Oh, you dirty, rotten mouse!
You done gone 'n stunk up my house.
We know exactly where you went,
You crawled way up in the floor air vent.
And now instead of home sweet home,
It smells like a nasty dead mouse tomb
Did you get lost, depressed, or stuck?
You got in, but out, no luck.
We can't reach or even see you,
But we can smell you, man, phew-ee!
I wish you'd found somewhere else to die,
But in our vent you'll forever lie.
R.I.P.
But I still hate meeses to pieces.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
It's a Jungle Out There!
Yesterday morning I was sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Husband pointed to the edge of the wood. There was a flock of wild turkeys. I counted eight hens and a tom, all very sedately moseying along, pecking and searching for their own breakfast, I suppose.
I really enjoyed watching them. It was a peaceful, calming scene.
A few hours later, I was working (ha) on the computer and Husband says, "That bear is back!"
I jumped up and he ran in the room. We almost collided. I was reaching for my camera, he was reaching for the air horn.
I glimpsed out the kitchen window, and hollered, "No! Don't blow the horn! it's a mama with babies, I want pictures!"
Daughter was vacuuming in the foyer, and when Husband told her there was a bear, she yelled, "Where?" brandishing the vacuum cleaner hose around as though she might suck the bear up and pop it into the canister.
Anyway, pictures were taken from the foyer window, but when my stupid flash kept coming on, I ventured outside on the porch.
I was very quiet, and watched mama and her triplets amble along in the yard, working their way up to the front. The wind was blowing straight down on all of us, which is why I guess she didn't smell me.
The smallest cub kept falling behind, he seemed to have his head in the clouds. He even sat down on the little rock wall and ate a few wild flowers while his two siblings and mama came on up the hill.
It wasn't until she came out of the rose garden toward me on the porch that I decided she was waaay too close and I needed to step back in the house.
Did ya'll know bears are really big when seen up close? (I was asked today how much she weighed. I'm not a good judge of weight, but she had to be at least four hundred pounds. The cubs were, from the smallest one, twenty-five to the largest, forty pounds.)
Even though she was "looking" straight at me, she never saw me until I moved. That startled her. She took her chrirren and run.
At the edge of the wood, she turned back, stood up on her back legs, leaned against a tree and raised her head, looking for me, I think.
Then she turned, following her cubs.
Not two hours later, sitting at the table for supper, two does came out of the woods and feasted on wild flowers, exactly where the bears had been.
I'm gonna start charging admission.
If I have to pay to see them, they are gonna have to start paying to see me.
Turn about is fair play.
I really enjoyed watching them. It was a peaceful, calming scene.
A few hours later, I was working (ha) on the computer and Husband says, "That bear is back!"
I jumped up and he ran in the room. We almost collided. I was reaching for my camera, he was reaching for the air horn.
I glimpsed out the kitchen window, and hollered, "No! Don't blow the horn! it's a mama with babies, I want pictures!"
Daughter was vacuuming in the foyer, and when Husband told her there was a bear, she yelled, "Where?" brandishing the vacuum cleaner hose around as though she might suck the bear up and pop it into the canister.
Anyway, pictures were taken from the foyer window, but when my stupid flash kept coming on, I ventured outside on the porch.
I was very quiet, and watched mama and her triplets amble along in the yard, working their way up to the front. The wind was blowing straight down on all of us, which is why I guess she didn't smell me.
The smallest cub kept falling behind, he seemed to have his head in the clouds. He even sat down on the little rock wall and ate a few wild flowers while his two siblings and mama came on up the hill.
It wasn't until she came out of the rose garden toward me on the porch that I decided she was waaay too close and I needed to step back in the house.
Did ya'll know bears are really big when seen up close? (I was asked today how much she weighed. I'm not a good judge of weight, but she had to be at least four hundred pounds. The cubs were, from the smallest one, twenty-five to the largest, forty pounds.)
Even though she was "looking" straight at me, she never saw me until I moved. That startled her. She took her chrirren and run.
At the edge of the wood, she turned back, stood up on her back legs, leaned against a tree and raised her head, looking for me, I think.
Then she turned, following her cubs.
Not two hours later, sitting at the table for supper, two does came out of the woods and feasted on wild flowers, exactly where the bears had been.
I'm gonna start charging admission.
If I have to pay to see them, they are gonna have to start paying to see me.
Turn about is fair play.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Husband: Sherlock Holmes, Kung Fu Extraordinaire
Husband goes on all the time about how observant he is, he is "Kung Fu Master" one minute and Sherlock Holmes the next.
