Is this some kind of record setting allergy season? Some kind of banner year, an urban legend? A year where the official pollen count is off the charts? Has an allergen been released in the air by insurgents to make the US population sneeze until we are rendered idiots?
I have been sneezing continually for about, hell I don't even remember. I'm already an idiot. If I'm not sneezing I am so congested that not even a wisp of air can sneak past my stubborn snot. I attempt to suck air into my nostrils and my nose squeaks. Squeaks.
Are we not suppose to be still reaping the benefits of the 'first frost'? Or was my mother right when she told me I need to dust more often then just when I'm having company?
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Is this some kind of record setting allergy season? Some kind of banner year, an urban legend? A year where the official pollen count is off the charts? Has an allergen been released in the air by insurgents to make the US population sneeze until we are rendered idiots?
Saturday, February 14, 2015
I shall explain my post before you read any further. Women's magazines are going to be banging my door down and begging me to write for them when I'm done here. In other words Erv probably shouldn't read this.
I can't think of a better way to start blogging again than with my annual gynecological event. It isn't an appointment, it's a torturous event that women go though annually for their health and well being.
We start, and when I say we, it's exactly what you think, I talk to myself. I am my own smart and witty best friend. Several of the voices in my head have been armed, for months, with an arsenal of questions for my gynecological doctor. We will focus mainly on menopause and the hellish nightmare that it has become. I am pro medication because becoming an alcoholic seems like too much drama for me.
If I am heavily medicated then signs like the one I saw on the medical facilities front door wouldn't have the psychological effect that had me pause before entering. Wondering if everyone that had touched the door handle before me took the time to read,
"If you have been to the continent of Africa in the past 21 days and are experiencing flu like symptoms......blah, blah, blah and yada, yada, yada."
The under-medicated me stopped to weigh my options. Menopause or ebola? I guess I chose ebola because I entered. I wanted to go back home and build a blanket fort in my living room. Drink hot chocolate from a Mickey Mouse cup, stare at the swirling mini marshmallows without a care in the world and wait for my hormones to get a grip. But I was so desperate to hang on to anything that resembled my youth, I risk my life to enter a building that may have been harboring a deadly disease.
In the first waiting room I waited. I wasn't in a big hurry to wear a paper gown but I did want to get "it" over with. Once in the exam room several of my voices decided to remain silent. I don't know if they did rock, paper, scissors or what but it was important that we looked sane enough for strong medication and not insane that we would get strong medication and a straight jacket. Whatever we said worked because we got out of there with a prescription and a third stop to get blood work done.
With one stop behind me until next year we went to the pancake factory. This is where your breasts become Play-Doh and they are manipulated in such a way that your first concern is not whether they will eventually retain their original shape but instead it is will they be ripped off your body in horror movie fashion. They are stuck in a machine that squeezes down on them so tightly that you feel the skin of your neck growing taunt. A grip so tight that the jaws of life could not free you should the power go off in a freak thunderstorm during the middle of winter. And what do they tell you when you call to make an appointment for this ominous day?
"Don't wear deodorant."
What? Are they afraid we will slip out of the vise grip? The girls ain't going no where once they are smashed in that mammogram machine.
In the next waiting room I sat and contemplated life in general. No seriously, I watch some moron in the parking lot try to invent his own parking space, gave up and parked next to me. I secretly hoped he hadn't left the country in the last 21 days. My name was called yet again and this time they wanted blood.
After being violated on so many different levels I voluntarily stuck my arm out for a needle to be jabbed into it. I didn't feel it because my boobs still hurt. At that very moment you probably could have hit me over the head with a frying pan and I still would have complained about my boobs.
Hopefully I made you laugh today because that was my intention. But do not neglect your boobies. Get regular checkups because you have to. Then you can join the boob smashing conversations.
Friday, October 24, 2014
For the last week or so, maybe longer, maybe less because I'm really not sure what day it is and I'm almost certain it is October but I would not be 100% sure of that to call it fact. In fact for the past few days I feel as if I have been watching myself try to function through daily life as a spectator instead of a participant. What I am trying to say is that I have a cold/flu that has come straight from hell.
So forming a thought and trying to string along a few coherent sentences has been difficult. I have thoughts and sentences floating around up there in my brain but they have been bogged down by snot. Random ideas pop into my head and I have no explanation as to why they are up there but they are stuck inside of my skull, rattling around trying to free themselves but to no avail because you see, I can not breath through my nose and I am now hearing impaired. My ears are actually squeaking. How can this be good?
Random thought! I remember an event. Wait I think I'm hungry. I'm going to have soup. I'll finish this post later.
In the delicate mental state that I am in at the moment all my memories happened about a year ago. That being said, about a year ago Boy #3 told me he had an earache. Here is that conversation:
"Mom I think I have an earache."
