We used to live on a dirt road that you had to turn off a dirt road that you had to turn off a dirt road again to get to our house. There were hundreds of acres surrounding us, with only one house that we couldn't see and a partially built garage apartment that we had to strain to see, and to which no one ever came.
There were over 600 acres for our dogs and Husband to romp around in.
Although the trip to town logged in at just over five miles, it took close to a half hour to get there because of the roads.
Anytime we had company, they would get out of their cars with a wild look in their eye, appearing somewhat disheveled. They would slam their car door (which now had new rattles) and exclaim, "Why in the $#@! did you build a house way out here?"
We now live on a paved road. Although the distance to town is the same, it takes about twelve minutes to get there. I would venture to say there are over one hundred houses on our road alone, although, thankfully, we can't see any of them but one.
We haven't moved out, civilization has moved in.
I hate cars zooming by at all hours. I hate that our dog can't even go in the yard by herself. I hate that I can't go on the front porch in my gown-tail. I hate not having all this to ourselves.
I love no more dust from the road. I love getting to town quickly.
I obviously have a love/hate relationship going on here that I can't seem to resolve.
Maybe I need to see somebody.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Kitchens
It seems to me that many memories of my childhood - and perhaps yours - are somehow wrapped up in food and the place where it was cooked.
My great-grandmother's kitchen was a big sunny place (in my mind, anyway). The window over the sink looked out over a pasture, a creek, and then the woods, climbing up the mountain. It was dominated by a huge wood cook stove, which she used to cook wonderful meals all her life. Papa finally purchased an electric stove, but she didn't much like it. She did cook on it in the summer when it got so hot no one could stand the heat coming from that behemoth in the corner.
I've tried to recall the kitchen in the house we lived in until I was seven. All I really remember is that you walked through it to get to the really cool screened in back porch that looked out over the top of the back of my grandfather's grocery store. Mother ironed out there in the summer while I played with all my toys, never worrying about making a mess.
I remember when it rained my parents having to put buckets and pans out everywhere because the roof leaked like a sieve. I can recall squinting my eyes and looking at the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling, and how dreamy it looked as water gathered and then dripped from the fixture the bulb sat in.
May I take a moment to say: Yikes!
There is a picture taken in that kitchen that I've seen more than once. It's of me in my Easter finery standing in front of my daddy, who is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. That table is so small it is now the table I use at my bedside, covered in a tablecloth to hide it's identity.
I looked pleased as punch, he looks horribly hung over.
The kitchen in the house I was finished being raised in was in the house my father's parents moved from at retirement to move to the country.
It was an odd shaped room, because part of it had been partitioned off to carve out a bathroom. There was a transom window above the refrigerator, which sat in a little cubby by itself. There was a full size window to the side of the sink, looking out into the backyard. The cabinets, what there was of them, was a mismatched bunch of vagrants.
The first kitchen I had as a married 'woman' (I use that term loosely, I was eighteen) wasn't really a kitchen, just part of the living room. The sink and the refrigerator were on the back porch. It was a hoot having to tote dirty dishes from our table to the back porch to wash them, and durn cold in the winter, I imagine.
I can only imagine the cold, because we couldn't tolerate the many problems that house had, including the shower leaking onto the bedroom carpet every single day. The smell became unbearable, and no one would fix it. So, after three months of marital bliss in that house, which ended in October,(the time, not the bliss - the loss of that came later) we moved.
I'm in kitchen number nine of my adult life. I hope it's the last one. I designed this kitchen, and I love it. I have been able to upgrade over the years, to make it more like I wanted it to start with, twenty-six years ago. The only thing left to complete my wishes is new flooring, and that will happen soon enough.
It's just the right width, it's long with a big bay window to tuck the kitchen table in, so we can watch all the wild life goings on every day, and many a meal has been stopped to do just that. I have a walk- in pantry that I love.
But the thing I love the most is it is filled with family, good times, and lots of love.
It even gets cooked in sometimes!
Ya'll will have to come sit a spell at the table. I'll feed you something.
We might even see a bear in the rose garden.
It happens.
My great-grandmother's kitchen was a big sunny place (in my mind, anyway). The window over the sink looked out over a pasture, a creek, and then the woods, climbing up the mountain. It was dominated by a huge wood cook stove, which she used to cook wonderful meals all her life. Papa finally purchased an electric stove, but she didn't much like it. She did cook on it in the summer when it got so hot no one could stand the heat coming from that behemoth in the corner.
I've tried to recall the kitchen in the house we lived in until I was seven. All I really remember is that you walked through it to get to the really cool screened in back porch that looked out over the top of the back of my grandfather's grocery store. Mother ironed out there in the summer while I played with all my toys, never worrying about making a mess.
I remember when it rained my parents having to put buckets and pans out everywhere because the roof leaked like a sieve. I can recall squinting my eyes and looking at the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling, and how dreamy it looked as water gathered and then dripped from the fixture the bulb sat in.
May I take a moment to say: Yikes!
There is a picture taken in that kitchen that I've seen more than once. It's of me in my Easter finery standing in front of my daddy, who is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. That table is so small it is now the table I use at my bedside, covered in a tablecloth to hide it's identity.
I looked pleased as punch, he looks horribly hung over.
The kitchen in the house I was finished being raised in was in the house my father's parents moved from at retirement to move to the country.
It was an odd shaped room, because part of it had been partitioned off to carve out a bathroom. There was a transom window above the refrigerator, which sat in a little cubby by itself. There was a full size window to the side of the sink, looking out into the backyard. The cabinets, what there was of them, was a mismatched bunch of vagrants.
The first kitchen I had as a married 'woman' (I use that term loosely, I was eighteen) wasn't really a kitchen, just part of the living room. The sink and the refrigerator were on the back porch. It was a hoot having to tote dirty dishes from our table to the back porch to wash them, and durn cold in the winter, I imagine.
I can only imagine the cold, because we couldn't tolerate the many problems that house had, including the shower leaking onto the bedroom carpet every single day. The smell became unbearable, and no one would fix it. So, after three months of marital bliss in that house, which ended in October,(the time, not the bliss - the loss of that came later) we moved.
I'm in kitchen number nine of my adult life. I hope it's the last one. I designed this kitchen, and I love it. I have been able to upgrade over the years, to make it more like I wanted it to start with, twenty-six years ago. The only thing left to complete my wishes is new flooring, and that will happen soon enough.
It's just the right width, it's long with a big bay window to tuck the kitchen table in, so we can watch all the wild life goings on every day, and many a meal has been stopped to do just that. I have a walk- in pantry that I love.
But the thing I love the most is it is filled with family, good times, and lots of love.
It even gets cooked in sometimes!
Ya'll will have to come sit a spell at the table. I'll feed you something.
We might even see a bear in the rose garden.
It happens.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Fox Trot
We've had a fox suddenly appear at our house. He is mostly grey, with some red on him. I guess he comes from a bi-racial marriage.
Daughter was throwing out scraps from the second story porch and happened to look down before doing so, and there he was, munching on apple peels. We all watched him from above, as he kept looking back into the woods, as though being called back. But the appeal of the apple peels was too much, and he came right back to continue munching until they were all gone.
He has now done that several times. Sometimes we see him, sometimes we don't.
The other day I looked out the bay window in the kitchen and there he was at the edge of the wood eating popcorn we'd thrown out for the crows. He also munched on french fries and one peanutbutter cracker.
In a little while, Daughter saw him trotting up the road like a little dog, and we've seen him do that once more.
It's not like he's tame, exactly, and he doesn't look sick at all - in fact, I think he's putting on weight - no surprise there, considering what he is eating.
It thrills me to see him, as I've only caught glimpses of fox in my life. Once I was coming home and saw something run across the road into the grass on the other side. At first I thought cat, then no, too dog-like. So I stopped when I got even with the place I'd seen them run to, and up popped two fox kits. They were red, with the beautiful black stockings. They looked at me, then began tumbling about with one another, unconcerned about my car. It was delightful.
On the other hand, our visiting fox concerns me, too. I don't want someone to kill him thinking he's rabid, or just for sport.
I don't want someone to try to get close to him and get attacked, either. He's little - smaller than our cats - but I bet he's got some sharp teeth.
We have been warned because of the news reporting the fox coming out of the woods and biting two kindergartners on the playground last week, somewhere in the metro area. I'm willing to bet that fox is rabid.
Daughter has named our fox George Clooney, who played the voice of a fox in the movie, "Fantastic Mr. Fox".
Me? I'm just hoping he keeps the bear run off.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Rambling Prose
Just a few random thoughts:
If we have our own homes in Heaven, on the New Earth, I wonder what mine will look like. I love my little house now. Of course, if I'd had more money, it would have been bigger, but the changes would not have been huge.
I guess I would like the same house, only clean all the time.
We got babies! The Eastern Blue Birds have finally busted from their shells, and are chirping like mad. It's keeping Mama and Papa very, very busy. They look exhausted.
My mother is reading my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" again. I was flattered. But then she told me she'd run out of anything else to read...
I got a perm today. My 'real' hair is so straight you could plumb a house with it. It is also very fine. So without a perm it sticks to my head like a cap. If you are Daughter's age, that's attractive. If you are my age, it is sad.
So right now I look like a demented fuzzball and smell strange and damp. But it will get better, I promise.(I hear you ask, well, how could it get any worse? I know, right?)
Why is some joker calling me two or three times a day, letting it ring three times and hanging up? If you answer before then, there is no one there. The caller i.d. says, "Out of Area". Duh. I figure it's a computer calling me, raising prank phone calls to a new height. But if it just happens to be you, knock it off, will ya?
Two of my favorite authors are Stephen King and Jodi Picoult. Both of them have made a grave error, though. I've gone on their websites and let them know, too. I'm sure they were overwhelmed with thankfulness. Both of them have had southern characters in a book, and both of those characters have said something to the effect of, "Ya'll just don't understand." Now this is said when it is a one on one conversation. Makes me grit my teeth. I explained very politely that the word ya'll (or y'all) is used only when speaking to two or more, not when addressing one person.
