I'm sno very unhappy. I miss my good friend. I miss his icy embrace and the shivers he gives me. I want him so badly I can almost taste him. It has been months since his last fleeting visit.
He is the ultimate sensual tease. I see him everywhere and nowhere. Lurking in the shadows but not giving me enough of what I yearn for. I need him to cover my body with stinging kisses to leave me aglow. "Come, please come", my begging goes unanswered. I desire to roll in his essence and jump for joy in his presence. Instead I sink to my knees on the dirty hard ground to sob in despair. "Gimme some", I plead to the nothingness, face turned up pleading to the stradisphere. "Please.."
I lay in bed at night in anticipation of his arrival. I hear his howl far away in the distance. Will tomorrow be my special day When he finally arrives? With mittens and boots ready I wait.
I grew up in the land of ice and snow and I miss it. I need my snow fix bad. I love to shovel it and refuse to use the snow blower to clear my driveway. It gives me a sence of unequivocal achievement to clear a path using my hands. I fall into bed sore and tired but happy. I shovel the neighbors driveway, and I don't even like them, so they will get their mail when it snows. There is no better toy than snow. My hubby is building a project in upper Michigan and it snows there almost continuously. He taunts me with this information. Current estimated depth, eight feet. Lucky devil.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Monday, December 20, 2004
Life imitates Commercialism
My boys watched the American Express commercial were Ellen DeGeners dances through her day to what ever music is available to her ears. "Hey Mom", they yell, "There's a woman on TV who acts like you." I took it as a compliment that they would she would be a spin off me instead of me copying her. Then again she doesn't have the two great reproductions in boy form that I have.
Come Kiss Off
I want you to need me
so I can push you away again
come after me now
lets play this game some more
I love you to miss me
but I'm only going to knock you down like before
I need you to want me
but don't hit your ass on my door
yeah yeah game
If you could have anything in this world
it would be me
remember that as I allow you in closer
before I pull the rug out from under heart
and resent it when you hit the floor
you are for my entertainment
do not push me for commitment
but you better want it all the same
yeah yeah game
You are to love me without condition
that is your role
but you are too needy and dependent
the thought that I'm attracted to you
totally sickens me
you hold a world of possibilities
but I want no unfinished clay
yeah yeah game
we are getting to close now
the thought unsettles me
I love you more than I should now
time to start another mother f##ing fight.
say anyting or nothing
I'll make something off it
lets go game
There we are done now
don't bother me no more
how dare you not want me
when you are silent for too long
I dream up a reason to talk with you again
yeah replay game
Back it up
just one more time
I need you to love me
so I can cut you loose some more
I'm thinking straight now,
your what I want
I long to send you packing
to run unwavering to me
so I can throw you away again
yeah yeah
I want you to need me
so I can push you away again
come after me now
lets play this game some more
I love you to miss me
so I can knock you down like before
I need you to want me
but don't hit your ass on my door.
game
Saturday, December 18, 2004
My A List
Here is my Christmas list. It is not a list of more stuff of which I really don't need but lust over. It is a list of things I really want to give to the deserving people who need it.
A sense of smell for my husband. He has odor enough to spare but not the ability to taste flavor through his nasal cavity. It would help him locate his dirty socks, mildewy towels and the package of raw shrimp he once forgot in his suit case for the weekend that I mistook as a dead body. Silent stinkys do smell honey, yes they do. We all know it is you.
For K1, I want to give him a butt. I am so tired of seeing his boxers and heavens knows a belt doesn't work on my son. He does not need an ass like a porch, or to be draggin a wagon, just a little junk in his trunk to keep his pants were they belong. And yes, his stocking will be stuffed with new undies for me to admire in the mean time.
I want an off button for K2. I would settle for a dimmer switch if I could find one. Perhalps a time freeze ray just so I could slow him down on occasion and do a quick pressure wash on him and a hair cut. Then again he is growing up so fast, and travels at the speed of light so I might aim it at the the wrong kid by mistake and beautify my neighborhood in the process.
For my flower Sis, I want to send her to the jungle. Concrete jungle. I soo want to bust her out of her busy plant filled shop and take her into the big city for a cultural exchange and sightseeing journey. We might even bag us some suit wearing executives or exotic art contisours as we sip our chocolate martinis. Don't tell the Hubbys. Ironical her husband is also names Hubby. Us munkay women are attracted to spouses named Hubby.
For my boss, the cheese natzi, I want a giant fondue set. I'm going to spear her on a huge fork undo dunk her in it for not giving me any time off during the holiday.
For my friend, Gym Mitch I want a little sports car. One that he can do reps with so he does not have to pick me up and throw me into his jacked truck if I need a ride. His way to work out and impress me. Maybe a MG Midgit to increase his flexibility.
For the Dove chocolate company, I want to give them the perfect new taste tester for their products. I will put in a hard eight hours of chewing for them every day.
For my Mafia transplant drug company suppliers, I want to give a conscious. They have all the money they can ever hope to use by charging my such astronomical prices to be dependent on their product. What more could they possibly need?
RJ Mitch needs to have his funny bone hit more often. Better yet I want the ability to find and hit it. I once, swear to God, seen this man bump his elbow on the edge of the table. He then instantly broke into hysterical laughter. Ten minutes later when he was able to breath and stop drooling he told he had hit his funny bone. Man to have the power to find that spot and whack it whenever I wanted.
For the Washington/Chisago county I would like to give back all the speeding tickets they were so very generous to give me over the past year. They could recycle a lot and save all that need for my fines in the cost of paper alone.
For my neighbor, Shirtless Dude, I want an unremovable outer garment. His six pack is a good incentive for me to run in the summer months, but I don't care if his garage is heated or not, seeing that in December is just disturbing. Maybe just an automatic garage door opener. I will keep the controls in my pocket.
Norman Mitch needs a new beard-do. I'm picturing lots of braids with green and red beads. Specificly the beads I have right here. Say the word, Norman, say the word.
X-ray vision is needed for the lab tech's who draw my blood every month. Maybe after eight attemps to find blood in my arms and hands they would know they are not going to locate a vein in between my toes. Then again they make their living probing people with sharp instruments and trunicates.
For my Rock, a book on polyamory to help him understand it is perfectly reasonable for me to have and love both him and Jonny. I know in his heart he wants me happy.
I know now I have only a couple more days of shopping left to find these much needed items. If any of you can hook me up, please let me know. You will be well rewarded with chocolate and malt liquor.
A sense of smell for my husband. He has odor enough to spare but not the ability to taste flavor through his nasal cavity. It would help him locate his dirty socks, mildewy towels and the package of raw shrimp he once forgot in his suit case for the weekend that I mistook as a dead body. Silent stinkys do smell honey, yes they do. We all know it is you.
For K1, I want to give him a butt. I am so tired of seeing his boxers and heavens knows a belt doesn't work on my son. He does not need an ass like a porch, or to be draggin a wagon, just a little junk in his trunk to keep his pants were they belong. And yes, his stocking will be stuffed with new undies for me to admire in the mean time.
I want an off button for K2. I would settle for a dimmer switch if I could find one. Perhalps a time freeze ray just so I could slow him down on occasion and do a quick pressure wash on him and a hair cut. Then again he is growing up so fast, and travels at the speed of light so I might aim it at the the wrong kid by mistake and beautify my neighborhood in the process.
For my flower Sis, I want to send her to the jungle. Concrete jungle. I soo want to bust her out of her busy plant filled shop and take her into the big city for a cultural exchange and sightseeing journey. We might even bag us some suit wearing executives or exotic art contisours as we sip our chocolate martinis. Don't tell the Hubbys. Ironical her husband is also names Hubby. Us munkay women are attracted to spouses named Hubby.
For my boss, the cheese natzi, I want a giant fondue set. I'm going to spear her on a huge fork undo dunk her in it for not giving me any time off during the holiday.
For my friend, Gym Mitch I want a little sports car. One that he can do reps with so he does not have to pick me up and throw me into his jacked truck if I need a ride. His way to work out and impress me. Maybe a MG Midgit to increase his flexibility.
For the Dove chocolate company, I want to give them the perfect new taste tester for their products. I will put in a hard eight hours of chewing for them every day.
For my Mafia transplant drug company suppliers, I want to give a conscious. They have all the money they can ever hope to use by charging my such astronomical prices to be dependent on their product. What more could they possibly need?
RJ Mitch needs to have his funny bone hit more often. Better yet I want the ability to find and hit it. I once, swear to God, seen this man bump his elbow on the edge of the table. He then instantly broke into hysterical laughter. Ten minutes later when he was able to breath and stop drooling he told he had hit his funny bone. Man to have the power to find that spot and whack it whenever I wanted.
For the Washington/Chisago county I would like to give back all the speeding tickets they were so very generous to give me over the past year. They could recycle a lot and save all that need for my fines in the cost of paper alone.
For my neighbor, Shirtless Dude, I want an unremovable outer garment. His six pack is a good incentive for me to run in the summer months, but I don't care if his garage is heated or not, seeing that in December is just disturbing. Maybe just an automatic garage door opener. I will keep the controls in my pocket.
Norman Mitch needs a new beard-do. I'm picturing lots of braids with green and red beads. Specificly the beads I have right here. Say the word, Norman, say the word.
X-ray vision is needed for the lab tech's who draw my blood every month. Maybe after eight attemps to find blood in my arms and hands they would know they are not going to locate a vein in between my toes. Then again they make their living probing people with sharp instruments and trunicates.
For my Rock, a book on polyamory to help him understand it is perfectly reasonable for me to have and love both him and Jonny. I know in his heart he wants me happy.
I know now I have only a couple more days of shopping left to find these much needed items. If any of you can hook me up, please let me know. You will be well rewarded with chocolate and malt liquor.
Not so First Class
My darling Rock,
It is with my warmest regards and deepest love that I write you today and hope this letter finds you well and full of your usual vim and vigor. It is with a heavy heart that I send this shattering news to you, and do not wish to tell you in this way, but since you will not tell me of your current shooting location, I am left with no other way to confess my recent indiscretion. Do not hate me for being weak, but last night, during his upcoming Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory trailer, I shared a moment with Johnny Depp. It was kismet for us. The chemistry we share and joint love of chocolate was noticeably undenighable. As I stopped in mid-chew, starring into his mocha colored eyes, K1 turned to me when me missed the sound of my Whopper chomping jaws. I paid no attention to my sons questioning, "Mom, you ok?", as I sat now silent as Johnny gazed back at me, Whopper drool gathering at the corners of my gaping mouth. Thinking I was choking, K1 started pounding me on my back to dislodge the sugary mass he imagined caught in my throught, causing me to drop the tasty unfinished mega box of goodness. Unable to tear my eyes of Johnny's luscious face, I aloud my sweet treasure to bounce down the theaters floor unheeding my 4 second food on the floor recovery rule. (Usually this rule is 5 seconds on the floor food lasts before gathering too many crunchy unknowns, but in a public place it goes down to 4 seconds- depending on the location and food item). Alais, our time together last night was way to short for my liking. I do not wish to hurt you by telling you of my infidelity, but want only to be honest with you to maintain the integrity of our relationship. I cannot promise you I will never crave this feeling again. Or if Johnny is sent to treatment here at the famous rehabilitation center nearby me that I will not sneak into his room with the family sized squirt bottle of Herseys and slurp slurp slurp bwla blwa hwa hwa......But I digress. My Rock you are my true heart and you will have my undying love forever. I hope this is but a passing phase were I am only attracted to his metro sexual substance abusing good looks and the freaky sexual energy of a mad candy gueniss but I can not promise. I will save all my hot munkay luvin for you. I await you answer and in the mean time have been hanging out at all the barber shops in the vicinity trying to find were you are filming your upcoming movie. Gay hair stylist my candy lovin ass.
Love and chocolate kisses,
Munkay-pie
It is with my warmest regards and deepest love that I write you today and hope this letter finds you well and full of your usual vim and vigor. It is with a heavy heart that I send this shattering news to you, and do not wish to tell you in this way, but since you will not tell me of your current shooting location, I am left with no other way to confess my recent indiscretion. Do not hate me for being weak, but last night, during his upcoming Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory trailer, I shared a moment with Johnny Depp. It was kismet for us. The chemistry we share and joint love of chocolate was noticeably undenighable. As I stopped in mid-chew, starring into his mocha colored eyes, K1 turned to me when me missed the sound of my Whopper chomping jaws. I paid no attention to my sons questioning, "Mom, you ok?", as I sat now silent as Johnny gazed back at me, Whopper drool gathering at the corners of my gaping mouth. Thinking I was choking, K1 started pounding me on my back to dislodge the sugary mass he imagined caught in my throught, causing me to drop the tasty unfinished mega box of goodness. Unable to tear my eyes of Johnny's luscious face, I aloud my sweet treasure to bounce down the theaters floor unheeding my 4 second food on the floor recovery rule. (Usually this rule is 5 seconds on the floor food lasts before gathering too many crunchy unknowns, but in a public place it goes down to 4 seconds- depending on the location and food item). Alais, our time together last night was way to short for my liking. I do not wish to hurt you by telling you of my infidelity, but want only to be honest with you to maintain the integrity of our relationship. I cannot promise you I will never crave this feeling again. Or if Johnny is sent to treatment here at the famous rehabilitation center nearby me that I will not sneak into his room with the family sized squirt bottle of Herseys and slurp slurp slurp bwla blwa hwa hwa......But I digress. My Rock you are my true heart and you will have my undying love forever. I hope this is but a passing phase were I am only attracted to his metro sexual substance abusing good looks and the freaky sexual energy of a mad candy gueniss but I can not promise. I will save all my hot munkay luvin for you. I await you answer and in the mean time have been hanging out at all the barber shops in the vicinity trying to find were you are filming your upcoming movie. Gay hair stylist my candy lovin ass.
Love and chocolate kisses,
Munkay-pie
Friday, December 17, 2004
Just Another Kid
My son, K1 has made a new friend this school year. I had first seen Codi when I stopped in K1's classroom one afternoon this fall. The two boys soon became fast friends. Both are in the same "special" reading class and share the same homeroom. K1 was delighted to be invited to Codi's birthday sleep over bash. Codi's mom and I both now share joint weekend custody of our boys. I have yet to meet her in person, as she also works weekends.
I came home from work one Friday night and there was Codi in my kitchen. "Hi, you must be K1's mom, it's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Codi", the ashonishingly well mannered pre adolescent greeted me holding out his left hand for me to shake. "Umm, hi Corey, good to see ya" , I answer surprised because I was unaware we were having a house guest."It's Cori, my name is Cori". "That's right, sorry", I answer peering around my darkened house for signs of my Hubby and my kids. "Is anyone else awake yet other than you Corey?", I probe. " C-O-D-I, you can remember it like, Code-eye", he tells me calmly and unpatronizing. "Well you mind if I call you Corey from now on? The name Jake is already taken". Without hesitation he hits me with the comeback, "Sure you can, I'm going to call you Mom." "Deal, Corey, wanna come watch Lettermen with me?" "As we sit on the couch giggling in the dark watching the flickering screen and listen to the sound of my two kids softly snoring were they dropped after a hard night of playing, my watch alarm goes off to remind me to take my anti-rejection drugs on time. "Oops I tell Codi, time for my munkay pills." "Munkay pills? Codi asks me. I then explain to him why I must medicate myself at regular inervils. "If I don't take my pills on time, Corey, I start to grow a munkay tail." "Right Mom, I need to take my pills now too. My Corey pills. If I don't, I turn into a forgetful woman". Sure enough, he shows me two zip lock baggies of prescription pills with the time written on the outside. I don't bother to ask what they are really for. If he wants me to know why he maust take theses he will tell me without my questioning.
The next morning we all playing the shooting video game Codi had brought with him to our house. Codi teaches me how to aim better by holding the rifle butt against my side as I shoot. It is then I finally realize he cannot use his right hand at all. Cerebral palsy has affected his one side is my guess. He does perfectly well with out as is. I do not ask him what causes him to be diferent. My kids with handicaps try their best not to stand out.
This past weekend Codi had planned on coming over. It was my idea to go to his house and surprise him by picking him up. I had never been to Codi's house. Hubby had met his mom while I was at work but I have only talked on the phone. K1 gave us the directions to his place as we were on our way to go kill a tree in the spirit of the holiday. Our tradition is to load numerous axes , hatches, and saws into our car and go hunt a Christmas tree. We have tamed it down over the years, as we only hunt on tree farms.
"There's Cori's house, mom, right there. It's the first trailer." We pull alongside the trailer that is smaller than my husbands truck, and out pops a kids head out of the door. Then another. And another. And some more. When I walk up to the house to talk with his mom, I find that she is at work but the surly teenage babysitter is expecting me and more than happy to have one kid less to be responsible for. As she packs up Codi's medication, I survey the clean little trailer with a bed were the living room should be. Cori's mom sleeps in the livingroom so she can get up for work early and not wake up her sleeping kids who inhabit the two bedrooms.
Cori was ecstatic when he found out we were getting a tree. "You get a tree? Really? A real live tree?" The thought boggled his mind. He has never gotten a Christmas tree.
We slowly cruised throughout fields of trees looking for the perfect one. When we spotted a likely candidate off on the distance, we stop the truck, grab an axe and run like maniacs. Part of the fun is seeing who can get to the tree first. We want the biggest fattest tree possible. Last year we found a giant spruce that we names "Mongo". Mongo was so fat he would not fit into our tree stand when he drug him home. We tried to prop him up but he fell over. Usually the trees always look better from far away and once we close we spot the defects and look for another tree to chase after.
This year we gave Codi the privilege of choosing the tree. After turning down all our many picks, Codi told us, "The one you like are just too fat, they look over stuffed". The one he found us was skinny and twisted, even crooked. "This is Lucy -Loo, (from The Grinch) she's perfect." We drop to ground and began fighting over who gets first turn at being a lumber jack. A third of the way into our hacking, Lucy-Loo, we discover, is a Siamese tree and a big part of her trunk falls over but her main body is still standing. "Oh no- can we put both parts into our tree holder", we ask Hubby. "No- it's not going to work". "Off to find a new tree" K2 yells ready to run again. "NO!", yells Codi, "You can't kill her and leave her lay". "Ok", my boys say, we will just push that side to the wall." "No, it is perfect for hanging ornaments", Cori our new found tree expert tells us. It was easy to drag light Lucy-Loo to our truck.
The boys decorated the entire tree. All the ornaments are hung at about three feet high. That is eye level for the boys. They do fit perfectly in that flat bare area that had been the other part of the tree. It is beautiful, like a hidden Christmas party surrounded by green.