As if.
We were conversing a few days ago and he asked me if I'd seen a picture of Nephew with a girl and another couple. I asked, "The girl with the hot pink hair?"
He studied a moment. "I didn't notice her hair."
Naturally, I thought it must be another picture. I mean, who wouldn't notice hot pink hair, Sherlock Holmes notwithstanding.
So I pulled up the picture on facebook. He looked at it. "Oh," sez he, "I guess I wasn't paying attention."
Good Lord!
One thing I don't have to worry about is getting a new hair style and fretting that Husband won't like it. Heck, he ain't even gonna notice it!
This opens up my world to a whole new realm of possibilities.
How do you think I'd look with a Mohawk? Or dreadlocks? How about platinum blonde? Or jet black?
Wow.
The possibilities are endless.
But even if Husband never noticed, I ask you this:
Is the world ready for me with a half black, half platinum Mohawk in dreadlocks?
You can tell me.
I can take it.
As if.
We were conversing a few days ago and he asked me if I'd seen a picture of Nephew with a girl and another couple. I asked, "The girl with the hot pink hair?"
He studied a moment. "I didn't notice her hair."
Naturally, I thought it must be another picture. I mean, who wouldn't notice hot pink hair, Sherlock Holmes notwithstanding.
So I pulled up the picture on facebook. He looked at it. "Oh," sez he, "I guess I wasn't paying attention."
Good Lord!
One thing I don't have to worry about is getting a new hair style and fretting that Husband won't like it. Heck, he ain't even gonna notice it!
This opens up my world to a whole new realm of possibilities.
How do you think I'd look with a Mohawk? Or dreadlocks? How about platinum blonde? Or jet black?
Wow.
The possibilities are endless.
But even if Husband never noticed, I ask you this:
Is the world ready for me with a half black, half platinum Mohawk in dreadlocks?
You can tell me.
I can take it.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
A Birthday Salute
Today is my mother's eighty-fourth birthday. She was born in 1929, a terrible year by historical standards for the financial world.
She is an only child and never suffered because of the Great Depression. Her grandparents were farmers and loggers and one grandmother was a mid-wife.
They made do, I reckon.
Her mother had rheumatic fever as a little girl and was told to never have children, because of the damage it had done to her heart. Obviously she ignored that, twice.
She had a miscarriage before she became pregnant with my mother. She was alone in a cafe' that she and my grandfather owned. A drunk man came in and attempted to rape her. Although he was unsuccessful because of my grandmother's fight, she miscarried later on that day.
My grandfather set out to kill the man, but he disappeared into the mountains, never to be seen again.
Anyway, Mother was one cherished little girl.
She was involved in everything in high school. She was on the staff of the annual, she was in the glee club, she was one of "our queens", she was also on the first squad of cheerleaders the high school ever had.
She was married to my father from age twenty-two to age almost fifty-nine when he passed away.
They kept it a secret for several days, both going back home to their parents house. She got a friend to spend the night with her before she got the nerve up to tell her parents she had married.
You see, my daddy was a bad boy. A rebel. Not someone her dear old dad would have picked.
Oh, well.
After my father died, realizing my mother was still a fairly young woman, I approached her with the idea that if she ever wanted to date, I wouldn't object.
She looked at me like I was crazy. She said, "I love your daddy and would take him back tomorrow if he could be healthy, but honey, I am done with men."
And so she was.
Except for, of course, two sons, a grandson, a son-in-law and now that grand great-grandson.
I guess that's enough men in any woman's life.
So here she is at year eighty-four.
![]()
Time really has flown, and I know time is shorter - not just for her
- but for all of us.
That means we are to live it to the fullest, to be the best we can be and to honor others.
So if your mother or father is still living, don't forget:
Honor thy mother and father so that thy days may be long....
Mama must of done a good job.
She is an only child and never suffered because of the Great Depression. Her grandparents were farmers and loggers and one grandmother was a mid-wife.
They made do, I reckon.
Her mother had rheumatic fever as a little girl and was told to never have children, because of the damage it had done to her heart. Obviously she ignored that, twice.
She had a miscarriage before she became pregnant with my mother. She was alone in a cafe' that she and my grandfather owned. A drunk man came in and attempted to rape her. Although he was unsuccessful because of my grandmother's fight, she miscarried later on that day.
My grandfather set out to kill the man, but he disappeared into the mountains, never to be seen again.
Anyway, Mother was one cherished little girl.