I bet I get a thank you note from both of them. ADDED NOTE: Jodi Picoult did respond to me. She said she didn't do her due diligent research on Southern speak. I thanked her for responding. I appreciate it!
But you'd think with all the money they spend on researching their books - nuclear physics, courtroom scenes, aliens, hospital procedures, etc., they could spend a quarter and call somebody down here and ask a simple question.
I would never attempt to have a character from New Jersey or Maine or any Yankee place in one of my books without an OFFICIAL consultant.
Sunday I was sitting in church and crossed my legs. I noticed the sole of my shoe didn't look like the shoes I thought I had on. I put my foot back down on the floor, slid off my shoe....and discovered I had on my bedroom shoes. Now, to give me credit, they look like dockers on top. And that's the shoes I thought I had on. Funny thing is, as I was looking at my shoes, I noticed Husband's feet. His socks were not only different colors, they were each a different pattern.
Well, I guess that's all for now. The phone is ringing. I'm sure it's Out of Area again.
Stop it, okay?
If we have our own homes in Heaven, on the New Earth, I wonder what mine will look like. I love my little house now. Of course, if I'd had more money, it would have been bigger, but the changes would not have been huge.
I guess I would like the same house, only clean all the time.
We got babies! The Eastern Blue Birds have finally busted from their shells, and are chirping like mad. It's keeping Mama and Papa very, very busy. They look exhausted.
My mother is reading my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" again. I was flattered. But then she told me she'd run out of anything else to read...
I got a perm today. My 'real' hair is so straight you could plumb a house with it. It is also very fine. So without a perm it sticks to my head like a cap. If you are Daughter's age, that's attractive. If you are my age, it is sad.
So right now I look like a demented fuzzball and smell strange and damp. But it will get better, I promise.(I hear you ask, well, how could it get any worse? I know, right?)
Why is some joker calling me two or three times a day, letting it ring three times and hanging up? If you answer before then, there is no one there. The caller i.d. says, "Out of Area". Duh. I figure it's a computer calling me, raising prank phone calls to a new height. But if it just happens to be you, knock it off, will ya?
Two of my favorite authors are Stephen King and Jodi Picoult. Both of them have made a grave error, though. I've gone on their websites and let them know, too. I'm sure they were overwhelmed with thankfulness. Both of them have had southern characters in a book, and both of those characters have said something to the effect of, "Ya'll just don't understand." Now this is said when it is a one on one conversation. Makes me grit my teeth. I explained very politely that the word ya'll (or y'all) is used only when speaking to two or more, not when addressing one person.
I bet I get a thank you note from both of them. ADDED NOTE: Jodi Picoult did respond to me. She said she didn't do her due diligent research on Southern speak. I thanked her for responding. I appreciate it!
But you'd think with all the money they spend on researching their books - nuclear physics, courtroom scenes, aliens, hospital procedures, etc., they could spend a quarter and call somebody down here and ask a simple question.
I would never attempt to have a character from New Jersey or Maine or any Yankee place in one of my books without an OFFICIAL consultant.
Sunday I was sitting in church and crossed my legs. I noticed the sole of my shoe didn't look like the shoes I thought I had on. I put my foot back down on the floor, slid off my shoe....and discovered I had on my bedroom shoes. Now, to give me credit, they look like dockers on top. And that's the shoes I thought I had on. Funny thing is, as I was looking at my shoes, I noticed Husband's feet. His socks were not only different colors, they were each a different pattern.
Well, I guess that's all for now. The phone is ringing. I'm sure it's Out of Area again.
Stop it, okay?
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Walking by the River and Remembering When
Walking by the river this morning, appreciating God's beauty, and trying to take my mind elsewhere so I could walk without concentrating on the pain it causes me, I started to reflect about how things used to be.
I am fairly leggy, and physical activity always came easy. I loved basketball and played some in grammar school. I'm not exactly that graceful, but the ability to move without effort was there.
I remember once, in my twenties, I went with a friend to an aerobics class. She had been going for about a month. I joined them, and after it was over, the instructor came up to welcome me, and asked how long I had been doing all the exercises she had put us through. I explained I had never done it, I was just with my friend. She 'bout spazzed!
"If I'd known that, I would have never let you do so much! You won't be able to move tomorrow. Are you all right?"
I assured her I was fine.
I wasn't sore the next day either.
Same for horseback riding. My goal as a child was to own a horse, which of course hasn't happened yet. But the first time I had the opportunity to ride, I did, all day long. I loved it. The horse even jumped a small fence, which scared everyone to death but me and the horse.
I wasn't sore, even a little bit.
And when I was twenty-nine I started doing Jane Fonda's "Secret to Killing People" exercise video and within three months, honey I was fit.
But I've never really liked formal exercise, it bores me. I was born with a book in my hand, not a desire to get out there and run. I live inside my head, not with my body, as some do.
So mostly, I have walked (or not) and stayed home and read books.
But before I fell, I had started feeling guilty about my laziness and knowing I wasn't getting any younger. I didn't have a desire to become a slave to exercise in an attempt to keep looking younger than my real age, like Christie Brinkley.
I use her because we are within days of each others age.
Funny story: About a year or so before I retired (at age 49), we had to start wearing identification badges. The pictures were worse than your typical driver's license, if you can imagine. And we all hated wearing them. It was silly. We all knew each other. It was kinda like wearing one to Sunday Dinner at your Granny's house so your cousins could see it and know who you were - just in case you had changed any from last Sunday. But the center was abiding by some silly rule.
Well, my picture was worse than bad, so I taped a tiny picture of Christie Brinkley's face over mine on my badge.
Would you believe it took three weeks for anybody to notice? Let me tell you, it says a lot more about the folks I worked with than it does about my resemblance to Ms. Brinkley.
Anyway, of course, I took all this ease of exercising my body for granted.
I feel a little spark of anger when well meaning people encourage me: "Oh, just keep at it, it will get easier." and other similar remarks.
The sad fact is for me, it won't get easier. The nerve damage doesn't 'get over it' like muscle soreness. In fact, the more you irritate them (like by walking), the louder they scream.
Don't get me wrong. I know it could be a lot worse. At least I can walk, I can feel. And I'm grateful. There's a lot for me to enjoy on my walks, and I truly do.
But don't you dare come up to me and ask, "Wanna race?"
I still have a mean right cross.
I am fairly leggy, and physical activity always came easy. I loved basketball and played some in grammar school. I'm not exactly that graceful, but the ability to move without effort was there.
I remember once, in my twenties, I went with a friend to an aerobics class. She had been going for about a month. I joined them, and after it was over, the instructor came up to welcome me, and asked how long I had been doing all the exercises she had put us through. I explained I had never done it, I was just with my friend. She 'bout spazzed!
"If I'd known that, I would have never let you do so much! You won't be able to move tomorrow. Are you all right?"
I assured her I was fine.
I wasn't sore the next day either.
Same for horseback riding. My goal as a child was to own a horse, which of course hasn't happened yet. But the first time I had the opportunity to ride, I did, all day long. I loved it. The horse even jumped a small fence, which scared everyone to death but me and the horse.
I wasn't sore, even a little bit.
And when I was twenty-nine I started doing Jane Fonda's "Secret to Killing People" exercise video and within three months, honey I was fit.
But I've never really liked formal exercise, it bores me. I was born with a book in my hand, not a desire to get out there and run. I live inside my head, not with my body, as some do.
So mostly, I have walked (or not) and stayed home and read books.
But before I fell, I had started feeling guilty about my laziness and knowing I wasn't getting any younger. I didn't have a desire to become a slave to exercise in an attempt to keep looking younger than my real age, like Christie Brinkley.
I use her because we are within days of each others age.
Funny story: About a year or so before I retired (at age 49), we had to start wearing identification badges. The pictures were worse than your typical driver's license, if you can imagine. And we all hated wearing them. It was silly. We all knew each other. It was kinda like wearing one to Sunday Dinner at your Granny's house so your cousins could see it and know who you were - just in case you had changed any from last Sunday. But the center was abiding by some silly rule.
Well, my picture was worse than bad, so I taped a tiny picture of Christie Brinkley's face over mine on my badge.
Would you believe it took three weeks for anybody to notice? Let me tell you, it says a lot more about the folks I worked with than it does about my resemblance to Ms. Brinkley.
Anyway, of course, I took all this ease of exercising my body for granted.
I feel a little spark of anger when well meaning people encourage me: "Oh, just keep at it, it will get easier." and other similar remarks.
The sad fact is for me, it won't get easier. The nerve damage doesn't 'get over it' like muscle soreness. In fact, the more you irritate them (like by walking), the louder they scream.
Don't get me wrong. I know it could be a lot worse. At least I can walk, I can feel. And I'm grateful. There's a lot for me to enjoy on my walks, and I truly do.
But don't you dare come up to me and ask, "Wanna race?"
I still have a mean right cross.
Friday, May 24, 2013
In Search Of....
Husband sometimes takes an inordinate amount of time to get ready to go somewhere.
Yesterday, it was getting ready to go to the dump.
Don't ask.
However; one of the things that stalled him out for this trip was the loss of my car keys. (Does that sound familiar? No? Read previous blogs.)
"Lock yourself in when I leave." Husband hollers from the foyer.
"Okay. Where did you put my keys?" We'd driven my car earlier to go to our walking place.
"They are on your nightstand!" Husband said triumphantly.
"Nope."
"The dresser?"
"Nope. Not on the desk or your nightstand either."
"I guess I left them in my dirty pants."
"Nope."
"Okay, I'll look down here."
Minutes pass. I hear him coming up the stairs.
"They aren't down there. Are you sure they aren't in my dirty pants?"
"Yes. Maybe you left them in your sweat pants."
I hear him in the closet looking in the pockets of his dirty pants anyway. He comes back in the bedroom and takes his sweat pants off the hook and feels around on them.
"They aren't in here." He glances out the window. His face brightens. "Oh! I bet I laid them on the truck along with my work gloves."