That Cori's body may not be considered perfect by someone looking for a sculpted norm. But he sure got his head on straight. This kid has won a special spot in my heart. I'm going to do my best not to treat him "special" though. In our home he is just another kid.
I came home from work one Friday night and there was Codi in my kitchen. "Hi, you must be K1's mom, it's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Codi", the ashonishingly well mannered pre adolescent greeted me holding out his left hand for me to shake. "Umm, hi Corey, good to see ya" , I answer surprised because I was unaware we were having a house guest."It's Cori, my name is Cori". "That's right, sorry", I answer peering around my darkened house for signs of my Hubby and my kids. "Is anyone else awake yet other than you Corey?", I probe. " C-O-D-I, you can remember it like, Code-eye", he tells me calmly and unpatronizing. "Well you mind if I call you Corey from now on? The name Jake is already taken". Without hesitation he hits me with the comeback, "Sure you can, I'm going to call you Mom." "Deal, Corey, wanna come watch Lettermen with me?" "As we sit on the couch giggling in the dark watching the flickering screen and listen to the sound of my two kids softly snoring were they dropped after a hard night of playing, my watch alarm goes off to remind me to take my anti-rejection drugs on time. "Oops I tell Codi, time for my munkay pills." "Munkay pills? Codi asks me. I then explain to him why I must medicate myself at regular inervils. "If I don't take my pills on time, Corey, I start to grow a munkay tail." "Right Mom, I need to take my pills now too. My Corey pills. If I don't, I turn into a forgetful woman". Sure enough, he shows me two zip lock baggies of prescription pills with the time written on the outside. I don't bother to ask what they are really for. If he wants me to know why he maust take theses he will tell me without my questioning.
The next morning we all playing the shooting video game Codi had brought with him to our house. Codi teaches me how to aim better by holding the rifle butt against my side as I shoot. It is then I finally realize he cannot use his right hand at all. Cerebral palsy has affected his one side is my guess. He does perfectly well with out as is. I do not ask him what causes him to be diferent. My kids with handicaps try their best not to stand out.
This past weekend Codi had planned on coming over. It was my idea to go to his house and surprise him by picking him up. I had never been to Codi's house. Hubby had met his mom while I was at work but I have only talked on the phone. K1 gave us the directions to his place as we were on our way to go kill a tree in the spirit of the holiday. Our tradition is to load numerous axes , hatches, and saws into our car and go hunt a Christmas tree. We have tamed it down over the years, as we only hunt on tree farms.
"There's Cori's house, mom, right there. It's the first trailer." We pull alongside the trailer that is smaller than my husbands truck, and out pops a kids head out of the door. Then another. And another. And some more. When I walk up to the house to talk with his mom, I find that she is at work but the surly teenage babysitter is expecting me and more than happy to have one kid less to be responsible for. As she packs up Codi's medication, I survey the clean little trailer with a bed were the living room should be. Cori's mom sleeps in the livingroom so she can get up for work early and not wake up her sleeping kids who inhabit the two bedrooms.
Cori was ecstatic when he found out we were getting a tree. "You get a tree? Really? A real live tree?" The thought boggled his mind. He has never gotten a Christmas tree.
We slowly cruised throughout fields of trees looking for the perfect one. When we spotted a likely candidate off on the distance, we stop the truck, grab an axe and run like maniacs. Part of the fun is seeing who can get to the tree first. We want the biggest fattest tree possible. Last year we found a giant spruce that we names "Mongo". Mongo was so fat he would not fit into our tree stand when he drug him home. We tried to prop him up but he fell over. Usually the trees always look better from far away and once we close we spot the defects and look for another tree to chase after.
This year we gave Codi the privilege of choosing the tree. After turning down all our many picks, Codi told us, "The one you like are just too fat, they look over stuffed". The one he found us was skinny and twisted, even crooked. "This is Lucy -Loo, (from The Grinch) she's perfect." We drop to ground and began fighting over who gets first turn at being a lumber jack. A third of the way into our hacking, Lucy-Loo, we discover, is a Siamese tree and a big part of her trunk falls over but her main body is still standing. "Oh no- can we put both parts into our tree holder", we ask Hubby. "No- it's not going to work". "Off to find a new tree" K2 yells ready to run again. "NO!", yells Codi, "You can't kill her and leave her lay". "Ok", my boys say, we will just push that side to the wall." "No, it is perfect for hanging ornaments", Cori our new found tree expert tells us. It was easy to drag light Lucy-Loo to our truck.
The boys decorated the entire tree. All the ornaments are hung at about three feet high. That is eye level for the boys. They do fit perfectly in that flat bare area that had been the other part of the tree. It is beautiful, like a hidden Christmas party surrounded by green.
That Cori's body may not be considered perfect by someone looking for a sculpted norm. But he sure got his head on straight. This kid has won a special spot in my heart. I'm going to do my best not to treat him "special" though. In our home he is just another kid.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
My Incentive
My sweet naive Hubby called me from the east coast last night. We had both been to busy to talk earlier in the day. "What did you do with your day?", he asked me. I was to exhausted from my early doctors appointments, errand running, work, child transporting, domestic details to answer him. I decided to write it down.
Top Ten Reasons I, Munkay, Got Out Of Bed This Morning:
10- That dang noon wake up call.
9-Needed to get myself to the 15k cross country marathon. Across the room. On the TV.
8-I smelled the Hersheys truck pull into Rainbows parking lot in town.
7-Needed a quick wake up before upcoming nap.
6-Wanted to beat the rush hour traffic to happy hour.
5-Disturbing nightmares of my 3 day wedding to Vin Diesel.
4-Had to throw feces at loud garbage man.
3-Someone needs to run my prosperous home tattooing business.
2-The desire to cram in a quick 5 hours of cake eating before dinner.
And the number 1 reason I got out of bed this morning-
I had to make The Rock breakfast.
Top Ten Reasons I, Munkay, Got Out Of Bed This Morning:
10- That dang noon wake up call.
9-Needed to get myself to the 15k cross country marathon. Across the room. On the TV.
8-I smelled the Hersheys truck pull into Rainbows parking lot in town.
7-Needed a quick wake up before upcoming nap.
6-Wanted to beat the rush hour traffic to happy hour.
5-Disturbing nightmares of my 3 day wedding to Vin Diesel.
4-Had to throw feces at loud garbage man.
3-Someone needs to run my prosperous home tattooing business.
2-The desire to cram in a quick 5 hours of cake eating before dinner.
And the number 1 reason I got out of bed this morning-
I had to make The Rock breakfast.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Gingersmith
As I pull into my drive way, home from the car dealership, I see a Dodge Ram Charger, similar to the cardboard cutout I had just seen on the show room floor, parked by my house. The members of Aerosmith lounging on it's tailgate, waiting for my return. I had been legitimately upset at that Chrysler adds campain. Everyone knows rock and roll icons do not drive redneck trucks. Their lyrics to"Just Push Play's" next line, which is to vulgar to be aired on the commercial, are the first words out of my mouth as I open my jeep door. "F***ing A! ", I exclaim to the band, as I fumble for my keys to let us in my side door, just in time for cookies.
As they gather around my kitchen island I pull our traditonal Christmas gingerbread men out of the oven. Every year I bake these and personalize them to look like family members. "But where are we?", Steven Tyler asks when he does not recognize any that look like them. "On the tree already", I answer as I lead them into my livingroom. "Here we are!" Maybe it was all the neon lights on the tree that confused the band into thinking they were on stage, but they begin breaking into the opening cords of "Sweet Emotion". "SHHHHH", I warn them, "here comes Hubbies truck." (Not a Dodge.)
"I'm home woman, where's my food?", honey announces, as I scurry into the kitchen to kiss him. We then here the the starting strains of "Sweet Emotion", coming louder from the living room. As we go to check it out, there is Brad Whitford, rattling one of my gifts from under the tree as a shaker box for the songs opening rhythm. Steven Tyler is showing K2 how to fit his entire harmonica into his mouth. Joe Perry is is entertaining K1 with the picture of his model girlfriend on his guitar. Tom Hamilton is playing with my cat.*
"Dang Munkay, I thought I told you, no more Areosmith for Christmas", Hubby says.
Thats ok, I have them in my dreams.
i once was complimented by tom hamilton on my shirt. there was a cat on it.
As they gather around my kitchen island I pull our traditonal Christmas gingerbread men out of the oven. Every year I bake these and personalize them to look like family members. "But where are we?", Steven Tyler asks when he does not recognize any that look like them. "On the tree already", I answer as I lead them into my livingroom. "Here we are!" Maybe it was all the neon lights on the tree that confused the band into thinking they were on stage, but they begin breaking into the opening cords of "Sweet Emotion". "SHHHHH", I warn them, "here comes Hubbies truck." (Not a Dodge.)
"I'm home woman, where's my food?", honey announces, as I scurry into the kitchen to kiss him. We then here the the starting strains of "Sweet Emotion", coming louder from the living room. As we go to check it out, there is Brad Whitford, rattling one of my gifts from under the tree as a shaker box for the songs opening rhythm. Steven Tyler is showing K2 how to fit his entire harmonica into his mouth. Joe Perry is is entertaining K1 with the picture of his model girlfriend on his guitar. Tom Hamilton is playing with my cat.*
"Dang Munkay, I thought I told you, no more Areosmith for Christmas", Hubby says.
Thats ok, I have them in my dreams.
i once was complimented by tom hamilton on my shirt. there was a cat on it.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Play at Your Own Risk
Due to the overwhelming responses from my earlier post, "Road Games", I thought I'd further enlighten you with games to play in the privacy and safety of your own homes. As a matter of fact, I strongly suggest you DO NOT play these while driving. Although you could under the influence of alcohol. Actually a drink or two would probly add immensely to any of our games, just remember to play responsibly and tip the munkay.
I'll start with a game I made up called, "Combusta a Move." It's not really an interactive game but crazy fun none the less. I like to wait until my family members are totally engrossed in a TV show or video game before I walk "accidentally" in between them and the attention sucking screen. I then pause, turn to face them and yell "Here's a move you just can't get enough of!" I then dance. No ordinary civil sane type dance mind you. The most egagerated embarrassing move I can think up at the time. Standing on one leg and pulling up the other to my side and shaking every part of my body is effective. My youngest likes to turn and shake what his mama gave him. Which is humorous in the fact his Mama whent in debt for the little she did give. Only rule is that you yell a warning before you spontaneously combusta dance. "CAN'T GET NUFF" or "Shake it Arisol", will warn anyone watching you are not having a seizure. We have practiced this one so much members of our family will automatically yell out a score, similar to high dive judges if the dance is original enough. If the interupted movie that was worth listening too, sometimes it is just a hand signal that is used instead of a spoken number. Not sure why all mine only rate a one.
Slug Attack is a a game of patience and agility. The "Slug" must have excellent timing and wait until his victim is entirely absorbed in something. Reading instantly turns you into a prime "mark". The "slug" then quietly and unobserved, enters the room, remaining out of direct line of vision and clinging to the rooms perimeter. "Slug" then will venture closer, under the guise of retrieving an article of clothing or toy and find some subtle excuse to remain. Tying your shoe lace or looking for a specific page are good bets. Slug will then inch closer to the "mark"slowly and quietly but never looking at the "mark" or making eye contact. The ultimate destination for the "slug" is the end of the couch the "mark" is sitting upon or the arm of the chair. Closer. Closer. Ever so quiet. Until the "slug" is within leaping distance. Then the "slug" must yell at the top of his lungs, "SLUG ATTACK" and pounce on the "mark" emitting a million slimy kisses to the startled "mark". Loser must clean up any pee marks or "Slug Trails" left behind.
For "Spin Me Spin Me", all you need is a slippery floor. If you are small,you can be Spun easier, although two kids can spin an adult if curled tightly into a fetal position. Finding an adult (sized anyway) person curled into a fetal position is easier than you would expect if you play our first two games often enough. You then completely spin the floor person a set amount of times before they must jump up and run around a large stationary object, kitchen island for example. The cotton candy head, which is the term of the individual who is spun until there brain is like sugar floss, must maneuver over any obstacles that the floss spinners make. If you are able to navigate while jumping over any trippy feet in your way, or toys, without falling of running into anything, you will be cheered. When you win this prestigious acclaim you must break into a victory dance. I suggest re-reading the Cumbusta Move guidelines for this.
Pickle Under the Wing is not for the faint of heart. It is a vicious nasty game for those with iron nerves and armpits. Basically you walk up to your opponent and jam your thumb into his unsuspecting pit and throw down the challenge,"Pickle Under the Wing." Do not wiggle your thumb but hold it still for as long as you can, if that is at all possible, as your foe will react with a recoil often before they are even aware of the impending match. If they are man enough, they will return your look straight in the eye, before then jamming their own thumb into your pit with the volley challenge of, "pickle under the wing". You now must gaze unflinching into each others eyes and hold your thumb as still as possible without any tickling or wiggling motion if you can. The first sign of any weakness, and that would come as giggles or squirms and breaking of eye contact and you lose. I have never lost a game of Pickle Under the Wing. But then again I have never won one either. Hard to pick a champion when the game disinagrates leaving everyone involved snorting up dust bunnies off the floor inbetween guffaws.
Rock, Paper, Hot Lava is based on the old classic. Close to rock- paper-sissors but with a few twists. In our game, rock is The Rock, paper can be paper or money, and the sissors is anything we can dream up to yell after chanting the first two set weapons. Rock, Paper....fill in the blank. K2 seams to think hot lava can beat just about anything so he yells that often, hence the name. Rock, Paper....Tidal wave can beat out hot lava. Rock, paper...Freeze ray is argumentative, causing many questions. If the Rock armed with freezer paper, went up against a freeze ray, who would win? Does Rock have enough money to hire a stunt double to take on a hot lava and still win? Imagination is vital in this one. We are at a stand still to this day whether Rock, Paper Nosebasket beats a Rock, Paper, Tickle dust or not. Rock, Paper, Howling Munkay does too beat a Rock, Paper, Lightning bolt. Cuze I said so.
Sumo Mama was first invented when my boys were in diapers and has lasted like the classic game it is. Their little eyes would light up when I initiated this game and they would squeal with glee. Picture in your mind "Fat Bastard" of Austin Powers. Now with feet shoulder width apart, rub the palms of your hands together before slapping them palms down on your knees as you assume a crouching sumo wrassling position. That should get their attention. If they know what is good for them they will drop themselves into a capital M shape as well. Lift one leg up off the floor and stamp it down as loud as you can. Continue as you advance crab like towards your opponent, soon to be dust essence. Chanting "Sumo-Sumo", gives you an edge. I prefer sticking low and close to the ground to maintain my center of balance and tiring out my opposition. That worked in the past, but now my kids are able to build up enough speed to knock me into sake land. Now they squeal with when they are able to knock me over. Jokes on them as they have to carry me to the couch.
Take a little time evey day for these fun activities. Family holiday season is just around the corner. With a little practice you could start a few of your own new traditions. Might even cull out a few of the weaker relitives and shorten the Christmas card list for next year. Keep the first aid kit close by and play on! Happy Hollidaze.
I'll start with a game I made up called, "Combusta a Move." It's not really an interactive game but crazy fun none the less. I like to wait until my family members are totally engrossed in a TV show or video game before I walk "accidentally" in between them and the attention sucking screen. I then pause, turn to face them and yell "Here's a move you just can't get enough of!" I then dance. No ordinary civil sane type dance mind you. The most egagerated embarrassing move I can think up at the time. Standing on one leg and pulling up the other to my side and shaking every part of my body is effective. My youngest likes to turn and shake what his mama gave him. Which is humorous in the fact his Mama whent in debt for the little she did give. Only rule is that you yell a warning before you spontaneously combusta dance. "CAN'T GET NUFF" or "Shake it Arisol", will warn anyone watching you are not having a seizure. We have practiced this one so much members of our family will automatically yell out a score, similar to high dive judges if the dance is original enough. If the interupted movie that was worth listening too, sometimes it is just a hand signal that is used instead of a spoken number. Not sure why all mine only rate a one.
Slug Attack is a a game of patience and agility. The "Slug" must have excellent timing and wait until his victim is entirely absorbed in something. Reading instantly turns you into a prime "mark". The "slug" then quietly and unobserved, enters the room, remaining out of direct line of vision and clinging to the rooms perimeter. "Slug" then will venture closer, under the guise of retrieving an article of clothing or toy and find some subtle excuse to remain. Tying your shoe lace or looking for a specific page are good bets. Slug will then inch closer to the "mark"slowly and quietly but never looking at the "mark" or making eye contact. The ultimate destination for the "slug" is the end of the couch the "mark" is sitting upon or the arm of the chair. Closer. Closer. Ever so quiet. Until the "slug" is within leaping distance. Then the "slug" must yell at the top of his lungs, "SLUG ATTACK" and pounce on the "mark" emitting a million slimy kisses to the startled "mark". Loser must clean up any pee marks or "Slug Trails" left behind.
For "Spin Me Spin Me", all you need is a slippery floor. If you are small,you can be Spun easier, although two kids can spin an adult if curled tightly into a fetal position. Finding an adult (sized anyway) person curled into a fetal position is easier than you would expect if you play our first two games often enough. You then completely spin the floor person a set amount of times before they must jump up and run around a large stationary object, kitchen island for example. The cotton candy head, which is the term of the individual who is spun until there brain is like sugar floss, must maneuver over any obstacles that the floss spinners make. If you are able to navigate while jumping over any trippy feet in your way, or toys, without falling of running into anything, you will be cheered. When you win this prestigious acclaim you must break into a victory dance. I suggest re-reading the Cumbusta Move guidelines for this.
Pickle Under the Wing is not for the faint of heart. It is a vicious nasty game for those with iron nerves and armpits. Basically you walk up to your opponent and jam your thumb into his unsuspecting pit and throw down the challenge,"Pickle Under the Wing." Do not wiggle your thumb but hold it still for as long as you can, if that is at all possible, as your foe will react with a recoil often before they are even aware of the impending match. If they are man enough, they will return your look straight in the eye, before then jamming their own thumb into your pit with the volley challenge of, "pickle under the wing". You now must gaze unflinching into each others eyes and hold your thumb as still as possible without any tickling or wiggling motion if you can. The first sign of any weakness, and that would come as giggles or squirms and breaking of eye contact and you lose. I have never lost a game of Pickle Under the Wing. But then again I have never won one either. Hard to pick a champion when the game disinagrates leaving everyone involved snorting up dust bunnies off the floor inbetween guffaws.
