Friday, September 30, 2011

Sneaky, Sneaky, Sneaky

Teen years can be difficult in so many ways. You have to depend on someone to drive you places, you can't come an go as freely as you'd like, entertainment can be challenging and you just feel pinned down. When I was a teen before I could drive, I walked around town a lot. Or rode my bike or skateboard but I can remember being bored a lot.

My best friend and I spent the night at each other's house all the time. My friend's house was a big, old, two story place. The stairs creaked so if we wanted to be sneaky we had to climb or go down the stairs in just the right place to avoid the dreaded squeak. We liked to go out at night (well past curfew) and wander around. Sometimes, we went to a nearby church and hung out there. Other times we'd go to the graveyard to pass the time. Don't ask my why we chose a graveyard. It's sort of creepy looking back on it but that's what we did. The thrill of being out of the house when we weren't supposed to be was a big factor. We were so...naughty.

One time, we decided to sneak out of the window rather than taking the squeaky stairs. My pal's room was on the second floor so we had to exit the window and stretch to get our feet over the front door awning. Once on the awning, we had to really stretch to get our legs far enough out to drop down on top of a window air conditioning unit. Getting to the ground was easy once we were on the a/c. One particular night, my pal didn't stretch quite far enough to reach the unit and she ended up dropping to the ground. That wouldn't have been too bad, except her back hit the corner of the a/c and it gouged her. Seeing as how we were sneaking out, she couldn't yell in pain - she had to scream with her mouth closed.

I hurt just thinking about how hard she hit the a/c and how badly it scratched her back. Maybe that was punishment for sneaking out. Now that I have kids, I hope they never pull the stunts that I did. I cringe just thinking about some of the stuff I did. I'm glad to be on planet earth because some of my "adventures" could have done me in. As a parent, I'd freak if I knew my girls were wandering around town in the dark, hanging out in graveyards, driving cars when they don't have a license and so many other things.

My favorite line to use on my girls is 'do as I say, not as I do.' I'll keep using that line until they're 95 because I still do stupid stuff. Don't you?

Thursday, September 29, 2011

High Heels and Gravel Roads

My fashion sense has always lacked elan. I try, I really do, but I am never photographed on the red carpet. My fashion foibles started at a tender young age. I remember a picture of myself in which I was wearing blue and white vertically striped jeans with a yellow and red flowered midriff. I remember thinking that I was so cool in my bell bottoms and teeny little top. It didn't matter that the two patterns didn't match.

When I was barely into my teens I had a boyfriend who invited me to his family's Easter luncheon. I was over the moon. My Mom took me to pick out a cute outfit to wear. I ended up with a forgettable outfit but my shoes and hat were to die for. The hat was a huge tan straw affair that was about the size of a football field. Big floppy hats were all the rage at that time so I was super stylin'. My shoes were clunky wooden platforms with jute straps. They were quite high so I had some trouble walking on them.

On our farm the roads were rock. Big, chunky rocks that were hard to walk on. Especially if you were wearing super high heels. But I was so determined to wear those new shoes, I teetered and tottered up and down the rock road just stylin' and profilin'. I was super, super skinny so my legs looked like little toothpicks with knobby knees perched on top of skyscraper shoes. I bet I was a real sight to behold. A scary sight that is. It's hard to develop your style sense when the only people you can model for are cows. And they ain't people!

These days, I'm not super, super skinny any more. I have a tummy and thighs that betray me when I want to wear skinny jeans. I wear high heels for work but not the stacked kind. I'm afraid I'd break my neck. I use the excuse that I can't because I had back surgery and high heels make me hurt. Working for a cosmetics company doesn't help matters any either. The building is FULL of beautiful, well dressed women. Then there's me in my frumpy gunnysack and old lady short heeled sandals. I wear a toe ring...does that count towards fashion?

Maybe what I need to do is find another football sized floppy hat and some high heel shoes so I can teeter around looking fashionable. I might even try to locate some blue and white striped jeans and wear them with a yellow and red floral midriff. The fashion could offset my muffin top!

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Ready, Aim...DON'T FIRE!


Every year when I celebrate my birthday I am extremely happy to be another year older. I don't care if I'm 85. I'm HAPPY. You see, since I was about 20, I've felt like I've been living on "extra bonus" time. I went through an ordeal that I thought was going to leave me dead and the fact that I'm still on the right side of the dirt pleases me immensely. I love life and want to live until I'm 235.

So here's what happened: my best gal pal and I were riding around town, just burning time when she saw a car that had 2 guys in it. One of the guys happened to be a person of personal interest for her so she suggested that we swap rides. The guy she liked got into her car and I ended up in the truck of the other guy. I knew of him, but I didn't really know him well. This happened back in the 80's when things were more free and easy and you didn't have to worry as much about wierdos abducting girls their own age. So I didn't think much about riding around with a guy I didn't really know.

At first the guy seemed ok; a little distracted but ok. Then he started muttering things under his breath. I tried talking to him but the conversation was pretty one-sided. Seeing as how we were in a small town out in the country the main places to ride around were on the main drag, or out in the country. I wasn't too concerned when he took a common route out of town, heading for the nearest beer store. I just figured he wanted something to drink. 