And down he goes.
Minutes pass. I hear him come back in, then the sound of him trudging up the stairs.
"No, they weren't there." Shaking his head, he put his hand to his shirt pocket to retrieve his sunglasses.
And there were the keys.
Well, that's all the news that is the news for now.
Ta Ta!
Yesterday, it was getting ready to go to the dump.
Don't ask.
However; one of the things that stalled him out for this trip was the loss of my car keys. (Does that sound familiar? No? Read previous blogs.)
"Lock yourself in when I leave." Husband hollers from the foyer.
"Okay. Where did you put my keys?" We'd driven my car earlier to go to our walking place.
"They are on your nightstand!" Husband said triumphantly.
"Nope."
"The dresser?"
"Nope. Not on the desk or your nightstand either."
"I guess I left them in my dirty pants."
"Nope."
"Okay, I'll look down here."
Minutes pass. I hear him coming up the stairs.
"They aren't down there. Are you sure they aren't in my dirty pants?"
"Yes. Maybe you left them in your sweat pants."
I hear him in the closet looking in the pockets of his dirty pants anyway. He comes back in the bedroom and takes his sweat pants off the hook and feels around on them.
"They aren't in here." He glances out the window. His face brightens. "Oh! I bet I laid them on the truck along with my work gloves."
And down he goes.
Minutes pass. I hear him come back in, then the sound of him trudging up the stairs.
"No, they weren't there." Shaking his head, he put his hand to his shirt pocket to retrieve his sunglasses.
And there were the keys.
Well, that's all the news that is the news for now.
Ta Ta!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
It Only Takes One (or Two)
I'm talking about fleas.
My cats and dog have never had fleas. Molly is eight years old, so that tells you how nice it has been. We have always used the stuff between her shoulder blades that you apply once a month, and we've never had a problem.
We never treated the cats, because they don't go outside, and we figured if Molly, who is the only pet who goes outdoors, was treated, we were safe.
And that was the case, until a few months ago, when Molly had a vet visit.
She'd been home a few hours, when Daughter noticed a 'bug' crawling on Molly's face. It was a flea! Apparently she'd picked it up at the vets.
Not that I'm blaming the vets, they can't control what animals have on 'em when they are in the waiting room. I wish they had a flea alert alarm that would go off, but no.
Anyway, we got the flea off and killed that little sucker, (pun intended) and looked Molly over pretty good and found two more, killed them, and thought that was that.
And it seemed so....until the cats started scratching. Eli was impossible to find anything on him, as he has three layers of fur. Lily looked clean. Mimi is a tortie, so who could see a flea? And Frost, well, he growled and bit, but we held him down. And found fleas galore.
I won't repeat the word I said, but it was reminiscent of my grandmother's choice of words when she was extremely frustrated. See previous blog.
It has entailed an exhausting adventure of taking four (count 'em, four) cats to the vet to have a bath, because the stuff we used from Lowe's worked not at all. But it had to be washed off them completely in order for the stuff that does work to be put on them. Three of the four cats had to be sedated to be bathed. So we had three drunk cats and one somewhat paranoid cat for several hours.
They sure did sleep well that night, though.
We don't have fleas here anymore. The vet has a lot more money than he had last week.
We are broke, the cats are serene, and the vet is rich.
And all it took was one flea - or two.
My cats and dog have never had fleas. Molly is eight years old, so that tells you how nice it has been. We have always used the stuff between her shoulder blades that you apply once a month, and we've never had a problem.
We never treated the cats, because they don't go outside, and we figured if Molly, who is the only pet who goes outdoors, was treated, we were safe.
And that was the case, until a few months ago, when Molly had a vet visit.
She'd been home a few hours, when Daughter noticed a 'bug' crawling on Molly's face. It was a flea! Apparently she'd picked it up at the vets.
Not that I'm blaming the vets, they can't control what animals have on 'em when they are in the waiting room. I wish they had a flea alert alarm that would go off, but no.
Anyway, we got the flea off and killed that little sucker, (pun intended) and looked Molly over pretty good and found two more, killed them, and thought that was that.
And it seemed so....until the cats started scratching. Eli was impossible to find anything on him, as he has three layers of fur. Lily looked clean. Mimi is a tortie, so who could see a flea? And Frost, well, he growled and bit, but we held him down. And found fleas galore.
I won't repeat the word I said, but it was reminiscent of my grandmother's choice of words when she was extremely frustrated. See previous blog.
It has entailed an exhausting adventure of taking four (count 'em, four) cats to the vet to have a bath, because the stuff we used from Lowe's worked not at all. But it had to be washed off them completely in order for the stuff that does work to be put on them. Three of the four cats had to be sedated to be bathed. So we had three drunk cats and one somewhat paranoid cat for several hours.
They sure did sleep well that night, though.
We don't have fleas here anymore. The vet has a lot more money than he had last week.
We are broke, the cats are serene, and the vet is rich.
And all it took was one flea - or two.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
In a Foreign Land
Having to work on another computer besides my own seems a little like using your left instead of your right (if you are right handed, of course.)
It's awkward. I keep making typos because the key board is different. The typeset is different.
I don't like it.
I'm used to my stuff. I call this the 'only child syndrome'. I know, I know. I have two brothers. But I was an only child during my formative years, ten of them, in fact.
I call myself an only child with two brothers. It works for me, so leave me alone.
It really is something one has to struggle with when in relationships with others, like a husband or a daughter.
Even though Daughter is an only child, the syndrome includes not understanding that other people are too, and need you to leave their stuff the heck alone.
Thank goodness her feet are skinnier and longer than mine. Although, she has managed to squeeze her foot into a couple of pair of my flats.
If I had all my clothes from the 1970's she could borrow them, but my current wardrobe is a bit large for her.
She can, however; fit into my wedding dress that I wore in 1972. And she's welcome to it, as long as she doesn't use it for its original intent.
And Husband? Ha, ha. He comes from a large family who shared one bathroom, and as far as I can tell, he respects in no way that anything belongs to anyone else. Well, unless it's his stuff, of course.
Not that I mind him borrowing my tweezers, clippers, file, bookmark, book, etc. If he would just put it back where he got it.
But does he? Noooooo. And to add insult to injury, he can't remember what he did with it when he is finished using whatever it is.
Did I mention my keys??
At least when Daughter 'borrows' something, she knows where she left it last.
So, anyway. I guess I shouldn't be griping, since I'm borrowing their computers.
And I promise I won't misplace it once I'm done.
Can you be homesick for your own computer? Maybe I should name it. Delores!
I've not even called to check on it. I mean, it isn't like it's a sick child or pet, and I figure they would see it as harassment. Husband says they were 'covered up' with work when he took it, and didn't know how long it would take to get to mine.
Must be a virus going around.
Until tomorrow: signing off with a hopes for a happy homecoming soon.
I miss you, Delores.
It's awkward. I keep making typos because the key board is different. The typeset is different.
I don't like it.
I'm used to my stuff. I call this the 'only child syndrome'. I know, I know. I have two brothers. But I was an only child during my formative years, ten of them, in fact.
I call myself an only child with two brothers. It works for me, so leave me alone.
It really is something one has to struggle with when in relationships with others, like a husband or a daughter.
Even though Daughter is an only child, the syndrome includes not understanding that other people are too, and need you to leave their stuff the heck alone.
Thank goodness her feet are skinnier and longer than mine. Although, she has managed to squeeze her foot into a couple of pair of my flats.
If I had all my clothes from the 1970's she could borrow them, but my current wardrobe is a bit large for her.
She can, however; fit into my wedding dress that I wore in 1972. And she's welcome to it, as long as she doesn't use it for its original intent.
And Husband? Ha, ha. He comes from a large family who shared one bathroom, and as far as I can tell, he respects in no way that anything belongs to anyone else. Well, unless it's his stuff, of course.
Not that I mind him borrowing my tweezers, clippers, file, bookmark, book, etc. If he would just put it back where he got it.
But does he? Noooooo. And to add insult to injury, he can't remember what he did with it when he is finished using whatever it is.
Did I mention my keys??
At least when Daughter 'borrows' something, she knows where she left it last.
So, anyway. I guess I shouldn't be griping, since I'm borrowing their computers.
And I promise I won't misplace it once I'm done.
Can you be homesick for your own computer? Maybe I should name it. Delores!
I've not even called to check on it. I mean, it isn't like it's a sick child or pet, and I figure they would see it as harassment. Husband says they were 'covered up' with work when he took it, and didn't know how long it would take to get to mine.
Must be a virus going around.
Until tomorrow: signing off with a hopes for a happy homecoming soon.
I miss you, Delores.
Monday, May 20, 2013
It's Been Monday All Day
First of all, we had to have the White Boys (Frost and Eli) at the vet between 8:00 and 8:30 this morning. Frost growled, snarled, hissed and bit at us while we shoved his fat butt into the carrier.
Which broke.
Husband had to get wire to wire the door shut, and I had to huff and puff and work on the little thingies that turned just so in order for the top not to separate from the bottom, hurting my back and shoulder in the process, because I am a WIMP.
Of course, Husband was late getting them there, but they were sympathetic, having dealt with us before. And Frost continued to act like a beast and got his rear end sedated. HA!
We went walking when Husband got back, and despite the pleasant surroundings, it was more of a chore than pleasure, because of the pain I was in.
My batteries died in my camera, just when I had a great picture to take.
We had to move a piece of furniture back against the wall. The reason it was out from the wall is too complicated to go into here, let's just say: cat.
Husband banged his head on the window seal, and thinking he'd die any minute, took it out on Daughter who had been muttering unpleasant things under her breath.
Daughter had to have two new tires on her car because one kept going low, and they were too slick anyway. Guess how much that cost?
My prescription refill had expired, and I'm not supposed to go without this medicine, so there was the rigamarole of calling the doctor's office, who doesn't believe in people answering the phone. Oh, no. It's a complicated mess of pushing number after number and then getting a voice mail.
My nail polish chipped.
I can't seem to do anything with my hair, either.