"Well either your ear hurts or it doesn't."
"I know that. But my ear hurts inside."
"Oh then that's an earache."
After they turn 18 you can relax a little bit because legally they are in charge of their own earaches. But I am a mom, so I asked,
"How bad does it hurt? Going to the doctor bad or aspirin bad?"
"Oh I don't want to go to the doctor."
"Then take a couple......"
"Because I don't have insurance."
This is when the muscles that you have let relax stiffen because now money is involved. I continued the conversation,
"You know that your father and I will help you with medical expenses, you know that."
"Yeah but I still don't think I need to go to the doctor."
"Well get a flashlight and let me look in there at least."
I just remembered I'm out of Nyquil. Shit.
So I have a flashlight and I'm looking into the kids ear. I see nothing. I really couldn't tell you what I expected to see though. Then I had a thought,
"You know I think back in the old days they use to pour a little peroxide in a persons soar ear to help the pain and unblock stuff."
"Yeah, pretty sure. Want me to do it?"
"I ..... don't ......... know."
"Think about it. You get water in your ear when you go swimming sometimes and you always get it out. It would be the same thing, sort of, maybe. Let's see what happens."
"I'm just going to put a cap full in there, a few drops."
"Okay. Do it."
I tried to contain my excitement, I didn't want him to flee.
With Boy #3's head sideways over the bathroom sink, I guess in case the peroxide came out the other end? We were winging it really. I poured a few drops into his earache ear. He flinched a little and I don't blame him because I had no idea what I was doing, not a clue. Huh. I saw some bubbles in there. And I said,
"I see some bubbles."
No response. He probably can't hear me with peroxide in his ear. So I turned my head sideways over the sink to face him and said,
"I see bubbles."
"Cool. I hear fizzing."
"Cool. I'm going back up there to see what happening."
And I gave him a thumbs up.
In no way do I condone radical peroxide ear treatment. Just wanted to throw that out there. My head hurts.
So I looked back at his bubbling ear. The peroxide seemed to have knocked loose some earwax because I saw some little things floating around. Huh. I went back down sideways over the sink and said,
"How does your ear feel?"
"Okay, I guess."
"Then I think it's time to get that stuff out of there, I see some stuff floating in your ear."
I put a tissue over his ear and he stood up. He started the process of removing water from your ear after swimming and was successful. He started moving his jaw around because you can't move your ears around. He said to me,
"I think that may have helped."
"I knew it would."
I had no idea what would happen, but I'd say a successful test. Since going partially deaf due to this cold I have been contemplating peroxide in my ear. I'm going to stick to my Neti Pot for now, until I get desperate.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
In the late summer of 2014 I stood in my kitchen making sauce. A cool, yet gentle breeze ruffled my curtains, the husband was watching college football while eating pretzels that were so good he told me to buy them again, Boy #3 planned to cut the grass after playing video games and the dog, she sat regally on the front steps watching over the neighborhood. Not one Jehovah Witness or encyclopedia salesman would get to our front door on her watch, not one. In fact I stopped a moment to watch her watching the cars go by. The leaves had just started to fall from the trees, letting us know that autumn was on it's way. I would have to sweep the steps because the dog seemed to have a little pile of them between her paws. Isn't she cute, I said to myself, she's playing in the leaves.
At that specific time when all was well I squinted at the dog, took a few steps closer to the front door. The birds stopped singing, the wind became still and the blood rushed from my face. This is when pandemonium invaded my almost perfect day.
"Oh no. No. Oh my, holy, Boy #3. Shit, Oh, Oh. Boy #3, Boy #3!"
I waved my hands in the air like a girl. The husband asked with is mouth full of pretzels,
"Is it a spider babe?"
"No. Oh my God. It's a bunny, it's a bunny. Boy #3 do something. It's a bunny. The dog killed a bunny. Oh shit. Boy #3!"
"Yes I'm serious. What the hell? It's a dead bunny!"
The husband made no attempt to remove himself from football. But the kind gentle hearted Boy #3 that wants to be a veterinarian sprang into action. That's why in my state of hysteria I called him because I knew who would move and who wouldn't. After 29 years with the husband I knew he would laugh at me and tell me,
"That's what dogs do. They hunt and kill. She probably brought it up the steps for you. Rabbit tastes just like chicken. When I was a kid on my aunt and uncles farm...."
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, don't start talking about the farm right now because I am so earning this nervous breakdown I'm having right now, I having it, right now. Oh damn the windows are open, the neighbors are hearing my 19th nervous breakdown."
While I freaked out man, I kept looking at the dead bunny and Boy #3 trying to bring the dog in, who wanted to bring her kill with her. I thought to myself, well at least I didn't kill this one. See this post here for an explanation of that thought popping into my head.