Rock, Paper, Hot Lava is based on the old classic. Close to rock- paper-sissors but with a few twists. In our game, rock is The Rock, paper can be paper or money, and the sissors is anything we can dream up to yell after chanting the first two set weapons. Rock, Paper....fill in the blank. K2 seams to think hot lava can beat just about anything so he yells that often, hence the name. Rock, Paper....Tidal wave can beat out hot lava. Rock, paper...Freeze ray is argumentative, causing many questions. If the Rock armed with freezer paper, went up against a freeze ray, who would win? Does Rock have enough money to hire a stunt double to take on a hot lava and still win? Imagination is vital in this one. We are at a stand still to this day whether Rock, Paper Nosebasket beats a Rock, Paper, Tickle dust or not. Rock, Paper, Howling Munkay does too beat a Rock, Paper, Lightning bolt. Cuze I said so.
Sumo Mama was first invented when my boys were in diapers and has lasted like the classic game it is. Their little eyes would light up when I initiated this game and they would squeal with glee. Picture in your mind "Fat Bastard" of Austin Powers. Now with feet shoulder width apart, rub the palms of your hands together before slapping them palms down on your knees as you assume a crouching sumo wrassling position. That should get their attention. If they know what is good for them they will drop themselves into a capital M shape as well. Lift one leg up off the floor and stamp it down as loud as you can. Continue as you advance crab like towards your opponent, soon to be dust essence. Chanting "Sumo-Sumo", gives you an edge. I prefer sticking low and close to the ground to maintain my center of balance and tiring out my opposition. That worked in the past, but now my kids are able to build up enough speed to knock me into sake land. Now they squeal with when they are able to knock me over. Jokes on them as they have to carry me to the couch.
Take a little time evey day for these fun activities. Family holiday season is just around the corner. With a little practice you could start a few of your own new traditions. Might even cull out a few of the weaker relitives and shorten the Christmas card list for next year. Keep the first aid kit close by and play on! Happy Hollidaze.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Shooting One Up
"... and thank you for finding a kidney match for my friend Curly Haired Heidi, and her brave cousin who is donating her organ, bless them as I lift them up to you for your safe keeping as they recover in Mayo. Thank you for giving my friend Mitch someone new in his life to share ice cream with so he is not alone in his mourning. You kept Mickey and everyone around him safe and I thank you for that. Thank you for healing Eli's heart Lord. Thank you for the new job and all the great new friends I have made, both near and far. Thank you for my Sis and her shop and all the joy they bring me. I appreciate all my family. Thank you for giving me my husband and making his health better and giving us strength when we needed it. Thank you for giving me the challenge of my boys and letting me be their mom. Thank you God for my health and growing wisdom and bounty of blessing unmentioned...."
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Who Knew
Here are some of the things I learned today:
Trying to perform a one handed ollie with a reverse kick up, even without a skate board on your living room floor is indeed harder than it looks. And much more painful.
Left over Halloween candy is a nutritious and appropriate breakfast for a growing child.
A jeep cherokee will not start after leaving every dome light on over night. Even if you happen to turn off the radio before you try turning the engine.
Answering your telephone when it rings by asking the question, "Hello, is Munkay there please?", confuses the caller. Continue with, "When do you expect her home then?", aggravates.
No matter how high of heels I wear, I am not leggy model material. Although it does somewhat give me the illusion of height, it is overshadowed by the clumsy factor.
Four pounds of cheese will not kill a dog. Just make him gassy.
The term "upper cut" is incorrect. It is apricot. As in ,"Mom! K1 just hit me with an apricot to my gut!".
Other corporate wives expect their hubbies to go on golf seminars in warm climates without them.
It is official, once a lad reaches the age of 13, he is a man. Men NEED video games to protect their manly status.
My neighbor really does know it all.
A nice piece of haddock from Iceland, when properly prepared will remind me of Professor Batty. If served with a simple dill sauce for waves, it will resemble a "Swan". That is the name of the post that turned me on to Flippism. Cooking fish to resemble foul upsets people, they just can't see it as art.
Wearing your tightest pair of jeans will not distract attention to the hair you have not had time to wash in 2 days.
I can, when challenged, fit an entire kit kat candy bar, in it's wrapper, sideways in my mouth without breaking it.
Trying to remove an entire kit kat candy bar from my mouth causes severe gagging and anxiety.
Gassy dogs will eat what ever I spit out.
Most people are stupider than they look. Munkays twice as much so.
Yelling obscenities will not get your battery charger to work. It will infact only embarrass the cheese lovin dog.
Hubbys will think your candy wedging ability as "hot".
That was today's pearls of wisdom. I hope you are not now stupider for having read this.
B.S., (thats like p.s. for postal script except the B is for blog) A munkay cannot be taught how to use a spell check.
Trying to perform a one handed ollie with a reverse kick up, even without a skate board on your living room floor is indeed harder than it looks. And much more painful.
Left over Halloween candy is a nutritious and appropriate breakfast for a growing child.
A jeep cherokee will not start after leaving every dome light on over night. Even if you happen to turn off the radio before you try turning the engine.
Answering your telephone when it rings by asking the question, "Hello, is Munkay there please?", confuses the caller. Continue with, "When do you expect her home then?", aggravates.
No matter how high of heels I wear, I am not leggy model material. Although it does somewhat give me the illusion of height, it is overshadowed by the clumsy factor.
Four pounds of cheese will not kill a dog. Just make him gassy.
The term "upper cut" is incorrect. It is apricot. As in ,"Mom! K1 just hit me with an apricot to my gut!".
Other corporate wives expect their hubbies to go on golf seminars in warm climates without them.
It is official, once a lad reaches the age of 13, he is a man. Men NEED video games to protect their manly status.
My neighbor really does know it all.
A nice piece of haddock from Iceland, when properly prepared will remind me of Professor Batty. If served with a simple dill sauce for waves, it will resemble a "Swan". That is the name of the post that turned me on to Flippism. Cooking fish to resemble foul upsets people, they just can't see it as art.
Wearing your tightest pair of jeans will not distract attention to the hair you have not had time to wash in 2 days.
I can, when challenged, fit an entire kit kat candy bar, in it's wrapper, sideways in my mouth without breaking it.
Trying to remove an entire kit kat candy bar from my mouth causes severe gagging and anxiety.
Gassy dogs will eat what ever I spit out.
Most people are stupider than they look. Munkays twice as much so.
Yelling obscenities will not get your battery charger to work. It will infact only embarrass the cheese lovin dog.
Hubbys will think your candy wedging ability as "hot".
That was today's pearls of wisdom. I hope you are not now stupider for having read this.
B.S., (thats like p.s. for postal script except the B is for blog) A munkay cannot be taught how to use a spell check.
Monday, November 22, 2004
No Rose Colored Glasses Here
5-7-5 For Ella
Pink was Ella's favorite color
Casket, floweres, outfit all in blushing hue
Sad was the day, goodbye.
This is not a poem but a curse to anyone foolish enought to walk into a flower shop and exclaim, "Oh how lucky you are to have a job were you get to play with flowers all day." These are the people who do not notice my sisters hands as they bleed from the chemicals used and the damage a rose can cause to your skin. When she smiles patently at them and asks, "How may I help you today?" they cannot see the tiredness behind the eyes that had not had the chance for sleep. Spending an intire Sunday rushing to get to a mortuary so the grieving family has a little bit of beauty in their time of sorrow is no cake walk. There is no joy in decorating a casket, even that of a stranger.
Pink was Ella's favorite color
Casket, floweres, outfit all in blushing hue
Sad was the day, goodbye.
This is not a poem but a curse to anyone foolish enought to walk into a flower shop and exclaim, "Oh how lucky you are to have a job were you get to play with flowers all day." These are the people who do not notice my sisters hands as they bleed from the chemicals used and the damage a rose can cause to your skin. When she smiles patently at them and asks, "How may I help you today?" they cannot see the tiredness behind the eyes that had not had the chance for sleep. Spending an intire Sunday rushing to get to a mortuary so the grieving family has a little bit of beauty in their time of sorrow is no cake walk. There is no joy in decorating a casket, even that of a stranger.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
reminiscence of ice
Redolent blue cold is the soul from the north ticking in my cellar to warm . Soul that had expired in the ticking north of the warm shyly hesitant in emerging. Cellar now holds redolent souls cold from the blue north unforgiving. I gaze in my mirror my souls refection now ticking.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
"Let Me introduce You..."
I'd like you to have the pleasure of meeting the canines in my neighborhood. Most are good friends that I spend time with everyday while I am on my run. They are always there for me. The dogs of my hood.
First one is Buck, owner and protector of the Jakes. A Rottweiler mix, Buck is strong and loyal. But he will not even notice me as I pad by, unless I have a boy accompanying me. Bucky's yard and home is beautiful and well kept, by his single mom. But sadly there often is no food for Buck. Bucky always travels with the Jakes when they visit. Hubby wonders why we go through so much dog food.
Around the corner and behind the white gated fence is my pal I have named, Ollie the Collie. The stables that Ollie tend are prettier and better kept than most homes in the area. Hyper Ollie charges at me barking every day as if to scold me for not being at work and being more productive. He only allows me only brief acknowledgement before turning back to his job of checking the horses, herding the farm cats, or driving off a squirrel. He is all about business that Ollie.
Down the road a ways is my divine Hail Dog. Hail Dog never comes close to me, remaining somewhat aloof, but I witness his black form out in the front yard next to Bathtub Mary. I know his owners are religious if they have a statue of Mother Mary protected by an old bathtub set on end. I wonder if they genuflect when I elate a rejoyful "Hail Dog", as I pass.
If their people aren't home, Itchy and Scratchy on the bend, come out to start something. They never bother me, as they as gutless wonders. They are more chicken than dog and only brave enough to bark smack, as they follow me with the sole purpose of antagonizing other dogs while they cower behind my legs. Itchy and Scratchy only fight between themselves and once I reach the Wild Tree Mutts, they turn tail and run.
I have never seen The Wild Tree Mutts. I do not even know how many there are. Might be two, could be a dozen. Their bark is loud and as they thunder towards my direction they sound like the hounds of hell. I cannot see them behind the thick evergreens that stand in front of their containment. They are all bark because as soon as I acknowledge them with a loud "GO", the race is one. They always beat me to their corner, where they wait for be to catch up emanating their challenging taunts at me for being so slow.
As I struggle to my halfway mark up the killer hill, two and a half miles from home, I sometimes hear, sometimes see, Eli's dog, Tobby. Tobby never really knows if he is afoot or adrift. Toby has a very short attention span and doesn't always remember if he likes me or not. He has a habit of forgetting that I stopped and petted him on my way up the hill, on my return a few minutes later when he alerts everyone with startled yip or a growl. That reminds me I gotta return the sweatshirt Eli left last night at my house. And the one the night before that.
I know Decoy the black lab's name because his owner yells it when he sees his animal run out to greet me. His yard has numerous fishing boats and hunting parafenallia decorating it. Decoy doesn't bark so at the sound of his name, I instictly pull my hands up into my sleeves to avoid the run by puppy kisses that dog always gives my uncovered hand. Nothing says lovin like some doggy slobber. Decoy, ever the gentleman only kisses my hand.
The Violater is Decoy's neighbor and evil twin. The Violater has no manners. That dog takes liberties that I'd call the authorities and press charges for, if it wouldn't sound ridiculous. I should carry pepper spray for that animal. My patented for a canine groin guard will be named after him.
Sun Dog is a big yellow dog who lays on his warm steps in the sun to lazy to get up and visit with me. Best he can do is roll over with a lackadaisical "woof", if he has the energy. The only thing that changes in his domain is the number of automobiles in various stages of repair in Sun Doggy's yard.
Big Bad Menace is a huge German Shepard with some anger issuses. I would be too if I were to be kept on such a short chain. I know it is his road but hey, he probley smells all the other dogs on me and feels left out. I'd act to if so left out of the clique. The happy little peace flag at the end of his driveway fools noone.
Chester is my love puppy. He is a big harmless mix breed dog so ugly he is funny. Chester is in constant state of molt with perhalps a little mange. His body an eclectic arrangement of heritage. He is the ultimate in flirt. Chester knows he's got it going on. "Chester, (his real name) baby, please come out and let me run my fingers through that hair", I beg him as he struts his macho strut and he swags his tail halfway down his drive way. Chester will not share his mojo with me. He stops and turns his back on me and looks back over his shoulder teasingly before returning to his bright neon blue house.
I rarely get to see Inookook, but she is my favorite. It was along time before I had even seen this husky. She is still, silent as she sits on the edge of the driveway hidden in the birch trees. Her grey and white coat camouflage her well. The only thing on her that moves are her bright blue eyes as they follow me. She is a dignified dog. Quiet and reserved. I at first was self conscious under her scrutiny. She sees through me with the eaons of wisdom behind those amazing eyes. Inookook has my respect.
The busybody of the neighbor hood, Eddy's little bell that he wears on his collar annocesses his short visit. Being a social butterfly, it is up to this little Jack Russell terrier to know the who, what and why of the area. I must not be of great enough interested to Eddy, he flits off in search of better excitement.
The Coup is not a dog. But a bunch of funky chickens. Exotic breed birds they roam were ever they want on this dead end road. They always run squawking off as I approach. Occasionally I will find an egg in the gravel along the side the road. I actually followed them across the road one day. I had to chase them back to their own yard after becoming lost in the cattails. (Why did the chicken cross..) Entertaining, but I can't hold a conversation with them.
Listen, and sometimes when the widows are open, so he can catch a whiff of me, I am able to hear BB. Hound. His mournful blusey, "Owwwww,woow owww", echoes his lament of being kept inside. I have seen him only once on the front step, his sad face puddling around his short little legs. Sing it like it is, BB, sing it like it is.
Now we have come to the dead end of the road and to my nemesis, Mimi's territory. Mimi, is a little white bow wearing yap dog. As I cautiously scale the embankment leading into the one wooded quarter mile path of solitude, Mimi follows. "Yip, yip, yappity, yap, yap, " she badgers at my heels. If I stop, she stops, When I continue, so does she. I have tried numerous times to befriend that little bag of hot air. As soon as I turn around and bend down to her own level, she skurries away a few feet, to continue harassing my at a safe distance, interrupting my peaceful one with nature time. I have resorted to playing her bluff after futile attempts of peace making, by charging at the nasty little critter, hoping to scare her home. She stays farther back, but does not stop. Someday, that mutt will go death after I do catch her and lock her in the metal mailbox at the end of her drive, from the ringing in her ears from her own barks.
Harley, I am not quite certain which son he belongs too, is most often out with Grampa Doug. Grampa Doug is a father of four sons who, after they grew up, all built their own house within a stones throw from Doug's house. They are all married with lovely wives and kids of their own. Every generation of that family is into motorcycles and motosport racing. Three of the four sons have followed Dougs calling and became ministers. The youngest son, drums in a famous Christian rock band. Unfortunately Doug was in an accident causing brain trauma and can no longer preach, due to the memory loss and uncontrollable foul language that pours out of him while he is stressed. Both Harley and Doug spend a lot of time out in the yard, Doug working on his ever growing wood pile, and Harley now his limited congregation. I often sit on a stump to catch my breath and gain insight.
Last is Fluff Puppies home. Their abode is sorely neglected and in need of repair. Their mom, an aging woman has never married and lives there with her elderly father. Her show dog are the love of her life and she affords them by working as a dog groomer. Fluff Puppies are four top of the gene line type of exotic poodle's. One of them costs more than my car. Late at night I can here her calling them in after she has had too many greyhounds to drink. "Babies.... Babies? BABIES! YOU GET YOUR DAMN ASSES IN HERE RIGHT NOW!.... There's mamma's gurrlss."
Yeah, now I am home. As I sprint energize from my exertion up my porch steps I see Clyde, our big, calm, copper colored Chesapeake Bay retriever clumsily strain to get his age worn legs up off our door matt. He wags his tail just once looking at me threw his penny hued eyes as he waits for my brief unthinking pat on his head. I bought Clyde for my Hubbies Christmas present nine years ago. I tied a red velvet bow around the fat little puppy that resembled a bear cub. Hubby was delighted. Clyde was banned to sleep in our bathroom the first night, being that it was the only uncarpeted room in the house. Next morning I opened the bathroom door to find my Hubby asleep on the floor like a little boy, one arm around his new best friend so he would not be scared or alone.
They say owners resemble their pets. That Clyde is one fine dog.
First one is Buck, owner and protector of the Jakes. A Rottweiler mix, Buck is strong and loyal. But he will not even notice me as I pad by, unless I have a boy accompanying me. Bucky's yard and home is beautiful and well kept, by his single mom. But sadly there often is no food for Buck. Bucky always travels with the Jakes when they visit. Hubby wonders why we go through so much dog food.
Around the corner and behind the white gated fence is my pal I have named, Ollie the Collie. The stables that Ollie tend are prettier and better kept than most homes in the area. Hyper Ollie charges at me barking every day as if to scold me for not being at work and being more productive. He only allows me only brief acknowledgement before turning back to his job of checking the horses, herding the farm cats, or driving off a squirrel. He is all about business that Ollie.
Down the road a ways is my divine Hail Dog. Hail Dog never comes close to me, remaining somewhat aloof, but I witness his black form out in the front yard next to Bathtub Mary. I know his owners are religious if they have a statue of Mother Mary protected by an old bathtub set on end. I wonder if they genuflect when I elate a rejoyful "Hail Dog", as I pass.
If their people aren't home, Itchy and Scratchy on the bend, come out to start something. They never bother me, as they as gutless wonders. They are more chicken than dog and only brave enough to bark smack, as they follow me with the sole purpose of antagonizing other dogs while they cower behind my legs. Itchy and Scratchy only fight between themselves and once I reach the Wild Tree Mutts, they turn tail and run.
I have never seen The Wild Tree Mutts. I do not even know how many there are. Might be two, could be a dozen. Their bark is loud and as they thunder towards my direction they sound like the hounds of hell. I cannot see them behind the thick evergreens that stand in front of their containment. They are all bark because as soon as I acknowledge them with a loud "GO", the race is one. They always beat me to their corner, where they wait for be to catch up emanating their challenging taunts at me for being so slow.
As I struggle to my halfway mark up the killer hill, two and a half miles from home, I sometimes hear, sometimes see, Eli's dog, Tobby. Tobby never really knows if he is afoot or adrift. Toby has a very short attention span and doesn't always remember if he likes me or not. He has a habit of forgetting that I stopped and petted him on my way up the hill, on my return a few minutes later when he alerts everyone with startled yip or a growl. That reminds me I gotta return the sweatshirt Eli left last night at my house. And the one the night before that.