Then Daughter casually mentioned over dinner that last night "my computer was making funny noises."
A moment of silence here, please.
This is the computer that has all work stored in it, the one I write my books on, my poetry, my short stories, my every precious thought. Okay, maybe it ain't all that precious, but still.
So I hobble out to the studio and there's a nice blue screen telling me that a fatal error occurred causing 02394-1938457324zxx n0998. Followed by physical memory being dumped. Physical memory now dumped.
WHAT????
I dialed the computer place, whimpering. They said (get ready) to bring it in.
Husband just left, hard drive in the seat. He'll bring back the White Boys who will be ticked off for the rest of the afternoon.
Join the club, boys, join the club.
Which broke.
Husband had to get wire to wire the door shut, and I had to huff and puff and work on the little thingies that turned just so in order for the top not to separate from the bottom, hurting my back and shoulder in the process, because I am a WIMP.
Of course, Husband was late getting them there, but they were sympathetic, having dealt with us before. And Frost continued to act like a beast and got his rear end sedated. HA!
We went walking when Husband got back, and despite the pleasant surroundings, it was more of a chore than pleasure, because of the pain I was in.
My batteries died in my camera, just when I had a great picture to take.
We had to move a piece of furniture back against the wall. The reason it was out from the wall is too complicated to go into here, let's just say: cat.
Husband banged his head on the window seal, and thinking he'd die any minute, took it out on Daughter who had been muttering unpleasant things under her breath.
Daughter had to have two new tires on her car because one kept going low, and they were too slick anyway. Guess how much that cost?
My prescription refill had expired, and I'm not supposed to go without this medicine, so there was the rigamarole of calling the doctor's office, who doesn't believe in people answering the phone. Oh, no. It's a complicated mess of pushing number after number and then getting a voice mail.
My nail polish chipped.
I can't seem to do anything with my hair, either.
Then Daughter casually mentioned over dinner that last night "my computer was making funny noises."
A moment of silence here, please.
This is the computer that has all work stored in it, the one I write my books on, my poetry, my short stories, my every precious thought. Okay, maybe it ain't all that precious, but still.
So I hobble out to the studio and there's a nice blue screen telling me that a fatal error occurred causing 02394-1938457324zxx n0998. Followed by physical memory being dumped. Physical memory now dumped.
WHAT????
I dialed the computer place, whimpering. They said (get ready) to bring it in.
Husband just left, hard drive in the seat. He'll bring back the White Boys who will be ticked off for the rest of the afternoon.
Join the club, boys, join the club.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Creepy Crows, Falling Cats, and Green Houses
There's a crow that's creeping me out.
He discovered the suet and is making our life miserable trying to keep him run off away from it. I found out that rushing the door, yelling "Hie, hie!" like my granddaddy used to do in a low, gruff voice, while clapping your hands scares them off.
Scares the neighbors, too.
But it makes them (the crows, and maybe the neighbors, too) dislike you.
Daughter and I were playing Scrabble on the back porch last evening and I started getting dive bombed by a crow. They are very large up close. If I had stuck my hand out over the banister when he flew by me cawing, I could have grabbed a wing. He did this twice, so I yelled at him. I could hear him cawing at me in the woods.
And then later, Daughter was downstairs by herself and heard a tapping at the back door. She freaked, trying to figure out who could have got to our back porch to be knocking on the back door. Our back door is up a winding set of metal stairs, under the lower porch, and the screen door stays locked. Plus, you have to go down a steep bank to get to it. We have a back door mainly in case of a fire.
But since Molly wasn't barking, she decided to see for herself.
It was the crow, sitting on the porch floor, peeking in, and pecking at our back door.
Hitchcock, anyone?
This morning I went to the refrigerator to put up my gallon of lemonade. Eli, our Maine Coon fifteen pound kitten, was sleeping on top, as usual. I warned him I was opening the door, as usual, but somehow he lost his balance and fell. I caught him in mid-fall, his hind legs balancing on the shelf inside the fridge, my hand holding him under his 'armpit' while I tried to keep the door from closing on us both and searching for a place to sit a gallon of lemonade.
He held on for dear life, I got the lemonade set down, and rescued him from the inside of the fridge, putting him down on the floor.
His claw only embedded in one place, which shall remain nameless.
This afternoon we went to a greenhouse friends (?) told me about. I spent over fifty dollars. The young boys were asking me repeatedly if they could help me find something, all the time looking at Daughter. So I made one of 'em climb over a bunch of stuff and pull a plant down, telling him that was the one I had to have because it had so many blooms. (Insert smug look here).
So before bedtime tonight, I must check to see if the back door is secure, the cat is off the fridge, and my plants are all tucked in safely for the night.
Man, I love my life.
He discovered the suet and is making our life miserable trying to keep him run off away from it. I found out that rushing the door, yelling "Hie, hie!" like my granddaddy used to do in a low, gruff voice, while clapping your hands scares them off.
Scares the neighbors, too.
But it makes them (the crows, and maybe the neighbors, too) dislike you.
Daughter and I were playing Scrabble on the back porch last evening and I started getting dive bombed by a crow. They are very large up close. If I had stuck my hand out over the banister when he flew by me cawing, I could have grabbed a wing. He did this twice, so I yelled at him. I could hear him cawing at me in the woods.
And then later, Daughter was downstairs by herself and heard a tapping at the back door. She freaked, trying to figure out who could have got to our back porch to be knocking on the back door. Our back door is up a winding set of metal stairs, under the lower porch, and the screen door stays locked. Plus, you have to go down a steep bank to get to it. We have a back door mainly in case of a fire.
But since Molly wasn't barking, she decided to see for herself.
It was the crow, sitting on the porch floor, peeking in, and pecking at our back door.
Hitchcock, anyone?
This morning I went to the refrigerator to put up my gallon of lemonade. Eli, our Maine Coon fifteen pound kitten, was sleeping on top, as usual. I warned him I was opening the door, as usual, but somehow he lost his balance and fell. I caught him in mid-fall, his hind legs balancing on the shelf inside the fridge, my hand holding him under his 'armpit' while I tried to keep the door from closing on us both and searching for a place to sit a gallon of lemonade.
He held on for dear life, I got the lemonade set down, and rescued him from the inside of the fridge, putting him down on the floor.
His claw only embedded in one place, which shall remain nameless.
This afternoon we went to a greenhouse friends (?) told me about. I spent over fifty dollars. The young boys were asking me repeatedly if they could help me find something, all the time looking at Daughter. So I made one of 'em climb over a bunch of stuff and pull a plant down, telling him that was the one I had to have because it had so many blooms. (Insert smug look here).
So before bedtime tonight, I must check to see if the back door is secure, the cat is off the fridge, and my plants are all tucked in safely for the night.
Man, I love my life.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Cuss Words - Appalachian Style
I swan. I ain't never been so all fired mad in all my life. That dad gum, fool ridden, jar head of a son-in-law has done riled up all the devilment in me today.
That was a fine example, wasn't it? I used son-in-law because I don't have one, and figured no one would start to wonder who I was mad at.
When my grandfather would be doing something "tedjus" and his fingers would slip, you could hear him mutter, "Sh-tucks."
My grandmother on the other side just came right out and said it.
Other Appalachian cuss words I can recall: Carnsarned, dad blamed, gosh darn, backass-eards, (long a), I swany, tarnation, and thunderation.
There are probably hundreds more. If you know them, let me know. I could sure use a few more after today:
There was a spider biggern all git out on the fireplace. Thought Daughter was going to have to be hospitalized.
Husband put the garbage out in the truck (again) and the bear emptied the truck (again). Why does Husband keep doing this....
The fox came 'round the front of the house and then went trotting up the road! Don't he know he's gonna git his fool self kilt?
Daughter picked up a flower pot off the sidewalk to put back on the porch and two scorpions fell at her feet. Hospitalization # 2.
While we were eating lunch, Molly, our dog, came ambling in the kitchen with the cat's tent wrapped around her neck. She walked up to me, stopped, and just stared at me. I guess she knew who to come to when trouble had her by the throat.
I jammed my ring finger into the chair, ripping the nail way below the white, into the nail bed.
That right there is worth at least four of them Appalachian cuss words.
Don't hesitate to write or call 'em in.
That was a fine example, wasn't it? I used son-in-law because I don't have one, and figured no one would start to wonder who I was mad at.
When my grandfather would be doing something "tedjus" and his fingers would slip, you could hear him mutter, "Sh-tucks."
My grandmother on the other side just came right out and said it.
Other Appalachian cuss words I can recall: Carnsarned, dad blamed, gosh darn, backass-eards, (long a), I swany, tarnation, and thunderation.
There are probably hundreds more. If you know them, let me know. I could sure use a few more after today:
There was a spider biggern all git out on the fireplace. Thought Daughter was going to have to be hospitalized.
Husband put the garbage out in the truck (again) and the bear emptied the truck (again). Why does Husband keep doing this....
The fox came 'round the front of the house and then went trotting up the road! Don't he know he's gonna git his fool self kilt?
Daughter picked up a flower pot off the sidewalk to put back on the porch and two scorpions fell at her feet. Hospitalization # 2.
While we were eating lunch, Molly, our dog, came ambling in the kitchen with the cat's tent wrapped around her neck. She walked up to me, stopped, and just stared at me. I guess she knew who to come to when trouble had her by the throat.
I jammed my ring finger into the chair, ripping the nail way below the white, into the nail bed.
That right there is worth at least four of them Appalachian cuss words.
Don't hesitate to write or call 'em in.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Double Standards
I realized today that we have a double standard at our house. And no, it's not about human relationships.
It's about cat/dog relationships.
Molly, our dog, has a big water dish in the kitchen. If you have a dog, you know that dish is larped in, slimed on, and who knows what that mess is she leaves floating around in the water.
The cat's water dish is upstairs and pretty much stays in pristine condition, unless Lily, our elderly Maine Coon, decides to play in it. She does this by smacking the water with both front paws, drenching her face and the floor. Why she does this is beyond me.