With the dog in the house, I calmed down long enough to give her her treat for going outside to pee and kill. And then I went back to, as Boy #3 is now referring to it, my little melt down.
"What? How? Wha....."
"Mom." Boy #3 rested his hands on my shoulders and said,
"I'm going to need some bags."
Blank stare. I just stared at him. He suppressed a smile,
"Plastic bags mom, plastic bags."
"Yes, plastic bags. I will get you plastic bags. Several plastic bags."
And then I looked at the front steps,
"Oh my God, it's still there."
"That's why I need plastic bags."
I ran to the drawer of plastic WalMart bags and started to frantically throw them towards the boy,
"You should double bag, NO, quadruple them. What's after quadruple? Sixtuple them."
The husband interupted,
"Now you're making up words, you're going to hurt yourself."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up."
I flung more bags towards my dear, sweet, youngest child and told him,
"Don't touch it. I have to say that because it's in the being a mom rules, but do what you must to get rid of the poor thing. Here's another bag."
After the removal and disposal, oh eff, garbage day was yesterday. It has to stay in a sixtupled bag for a week. After the removal and disposal I poured Pine-Sol straight from the bottle on to the spot, there was......gah, there was some blood there. I dumped buckets and buckets of hot water on the steps and scrubbed with a broom, more hot buckets.
In the late summer of 2014 I stood in my kitchen making sauce. Instead of driving the neighbors crazy with the delicious smell of my spaghetti sauce, the pungent smell of Pine Sol streamed into my front windows. Not one person would be jealous of my cooking today, not one.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Last month on FaceBook I penned a post about a spider web in my car. With that glaring evidence I deduced that a spider was living in my car. I received about 18 'likes' with that post, that translates, to me anyway, that I have a few heartless friends or they felt sorry for me and gave me a thumbs up?
I shook that confusion out of my head. I didn't know if I should burn just the inside of my car or the whole damn thing. My friends comments were an overwhelming decision to burn it to the ground. I had to agree with them. The problem is I'm a procrastinator.
So a month later, living under threat of a spider in my car, the nightmare that I could have avoided had I set my car ablaze in my driveway, came to fruition. In other words, shit got real.
The rest of this post is not for the squeamish. Several of my friends come to mind but I won't name them because they were in the group of the 18 'likes'. I will let them squirm.
In the car with the husband on our way to our daughter-in-laws graduation,
congratulations Karla, I sat in the passengers seat. The husband was navigating his way out of a parking lot. I looked out my window and saw a spider on my shoulder. It had to be at least 1/4" in diameter. The car was moving. I had my seat belt on. I was trapped. My only recourse was to have a spaz attack and make some kind of horrible sound come out of my mouth. A sound that can never, ever be made again, even under hypnosis.
Now I can not remember if I actually touch the spider but after a frantic search I saw it on the floor. I stepped on it until it was ground into the floor mat. Here is the conversation that ensued after my nervous breakdown.
The husband was somewhat alarmed,
"It was on my shoulder."
"It was on my shoulder."
"I thought something really bad happened."
"Something really bad did happen. A spider was on my shoulder."
"You scared the shit out of me. I could have gotten us in an accident."
I narrowed my eyes at him and talked through my teeth so he new I was serious,
"Tell me you can look at your shoulder, see a spider and it not startle you, tell me that."
His demeanor waned ever so slightly and with a grin,
"Maybe I would be startled but I wouldn't need a rubber room and a straight jacket."
"I'm burning this car down tomorrow, if you have and CD's in here that you want to keep I'd take them out when we get home if I were you."
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Monday, June 09, 2014
When your phone rings at 3:00 am the first thing that goes through your mind is,
"Who's been in an accident?, Who's is having chest pains?' Who's in the Emergency Room?, Who's broke down on the side of the road? Who's in jail?"
But luckily for me, my 3:00 am phone call consisted of,
"Let me talk to Ron."
A whooosh of air expelled from my lungs as I had been holding my breath and didn't realize it. Ron? Did he say Ron? So I asked,
"I'm sorry who?"
"Ron. I need to talk to Ron."
"You have the wrong number." I refrained from calling him a dick and hung up.
Almost have peed myself when the phone rang I got up to go to the bathroom. I got back into bed and the phone rang again. This is what went through my head for the 3:03 am call.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph does this guy know what he just put me through. I have 3 boys out there, parents pushing 80, a grand baby, daughter-in-laws at concerts, raging pre menopausal hormones and a dog that couldn't get comfortable all night and decided it would be okay to share my pillow. Dude."
I answered the phone again,
"I don't have the wrong number now let me talk to Ron."
"You do have the wrong number there is no Ron here, please don't call me back."
"Don't you hang up, let me talk to Ron. This is Jerry."
