit of sense, which is so frustrating. I wonder if he understands what he wants to say in his head but can't get it out correctly? I don't think so. I think he stays drugged from that powerfully bad medication that Parkinsons patients have to take.
My husband used to think that his dad was faking some of it, because after five crazy, nonsensical statements, he would say something like, “When you all have time, will you please come pick me up and take me out for ice cream, please?” Or, “How are the dogs and kids doing?”
This has been one of the most frustrating challenges we and I have faced as a couple. Papa Ro is not far off from that, I believe. Dana called me early this week and said that dad had gotten confused over his dosing schedule. He was incoherent and the home health nurse that visits him had him admitted him to the hospital. His blood tests showed toxic. They had to get the medicine right in his system. So far I think he's better, but I don't know. Now I’m going to stop talking about The Fathers. My head hurts.
We are gearing up for the Pea Patch. That has become an annual ritual for us. Aunt Donna’s mother passed away during Wild Flower Trails. Her mother only requested a few things: “Do not pray over me.” (the Standridge crowd is stubbornly agnostic) “I want Topher and all of his friends to hand-dig my grave -- payback for all of the grief they have put me through from the time that they were little boys.” (haha) “And during the 4th of July event, I want you all to make a huge vat of crawfish ettouffe’, and I want J* to put on a huge fireworks display in my honor.”
Aunt Donna called me a month ago to tell me that Mrs. Standridge had requested all of this, and I let my son know. He was SO proud. I will explain his role.
A couple of years ago, my little fella saved ALL of his money and spent it ALL on fireworks to “put on a show” for the 4th of July at the Peapatch. We didn’t think too much about it, but when we got there, he and Cassie (beautiful little Cajun girl his age) began to draw diagrams and make plans for the show.
Later that evening, they came up to the pavilion and told us that it was time. 30 minutes passed, no one took them seriously. He comes back, madder than a wet hen (think Chadd) and climbs up on one of the benches and angrily announces, “It’s time for the fireworks! Cassie and I have been waiting!” Then he stomps down and goes back to the field with Cassie. This got everyone’s attention pretty well, so we got in a big herd with our flashlights, lawn chairs and coolers and shuffled our lumbering, drunk asses out to the cow pasture for the show.
I am here to tell you that those two little turds put on one heck of a show. All of the adults ooh-ed, aah-ed and applauded at the appropriate moments, and those kids were instant rock stars. Aunt Donna’s mother, Mrs. Standrich, was so impressed with his grit. From that moment, those kids learned that they had an important role to play during the 4th (because the only initiative lazy, sunburned, drunk old people will take will be to get themselves a toilet or sorts, then to off to bed -- certainly not fireworks!)
So on Mrs. Standrich’s deathbed, she requested that my boy do something “really big and expensive, with lots of color.” Good times. I wish you could be there, but you know you can count on a slanted, half-ass dispatch of the event from me, maybe even a few pictures, to boot.
Well, I need to hoist my ass up and hide my Hershey’s chocolate wrapper from the dogs and the kids. Upon waking this morning, I decided that in celebration of my refreshing aloneness and lack of responsibility, that for my breakfast I would have a whole pot of full-octane coffee and a Hershey’s chocolate bar -- all to myself.
I have a new hiding place for my chocolate now, and that feels good. But it also feels like the kids and dogs are closing in on it. I can’t explain the feeling. I suppose it’s like when I’ve gotten away with something too good for too long, you know? I always get busted. As it should be, I suppose. I have just ONE more chocolate bar in that spot -- and depending upon my hormonal fluxations today, I just may or may not have that one last chocolate bar. I deserve it, after all of the technical malfunctions I’ve been through. And then I had better find a new hiding spot.
Who was it that said life is simple but just not easy?
My husband and I did go on a ride a couple of weekends ago to Austin (ROT - Republic of Texas Rally) On the last day of our tour around the hill country, his bike began having shifting problems.
And now I’m going to cut that long, painful, boring story short here by jumping ahead in the adventure: We considered a rental car, we considered chancing it on the bike (hell no was my vote) and then we considered the fact that Austin is pretty much a straight shot from the highway we live near.
So… my children drove to Austin to come rescue us! I kid you not. I was so proud. I was also a very nervous Mommy.
I watched as they pulled in off the highway, onto the service road and cruised up and under the covered porte-cochere of the hotel. Easy as pie. They looked like a young couple out for a Sunday drive. Wow. Their first road trip. And boy, were they prepared for the trip. You should have seen the oversized bags of chips, Skittles, beef jerky, 2-liter bottles of sodas and Gatorades that tumbled out of that little jeep when they opened their doors.
We took them for a spin around Lake Travis, and they loved it. Wow, that place is just sick. Did you hear that The Oasis burnt down a couple of years ago? The owner is in the midst of rebuilding it, and it is partially open -- and is amazing, of course. We took the kids, as a reward for being so grown up. That whole canyon where The Oasis is located is being built up Tuscan-style. Those homes have grape vineyards squiggling down their mountainous back yards. The whole thing is certainly a ruse, but wow, such eye candy to all of the peasants across the way, sipping on Lite beer and eating designer quesadillas (tapas) Good times.
Regarding the CEO…I found myself wondering what my stock would be worth this week if my little domain were a public company -- and came away thinking… not very good. As you know, my shaky little universe relies solely upon solid phone line connections, antiquated 56K external modems, moody notebook computers, precarious init strings to fool and manipulate my moody notebook computers to play nice with shaky USB port settings and 20- year-old station encoders. That also means complete “protection” offered by My Godfather -- AT$T.
God, I hate that bastard company. A couple of years ago, I got a letter from The Godfather saying it had detected “a lot of fax activity” on my accounts, about 9 hours a day worth. They accused me of being in violation with their fine-print, indiscernible, holy grail agreements clause. “So, what’s in New Jersey, Mrs. Potts?” “Didn’t you get a copy of our holy grail clause and read it word-for-word before signing your life away, Mrs. P??”
Uhhh….no. I tried in vain to describe that I worked in the service of poor deaf people; that the analog activity they had somehow detected was actually not a fax machine but my new computer setup connecting to an ancient encoder setup in the bowels of CNBC’s master control room. Yeah, so they’re in Joy-sey. What of it, bi-ach?
Well, they weren’t having any of that. To hell with all those deaf people benefiting from The Godfather’s reasonably priced “All Distance Plan.” And never mind, Mrs. P., that all of your services are bundled with us (alarm, cable, cellular phones, 3 phone lines) and you pay us a fortune each month as it is, Mrs. P. -- now we have an offer for you that you can‘t refuse...
So I gladly accepted the Small Business Package the Godfather offered. My phone bills are now roughly the equivalent to having a new Mercedes S-Class parked out in my driveway.
Whoah…I need to breathe into a paper sack for a minute. Hold.
Back to the CEO bit…I‘ve been down for two weeks. I had to give away all of my programming, while waiting for AT$T get their a$$s out here, test everything, tell me that everything was working juuussst fine on my end. Thank goodness I am now a CEO, because now I do not just close my front door softly and sob into my couch pillows. No. Now my new butch hairdo bristles up, my nostrils flair and this cool Clint Eastwood voice comes outta my mouth… “Well, looks like you better find out where the problem is originating from then…punk.”
Two days later a big, burly AT$T serviceman shows up at my door (Sunday 10 a.m.) and informs me that their “box out by the road” has a defective card, that it would take a couple of days more to get it replaced; that he would call me on my cell immediately when the work had been done. Then he just kind of leaves it at that, staring at me strangely.
Fortunately for me, there have been no horse heads left in my bed, and my phone service is now * seemingly back in order. But…
In the meantime, my steno machine stopped communicating with my computer. Totally separate issue than the phone line issue. My Karma is really giving me an ass-whippin’.
I got on the horn with my steno guru. He thinks the real-time circuitry is bad (machine is 10 years old) and will do diagnostics and probably replace the board.
During all of this downtime, this CEO took every troubleshooting initiative imaginable. I have replaced one and purchased an extra modem. I sent in my steno machine in for diagnostics and possible repair. I even signed up for a Vonage line as a backup. (?? This strange move still confounds me, but a CEO must trust her gut, right?)
I have now been down for two weeks. I am a bit panicked about my budget. If this is a blessing in disguise, it is certainly very well disguised. And now the only thing left to decide is… decide what to do.
Okay, I know what to do now. Chaos theory, I believe in you!!!
There. I feel the grip loosening...
Please forgive me for the lack of letters this past month. I’m sure you probably saw, better than I, what was coming around the corner, what with all of that activity and those milestone events -- and then the big “corporate crisis.” Thank you for listening. Hopefully my next letter to you will not be a fish wrapped in butcher paper. If so, will you stand up for me and say, “she fought the good fight”?
Now on to the mindless, half-ass frippery that just makes my life bearable….
I am alone this morning, and it is NICE. Mercedes and tiny Dakota are fighting viciously over their most coveted toy -- a turd. I am not kidding. It is a 2-inch-long brown, fuzzy “appendage” of some sort that one of them ripped off of another toy. They love it. I have thrown it away, then retrieved it from the trash at least 10 times. and every…single…time I walk into a room and spot it lying on the floor in front of me, I jump and scream like I’ve just almost stepped on a skunk.
My husband caught the summer cold I gave him and has been home for the last 5 or so business days. I enjoy having him home…except…he eats and snacks, eats and snacks -- and I am the waitress. Every hour and a half it’s, “Babe, are you hungry yet?” Code word for feeeeeeed meeee, I‘m staaaarrrving and my legs must be broken.
When I’m home alone, I work, fold, pay, scrub, shop, sort…. I used to laugh when Nanny and Grandmother used to say, “I’m just to busy to come visit for a weekend.” But now I understand. Keeping house, especially when kids are home for summer, must be like trying to herd cats.
I don’t do big lunches when I‘m alone. I don’t even snack. I grab a cheese stick and an apple, heat up leftovers, even forget to eat sometimes, whatever, and my lunch is done in about 6 minutes flat. Then I’m on to the next chore. So I am pretty thrilled that I don’t have to wait on anyone for at least another 5 hours or so.
My son is now attending an accelerated Algebra summer course (and I am now his least favorite person on earth) and Baylen is with her best friend, who is getting an Ultrasound!
Now this is an interesting story. The girl, Jamie, is uncomfortable with the young man who impregnated her (who also insists upon being at the ultrasound). Of course Jamie NEEDS Baylen to be there with them while they do a final check on this poor little baby boy, who will next month be brought into the vicious world of a single, amazingly immature mother, an equally immature, single and estranged daddy, a grandfather who is pissed as hell and a grandmother who finally stressed to the point of sickness and is just recovering from her first heart attack. (she had the heart attack the day after Jamie told her father that she was pregnant)…and the beat goes on.