And of course, the cats love to drink from dripping faucets in the bathroom sinks. Lily likes to drink out of a glass too, if she can find one.
Anyway, the cats enjoy drinking out of the dog's water dish. Why? Because they are cats, and it doesn't belong to them, and they shouldn't do it. Makes Molly twitch.
Molly is not allowed, under any circumstance, to drink from their water bowl.
The cats occasionally sniff around, and nibble from, Molly's food dish. This really makes her twitch.
Molly is not allowed, under any circumstance, to eat from their food dish.
The cats loll around on all the furniture.
Molly isn't allowed on the furniture (when we are looking).
The flip side to this is Molly gets to go outside. The cats aren't allowed outside.
Now, two of them, Frost and Mimi, have been outdoor cats before. Occasionally, when we are headed toward the door, Mimi flies in front of us and stands there, anticipating the door being opened so she can go out.
She's lived as an indoor cat at our house for several years, you think she'd get the message.
Lily lived outdoors in a cattery kennel for the first nine years of her life. She goes to the door and sniffs, but never really seems to want to go out. She knows she's finally got it made, thank you very much.
But it seems clear to me the cats are treated in a little more spoiled fashion than Molly.
That makes me feel bad, because Molly loves those cats dearly. She was never a mama, and I think she sees them as 'hers'.
I hope it doesn't hurt her little doggie feelings when she sees the double standards we have.
After all, we love her as much, just not the same.
I've heard parents tell that to their kids. Their kids never believe it either.
Good thing Daughter is an only child. I'd never pull off this stuff with a straight face.
It's about cat/dog relationships.
Molly, our dog, has a big water dish in the kitchen. If you have a dog, you know that dish is larped in, slimed on, and who knows what that mess is she leaves floating around in the water.
The cat's water dish is upstairs and pretty much stays in pristine condition, unless Lily, our elderly Maine Coon, decides to play in it. She does this by smacking the water with both front paws, drenching her face and the floor. Why she does this is beyond me.
And of course, the cats love to drink from dripping faucets in the bathroom sinks. Lily likes to drink out of a glass too, if she can find one.
Anyway, the cats enjoy drinking out of the dog's water dish. Why? Because they are cats, and it doesn't belong to them, and they shouldn't do it. Makes Molly twitch.
Molly is not allowed, under any circumstance, to drink from their water bowl.
The cats occasionally sniff around, and nibble from, Molly's food dish. This really makes her twitch.
Molly is not allowed, under any circumstance, to eat from their food dish.
The cats loll around on all the furniture.
Molly isn't allowed on the furniture (when we are looking).
The flip side to this is Molly gets to go outside. The cats aren't allowed outside.
Now, two of them, Frost and Mimi, have been outdoor cats before. Occasionally, when we are headed toward the door, Mimi flies in front of us and stands there, anticipating the door being opened so she can go out.
She's lived as an indoor cat at our house for several years, you think she'd get the message.
Lily lived outdoors in a cattery kennel for the first nine years of her life. She goes to the door and sniffs, but never really seems to want to go out. She knows she's finally got it made, thank you very much.
But it seems clear to me the cats are treated in a little more spoiled fashion than Molly.
That makes me feel bad, because Molly loves those cats dearly. She was never a mama, and I think she sees them as 'hers'.
I hope it doesn't hurt her little doggie feelings when she sees the double standards we have.
After all, we love her as much, just not the same.
I've heard parents tell that to their kids. Their kids never believe it either.
Good thing Daughter is an only child. I'd never pull off this stuff with a straight face.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Porches in the South
I bet when you read the title, it immediately conjures up a particular vision: Wide porches, perhaps wrapped around the house, with fretwork and turned banisters and lots of ferns, palms and wicker.
Am I right?
Well, that's what it does for me, and because I am a Victorian/Country House lover, my porches look like that. At least, eventually.
Winter takes a toll on the beauty of the outside of the house, and this year has certainly been no exception. The pollen was stacked up knee deep. Dead leaves, spider webs, mildew, and a frozen lizard added to the mix.
The good news is the lizard thawed out in the sun and resumed his little lizard life.
Armed with Husband's strong back, Daughter's willingness to sneeze her way through sweeping, and my uncanny ability to supervise, the back porch is a lovely, tree-house retreat.
It is on the second story at the back of the house, and is literally in the trees. If you sit really still, birds come within touching distance. They get used to you quickly, and come to the feeders eagerly. I have a small waterfall fountain, a ceiling fan, the obligatory wicker, ferns and palms, as well as assorted other plants, including my favorite, Caladiums.
The back porch is truly my "God place", where I can go to read and pray and find serenity.
The front porch is about half way there. It's big, wrapping around the bow of the front of the house. Daughter has worked hard all day and Husband moved out furniture so she could have plenty of room to clean.
Right now our yard looks like we are having a sale.
We don't use the front porch as much anymore because since the evil paving of the road took place, there is faster traffic and more of it. I don't particularly like feeling as though I am on display, which is odd, since I was raised in town, and someone spoke to you every three minutes if you were sitting on the porch.
I guess I got used to being in the middle of the woods.
So when you come to visit, let's sit on the back porch where we can be relaxed, tell tall tales and not worry about the next car driving by.
What time will ya'll be gettin' here?
Am I right?
Well, that's what it does for me, and because I am a Victorian/Country House lover, my porches look like that. At least, eventually.
Winter takes a toll on the beauty of the outside of the house, and this year has certainly been no exception. The pollen was stacked up knee deep. Dead leaves, spider webs, mildew, and a frozen lizard added to the mix.
The good news is the lizard thawed out in the sun and resumed his little lizard life.
Armed with Husband's strong back, Daughter's willingness to sneeze her way through sweeping, and my uncanny ability to supervise, the back porch is a lovely, tree-house retreat.
It is on the second story at the back of the house, and is literally in the trees. If you sit really still, birds come within touching distance. They get used to you quickly, and come to the feeders eagerly. I have a small waterfall fountain, a ceiling fan, the obligatory wicker, ferns and palms, as well as assorted other plants, including my favorite, Caladiums.
The back porch is truly my "God place", where I can go to read and pray and find serenity.
The front porch is about half way there. It's big, wrapping around the bow of the front of the house. Daughter has worked hard all day and Husband moved out furniture so she could have plenty of room to clean.
Right now our yard looks like we are having a sale.
We don't use the front porch as much anymore because since the evil paving of the road took place, there is faster traffic and more of it. I don't particularly like feeling as though I am on display, which is odd, since I was raised in town, and someone spoke to you every three minutes if you were sitting on the porch.
I guess I got used to being in the middle of the woods.
So when you come to visit, let's sit on the back porch where we can be relaxed, tell tall tales and not worry about the next car driving by.
What time will ya'll be gettin' here?
Monday, May 13, 2013
My Mini-Me
Talking about Daughter in my last blog made her sound like she was my mini-me. Well, she ain't. She has many differences, too.
The funny thing is, I always attribute those differences like my mother did mine. I tower over my mother and was even with my Daddy's height. "You get being so tall from the James' side of the family," She'd tell me.
For instance, with Daughter:
She is much smaller boned than I, like my mother.
She has very skinny feet that are almost impossible to buy shoes for, like my cousin Donna.
See what I mean?
Why can't we say about all our children: They are who they are, they are themselves. We can't do it! Maybe it has something to do with claiming them, I don't know.
How else is Daughter different?
She gets over anger much faster than I. (which I admire)
She is the Princess of procrastination. (which I detest)
Sometimes she can look at something with a different eye and make a perfect suggestion that I haven't been able to see.
She has a tender heart in a different way than I do.
She has more 'go' in her than I have ever had. By that I mean "Did somebody say go? I'm ready."
But whether like me or very different from me, thank God, she's still my young'un.
I wrote a poem many years ago, and the last lines go like this:
She may not have my blood in her veins,
Or my genes to influence her start,
But she has something far more important that reigns,
She has every inch of my heart.
Indeed.
The funny thing is, I always attribute those differences like my mother did mine. I tower over my mother and was even with my Daddy's height. "You get being so tall from the James' side of the family," She'd tell me.
For instance, with Daughter:
She is much smaller boned than I, like my mother.
She has very skinny feet that are almost impossible to buy shoes for, like my cousin Donna.
See what I mean?
Why can't we say about all our children: They are who they are, they are themselves. We can't do it! Maybe it has something to do with claiming them, I don't know.
How else is Daughter different?
She gets over anger much faster than I. (which I admire)
She is the Princess of procrastination. (which I detest)
Sometimes she can look at something with a different eye and make a perfect suggestion that I haven't been able to see.
She has a tender heart in a different way than I do.
She has more 'go' in her than I have ever had. By that I mean "Did somebody say go? I'm ready."
But whether like me or very different from me, thank God, she's still my young'un.
I wrote a poem many years ago, and the last lines go like this:
She may not have my blood in her veins,
Or my genes to influence her start,
But she has something far more important that reigns,
She has every inch of my heart.
Indeed.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Mother's Day
I'll never forget the moment I became a mother. I had found out in October and in May we purchased all the baby furniture and got to work creating a nursery for our Daughter. She was born in June.
I remember the first time I held her, how she 'just fit', how we marveled how much she looked like my niece who had been born fourteen weeks prior. How her head and hair color and eyes were just like Husband's. How, at almost a month, when she smiled for the first time, she had only the one dimple in her left cheek, just like me. How all that dark hair fell out and came back blonde, like mine.
She was a big baby, weighing over nine pounds, one ounce more than Husband had weighed at birth. An early talker, a late walker.
Telling jokes by the time she was two, her sense of humor delighted us.
As she has grown older, her cheekbones are high, like mine, she is very pale, like me. She is tall, like me, and skinny, like me (was). People don't know if they are speaking to me or to her over the phone, and sometimes Husband can't tell either, if he's in the other room.
She sings like I do, writes like I do, and draws like Husband. She hates math (who doesn't, in our house?)
She's mine, all mine.