And he said 'Jerry' like it was some kind of code word. Jerry, wink, wink. Or Jerry, I really mean business now. I continued,
"I am sorry but you do have the wrong number", sounds of someone else talking in the background, "and I would appreciate it if you didn't call this number again, it's 3:00 in the morning."
"I have the right number."
This is when I handed the phone over to the 'intimidator' aka the husband. He took the phone,
"Sir my wife has asked you nicely not to call again. You have the wrong number."
The husband paused to listen and then said,
"I don't care if you are Jerry Lewis you have the wrong number goodbye."
He handed the phone back to me and said,
"What a dick."
"Yeah. What if he calls back?"
"He ain't gonna call back."
The husband fell right back to sleep and I layed there with my head on only half my pillow, because 3:00 am phone calls don't seem to bother dogs, and worried I would hear from Jerry again. After about a half hour I started to drift off and then the dog decided that she may as well pee too. She whined until I let her out.
I haven't heard from 7 kinds of crazy, Jerry since. Please let him lose my number.
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
The wheels are turning quickly in my head almost so that I can't keep up with myself. But who to blame?
Out this afternoon shopping for hell month - May. Birthdays, Mother's Day, Anniversaries, the family has put a ban on any marriages or new babies in the month of May, they just won't be recognized. There's too much going on in May and frankly I don't want my gifts jeopardized because somebody can't afford to get me a present.
My last stop today I parked on a slight inclination. I thought to myself thinking of my 5 speed,
"Should I put my emergency brake on? It's been acting weird and no one has told me if it's okay to use. It's barely a hill, should be fine."
I didn't take a long time in the store but I didn't hurry either. When I got to my car I said to myself,
"Nice parking job Sue, the ass of your car is sticking out at least a foot more than the other cars."
I put my packages in the back seat, slammed the door and felt a dizzy sort of vertigo thing going on like the car's moving but it really couldn't be, could it? No. Don't be silly. I walked around the back of the car, it looked like it was sticking out more than it was before. I got to the drivers side door and I witnessed my car move backward.
"Oh snap! My car is moving backward. I'm not having a stroke."
I jumped in my car and pressed down on the brake and clutch. Took a deep breath and tried to decide who would take the blame for my mishap/mistake.
Sunday, May 04, 2014
Not so long ago in the recent past I over heard Boy #3 and the husband talking about the brakes on my car and how they needed replaced. Huh. I was not aware of a problem and I spoke up about it.
"New brakes? Why?"
"Don't you hear that noise when you drive it mom?"
"Noise? What noise?"
"The grinding noise."
"I guess I have my radio turned up a little too loud because I don't know what you're talking about."
"Jesus." Said the husband.
"We haven't had that car long enough for it to need new brakes, have we?"
"It's a 2009."
"Really? We've had it that long? That's how many years?"
Apparently after several years a car needs a brake job and while they were at it Boy #2 brought his truck over and did his brakes too.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Most of my 'writing thoughts' pop into my head when I'm in the shower. Lately I have been letting them run amok, they smack into the inside of my skull and remain splattered there, completely useless. But the last few days I let some of them form into complete thoughts. So my brain and I have been on the same page for a couple days. Which is a good thing, I've missed my imagination. So much so that I'm contemplating wearing a fashionable helmet.
Every one has to die at some point and I'm hoping that when I go my brain stays intact. In my will I shall leave instructions to my children to preserve my brain some how. Pickle it in a jar and stick it in the back of their fridge or if I can win the lottery I will have them cryogenic-ally freeze it and donate it to science. I decided this in the shower this morning and made a list as soon as I dried off. At the top of the list: Preserve mommy's brain in the name of science.
There are other reasons why I love my brain. I made Milky Way Cakes for Easter but remembered that the last time I made them they didn't rise very well. Days before the baking I said to myself,
"Put some baking powder in the batter."
My brain retained that golden nugget of information and when I was mixing the batter it over-rided my circuit board, sent me a subliminal message and made me see baking powder instead of baking soda on the recipe card. I think the cakes were better than last years.
This brain of mine also has, not one annoying song that sticks in my head, but an entire playlist. At any given hour of the day one of numerous songs can randomly pop into my thoughts rendering me an idiot. How cool is that?
I also have the ability to retain useless information but I can't remember why I wrote that one on my list.
The characters in my novel have been protesting the fact that I have ignored them. They have been in my head for years, if I don't finish telling their story I fear my head may explode. It is amazing how attached I have become to them, I guess only a writer can understand this. Or I'm completely crazy.
So there you have it, I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, just ask the nuns, but I still love my brain.
Friday, April 25, 2014
I feel like I'm finally catching up to the rest of the "Jesus has Risen/Bunny hiding eggs" celebrating people of the holiday that is Easter. I hard boiled some eggs Wednesday.