I know Decoy the black lab's name because his owner yells it when he sees his animal run out to greet me. His yard has numerous fishing boats and hunting parafenallia decorating it. Decoy doesn't bark so at the sound of his name, I instictly pull my hands up into my sleeves to avoid the run by puppy kisses that dog always gives my uncovered hand. Nothing says lovin like some doggy slobber. Decoy, ever the gentleman only kisses my hand.
The Violater is Decoy's neighbor and evil twin. The Violater has no manners. That dog takes liberties that I'd call the authorities and press charges for, if it wouldn't sound ridiculous. I should carry pepper spray for that animal. My patented for a canine groin guard will be named after him.
Sun Dog is a big yellow dog who lays on his warm steps in the sun to lazy to get up and visit with me. Best he can do is roll over with a lackadaisical "woof", if he has the energy. The only thing that changes in his domain is the number of automobiles in various stages of repair in Sun Doggy's yard.
Big Bad Menace is a huge German Shepard with some anger issuses. I would be too if I were to be kept on such a short chain. I know it is his road but hey, he probley smells all the other dogs on me and feels left out. I'd act to if so left out of the clique. The happy little peace flag at the end of his driveway fools noone.
Chester is my love puppy. He is a big harmless mix breed dog so ugly he is funny. Chester is in constant state of molt with perhalps a little mange. His body an eclectic arrangement of heritage. He is the ultimate in flirt. Chester knows he's got it going on. "Chester, (his real name) baby, please come out and let me run my fingers through that hair", I beg him as he struts his macho strut and he swags his tail halfway down his drive way. Chester will not share his mojo with me. He stops and turns his back on me and looks back over his shoulder teasingly before returning to his bright neon blue house.
I rarely get to see Inookook, but she is my favorite. It was along time before I had even seen this husky. She is still, silent as she sits on the edge of the driveway hidden in the birch trees. Her grey and white coat camouflage her well. The only thing on her that moves are her bright blue eyes as they follow me. She is a dignified dog. Quiet and reserved. I at first was self conscious under her scrutiny. She sees through me with the eaons of wisdom behind those amazing eyes. Inookook has my respect.
The busybody of the neighbor hood, Eddy's little bell that he wears on his collar annocesses his short visit. Being a social butterfly, it is up to this little Jack Russell terrier to know the who, what and why of the area. I must not be of great enough interested to Eddy, he flits off in search of better excitement.
The Coup is not a dog. But a bunch of funky chickens. Exotic breed birds they roam were ever they want on this dead end road. They always run squawking off as I approach. Occasionally I will find an egg in the gravel along the side the road. I actually followed them across the road one day. I had to chase them back to their own yard after becoming lost in the cattails. (Why did the chicken cross..) Entertaining, but I can't hold a conversation with them.
Listen, and sometimes when the widows are open, so he can catch a whiff of me, I am able to hear BB. Hound. His mournful blusey, "Owwwww,woow owww", echoes his lament of being kept inside. I have seen him only once on the front step, his sad face puddling around his short little legs. Sing it like it is, BB, sing it like it is.
Now we have come to the dead end of the road and to my nemesis, Mimi's territory. Mimi, is a little white bow wearing yap dog. As I cautiously scale the embankment leading into the one wooded quarter mile path of solitude, Mimi follows. "Yip, yip, yappity, yap, yap, " she badgers at my heels. If I stop, she stops, When I continue, so does she. I have tried numerous times to befriend that little bag of hot air. As soon as I turn around and bend down to her own level, she skurries away a few feet, to continue harassing my at a safe distance, interrupting my peaceful one with nature time. I have resorted to playing her bluff after futile attempts of peace making, by charging at the nasty little critter, hoping to scare her home. She stays farther back, but does not stop. Someday, that mutt will go death after I do catch her and lock her in the metal mailbox at the end of her drive, from the ringing in her ears from her own barks.
Harley, I am not quite certain which son he belongs too, is most often out with Grampa Doug. Grampa Doug is a father of four sons who, after they grew up, all built their own house within a stones throw from Doug's house. They are all married with lovely wives and kids of their own. Every generation of that family is into motorcycles and motosport racing. Three of the four sons have followed Dougs calling and became ministers. The youngest son, drums in a famous Christian rock band. Unfortunately Doug was in an accident causing brain trauma and can no longer preach, due to the memory loss and uncontrollable foul language that pours out of him while he is stressed. Both Harley and Doug spend a lot of time out in the yard, Doug working on his ever growing wood pile, and Harley now his limited congregation. I often sit on a stump to catch my breath and gain insight.
Last is Fluff Puppies home. Their abode is sorely neglected and in need of repair. Their mom, an aging woman has never married and lives there with her elderly father. Her show dog are the love of her life and she affords them by working as a dog groomer. Fluff Puppies are four top of the gene line type of exotic poodle's. One of them costs more than my car. Late at night I can here her calling them in after she has had too many greyhounds to drink. "Babies.... Babies? BABIES! YOU GET YOUR DAMN ASSES IN HERE RIGHT NOW!.... There's mamma's gurrlss."
Yeah, now I am home. As I sprint energize from my exertion up my porch steps I see Clyde, our big, calm, copper colored Chesapeake Bay retriever clumsily strain to get his age worn legs up off our door matt. He wags his tail just once looking at me threw his penny hued eyes as he waits for my brief unthinking pat on his head. I bought Clyde for my Hubbies Christmas present nine years ago. I tied a red velvet bow around the fat little puppy that resembled a bear cub. Hubby was delighted. Clyde was banned to sleep in our bathroom the first night, being that it was the only uncarpeted room in the house. Next morning I opened the bathroom door to find my Hubby asleep on the floor like a little boy, one arm around his new best friend so he would not be scared or alone.
They say owners resemble their pets. That Clyde is one fine dog.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Roses Are Thanksgiving
Roses are red,
this seasons holiday center pieces an autumn hue,
I have me a whole butt load of cooking to do.
I enjoy feeding the hungry masses, my crew,
this year though, lets order in a nice turkey pizza,
some movies, and screw.
this seasons holiday center pieces an autumn hue,
I have me a whole butt load of cooking to do.
I enjoy feeding the hungry masses, my crew,
this year though, lets order in a nice turkey pizza,
some movies, and screw.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
The Drive
As he packs I purposely avoid his eye. I flitter around the rooms perimeter, with no other specific purpose other than to reassure myself he has not yet gone. He tries to include me, indirectly, by talking to "himself" out loud while he gathers and organizes his things. This is a part of our separation ritual. This is not the first nor last time we will play out this little senario. We know the steps to this dance all too well.
But this time I had him for an entire month. This is an unheard of occurrence in the dozen or so years we have spent as parents. I have had him here one other time, but as he was unconscious during a large majority of that visit, it's time does not count. The stress related anurism that tore his heart apart six years ago, drew us closer together. I realized then I would not have his visits, no matter how long, forever. I am lucky to have him at any time.
He does not have his own closet, or dresser drawer in our home. He is never here long enough to make it necessary. His suitcase, on the otherhand, has it's own designated spot by the door. I am fortunate to be able to curse it when I trip over it.
"I will never leave you", he promised me often in our early days together. As if he could pry me away if he had wanted. I went with him then, enjoying our gypsy lifestyle. But to afford the reason it pains his heart to have to go, he does. The good things in life, our family, does not come for free. But that is only part of the cause of his long abstinence.
He could take a couple steps down his corporate ladder and take a permenant in state job, closer to home. A demotion would not make him happy. I would have to take a couple leaps up to make a pay balance. Working more hours myself would not guarantee us more time together
In our honeymoon season my Hubby would drive us around the city looking at it's skyline. He would then pick out a tower crane off in the distance as our destination and drive close to it to admire the building's construction in progress. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he studied it's shell like a work of art, blue prints forming in his mind. "Someday, Baby,someday...", he would say softly, "someday I'm going to be the one building sky scrapers." And I always knew he would. I am his first love, but construction is his passion.
There is something to be said about his ambition. I admire how he has always know what he has wanted to do. In junior high shop class he decide his career and has stuck to it. He aced college before carpentry school. The day after he graduated he woke up early and followed an empty dump truck to find out were it was heading. He knew it would go back to a job site so when he knocked on the office trailer and asked the foreman for a job, his creative incentive got him a job when there were few to be had. It upset Hubby when his new boss would not let him start that day, he had to wait until the next day. He has worked for the same company ever since. He purely loves what he does. He has told me over the years, "I'd do this even if they didn't pay me. I envy that. I would never ask him to change.
Even though he is not one to complain about the long early hours, or the high pressure involved in his work, he does pay a price. He is still the first person I talk to evey morning, and the last at night, but it is on the phone. Computer screen images keep us close. When friends ask us how do you do it? I ask myself the very same question. I do not know any other way. "Where is your husbands next project ?" the neighbors will ask. I will never know the answer as it will be were he is most needed at the time. "For how long?", is the follow up question. As if it mattered. It is not here. Never here for longer than a weekend. It is lonely as hell at times, late night especially difficult. But unlike many service wives, I know my husband is coming home most weekends. That thought keeps me sane and grounded.
I know it is hard for our kids too. Being told you are the man of the house is one thing. Having to act like one when you are missing your father is another. When K1 tried to smuggle himself along, by hiding in his dads truck to go with him to the airport , it was heart wrenching . He could not understand the airport was only a stepping stone to Hubby's finale destination which was even farther away. In his mind, Dad was only driving to the airport.
"This one is only a year long project", Hubby tells me as he closes his bulging case. "Sure", I answer, knowing full well it is phase one of a three year project. "How many million?", I quiz him. "Two hundred fifty eight million". "In one year?", I push. "No" he says, knowing I am on to his ruse, that is the three year projected cost. "Ahh", I play along. I have been with him too long for him to fool me.
"K1, carry my suitcase out to the truck for me, it's time for me to go." "Time to drive to the airport?, our boys ask. "Yes, K2, grab my laptop, I'll need it for the long wait at the terminal. Take good care of your mother," he tells my boys as we follow him out the door for more good bye hugs. "Call me if you need me, I'm only as far away as the airport." We are all crying now and trying to believe our little charade. "See you in a week", he calls out the window as he pulls away. "We'll be right here."
I miss him before he even before he leaves our yard. The airport is only an hour away. Damn that drive.
But this time I had him for an entire month. This is an unheard of occurrence in the dozen or so years we have spent as parents. I have had him here one other time, but as he was unconscious during a large majority of that visit, it's time does not count. The stress related anurism that tore his heart apart six years ago, drew us closer together. I realized then I would not have his visits, no matter how long, forever. I am lucky to have him at any time.
He does not have his own closet, or dresser drawer in our home. He is never here long enough to make it necessary. His suitcase, on the otherhand, has it's own designated spot by the door. I am fortunate to be able to curse it when I trip over it.
"I will never leave you", he promised me often in our early days together. As if he could pry me away if he had wanted. I went with him then, enjoying our gypsy lifestyle. But to afford the reason it pains his heart to have to go, he does. The good things in life, our family, does not come for free. But that is only part of the cause of his long abstinence.
He could take a couple steps down his corporate ladder and take a permenant in state job, closer to home. A demotion would not make him happy. I would have to take a couple leaps up to make a pay balance. Working more hours myself would not guarantee us more time together
In our honeymoon season my Hubby would drive us around the city looking at it's skyline. He would then pick out a tower crane off in the distance as our destination and drive close to it to admire the building's construction in progress. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he studied it's shell like a work of art, blue prints forming in his mind. "Someday, Baby,someday...", he would say softly, "someday I'm going to be the one building sky scrapers." And I always knew he would. I am his first love, but construction is his passion.
There is something to be said about his ambition. I admire how he has always know what he has wanted to do. In junior high shop class he decide his career and has stuck to it. He aced college before carpentry school. The day after he graduated he woke up early and followed an empty dump truck to find out were it was heading. He knew it would go back to a job site so when he knocked on the office trailer and asked the foreman for a job, his creative incentive got him a job when there were few to be had. It upset Hubby when his new boss would not let him start that day, he had to wait until the next day. He has worked for the same company ever since. He purely loves what he does. He has told me over the years, "I'd do this even if they didn't pay me. I envy that. I would never ask him to change.
Even though he is not one to complain about the long early hours, or the high pressure involved in his work, he does pay a price. He is still the first person I talk to evey morning, and the last at night, but it is on the phone. Computer screen images keep us close. When friends ask us how do you do it? I ask myself the very same question. I do not know any other way. "Where is your husbands next project ?" the neighbors will ask. I will never know the answer as it will be were he is most needed at the time. "For how long?", is the follow up question. As if it mattered. It is not here. Never here for longer than a weekend. It is lonely as hell at times, late night especially difficult. But unlike many service wives, I know my husband is coming home most weekends. That thought keeps me sane and grounded.
I know it is hard for our kids too. Being told you are the man of the house is one thing. Having to act like one when you are missing your father is another. When K1 tried to smuggle himself along, by hiding in his dads truck to go with him to the airport , it was heart wrenching . He could not understand the airport was only a stepping stone to Hubby's finale destination which was even farther away. In his mind, Dad was only driving to the airport.
"This one is only a year long project", Hubby tells me as he closes his bulging case. "Sure", I answer, knowing full well it is phase one of a three year project. "How many million?", I quiz him. "Two hundred fifty eight million". "In one year?", I push. "No" he says, knowing I am on to his ruse, that is the three year projected cost. "Ahh", I play along. I have been with him too long for him to fool me.
"K1, carry my suitcase out to the truck for me, it's time for me to go." "Time to drive to the airport?, our boys ask. "Yes, K2, grab my laptop, I'll need it for the long wait at the terminal. Take good care of your mother," he tells my boys as we follow him out the door for more good bye hugs. "Call me if you need me, I'm only as far away as the airport." We are all crying now and trying to believe our little charade. "See you in a week", he calls out the window as he pulls away. "We'll be right here."
I miss him before he even before he leaves our yard. The airport is only an hour away. Damn that drive.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Dinner and a Show
I've enjoyed a copious amount of wonderful food in my life. I have had the pleasure to partake numerous epicurious delights and gastronomic wonders. I have even managed to construct a few of my own tasty meals. But last summer I sampled one that stands out above all others.
As I recall, it was a warm July evening in our little suburban nirvana. My youngest son, K2 is watching me assemble the ingredients for potato salad. "What else is for dinner Mom?" "Baked beans, watermelon, brauts," is my answer. "Brauts on the grill?," he asks, as I notice the little spark light in my young piro's eyes. "Yes, on the grill", I answer chopping onions as I do, knowing full well what he will ask next. "Can I help?." "Of course". "Can I cook them myself ?", he then ventured to ask." "Hmmm", I vacillate on this one. "Please Mom, Please? I'll do it real good! I know how! Dad and I have done it a million times." "Ok, K2", I concede, "But I help you light the charcoal-deal?""Woot!" yells my happy little camper as he disappears out the side door to our lawn.
I find the matches and together we start the flames burning. After a few minutes I bring out the platter of meat and set it on the pick nick table and roughly calculate the amount of weenies that will be fed to our Chesapeake Bay retriever and the loss of the ones that will be covered in ash. It's ok, I figure, we can fill up on salad if need be, this is important to my son. As I hand him our extra long handled tongs, I remind him, once again, "Stand back and don't get too close to the flames. Most people get burned when their clothes catch fire." "I know Mom", he answers looking at me as if I were the child here. "Just go back in the house, I'm doing it. I got it under control. This is man's work here," he demises me. I chuckle at how much he sounded like his father as I turned back to the house so he could prove to me he was capable of this responsibility.
I am setting the table and slicing watermelon next to my open kitchen window. I can hear my son singing softly but cannot see him. After what I determine to be long enough to cook our food, I find an excuse to go outside to check on my young chef. I open my door quietly and go around the corner to see K2, singing and dancing, standing way back from the grill, holding the long tongs in his extended hands. He completely bare butt naked.
He was not going to set his clothes on fire.
Best meal ever.
As I recall, it was a warm July evening in our little suburban nirvana. My youngest son, K2 is watching me assemble the ingredients for potato salad. "What else is for dinner Mom?" "Baked beans, watermelon, brauts," is my answer. "Brauts on the grill?," he asks, as I notice the little spark light in my young piro's eyes. "Yes, on the grill", I answer chopping onions as I do, knowing full well what he will ask next. "Can I help?." "Of course". "Can I cook them myself ?", he then ventured to ask." "Hmmm", I vacillate on this one. "Please Mom, Please? I'll do it real good! I know how! Dad and I have done it a million times." "Ok, K2", I concede, "But I help you light the charcoal-deal?""Woot!" yells my happy little camper as he disappears out the side door to our lawn.
I find the matches and together we start the flames burning. After a few minutes I bring out the platter of meat and set it on the pick nick table and roughly calculate the amount of weenies that will be fed to our Chesapeake Bay retriever and the loss of the ones that will be covered in ash. It's ok, I figure, we can fill up on salad if need be, this is important to my son. As I hand him our extra long handled tongs, I remind him, once again, "Stand back and don't get too close to the flames. Most people get burned when their clothes catch fire." "I know Mom", he answers looking at me as if I were the child here. "Just go back in the house, I'm doing it. I got it under control. This is man's work here," he demises me. I chuckle at how much he sounded like his father as I turned back to the house so he could prove to me he was capable of this responsibility.
I am setting the table and slicing watermelon next to my open kitchen window. I can hear my son singing softly but cannot see him. After what I determine to be long enough to cook our food, I find an excuse to go outside to check on my young chef. I open my door quietly and go around the corner to see K2, singing and dancing, standing way back from the grill, holding the long tongs in his extended hands. He completely bare butt naked.
He was not going to set his clothes on fire.
Best meal ever.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Without Passion
Roses are red,
violets are ordinary.
I hope you know that you are temporary.
Until I find love with a capital L,
you will briefly sufice,
and don't hardly smell.
violets are ordinary.
I hope you know that you are temporary.