Okay, she's really the good Lord's, who gave her to me for a season, to raise her in a godly home, to teach her His ways and to love her as He loves her.
And I hope I have done that.
And Daughter, I also hope that she - your birth mother - would be proud and pleased with me, for I know she couldn't help but feel that way about you.
Daughter, I love you more than life.
I thank God every day for you, the gift you are.
Friday, May 10, 2013
In case you've been vacationing under a rock for the last couple of weeks, I wanted to mention that Sunday is Mother's Day.
Oh, ho! It did surprise a few of you (guys). Well, glad I could be of service.
Now, here's the deal: Get what your mother wants, not what you want her to have.
Figure it out. It ain't that hard.
Ask her.
If she says nothing, well, maybe it is that hard. But anyway, one of the things she wants most, unless you are, like, a psycho-killer, is to spend some quality time with you. Ta-da!
I am not the bashful type, and I let Daughter and Husband know what I want. No problemo, ever. That way I get something I really like and can be excited about.
Daughter usually makes me a great card, one I keep because it comes from her hard work and artistic talent. Husband's cards are usually well thought out choices, and I keep them too.
I used to struggle about what to get my mother, but now she expects a hanging basket every year, and I am glad to oblige. This year, she also wants Husband to plant a hosta for her, which he will happily do. I usually write her a short letter, too.
We don't have grandparents anymore, and Husband's mother has passed on, too. So, all we have left is my mother, and I'm so thankful I do.
She's been a mother for a little over fifty-nine years, thanks to me, whereas I've only been a mother for twenty-two years.
I've learned a great deal about mother/daughter relationships since becoming a mother, much more than I ever did as a daughter.
The daughter's prospective is fraught with childlike, selfish views that I don't think ever really go away. We spent too long in that part of the relationship for it not to be a permanent wash over our vision.
But that's okay, I guess, because mother's seem to view their children, no matter what the age, as still being children.
When Daughter was about six months old, I guess, I was on the telephone to my mother, just chatting. I mentioned we weren't going to the grocery store until Friday, payday.
My mother, in a very hushed and serious tone asked, "Does the baby have enough to eat until then?"
Take into consideration that I was thirty-six years old, had a great job, as did my husband, and we were far, far away from starvation.
I pray every day that God will guide me in this sudden motherhood of an adult child. It's very difficult, because we do continue to see them as our, well, babies.
There, I said it.
Anyway, hope all you mommies out there have a great Mother's Day. I plan on it!
Oh, ho! It did surprise a few of you (guys). Well, glad I could be of service.
Now, here's the deal: Get what your mother wants, not what you want her to have.
Figure it out. It ain't that hard.
Ask her.
If she says nothing, well, maybe it is that hard. But anyway, one of the things she wants most, unless you are, like, a psycho-killer, is to spend some quality time with you. Ta-da!
I am not the bashful type, and I let Daughter and Husband know what I want. No problemo, ever. That way I get something I really like and can be excited about.
Daughter usually makes me a great card, one I keep because it comes from her hard work and artistic talent. Husband's cards are usually well thought out choices, and I keep them too.
I used to struggle about what to get my mother, but now she expects a hanging basket every year, and I am glad to oblige. This year, she also wants Husband to plant a hosta for her, which he will happily do. I usually write her a short letter, too.
We don't have grandparents anymore, and Husband's mother has passed on, too. So, all we have left is my mother, and I'm so thankful I do.
She's been a mother for a little over fifty-nine years, thanks to me, whereas I've only been a mother for twenty-two years.
I've learned a great deal about mother/daughter relationships since becoming a mother, much more than I ever did as a daughter.
The daughter's prospective is fraught with childlike, selfish views that I don't think ever really go away. We spent too long in that part of the relationship for it not to be a permanent wash over our vision.
But that's okay, I guess, because mother's seem to view their children, no matter what the age, as still being children.
When Daughter was about six months old, I guess, I was on the telephone to my mother, just chatting. I mentioned we weren't going to the grocery store until Friday, payday.
My mother, in a very hushed and serious tone asked, "Does the baby have enough to eat until then?"
Take into consideration that I was thirty-six years old, had a great job, as did my husband, and we were far, far away from starvation.
I pray every day that God will guide me in this sudden motherhood of an adult child. It's very difficult, because we do continue to see them as our, well, babies.
There, I said it.
Anyway, hope all you mommies out there have a great Mother's Day. I plan on it!
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Where's Hazel When You Need Her?
I hate housework.
I've always hated housework.
When I was younger, before I got hurt, I could, at least, do housework.
Now that I can't do much, I hate it even worse because my options are as follows:
1. Hire someone, and the person is rarely found that actually dusts well. Most of the women I've hired dust around the objects on the table, never removing them, much less dusting them. This is not dusting, people. This is piddling around. Even after I explain to a prospective cleaner how hard my house is to dust, how dusty it gets, and how this is the most important reason they are being hired, though they may nod and smile, they still piddle.
2. Nag, whine, pout, explode, fret, bellow, etc. for my family to clean the house. Daughter right now is vacuuming her little heart out. Husband re-potted stuff this morning for me and is running errands. Don't get me wrong, they are good people. The thing is, the vacuuming needed doing Monday, this is Thursday. The re-potting needed done last fall.
Stuff that is very important to me to get done, is not very important to them. I try to reason with myself and say that the world won't come to an end if the twenty pounds of cat and dog hair float around the house like tumbleweeds, I just wish it would.
I have fantasies of grabbing the vacuum cleaner and doing it myself, thereby guaranteeing, if not a trip to the ER, at least a whole day in bed with pain pills and tears.
Boy, that would show 'em!
If I had a full time maid, who actually worked, this house could be really clean.
I don't think those exist anymore, or if they do, it is so far out of my financial ballpark, I don't know of their existence. Same difference.
I've thought about shaving the dog and cats. Maybe moving away and living in a bubble. It's even crossed my mind to try and live with it, but as hard as I try, it just builds and builds and I become mad as an old wet hen.
There has to be a solution.
If there weren't so many tumbleweeds rolling about, perhaps I could see it.
I've always hated housework.
When I was younger, before I got hurt, I could, at least, do housework.
Now that I can't do much, I hate it even worse because my options are as follows:
1. Hire someone, and the person is rarely found that actually dusts well. Most of the women I've hired dust around the objects on the table, never removing them, much less dusting them. This is not dusting, people. This is piddling around. Even after I explain to a prospective cleaner how hard my house is to dust, how dusty it gets, and how this is the most important reason they are being hired, though they may nod and smile, they still piddle.
2. Nag, whine, pout, explode, fret, bellow, etc. for my family to clean the house. Daughter right now is vacuuming her little heart out. Husband re-potted stuff this morning for me and is running errands. Don't get me wrong, they are good people. The thing is, the vacuuming needed doing Monday, this is Thursday. The re-potting needed done last fall.
Stuff that is very important to me to get done, is not very important to them. I try to reason with myself and say that the world won't come to an end if the twenty pounds of cat and dog hair float around the house like tumbleweeds, I just wish it would.
I have fantasies of grabbing the vacuum cleaner and doing it myself, thereby guaranteeing, if not a trip to the ER, at least a whole day in bed with pain pills and tears.
Boy, that would show 'em!
If I had a full time maid, who actually worked, this house could be really clean.
I don't think those exist anymore, or if they do, it is so far out of my financial ballpark, I don't know of their existence. Same difference.
I've thought about shaving the dog and cats. Maybe moving away and living in a bubble. It's even crossed my mind to try and live with it, but as hard as I try, it just builds and builds and I become mad as an old wet hen.
There has to be a solution.
If there weren't so many tumbleweeds rolling about, perhaps I could see it.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Bear Today, Coon Tommorrow
If you read my blog yesterday, you read that we had a young fox in the back woods by our house munching on apple peels.
Today, we had a bear out and about. He reached way up in the sapling where Husband had suet for the birds and ripped the limb plumb offa the tree, thereby insuring the whole little yummy block of suet for himself.
Daughter was home alone (just like the movie!) and had gone outside to walk our 110 pound American Bulldog, Molly. Daughter happened to glance up to see a bear in the yard, while Molly did more important things like sniffing where all the guy dogs had peed near the fence this morning.
Daughter 'bout wet her pants, dragging the dog (who weighs two pounds more than she does) into the house and calling us, knowing we were on our way home.
She then opened the kitchen window (just above the bear), yelled at him, blew the air horn at him, thereby deafening herself until further notice, and banged on the glass part of the window. The bear just looked up at her as if he thought her deranged, and kept on eating.
At least he left the blue bird house alone.
When we got home, Husband went back out on the porch and pelted the bear with marbles shot from Husband's slingshot, trying toannoy scare him away. The bear did look around, kind of confused as to where the marbles were coming from, he even backed up a little because he didn't know what was going on.
The black bear is kinda cute. (yeah, I'm a girl). He's pretty young, so his nose still looks all velvety. His ears are big and round, snout is longish. He's pigeon-toed. And his big old hiney sort of twists from side to side like a fat bottomed girl when he walks.
I know in my head they are not, nor can they be, tame.
But I can see how people don't take them seriously.
Now, if you have a mountain lion out in your yard, there wouldn't be a problem taking them seriously.
But a big, old cuddly teddy bear? Come on, how much harm could they do.
HA!
Let's just hope the mountain lions stay put.
Today, we had a bear out and about. He reached way up in the sapling where Husband had suet for the birds and ripped the limb plumb offa the tree, thereby insuring the whole little yummy block of suet for himself.
Daughter was home alone (just like the movie!) and had gone outside to walk our 110 pound American Bulldog, Molly. Daughter happened to glance up to see a bear in the yard, while Molly did more important things like sniffing where all the guy dogs had peed near the fence this morning.
Daughter 'bout wet her pants, dragging the dog (who weighs two pounds more than she does) into the house and calling us, knowing we were on our way home.
She then opened the kitchen window (just above the bear), yelled at him, blew the air horn at him, thereby deafening herself until further notice, and banged on the glass part of the window. The bear just looked up at her as if he thought her deranged, and kept on eating.