Well… at least it’s not my grandchild, not my new ex-boyfriend-in-law, not my irate husband and most especially not my heart attack.
(sigh) I imagine I will play some role in mentoring Jamie and probably do a little babysitting, to boot. That’s okay. I love little babies, especially when I can send them back home.
The reason you saw Allen and Jerry’s signature on your birthday card was because they were here for my daughter's graduation. Did I sign that card?? God, I hope so. We were all sitting here at the breakfast table and it came around to me. I didn’t sign it right away, Mom looked panicked, and I said, wait, I need to think of something smart-ass to say. I just don’t remember how that all went down. So if I forgot to sign it, Happy Birthday, Brother. You’re getting old. When you get out, we can discuss our elder care issues together over coffee.
We had a fantastic time together during her graduation. I am going to haul my ass up to Target and print some pictures for you. The blue bird in one of the pictures is Pedro, mom’s new parrot. I’m sure you’ve heard all about him and all of Mom’s amazing miracles that took place in order for her to get him. Like for instance, this miracle: Our mother won $250 on a scratch-off lottery ticket. Instead of spreading it out over 20 years, she took the cash option and put it down on her parrot. And she only owed $250 to get her parrot of off layaway!! Imagine.
You are not going to believe that this is our Jerry. He looks amazing. We had a splendid time. We had our first crawfish boil here. Actually, I should call it Kevin’s first crawfish production, because I wasn’t having any part of it. One of the things I love/(I think!) about my husband is his attention to every single detail. He’s like the detail man (Brad Pitt) on Ocean’s 11.
Except for the day of the girl's graduation. Possibly he was still glazed over from the years of trauma and battle wounds of getting her to the point of really graduating on schedule. After your birthday card went around the table, the topic of the crawfish boil and the 30-some expected guests came up. He had assumed his only role would be to drive to this crazy, cash-only Vietnamese place, pick up a big bag of squirming crawfish, return home, then plop back down in his easy chair and catch the rest of his golf tournament.
So he says to me, how are you going to do this anyway? I say to him, “ ‘YOU’ HELL? How are YOU going to do this, husband?” Mom gets real panicky-looking and says something like, “Do you have Tony Chacherey’s! Red potatoes! Corn! White onions! Crawfish Boil!?”
No -- but we can get them.
Mom continues… “You DO have that big pot/butane burner rig that you are supposed to cook them with, right!?”
Well, no -- but we can get that too.
So we all quickly finish our fancy designer coffee, stuff your birthday card in its envelope and kick things into gear. We were supposed to sit out by the pool that day and all hold hands, or something, but we managed to squander it away at Gander Mountain and Sam’s. We managed to pull it all together in the nick of time, go to graduation, and the crawfish were finally ready to eat about 11:00 p.m. that night. We were all too beer-ed and guacamole-ed up to eat very much of it but a really good time was had by all. I now have about 30 pounds of frozen crawfish taking up space in my deep-freeze. (?!?)
Jerry and I ended up lounging on that big chaise lounger until 6:45 a.m. the next morning, just talking about life, drinking wine and smoking. My husband walked out on the porch and gave us the evil eye and that party was over. It was great.
(I don’t smoke - felt like hell the next day and tasted cigarettes in my lungs for a week afterwards - blech.)
** Earlier that day, after the graduates had flung their hats, Allen came up to me and gave me a big hug and kiss and said, “We did it.” I cried. I think he cried too.
Yes, we did it, Allen. I had a strange thought at that moment: That wouldn’t life be infinitely happier if we could be born around the age of about 90, then gradually approach 18? Passage of time is the greatest mystery of all to me, Shane.
Speaking of books, I’m reading Stephen King's "Dark Tower" series. I went to Half-Price Books and found all but one of the series. He is a fascinating writer to me, brilliantly scattered. He is one of the fortunate ones who learned to channel his thoughts onto paper; otherwise, he might have been your cellmate. I bought Dean Koontz’ "Frequency" after you recommended it. I will start on that later. I too would appreciate a humorous writer. I will go on the hunt for both of us.
This Friday my son will fly to Chadd's for the weekend. Can you believe he's been doing this every third weekend for the last nine years? Flying Southwest is cheaper than gas to Dallas and back -- and much safer, so we just do what we have to do. He has always been perfect on the planes -- except for that one occasion. It was Good Friday (of course), when he was about 6 or 7 years old. Upon lift-off, he and another little boy each flung a whole fistful of jellybeans backwards and up over their heads onto the belted-in passengers. It was a great time, until the stewardess snatched them both up and drug them to the jump seats.
My son got off the plane sniveling, red-eyed, pointing a shaky little finger at the other little boy. The other little boy was doing likewise. The furious stewardess was glaring at ME!
Well, we all had a serious “meeting”, then got over it. It was fairly traumatic for the boy. To aid in the healing process, he crayoned a home-made "I'm very sorry for throwing jelly beans on the plane" card and presented it to the nasty bitch. I still laugh about that now. Every time I see jelly beans, that is what I think of. I would absolutely love to fling a whole handful of jellybeans into an unsuspecting crowd upon liftoff, wouldn’t you?
We need to get up and see my father-in-law. His condition has deteriorated to the point that it has freaked us out, for lack of a better expression. For the last year the man hasn't been able to walk. He has tried so hard, and ends up falling and sometimes in the hospital, but during our visit last week, he was up walking! Or shuffling. My husband was amazed and thinks maybe someone has been working with him. I believe that Jack finally got angry enough to get up and start walking. He's been trying and falling, trying and falling. He tries to talk but my husband says he doesn't make a bit of sense, which is so frustrating. I wonder if he understands what he wants to say in his head but can't get it out correctly? I don't think so. I think he stays drugged from that powerfully bad medication that Parkinsons patients have to take.
My husband used to think that his dad was faking some of it, because after five crazy, nonsensical statements, he would say something like, “When you all have time, will you please come pick me up and take me out for ice cream, please?” Or, “How are the dogs and kids doing?”
This has been one of the most frustrating challenges we and I have faced as a couple. Papa Ro is not far off from that, I believe. Dana called me early this week and said that dad had gotten confused over his dosing schedule. He was incoherent and the home health nurse that visits him had him admitted him to the hospital. His blood tests showed toxic. They had to get the medicine right in his system. So far I think he's better, but I don't know. Now I’m going to stop talking about The Fathers. My head hurts.
We are gearing up for the Pea Patch. That has become an annual ritual for us. Aunt Donna’s mother passed away during Wild Flower Trails. Her mother only requested a few things: “Do not pray over me.” (the Standridge crowd is stubbornly agnostic) “I want Topher and all of his friends to hand-dig my grave -- payback for all of the grief they have put me through from the time that they were little boys.” (haha) “And during the 4th of July event, I want you all to make a huge vat of crawfish ettouffe’, and I want J* to put on a huge fireworks display in my honor.”
Aunt Donna called me a month ago to tell me that Mrs. Standridge had requested all of this, and I let my son know. He was SO proud. I will explain his role.
A couple of years ago, my little fella saved ALL of his money and spent it ALL on fireworks to “put on a show” for the 4th of July at the Peapatch. We didn’t think too much about it, but when we got there, he and Cassie (beautiful little Cajun girl his age) began to draw diagrams and make plans for the show.
Later that evening, they came up to the pavilion and told us that it was time. 30 minutes passed, no one took them seriously. He comes back, madder than a wet hen (think Chadd) and climbs up on one of the benches and angrily announces, “It’s time for the fireworks! Cassie and I have been waiting!” Then he stomps down and goes back to the field with Cassie. This got everyone’s attention pretty well, so we got in a big herd with our flashlights, lawn chairs and coolers and shuffled our lumbering, drunk asses out to the cow pasture for the show.
I am here to tell you that those two little turds put on one heck of a show. All of the adults ooh-ed, aah-ed and applauded at the appropriate moments, and those kids were instant rock stars. Aunt Donna’s mother, Mrs. Standrich, was so impressed with his grit. From that moment, those kids learned that they had an important role to play during the 4th (because the only initiative lazy, sunburned, drunk old people will take will be to get themselves a toilet or sorts, then to off to bed -- certainly not fireworks!)
So on Mrs. Standrich’s deathbed, she requested that my boy do something “really big and expensive, with lots of color.” Good times. I wish you could be there, but you know you can count on a slanted, half-ass dispatch of the event from me, maybe even a few pictures, to boot.
Well, I need to hoist my ass up and hide my Hershey’s chocolate wrapper from the dogs and the kids. Upon waking this morning, I decided that in celebration of my refreshing aloneness and lack of responsibility, that for my breakfast I would have a whole pot of full-octane coffee and a Hershey’s chocolate bar -- all to myself.
I have a new hiding place for my chocolate now, and that feels good. But it also feels like the kids and dogs are closing in on it. I can’t explain the feeling. I suppose it’s like when I’ve gotten away with something too good for too long, you know? I always get busted. As it should be, I suppose. I have just ONE more chocolate bar in that spot -- and depending upon my hormonal fluxations today, I just may or may not have that one last chocolate bar. I deserve it, after all of the technical malfunctions I’ve been through. And then I had better find a new hiding spot.
Who was it that said life is simple but just not easy?
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Yesterday I did something illegal -- I ripped that crackling, annoying warning tag from my mattress. You know, the one that warns you about unprotected sex, not to smoke in bed -- and MOST especially not to remove “said warning tag” from mattress. If you put things into perspective, things get to the point of ridiculous -- and we’re all in danger of making missteps that lead to an orange jumpsuit and doing hard time. To quote the great Lily Tomlin, “Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse.”
The kids have eight more days before they are out for the summer, and I find myself filled with that same irrational exuberance that I get every year about this time -- and for no good reason at all, I tell you. For no good reason at all! For the first time this year, my daughter rolled out of bed this morning without that “kiss my bitter ass” look on her face. She is assuming that she will be graduating in approximately a week. I am hoping that she is right.
Heh! I still remember dropping her off when she was in kindergarten, saying cute little things like, “Mommy, my teachers will be SO HAPPY to see me today!”
Can you please explain to me how in the heck it’s already the 16th of May!!? Or even better, that my second child is almost out of the nest!? I feel like I’ve been Rip Van Winkled along for the last 10 years or so -- and I want it back, dammitt!
In about three weeks, my son will be dragging, moaning and moody about really vague things -- which translates into him missing the necessary social drama and delicious soap opera that middle school serves up ( something he would hotly deny, of course.)