Then the guy started talking out loud - and not to someone else. My skin started tingling and I'm sure my hair started standing on end when his ranting escalated to yelling. He was griping out a girl that I assume was his ex-girlfriend and he got more agitated, and more agitated and even more so. By that time, I was pressed against the passenger door and was trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

What happened next was impossible to comprehend. He stopped at a stop sign and while stopped, he reached across the seat to the glove box, opened it and pulled out a pistol. All the while, he was yelling and almost crying and calling his girlfriend - who he must have hallucinated was me - horrible names. Even though it was me sitting in that passenger seat I swear he thought I was her. When I saw the gun I thought things were about to get really bad. I knew I was dead.

That screaming maniac pointed the gun at my face and at the last moment, he moved the gun a fraction of an inch away from my head and fired it out the window. The sound was deafening. I could feel the blast from the gun on my cheek. Everything seemed to just stop.

I must have been screaming because I heard my voice, but I didn't realize it was me. Between the abject terror I was feeling, the shock from having a gun fired an inch from my face, and the ringing in my ears I wasn't very coherent. I finally got some of my senses back and thought about jumping out of the truck and taking my chances on how I was going to get back to town but I was afraid that if I ran, he'd think I was whoever he was so upset with, and he'd shoot again.

Luckily the deafening roar of a pistol firing in the cab of a pickup was enough to snap him back to reality just a little bit. He calmly put the gun on the seat, put the truck in gear and told me that he thought he'd better take me back to town. It was a very quiet ride. I was still crammed against the door, trying to be invisible. He was still muttering to "her" but he didn't pick up the gun again.

This story is the reason that I don't care if I get wrinkles or gain years. Heck, I'm happy to have those things because they mean that I'm not dead. Some freaked out wacko didn't think I was his girlfriend and kill me at an intersection in the middle of nowhere. I get to wake up every morning and be thankful. Because it could be so much worse.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011


I don't like to admit it, but when I was a teenager, I skipped school once or twice or thrice. Usually I did really exciting things when I skipped like, drive around on country roads or go out to the lake. It's sort of hard to skip school in a small town because everyone knows everyone and word inevitably makes it's way back to your parents that you were being less than honest about your whereabouts.

The town I lived in was roughly an hour from the big city so sometimes that was a desired destination. Once, I skipped school with a bunch of friends and we drove up to the big city for a little excitement. We had a great day and everything was going swimmingly until we stopped at a red light. I looked to my right and lo and behold, my DAD WAS IN THE CAR RIGHT NEXT TO US!!!!!!!!!!

First, my face felt like it caught on fire, next I felt a really ominous rumble in the pit of my stomach and then I think I said something like 'ohmygoddadisrightnexttouswhat
thehellarewegonna do
?' We were so busted, there wasn't any way to get out of it. I think it must have surprised my Dad as much as it did me because he waved hello. Very shortly after that, actually - immediately after that, we hightailed it back to our little town.

Now, when you do something wrong, and you know you're going to get into trouble, the worst part of the whole thing is waiting for your parents to tell you just how grounded you are. It's pure torture. You imagine all types of punishments they could deliver like pulling your fingernails out with pliers, or beating you with weeping willow branches (which hurt like hell), or making you clean the toilets with a Q-tip for the rest of your life. Usually the punishment you get is less than the one you've imagined.

Fortunately, I can't even remember what punishment I got. It must not have been too bad. But then again that was during the period of time where I was grounded for a total of one complete year. But that's another sordid story for another day.
Let's just say that I've learned to never be somewhere you shouldn't be. You'll always end up being spotted by the paparazzi, or wind up on the jumbo tron, or have a crash where you have to explain what you were doing riding a ninja motorcycle at speeds of over 100 mph popping wheelies. Or you could simply end up sitting at a red light, looking over to see you Dad right next to you.

Friday, September 23, 2011


Well, Manchild struck again. And guess who he got? Yep, Ms. Pearce at work. That man picks on that woman relentlessly! Usually he sneaks a stick under the desk and tickles her leg, but he pulled a new trick this time.

It seems he was outside and found a large, ugly grasshopper so he decided to have a little fun with it. He snuck it inside and placed it in a drawer where Ms. Pearce hides her snacks. And then he waited. Eventually, she returned to her desk and started working. After a while, he told her he was really hungry and asked her if she had anything to eat.

Ms. Pearce began naming off all of her offerings and opened her food drawer to find my boy a treat. All of a sudden that grasshopper jumped at her face. She let out a war whoop and was fanning her chest, looking like she was having a heart attack.

Of course, Mr. Man was laughing his hiney off. Now, you'd think that after all of the times he's pulled pranks on her, she'd know not to trust him for anything. But she fell for his hi-jinks once again. I'm glad he doesn't do that type of stuff to me. Maybe it's because I know where the guns are located and I'd shoot his conniving a@*. Or maybe he just likes the way Ms. Pearce freaks out when he startles her. She is a bit jumpy. Later, she was heard telling a coworker that he should be shot. And that same coworker told others around the office what happened and now she's known by the entire jail as Ms. Grasshopper.