When Easter Sunday rolled around sooner than I was ready for it, I found myself and family at my parents house for dinner. My sister-in-law made deviled eggs and I didn't. I felt a little bit guilty while I was eating them so I only ate two or maybe three. I think it was four. Usually both of us bring a plate of them which is a sufficient amount for the size of our family. In my mind I ruined Easter dinner and will live with the guilt for about a week. Then next year I will redeem myself and remember to bring a plate of deviled eggs. I will deny the fact that I failed in the egg portion of our meal until somebody brings up this post and waves it in my face.
Thursday I made myself a plate of deviled eggs and ate half of them for dinner. They were delicious.
I'm sure there is some reason why we Christians celebrate Jesus dieing for our sins and rising from the dead simultaneously with a giant bunny that comes to your house in the middle if the night, hides eggs and fills baskets with chocolate, plastic toys and jelly beans on a bed of fresh colorful plastic grass. The plastic grass that finds it's way in every nook and cranny of your house. When you move your couch to find the remote, not because you are cleaning under there but because you are looking for something important, you find some of that grass. It's a little bit faded and you deduce,
"This looks like the Easter basket grass I used in 1996."
Jesus/Easter Bunny, there has to be some correlation. I just don't know what it is and too lazy to look it up. Hell I was too lazy to make deviled eggs. Yes, I was lazy, I didn't forget them. Don't judge me.
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Nope. I color my own hair and have been happily buying the same brand for years. Apparently my go to color and highlight box has been discontinued. Damn it. To have the color and highlight in one box keeps the margin of error down to a minimum. I'm going to write a strongly worded letter to L'oreal as soon as I get a chance.
Now I'm in the hair color aisle yesterday trying to get something close to my comfort zone but think that maybe this is the time to go a little lighter. I picked up what I thought was a light brown and then went to the highlight section. I bought an even lighter color, it's called champagne. These two boxes in my shopping cart should not be applied the same day further expanding the drudgery of coloring my hair from about 90 minutes to 24 hours.
Last night I applied the color and now I'm a red head. Doh!
The first thing the husband said was,
"I don't think the cuffs match the collar."
And then a few other things I'm not willing to repeat.
Being from an artist background I consider myself with an above average sense of color so I'm perplexed. But still plan to go down the uncharted road of highlighting red hair with champagne highlights tonight. I may not emerge from my house after tonight as I am not a hat person.
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
With my big, heavy leather jacket, scarf wrapped around my neck five times, I reached inside my pockets for my blue gloves. Empty pockets? I always put my gloves away. But last night when we got home, the husband and I had our arms full as we trekked into the house.
I had dishes to wash, things on my mind (I never really function well when I'm deep in thought ), wrestling with a time table because I had TV shows to watch and a dog that wanted out every 10 minutes. My blue gloves got shoved in the back of my brain that I have a hard time accessing.
So this afternoon when I was ready to face 7 degrees because I had stuff to do I could not remember where those gloves were. The last time I remembered seeing them they were in my lap in the car that Boy #3 had taken to work. My light jacket had lighter gloves and I put those on and ventured out into the arctic tundra.
Now the lighter gloves are those mitten/gloves. My fingers stick out just below the first knuckle unless I flip over the half mitten. They are cool but impractical when cleaning 3 inches of snow off a car because your pinkie finger always manages to pop out of the makeshift mitten. Frost bite was immanent. I made a mental note to inquire about my blue gloves when Boy #3 got home.
Boy #1 has been staying with us during this cold winter blast because he is closer to work. The husband was also out today. When #3 got home I asked him if my blue gloves were in the car. Here is the conversation that followed:
Boy #3: No, they're not in the car they're on the side of the driveway.
The Husband: Are those the ones you were looking for earlier? I was wondering why they were in the driveway.
Boy #1: Blue gloves? Yeah I saw them this morning in the driveway.
Boy# 3: Do you want me to go get them?
The rest, of the conversation came from me which I shouldn't repeat.
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
With frigid temperatures blowing into Northeast Ohio I did what the news channels told me to do. I called my parents because it's essential, according to Dick Goddard, to check on the elderly.
Sunday I spoke with my father and told the world's most stubborn man to stay in the house and call us if they needed anything. I snuck this into a short conversation and I thought I heard him agree with me but one can never be sure with my dad when you touch on the subject of his independence.
Monday I called them again, to check on the elderly, and I got their answering machine. I left a message,
"This is your daughter, I told you two to stay put. It's zero outside."
I hung up, looked at the husband and told him my parents are out. We both just shook our heads. The husband then said,
"I wish they would have told us, they could have picked us up some pop."
I went about my day and received a call from my dad around 6:00 pm. I was getting ready to voice my opposition to his blatant disregard to Dick Goddard's and my warnings of the sub-zero temperatures when he told me,
"Your mother's surgery went well and we are home now."
"Her cataract surgery."
"Your forgot, didn't you?"