She was involved in everything in high school. She was on the staff of the annual, she was in the glee club, she was one of "our queens", she was also on the first squad of cheerleaders the high school ever had.
She was married to my father from age twenty-two to age almost fifty-nine when he passed away.
They kept it a secret for several days, both going back home to their parents house. She got a friend to spend the night with her before she got the nerve up to tell her parents she had married.
You see, my daddy was a bad boy. A rebel. Not someone her dear old dad would have picked.
After my father died, realizing my mother was still a fairly young woman, I approached her with the idea that if she ever wanted to date, I wouldn't object.
She looked at me like I was crazy. She said, "I love your daddy and would take him back tomorrow if he could be healthy, but honey, I am done with men."
And so she was.
Except for, of course, two sons, a grandson, a son-in-law and now that grand great-grandson.
I guess that's enough men in any woman's life.
So here she is at year eighty-four.
Time really has flown, and I know time is shorter - not just for her
- but for all of us.
That means we are to live it to the fullest, to be the best we can be and to honor others.
So if your mother or father is still living, don't forget:
Honor thy mother and father so that thy days may be long....
Mama must of done a good job.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
"Bearing" It All
Our town seems to be in the middle of a coup.
By black bears.
Two photographs of a mama bear with her sweet toddling quadruplets in tow were in the local paper last week. She was on South Main in the insurance parking lot and marching down the sidewalk in another.
Maybe she was buying school supplies for the little darlings.
This I know: black bears can be dangerous. And if you are a mother to quadruplets, and the daddy has split, you are already in a bad mood.
Townsfolk: watch out.
I was told yesterday by a friend that one night this week her daddy was deep in thought, framing a picture. He heard someone at the door, and absent mindedly opened it.
There was a black bear standing there, on his hind legs.
Selling Avon, maybe?
He hollered and slammed the door. (Her daddy, not the bear)
The bear was after the hummingbird feeder hanging up in the eave next to the door, they think.
My mother's friend told the story about her daughter driving up to her house and a big black bear was sprawled on the porch, lying across the opening of the front door.
She started to blow the horn, but realized if her husband heard it and opened the door, the only thing between the bear and husband would be air. Instead, she called him on the cell phone to warn him. Then she blew the horn. But the bear didn't budge, he was resting, after all.
The only thing left: she left. She visited with her mother until her husband called a few hours later to say the coast was clear.
I'm told visitors who stay in cabins complain they don't get to see a bear, and they want to. They think they are 'cute' and want to take pictures, the closer the better.
You've read previous blogs (well, at least I hope you have) about our bear adventures at my house. I am on constant alert every time I go out the front door, and make plenty of noise while I make my way to the studio.
I figure if the neighbors are home, they worry about my mental state, as I shuffle and whistle and clap my hands, make odd noises, and burst into song from time to time.
But so far, I have arrived at the studio unscathed.
Now, yesterday, I stepped outside of the studio to stretch my legs and saw out of my peripheral vision something moving quickly in the woods. I barely moved my head to see, and it was our fox, trotting busily along, obviously with a destination in mind.
I wasn't afraid. After all, there were several yards of ground between us, he'd run if I startled him, and he only weighs about twelve pounds, I'd say.
That doesn't mean he couldn't hurt me if cornered, but I don't have plans for that.
But if that had been a bear lumbering down the path instead of the fox?
I would have been afraid.
Because my mama didn't raise no fool.
Make sure yours didn't either.
By black bears.
Two photographs of a mama bear with her sweet toddling quadruplets in tow were in the local paper last week. She was on South Main in the insurance parking lot and marching down the sidewalk in another.
Maybe she was buying school supplies for the little darlings.
This I know: black bears can be dangerous. And if you are a mother to quadruplets, and the daddy has split, you are already in a bad mood.
Townsfolk: watch out.
I was told yesterday by a friend that one night this week her daddy was deep in thought, framing a picture. He heard someone at the door, and absent mindedly opened it.
There was a black bear standing there, on his hind legs.
Selling Avon, maybe?
He hollered and slammed the door. (Her daddy, not the bear)
The bear was after the hummingbird feeder hanging up in the eave next to the door, they think.
My mother's friend told the story about her daughter driving up to her house and a big black bear was sprawled on the porch, lying across the opening of the front door.
She started to blow the horn, but realized if her husband heard it and opened the door, the only thing between the bear and husband would be air. Instead, she called him on the cell phone to warn him. Then she blew the horn. But the bear didn't budge, he was resting, after all.
The only thing left: she left. She visited with her mother until her husband called a few hours later to say the coast was clear.