Either way, I feel sorry for the woman. I wish I could come up with a really good prank to startle my beloved boyo. I've got to do something where I'm not next to him though. He's trained to be aware of his surroundings and he'd probably end up breaking my arm if I were close to him. If you've got any ideas, I'd sure appreciate you sharing them with me. That boy needs to learn a lesson!

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Riot Times

I was a child of the 60s and 70s. When I was young I had bell bottom jeans and fringy belts and go-go boots. I grew up listening to Frank Zappa and Led Zeppelin, Cream and all those greats. As a teen in the late 70s I had a pair of purple super bells. For those of you young-uns who don't know what those are, those were super huge bell bottoms. I thought I was super cool.

I went to a middle school that was pretty much 1/2 & 1/2 black and white kids. Society was such that riots between blacks and whites were commonplace. It's sad  but there were even riots at my middle school! Police men were on campus to try and keep the peace. It was so bad, white girls had to be escorted to the bathroom to avoid being jumped and getting beat up. I was lucky because I had lots of black friends. I didn't and don't see any difference in skin colors. Anyway, I had a friend - Terry Blair (who was black) and she had my back. If any of her friends that didn't know me, started causing me trouble, she'd show up just at the right time to tell them I was cool and not to bother me. She even invited me to her birthday party. I was the only white girl there among about 15 black girls. And I didn't think a thing about it.

One of my brothers married a Mexican girl and their children have beautiful bronze skin. One day, one of my nieces told me that I was a cracker. She followed up that statement by telling me that she was a graham cracker.
You've gotta love that kind of thinking. I'm so glad that these days, there's equality between the races. There may be people out there who disagree, but me...I feel like we're all here for the same reason. We all deserve to enjoy life, raise a family, find love, have friends and

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Zoe the wild woman

Zoe has morphed from a shy, introverted little flower to a wild woman. Where once she listened to music acting like a statue, she now bobs her head, claps loudly, and sings along with the band.

She told me today that at a pep rally, she actually stood up and did the chicken dance. She didn't yell, but she moved her body and she told her friend to act like she enjoyed it instead of just sitting there. (I guess your kids do actually hear you when you tell them something) All her friend did was sit there. Zoe and another friend actually wiggled their hineys in her face and made her jealous.

Zoe also told me that she went out in front of the entire student body and did the limbo. She said she was really kicking it. But later on she told me that it was a fib. She didn't really get up in front of everyone. She did it in her head. Sort of like how she tells Mr. Wonderful and I how she rocks it when we go to hear Tommy. She might have moved a fraction of an inch. Maybe.

The thing is, I get it. I know what it feels like to want to be a badass and not care what anyone else thinks. To just go with the flow. It's funny, I have one kid who is very outspoken and has no trouble telling off someone who does her wrong (not sure where she got that) - the kind of person I'd like to be. And then there's Zoe. We're just alike. We both want to be wild children without a care in the world. Even if no one else can see what we're doing.

I like to sing onstage with bands even if I'm not very good. I am really nervous at first and after about 5 minutes, I'm so into it, I feel like a freakin' rock star! It's the biggest rush I can get. I love it!!! There's something about being up in front of a bunch of people who are just drunk enough to think that you sound really good. I see why rock stars want to be rock stars. I want to be a rock star when I grow up!

Until then, I can only encourage Zoe to keep practicing her guitar, bobbing her head, tapping her foot and being really cool. Just like me.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Spray hair

My brother Kyle likes to do things just to see how people will react. One time he got a can of spray on hair and proceeded to spray that hair all over his head and forehead. It was extremely obvious that the "hair' was fake and that was part of the allure of it.

Another time, our cousin married and we all went to the wedding. My brother was a groomsman and he got to wear a  pretty pair of shiny black patent leather pair of shoes. After the wedding was over we decided to go driving around drinking beer. My brother wore faded jeans, a
t-shirt and those shiny shoes. He wore them all day, all evening and all night. He was so proud of those shoes.

Another time, he and his wife went to San Antonio for a family gathering and somehow they would up with a bunch of little Mexican flags. After the weekend was over and they were heading back to Dallas, my bro took a bunch of those flags and stuck the sticks in the crack between the hood and fender. They rode with those flags on the car until they started to shred. Mexican people from San Antonio to Dallas waved and probably thought that they were seeing the Mexican president or something. A Mexican president driving a 80s model Chevy. For sure.

He's constantly doing silly stuff and he doesn't care how people react. I'd be embarrased to do some of the things he does but he eats it up. He's the class clown even though he's long removed from school. I think the world needs silly people like him. We all need a good laugh every now and then. I'm feeling so warm and fuzzy about all of his stunts, I think for Christmas I'm going to give him a package of flags on sticks and a pair of patent leather wedding shoes.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Hazel goes to a dance

I've mentioned in earlier posts about an interesting old lady named Hazel. She was pretty crotchety and didn't take any guff off of her husband, Bunk. In fact, they fought like cats and dogs.