At least he left the blue bird house alone.
When we got home, Husband went back out on the porch and pelted the bear with marbles shot from Husband's slingshot, trying to
I know in my head they are not, nor can they be, tame.
But I can see how people don't take them seriously.
Now, if you have a mountain lion out in your yard, there wouldn't be a problem taking them seriously.
But a big, old cuddly teddy bear? Come on, how much harm could they do.
HA!
Let's just hope the mountain lions stay put.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Random Musings for Today
Random stuff:
Daughter threw apple peels off the back porch, which is on the second story. She went back a few minutes later to throw onion peels out and called to us. A small, grey fox was eating the apple peels. He looked me square in the eye once, but kept on munching. Occasionally, he'd walk a few steps off, ears pointed forward as though being called, but would come back immediately and eat. He did this until the apple peels were gone.
He was very young, smaller than our cat. He was solid grey except for a small patch of red on his back.
We were all very excited because a fox is a rare thing to spot.
********
I was looking at a catalogue and noticing they used the same three women over and over. It's a family owned business and I wondered if the models were part of the family.
When I was younger - okay, young - I often had people tell me I should be a model.
It wasn't because of my great beauty (shut up), but rather because I was tall and thin and had good skin and hair.
But I do not photograph well. My facial features are small. Eyes are deep set and my nose is narrow at the bridge. I have really high cheek bones, too, so trying to get a pair of glasses to fit without sitting on my face has always been nigh impossible. My lips are thin, too.
I've read that your nose and ears keep growing all your life, so at least I started out small there.
Anyway, when you take a picture of me, all my features are squinched up and I look sorta like Miss Piggy.
********
I was at Mother's last night. She was bound and determined to find a mysterious white box that holds all these new gowns she's been saving up for twenty years for hospital stays. Daughter was unable to locate them a few weeks ago when Mother finally had a hospital stay.
So we looked on shelves and under clothes on closet floors and went through all sorts of bags and boxes. We did not find a plethora of new nighties, but we did find a new slip and a pair of panties.
Mother said, and I quote, "Now don't forget where we put these. When I die you can take them to the undertaker for me to be buried in."
She never mentioned any other clothes, so I guess she'll be the talk of the town when she's opened up for the viewing.
********
Have you ever noticed when something comes up in the news about how bad Pit Bulldogs are, there are an equal number of stories that come out about how good they are?
Apparently some mother left a toddler alone with their male Pit and the dog killed the child. In the defense of the dog, who knows what a toddler does to a doggie when mama ain't looking. No matter, you should never leave a dog alone with a child, and certainly not a male dog.
So, the next day this story comes out about how a woman and her little girl are being robbed and a Pit bull comes out of no where and attacks the robber who finally runs off. The Pit, a female, hops in the car with them when they start to leave, so they take her home, claim her as their own, naming her 'Angel'.
See?
********
Mike Huckabee's commentary today was hilarious. I won't go into details here, but if you want to laugh out loud, I recommend it.
********
Well, that's all the news that is the news, or else I'll start telling you what I had for dinner.
Daughter threw apple peels off the back porch, which is on the second story. She went back a few minutes later to throw onion peels out and called to us. A small, grey fox was eating the apple peels. He looked me square in the eye once, but kept on munching. Occasionally, he'd walk a few steps off, ears pointed forward as though being called, but would come back immediately and eat. He did this until the apple peels were gone.
He was very young, smaller than our cat. He was solid grey except for a small patch of red on his back.
We were all very excited because a fox is a rare thing to spot.
********
I was looking at a catalogue and noticing they used the same three women over and over. It's a family owned business and I wondered if the models were part of the family.
When I was younger - okay, young - I often had people tell me I should be a model.
It wasn't because of my great beauty (shut up), but rather because I was tall and thin and had good skin and hair.
But I do not photograph well. My facial features are small. Eyes are deep set and my nose is narrow at the bridge. I have really high cheek bones, too, so trying to get a pair of glasses to fit without sitting on my face has always been nigh impossible. My lips are thin, too.
I've read that your nose and ears keep growing all your life, so at least I started out small there.
Anyway, when you take a picture of me, all my features are squinched up and I look sorta like Miss Piggy.
********
I was at Mother's last night. She was bound and determined to find a mysterious white box that holds all these new gowns she's been saving up for twenty years for hospital stays. Daughter was unable to locate them a few weeks ago when Mother finally had a hospital stay.
So we looked on shelves and under clothes on closet floors and went through all sorts of bags and boxes. We did not find a plethora of new nighties, but we did find a new slip and a pair of panties.
Mother said, and I quote, "Now don't forget where we put these. When I die you can take them to the undertaker for me to be buried in."
She never mentioned any other clothes, so I guess she'll be the talk of the town when she's opened up for the viewing.
********
Have you ever noticed when something comes up in the news about how bad Pit Bulldogs are, there are an equal number of stories that come out about how good they are?
Apparently some mother left a toddler alone with their male Pit and the dog killed the child. In the defense of the dog, who knows what a toddler does to a doggie when mama ain't looking. No matter, you should never leave a dog alone with a child, and certainly not a male dog.
So, the next day this story comes out about how a woman and her little girl are being robbed and a Pit bull comes out of no where and attacks the robber who finally runs off. The Pit, a female, hops in the car with them when they start to leave, so they take her home, claim her as their own, naming her 'Angel'.
See?
********
Mike Huckabee's commentary today was hilarious. I won't go into details here, but if you want to laugh out loud, I recommend it.
********
Well, that's all the news that is the news, or else I'll start telling you what I had for dinner.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Melancholy Baby
I'm feeling a little melancholy today, and no, it's not the weather. Rain (or any other kind of weather) has never affected my mood much. I pretty much like it all unless it's hotter than you-know-where (Miami), and then I'm a bit peevish about it.
I think what's got my mood going is the boy who has been charged with a federal crime because he forgot to take his shotgun out of his car from weekend hunting and tried to do the right thing, which got him in trouble.
When I was in high school there were as many guns as there were back windows of pick up trucks to mount them in.
A pocket knife was a must for any boy, if used only to clean out from under their fingernails.
I'll never forget when Husband and I hadn't been married very long, and he came in all excited about a gift he'd purchased for me. I unwrapped it, and it was a square shaped jeweler's box. My heart beat faster. When I opened the lid it was a tiny pocket knife to put on my key ring.
Not what I was expecting, but still - cute.
I carried that thing for years, until I had so many keys on my ring from work we were afraid all the weight was going to pull the ignition out of the car, so I put it up.
I'd go to jail today if I was caught with it in my purse, I guess.
Back to my high school days. Every boy who drove to school had a gun. Every boy just about who walked the halls, had a knife in their pocket.
Guess how many gun fights and knife fights I witnessed my entire life of school?
That's right. Zero.
Oh, boys fought. But they used their fists.
I'd like to think, that if the young man in the news had done this at my high school today, and a staff person had overheard him call his Mama to come get the gun, that staff person would have said, "Son, that's a smart thing to do. Better tell the principal too, so he'll know you've taken care of everything. I appreciate the way you handled that. Go on to class, and I'll watch for your Mama."
I really hope that's what would have taken place.
Reckon?
I think what's got my mood going is the boy who has been charged with a federal crime because he forgot to take his shotgun out of his car from weekend hunting and tried to do the right thing, which got him in trouble.
When I was in high school there were as many guns as there were back windows of pick up trucks to mount them in.
A pocket knife was a must for any boy, if used only to clean out from under their fingernails.
I'll never forget when Husband and I hadn't been married very long, and he came in all excited about a gift he'd purchased for me. I unwrapped it, and it was a square shaped jeweler's box. My heart beat faster. When I opened the lid it was a tiny pocket knife to put on my key ring.
Not what I was expecting, but still - cute.
I carried that thing for years, until I had so many keys on my ring from work we were afraid all the weight was going to pull the ignition out of the car, so I put it up.
I'd go to jail today if I was caught with it in my purse, I guess.
Back to my high school days. Every boy who drove to school had a gun. Every boy just about who walked the halls, had a knife in their pocket.
Guess how many gun fights and knife fights I witnessed my entire life of school?
That's right. Zero.
Oh, boys fought. But they used their fists.
I'd like to think, that if the young man in the news had done this at my high school today, and a staff person had overheard him call his Mama to come get the gun, that staff person would have said, "Son, that's a smart thing to do. Better tell the principal too, so he'll know you've taken care of everything. I appreciate the way you handled that. Go on to class, and I'll watch for your Mama."
I really hope that's what would have taken place.
Reckon?
Friday, May 3, 2013
Such Stuff as Dreams are Made of
Last night I dreamed that Hop Sing resigned as cook for the Cartwright family.
I know a lot of you don't have a clue as to who these people are, but those of you who do, are asking themselves right now: "Why the heck do I keep reading this stuff!"
Wait, it gets better.
I dreamed my mother decided to get a facebook page and somehow accidentally erased mine (you thought I was gonna say read my blogs! HA!) I was upset over losing all my pictures.
Night before last, I dreamed we were adopting a baby girl. It was kind of sudden and my brother and his wife were helping us round up baby furniture and stuff. I went to work (with the baby) and told my boss I was going to have to be off for a while.
The baby was having to sleep between Husband and me.
And the baby never made a sound or caused any disturbance.
This is how I knew it was a dream.
My brother has recently had surgery. My cat has recently had surgery. The cat immediately came home and started ripping out her stitches. We had to get a collar, or more commonly known as "the cone of shame" to fasten around her neck so she couldn't get to the stitches.
Somehow in my dream life I got this mixed up, and my very macho mechanic brother was in a collar, but it looked more like those frilly Elizabethan collars that Queen Elizabeth wore.
I have given strict instructions to Husband and Daughter that if Brother, or anyone resembling Brother, pulls up to my house to secure the house locks, and run. He says he doesn't read my blog, but his wife does, and out loud much of the time apparently, as he knows contents of blogs he 'doesn't' read.