"I...... no..... well, that was scheduled months ago. Wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but she reminded you about it when we were over New Year's Day."
"Yes, yes she did. I knew it was coming up. The year is going by so fast isn't it?"
He laughed at me and told they would be out again the next day for her follow up check up. He also said he was going to call my brother next and let him know how the surgery went. We hung up. I then made no effort to call my brother to warn him because I wanted him to appear as clueless as me. Is that wrong?
Friday, December 20, 2013
With my list in hand I stepped into the WalMart entrance door, vowing it would be the last time I would need to shop before Christmas day. One item on my list - tape. You know to wrap presents.
I went down every aisle, taking my time to make sure everything was covered, dotting my 'I's' and crossing my 'T's' because I was spent. Every corner I turned there was wrapping paper, every size and pattern my pretty little heart desired. I figured I just grab some tape on my way to the check out.
I crossed off my items on my list, smiling every time I did. All that was left - tape. I found a check out line with only one customer ahead of me, score. But among the impulse items I failed to see tape. There was no tape by any of the mounds of wrapping paper. Doh!
I left my shopping cart in the great line I was incredibly lucky to find and looked around the other check out lines for impulse tape. Tape that you normally see all the time, everywhere. But it was not to be. I should have learned my lesson 3 years ago when my box of douche broke open and it inched towards the 17 year old male cashier. I looked for tape then and couldn't find it.
In my great check out line I interrupted the cashier and asked,
"Excuse me, where is the tape?"
"Umm... back in the office supplies section?"
Holy Mother of God, who doesn't put the tape right next to the wrapping paper? I had to leave my awesome, get the hell out of WalMart quick, check out line. Why in the name of Zeus's butt hole would you not put tape everywhere in the store? People have to adhere that wrapping paper, that is blocking almost every aisle in the store, together with something.
I had about an inch of tape left at home so with my head hung low I left my check out line, sadly looked back, the man ahead gave me a 'I feel your pain look' as he put is final items on the conveyer belt. And I went back into the store, dejected and pissed.
Monday, December 09, 2013
This is a re-run from Divine Caroline: Here
Go ahead and click the FaceBook like button if you want to. ;-)
I'm trying to get my writing ducks in a row, a plan of action so to speak. The online line magazine Skirt is no longer using bloggers on their site. So I've been re-reading some stuff on Divine Caroline, where I haven't posted in some time because they changed things around too. Basically I'm trying to get my shit together.
Here is the re-run:
“Everyone have his jock strap on?”
I looked in the rear view mirror at my three boys, they failed to see the humor in my question so I revised it,
“Seat belts? Got your seat belts on?”
I heard a chorus of affirmative responses. I was forced to buy those jock straps because my husband forgot so I was going to make sure they wore them to every baseball game on our busy baseball schedule. Besides at some point in my life I expected grandchildren.
“Before we leave this driveway, think hard and make sure you have everything you need, we have no room for error.”
I had three of them playing baseball that summer. This particular evening the two older ones had a game at the same time in 2 different cities. I had to be in two places at the same time. The planning for this day started three days earlier and I think math was involved. Drop the middle on off first in our city because his coach is always there early. Take the oldest to the neighboring city where my husband would meet me after he left work. Go back to the spot you dropped off the middle boy, sit and enjoy the rest of the game.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
Jesus, Mary and Joseph the youngest had to pee. Days of planning blown all to hell because of one simple sentence. I heard myself say,
“Are you sure?”
Of course he was sure, one of them always had to go. My response was an automatic, unbelievable plea, a meek reflex utterance. I froze in my seat, wide eyed.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second to regain my senses. There, I got them back, I went into action. Got out of the car, opened the back door. Grabbed the youngest one from the middle of the back seat, looked at the other two and said,
“Don’t move, stay where you are, we’ll be right back.”
We ran to the front door and I ran back to the car for my house keys. The plan was crumbling. By the time we got back in the car I had some serious time to make up. I’m not going to tell you that I broke the laws of physics driving down the long stretch of road on our way to the first baseball field because I did have my whole reason for living in the backseat and would never jeopardize my babies for a couple baseball games. But I did push it a little more than I should have. And that’s when I saw the flashing lights behind me.
“Uh guys? We have to make a stop.”
A round of protests began.
“There is a policeman behind us and we have to stop. Everything is fine just be quiet while I talk to the nice officer.”
Oh please let him be nice.
“Ma’am can I see your license and registration please?”
“Did you know you were going 42 in a 25 miles per hour area?”
“Really, it’s 25 here?”
“Yes ma’am. And did you know your license plate tags are expired?”
“Yes ma’am. Technically I could have your car towed right here, but I’m just going to give you a couple tickets.”