Until I find love with a capital L,
you will briefly sufice,
and don't hardly smell.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Beware of the Backsides of Snakes
Conversation with an emotional retart-
idiot- " I can't believe anyone would do something so low!"
wiseone- "Grow up, this is no skock to you. Did you expect anything diferent? Consider the source."
idot- "But shit, even that amazes me. I can't phantom doing that."
wiseone-"Get real- you are feeding on the negitive. That,s what attracted you in the first place. The negitive drama."
idot- "No- I am NOT dramatic! I was straight up doing that!"
wiseone- "You did not NEED to do that. Back a snake into a corner, do not act all surprised on his reaction. You were bored and things were going to well for you and you needed a shake up, a negitive fix."
idot- "But...I wanted just to..."
wiseone- "You will never hear an apoligy or admit he was wrong. You know that."
idot- I know, I just wanted my...."
wiseone- "Knock it off, he won that dirty game from day one. I know it hurts, just walk away the better person. You cannot ever fix or right it. If you are upset then he is effectivly causing you pain. He wins then."
idot- "Duhhh- hitting forhead on countertop."
wiseone-"Stop that- you do not need to hurt yourself I keep telling you. Causing yourself brain trama can cause you to revert to crawling on your belly yourself. Then you can find your own nice rock to hide under".
idot-"Damn you for being so right."
wiseone-"Hang with an asshole, expect only shit".
idot- "Can I quote you on that?"
wiseone- "Make it your mantra to stop you from the drama bullshit."
idot- "Want some candy? Drama free?"
idiot- " I can't believe anyone would do something so low!"
wiseone- "Grow up, this is no skock to you. Did you expect anything diferent? Consider the source."
idot- "But shit, even that amazes me. I can't phantom doing that."
wiseone-"Get real- you are feeding on the negitive. That,s what attracted you in the first place. The negitive drama."
idot- "No- I am NOT dramatic! I was straight up doing that!"
wiseone- "You did not NEED to do that. Back a snake into a corner, do not act all surprised on his reaction. You were bored and things were going to well for you and you needed a shake up, a negitive fix."
idot- "But...I wanted just to..."
wiseone- "You will never hear an apoligy or admit he was wrong. You know that."
idot- I know, I just wanted my...."
wiseone- "Knock it off, he won that dirty game from day one. I know it hurts, just walk away the better person. You cannot ever fix or right it. If you are upset then he is effectivly causing you pain. He wins then."
idot- "Duhhh- hitting forhead on countertop."
wiseone-"Stop that- you do not need to hurt yourself I keep telling you. Causing yourself brain trama can cause you to revert to crawling on your belly yourself. Then you can find your own nice rock to hide under".
idot-"Damn you for being so right."
wiseone-"Hang with an asshole, expect only shit".
idot- "Can I quote you on that?"
wiseone- "Make it your mantra to stop you from the drama bullshit."
idot- "Want some candy? Drama free?"
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Sugar Pie Honey Bunch
This little munkay has a monkey on her back and it's name is sugar. It is my drug of choice. It has it's sticky grip in me and I can't shake it no matter how many ho-ho's I swallow. I eat and I eat and I eat and I still can't lose weight. With my body chemistry, I am so sweet I make honey bitter.
Maybe it started with that cheese cake day I had a while back, I dunno. But when my kids came home with twenty pound of halloween candy I knew I was in for a rocky road ahead. Twenty sweet delicious pounds and not a single Dot in those bags. That has forced me to eat the non-Dot type candy in retaliation.
It was my kids who pointed out my problem. When they found me napping once again, snoring soft Snicker smelling snores, chocolate smudge on my cheeks as I slept off my latest binge. "Mom! Mom! Wake up!", they yelled while shoveling off the wrapper litter from my bloated body"The cat has gotten into our candy again and tried to bury you in the wrappers!" "There, there, little ones. Mommy's ok, I'll always protect you.", was my blurry reply. From what? Tooth decay? Empty calories? Our phantom candy eating cat?
I'll admit I have a problem. I'm working on my own twelve step program. Phase on, give up the Smarties. Phase two, good bye licorice....
Intervention time is now, just let me whip up a batch of brownies before you come.
Maybe it started with that cheese cake day I had a while back, I dunno. But when my kids came home with twenty pound of halloween candy I knew I was in for a rocky road ahead. Twenty sweet delicious pounds and not a single Dot in those bags. That has forced me to eat the non-Dot type candy in retaliation.
It was my kids who pointed out my problem. When they found me napping once again, snoring soft Snicker smelling snores, chocolate smudge on my cheeks as I slept off my latest binge. "Mom! Mom! Wake up!", they yelled while shoveling off the wrapper litter from my bloated body"The cat has gotten into our candy again and tried to bury you in the wrappers!" "There, there, little ones. Mommy's ok, I'll always protect you.", was my blurry reply. From what? Tooth decay? Empty calories? Our phantom candy eating cat?
I'll admit I have a problem. I'm working on my own twelve step program. Phase on, give up the Smarties. Phase two, good bye licorice....
Intervention time is now, just let me whip up a batch of brownies before you come.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Albins Trophy
I never got to see him very often, but then again he was different then the type of men I was familiar with. Uncle Albin was a soft man. Quiet and gentle in spirit, with hands like a woman. Clean and well manicured, hands that never had been used for heavy manual labor.
Albin was not my actual relative. He had married my aunt Tilly and become part of my extended family. They lived far away in the big city and raised lap dogs in place of children. Tilly had worked for a short period of time as a teacher before her rumitoid arthritis handicapped her. Albin looked after both her and Mitzi, their chiwawa breed puppy. After coming home from his office job at the car dealership, my uncle lovingly and patiently cared for his little family. Age had affected both Albins hearing and sight.
In the fall, they would come up north to our family's farm for deer hunting season. It was never a question of if my dad and older brother would be hunting every year. For us, it was a necessity. The venison meat that was harvested, along with my mothers garden vegetables, was the mainstay of our diet. Too poor to afford costly equipment, the men of the family hunted in heavily patched and well worn camouflage clothing. They did not need to waste money on ammunition target practicing, both were a crack shot. My dad was inventive enough to have carved the stock of his rifle himself one winter. The hunt was vital for our family, but that did not stop them from looking forward to it every year. A holiday season of our own.
For my sisters and myself, who were never included in the hunt, our enjoyment was second hand at best. The girls would mend the red required hunting gear and make lunches. During the summer, Butch would sometime include us when he surveyed the back fields, looking for signs of deer. I would have to run to keep up to his long hurried strides with my little legs. He would carry me over the creek that my limbs were too short to reach across. Being youngest, I was left with the job of picking any stray hair from the venison we had butchered ourselves, before my sisters would wrap and freeze the coming years meat.
While Dad looked at it as a means to feed us, it was my brother, Butch, who delighted in the sport. Quiet the outdoors man, my brother, he knew the 360 acres of farm like the back of his own hand. He knew the deer population, as well as moving times, and trails of the future possible quarry. It was his dream for the local fame and fortune of winning the area big buck contest held annually by the local merchants. Butch had internal buck fever. Every year he anticipated and planned for the next hunt even before he even registered his current deer.
The chilly mornings Albin would pull into our yard, late, in his brand new vehicle, Dad and Butch would look at each other with a sideways glance, and would always warmly and sincerely welcome him on the hunt. Our family had no all terrain vehicle's then, and Albins show room models were too shiny to scratch, so the hunters would have to walk back into their hunting spots. Albin was not in very good physical shape so Dad and Butch would carry his rifle for him before depositing him at the best possible spot before venturing father on. Albin had went to all the effort of coming on the hunt, the men figured, so they were determined he would have a deer to take back for his effort. After a cold opener with no success, when I was around eight years old, Albin confessed he had never even seen any deer to shoot on that day. This baffled Butch, who at one point had walked throught the woods loudly to scare the deer to the front of Uncle so he could bag his deer and free my father and brother to go about harvesting our own winters meat supply. The next morning they all hunted together and sat at the edge of the clearing in line, when my Dad realized Albin just couldn't see the deer walk across the meadow directly in front fireing range. Albin was staring with unfocused eyes at the deer my brother was silently begging my father to let him have a shot at. Ever the gentleman, Dad motioned my brother wait so Albin could take the first shot. Finally my father elbowed Albin and gestured toward the direction of the deer. Albin shoots vaugly in the right area and my brother then fires immediately after Albin shoots. I can remember the conversation after Butch dragged "Albins" deer back. The men were drinking coffee while warming themselves in our kitchen and enjoying the retelling of the hunt. "Honestly, at first I didn't see the deer standing there, did I ever get lucky", Albin happily recalled. "Yes, a deer like that anyone would be proud of," Dad replied with a meaningful look at Butch as he finally made it back, covered in blood and sweat from his exertion. He then flushed even a deeper shade of red when Albin asked him,"Was it a buck Butch?".
After that successful hunt of course Albin came back again. With a new rifle with a high powered scope to better see the deer that evaded his limited sight. The cost of that gun could of feed our family for the winter. The gun was high caliber enough to take down a large elephant. Albin was aslo sporting a single hearing aid. First day out, with Albin in between my brother and father, Albin brings down his own deer when cued. I ran outside to see how big this one was once Butch had him loaded into the back of his own pick up truck to register in town after Albin had sufficiently warmed up. "Wow!", I had exclaimed when seeing the dead animal, "Nice size." I could see the half dollar size bullet holes in the deer's side. "Too bad, really, it's a damn waste of meat", my Dad said with a wistfully shake of his head as lifted up a stiff leg to reveal the jellied mass of ruined coagulated flesh that had been the exit side of Albins bullet.
After that, the next season Butch could not stomach sitting still waiting for the chance of a deer coming to them, as he waited with Albin and Dad. He was out before the older men to drive the deer into Albins sights and get that prelude to his own real hunting out of his way. My brother was behind a few deer parading them like a row of ducks in Albins line of fire. Leading the group of animals is a huge trophy sized buck, the kind generations of hunting stories are made of. Albin fires a single shot that brings the monster deer down. It was an extremely elated uncle that told me this story as I poured him his coffee. Albin tells me that unfortunately Butch was too far way for his own shot to be as effective.
It was with mixed emotions that I slipped on my boots to run out to see this legendary deer that would be taken into town. I knew Butch would be disappointed that Albin had not entered the big buck contest so it was with some trepidation that I peeked over the trucks side to see this years bounty. As I stood on tip toe and peered over the trucks side I braced myself for the mass amount of blood I was sure to encounter. There wasn't much. Shocked, I asked unbelieving, "Butch, were is the bullet holes?" "One shot, little one, right here", Butch answered taping the front of the deers chest before turning to go into the house to bring the now warmed Albin into town to register his buck. I was still puzzling the lack of blood and the much smaller hole than had previously had caused Albins deers death when my dad came back from cleaning the gutting knives. "Dad! How come half of this deer isn't blown to smithereens? How did Albin shoot him from the front?" Dad paused thoughtfully before answering. My father would never lie, so I totally believed him when he answered, "Sometimes, Babe, when shot at....a deer will just change the direction they are running and fatally run straight into the bullet." Trying to fathom his explanation I asked,"Did he turn into Albins bullet or was he turning back towards Bu- ", I am figuring out outloud before dad interrupts me as my brother and uncle approach. "Thats right, one bullet straight in the heart"* my dad says loudly. "Run inside now, see if we need to pick up some more freezer paper for when Butch and I get our own now", he dismissed me.
My brother continued to hunt every year after that. He still lives on a part of the old farm. He never did bag another deer of that proportion. His own sons have grown and do not relish the hunt by any means like their father.
Four years back, partly due to diabetic complications, my brother suffered a severe stroke. Butch has lost is ability to speak, our hunting story's are no more. He also the control of his right side, making hunting, his passion, near impossible. Near. But not quite.
He now has a pistol of a high enough caliber that he hunts with his left hand. It's not big enough to bring down an elephant. But with my brothers aim, he could if he wanted. He walks with a cane and his gun straped across his chest.Two years ago he bagged a sizeable deer with it. No record winner but good eating.
Last year, K1, passed his fire arms safety test. I packed up our city vehicle and we braved the subzero weather for a hunt. I carried my son's rifle as the cerebral palsy that affected his leg muscles makes it difficult for him to traverse the deep snow. I have hunted in the past, since growing up, I just do not make the time for it as I should. I have even helped build stands on the farm since my youth that I have taken my own deer from.
I thought I was doing my brother a favor by giving him someone to hunt with. We all sat on the edge of the field that Butch signaled as our designated lucky spot using hand gestures. Nether Butch or K1 were physically able to climb a tree stand. I helped them both across the creek. As I sat shaking with cold, listening to my son trying not to fidget, I was the one stealing sideways glances at my hunting companions. K1, so excited at being included could not concentrate and sit still. Butch on the other hand, was the only one who was not shaking. It might have been because his stroke left him with out nerve endings to feel the cold invading his extremities. But I know instead it was because he did not want us to miss the opportunity to know what elation he had felt bagging Albins trophy.
We were not able to go up north for hunting season this year unfortunately. I will however call my brother with a cup of coffee and talk hunting. I'm finely going to tell him I know who really shot those deer. I'd give every trophy I ever and will ever win to hear him talk back.
*When hunting, the best target where you have the highest chances of dropping a deer is from the side. To the back top of his front leg is his heart. You can also drop one from the front and reach the heart, but your chances are less and at a full run near nil unless you are a heck of a shot.
Albin was not my actual relative. He had married my aunt Tilly and become part of my extended family. They lived far away in the big city and raised lap dogs in place of children. Tilly had worked for a short period of time as a teacher before her rumitoid arthritis handicapped her. Albin looked after both her and Mitzi, their chiwawa breed puppy. After coming home from his office job at the car dealership, my uncle lovingly and patiently cared for his little family. Age had affected both Albins hearing and sight.
In the fall, they would come up north to our family's farm for deer hunting season. It was never a question of if my dad and older brother would be hunting every year. For us, it was a necessity. The venison meat that was harvested, along with my mothers garden vegetables, was the mainstay of our diet. Too poor to afford costly equipment, the men of the family hunted in heavily patched and well worn camouflage clothing. They did not need to waste money on ammunition target practicing, both were a crack shot. My dad was inventive enough to have carved the stock of his rifle himself one winter. The hunt was vital for our family, but that did not stop them from looking forward to it every year. A holiday season of our own.
For my sisters and myself, who were never included in the hunt, our enjoyment was second hand at best. The girls would mend the red required hunting gear and make lunches. During the summer, Butch would sometime include us when he surveyed the back fields, looking for signs of deer. I would have to run to keep up to his long hurried strides with my little legs. He would carry me over the creek that my limbs were too short to reach across. Being youngest, I was left with the job of picking any stray hair from the venison we had butchered ourselves, before my sisters would wrap and freeze the coming years meat.
While Dad looked at it as a means to feed us, it was my brother, Butch, who delighted in the sport. Quiet the outdoors man, my brother, he knew the 360 acres of farm like the back of his own hand. He knew the deer population, as well as moving times, and trails of the future possible quarry. It was his dream for the local fame and fortune of winning the area big buck contest held annually by the local merchants. Butch had internal buck fever. Every year he anticipated and planned for the next hunt even before he even registered his current deer.
The chilly mornings Albin would pull into our yard, late, in his brand new vehicle, Dad and Butch would look at each other with a sideways glance, and would always warmly and sincerely welcome him on the hunt. Our family had no all terrain vehicle's then, and Albins show room models were too shiny to scratch, so the hunters would have to walk back into their hunting spots. Albin was not in very good physical shape so Dad and Butch would carry his rifle for him before depositing him at the best possible spot before venturing father on. Albin had went to all the effort of coming on the hunt, the men figured, so they were determined he would have a deer to take back for his effort. After a cold opener with no success, when I was around eight years old, Albin confessed he had never even seen any deer to shoot on that day. This baffled Butch, who at one point had walked throught the woods loudly to scare the deer to the front of Uncle so he could bag his deer and free my father and brother to go about harvesting our own winters meat supply. The next morning they all hunted together and sat at the edge of the clearing in line, when my Dad realized Albin just couldn't see the deer walk across the meadow directly in front fireing range. Albin was staring with unfocused eyes at the deer my brother was silently begging my father to let him have a shot at. Ever the gentleman, Dad motioned my brother wait so Albin could take the first shot. Finally my father elbowed Albin and gestured toward the direction of the deer. Albin shoots vaugly in the right area and my brother then fires immediately after Albin shoots. I can remember the conversation after Butch dragged "Albins" deer back. The men were drinking coffee while warming themselves in our kitchen and enjoying the retelling of the hunt. "Honestly, at first I didn't see the deer standing there, did I ever get lucky", Albin happily recalled. "Yes, a deer like that anyone would be proud of," Dad replied with a meaningful look at Butch as he finally made it back, covered in blood and sweat from his exertion. He then flushed even a deeper shade of red when Albin asked him,"Was it a buck Butch?".
After that successful hunt of course Albin came back again. With a new rifle with a high powered scope to better see the deer that evaded his limited sight. The cost of that gun could of feed our family for the winter. The gun was high caliber enough to take down a large elephant. Albin was aslo sporting a single hearing aid. First day out, with Albin in between my brother and father, Albin brings down his own deer when cued. I ran outside to see how big this one was once Butch had him loaded into the back of his own pick up truck to register in town after Albin had sufficiently warmed up. "Wow!", I had exclaimed when seeing the dead animal, "Nice size." I could see the half dollar size bullet holes in the deer's side. "Too bad, really, it's a damn waste of meat", my Dad said with a wistfully shake of his head as lifted up a stiff leg to reveal the jellied mass of ruined coagulated flesh that had been the exit side of Albins bullet.
After that, the next season Butch could not stomach sitting still waiting for the chance of a deer coming to them, as he waited with Albin and Dad. He was out before the older men to drive the deer into Albins sights and get that prelude to his own real hunting out of his way. My brother was behind a few deer parading them like a row of ducks in Albins line of fire. Leading the group of animals is a huge trophy sized buck, the kind generations of hunting stories are made of. Albin fires a single shot that brings the monster deer down. It was an extremely elated uncle that told me this story as I poured him his coffee. Albin tells me that unfortunately Butch was too far way for his own shot to be as effective.
It was with mixed emotions that I slipped on my boots to run out to see this legendary deer that would be taken into town. I knew Butch would be disappointed that Albin had not entered the big buck contest so it was with some trepidation that I peeked over the trucks side to see this years bounty. As I stood on tip toe and peered over the trucks side I braced myself for the mass amount of blood I was sure to encounter. There wasn't much. Shocked, I asked unbelieving, "Butch, were is the bullet holes?" "One shot, little one, right here", Butch answered taping the front of the deers chest before turning to go into the house to bring the now warmed Albin into town to register his buck. I was still puzzling the lack of blood and the much smaller hole than had previously had caused Albins deers death when my dad came back from cleaning the gutting knives. "Dad! How come half of this deer isn't blown to smithereens? How did Albin shoot him from the front?" Dad paused thoughtfully before answering. My father would never lie, so I totally believed him when he answered, "Sometimes, Babe, when shot at....a deer will just change the direction they are running and fatally run straight into the bullet." Trying to fathom his explanation I asked,"Did he turn into Albins bullet or was he turning back towards Bu- ", I am figuring out outloud before dad interrupts me as my brother and uncle approach. "Thats right, one bullet straight in the heart"* my dad says loudly. "Run inside now, see if we need to pick up some more freezer paper for when Butch and I get our own now", he dismissed me.