I have gotten rid of an old, inefficient filth-catcher known around here for years as “the beer box”. It was a ratty refrigerator from one of our previous marriages that held moldy leftovers and beer. Loads of beer. Really good beer and then of course there was the “Guest Beer”. (cheap beer). I couldn’t open the door past 90 degrees because of the wall. As a result, I couldn’t slide the compartment drawers out on the left side to clean them. (insert full-body shiver)
I have replaced my old friend with a new frost-free deep freezer, compliments (temporarily) of my Sears account. My daughter lovingly refers to it as “An Old Lady Refrigerator.”
I had grand plans of stocking it with gulf shrimp and crabs, exotic fruit segments, a rainbow assortment of Blue Bell and really nice Vodka…but strangely enough, I find that I have been slowly filling it up with low-brow East Texas food: Purple hull peas and turnip greens, frozen corn bread dough bricks (!?), pork chops, pecans and dried beans. The secret to those beans, I have finally learned, is to thoroughly soak them overnight, cook them at low heat for hours and hours in a large crock pot, with some sort of farm animal floating in there. Serve those babies with cast iron-cooked cornbread. Ah, the magic of cornbread and bacon drippings. I will also freeze dinners in order to keep my poor husband from having to grab the old spear and go hunting for food when I’m away at suppertime.
Speaking of low-brow East Texas food, remember us whacking away at the poke sallet? My son now carries that torch (old golf club)
I remember sashaying with my baton at the Poke Sallet Festival to Hank Sr.’s “Hey Good Lookin, whatcha got cookin?” Good times.
I remember once hearing that you had to cook that stuff (poke sallet) three times or you were liable to get poisoned…and I’m not sure why somebody endured the process of getting that stuff right, but I am sure of one thing: I’m not about to take chances with some rural weed that grows in cowshit piles. Maybe it’s something East Texans have conned the “tourists” into trying, I just don’t know. I’m told the antidote is to drink lots of vinegar and eat a pound of lard. I’m pretty sure I’ve had worse here in Houston. And now I’m done with that subject.
But the subject does remind me of the “feeds” they would put on at Spring Branch Baptist Church, in Springhill? It was held on some certain Sunday(s) and was pretty much an upper-white-trash event. You probably also remember that it started off with a terrifying sermon served up to the women, children and elderly. Most of the rowdy menfolk stood around outside in overalls, leaning on rusty El Caminos, smoking Camels, waiting for their women to get out so that they could commence to feeding.
Remember that long bench table hammered between the trees just down the hill? They would spread that thing with delicious meats that a game warden probably would not approve of. Also turnip greens, fried chicken, sliced tomatoes, peas, dumplings, cobblers, pecan pies, banana puddings, cornbread fritters. Also big gallons of super-sweet ice tea. After the big feed, the men drifted back up the hill to recline in their pickup beds while the women would commence to cleaning off tables, packing up leftovers, then strolling up into the cemetery. Us wild-ass young-uns’ had a grand time tromping and cavorting over the graves of our elders while our mommas and grannies laid fresh flowers, weeded and tended the headstones. I seem to remember our Nanny associating “cavorting over a grave” with some seriously bad karma.
Nanny was great at handing out scary wisdom. It was all “hockey” but of course she believed in it. We all did back then. And if you believe in your own “hockey”, it is as good as the truth.
This triggers another bad-karma-laced memory -- me loading up mom’s good Tupperware tea pitcher with about 15 or 20 toads, and then pouring water over them. (!?!) For some reason, I was fascinated with swimming toads. I just assumed they were having a grand time, kicking and scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to reach the rim. I hid them under our bathroom sink for later entertainment and, of course, drowned the whole gang. I felt so heart-broken and sad over what I had done that I couldn‘t bear to just throw them out. Instead, I started working out plans for individual little funerals for them, so I kept them until I could work that out. Nanny found them the next day while placing towels. (she was visiting us in Queen City - good times) She handed down a curse that I will never forget. “Girl, every time you drown a toad, somebody’s cow dies!” Cows were a pretty darn big deal to our folks, and I still haven’t recovered completely from that awful massacre.
I know you probably can’t stand another dog story…so I’ll make this one short. Mercedes and my “new associate” Dakota are better than a musical comedy. This tiny little tick-turd of a dog can back my big dogs down with its vicious little snorts and lunges. I wish you could see and hear it. It fluffs up like a little porcupine and sounds like, I don’t know, a tiny little projectile-vomiting gnome, or something like that. Hilarious.
I am currently re-engaging myself in a novel that I started a few years ago. It is set in Uncertain, Texas, my favorite place in the world. It is fictional, of course. Why complicate a good story with the truth? Please say a prayer for me, as God and I have much different writing styles…
The kids send their love. They are excited to get letters from their exciting Black Sheep Uncle. I finally talked to Kris the other day. He sounds great. He seems very happy to be an independent young man, making all of his own mistakes, ha-ha. He loves his motorcycle. Please keep him in your prayers. The two at home are about to go into braces. The reason that my daughter is just now getting hers on is a long, pain-in-the-ass, unworthy-of-telling drama …so I will just not tell it, except the part about her being 18 and very soon will not have the benefit of fancy-pants ortho insurance. She has backed herself into the “corner of limited options,” yet again.
My boy is getting a rather jaunty space between his large two front teeth, and he’s got to have another stubborn baby tooth pulled. His sister teases him by calling him “Corn Pop Mouth” I reassure him by telling him that he has movie star caliber teeth (or will have soon.) He doesn’t want any more gaps and, according to him, he’s not going to submit to any of it. At least we’ll have it done over the summer, so I suppose he can revel in having a “real reason” to be gloomy.
I remember the days when, to my young son, a lost tooth meant good cash money, and it was all good. That child ALWAYS has cash in his wallet. He’s level-headed. The girls are wild about him. They also smell like onions and coconut shampoo and wear hideous little outfits. I can’t believe some of the unflattering (trendy) stuff that these young women waste on their skinny, pre-birthing years. Unfortunately, they all look 16 years old, instead of 12. But fortunately, for right now at least, his wildest fantasy is to just be able to play the new Xbox Live on a 52-inch plasma screen TV. God bless his little heart.
He is also very much into battle simulations, always has been. I have kept a picture in a scrap book somewhere that could have earned him his own orange jumpsuit and a bit of hard time -- but for the fact that he was only 6 years old and a beautiful boy child. The homeroom teacher asked the class to draw a Spring-inspired picture to display for Open House. My boy thought about this for a moment, drew a scribbly little green line in crayon, representing grass, then he drew a scribbly little red line, representing a flower sprouting up out of that grass -- and then commenced to drawing the most exciting and detailed stick-figure battle scene taking place on that scribbled grass and flower. Complete with spurting blood, grenades and assault rifles. I thought it was hilarious. The teacher, however, did not. She sent it home in a crisp white envelope, along with a gentle admonition note on a rose-bordered Post-It note. One for the baby book, I say. The Oprah Nation would not approve, I’m pretty sure.
Now that I’ve exhausted all of my stalling techniques, I need to haul my ass out of this chair and “get my freak on” -- which means feed the dogs, load the dishwasher, make a grocery list, pay some bills and cruise around for little tiny dog shats. You know. I’m going through the horror that is potty training a new puppy, and that sucks about as bad as anything can suck.
The kids have eight more days before they are out for the summer, and I find myself filled with that same irrational exuberance that I get every year about this time -- and for no good reason at all, I tell you. For no good reason at all! For the first time this year, my daughter rolled out of bed this morning without that “kiss my bitter ass” look on her face. She is assuming that she will be graduating in approximately a week. I am hoping that she is right.
Heh! I still remember dropping her off when she was in kindergarten, saying cute little things like, “Mommy, my teachers will be SO HAPPY to see me today!”
Can you please explain to me how in the heck it’s already the 16th of May!!? Or even better, that my second child is almost out of the nest!? I feel like I’ve been Rip Van Winkled along for the last 10 years or so -- and I want it back, dammitt!
In about three weeks, my son will be dragging, moaning and moody about really vague things -- which translates into him missing the necessary social drama and delicious soap opera that middle school serves up ( something he would hotly deny, of course.)
I have gotten rid of an old, inefficient filth-catcher known around here for years as “the beer box”. It was a ratty refrigerator from one of our previous marriages that held moldy leftovers and beer. Loads of beer. Really good beer and then of course there was the “Guest Beer”. (cheap beer). I couldn’t open the door past 90 degrees because of the wall. As a result, I couldn’t slide the compartment drawers out on the left side to clean them. (insert full-body shiver)
I have replaced my old friend with a new frost-free deep freezer, compliments (temporarily) of my Sears account. My daughter lovingly refers to it as “An Old Lady Refrigerator.”
I had grand plans of stocking it with gulf shrimp and crabs, exotic fruit segments, a rainbow assortment of Blue Bell and really nice Vodka…but strangely enough, I find that I have been slowly filling it up with low-brow East Texas food: Purple hull peas and turnip greens, frozen corn bread dough bricks (!?), pork chops, pecans and dried beans. The secret to those beans, I have finally learned, is to thoroughly soak them overnight, cook them at low heat for hours and hours in a large crock pot, with some sort of farm animal floating in there. Serve those babies with cast iron-cooked cornbread. Ah, the magic of cornbread and bacon drippings. I will also freeze dinners in order to keep my poor husband from having to grab the old spear and go hunting for food when I’m away at suppertime.
Speaking of low-brow East Texas food, remember us whacking away at the poke sallet? My son now carries that torch (old golf club)
I remember sashaying with my baton at the Poke Sallet Festival to Hank Sr.’s “Hey Good Lookin, whatcha got cookin?” Good times.
I remember once hearing that you had to cook that stuff (poke sallet) three times or you were liable to get poisoned…and I’m not sure why somebody endured the process of getting that stuff right, but I am sure of one thing: I’m not about to take chances with some rural weed that grows in cowshit piles. Maybe it’s something East Texans have conned the “tourists” into trying, I just don’t know. I’m told the antidote is to drink lots of vinegar and eat a pound of lard. I’m pretty sure I’ve had worse here in Houston. And now I’m done with that subject.
But the subject does remind me of the “feeds” they would put on at Spring Branch Baptist Church, in Springhill? It was held on some certain Sunday(s) and was pretty much an upper-white-trash event. You probably also remember that it started off with a terrifying sermon served up to the women, children and elderly. Most of the rowdy menfolk stood around outside in overalls, leaning on rusty El Caminos, smoking Camels, waiting for their women to get out so that they could commence to feeding.