So he was a nice officer because he didn’t leave us on the side of the road. Probably because of the two wide eyed boys in the back seat and sandwiched between them their crying little brother. In a more desperate situation I probably could have got them all to cry but I decide to play fair. And we were on our way to their baseball games, there’s no crying in baseball.
I took a deep breath while I waited for the nice officer to write my tickets. I calmed the youngest down and resigned myself to the fact that we were going to be late to both games and during the traveling from baseball field to baseball field I would be driving illegally.
I dropped the middle one off in the parking lot and waved the tickets in the air at the coach then went to the next field. My husband and my oldest one's coach were standing by the field talking to each other as I arrive. They had puzzled looks on their faces and I again waved the tickets in the air, told my husband I didn’t want to talk about it and I drove back to the first field.
Once there I set up my lawn chair a little further down the left field side than usual, sat down and pulled my youngest onto my lap. I took a deep breath and kissed the top of his little blonde head.
Here come the many questions I was expecting.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
Thursday, December 05, 2013
I can't pinpoint the exact time or year that I started my mass destruction of hand mixers. It had to be some time after the day my very first one, the one I received at my bridal shower, up and quit. Since then several have died in my hands for no apparent reason what-so-ever.
I started my Christmas cookie baking yesterday with a less than a year old hand mixer. Let me add, who keeps the boxes, receipts and instructions to these hand held kitchen appliances? You open the box and start using them because you know how it works, on, off, eject. So just as I was almost done beating my peanut butter cookies the hand mixer stopped. A string of profanity came out of my mouth during this blessed holiday season just as I was getting started with all the hoopla. My first batch of cookies is where I decided to start getting my festive groove on.
The hand mixer, I thought, was right there with me. I had promised it at least 5 more batches of cookies and 2 applesauce cakes, along with some occasional mashed potatoes this month. But it just stopped. No warning or protest in the form of that electrical burning smell or a whining 'this is too much for me' sound.
Tomorrow I go to WalMart for, what is probably my 17th hand mixer. I'm leaning towards hanging on to the box, receipt and warrantee because this is getting ridiculous.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
In the shower, with my face all soaped up, I hear a thud. Eff. The husband must have fallen and couldn't get up. Or perhaps he's having a heart attack, stroke or has slipped into a diabetic coma. That's what goes through my head when I'm in the shower almost every day. Not just the husband in harms way but some catastrophic event will happen when I have soap in my eyes while showering rendering me useless and vulnerable. Unable to make life and death decisions because I don't want a rescue squad to see me at my worst. You know, without makeup and my hair wet. Because I know once I call 911 they will send the really hot paramedics to my house.
I called out from the shower,
"Are you alright?"
No response. Eff.
Then I noticed I forgot to turn on the exhaust fan in the newly remodeled bathroom and that is strictly FORBIDDEN. I thought well maybe if he's okay he could turn that switch on for me. A little louder,
"Are you okay?"
I took my towel, it's on a convenient hook right outside the shower, my idea, that we put there when we remodeled, so I can just grab it and hardly have to open the shower curtain. I took my towel and lay it across the floor because I hate getting the rug wet, you forget as the day goes by and then you step on the wet spots and your socks get wet and I hate wet socks too.
Out of the shower, tip toeing on the towel, soap all over my face I flipped on the exhaust fan and opened the door and yelled,
"Are you alright damn it."
"I'm fine, just tripped. I ripped my sock."
"This is about me now. I'm dripping wet with soap on my face. Why didn't you answer me?"
"I didn't hear you."
I slammed the door and jumped back in the shower. I realized while putting my makeup on later that I did get the rug wet. So I had to drag my socks all the way to my bedroom to put them on and then my slippers, ensuring completely dry socks for the rest of the day.
So how was your morning?
Friday, November 15, 2013
This is going around on Face Book. Since I refuse to conform, I took it upon myself to help it spiral out of control.
You are suppose to comment or 'like' someone's list and then they will Private Message you a number. Then you make your own list and so on and so on, yada, yada, yada.
Here are 7 things you don't know about me:
1. I invented the internet.
2. In 6th grade when Sister Helen smacked me in the back and called me a boob I thought it was a premonition of ‘things’ to come, her being a woman of God and all. Sadly I think she was just refraining from calling me a dip shit for holding up the line since I’m quite certain I can still wear the training bra I had on at the time.
3. I have an underground bunker for the inevitable Zombie Apocalypse, just finished it this past summer. It is in an undisclosed location. It is stocked with beef jerky, Spam, vodka, Tang, water and plenty of guns and ammo. Extra ammo to shoot the heads off the Zombies in case I’m seeing double at the time. And no, don’t even ask, the seats are all taken. Build your own.
4. I am in the witness protection program. That’s all I can say about that.
5. I have 3 Olympic Gold Medals in swimming, 100 metre freestyle, 400 metre individual medley and 200 metre backstroke. They are in a safety deposit box along with my Nobel Peace Prize.