My brother continued to hunt every year after that. He still lives on a part of the old farm. He never did bag another deer of that proportion. His own sons have grown and do not relish the hunt by any means like their father.
Four years back, partly due to diabetic complications, my brother suffered a severe stroke. Butch has lost is ability to speak, our hunting story's are no more. He also the control of his right side, making hunting, his passion, near impossible. Near. But not quite.
He now has a pistol of a high enough caliber that he hunts with his left hand. It's not big enough to bring down an elephant. But with my brothers aim, he could if he wanted. He walks with a cane and his gun straped across his chest.Two years ago he bagged a sizeable deer with it. No record winner but good eating.
Last year, K1, passed his fire arms safety test. I packed up our city vehicle and we braved the subzero weather for a hunt. I carried my son's rifle as the cerebral palsy that affected his leg muscles makes it difficult for him to traverse the deep snow. I have hunted in the past, since growing up, I just do not make the time for it as I should. I have even helped build stands on the farm since my youth that I have taken my own deer from.
I thought I was doing my brother a favor by giving him someone to hunt with. We all sat on the edge of the field that Butch signaled as our designated lucky spot using hand gestures. Nether Butch or K1 were physically able to climb a tree stand. I helped them both across the creek. As I sat shaking with cold, listening to my son trying not to fidget, I was the one stealing sideways glances at my hunting companions. K1, so excited at being included could not concentrate and sit still. Butch on the other hand, was the only one who was not shaking. It might have been because his stroke left him with out nerve endings to feel the cold invading his extremities. But I know instead it was because he did not want us to miss the opportunity to know what elation he had felt bagging Albins trophy.
We were not able to go up north for hunting season this year unfortunately. I will however call my brother with a cup of coffee and talk hunting. I'm finely going to tell him I know who really shot those deer. I'd give every trophy I ever and will ever win to hear him talk back.
*When hunting, the best target where you have the highest chances of dropping a deer is from the side. To the back top of his front leg is his heart. You can also drop one from the front and reach the heart, but your chances are less and at a full run near nil unless you are a heck of a shot.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Love Equals
1= The number of cakes I've eaten in one sitting.
5= The number of times I've yelled "Pick that up" today.
21= The number of loads of laundry I have done this week.
69= The number that comes after 68.
131= The number of pounds I currantly weigh.
150= The number of pounds I would buy of bulk chocolate for candy making at Easter.
250= The number of dozens of roses my sister sold this week for a fund raiser.
750= The number of single roses I helped her tube.
789= Why 6 is scared. (Seven Eight (ate) Nine).
7004= The number of meals I've cooked for my hubby.
6242= The number of meals I've cooked for K1
46o8= The number of meals I've cooked for K2.
10506= The number of hours spent in kitchen making meals.
3600= The number of miles I have ran/walked since my transplant.
264,000= The number of steps taken running per month.
10= The number of pairs of running shoes.
2267= The number of deep fried cheese curds I've made since starting at the Bistro.
224,000= The number of calories disgused as deep fried cheese curds.
34,944= The number of insulin injections I took while diabetic.
22,680= The number of pills, vitaimins included since my transplant.
9= The number of times I've woken up naked with a stranger.
8= The number of times I've woken up naked with strangers who were emergancy medics.
14= The number of times I was told "I love you" today.
Infinity= My number of blessings.
5= The number of times I've yelled "Pick that up" today.
21= The number of loads of laundry I have done this week.
69= The number that comes after 68.
131= The number of pounds I currantly weigh.
150= The number of pounds I would buy of bulk chocolate for candy making at Easter.
250= The number of dozens of roses my sister sold this week for a fund raiser.
750= The number of single roses I helped her tube.
789= Why 6 is scared. (Seven Eight (ate) Nine).
7004= The number of meals I've cooked for my hubby.
6242= The number of meals I've cooked for K1
46o8= The number of meals I've cooked for K2.
10506= The number of hours spent in kitchen making meals.
3600= The number of miles I have ran/walked since my transplant.
264,000= The number of steps taken running per month.
10= The number of pairs of running shoes.
2267= The number of deep fried cheese curds I've made since starting at the Bistro.
224,000= The number of calories disgused as deep fried cheese curds.
34,944= The number of insulin injections I took while diabetic.
22,680= The number of pills, vitaimins included since my transplant.
9= The number of times I've woken up naked with a stranger.
8= The number of times I've woken up naked with strangers who were emergancy medics.
14= The number of times I was told "I love you" today.
Infinity= My number of blessings.
Tea in China
Not for a billion crocodile tears
in a trillion zillion years
would I have your back again.
Whining backstabers I do not befriend.
Even your memory sickens me.
Fuck off. Drop dead.
Do not talk to me again.
in a trillion zillion years
would I have your back again.
Whining backstabers I do not befriend.
Even your memory sickens me.
Fuck off. Drop dead.
Do not talk to me again.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Ten Things
Here is a list of ten things no one knows about me. I think.
(1) Sometimes after a stressful day at work, I, or someone who looks freakishy similar to me, will play country music full blast in her jeep on the way home. Not that I, or she, likes country music mind you. I-she just finds the corny lyrics played loudly after hearing the same non-obtrusive mind numbing music repeatedly force onto me-her, to have a defunkafiing effect. When coming to a stop light I-she will roll up her window so not to be overheard and nod her head in random rhythm as if to "fly" tunes.
(2) I once had a French Canadian boyfriend named Skeeter Minyeah. (min-yeah, I purposely misspelled his last name encase he googles himself and finds out what I geek I turned into and the fact I am now telling both our dark secreats.) Skeeter was three years younger than me at the time. Not a a big deal now but back in the day that was a big age difference. He gave me his blue soft flannel shirt after confiding in me his real name was Lawance, to keep me from telling anyone. During stressful times I would sleep in his shirt to self comfort. Without washing. Ever. I liked Skeeters smell that much. Not that he, personally was a comforting person. On the contrary, he could be somewhat of a hyper spaz. I continued to wear it occasional, unwashed for the first two years after I moved in with Hubby. Then he unknowingly threw it in with a load of darks. I would still were it now if it hadn't burned.
(3) I have owned my Harley now for twelve years but have never gotten my motorcycle endorsement. I hate tests that much. I took the safety classes and got the highest score out of the thirty attending (experienced male drivers included) on the written test and won a t-shirt. I had my permit on which I missed only one question but it long since expired. Authorities see a chick on a hog dressed in full ridding gear and think I'm legite. Someday. Maybe.
(4) When I was fourteen and staying at a fishing resort, living and working as a cabin girl, I ran off to see the pope whille he was on tour, up in Winnipeg Canada, with a bunch of drunken tourist resort goers. Colleen, my sixteen year old cabin mate and I were not catholic, it just sounded fun to see the pope-mobile. About a hundred twenty five miles on the other side of the border when they sobered up and realized we were minors, they made me pull the van over, so they could drive us back. The man who had me relinquish the wheel bought me my first Dairy Queen in a small town called Manitowakee. They told our resort owner boss we had been out fishing so we would not get fired. We stopped for fresh fish at the next resort over before returning as evidence.
(5) I have a stock pile supply of my favorite Popeye canned spinach that I hold out from my family. I tear the labels off the cans and write things like "pumpkin" or "sliced beets" on the can so they will not eat my beloved supply.
(6) If I think about what I am doing, I cannot walk down the stairs without falling. If I ponder about the fact I am actually going down the stairs, I then must stop talking to concentrate on what I am doing, and watch me feet. I have my stairs in my house counted so I know in the back of my mind how many times I have to pick my feet up. If I mess up , I try walking straight off the second to the last stair into the air. Or I will do that stupid little extra-one more step dance at the flat floor bottom thinking I have one more to go. Yes, must be a uncoordinated depth-perception thing I have missing. I want a stair chair lift for Christmas. Shoot, now I have psyced myself into it and over thought this too much and am gonna crash when I finish this to go downstairs.
(7) I once officially changed my name to "Cookie". I would not answer to anything but "Cookie". I was five years old at the time, I later changed it to "Bonnie". I now love my real name. I would not change it to "Cookie" for all the cookies in the world. (And I certainly wouldn't share them with Bonnie.)
(8) Once in an extremely intimate moment, my partner whispered to me, "Be my naughty little girl", encouragingly. To which I replied with all sincerity, "Yesss....I'm missing church!". I was. It was a Wednesday night.
(9)When my youngest son, K2 was an infant I actually did dress him up as a little girl just to know what it would feel like to have a daughter to deck out in frills. Please don't tell him that I did, as my version now is that I had only wanted to. It didn't work. I couldn't get him in the pink little outfit. My cat, on the other hand, looked quite sweet in it.
(10) When I first met Hubby, I told him I couldn't even boil water, much less cook, Granted, I certainly didn't know how to whip out the dishes I do now. But man, back then I sure was taken out to dinner a lot.
(10.a) I am secretly married to the Rock. You wonder why I refure to my other half as Hubby, and that he works out of town so frequent? We just like to keep our personal life out of the spotlight. That other "wife" is just an actress front for our protection. The little girl you ask? Take a close look. Our love child.
Ok so it 10 out of 11 true things about me that few know about. Guess all you want but I'm not letting you in on which is untrue. Not without some bribes here.
(1) Sometimes after a stressful day at work, I, or someone who looks freakishy similar to me, will play country music full blast in her jeep on the way home. Not that I, or she, likes country music mind you. I-she just finds the corny lyrics played loudly after hearing the same non-obtrusive mind numbing music repeatedly force onto me-her, to have a defunkafiing effect. When coming to a stop light I-she will roll up her window so not to be overheard and nod her head in random rhythm as if to "fly" tunes.
(2) I once had a French Canadian boyfriend named Skeeter Minyeah. (min-yeah, I purposely misspelled his last name encase he googles himself and finds out what I geek I turned into and the fact I am now telling both our dark secreats.) Skeeter was three years younger than me at the time. Not a a big deal now but back in the day that was a big age difference. He gave me his blue soft flannel shirt after confiding in me his real name was Lawance, to keep me from telling anyone. During stressful times I would sleep in his shirt to self comfort. Without washing. Ever. I liked Skeeters smell that much. Not that he, personally was a comforting person. On the contrary, he could be somewhat of a hyper spaz. I continued to wear it occasional, unwashed for the first two years after I moved in with Hubby. Then he unknowingly threw it in with a load of darks. I would still were it now if it hadn't burned.
(3) I have owned my Harley now for twelve years but have never gotten my motorcycle endorsement. I hate tests that much. I took the safety classes and got the highest score out of the thirty attending (experienced male drivers included) on the written test and won a t-shirt. I had my permit on which I missed only one question but it long since expired. Authorities see a chick on a hog dressed in full ridding gear and think I'm legite. Someday. Maybe.
(4) When I was fourteen and staying at a fishing resort, living and working as a cabin girl, I ran off to see the pope whille he was on tour, up in Winnipeg Canada, with a bunch of drunken tourist resort goers. Colleen, my sixteen year old cabin mate and I were not catholic, it just sounded fun to see the pope-mobile. About a hundred twenty five miles on the other side of the border when they sobered up and realized we were minors, they made me pull the van over, so they could drive us back. The man who had me relinquish the wheel bought me my first Dairy Queen in a small town called Manitowakee. They told our resort owner boss we had been out fishing so we would not get fired. We stopped for fresh fish at the next resort over before returning as evidence.
(5) I have a stock pile supply of my favorite Popeye canned spinach that I hold out from my family. I tear the labels off the cans and write things like "pumpkin" or "sliced beets" on the can so they will not eat my beloved supply.
(6) If I think about what I am doing, I cannot walk down the stairs without falling. If I ponder about the fact I am actually going down the stairs, I then must stop talking to concentrate on what I am doing, and watch me feet. I have my stairs in my house counted so I know in the back of my mind how many times I have to pick my feet up. If I mess up , I try walking straight off the second to the last stair into the air. Or I will do that stupid little extra-one more step dance at the flat floor bottom thinking I have one more to go. Yes, must be a uncoordinated depth-perception thing I have missing. I want a stair chair lift for Christmas. Shoot, now I have psyced myself into it and over thought this too much and am gonna crash when I finish this to go downstairs.
(7) I once officially changed my name to "Cookie". I would not answer to anything but "Cookie". I was five years old at the time, I later changed it to "Bonnie". I now love my real name. I would not change it to "Cookie" for all the cookies in the world. (And I certainly wouldn't share them with Bonnie.)
(8) Once in an extremely intimate moment, my partner whispered to me, "Be my naughty little girl", encouragingly. To which I replied with all sincerity, "Yesss....I'm missing church!". I was. It was a Wednesday night.
(9)When my youngest son, K2 was an infant I actually did dress him up as a little girl just to know what it would feel like to have a daughter to deck out in frills. Please don't tell him that I did, as my version now is that I had only wanted to. It didn't work. I couldn't get him in the pink little outfit. My cat, on the other hand, looked quite sweet in it.
(10) When I first met Hubby, I told him I couldn't even boil water, much less cook, Granted, I certainly didn't know how to whip out the dishes I do now. But man, back then I sure was taken out to dinner a lot.
(10.a) I am secretly married to the Rock. You wonder why I refure to my other half as Hubby, and that he works out of town so frequent? We just like to keep our personal life out of the spotlight. That other "wife" is just an actress front for our protection. The little girl you ask? Take a close look. Our love child.
Ok so it 10 out of 11 true things about me that few know about. Guess all you want but I'm not letting you in on which is untrue. Not without some bribes here.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Smack Like That Leaves a Mark
I think I was born with skin problems. The nurse assured my surprised mum in that delivery room that the birthing rash would disappear once I subjected to some sunlight to my skin to eliminate the effects of jaundice. That helped somewhat for the first dozen years of my life but I've been plagued by acne ever since. Doctors told me it was excessive hormones and once I was graduated from puberty I would be home clear. In that interim, I've passed through adolescence, young adult, motherhood and yes, grandmotherhood. Now don't get your undies all in a bunch I am a grandmother by way of my Hubbies first marriage. Step Grandma-ma zit Munkay. Woaw is me, I now have pimples in my wrinkles.
I do ok with this superficial handicap. My family will tease me about my vanity. But I am real about my looks. I am nothing but average looking. Except for this harry tail that I keep having to shave or tuck up under my skirt. I do though have great self confidence. I like how I now look and am comfortable with myself. I have been called too skinny at one point of my life. When I weight fifty-five pounds more than I do now, my skin didn't matter as much. I was too wrapped up in the size of my thighs or my butt at the time. Ironically, my sweetheart Hubby loved my body more when I was larger. I, on the other hand loved myself less. My size, when I try hard, is something I can controll.
I do have my good days, along with my bad ones. One my good days my looks have gotten me things. Front row concert tickets to Aerosmith, were they fill the front rows with females for example. Bowie picked me out of the audience and asked my name. It was my picture that one the photography contest. Big bucks were my reward from the wet t shirt contest. (They weren't judging on size.)
My bad days I try not to remember as well. A well meaning stranger once asked my if I used soap on my face. "No, just the stuff my dermatologist gives me", I answer knowing full well what her next question would be. When you are zit challenged, you learn to grow a thicker skin. I cannot count the times I have been asked if I have ever thought about seeing some one for my skin.
When I was diabetic I assumed it was just the toxins from the sugar my body could not use that caused my flare ups. In desperation I went on a four month detox diet and would not touch meat of any kind, dairy, white flour, sugar, caffeine or soda. I lost a large amount of weight which only caused my pimples to stand out more pronounced on my thin face. "You are starving your skin, eat!", my dermatologist, Dr. Feelgood told me. Then he asked me out to dinner. I still am unsure if he was attracted to me or the fact I was a professional challenge.
My Hubby is the only one aloud to tease me about my face. That is because he does without cruelty and in good humor. "You growing yourself another head there baby?" he will ask when seeing a new pimple. "That one I'm gonna name Shela", he will anounce as if it were a welcome addition to our family.
There are days when I wake up and my skin actually hurts. But nothing hurt as much as when a longtime friend Mitch gave a cut that wount just disapear.
I certainly did not chose Mitch as a friend because of his looks. I thought his beauty to be internal and it was his personality that attracted me. He was quite the extra-extrovert and had a habit of turning people off in most social settings. I always had felt uncomfortable when acompanying him in public. I was more than alittle ashamed of being seen with him at events when he was unable to find a date. But I had always looked for the good in him, and had felt sorry that for him that he was single.
A group of friends were at his place and I was cooking all of us dinner. I had left the room but was not out of ear-shot when I heard a Heidi make the comment to him, "You should really go for that Munkay, then you would have it made." I lingered longer to hear the words that would fall on me like bricks. "Never. No way. Not with that face." I do not remember the rest of that dinner after I picked my ego up off the floor and brushed my tears off it.
Maybe Mitch had always felt my embarrassment at being seen with him. He probly had his own self esteem issuses. Could even be why his teenager cuts school when his acne flares its ugly head. I just hope Mitch's internal beauty was worth my attention. "Sticks and stones may break my bones but its words like that that scar."
I do ok with this superficial handicap. My family will tease me about my vanity. But I am real about my looks. I am nothing but average looking. Except for this harry tail that I keep having to shave or tuck up under my skirt. I do though have great self confidence. I like how I now look and am comfortable with myself. I have been called too skinny at one point of my life. When I weight fifty-five pounds more than I do now, my skin didn't matter as much. I was too wrapped up in the size of my thighs or my butt at the time. Ironically, my sweetheart Hubby loved my body more when I was larger. I, on the other hand loved myself less. My size, when I try hard, is something I can controll.
I do have my good days, along with my bad ones. One my good days my looks have gotten me things. Front row concert tickets to Aerosmith, were they fill the front rows with females for example. Bowie picked me out of the audience and asked my name. It was my picture that one the photography contest. Big bucks were my reward from the wet t shirt contest. (They weren't judging on size.)
My bad days I try not to remember as well. A well meaning stranger once asked my if I used soap on my face. "No, just the stuff my dermatologist gives me", I answer knowing full well what her next question would be. When you are zit challenged, you learn to grow a thicker skin. I cannot count the times I have been asked if I have ever thought about seeing some one for my skin.
When I was diabetic I assumed it was just the toxins from the sugar my body could not use that caused my flare ups. In desperation I went on a four month detox diet and would not touch meat of any kind, dairy, white flour, sugar, caffeine or soda. I lost a large amount of weight which only caused my pimples to stand out more pronounced on my thin face. "You are starving your skin, eat!", my dermatologist, Dr. Feelgood told me. Then he asked me out to dinner. I still am unsure if he was attracted to me or the fact I was a professional challenge.