Remember that long bench table hammered between the trees just down the hill? They would spread that thing with delicious meats that a game warden probably would not approve of. Also turnip greens, fried chicken, sliced tomatoes, peas, dumplings, cobblers, pecan pies, banana puddings, cornbread fritters. Also big gallons of super-sweet ice tea. After the big feed, the men drifted back up the hill to recline in their pickup beds while the women would commence to cleaning off tables, packing up leftovers, then strolling up into the cemetery. Us wild-ass young-uns’ had a grand time tromping and cavorting over the graves of our elders while our mommas and grannies laid fresh flowers, weeded and tended the headstones. I seem to remember our Nanny associating “cavorting over a grave” with some seriously bad karma.
Nanny was great at handing out scary wisdom. It was all “hockey” but of course she believed in it. We all did back then. And if you believe in your own “hockey”, it is as good as the truth.
This triggers another bad-karma-laced memory -- me loading up mom’s good Tupperware tea pitcher with about 15 or 20 toads, and then pouring water over them. (!?!) For some reason, I was fascinated with swimming toads. I just assumed they were having a grand time, kicking and scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to reach the rim. I hid them under our bathroom sink for later entertainment and, of course, drowned the whole gang. I felt so heart-broken and sad over what I had done that I couldn‘t bear to just throw them out. Instead, I started working out plans for individual little funerals for them, so I kept them until I could work that out. Nanny found them the next day while placing towels. (she was visiting us in Queen City - good times) She handed down a curse that I will never forget. “Girl, every time you drown a toad, somebody’s cow dies!” Cows were a pretty darn big deal to our folks, and I still haven’t recovered completely from that awful massacre.
I know you probably can’t stand another dog story…so I’ll make this one short. Mercedes and my “new associate” Dakota are better than a musical comedy. This tiny little tick-turd of a dog can back my big dogs down with its vicious little snorts and lunges. I wish you could see and hear it. It fluffs up like a little porcupine and sounds like, I don’t know, a tiny little projectile-vomiting gnome, or something like that. Hilarious.
I am currently re-engaging myself in a novel that I started a few years ago. It is set in Uncertain, Texas, my favorite place in the world. It is fictional, of course. Why complicate a good story with the truth? Please say a prayer for me, as God and I have much different writing styles…
The kids send their love. They are excited to get letters from their exciting Black Sheep Uncle. I finally talked to Kris the other day. He sounds great. He seems very happy to be an independent young man, making all of his own mistakes, ha-ha. He loves his motorcycle. Please keep him in your prayers. The two at home are about to go into braces. The reason that my daughter is just now getting hers on is a long, pain-in-the-ass, unworthy-of-telling drama …so I will just not tell it, except the part about her being 18 and very soon will not have the benefit of fancy-pants ortho insurance. She has backed herself into the “corner of limited options,” yet again.
My boy is getting a rather jaunty space between his large two front teeth, and he’s got to have another stubborn baby tooth pulled. His sister teases him by calling him “Corn Pop Mouth” I reassure him by telling him that he has movie star caliber teeth (or will have soon.) He doesn’t want any more gaps and, according to him, he’s not going to submit to any of it. At least we’ll have it done over the summer, so I suppose he can revel in having a “real reason” to be gloomy.
I remember the days when, to my young son, a lost tooth meant good cash money, and it was all good. That child ALWAYS has cash in his wallet. He’s level-headed. The girls are wild about him. They also smell like onions and coconut shampoo and wear hideous little outfits. I can’t believe some of the unflattering (trendy) stuff that these young women waste on their skinny, pre-birthing years. Unfortunately, they all look 16 years old, instead of 12. But fortunately, for right now at least, his wildest fantasy is to just be able to play the new Xbox Live on a 52-inch plasma screen TV. God bless his little heart.
He is also very much into battle simulations, always has been. I have kept a picture in a scrap book somewhere that could have earned him his own orange jumpsuit and a bit of hard time -- but for the fact that he was only 6 years old and a beautiful boy child. The homeroom teacher asked the class to draw a Spring-inspired picture to display for Open House. My boy thought about this for a moment, drew a scribbly little green line in crayon, representing grass, then he drew a scribbly little red line, representing a flower sprouting up out of that grass -- and then commenced to drawing the most exciting and detailed stick-figure battle scene taking place on that scribbled grass and flower. Complete with spurting blood, grenades and assault rifles. I thought it was hilarious. The teacher, however, did not. She sent it home in a crisp white envelope, along with a gentle admonition note on a rose-bordered Post-It note. One for the baby book, I say. The Oprah Nation would not approve, I’m pretty sure.
Now that I’ve exhausted all of my stalling techniques, I need to haul my ass out of this chair and “get my freak on” -- which means feed the dogs, load the dishwasher, make a grocery list, pay some bills and cruise around for little tiny dog shats. You know. I’m going through the horror that is potty training a new puppy, and that sucks about as bad as anything can suck.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Eventually I will post a picture that corresponds to this particular post. You will find that it is a picture of me sprawled across a fantastic double-chaise lounge, which I have coveted for approximately two summer seasons now.
I first saw it in the Pottery Barn Catalog, posed and propped up invitingly in front of a $70,000 pool, potted ferns and baskets of spa towels nestled all around it, Conde Naste’ magazines spread open and sprawled across the beautiful European double-cushion. (for an additional $275, thank you very much - ) Nestled compactly and brilliantly underneath this sexy hunk of lounging equipment are slide-out compartments, upon which portrays refreshing mojitos with icy chunks, fat lime wedges, authentic Mexican brown sugar lumps and sprays of fresh mint -- and I am not embellishing this scene one bit.
I became mesmerized, eventually obsessed. For two years, I visualized (CEO terminology) myself lounging on that thing, under my pool umbrellas, wearing a ridiculous pair of designer sunglasses, a floppy linen sunhat, my own potted ferns and my own icy mojito.
Exactly…like…that…page.
Except there was a big problem. That sexy rig was priced at around $1,200. Well, excuse me. Even I have limitations. (sigh)
So for years I have gazed half-heartedly at the Spring/Summer PB catalog, that thing making me a tad emotional, so I would flip on by, wipe the drool from my quivering lips.
By accident one day a couple weeks ago, I ended up on Wal-Mart’s outdoor furniture website. And there it was! My gosh! For $299, including the cushion. That had to be a goof. I was stunned. So I immediately…procrastinated but came to my senses the next day. I went back to order and… OUT OF STOCK. Wha!!!!!!!! I felt like sticking my head in the toilet and flushing. Really. Every day I went back to the WM website to keep an eye on the stocking situation. I was steadfast. Approximately 10 days later, there it was again! IN STOCK! It took several tries to make my * quivering fingers tap in the information, because I just knew that I was racing against “them”, those “other cyberists” that could potentially rip that baby out of my grasp. Once the order was finally submitted, I think I heard my little credit card squeaking in protest. Praise God, got it past the approval process. Pay dirt!
Since I had settled for Walmartonline's version of my outdoor fantasy, my swirling little mind readied me for “faux” teak, non-stainless steel hardware, inferior craftsmanship and had fully walked myself through the steps needed to “pimp my chaise lounger”. You know… lubing the joints, coating the hardware, Minwaxing the “teak”, reinforcing the “free” double cushion.
To my great astonishment, the thing was teak, and it was a beauty. It was identical to the Pottery Barn catalog lounger. The only mistake made (by the beautiful Chinese children who put the thing together) was they had augered in the screw holes but in the wrong location for the slide-out beverage shelves. No problemo. Being a good East Texas girl, I go to the garage and fix that situation with my cordless drill and a couple of wood screws. Voile. Problem solved. I now have an icy beverage platform.
I didn’t exactly tell my husband that I had placed an order for “the object of my outdoor living desires”, and of course he heard aaalll about that thing for two summers, but he wasn’t buying any excuse I was selling about that furniture. In fact he wasn’t budging. I pitched it in all creative ways….investment furniture, good for his bad back…look, a place to put our beer. (sigh)
Imagine his surprise, after another difficult day at work, to come home and see all of that beauty; that piece of furniture that had plagued his financial nightmares for two years. He just said “Oh Hell No”, and turned and walked inside. “Wait!” I quickly gushed out the whole long story… where it came from…how I lost it once…got it back later…fixed the drink holder. I asked him to please sit on it. The first thing he did was bitch about how uncomfortable it was. I pulled out the slide-outs and fetched him a beer. I sat down with him, with the laptop, and went to Wal-Mart’s site, opened up to the lounger (it said out of stock again!), then I split the screen and went to Pottery Barn’s website, to the exact…same…thing, except Pottery Barn probably uses a swanky Tahitian sweatshop instead of Wal-Mart’s Chinese one. I reminded him of my iron resolve to not buy the PB one (like I could afford that), also explained to him my weeks of earnest monitoring and swore a blood oath that the dogs would…absolutely…not…so much as…get near the thing.
His sphincter relaxed just a tad as he soaked in this overload of information, rubbed at his perplexed, frowning brow and began sipping at one of my fancy, designer beers.
I have learned over the years that if I cannot convince him, I will confuse him -- and the outcome will be equally satisfying. Cheers.
Notice in this (eventual) photo how much the dogs are enjoying my new lounger. If you look closely at that wonderful drink platform, one corner has already been chewed on, as well as the front wooden axle. Also, look closely also at the WHITE double cushion -- and all of the muddy paw prints!?! Also notice how incredibly hairy all three of our armpits are.
Shame! Where is the shame in this room? My husband has always told me…you can take a girl out of East Texas but you can’t take the East Texas out of the girl. Well, touche’.
Within the last two weeks, at least ten people have been killed by freakish storms in Texas. Last night we had a doozy. My station here, the NBC affiliate -- KPRC, covers them all over the state, live from the scene of the catastrophe. 99.9% of the scenes typically look like the same, worn-out stage prop: A mangled, 50-year-old trailer house. Another typical feature in this sad drama is that 99.9% of the survivors above the age of 14 all typically have Marlboros dangling from their mouths. But to their credit, I think if my home had just gotten smashed, I’d be looking for something a little stronger than a Marlboro, wouldn’t you? Heh, pass the tequila bottle, thank you very much.
Yesterday afternoon I did something really nice for myself. I baked myself a homemade batch of Toll House cookies. For me… All for me. Because I was having “a craving.“ I am typically one of great reserve when it comes to things that thicken my thighs, but a craving is a craving, dammit. So I culled out just enough dough to get me through last night and my coffee break this morning ( about six cookies) and I froze the rest for the weekend. I always look like a hero when we’re watching a movie and the kids and hubby are like, “Mom, can we please have something (anything!) besides Butter-Lite popcorn and Nonfat Bluebell?” Then I sneak in there and bake up a batch of those things. Heroic.
So I baked my six cookies and put them on a cooling rack to cool. I had a couple, then bagged the rest up for the next day. Mom always claimed that you and I had antenna for that sort of sneakery, and so do my children for that matter. And it is absolutely infuriating. With a capital I, I tell you!