One evening Hazel and Bunk went to their local VFW for some music and dancing. Oh, and drinking. The two of them could really slug back the alcohol which usually fueled their epic fights.

Hazel did not hesitate to voice her opinions and that night a band was playing that she did not approve of. To no one in particular, she loudly stated that the band was not worth a da^%. She said she wouldn't walk across the street to hear them.  Everyone heard her but she didn't care. Hazel liked to dance barefoot, so always took her shoes off as soon as she got inside.

Later on, Bunk (all doodied up in his pointy toed boots, with his hair slicked back and red dye residue on the top of his ears) decided to dance when Hazel wasn't ready so he asked another lady to take a spin with him around
the dance floor. After the song had ended Hazel was none too pleased with Bunk so she began to cuss him out. She said "what the hell are you doing dancing with that bit#$?" He tried to ignore her but she wouldn't let up.He finally sat there shaking his head and muttered "God dam$%#^^@*". Then she said "I ought to go over there and whip her ass." Manchild told her not to go over and purse whip that woman. Bunk had finally had enough so he told Hazel "why don't you go on with your craw fish toes." said " Immediately after that, she hit Bunk with her purse. Shortly after that, she stormed out and left Bunk to his own devices. That's just the way they rolled.

It's funny; they fought like that all the time and yet they were married for over 50 years. I guess they worked out their routine and no matter how horrible the fight sounded to people around them, they still had some kind of love for one another. Maybe they just loved to fight.

I'm on my second marriage at this time. Hopefully, it will be the last. My first husband was very quiet and non confrontational so we never fought. My new husband never seems to have any problem voicing what's bothering him. I've had to learn to speak up when things bug me. We don't have fights like Bunk and Hazel but we do have disagreements. I never can stay mad so our disagreements last about 15 minutes, then they're over. Thank gosh, because I don't think I could stand to have a relationship where I hit Mr. Wonderful over the head with my purse. And I'd never shout out that a band ain't worth a da%# in public!

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Peep's Cows

My dear old Dad is someone who can't sit still. His homestead is immaculate. There's not a blade of grass out of place. He loves puttering around his acreage, trimming stuff and hauling rocks, etc.. Not too terribly long ago he and my other mother got a mama Longhorn and her baby. They're named Daisy and Dallas.

Now, you'd think that if you had property and you had cows, you'd just let them trim the pasture grass for you. They do eat some grass but they are given bonuses every week. You see, Dad works for his church's food bank and there's always lots of produce left over. One week they might get a truckload of watermelons and another they might get corn. They never know what they're going to get.

Invariably, the boxes of produce have stuff in them that are past their prime. Mushy potatoes, spoiled cantaloupe, carrots that are as hard as a board. Stuff not fit for human consumption. And that's where Dad lucks out.

He takes the stuff that's not fit for humans and he carries it home to Daisy and Dallas. Usually he'll call me and tell me what he's feeding them on that particular day. Today he was feeding them carrots. He said that some of them were as big around as your leg! Monster carrots! He broke them into pieces and fed them to Daisy and Dallas for as long as they'd eat them. He also said those two cows were in carrot nirvana.

It's always the same on treat days. The cows happily munch on their treats and Dad gets a big kick out of spoiling them. Their diet isn't limited to vegetables either. Oh no. They've had ciabatta bread and cheese bread and even chocolate chip bagels. Apparently, the chocolate chip bagels are their favorite. They'd be my favorite, too.

One of these days I figure Dad will have to put those cows on a diet. Until then, long live Daisy and Dallas. Let's hope they get to eat all of the bagels they want.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Cat in the...suitcase? (Bunk part II)

Sometimes people do things that they find funny when in reality, it isn't. Sometimes it can be downright dangerous.

Once up on a time, there was a guy named Bunk. Bunk had a camphouse in the middle of the woods where he trapped for pelts, hid out from his wife, maybe made alcoholic beverages and drank a lot. One time he was at the camphouse drinking and trapping with his buddies when they trapped a bobcat.  Bunk and his friends were trying to figure out what to do when one of them came up with a "brilliant" idea. They went to the dump and found an old suitcase and wrangled the cat into it. Then they placed it on the side of the road where it was clearly visible, then waited to see who picked it up and was nosy enough to open it. They backed down the road a bit and waited for the hilarity to begin.

Soon an old car full of men came rattling down the road. It went past the suitcase then slammed on the brakes, backed up and an arm reached out and snatched up the suitcase. Bunk and his friends were doubled over with laughter and decided to follow the car down the road to see what happened. As they approached a curve in the road, they saw the car they were persuing - minus the occupants.  The car had left the roadway and was stalled out in a ditch. The suitcase was open and the bobcat was nowhere to be seen.

Can you imagine how awful it would be to be riding down the road in a car full of people have have an angry bobcat fighting for all it was worth to get away? I imagine the people in the car were scratched to smithereens.