My Hubby is the only one aloud to tease me about my face. That is because he does without cruelty and in good humor. "You growing yourself another head there baby?" he will ask when seeing a new pimple. "That one I'm gonna name Shela", he will anounce as if it were a welcome addition to our family.
There are days when I wake up and my skin actually hurts. But nothing hurt as much as when a longtime friend Mitch gave a cut that wount just disapear.
I certainly did not chose Mitch as a friend because of his looks. I thought his beauty to be internal and it was his personality that attracted me. He was quite the extra-extrovert and had a habit of turning people off in most social settings. I always had felt uncomfortable when acompanying him in public. I was more than alittle ashamed of being seen with him at events when he was unable to find a date. But I had always looked for the good in him, and had felt sorry that for him that he was single.
A group of friends were at his place and I was cooking all of us dinner. I had left the room but was not out of ear-shot when I heard a Heidi make the comment to him, "You should really go for that Munkay, then you would have it made." I lingered longer to hear the words that would fall on me like bricks. "Never. No way. Not with that face." I do not remember the rest of that dinner after I picked my ego up off the floor and brushed my tears off it.
Maybe Mitch had always felt my embarrassment at being seen with him. He probly had his own self esteem issuses. Could even be why his teenager cuts school when his acne flares its ugly head. I just hope Mitch's internal beauty was worth my attention. "Sticks and stones may break my bones but its words like that that scar."
Innocent Evil
So I'm not into the halloween thing bigtime. Being that every day is scare day here, and dressing up in a costume and eating essive amount of candy is considered the norm anytime in our family, halloween holds nothing special for me. Being based on wicken and pagan beliefs, the Christian in me is offend that our school allows for the decorations to be put up and a party celebrated in honor of the day while Christmas is now looked at as politically correct only if camouflaged by the title Seasons Holidays. I live with two boys here, blood and gore happen in real life way too often. But by no means am I against kids having a good time and acting out of normal behavior. Throw in some mini chocolate bars and the party is one.
The only decoration I have is a picture of my youngest son. He is about two and a half years old. I snapped it while I was sitting at the dinner table and K2 is standing on the chair at the sink. It is his third day straight of wearing his costume. He is standing with three quarters of his body facing me. Black turtle neck and cape. Arms out to show off the draping wings effect of his cape. He is staring proudly straight at me through lowered lash rimmed eyes. Best of all, he is pantsless.
The only decoration I have is a picture of my youngest son. He is about two and a half years old. I snapped it while I was sitting at the dinner table and K2 is standing on the chair at the sink. It is his third day straight of wearing his costume. He is standing with three quarters of his body facing me. Black turtle neck and cape. Arms out to show off the draping wings effect of his cape. He is staring proudly straight at me through lowered lash rimmed eyes. Best of all, he is pantsless.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Crazy Marge's National Cake Day
She was unraveled when I met her. Call it what you like, paranoid, delusional, senile, her real name was Marge. She might of once been a kind, sweet lady, but that type of behavior I was never witness to when I knew her. She did one thing really well to her credit. As a single mom when there were few devorced women, she did a fantastic job of raising my husband. I just pray to God, Hubby doesn't inherit her dementia.
The first time I met her I started out the relationship totally on the wrong foot. I turned down the piece of lemon meringue pie she had offered me. I had not realized back then in my naive state, that the one of the few foods I dislike was the very same food she loved to make. Often. Or perhalps she never liked to make lemon meringue pie until she knew I hated it. "You don't get much out of this world, but the little bit of food you put in you", Marge would always comment when I turned down her pie. Anyway the bonding never grew with my mother in law. Perhalps because I stole her Oil of Olay. (she would hide it and lose it, then blame me.) Or maybe it was the men that she imagined living in her walls that whispered foul things about me to her. I feel bad for her now, that must have been horrible for her to have believed such awful things were going on around her. At the time it was fustrating for us. But her antics were always sadly humorous as well. "Don't get wind on your neck, you'll catch cold", she would warn me in July. The day she moved all her belongings into our old hunting truck were she planned to live, we knew we could not take care of her any longer. She was not my biological Mum or even related, but the older I become, the more sense that woman made.
Yesterday started out very stressful. It was one of those days that I woke up late and behind schedule for my busy day ahead of me. I was to work before going into work. I needed to bake a large special order cheese cake and take it into the bistro for the catering job I was preparing for. Hoping to make use of my kitchen before the rest of my family invaded my clean work space, I came down stairs to my quiet area and stopped dead in my tracks. A pack of cackling jackals destroyed the room the night before while I had slept. Dirt everywhere and on everything. I had to do a thurow cleaning before I could begin to bake. I was almost finished with sparking suroundings when my boys woke up and came bounding into my territory. 'Morning Mom! What's for breakfast?" they greeted me. "Cereal, later when I am done" is my reply. Three hours or so later I convince them to leave me alone to work in my kitcken. I had just started mixing the ingredients with my stand mixer with my back to it when K1 sneaks back in and I catch him with his fingers in my batter. "ARRRRRRGHHH- NOO!", I howl knowing full well I cannot sell a cake someone's fingers have been in. I start a new cake, scraping together enough cream cheese for the five pound monster I am to bake.
My second attept at gastomic success is just about ready to come out of the oven when the manager of my work calls to tell me that she was mistaken, the party is NEXT weekend not today. Sorry I don't need to come in. Sorry my cheese cake loving ass I think as I slam around my kitchen in a disgruntled huff. Waste my morning will you.
"Mom! Mom! Mom! Can we have the cake? And can you pick up the Jakes and take us over to Eli"s with it?", the kids plot. "Your not going into work?", my hubby skeams. "Good you can give me a hair cut and help me winterize my boat", is his brilliant plans for my now "free" day. "Mom! Hurry- we gotta be at Eli's already!" Everyone now has plans to fill my time off.
I am searching through my utility door for my car keys and my eyes spot Marge's silver pie server sitting there seldom used. "I'll show them", I thought as I grabbed up that instrument of torture along with that hog swamping cake and headed for my couch. "Your dad will drive you- I'm on vacation."
When hubby came back he found me on the couch, were I spent the rest of the day bonding with that cake. I was in the cake zone. I was one with the cake. I was behind that cake. I was all about cake. It took me all day but I finished that cake, eating it with my silver spoon if you will.
Yes it was five pounds I know because I put four pounds of cheese in it.
I once made a friend of mine a French silk chocolate pie for his birthday and Mitch ate the entire thing. I marveled at his ability at the time but he told me, "I enjoyed the whole thing immensely, it was delicious, but I can tell you truthfully, the last bite wasn't as good as the first." I beg to differ Mitch, the last bite was a challenge, finishing that last bite was a reward in its self.
But I wasn't lazy on that couch. I read while I ate. Between chapters of Anna Korina , I'd eat and nap. I'd even change positions occasionaly. Whenever family members got too near I'd yell things like, "Damn men in the wall ate my cake!" Or, "One step closer and I'm moving out to the truck without a scarf for my neck!" scary but effective words around here.
That Marge was onto something good. You don't get out of this world with much but the little bit of food you put into yourself. In her honor I proclaim yesterday as National Cake Day. Do yourself a favor and eat a cake or a pie for her, please. Scarves optional.
The first time I met her I started out the relationship totally on the wrong foot. I turned down the piece of lemon meringue pie she had offered me. I had not realized back then in my naive state, that the one of the few foods I dislike was the very same food she loved to make. Often. Or perhalps she never liked to make lemon meringue pie until she knew I hated it. "You don't get much out of this world, but the little bit of food you put in you", Marge would always comment when I turned down her pie. Anyway the bonding never grew with my mother in law. Perhalps because I stole her Oil of Olay. (she would hide it and lose it, then blame me.) Or maybe it was the men that she imagined living in her walls that whispered foul things about me to her. I feel bad for her now, that must have been horrible for her to have believed such awful things were going on around her. At the time it was fustrating for us. But her antics were always sadly humorous as well. "Don't get wind on your neck, you'll catch cold", she would warn me in July. The day she moved all her belongings into our old hunting truck were she planned to live, we knew we could not take care of her any longer. She was not my biological Mum or even related, but the older I become, the more sense that woman made.
Yesterday started out very stressful. It was one of those days that I woke up late and behind schedule for my busy day ahead of me. I was to work before going into work. I needed to bake a large special order cheese cake and take it into the bistro for the catering job I was preparing for. Hoping to make use of my kitchen before the rest of my family invaded my clean work space, I came down stairs to my quiet area and stopped dead in my tracks. A pack of cackling jackals destroyed the room the night before while I had slept. Dirt everywhere and on everything. I had to do a thurow cleaning before I could begin to bake. I was almost finished with sparking suroundings when my boys woke up and came bounding into my territory. 'Morning Mom! What's for breakfast?" they greeted me. "Cereal, later when I am done" is my reply. Three hours or so later I convince them to leave me alone to work in my kitcken. I had just started mixing the ingredients with my stand mixer with my back to it when K1 sneaks back in and I catch him with his fingers in my batter. "ARRRRRRGHHH- NOO!", I howl knowing full well I cannot sell a cake someone's fingers have been in. I start a new cake, scraping together enough cream cheese for the five pound monster I am to bake.
My second attept at gastomic success is just about ready to come out of the oven when the manager of my work calls to tell me that she was mistaken, the party is NEXT weekend not today. Sorry I don't need to come in. Sorry my cheese cake loving ass I think as I slam around my kitchen in a disgruntled huff. Waste my morning will you.
"Mom! Mom! Mom! Can we have the cake? And can you pick up the Jakes and take us over to Eli"s with it?", the kids plot. "Your not going into work?", my hubby skeams. "Good you can give me a hair cut and help me winterize my boat", is his brilliant plans for my now "free" day. "Mom! Hurry- we gotta be at Eli's already!" Everyone now has plans to fill my time off.
I am searching through my utility door for my car keys and my eyes spot Marge's silver pie server sitting there seldom used. "I'll show them", I thought as I grabbed up that instrument of torture along with that hog swamping cake and headed for my couch. "Your dad will drive you- I'm on vacation."
When hubby came back he found me on the couch, were I spent the rest of the day bonding with that cake. I was in the cake zone. I was one with the cake. I was behind that cake. I was all about cake. It took me all day but I finished that cake, eating it with my silver spoon if you will.
Yes it was five pounds I know because I put four pounds of cheese in it.
I once made a friend of mine a French silk chocolate pie for his birthday and Mitch ate the entire thing. I marveled at his ability at the time but he told me, "I enjoyed the whole thing immensely, it was delicious, but I can tell you truthfully, the last bite wasn't as good as the first." I beg to differ Mitch, the last bite was a challenge, finishing that last bite was a reward in its self.
But I wasn't lazy on that couch. I read while I ate. Between chapters of Anna Korina , I'd eat and nap. I'd even change positions occasionaly. Whenever family members got too near I'd yell things like, "Damn men in the wall ate my cake!" Or, "One step closer and I'm moving out to the truck without a scarf for my neck!" scary but effective words around here.
That Marge was onto something good. You don't get out of this world with much but the little bit of food you put into yourself. In her honor I proclaim yesterday as National Cake Day. Do yourself a favor and eat a cake or a pie for her, please. Scarves optional.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Silly Words
This is an list of sentences actually spoken in my house the past couple days. You do not need the entire conversation or text to get the jest of the importance of thinking before speaking.
"Mom! Mom! The bus is coming! Quick give me your car keys!!!"
(umm- huh? you are years away from drivers ed there bucko)
"I'm sooo glad when we had this house built, we had them put the hand rail for the stairs on the right side, as my right side is my strongest."
(think munkay girl, are you planning on backing down the stairs to use your right side?)
"I love you more than I should".
(when did the quota go into effect?)
"Mom, are you gonna finish that?"
(darn straight- watch your back, yours is next)
"Your dog asked ME to dance."
(see previous "secret life of betty post")
"The only thing I like more for breakfast than pork is bacon, or ham."
(hello?)
"I need a picture of Rush Limbaugh".
(when did I have my lobotomy?)
"G&# D!#$ M&^%$* F^*#%@# door!!!!!"
(this said to my jeep tail door after hitting my head loading flowers into it across the street of the church in front of Sis Heidi"s flower store-as if it ever touched my mum)
"Shit! I'm late for church"
(when caught yelling unrelated obscenities at my car door by innocent passer-by)
"You want me to use new or used rock for your retaining wall?"
(how new is new in rock years? 1 million years? 2 million?)
"Am I wearing your pants?"
"You are so much nicer than my west coast wife."
(grrr not anymore baby)
"If a slug and a leach were in a contest, would the winner let me stay up later than 9:00 p.m.?"
(no- tell that to any slimy crawly things that inquire)
"I'm gonna vote for Bush just because I think Kerry is a cadaver"
(well he does look and act the part)
"Can I have a cell phone so I can call you from the bathroom?"
(sneaking cell calls from school bathrooms is now edgier than smoking)
"Why can't a girl have two husbands?"
(after gripping about men in general)
"Can I have another piece of gravy?"
(C'mon, it's not THAT lumpy)
Yes, the conversations held in this house are varied and interesting. Think twice and speak once would be a good rule to put into effect.
"Mom! Mom! The bus is coming! Quick give me your car keys!!!"
(umm- huh? you are years away from drivers ed there bucko)
"I'm sooo glad when we had this house built, we had them put the hand rail for the stairs on the right side, as my right side is my strongest."
(think munkay girl, are you planning on backing down the stairs to use your right side?)
"I love you more than I should".
(when did the quota go into effect?)
"Mom, are you gonna finish that?"
(darn straight- watch your back, yours is next)
"Your dog asked ME to dance."
(see previous "secret life of betty post")
"The only thing I like more for breakfast than pork is bacon, or ham."
(hello?)
"I need a picture of Rush Limbaugh".
(when did I have my lobotomy?)
"G&# D!#$ M&^%$* F^*#%@# door!!!!!"
(this said to my jeep tail door after hitting my head loading flowers into it across the street of the church in front of Sis Heidi"s flower store-as if it ever touched my mum)
"Shit! I'm late for church"
(when caught yelling unrelated obscenities at my car door by innocent passer-by)
"You want me to use new or used rock for your retaining wall?"
(how new is new in rock years? 1 million years? 2 million?)
"Am I wearing your pants?"
"You are so much nicer than my west coast wife."
(grrr not anymore baby)
"If a slug and a leach were in a contest, would the winner let me stay up later than 9:00 p.m.?"
(no- tell that to any slimy crawly things that inquire)
"I'm gonna vote for Bush just because I think Kerry is a cadaver"
(well he does look and act the part)
"Can I have a cell phone so I can call you from the bathroom?"
(sneaking cell calls from school bathrooms is now edgier than smoking)
"Why can't a girl have two husbands?"
(after gripping about men in general)
"Can I have another piece of gravy?"
(C'mon, it's not THAT lumpy)
Yes, the conversations held in this house are varied and interesting. Think twice and speak once would be a good rule to put into effect.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Can't Burn a Memory
My new house now sits right on top of were my first house was. When we decided to buy a house, my Hubby went and looked at only one while I was at work and came home to the travel trailer we were then living in and announced he found the perfect home for us.
When he brought me to my "Green Acre's" type dwelling I cried. He had to be joking. Tiny, cramped house, older than me, held together by staples and shelving paper. Acreage full of generations of garbage. The place was an eyesore. Honey was delighted with the future prospects of the place that I could not yet envision. Being in construction he had big reconstructive plans for the place. I prayed we would never have house guests to see the shabby conditions we lived in.
We spent our fist years together working on our home at every opportunity. Week ends we cleaned the yard and pasture. Hauling away refuse and burning dilapidated old out buildings and trash. Scary vermin who were long term residence were soon made homeless. We filled dumpster and hired a company to rid of us of the hundreds of tires that filled our land. We used spare building material from hubbies construction jobs to revamp the house.
We never did make it to the point of a major house addition that we had always planned and so badly needed. Years past, life got in the way. Kids happened. Funky Scottish highlander livestock filled our pasture. Dogs and cats replaced the vermin. Hubbies job took him out of state more than in. I worked as an antique dealer, dragging my young babies to auctions and to the shop with me, filling our abode with far more treasures than I ever sold. Our little home now had charature and charm. Far from perfect but I loved it.
Hubby was working on a job in the southern part of our state, three years ago. "Let's surprise your dad and go visit him!", I told the boys one Saturday when I came home from work at the antique shop when Hubby was unable to come home for the weekend. "Yeah!!!!", the kids exclaimed happily at the thought of spending the night at their fathers apartment three hours away. We didn't bother packing a change of clothes, I had planned on coming back early the next day to change before going in to the churches nursery where I was skedualed to help. We jumped into my jeep without a backwards glance in the rearview mirror. I never did see my first home again.
The fire chief dug threw our trash at the end of our driveway for a name. The fire that had started during the night quickly demolished our little cedar thatched home.Thinking we were burned in the house, because of the spare jeep in our driveway, he called my hubbies brother who shares our last name. John was unable to tell them for certain were we were. It was the police who woke us up in the apartment the next morning, happy to be able to tell us the bad news. Happy that they could tell us, and not have to tell John that they didn't know our wereabouts either.
It was during the long drive back to what used to be my home that the horrible realization of the amount of our loss started sinking in. Gone was everything I ever owned. My collections, my childhood relics, my Moms keepsakes I had recently inherited from her passing. My wedding ring. Tears started pouring down my face when the little voice came from my back seat. "Mom what are you crying about?", K1, then in kindergarten asked. "All your baby pictures are gone", I sobbed thinking of the snapshots of my little premie son dressed in doll clothes. They were the constant reminder I hung in my kitchen to remind me how fragile and precious life is least I forget when life itself testes me. "That's ok Mom, you still have the memory's."
The rest of that ride home I spent planning the new toys I would buy him for that.
I lost everything in that fire but nothing that wasn't replaceable. I walked into my new closet for my warm winter socks that Hubbies mum had knitted now that the chill has returned to the air. I forget that they are now just ash. That's ok, they itched anyway.
When he brought me to my "Green Acre's" type dwelling I cried. He had to be joking. Tiny, cramped house, older than me, held together by staples and shelving paper. Acreage full of generations of garbage. The place was an eyesore. Honey was delighted with the future prospects of the place that I could not yet envision. Being in construction he had big reconstructive plans for the place. I prayed we would never have house guests to see the shabby conditions we lived in.