Some years ago I dreamed I was standing in line waiting to purchase tickets. Don Knotts was standing behind me, and he kept grabbing my - er - posterior. I was getting more and more irritated by the minute.
Finally I turned to Mr. Knotts and said, "If you do that one more time, I'm telling my husband, and he's no Barney Fife!"
So, there.
Some people say they can't remember anything they dream. Some people say they dream in black and white. Cats dream, dogs dream, maybe all animals dream.
I have a very vivid, technicolor dream life. My children's book, "The Crow and The Wind" was written based on a dream. The novel, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" has three or four scenes straight from my dream life.
Being a therapist in my former life, I can easily analyze some dreams. For instance when our center was in turmoil and I was having more and more responsibilities given me (read: dumped on me), I dreamed one night that there were all these crises happening, a woman was in labor, secretaries were fighting, a doctor was cracking up, and then our clinical psychologist runs in and tells me there's a man in the parking lot I need to save. I look out the window, and there's this scrawny crazy man dressed up in a Superman costume on the top of a transfer truck threatening to jump.
Interpretation: I couldn't get my job done because there were too many "fires" to put out, everyone depended on me to help them, and I was expected to even step out of my job duties and save those beyond my reach (and maybe who should have been saving me, as in "Help! Superman!").
I have had a few that I believe were straight from God, not really dreams, in fact distinctly different, more giving direction or information.
I have waked myself up, laughing out loud, sobbing out loud, yelling out loud, all because of dream content.
Dreams are really neat, huh.
I know a lot of you don't have a clue as to who these people are, but those of you who do, are asking themselves right now: "Why the heck do I keep reading this stuff!"
Wait, it gets better.
I dreamed my mother decided to get a facebook page and somehow accidentally erased mine (you thought I was gonna say read my blogs! HA!) I was upset over losing all my pictures.
Night before last, I dreamed we were adopting a baby girl. It was kind of sudden and my brother and his wife were helping us round up baby furniture and stuff. I went to work (with the baby) and told my boss I was going to have to be off for a while.
The baby was having to sleep between Husband and me.
And the baby never made a sound or caused any disturbance.
This is how I knew it was a dream.
My brother has recently had surgery. My cat has recently had surgery. The cat immediately came home and started ripping out her stitches. We had to get a collar, or more commonly known as "the cone of shame" to fasten around her neck so she couldn't get to the stitches.
Somehow in my dream life I got this mixed up, and my very macho mechanic brother was in a collar, but it looked more like those frilly Elizabethan collars that Queen Elizabeth wore.
I have given strict instructions to Husband and Daughter that if Brother, or anyone resembling Brother, pulls up to my house to secure the house locks, and run. He says he doesn't read my blog, but his wife does, and out loud much of the time apparently, as he knows contents of blogs he 'doesn't' read.
Some years ago I dreamed I was standing in line waiting to purchase tickets. Don Knotts was standing behind me, and he kept grabbing my - er - posterior. I was getting more and more irritated by the minute.
Finally I turned to Mr. Knotts and said, "If you do that one more time, I'm telling my husband, and he's no Barney Fife!"
So, there.
Some people say they can't remember anything they dream. Some people say they dream in black and white. Cats dream, dogs dream, maybe all animals dream.
I have a very vivid, technicolor dream life. My children's book, "The Crow and The Wind" was written based on a dream. The novel, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" has three or four scenes straight from my dream life.
Being a therapist in my former life, I can easily analyze some dreams. For instance when our center was in turmoil and I was having more and more responsibilities given me (read: dumped on me), I dreamed one night that there were all these crises happening, a woman was in labor, secretaries were fighting, a doctor was cracking up, and then our clinical psychologist runs in and tells me there's a man in the parking lot I need to save. I look out the window, and there's this scrawny crazy man dressed up in a Superman costume on the top of a transfer truck threatening to jump.
Interpretation: I couldn't get my job done because there were too many "fires" to put out, everyone depended on me to help them, and I was expected to even step out of my job duties and save those beyond my reach (and maybe who should have been saving me, as in "Help! Superman!").
I have had a few that I believe were straight from God, not really dreams, in fact distinctly different, more giving direction or information.
I have waked myself up, laughing out loud, sobbing out loud, yelling out loud, all because of dream content.
Dreams are really neat, huh.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Movie Titles And My Interpretation Of Them
For some reason I have been thinking about titles of movies. Some of them, obviously, aren't appropriate. If you didn't know about the movie, how would you tell what they were about from these titles?
I'll get this one out of the way because it's a personal family thing:
"Out of Africa" - what we want Husband's sister and spouse to do safely.
"Iron Man" - Yeah, right. How many men have you seen iron?
"Star Wars" - Why make a movie? You can watch 'em fight on "Celebrity Apprentice"anytime, or read about 'em in the "National Enquirer".
"Old Yeller" - Old Yeller what? old yeller dress, old yeller curtains...I could go on and on.
"Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" - Vulgar. That's just vulgar.
"Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" - Perverted and vulgar, see previous blog.
"James Bond: Octopussy" - O. M. G.!
All the "Rocky" movies: Went from sidekick squirrel of Bullwinkle to just plain squirrely.
"It's a Wonderful Life" - What it was before the Obama administration.
"Fistful of Dollars" - See above.
"Gone with the Wind" - If you live with a big dog, that's what you are as quickly as possible after the fact.
"101 Dalmatians" - See above X 101.
"Giant" - Giant what? Jolly Green?
"The Quiet Man" - Yeah, right, again.
"High Noon" - Gangs doing drugs in broad daylight. They shouldn't make a movie about stuff like that.
"The Way We Were" - Now, why would we dwell on that? Isn't it bad enough to look at the pictures, much less make a movie of our youth?
"Sixth Sense" - Okay, I digress. But that kid saying "I see dead people"? It ain't that big a deal. You can see dead people just about any day of the week, if you know where to look.
"The Grapes of Wrath" - Uh, what the heck does a bunch of grapes have to get all upset about?
"Fried Green Tomatoes" - Why are we suddenly talking about food movies?
"True Grit" - Shouldn't that be "True Grits"?
"The Wizard of Oz" - The one behind making Dr. Oz famous - that would be Oprah, the wizard.
"Jurassic Park" - Ha! Boy, are they in for a surprise.
"The Princess Bride" - An educational movie on how to get Daddy to spend as much as possible on the wedding.
"The Blob" - How Americans look the day after Thanksgiving.
"Fantasia" - How a mouse became a short term star on 'American Idol'.
"Dances with Wolves" - That should be Dance, because I don't think they'd let you last more than one.
"A Man Called Horse" - This poor guy with a long, long face.
"Elephant Man" - This poor guy who was really, really overweight.
"Batman" - WHAT is with guys having all these 'I'm an animal' fantasies???
"Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" - A very short, fast moving action film.
"The Parent Trap" - Self explanatory.
"Rosemary's Baby" - See above movie title.
"Jaws" - A movie about the TV show "The View". Those women ain't let a guest speak yet.
"Harry Potter" - A movie about some boy.
"When Harry Met Sally" - A movie about Harry growing up and meeting a girl. Named Sally.
"Steel Magnolias" An educational film about how to grow really hardy magnolias.
"To Kill a Mockingbird" - Best movie. Ever.
I'll get this one out of the way because it's a personal family thing:
"Out of Africa" - what we want Husband's sister and spouse to do safely.
"Iron Man" - Yeah, right. How many men have you seen iron?
"Star Wars" - Why make a movie? You can watch 'em fight on "Celebrity Apprentice"anytime, or read about 'em in the "National Enquirer".
"Old Yeller" - Old Yeller what? old yeller dress, old yeller curtains...I could go on and on.
"Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" - Vulgar. That's just vulgar.
"Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" - Perverted and vulgar, see previous blog.
"James Bond: Octopussy" - O. M. G.!
All the "Rocky" movies: Went from sidekick squirrel of Bullwinkle to just plain squirrely.
"It's a Wonderful Life" - What it was before the Obama administration.
"Fistful of Dollars" - See above.
"Gone with the Wind" - If you live with a big dog, that's what you are as quickly as possible after the fact.
"101 Dalmatians" - See above X 101.
"Giant" - Giant what? Jolly Green?
"The Quiet Man" - Yeah, right, again.
"High Noon" - Gangs doing drugs in broad daylight. They shouldn't make a movie about stuff like that.
"The Way We Were" - Now, why would we dwell on that? Isn't it bad enough to look at the pictures, much less make a movie of our youth?
"Sixth Sense" - Okay, I digress. But that kid saying "I see dead people"? It ain't that big a deal. You can see dead people just about any day of the week, if you know where to look.
"The Grapes of Wrath" - Uh, what the heck does a bunch of grapes have to get all upset about?
"Fried Green Tomatoes" - Why are we suddenly talking about food movies?
"True Grit" - Shouldn't that be "True Grits"?
"The Wizard of Oz" - The one behind making Dr. Oz famous - that would be Oprah, the wizard.
"Jurassic Park" - Ha! Boy, are they in for a surprise.
"The Princess Bride" - An educational movie on how to get Daddy to spend as much as possible on the wedding.
"The Blob" - How Americans look the day after Thanksgiving.
"Fantasia" - How a mouse became a short term star on 'American Idol'.
"Dances with Wolves" - That should be Dance, because I don't think they'd let you last more than one.
"A Man Called Horse" - This poor guy with a long, long face.
"Elephant Man" - This poor guy who was really, really overweight.
"Batman" - WHAT is with guys having all these 'I'm an animal' fantasies???
"Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" - A very short, fast moving action film.
"The Parent Trap" - Self explanatory.
"Rosemary's Baby" - See above movie title.
"Jaws" - A movie about the TV show "The View". Those women ain't let a guest speak yet.
"Harry Potter" - A movie about some boy.
"When Harry Met Sally" - A movie about Harry growing up and meeting a girl. Named Sally.
"Steel Magnolias" An educational film about how to grow really hardy magnolias.
"To Kill a Mockingbird" - Best movie. Ever.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)