Let this be a lesson to you all. If you see a suitcase sitting on the side of the road, you might be wise not to put it your car and then open it up. You never know when some crazy coot will put a poor wild animal in a suitcase and leave it for someone to pick up.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Bunk & Hazel Part I

This super awesome picture was taken by Clyde Essex and I found it on Google images. You can find more of Clyde's awesome pictures here:
Once upon a time there was a miserly old man named Bunk and his crotchety wife, Hazel. Bunk and Hazel were married many years and they tended to fight like cats and dogs. Bunk used to have an old Chevy pickup that was always in a state of disrepair. The truck had an air conditioner but Bunk thought that using it would cause it to burn too much gas. So he rode around with the windows rolled down - even if it was 100 degrees outside. Living in the country, Bunk drove through dusty pastures and down dusty roads all the time. Since he always had the windows down, the interior was caked in dust.

Bunk didn't believe in washing his truck so the layers of dust built up over many years. He didn't seem to mind that it was a rolling health hazard. One day Mr. Wonderful stopped by Bunk & Hazel's for a visit and he noticed that the truck was parked behind the house. He took a quick look at the truck and thought that it had been washed. He commented to Hazel that he was surprised that Bunk had washed it and she quickly set him straight, telling him that she took care of the truck. Only she hadn't washed it. She painted it.

Hazel had a habit of scouring hardware stores, looking for cans of old paint that were discounted, past their prime, out of date. Apparently, she had used one of her old cans of paint and brushed paint all over Bunk's truck. She didn't bother to wash or sand it beforehand, she just painted right over all of the layers of dirt and dust!

Apparently she had a habit of painting items that didn't look pretty any more. Trucks, lawn furniture, you name it. Manchild told me that Hazel painted all of the lawn furniture and that all of the pieces had paint at least 1/4" thick. In her usual painterly style, she didn't bother to wash them first. She just hermetically sealed the dirt with paint. Sort of like a time capsule.

She painted everything, even the fence posts. Once, Bunk came home with a large dent in his truck. Hazel asked him what the h-e-double hockey sticks he did to his truck and he told her that a cow hit him. It didn't matter that the dent was crusted with red paint. The same red as the fence posts at the entry of their property. I guess it didn't hurt the posts, though. There were probably 25 layers of other paint underneath that red paint. Hazel saw to that.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Tea parties, baby showers, wedding showers, bridal showers, and ladies luncheons...all of them give me the willies. I feel like a bull in a china shop. I am not graceful by any means and it takes real effort for me to be/feel ladylike. My Mom tells me that I come off as very ladylike - poised, confident, relaxed but inside I'm quaking.

My Mom has all kinds of pretty dishes and shiny sparkly crystal and she loves to have lunches with finger sandwiches and dainty stuff. I get hiney cringes as soon as she mentions wanting to have a luncheon. When the day of the event arrives, I wake up with a knot in the pit of my stomach. I do my duty and bathe, brush my teeth, comb my hair and fix a dish to bring but the sense of dread about does me in.

I attended one such event today. I knew everyone in attendance - they were all family members but I was still nervous as a cat. It wasn't like I had to put on airs, it was just the fact that Mom was going to be using her nice dishes and sparkly glassware and I was scared I'd break something. I had to be sure to use my inside voice, and to tread lightly, not clomp through the house. I had to chuckle softly, not laugh like a hyena which is what I usually do.  I had to...behave.

I think I did pretty well today. I didn't break anything or stumble and fall, or knock anything over.  I kept my napkin in my lap and sipped not gulped my tea. I didn't inhale my food and didn't talk with my mouth full. But I did get into trouble. I removed everyone's plates from the table when they were done and put them in the kitchen. I was going to try and be helpful by rinsing the dishes but I had forgotten that Mom doesn’t like anyone to clean up for her after a meal.  So I made her mad and got scolded for disobeying. I hated that I made her mad at me and I made an exit pretty quickly after that.  I guess she felt badly too, because she called me later and apologized for getting mad at me when I was just trying to help.

I don't think I'll ever get it right but I'll keep trying. I'll keep my hiney cringes to myself because Mom loves those girly types of things and I want her to be happy. I'm just sorry that I can't be a girly girl. I'm sure she'd love it but it's just not me. So she'll keep having girly parties and I'll keep faking my way through them. I just hope that that I don't break or ruin anything in the process.

I love you Mom. Tiddlywinks and all.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Dr. Demolition

One of my goofy brothers has the misfortune of always breaking everything he touches. He doesn't mean to, and he isn't overly clumsy, he just breaks stuff. I always hesitate to lend him anything because I'm fairly certain it will come back to me broken. Ever since he was old enough to have something with a motor, he's tinkered with it until it was broken enough to necessitate outside help to repair it. His cars have always been in states of repair. Even if they were new. Once, he helped "fix" a friend’s car and it ended up catching on fire!