Today I put on a steaming pot of brew, stretched out on my dog-smeared chaise lounge and intentionally did not allow myself to go in have a cookie until after the coffee was poured. It was all good…until I went inside, poured the coffee, went to my secret chocolate hiding spot, and found….absolutely nothing but a gawdam empty Gladbag with mounds of crumbs strewn everywhere.
^$%^&*(%$%^&*()&^%$%^&*(*&^%$#$%^&*(*&^%$%^&*(
At least …. can’t the little CRIMINALS be neat and tidy about their thievery??! I could have followed those delicious crumbs upstairs to the gameroom if I had wanted to, but why bother? Dammit. The whole situation lends itself to a theory…raising kids is just a big Toll House Analogy -- bake yourself a whopping batch of delicious Toll House cookies (because you certainly deserve it), hide them, and the children are sure to loot your special secret chocolate hiding spot …every...damn...time... And you’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about it, because it was the children, after all.
Heinous little bitches…
I’ve said my peace and I’m done with it, yet what I’ve said a thousand times, please allow me the 1001: “The older my kids get, the more I appreciate my dogs.” A mantra worth clinging to.
So I am lounging here, cookie-less, lukewarm coffee, on my filthy, fancy-pants lounger, cuddling my newest “intern” of my corporation. It is a teeny 1.25 pound rat terrier mix that fits in a coffee cup perfectly and looks exactly like a Curious George Beanie Baby. Got it from Randy and Mellony. I’ll save that story for later, other than to say…my husband acts as though my new little cowgirl is invisible. It must be a defense mechanism of some sort that a husband, whose wife has gone nuts, has had to develop in order to stay married to her. My poor husband. When the teeny little baby pees on the floor…invisible. The teeny baby poops…invisible. The teeny baby chews on an electric wire, I glimpse a wistful, hopeful expression cloud his face, then he glazes over again. Invisible.
I am starting to become sensitive to the fact that my husband believes that I am becoming gross in my old age, so I will just, in verbatim, describe a current situation that we are dealing with regarding one of our dogs (Darcy.)
“Mrs. P., your dog has a * milimeter tumor growing on her anus, which will soon be interfering with the nerves in her sphincter, so it is vital to have it surgically removed this week. Will that be cash, credit card or a convenient monthly installment plan?”
Whuuu? I suppose we’ll have to put off having the house painted and the trip to Sea World in order to have our eldest dog’s anus put right. I can’t imagine a more miserable way to fritter away hard-earned dollars.
Tonight is The Big Prom Event. Yet again, my daughter has managed to breeze in after school, in a panic, and blather together one rather disjointed run-on sentence containing “last minute nail appointment,” “empty gas tank” “ill-fitting shoes.” In short order, I found myself handing over my debit card…yet again. She came home sporting new solar nails -- and solar toes! (an additional indulgence I’ve never given in to) Some expensive looking jewelry and a bag (stuffed full) from Target (?!?) Next she informs me that she would be taking a nap, and to wake her at 3 p.m. sharp so that I would have enough time to roll her hair.
Throughout the week I have managed to intercept vague dispatches on disturbing prom-related topics (directly affecting my budget) ranging from a “really nice steak restaurant,” a “party at someone’s house,” and a “campout at Lake Sommerville,” (the ugliest, flattest, most featureless lake in Texas, good for only one thing: Drunk teen-dangers.) I can only pray that the ugly, featureless lake will only be two feet deep. Probably not though. I feel myself resisting.
If she cannot convince me, she will confuse me, and the result will be a equally satisfying for Mere'. Also, she is now 18 -- a so-called adult. (ahem)
After all, they are only Seniors once…
My husband is out of town this week because Ali is competing in the Big State golf tournament. Yay! The kids and I have been alone, working hard (me), so a couple of nights ago I suggested taking them out for a treat -- to Chili’s for queso, a meal and dessert. Maybe pick up a video at Hollywood Rental. I should have known better when they started in on the hissing. Like…what else do you two goofs have planned on a Thursday night? Momma ain’t cooking, the cupboard is bare. They proceeded to “place their takeout order” for me to run fetch. Wha?? I encouraged them to “load up” assuring them that we would have a lovely time. I even put on a skirt! We had the appearance of a lovely family going out for a meal -- except for the venom dripping out of the corners of their smart little mouths.
Right off the bat, while the waitress was giving the spiel, my son began talking over her -- ordering me to get him a strawberry lemonade. I had been rather patient, but at that point I completely lost my shit and threatened to pop him in the mouth if he interrupted another adult again that night. He started in with the pouting and defensive blubbering. I don’t even remember… and I ended up calling him a spoiled little baby. His sister jumps in with, “He’s having a bad day -- and you are making it worse, Mother -- can’t you see?” He then crawls over my lap and heads for the front door, turns around and yells something unintelligible at me. I am floored. The only thing I could figure at that point was that I was just being a Mom who finally “lost her shit“, my son is being a smarty-pants, my daughter is being a serious over-stepper.
Gawd… I asked the waitress to bag up the whole damn thing and walked out on a full $9 glass of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay. That…is…just…wrong. We drove home in silence. I was scratching my head, just trying to figure out what in the heck had just happened. Turns out, my son had a really disappointing progress report at home in his backpack and was wanting desperately to fire off one last round of World of Warcraft on his Xbox Live before I confiscated the thing -- and our trip to Chili‘s was eating into that time; my daughter wanted to stay home and …I dunno…wax the hair from her entire body, or some such ridiculousness. Turns out, I had gotten my ass completely kicked just because I had thrown a kink into their stingy plans…(sigh)
(*** the next day, my daughter ended up apologizing profusely. She is not a big one for apologies, and I’m not accustomed to getting them from her, so it washed over me like powerful voodoo . I vaguely remembering asking her if she needed my bank card some more --- which…as it turned out, the next day she took me up on that offer.
Tonight is Friday night, and I’m feeling a little lost without my husband. Spiderman 3 made its big debut last night, and maybe the boy and I will go see that in 3D. But it will be a madhouse. Edwards Cinema is a chaotic playground where preps, jocks, debutantes of all ethnicities, plus gun-toting gangs (of all ethnicities) intermingle, so maybe I’ll just cool my jets on that plan, stay home and play Xbox with him. Wait a minute here! He’s grounded, isn’t he? He’s refused to hand over the offending progress report, so technically there’s no proof . Hey! This isn’t a legal proceeding, is it? (Mom-buddy-mom-buddy-mom-buddy....??) Okay. I’m starting to get confused. Moving along…
But wait! There is a perfectly funny-good reason I brought up the Spiderman 3 debut. Last night at midnight, all of the full-on costumed Spidey wannabe freaks were all lined up at the Edwards Cinema in order to be the first dorks through the door to see the big opening. During the pre-game frivolities, a shirtless (and in pretty good shape) pretty-boy had been body painted (!) red and blue, as Spiderman. He also sported blue ballet-style tights with a huge, huge….huge “athletic” supporter. Well, while the news cameras were capturing the entire circus, they honed in on pretty boy as he goes-a-sashaying out in the big middle of it all, like it was the damn St. Patrick’s Pride Parade or some such. (And I could hear the vintage glee club music start up in my head…Spiderman, Spiderman, he can do what spiders can…) And all of a sudden, out of the side of the camera angle, rushes in some big-ass douchekateer that tackles the painted Spidey, taking him down hard. They go sliding across the mezzanine, popcorn flying, fists flailing. It was all simply perfect!
I feel somewhat comforted, knowing that Gay-Spidey and I both got our sashaying little asses kicked on the same day.
Perhaps I need to call it a day here, make sure I took my medication this morning…because I’m starting to wonder…
Rebellious, spoiled teens, gay superheros, Toll House cookie rants, my rapidly accumulating dog family… (are your eyes bleeding yet??)
I first saw it in the Pottery Barn Catalog, posed and propped up invitingly in front of a $70,000 pool, potted ferns and baskets of spa towels nestled all around it, Conde Naste’ magazines spread open and sprawled across the beautiful European double-cushion. (for an additional $275, thank you very much - ) Nestled compactly and brilliantly underneath this sexy hunk of lounging equipment are slide-out compartments, upon which portrays refreshing mojitos with icy chunks, fat lime wedges, authentic Mexican brown sugar lumps and sprays of fresh mint -- and I am not embellishing this scene one bit.
I became mesmerized, eventually obsessed. For two years, I visualized (CEO terminology) myself lounging on that thing, under my pool umbrellas, wearing a ridiculous pair of designer sunglasses, a floppy linen sunhat, my own potted ferns and my own icy mojito.
Exactly…like…that…page.
Except there was a big problem. That sexy rig was priced at around $1,200. Well, excuse me. Even I have limitations. (sigh)
So for years I have gazed half-heartedly at the Spring/Summer PB catalog, that thing making me a tad emotional, so I would flip on by, wipe the drool from my quivering lips.
By accident one day a couple weeks ago, I ended up on Wal-Mart’s outdoor furniture website. And there it was! My gosh! For $299, including the cushion. That had to be a goof. I was stunned. So I immediately…procrastinated but came to my senses the next day. I went back to order and… OUT OF STOCK. Wha!!!!!!!! I felt like sticking my head in the toilet and flushing. Really. Every day I went back to the WM website to keep an eye on the stocking situation. I was steadfast. Approximately 10 days later, there it was again! IN STOCK! It took several tries to make my * quivering fingers tap in the information, because I just knew that I was racing against “them”, those “other cyberists” that could potentially rip that baby out of my grasp. Once the order was finally submitted, I think I heard my little credit card squeaking in protest. Praise God, got it past the approval process. Pay dirt!
Since I had settled for Walmartonline's version of my outdoor fantasy, my swirling little mind readied me for “faux” teak, non-stainless steel hardware, inferior craftsmanship and had fully walked myself through the steps needed to “pimp my chaise lounger”. You know… lubing the joints, coating the hardware, Minwaxing the “teak”, reinforcing the “free” double cushion.
To my great astonishment, the thing was teak, and it was a beauty. It was identical to the Pottery Barn catalog lounger. The only mistake made (by the beautiful Chinese children who put the thing together) was they had augered in the screw holes but in the wrong location for the slide-out beverage shelves. No problemo. Being a good East Texas girl, I go to the garage and fix that situation with my cordless drill and a couple of wood screws. Voile. Problem solved. I now have an icy beverage platform.