I'm told visitors who stay in cabins complain they don't get to see a bear, and they want to. They think they are 'cute' and want to take pictures, the closer the better.
You've read previous blogs (well, at least I hope you have) about our bear adventures at my house. I am on constant alert every time I go out the front door, and make plenty of noise while I make my way to the studio.
I figure if the neighbors are home, they worry about my mental state, as I shuffle and whistle and clap my hands, make odd noises, and burst into song from time to time.
But so far, I have arrived at the studio unscathed.
Now, yesterday, I stepped outside of the studio to stretch my legs and saw out of my peripheral vision something moving quickly in the woods. I barely moved my head to see, and it was our fox, trotting busily along, obviously with a destination in mind.
I wasn't afraid. After all, there were several yards of ground between us, he'd run if I startled him, and he only weighs about twelve pounds, I'd say.
That doesn't mean he couldn't hurt me if cornered, but I don't have plans for that.
But if that had been a bear lumbering down the path instead of the fox?
I would have been afraid.
Because my mama didn't raise no fool.
Make sure yours didn't either.
Friday, August 23, 2013
A Real Eye Opener
Yesterday was my more or less yearly eye check up. I say more or less because I wait until I open the last pack of contact lenses before I make the appointment. I don't wear the contacts every day anymore because: a. I am lazy and b. I am lazy.
Schlepping around in glasses at home is far easier than putting contact lenses in my eyes.
Also going on at my house yesterday, was a fellow installing a new light fixture in our bathroom. The guy came at 8:30 a.m. so we all, including him, thought he'd be done well before time for me to get ready to leave for my appointment.
Only he wasn't.
So I gathered stuff like toothbrush and washcloth and contact lenses (because I wanted them in for the eye testing) and got ready in our downstairs half bath.
He finished in time for me to dress hurriedly and leave.
At the doctor's he put a whole chemistry lab full of drops in my eyes, including the dilating ones- you know- the ones that make you look like those little aliens with great big eyes.
After an exam and discussion of what to do, I picked out frames for new sun glasses for when I didn't have in my contact (notice I said contact), ordered more 'leftie' contact lenses, gave her my credit card (or was it library card?) I was so blind, I couldn't tell.
Daughter is starving and I fumble around but alas! I have no glasses. I remember they are on the little console in the half bath. Alone and forgotten.
I can't put my contact lens in, either. Too much laboratory stuff in my eye.
So Daughter and I head off to Honey Baked Ham for a sandwich. I am further blinded by sun glasses, which, of course, I must have. Because if I didn't have them on, one look into my eyes and you'd see the back of my head.
No monkey, they were that dilated.
My vision was so poor I felt nauseated. I could barely see further than my hands in my lap. Beyond that was a very blurred world.
As time passed, this got more and more disturbing to me.
I thought about all the people of the world who don't have eye glasses and who see (or don't see) like I was experiencing, only every day of their life instead of for a few hours.
It was awful. I have always feared going blind, and my fears are well founded.
So the moral of the story today is: Never, never take your vision for granted. Take care of your eyes. Get yearly exams and do what the doctor says.
And stay away from sharp objects.
You could put your eye out.
Schlepping around in glasses at home is far easier than putting contact lenses in my eyes.
Also going on at my house yesterday, was a fellow installing a new light fixture in our bathroom. The guy came at 8:30 a.m. so we all, including him, thought he'd be done well before time for me to get ready to leave for my appointment.
Only he wasn't.
So I gathered stuff like toothbrush and washcloth and contact lenses (because I wanted them in for the eye testing) and got ready in our downstairs half bath.
He finished in time for me to dress hurriedly and leave.
At the doctor's he put a whole chemistry lab full of drops in my eyes, including the dilating ones- you know- the ones that make you look like those little aliens with great big eyes.
After an exam and discussion of what to do, I picked out frames for new sun glasses for when I didn't have in my contact (notice I said contact), ordered more 'leftie' contact lenses, gave her my credit card (or was it library card?) I was so blind, I couldn't tell.
Daughter is starving and I fumble around but alas! I have no glasses. I remember they are on the little console in the half bath. Alone and forgotten.
I can't put my contact lens in, either. Too much laboratory stuff in my eye.
So Daughter and I head off to Honey Baked Ham for a sandwich. I am further blinded by sun glasses, which, of course, I must have. Because if I didn't have them on, one look into my eyes and you'd see the back of my head.
No monkey, they were that dilated.