Needless to say, the scariest thing to lend him is a car. When he was in high school, he borrowed my Pop's BMW to take a girl to a school dance. I'm sure my Pop was a bit wary of him using it, but he was kind enough to want to make my brother's night special. The date went well and my brother made it home by curfew. He parked the car in the driveway and made sure it was locked up tight. The next morning my Pop went out to see how wrecked - um, I mean the status of the vehicle and he about had a heart attack to see that the car was 1/2 way through the closed garage door. I'm sure that after the blood stopped spurting out of his ears and his eyes were back in his head, he calmly went into the house to find out why/how my brother wrecked the car.

My brother swore on his life that he did not wreck the car and that he parked it correctly, undamaged. Both guys were really upset because it was hard to argue that the car wasn't crashed. Upon further investigation it was determined that the starter had a short in it and as it zapped, the car (a standard) lurched forward. Throughout the night, the car slowly lurched its way through the garage door until it couldn't go any farther.

I'm sure Pop felt badly for blaming my brother but who could blame him - what with his track record and all.

Recently, I loaned my brother my lawn mower with the hopes that I'd get it back in working order. When I got it back it worked all right, but about 3 minutes after I started using it, one of the wheels fell off. That's just about the way it always goes. He's just a one man wrecking crew. Bless his destructive little heart.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Poor King Kong

Tonight Mr. Wonderful and I are watching King Kong on the telly. (Since the movie is set in the jungle I thought I'd treat you to green type.) Jessica Lange is the damsel in distress and Jeff Bridges is the leading man. You'll be glad to know that King Kong is still large, hairy and sensitive.

Poor King Kong. He always gets a bad rap. He's in the jungle on an island in the middle of nowhere and pesky, gun happy humans show up and kill his nirvana. No wonder he's pissed! In the version of the movie we watched, Kong takes care of his lady friend by putting her under a waterfall so she can clean herself up. He's kind enough to blow warm air on her so her hair can miraculously be re-styled and curled. I bet he made sure not to eat onions before blow drying her because he's sensitive that way.

I like the movie because the distressed damsel's clothes never get wrinkled. She doesn't have dirt under her fingernails. Her hair is always nice. I bet if you smelled her underarms, they would smell clean and nice like flowers. 

I'm mad. I don't have a 25 foot gorilla toting me around the hot wet jungle, I stay in the air conditioning and yet, I am still worse off looking than Jessica Lange at the end of the day. Maybe it's because I'm not on an exotic island in the middle of nowhere wearing a skimpy dress and cool beads. That's gotta be it.

I'd love it if Mr. Man picked me up and slung me over his shoulder and carried me up into a soft nest in the trees. I'm not going to ask him though because with my luck he'd throw out his back and roar just like Kong did. More than likely, he would have onion breath and I'd choke too. Maybe we'll just stay seated on the couch and share a banana.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Car names

This is my beloved car. I've never loved a car like I love this car. It makes me feel super cool. I feel like I'm noticed when I drive this baby down the street. Some people know me not by name but by my car. I've even met and made friends because of this car.

My car has a name - all of my cars have had names. I call this car the Juicy Mobile.
I even contemplated getting vanity plates that said "Juicy" but decided against it. Getting back to car names.................I'd be interested to see how many of you name your vehicles. Please let me know.

Names of cars past include: The White Cloud (a 1960 Chevy Impala)
The Bug
The Brown Log
The Green Weenie (or at least that's what I called it) Yes, I know this picture shows a silver car but ours was green. And really rad for it's day. That's back when Nissan went by the name Datsun.
 My first car, was a Toyota Celica which I called my Maroon Marauder. It survived the beginning years of me driving, my years in college and a bit after that. It was a great little car and ran like a top. I had a foot shaped chrome gas pedal in it which made me super cool. I was sad to see it go because it was my first. And you know that you never forget your first.
My second car was a hand me down from my hubby which I called the Turd Mobile (he was really offended at that name by the way. But hey, it was brown and shaped like...well, you know what I'm getting at.) It had every bell and whistle known to man and was very nice. But it looked like a.....oops, there I go again.

One of the last notable cars I had was the White Whale or Willie. I like to roll down the road yelling "FREE WILLIE". My kids got a kick out of that. For being such a tank, it was a really nice ride. I drove around 12 people all at one time in it once. I was sad when I sold it, too. I wanted to make sure it went to a nice loving home. I happen to know it's happily living out it's existence as a family car because I've seen it a couple of times since it sold. I saw it on the interstate once and I actually waved at it! I'm sure the people inside thought I was crazy - waving and smiling, etc.. I wasn't waving at the people, I was waving at Willie!

I don't plan on ever getting rid of the juicy mobile. It's such a collectors item that when I'm through with it, I'll save it until one day it will be worth a million dollars.

So please let me know dear readers, did your cars have names? What were they?

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Crashing Cats

If you have tile or wood floors and you have cats, you know what I mean about crashing cats. I have 3 kitties living in my house right now. Ruby, Pork Chop and Schwayze. All three of them keep me laughing as they tear around the house, sliding into door frames, crashing into furniture and skittering along, trying to keep traction on the floor.