I didn’t exactly tell my husband that I had placed an order for “the object of my outdoor living desires”, and of course he heard aaalll about that thing for two summers, but he wasn’t buying any excuse I was selling about that furniture. In fact he wasn’t budging. I pitched it in all creative ways….investment furniture, good for his bad back…look, a place to put our beer. (sigh)
Imagine his surprise, after another difficult day at work, to come home and see all of that beauty; that piece of furniture that had plagued his financial nightmares for two years. He just said “Oh Hell No”, and turned and walked inside. “Wait!” I quickly gushed out the whole long story… where it came from…how I lost it once…got it back later…fixed the drink holder. I asked him to please sit on it. The first thing he did was bitch about how uncomfortable it was. I pulled out the slide-outs and fetched him a beer. I sat down with him, with the laptop, and went to Wal-Mart’s site, opened up to the lounger (it said out of stock again!), then I split the screen and went to Pottery Barn’s website, to the exact…same…thing, except Pottery Barn probably uses a swanky Tahitian sweatshop instead of Wal-Mart’s Chinese one. I reminded him of my iron resolve to not buy the PB one (like I could afford that), also explained to him my weeks of earnest monitoring and swore a blood oath that the dogs would…absolutely…not…so much as…get near the thing.
His sphincter relaxed just a tad as he soaked in this overload of information, rubbed at his perplexed, frowning brow and began sipping at one of my fancy, designer beers.
I have learned over the years that if I cannot convince him, I will confuse him -- and the outcome will be equally satisfying. Cheers.
Notice in this (eventual) photo how much the dogs are enjoying my new lounger. If you look closely at that wonderful drink platform, one corner has already been chewed on, as well as the front wooden axle. Also, look closely also at the WHITE double cushion -- and all of the muddy paw prints!?! Also notice how incredibly hairy all three of our armpits are.
Shame! Where is the shame in this room? My husband has always told me…you can take a girl out of East Texas but you can’t take the East Texas out of the girl. Well, touche’.
Within the last two weeks, at least ten people have been killed by freakish storms in Texas. Last night we had a doozy. My station here, the NBC affiliate -- KPRC, covers them all over the state, live from the scene of the catastrophe. 99.9% of the scenes typically look like the same, worn-out stage prop: A mangled, 50-year-old trailer house. Another typical feature in this sad drama is that 99.9% of the survivors above the age of 14 all typically have Marlboros dangling from their mouths. But to their credit, I think if my home had just gotten smashed, I’d be looking for something a little stronger than a Marlboro, wouldn’t you? Heh, pass the tequila bottle, thank you very much.
Yesterday afternoon I did something really nice for myself. I baked myself a homemade batch of Toll House cookies. For me… All for me. Because I was having “a craving.“ I am typically one of great reserve when it comes to things that thicken my thighs, but a craving is a craving, dammit. So I culled out just enough dough to get me through last night and my coffee break this morning ( about six cookies) and I froze the rest for the weekend. I always look like a hero when we’re watching a movie and the kids and hubby are like, “Mom, can we please have something (anything!) besides Butter-Lite popcorn and Nonfat Bluebell?” Then I sneak in there and bake up a batch of those things. Heroic.
So I baked my six cookies and put them on a cooling rack to cool. I had a couple, then bagged the rest up for the next day. Mom always claimed that you and I had antenna for that sort of sneakery, and so do my children for that matter. And it is absolutely infuriating. With a capital I, I tell you!
Today I put on a steaming pot of brew, stretched out on my dog-smeared chaise lounge and intentionally did not allow myself to go in have a cookie until after the coffee was poured. It was all good…until I went inside, poured the coffee, went to my secret chocolate hiding spot, and found….absolutely nothing but a gawdam empty Gladbag with mounds of crumbs strewn everywhere.
^$%^&*(%$%^&*()&^%$%^&*(*&^%$#$%^&*(*&^%$%^&*(
At least …. can’t the little CRIMINALS be neat and tidy about their thievery??! I could have followed those delicious crumbs upstairs to the gameroom if I had wanted to, but why bother? Dammit. The whole situation lends itself to a theory…raising kids is just a big Toll House Analogy -- bake yourself a whopping batch of delicious Toll House cookies (because you certainly deserve it), hide them, and the children are sure to loot your special secret chocolate hiding spot …every...damn...time... And you’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy about it, because it was the children, after all.
Heinous little bitches…
I’ve said my peace and I’m done with it, yet what I’ve said a thousand times, please allow me the 1001: “The older my kids get, the more I appreciate my dogs.” A mantra worth clinging to.
So I am lounging here, cookie-less, lukewarm coffee, on my filthy, fancy-pants lounger, cuddling my newest “intern” of my corporation. It is a teeny 1.25 pound rat terrier mix that fits in a coffee cup perfectly and looks exactly like a Curious George Beanie Baby. Got it from Randy and Mellony. I’ll save that story for later, other than to say…my husband acts as though my new little cowgirl is invisible. It must be a defense mechanism of some sort that a husband, whose wife has gone nuts, has had to develop in order to stay married to her. My poor husband. When the teeny little baby pees on the floor…invisible. The teeny baby poops…invisible. The teeny baby chews on an electric wire, I glimpse a wistful, hopeful expression cloud his face, then he glazes over again. Invisible.
I am starting to become sensitive to the fact that my husband believes that I am becoming gross in my old age, so I will just, in verbatim, describe a current situation that we are dealing with regarding one of our dogs (Darcy.)
“Mrs. P., your dog has a * milimeter tumor growing on her anus, which will soon be interfering with the nerves in her sphincter, so it is vital to have it surgically removed this week. Will that be cash, credit card or a convenient monthly installment plan?”
Whuuu? I suppose we’ll have to put off having the house painted and the trip to Sea World in order to have our eldest dog’s anus put right. I can’t imagine a more miserable way to fritter away hard-earned dollars.
Tonight is The Big Prom Event. Yet again, my daughter has managed to breeze in after school, in a panic, and blather together one rather disjointed run-on sentence containing “last minute nail appointment,” “empty gas tank” “ill-fitting shoes.” In short order, I found myself handing over my debit card…yet again. She came home sporting new solar nails -- and solar toes! (an additional indulgence I’ve never given in to) Some expensive looking jewelry and a bag (stuffed full) from Target (?!?) Next she informs me that she would be taking a nap, and to wake her at 3 p.m. sharp so that I would have enough time to roll her hair.
Throughout the week I have managed to intercept vague dispatches on disturbing prom-related topics (directly affecting my budget) ranging from a “really nice steak restaurant,” a “party at someone’s house,” and a “campout at Lake Sommerville,” (the ugliest, flattest, most featureless lake in Texas, good for only one thing: Drunk teen-dangers.) I can only pray that the ugly, featureless lake will only be two feet deep. Probably not though. I feel myself resisting.
If she cannot convince me, she will confuse me, and the result will be a equally satisfying for Mere'. Also, she is now 18 -- a so-called adult. (ahem)
After all, they are only Seniors once…
My husband is out of town this week because Ali is competing in the Big State golf tournament. Yay! The kids and I have been alone, working hard (me), so a couple of nights ago I suggested taking them out for a treat -- to Chili’s for queso, a meal and dessert. Maybe pick up a video at Hollywood Rental. I should have known better when they started in on the hissing. Like…what else do you two goofs have planned on a Thursday night? Momma ain’t cooking, the cupboard is bare. They proceeded to “place their takeout order” for me to run fetch. Wha?? I encouraged them to “load up” assuring them that we would have a lovely time. I even put on a skirt! We had the appearance of a lovely family going out for a meal -- except for the venom dripping out of the corners of their smart little mouths.
Right off the bat, while the waitress was giving the spiel, my son began talking over her -- ordering me to get him a strawberry lemonade. I had been rather patient, but at that point I completely lost my shit and threatened to pop him in the mouth if he interrupted another adult again that night. He started in with the pouting and defensive blubbering. I don’t even remember… and I ended up calling him a spoiled little baby. His sister jumps in with, “He’s having a bad day -- and you are making it worse, Mother -- can’t you see?” He then crawls over my lap and heads for the front door, turns around and yells something unintelligible at me. I am floored. The only thing I could figure at that point was that I was just being a Mom who finally “lost her shit“, my son is being a smarty-pants, my daughter is being a serious over-stepper.
Gawd… I asked the waitress to bag up the whole damn thing and walked out on a full $9 glass of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay. That…is…just…wrong. We drove home in silence. I was scratching my head, just trying to figure out what in the heck had just happened. Turns out, my son had a really disappointing progress report at home in his backpack and was wanting desperately to fire off one last round of World of Warcraft on his Xbox Live before I confiscated the thing -- and our trip to Chili‘s was eating into that time; my daughter wanted to stay home and …I dunno…wax the hair from her entire body, or some such ridiculousness. Turns out, I had gotten my ass completely kicked just because I had thrown a kink into their stingy plans…(sigh)
(*** the next day, my daughter ended up apologizing profusely. She is not a big one for apologies, and I’m not accustomed to getting them from her, so it washed over me like powerful voodoo . I vaguely remembering asking her if she needed my bank card some more --- which…as it turned out, the next day she took me up on that offer.
Tonight is Friday night, and I’m feeling a little lost without my husband. Spiderman 3 made its big debut last night, and maybe the boy and I will go see that in 3D. But it will be a madhouse. Edwards Cinema is a chaotic playground where preps, jocks, debutantes of all ethnicities, plus gun-toting gangs (of all ethnicities) intermingle, so maybe I’ll just cool my jets on that plan, stay home and play Xbox with him. Wait a minute here! He’s grounded, isn’t he? He’s refused to hand over the offending progress report, so technically there’s no proof . Hey! This isn’t a legal proceeding, is it? (Mom-buddy-mom-buddy-mom-buddy....??) Okay. I’m starting to get confused. Moving along…
But wait! There is a perfectly funny-good reason I brought up the Spiderman 3 debut. Last night at midnight, all of the full-on costumed Spidey wannabe freaks were all lined up at the Edwards Cinema in order to be the first dorks through the door to see the big opening. During the pre-game frivolities, a shirtless (and in pretty good shape) pretty-boy had been body painted (!) red and blue, as Spiderman. He also sported blue ballet-style tights with a huge, huge….huge “athletic” supporter. Well, while the news cameras were capturing the entire circus, they honed in on pretty boy as he goes-a-sashaying out in the big middle of it all, like it was the damn St. Patrick’s Pride Parade or some such. (And I could hear the vintage glee club music start up in my head…Spiderman, Spiderman, he can do what spiders can…) And all of a sudden, out of the side of the camera angle, rushes in some big-ass douchekateer that tackles the painted Spidey, taking him down hard. They go sliding across the mezzanine, popcorn flying, fists flailing. It was all simply perfect!
I feel somewhat comforted, knowing that Gay-Spidey and I both got our sashaying little asses kicked on the same day.