My vision was so poor I felt nauseated. I could barely see further than my hands in my lap. Beyond that was a very blurred world.
As time passed, this got more and more disturbing to me.
I thought about all the people of the world who don't have eye glasses and who see (or don't see) like I was experiencing, only every day of their life instead of for a few hours.
It was awful. I have always feared going blind, and my fears are well founded.
So the moral of the story today is: Never, never take your vision for granted. Take care of your eyes. Get yearly exams and do what the doctor says.
And stay away from sharp objects.
You could put your eye out.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Eatin' Out
For three years, Husband has wanted to take me out to eat to a certain eating establishment. He knows I love me some steak, and they are reported to have the best.
So today, since I had to go to the doctor's down Atlanta way, we decided we'd have lunch there. We knew it was a pretty pricey place to eat, so we figured the noon meal would be a whole lot cheaper.
May I say, "Lord, help."
We ate there for the first time, and it will be our last.
Don't get me wrong. The staff are as nice as if they've known you all your lives. They call you by your Mr. or Mrs. with warm friendly smiles.
There is no cheesy music of any kind playing. The tables are set with fine linen and silver and crystal.
The steak was really, really good. I've had as good, but I ain't complaining. The potatoes were wonderful. The salad was meh. The tea was southern sweet.
Husband said his food was great. Daughter said hers was too.
It was the bill that was hard to swallow.
Perhaps we had bitten off more than we could chew.
I won't bother to tell you how much the total was, because, fact is, I'm ashamed to say.
Husband decided to visit the men's room before we left, and as he walked from the table, he raised his arm a little, and I burst into a fit of giggles.
"There goes Minnie Pearl," I said to Daughter.
She frowned at me, took one look at her daddy and giggled too.
He had a nice, large, cardboard price tag hanging from his arm pit.
We became fairly, uh, amused.
When he came back we gently told him by making fun of him.
He, too, became amused and we were all laughing so hard it probably was - okay - was inappropriate.
I expected someone to come up and say in a low, cultured voice, "Excuse me, but ain't ya''ll got no couth?"
Alas, we did not.
But we paid our bill, adding a pretty good tip, in a a stiff upper lip sort of way.
Husband muttered the whole time this was Sean Hannity, WSB radio talk show host's fault, because he's the one who yammers about how good the food is at this place all the time.
I suggested he call Mr. Hannity and tell him how poor we are and see if he'd reimburse us, but Husband nixed that idea, so I guess we'll be paying the old piper when the credit card bill rolls in.
Just remind me next time Husband has a great idea about eating at a restaurant recommended by a multi-millionaire to ignore him.
'K?
So today, since I had to go to the doctor's down Atlanta way, we decided we'd have lunch there. We knew it was a pretty pricey place to eat, so we figured the noon meal would be a whole lot cheaper.
May I say, "Lord, help."
We ate there for the first time, and it will be our last.
Don't get me wrong. The staff are as nice as if they've known you all your lives. They call you by your Mr. or Mrs. with warm friendly smiles.
There is no cheesy music of any kind playing. The tables are set with fine linen and silver and crystal.
The steak was really, really good. I've had as good, but I ain't complaining. The potatoes were wonderful. The salad was meh. The tea was southern sweet.
Husband said his food was great. Daughter said hers was too.
It was the bill that was hard to swallow.
Perhaps we had bitten off more than we could chew.
I won't bother to tell you how much the total was, because, fact is, I'm ashamed to say.
Husband decided to visit the men's room before we left, and as he walked from the table, he raised his arm a little, and I burst into a fit of giggles.
"There goes Minnie Pearl," I said to Daughter.
She frowned at me, took one look at her daddy and giggled too.
He had a nice, large, cardboard price tag hanging from his arm pit.
We became fairly, uh, amused.
When he came back we gently told him by making fun of him.
He, too, became amused and we were all laughing so hard it probably was - okay - was inappropriate.
I expected someone to come up and say in a low, cultured voice, "Excuse me, but ain't ya''ll got no couth?"
Alas, we did not.
But we paid our bill, adding a pretty good tip, in a a stiff upper lip sort of way.
Husband muttered the whole time this was Sean Hannity, WSB radio talk show host's fault, because he's the one who yammers about how good the food is at this place all the time.
I suggested he call Mr. Hannity and tell him how poor we are and see if he'd reimburse us, but Husband nixed that idea, so I guess we'll be paying the old piper when the credit card bill rolls in.
Just remind me next time Husband has a great idea about eating at a restaurant recommended by a multi-millionaire to ignore him.
'K?
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)