Cats are particularly funny when they crash because when they do, they usually take a nonchalant look around to see if anyone saw them. If they were caught, they act really insulted and then look at you as if to say 'what the h&*ll are you looking at?' They don't like to make fools of themselves.

Schwayze is still a kitten so he's particularly goofy. He has this habit of zooming up to door frames and leaping upward as if he's going to climb the wall. He does pretty good, too. That sucker can get at least 1/2 way up the wall! I'm not sure why he does it - there aren't any strings dangling to entice him and I never see a bug or something he might like to attack. He just does it.

Ruby seems to get spooked by unseen forces which cause her to tear through the kitchen and into the dining room. There's a 90 degree turn she has to make to get from one room to the other and that's the spot that causes the hilarity. Usually, I hear her little claws slipping on the tiles as she tries to work up a good gallop. Then I hear her tear through the kitchen. Next, I usually hear a fairly loud thump as she slams into some cabinets since she can't execute the turn without sliding. That's followed up by some grumbling under her breath as she picks herself up and takes off again.

Pork Chop is my fattest kitty but she's still pretty quick on her feet. She is a total scaredy cat (no pun intended) and all it takes to set her off is a quick movement by anything. It could be one of my pet dust bunnies rolling around and if it moved quickly, she'd bolt. I'm not sure if she's really embarrassed or not because she's outta there and into hiding so fast, I can't see her face.

I try not to laugh at the cats where they can see me. They get really offended and I don't like the go to h-e-double-hockey-sticks look they toss my way. Besides they're such sweet kitties, I figure they're praying to the Cat God that I don't make fun of them. See? I get it...I don't want people making fun of me when I do something really moronic either. Oh wait, yes I do. I usually point out the stupid things I do so people can laugh with me and at me.

(I wish I could take credit for these awesome cat pictures but I can't. Thanks Google Images!)

Thursday, September 8, 2011


Have you ever known someone who is pleasant enough to be around, but they talk too much? I have a few friends like that. I like them but when it comes to time to end the conversation, I just can't get them to stop talking!!! This drives me INSANE.

The motormouths, or mm's as I like to call them are completely oblivious to the fact that they just need to stop talking. MM's fall into two categories - the work kind and all the rest. Work mm's stop by for a "quick question" and are usually standing around your office or cube for 30+ minutes.

Work mms: I have one such person that I work with. This person stops by to say hello and no matter what I do to indicate that I need to get back to work, they keep on and on and on and on. The particular person I have in mind doesn't seem to notice that I return to my computer and resume working and respond only with 'umm humms' and 'oks.' I've even answered phone calls and they hang around until I'm done! Usually I end up having to say "I really love you, but I have to work now." Even then it takes another 10 minutes or so for them to finish talking!

All the other mms: These are the people who stop by your house to drop off or something and an hour later, your dinner is burned the kids are whiny and you're about to pull your hair out. I don't care what you're doing, they're gonna talk your ear off. You could be in the middle of open heart surgery, attempting to remove the patient off of bypass breathing and blood pumping, and the person will stand there and keep yammering.

The usual tactics of edging towards the door or yelling to your kid "I'll be right there" doesn't work. Telling the offender that you have to leave doesn't work. Not at all. They don't get it. You have to be really blunt. And that doesn't work most of the time.

I have no clue how to fix this problem. I'd really appreciate some feedback from all 4 of my readers to find out how to deal with this. PLEASE!!! Help me. Otherwise, I'll find you and start talking and I won't stop until I notice that most of your hair has fallen out. Either that, or until you physically push me away and tell me to shut up.

The Last Word

You know how when you argue with someone, someone always gets the last word? Yeah, well, it never is me. But then again, I don't argue with people much. I don't like confrontation at all.

Every once in a blue moon I feel the need to pop off to someone (who usually needs it) and when I do, I'm usually so upset, I can't come up with any good zingers. More often than not I come up with all kinds of good things to say AFTER the person has already left.

This frustrates me to no end on the one occasion every millennium that I get into a verbal sparring match with someone. Usually one of two things happen; I get so put out that I start crying or I end up stalking off muttering to myself - saying all of the things I wish I would have thought to say to thoroughly insult the person I was sparring with. Just like the cartoon character Mutley did. For those of you who don't know Mutley, he was a dog who when frustrated muttered somethings under his breath resembling expletives but not quite bad words. That's me!

A few weeks ago or so a lady spoke to me in a very hateful, inappropriate way for no reason at all. For once in my life, I threw the hate right back at her and I'm embarrased to admit it, but it felt GOOD! I could have come up with something good to say but as usual I couldn't think of anything until after the fact. Oh well, I guess it's good I didn't. I don't need to sink down to that level. I'm better than that. My motto is 'make love not war.'

I would finish this post off with some witty saying but my mind is blank. I'll probably come up with something good after I've gone to bed and it's too late.