6. I was addicted to the Hokey Pokey but I turned myself around.
7. I have a mote in front of my house filled with frickin' sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their frickin' heads.
Monday, October 14, 2013
This is a repeat post from Divine Caroline because I have a sinus thing and I'm finally going to the doctor tomorrow. Snot has blocked my thought process and I'm lazy.
Do-It-Yourself Home Improvement Advice
Run. Hide. Cry. You know what, just run.
I have an utter disdain for Do-It-Yourself Home Improvement. Let me sum it up by telling you that I hate it, with the white hot intensity of a 1,000 suns. But most of us wives of the average Joe’s haven’t the funds to hire someone to hang a drop ceiling in the bedroom that was made downstairs. Or we don’t want to rob our husbands from the simple joys of hammering and sawing stuff. Some of us are married to men that like to rip down walls, reconstruct new walls and then paint them. I have that kind of husband and he’s teaching our boys how to turn a house inside out also. They bond while the dog and I hide in my office.
The problem with ripping down walls is that you need to have some basic plumbing and electrical knowledge. These are learning as you go skills. Basically it means they learn by their mistakes and so do I. Depending on the Do It Yourself job my husband is undertaking determines whether I stay in the house or head for the hills. Saturday I should have run. Here’s what happened and remember it is all about me all the time.
Like I said the dog and I were hold up in my office, she is uncomfortable with the loud noises coming from the basement so she sticks to me like glue. Which is fine, having the dog curled up at my feet while I write the next great American novel has always been a dream of mine. I tuned out the hammering as the husband and Boy #3 were installing the ceiling. All was well.
But not for long, the hammering and sawing stopped, there was a pause. I lifted my head from the computer, my brow furrowed in a perplexed but alert state. Something wasn’t right, I could feel it. That is about the time I heard yelling, things dropping and more yelling. I couldn’t make out what they were actually saying but I’m pretty sure it was something my mom would get mad at if I wrote it down. I sprang from my office to see what was the matter.
Down the hall, down the steps, turned the corner and was immediately met with water that sprayed me right smack in the face. I ran right into a chaotic situation. Water was spewing from the wall, they hit a water pipe and water was shooting out of said pipe. The main water shut off valve is in the closet, under our stairs, behind the winter coats, and then behind the boxes of Christmas decorations. In other words, all the way in the back of the closet behind everything. The husband started grabbing winter coats and throwing them to the side, Boy #3, as I peered around the corner, looked liked the little Dutch boy with his finger on the hole in the dike but got there way too late and the town would be lost or our new floor.
They both started to yell out to me for help at the same time, it was like Sophie’s Choice. Do I save the drowning youngest of my three boys or my husband trying to finding the shut off valve in the deep dark closet? I sprang to action, ran back upstairs and grabbed the flashlight I on my nightstand. The bucket was in the bathroom, it was the one I swore I would never, ever let them use because they ruin everyone I buy, I picked that up on my return to the stairs. Back down I went, was met with another spray of water to my face as I threw the bucket at my son, threw it right at him. The husband had now made his way to the shut off valve, he was wedged between suitcases and the boxes of Christmas decorations. He yelled again,
“I need a rag.”
And I produced one immediately after climbing over a few boxes. I shined the flashlight in the general vicinity of the main water valve, I’m not sure it helped. I couldn’t see anything back there but I did hear some bells jingle. After a series of grunts the sound of water gushing into the freshly painted, reconstructed bedroom stopped.
Once the husband and I squeezed ourselves out of the closet we stepped into the bedroom and the three of us froze for just a moment, breathing heavily with only our eyes moving, darting around wildly looking back and forth at each other and the puddles of water where we stood. The husband broke the silence,
“We have to get this water off the floor. Save the floor.”
We sprang into action with towels, buckets and the shop vac. You see the ceiling was the last step in the basement bedroom make-over, if we lost the flooring we were back to step one. Boy #3 has been impatiently waiting behind two older brothers for this room. He wants his stuff down there before one of them comes back. I call it the bachelor pad, the transition room where they gain a little independence, pay a few bills and free an extra room upstairs. I have such wonderful plans for my office, I just need to get some of this junk out of here and into the new empty room. The husband, I know this, has plans for a man cave when we get the last of the birdies out of the nest. We all had our reasons to save the floor and we worked swiftly.
Now it’s a waiting game to see if the floor buckles. The pipe, that shouldn’t even be there, what the hell is it doing there? is fixed. It is now Wednesday and so far so good. There is a hole in the wall that needs to be repaired and then they have to paint again.
So if you should see your husband with a hammer in his hand and it’s the weekend, grab your keys, check to see if your credit cards are present and accounted for in your purse, make sure the dog has food and water, then get the hell out of there. Stay away for hours and pray that when you return you have running water and the lights switches work.