We spent our fist years together working on our home at every opportunity. Week ends we cleaned the yard and pasture. Hauling away refuse and burning dilapidated old out buildings and trash. Scary vermin who were long term residence were soon made homeless. We filled dumpster and hired a company to rid of us of the hundreds of tires that filled our land. We used spare building material from hubbies construction jobs to revamp the house.
We never did make it to the point of a major house addition that we had always planned and so badly needed. Years past, life got in the way. Kids happened. Funky Scottish highlander livestock filled our pasture. Dogs and cats replaced the vermin. Hubbies job took him out of state more than in. I worked as an antique dealer, dragging my young babies to auctions and to the shop with me, filling our abode with far more treasures than I ever sold. Our little home now had charature and charm. Far from perfect but I loved it.
Hubby was working on a job in the southern part of our state, three years ago. "Let's surprise your dad and go visit him!", I told the boys one Saturday when I came home from work at the antique shop when Hubby was unable to come home for the weekend. "Yeah!!!!", the kids exclaimed happily at the thought of spending the night at their fathers apartment three hours away. We didn't bother packing a change of clothes, I had planned on coming back early the next day to change before going in to the churches nursery where I was skedualed to help. We jumped into my jeep without a backwards glance in the rearview mirror. I never did see my first home again.
The fire chief dug threw our trash at the end of our driveway for a name. The fire that had started during the night quickly demolished our little cedar thatched home.Thinking we were burned in the house, because of the spare jeep in our driveway, he called my hubbies brother who shares our last name. John was unable to tell them for certain were we were. It was the police who woke us up in the apartment the next morning, happy to be able to tell us the bad news. Happy that they could tell us, and not have to tell John that they didn't know our wereabouts either.
It was during the long drive back to what used to be my home that the horrible realization of the amount of our loss started sinking in. Gone was everything I ever owned. My collections, my childhood relics, my Moms keepsakes I had recently inherited from her passing. My wedding ring. Tears started pouring down my face when the little voice came from my back seat. "Mom what are you crying about?", K1, then in kindergarten asked. "All your baby pictures are gone", I sobbed thinking of the snapshots of my little premie son dressed in doll clothes. They were the constant reminder I hung in my kitchen to remind me how fragile and precious life is least I forget when life itself testes me. "That's ok Mom, you still have the memory's."
The rest of that ride home I spent planning the new toys I would buy him for that.
I lost everything in that fire but nothing that wasn't replaceable. I walked into my new closet for my warm winter socks that Hubbies mum had knitted now that the chill has returned to the air. I forget that they are now just ash. That's ok, they itched anyway.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
The Secret Life of Betty
Landscape Mitch is building our yard. Heavy equiptment is involved as is major renovation to our surrounding area. Landscape Mitch is quite a caricature. He runs by his own clock, what we have deemed as Landscape time. You would think one doing yard work would thrive during the daylight hours. Not Landscape, he is nocturnal. Has a habit of showing up right at dinner time. With his affinity to working in the dark in the soil, I reckon his ancestors were moles. He is quite proud of his digging ability, and of the tools he uses to do so.
My boys are quite taken with Landscape. He speaks to them as adults and is using them as his "crew". K1 was delighted to find out Landscape is also dyslexic and as also had the same special tutor help him learn to read. From inside my house I can hear the sound of the bobcat running, then the sound of it's engine idle, followed by a sharp whistle as Landscape waits for one of my boys to move what ever object is in his way or for the rock he has just unearthed to be picked up.
Every afternoon when Landscape finally shows up with his ever faithful companion Magic, his black labador retriever, he first holds a briefing meeting with my boys. "Today crew we are going to tackle the front drainage crest area. K2, you move all the bikes out of the way while I start up the cat. K1 wait for my signal and start a new rock pile east of the house." Then they get a couple of good hours of labor in. Before leaving each night, Landscape leaves directions for his crew to accomplish before he returns. The first night after work it was, "Before tomorrow afternoon I want to see all the shovels picked up, the garden hose wound up, and the wheelbarrow put away." "And don't play with the bobcat", he tells them. "Who is Betty?", my youngest son, K2 asks, not hearing the ending of Landscapes last sentence. "And why can't we play with her?" "NO", answers Landscape, "Don't play on the bobcat while I'm not here". "Ok, but can Betty play on your bobcat?", is their next query from K1. "NO", Landscape is losing patience, but his frustration eggs my kids on, "NO one, not even Betty can play on my bobcat while I am gone. "You named your bobcat Betty?", K2 questions. "Oh Betty!! My Betty!! Kiss-kiss!!", the boys taunt Landscapes retreating form as he stomps away towards his truck. Landscape opens the door for his dog to climb in with him and trys one last time. "Stand away from the bobcat and noon will be hurt." "Don't worry Landscape, Betty is safe with us".
My boys have started a photo journal of Betty's secret life during the hours Landscape is not here with her. Using my ditgital camera they painted and constructed a large "For Sale-Cheap" sign and propped against her and snapped a shot. Then a "Rides 1 Buck" sign. Wearing black face masts as to hide their identity, we took a picture of K2's legs sticking out from what looks like underneath Betty as if run over with "ketchup" blood splattered on the ground and K1's back side as he runs away from the crime scene. The boys placed their dirt bike ramp jumps in front of Betty and scratched what looks like tire burn out marks behind her back tires as if they were performing trick jumps with her. I parked my jeep facing Betty and the picture of the boys playing chicken with Betty vrs. jeep turned out hillarious. One shot they are standing on her roof holding fireworks. K2 whent so far as to pose so it looked like he was driving her naked and holding a beer while wearing his ski mask.
We hope Landscape enjoys the book we will give him once he has finished our yard, and Betty leaves our foster care. We know Betty yearns for this fun lifestyle, instead of being a beast of burden. If not, and you don't here from me for a while, please come dig threw our yard were the big tire marks end come spring will you?
My boys are quite taken with Landscape. He speaks to them as adults and is using them as his "crew". K1 was delighted to find out Landscape is also dyslexic and as also had the same special tutor help him learn to read. From inside my house I can hear the sound of the bobcat running, then the sound of it's engine idle, followed by a sharp whistle as Landscape waits for one of my boys to move what ever object is in his way or for the rock he has just unearthed to be picked up.
Every afternoon when Landscape finally shows up with his ever faithful companion Magic, his black labador retriever, he first holds a briefing meeting with my boys. "Today crew we are going to tackle the front drainage crest area. K2, you move all the bikes out of the way while I start up the cat. K1 wait for my signal and start a new rock pile east of the house." Then they get a couple of good hours of labor in. Before leaving each night, Landscape leaves directions for his crew to accomplish before he returns. The first night after work it was, "Before tomorrow afternoon I want to see all the shovels picked up, the garden hose wound up, and the wheelbarrow put away." "And don't play with the bobcat", he tells them. "Who is Betty?", my youngest son, K2 asks, not hearing the ending of Landscapes last sentence. "And why can't we play with her?" "NO", answers Landscape, "Don't play on the bobcat while I'm not here". "Ok, but can Betty play on your bobcat?", is their next query from K1. "NO", Landscape is losing patience, but his frustration eggs my kids on, "NO one, not even Betty can play on my bobcat while I am gone. "You named your bobcat Betty?", K2 questions. "Oh Betty!! My Betty!! Kiss-kiss!!", the boys taunt Landscapes retreating form as he stomps away towards his truck. Landscape opens the door for his dog to climb in with him and trys one last time. "Stand away from the bobcat and noon will be hurt." "Don't worry Landscape, Betty is safe with us".
My boys have started a photo journal of Betty's secret life during the hours Landscape is not here with her. Using my ditgital camera they painted and constructed a large "For Sale-Cheap" sign and propped against her and snapped a shot. Then a "Rides 1 Buck" sign. Wearing black face masts as to hide their identity, we took a picture of K2's legs sticking out from what looks like underneath Betty as if run over with "ketchup" blood splattered on the ground and K1's back side as he runs away from the crime scene. The boys placed their dirt bike ramp jumps in front of Betty and scratched what looks like tire burn out marks behind her back tires as if they were performing trick jumps with her. I parked my jeep facing Betty and the picture of the boys playing chicken with Betty vrs. jeep turned out hillarious. One shot they are standing on her roof holding fireworks. K2 whent so far as to pose so it looked like he was driving her naked and holding a beer while wearing his ski mask.
We hope Landscape enjoys the book we will give him once he has finished our yard, and Betty leaves our foster care. We know Betty yearns for this fun lifestyle, instead of being a beast of burden. If not, and you don't here from me for a while, please come dig threw our yard were the big tire marks end come spring will you?
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Dance for the Day
This week my Hubby finished up his currant construction project on the coast. Having completed building yet another gaming casino, Hubby walked the new owners through the facility, signing off on all punch list items before handing over all the keys, codes for the security systems and control. He then walked over to his temporary office of two years to close it down, say goodbye his satellite office staff, and arrange for the shipping of his computer systems and paper work back to the main office here in Minnesota.
When he opened his office door for the last time before climbing into his company truck for the long drive home, there were all the Native American tribe waiting for him. Everyone from the Chief up to the high end of the totem pole, (If you are high on a totem pole, you are low in tribal status) to the part time laborers. They had assembled to give my Hubby a goodbye chanting drum ceremony. They circled Hubby and performed a song "Brave Heart Home", which they had written for him. As gifts they presented him a Pendleton wool coat to keep him warm on his next project in Michigan. Then they gave him a tape of their songs, and tucked an eagle feather into his windshields visor for good luck and a safe journey. Hubby watched them from his rearview mirror as they continued to drum as he drove out of the parking lot heading for home.
Honey proudly played us his tape once he got home. The boys and I listened wide-eyed for the first couple opening notes of the chant whose words we were not familiar until we couldn't take it and broke into movement. We swooped around my kitchen island waving our arms as wings and skipping to the rhythmic beat. We hopped and twirled and spun without abandon. We danced as hard and as fast as we could for longer than we should of. We had our own mini celebration.
The next day I was called into work at the bistro early. We were having a musical group of Vikings from Norway and Sweden perform and put on a show on the journey they had reinacted across Scandinavian as the first tradesmen had done using horse drawn sleds. I went in early to make some special ethnic dishes to go along with the theme.
I talked my family into coming and seeing the special entertainment by bribing them to a free meal. They managed to get the last table, the one right in front of the stage, next to eight member group. Directly behind the musicians was the screen showing scenes of the film the members shot of their adventure across the frozen wilderness. The place was packed when I hand delivered the Swedish meat balls dodging in between standing customers to my boy's table. They ate their dinner with an awed look on their faces to the strains of violins and fiddles and guitars. "Skol!!!" "Hewha!!!They cheered at the end of each song.
After the Bistro closed I came back out and sat drinking "Shullsplitter" beer and listening to a private performance. The little English my new friends spoke was very difficult to understand. When I got up to bring them some of my food I danced. The group sang a song just for me. "The Lamb". They performed their prettiest music without the benefit of a large crowd. They had to translate the lyrics for me, as once again, the words were useless.
I was giving one of their CD's. I played it this morning as we ate kringa anf fry bread. We swooped around my kitchen island waving our arms as wings and skipping to the rhythmic beat. We hopped and twirled and spun without abandon. We danced as hard and fast as we could for longer than we should of. Our life is it's own celebration.
When he opened his office door for the last time before climbing into his company truck for the long drive home, there were all the Native American tribe waiting for him. Everyone from the Chief up to the high end of the totem pole, (If you are high on a totem pole, you are low in tribal status) to the part time laborers. They had assembled to give my Hubby a goodbye chanting drum ceremony. They circled Hubby and performed a song "Brave Heart Home", which they had written for him. As gifts they presented him a Pendleton wool coat to keep him warm on his next project in Michigan. Then they gave him a tape of their songs, and tucked an eagle feather into his windshields visor for good luck and a safe journey. Hubby watched them from his rearview mirror as they continued to drum as he drove out of the parking lot heading for home.
Honey proudly played us his tape once he got home. The boys and I listened wide-eyed for the first couple opening notes of the chant whose words we were not familiar until we couldn't take it and broke into movement. We swooped around my kitchen island waving our arms as wings and skipping to the rhythmic beat. We hopped and twirled and spun without abandon. We danced as hard and as fast as we could for longer than we should of. We had our own mini celebration.
The next day I was called into work at the bistro early. We were having a musical group of Vikings from Norway and Sweden perform and put on a show on the journey they had reinacted across Scandinavian as the first tradesmen had done using horse drawn sleds. I went in early to make some special ethnic dishes to go along with the theme.
I talked my family into coming and seeing the special entertainment by bribing them to a free meal. They managed to get the last table, the one right in front of the stage, next to eight member group. Directly behind the musicians was the screen showing scenes of the film the members shot of their adventure across the frozen wilderness. The place was packed when I hand delivered the Swedish meat balls dodging in between standing customers to my boy's table. They ate their dinner with an awed look on their faces to the strains of violins and fiddles and guitars. "Skol!!!" "Hewha!!!They cheered at the end of each song.
After the Bistro closed I came back out and sat drinking "Shullsplitter" beer and listening to a private performance. The little English my new friends spoke was very difficult to understand. When I got up to bring them some of my food I danced. The group sang a song just for me. "The Lamb". They performed their prettiest music without the benefit of a large crowd. They had to translate the lyrics for me, as once again, the words were useless.
I was giving one of their CD's. I played it this morning as we ate kringa anf fry bread. We swooped around my kitchen island waving our arms as wings and skipping to the rhythmic beat. We hopped and twirled and spun without abandon. We danced as hard and fast as we could for longer than we should of. Our life is it's own celebration.
Friday, October 08, 2004
These Lips Aren't Kissing Themselves Here Chicken
Shut up
come here and kiss me
you know i want you so
stop your talking already
and just bring it
don't make me walk over there
conversation time is over
got better things to do
pucker up and plant one on me
bla-bla time is through
my lips are glossed and ready
read their softness that's your cue
pour the sugar on me
kiss me till i'm blue
hey come back here
what you afraid of
i address the top of your feet
talk now
scared to look at you
maybe you should leave
come here and kiss me
you know i want you so
stop your talking already
and just bring it
don't make me walk over there
conversation time is over
got better things to do
pucker up and plant one on me
bla-bla time is through
my lips are glossed and ready
read their softness that's your cue
pour the sugar on me
kiss me till i'm blue
hey come back here
what you afraid of
i address the top of your feet
talk now
scared to look at you
maybe you should leave
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Rock my World
I have loved him ever since I first laid eyes on him. That would of been on a Thursday, during the WWF smack down, when I first noticed my giant of a soul mate. I do not watch wrestling, know nothing about the sport. I do know I like big, no, huge muscular men. The Rock falls nothing short of larger than life. My dream man.
I know his cornball drama in the ring is an over the top act. That's why I love it. Slice me a slice of that Rock ham please, I wanna smell what that big boy's got cooking.
My hubby is well aware of my juvenile fastenation with The Rock and is man enough not to feel threatened by him. That and the fact I have a one in eight billion chance of ever hooking up with the man. Yes, I am well aware there are only four billion people in the world, I'm bright enough to realize he would take quite a few of them twice over me. But hey, I like a good challenge. If I had just had a little more time and energy I would stalk him in person. With a super sized net.
To me, The Rock is every thing good rolled into one buff package. All five of the things I want in a man. Smart, strong, handsome, funny, and strong. I have seen him crack Martha Steward up baking his chocolate chip cookies. We know how I love chocolate. I know he is an adoring husband and dad. A good family man. My boys have asked me why I love The Rock so much. I answer, "It's because he is your real father." Too bad the other hollywood family will have to go.
It is not lounging by a luxurious pool or watching him from the sidelines of his current movie set that I think about with him about though. I dream of taking a run at him, my ultimate fantasy. I have only had the chance to run at a man twice in my life, both with disappointing results. Both times alcohol helped influence me. One man I knocked over. The other bruised both my contact points on impact. A run at The Rock could not go wrong no matter what the outcome. Win-win.
I woke up on my last birthday and turned on my computer to see The Rocks face as my screen saver. Opened my cupboard door for my tea cup and there was his face taped to the inside of the door. He was also on my mirror. K2 bought me The Rocks life story at his schools bookfair. When my boys wanted kisses they put on my Rock t-shirt and then ran until I chase them down and kissed them, or his face on the shirt they were wearing. It was a good Rock day.
I came home to a quiet house after work late last night. The TV was left on, its screen bright in my dark kitchen. There was The Rock's last movie in the DVD player. A close up of his face frozen with a plussed expression on his face. I walk straight over to that image and puckered up myself and kissed the glass lips. "Hi honey, glad you waited up for me", I said and heard the giggles from the boys rooms above. "Glad to be home".
I know his cornball drama in the ring is an over the top act. That's why I love it. Slice me a slice of that Rock ham please, I wanna smell what that big boy's got cooking.
My hubby is well aware of my juvenile fastenation with The Rock and is man enough not to feel threatened by him. That and the fact I have a one in eight billion chance of ever hooking up with the man. Yes, I am well aware there are only four billion people in the world, I'm bright enough to realize he would take quite a few of them twice over me. But hey, I like a good challenge. If I had just had a little more time and energy I would stalk him in person. With a super sized net.
To me, The Rock is every thing good rolled into one buff package. All five of the things I want in a man. Smart, strong, handsome, funny, and strong. I have seen him crack Martha Steward up baking his chocolate chip cookies. We know how I love chocolate. I know he is an adoring husband and dad. A good family man. My boys have asked me why I love The Rock so much. I answer, "It's because he is your real father." Too bad the other hollywood family will have to go.
It is not lounging by a luxurious pool or watching him from the sidelines of his current movie set that I think about with him about though. I dream of taking a run at him, my ultimate fantasy. I have only had the chance to run at a man twice in my life, both with disappointing results. Both times alcohol helped influence me. One man I knocked over. The other bruised both my contact points on impact. A run at The Rock could not go wrong no matter what the outcome. Win-win.
I woke up on my last birthday and turned on my computer to see The Rocks face as my screen saver. Opened my cupboard door for my tea cup and there was his face taped to the inside of the door. He was also on my mirror. K2 bought me The Rocks life story at his schools bookfair. When my boys wanted kisses they put on my Rock t-shirt and then ran until I chase them down and kissed them, or his face on the shirt they were wearing. It was a good Rock day.
I came home to a quiet house after work late last night. The TV was left on, its screen bright in my dark kitchen. There was The Rock's last movie in the DVD player. A close up of his face frozen with a plussed expression on his face. I walk straight over to that image and puckered up myself and kissed the glass lips. "Hi honey, glad you waited up for me", I said and heard the giggles from the boys rooms above. "Glad to be home".
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