Perhaps I need to call it a day here, make sure I took my medication this morning…because I’m starting to wonder…
Rebellious, spoiled teens, gay superheros, Toll House cookie rants, my rapidly accumulating dog family… (are your eyes bleeding yet??)
Dear Lord Baby Jesus Christ - I just watched a music video online, a Nissan-sponsored, idiot-inspired unplugged thing. Hell slowly began glazing over as I sat, classical Andrew Jackson expression on my face, watching Chris Cornell singing Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean.” (Wha!?) At the conclusion of the whole weird, hypnotizing thing, I stroked my chin thoughtfully and pondered… well, was it any good? Conclusion: very good. But what does it all mean? To me it means that Chris Cornell could get away with remaking anything (“Afternoon Delight” , “Like a Virgin”) and the ‘90s rock-n-roll set would still be totally enraptured with him…
But wait, there’s more… Chris also sings the tender, metro sexual opening theme song for the newest James Bond movie…which is actually quite good. Very good. The new Bond man is a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sculpted piece of…art… by the name of Daniel Craig. NOT metro sexual and NOT photogenic either, yet he has a screen presence and cocky panache that has hooked all of the Bond legion nay-sayers. In my own sheepish opinion, “they” have saved the franchise with this one -- “Casino Royale.” We have all of the Bond movies, and rotate them regularly, so I am totally in touch with my Bond side, therefore I feel comfortable enough in saying that this one is brilliant. The “young set” isn’t as impressed, because 99% of them have watched only the last 2 or 3 overblown, sorry- excuse-for-Bond movies and don’t understand (and aren’t very receptive to) how James Bond came to be. It if ain’t like watching a video game, they ain’t gon’ like it very much.
A few comments from IMDb…
Well certain people thought Daniel Craig could not pull it off, but he has and with style and a cold steel edge, not seen since Sean Connery.
This is proper action hero stuff, but he actually looks like if he wanted to, he could kill you.
With an opening sequence that will stop you from blinking for 20 minutes.
The film is class, from the cinematography, to the three dimensional villains, and Bond's rapid learning curve.
Like Dr No, you see a killer, just he is on our side.
Don't read reviews, just go and see it, and tell your friends what you thought, you won't be disappointed.
And there you have it.
As I’m sure you are aware, the Rockets are engaged in some “something or other important playoffs” of the country…or the world…and I am left a basketball widow. I may as well parade in all of my lovers as my husband glazes over and starts in with the grunts and bursts of expletives. Nightly he and the dogs root into the big leather chair, amply supplied with beer, beer nuts, laptop computer, six remotes and various other sundry gadgetry needed to successfully navigate the underbelly of the basketball beast.
He accuses me of being ambiguous about sports. (!?!) Damn-him, I am not ambiguous; I really do sort of love Houston Rockets… really. I also like the Houston Astros enough-okay too. Really.
Is it just Jeff Van Gundy, or do all basketball coaches look like hell?
Praise the Lord… my daughter's 18th birthday came and went without having to post bond, file a hefty insurance claim or needing a stomach pumped. I took her to a trendy (absolutely sucked and was filthy) Sushi and Sake parlor (her wish); then afterwards to see a live theatrical production in Houston (out of New York) of the production of “Wicked.” The tickets cost me dearly, obtained them from some ticket racketeering outfit out of Pennsylvania (!?!) that assured me equal or better seats if my choice was not available. Ahem…We were a bit oxygen deprived, but at least we were in the Center. And it was all good.
An official quote from the “official” website…
SO MUCH HAPPENED BEFORE DOROTHY DROPPED IN.
Long before Dorothy drops in, two other girls meet in the land of Oz. One - born with emerald green skin - is smart, fiery and misunderstood. The other is beautiful, ambitious and very popular. How these two grow to become the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch makes for the most spellbinding new musical in years.
When WICKED opened on Broadway, it worked its magic on critics and audiences alike. The show went on to win 15 major awards, including the Grammy® and 3 Tony® Awards." Today, WICKED is "Broadway’s biggest blockbuster."
I must say…it was brilliant. I truly envy a person’s ability to cobble together and conjure sheer f’d-up brilliance. My daughter sat hunched forward, straining to hear every word. She even applauded at the appropriate moments…and she is certainly not one for applause. I consider the event a success.
We are now fully engaged in the horror that is the Cy-Fair PROJECT PROM. Because of my vast support network of liars and backstabbers, I have been fully brainwashed in the theory and by application that …they are only seniors once. (ahem, God willing) Over the weekend we found “a dress”. I truly wish that I could believe in my heart that it is “THE dress” but the rigorous exercise of “milestone-event” shopping drains my daughter's battery quicker than the one on my “kickstart-less” Yamaha (Mother’s day present 2 years ago woo-hoo!) so she and I were in meltdown mode relatively quickly -- about the time that our Starbucks (a/k/a Fourbucks) wore off actually. Together we had agreed to not latch onto the first dress that fit, but of course she did. It is beautiful (unfortunately too revealing), and the price was right, but then the woman behind the counter started in on more indoctrination and brainwashing about the perfect stick-on, strapless bra, slimming girdle devices, necessary double-sided garment tape for strategic spots…things quickly got out of hand. Well, sh*t. After all, she is only a senior once…
Trousseau in tow, and as I’m licking off my wounds, she perks up a notch and suggests a trip to the Mac counter “just to look”. I’m laughing to myself right now, because I’m pretty sure you’re completely glazed over with all of this prom nonsense, but just sit tight. This has been very therapeutic for me, heh.
Mac is the cosmetic empire to all of the ugly “beautiful people.” And every female between the ages of 14 and 24 would slap her granny just to be “done up” in Mac for a milestone event. Well, I just wont go into it all, but we left with a parcel of Mac. Since My Brain is now numbed-up, my high-interest credit card has suddenly become a blank check. So… of course I suggested topping off the day with shoe-gazing (just looking). Mere’s idea of shoe elegance clashes with mine. I could write you an additional four pages of the half-assery that next takes place in the shoe department, but I won’t -- other than to say…upon conclusion of that ass-whippin’, she was crying and I was behaving like a white trash mother of 5 toddlers in a Piggly-Wiggly. Needless to say, we were attracting quite a bit of attention.
As I sit here now, softly blubbering to you, my friends, we still do not have shoes for prom. Remember, as I am the great over-corrector, we will surely be out looking for the perfect pair…an hour before prom. And so it goes…
What do you know about paintball? My youngest son is my self-motivated and “driven” (though sometimes misguided) child. Every day he straps weights on his little frame, decks out in full-on battle regalia and “runs drills.” He even, with his own allowance, purchases (and studies) magazines that dither in the “sport.” He is forbidden to use the paintballs in the back yard, and he swears that he does not use them, but why are all of the dog piles in the back yard bright turquoise? I once was told that paintballs were filled with yummy dyed yogurt!?!
Speaking of “that subject” my terrorist basset baby is upstairs, doing the rounds. She also “runs drills” and it has everything to do with chasing the resident homosexual. I just heard something crash upstairs, and I don’t mean a vase; I mean something significant, like a treadmill or television. Hang on a minute…
Well, I don’t see anything so I suppose what I heard were their bodies flailing about. Before we got Mercedes, I had a complete misconception of the basset hound. I’m not sure if it is the breed or just the one we ended up with, but she is a sassy little rocket dog. All snapping muscle and raw sinew. And quick!
She and the cat raise the roof around here. When I fell in love with Mercedes, she was six weeks old and teeny. She was on top of a squirming little wad of about 10 of her siblings. Her littermates were staggering around like Blind Lemon Jefferson, but our little girl was making tiny growls and wuffs and knocking them all down like little bowling pins. Simply excellent. She was born the Alpha.
When we brought Mercedes home, our pessimistic, lounging, conniving, completely bored cat Zero simply observed -- from some height, with a cynical, half-interested curiosity. Within a couple of days, that curiosity welled into a genuine, disdainful interest. As a result, the puppy’s amazing instincts kicked in. Though she was still wobbling about, her little nose kicked in and was going crazy. She began staring up and yipping back at Zero. Within a mere two days or so, that yip would start up and then crack into a hound dog bay. Aaaarrryoooooo! It was the funniest sound you could imagine. A voice much too big for the little body it came from. Sort of like my youngest son's voice right now, ha-ha.
That little bay seemed to signal Zero that the game was on. I genuinely believe that Zero was the one that started the bizarre drills that these two engage in every…single…morning, beginning about 6:45 a.m.-ish. At first, when the puppy broke out of the wobble phase and started puppy-galloping, it would simply crash into Zero. Zero invited it, of course, stretched out on the slate, arching his forehead, flicking and taunting with his tail. At first we thought it wise to keep them apart because of all of the yipping and growling, hissing and spitting, but, upon observation, we realized that it was all in good spirit. That cat could have, and still could, shred that dog to pieces it wanted to.
Within a few weeks, the puppy was an inch or so taller, incredibly nimble and quick (thanks to Zero) and the charging became a YouTuber’s dream. (this was before YouTube was a big deal, else I would have filmed it.) The pup would charge at full speed, like a bull. Zero would flatten out on his back, belly-up, and execute by kicking the charging puppy up in the air and over into the most awesome body-flip-slam. It was the funniest thing ever. That went on for about two, three months, the puppy getting heavier and more determined by the day. Sadly, those body-flip-slam days are gone but have been replaced by equally hilarious hijinks.
Like the day they were “drilling” in the sunroom and the cat lithely jumps from the couch onto a TV tray, then launches up to the fireplace mantle. Mercedes had been watching carefully. Without considering it, she rockets up onto the couch, then up onto the TV tray, intent upon following Zero anywhere…anytime…bring it on. Of course the tray crashes down and Mercedes learns a valuable lesson: Oh, I’m not a cat, am I? Good stuff.
This evening we will be leaving for Hughes Springs to see Mom and Dad. It is Wildflower Trails Festival, and they appreciate when we come home for that. Besides, it has been five months and I’m very homesick. And because our mother runs late all of the time (something she protests, by the way) she has levered us into a tight departure schedule by enticing us with roasted farm animals, fresh-plucked vegetables and various rural pastries that await our arrival. (the woman is crafty) There’s the guarantee that it will all be fresh, hot and timed perfectly, as long as we stick to the schedule. She then asks us for special requests. I am anticipating the typical long car ride with a frustrated, speed-racing husband, increasingly ripening dog odors (about Longview they start yip-howling and licking at their quivering little butts) , and grumbling teens who are engaged in an angry Ipod volume contest.
So to our mother, I sigh and put in my special request: A beer. Really…just a beer…Mom. That’s it. Beer -- and maybe a cookie . Mom laughs knowingly and empathizes, agreeing to not go to “too much trouble.” Alas, I am not fooled by our mother. We will probably be pulling in around midnight tonight and the table will be spread out like Thanksgiving…all of their Christmas trees decorated with a Spring theme… candles blazing… parrots squawking… all 35 dogs snarling and circling outside, working out their vague hierarchy, yipping like a pack of wild, butt-sniffing dingoes…
There’s no place like home. Wish my brother could be with me.
But wait, there’s more… Chris also sings the tender, metro sexual opening theme song for the newest James Bond movie…which is actually quite good. Very good. The new Bond man is a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sculpted piece of…art… by the name of Daniel Craig. NOT metro sexual and NOT photogenic either, yet he has a screen presence and cocky panache that has hooked all of the Bond legion nay-sayers. In my own sheepish opinion, “they” have saved the franchise with this one -- “Casino Royale.” We have all of the Bond movies, and rotate them regularly, so I am totally in touch with my Bond side, therefore I feel comfortable enough in saying that this one is brilliant. The “young set” isn’t as impressed, because 99% of them have watched only the last 2 or 3 overblown, sorry- excuse-for-Bond movies and don’t understand (and aren’t very receptive to) how James Bond came to be. It if ain’t like watching a video game, they ain’t gon’ like it very much.
A few comments from IMDb…
Well certain people thought Daniel Craig could not pull it off, but he has and with style and a cold steel edge, not seen since Sean Connery.
This is proper action hero stuff, but he actually looks like if he wanted to, he could kill you.
With an opening sequence that will stop you from blinking for 20 minutes.
The film is class, from the cinematography, to the three dimensional villains, and Bond's rapid learning curve.
Like Dr No, you see a killer, just he is on our side.
Don't read reviews, just go and see it, and tell your friends what you thought, you won't be disappointed.
And there you have it.
As I’m sure you are aware, the Rockets are engaged in some “something or other important playoffs” of the country…or the world…and I am left a basketball widow. I may as well parade in all of my lovers as my husband glazes over and starts in with the grunts and bursts of expletives. Nightly he and the dogs root into the big leather chair, amply supplied with beer, beer nuts, laptop computer, six remotes and various other sundry gadgetry needed to successfully navigate the underbelly of the basketball beast.
He accuses me of being ambiguous about sports. (!?!) Damn-him, I am not ambiguous; I really do sort of love Houston Rockets… really. I also like the Houston Astros enough-okay too. Really.
Is it just Jeff Van Gundy, or do all basketball coaches look like hell?
Praise the Lord… my daughter's 18th birthday came and went without having to post bond, file a hefty insurance claim or needing a stomach pumped. I took her to a trendy (absolutely sucked and was filthy) Sushi and Sake parlor (her wish); then afterwards to see a live theatrical production in Houston (out of New York) of the production of “Wicked.” The tickets cost me dearly, obtained them from some ticket racketeering outfit out of Pennsylvania (!?!) that assured me equal or better seats if my choice was not available. Ahem…We were a bit oxygen deprived, but at least we were in the Center. And it was all good.
An official quote from the “official” website…
SO MUCH HAPPENED BEFORE DOROTHY DROPPED IN.
Long before Dorothy drops in, two other girls meet in the land of Oz. One - born with emerald green skin - is smart, fiery and misunderstood. The other is beautiful, ambitious and very popular. How these two grow to become the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch makes for the most spellbinding new musical in years.
When WICKED opened on Broadway, it worked its magic on critics and audiences alike. The show went on to win 15 major awards, including the Grammy® and 3 Tony® Awards." Today, WICKED is "Broadway’s biggest blockbuster."
I must say…it was brilliant. I truly envy a person’s ability to cobble together and conjure sheer f’d-up brilliance. My daughter sat hunched forward, straining to hear every word. She even applauded at the appropriate moments…and she is certainly not one for applause. I consider the event a success.
We are now fully engaged in the horror that is the Cy-Fair PROJECT PROM. Because of my vast support network of liars and backstabbers, I have been fully brainwashed in the theory and by application that …they are only seniors once. (ahem, God willing) Over the weekend we found “a dress”. I truly wish that I could believe in my heart that it is “THE dress” but the rigorous exercise of “milestone-event” shopping drains my daughter's battery quicker than the one on my “kickstart-less” Yamaha (Mother’s day present 2 years ago woo-hoo!) so she and I were in meltdown mode relatively quickly -- about the time that our Starbucks (a/k/a Fourbucks) wore off actually. Together we had agreed to not latch onto the first dress that fit, but of course she did. It is beautiful (unfortunately too revealing), and the price was right, but then the woman behind the counter started in on more indoctrination and brainwashing about the perfect stick-on, strapless bra, slimming girdle devices, necessary double-sided garment tape for strategic spots…things quickly got out of hand. Well, sh*t. After all, she is only a senior once…
Trousseau in tow, and as I’m licking off my wounds, she perks up a notch and suggests a trip to the Mac counter “just to look”. I’m laughing to myself right now, because I’m pretty sure you’re completely glazed over with all of this prom nonsense, but just sit tight. This has been very therapeutic for me, heh.
Mac is the cosmetic empire to all of the ugly “beautiful people.” And every female between the ages of 14 and 24 would slap her granny just to be “done up” in Mac for a milestone event. Well, I just wont go into it all, but we left with a parcel of Mac. Since My Brain is now numbed-up, my high-interest credit card has suddenly become a blank check. So… of course I suggested topping off the day with shoe-gazing (just looking). Mere’s idea of shoe elegance clashes with mine. I could write you an additional four pages of the half-assery that next takes place in the shoe department, but I won’t -- other than to say…upon conclusion of that ass-whippin’, she was crying and I was behaving like a white trash mother of 5 toddlers in a Piggly-Wiggly. Needless to say, we were attracting quite a bit of attention.
As I sit here now, softly blubbering to you, my friends, we still do not have shoes for prom. Remember, as I am the great over-corrector, we will surely be out looking for the perfect pair…an hour before prom. And so it goes…
What do you know about paintball? My youngest son is my self-motivated and “driven” (though sometimes misguided) child. Every day he straps weights on his little frame, decks out in full-on battle regalia and “runs drills.” He even, with his own allowance, purchases (and studies) magazines that dither in the “sport.” He is forbidden to use the paintballs in the back yard, and he swears that he does not use them, but why are all of the dog piles in the back yard bright turquoise? I once was told that paintballs were filled with yummy dyed yogurt!?!
Speaking of “that subject” my terrorist basset baby is upstairs, doing the rounds. She also “runs drills” and it has everything to do with chasing the resident homosexual. I just heard something crash upstairs, and I don’t mean a vase; I mean something significant, like a treadmill or television. Hang on a minute…
Well, I don’t see anything so I suppose what I heard were their bodies flailing about. Before we got Mercedes, I had a complete misconception of the basset hound. I’m not sure if it is the breed or just the one we ended up with, but she is a sassy little rocket dog. All snapping muscle and raw sinew. And quick!
She and the cat raise the roof around here. When I fell in love with Mercedes, she was six weeks old and teeny. She was on top of a squirming little wad of about 10 of her siblings. Her littermates were staggering around like Blind Lemon Jefferson, but our little girl was making tiny growls and wuffs and knocking them all down like little bowling pins. Simply excellent. She was born the Alpha.
When we brought Mercedes home, our pessimistic, lounging, conniving, completely bored cat Zero simply observed -- from some height, with a cynical, half-interested curiosity. Within a couple of days, that curiosity welled into a genuine, disdainful interest. As a result, the puppy’s amazing instincts kicked in. Though she was still wobbling about, her little nose kicked in and was going crazy. She began staring up and yipping back at Zero. Within a mere two days or so, that yip would start up and then crack into a hound dog bay. Aaaarrryoooooo! It was the funniest sound you could imagine. A voice much too big for the little body it came from. Sort of like my youngest son's voice right now, ha-ha.
That little bay seemed to signal Zero that the game was on. I genuinely believe that Zero was the one that started the bizarre drills that these two engage in every…single…morning, beginning about 6:45 a.m.-ish. At first, when the puppy broke out of the wobble phase and started puppy-galloping, it would simply crash into Zero. Zero invited it, of course, stretched out on the slate, arching his forehead, flicking and taunting with his tail. At first we thought it wise to keep them apart because of all of the yipping and growling, hissing and spitting, but, upon observation, we realized that it was all in good spirit. That cat could have, and still could, shred that dog to pieces it wanted to.
Within a few weeks, the puppy was an inch or so taller, incredibly nimble and quick (thanks to Zero) and the charging became a YouTuber’s dream. (this was before YouTube was a big deal, else I would have filmed it.) The pup would charge at full speed, like a bull. Zero would flatten out on his back, belly-up, and execute by kicking the charging puppy up in the air and over into the most awesome body-flip-slam. It was the funniest thing ever. That went on for about two, three months, the puppy getting heavier and more determined by the day. Sadly, those body-flip-slam days are gone but have been replaced by equally hilarious hijinks.
Like the day they were “drilling” in the sunroom and the cat lithely jumps from the couch onto a TV tray, then launches up to the fireplace mantle. Mercedes had been watching carefully. Without considering it, she rockets up onto the couch, then up onto the TV tray, intent upon following Zero anywhere…anytime…bring it on. Of course the tray crashes down and Mercedes learns a valuable lesson: Oh, I’m not a cat, am I? Good stuff.
This evening we will be leaving for Hughes Springs to see Mom and Dad. It is Wildflower Trails Festival, and they appreciate when we come home for that. Besides, it has been five months and I’m very homesick. And because our mother runs late all of the time (something she protests, by the way) she has levered us into a tight departure schedule by enticing us with roasted farm animals, fresh-plucked vegetables and various rural pastries that await our arrival. (the woman is crafty) There’s the guarantee that it will all be fresh, hot and timed perfectly, as long as we stick to the schedule. She then asks us for special requests. I am anticipating the typical long car ride with a frustrated, speed-racing husband, increasingly ripening dog odors (about Longview they start yip-howling and licking at their quivering little butts) , and grumbling teens who are engaged in an angry Ipod volume contest.
So to our mother, I sigh and put in my special request: A beer. Really…just a beer…Mom. That’s it. Beer -- and maybe a cookie . Mom laughs knowingly and empathizes, agreeing to not go to “too much trouble.” Alas, I am not fooled by our mother. We will probably be pulling in around midnight tonight and the table will be spread out like Thanksgiving…all of their Christmas trees decorated with a Spring theme… candles blazing… parrots squawking… all 35 dogs snarling and circling outside, working out their vague hierarchy, yipping like a pack of wild, butt-sniffing dingoes…
There’s no place like home. Wish my brother could be with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