Bugging Ms. Pearce

As much as I love my wonderful manchild, he's a great big pest. He's gruff, has a very deep voice, frowns most of the time and looks sort of scary. And it's all fluff. He's my 12 year old's intellectual equal. He loves nothing more than pulling pranks on unsuspecting victims. He loves to tell scary stories to scare my kid. He loves to scare the ladies he works with and this is where the story begins.

I might have mentioned earlier that my Mr. Wonderful is a super cop. He carries a big gun, a taser and handcuffs and if you didn't know him you might be a tad intimidated. Everyone who knows him very well knows that's not the truth. A favorite victim of his is a lady known as Ms. Pearce. She's an older woman who works in his squad room and she's a little bit jumpy to put it mildly. He's always coming up with ways to scare the pee-waddly out of her. You'd think she'd be wise to his trick whenever they're together but she isn't.

One time, my beloved had a contraption that consisted of a wooden box with a furry thingy sticking out of it. The box was labeled "DANGER - Mongoose. Keep Away. He asked her if she'd like to see the mongoose. He coaxed her into putting a little bit of candy by the hole to feed the animal in the hopes that it would come out and eat it. When she was comfortable doing that, he pulled a lever and the top (which was spring loaded) sprang open and the furry thing flopped out towards her hand. It scared her so much, she jumped straight up on a bench and screamed as if it had bitten her hand off.

Another favorite trick of Manchild's is to employ a small stick by putting it under the desk and tickling Ms. Pearce's leg. He performs this trick at least once a month. One particular occasion started out with him telling a story about a snake called a coach whip. It's a black snake that eats rodents. If there's tall grass, the snake will stand up and peer way over the top of the grass looking for prey.

The scenario started out with a fellow co-worker asking Mr. Man about coach whip snakes. This
co-worker called Manchild and asked what a coach whip was. He told her that it was a snake that sticks it's head up above the grass. Ms. Pearce apparently  told the co-worker that someone had found one out in the pasture by where they all worked. The co-worker asked Mr. Man if the snake would chase a person. He confirmed it and she stared laughing and told him that Ms. Pearce said that that particular snake would chase you and whip you and then stick it's tounge up your nose to see if you're still breathing.

The next day, Mr. Man talked to Ms. Pearce about the whole thing and they had a good laugh about the wives tale about the snake sticking it's tounge up a person's nose. He then told her about a black snake he had found outside his house a few days before. Ms. Pearce was really involved in computer work at the time and Mr. Man let the conversation die for a few moments. While Ms. Pearce was working she asked him if he was scared of snakes. "Naw" he said. Unbeknownst to Ms. Pearce, he had a bamboo stick in his hand and he bent under the cubicle where all he could see was her cop boots. He had to bend down really low without her seeing, so he could reach her ankles with the stick. He tickled her and in one motion, she screamed, jumped straight up and her chair flew backwards. Then she gave him the look of a million cuss words.

That's just one of many tricks he's pulled on that poor woman.
If you're lucky, I'll tell you a few more.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Swimming with Screwey

When I was young my family had a dalmatian named Screwey. The name fit her perfectly. She had two different colored eyes and was super sweet. Being the only girl among lots of stinky boys, I didn't have many playmates. So Screwey was my bestie. She put up with me bathing her and painting her toenails and putting perfume on her and dressing her up. She never complained! But she did always manage to run off and find some dead critter to roll around on to erase my beauty shop job and add her preferred scent...dead, skanky STINK. It's funny, she could roll on rotten critters, swim in algae laden ponds, crawl around in the dirt etc. and she'd always look white. I never could figure that one out.

Our house had a lake in the front yard and I spent many hours swimming in it. So did Screwey. If there were ducks in the lake, she'd paddle around after them until she pooped out. If I went swimming, so did Screwey. I had to be careful because her toenails were pretty long and if she got too close, she'd inadvertently slash me 1/2 to death. But that didn't happen too often.

One summer, I came up with a brilliant idea to extend Screwey's swim time. I decided to lash two empty plastic milk jugs together to form a sort-of sling. I'd put one sling under her front half and another sling under her back half, then all she had to do was paddle her feet a little to maneuver around the lake. She could float for hours with minimal energy expulsion! You might think a dog would be bothered by two ropes holding it up, but Screwey didn't seem to mind a bit. In fact, I think she really liked it.

When it rained, a portion of our road became flooded just a little bit and crawdads would "play" around in it. Screwey knew that flooding meant crawdad fun! She'd curl her lips up so they wouldn't get pinched and she'd put her nose under the water and try to catch those little suckers. Sometimes she was successful and sometimes she wasn't. Every once in a while, she wouldn't get her lips curled back enough and she'd get pinched. You'd know it because she'd start sneezing and shaking her head and act all agitated. I guess I would too if I got pinched in the snout!

She used to get stickers in her feet and she'd use the same lip curling action then pull them out with her teeth. A normal dog would probably spit the thing out but Screwey would eat them. I figure it would be like eating cactus with the thorns...who would want to do that?!? Screwey.

If our family left the farm, upon our arrival back home Screwey would run into the fields surrounding our house, barking furiously as if to say "hey you bad guys, get the heck-fire outta here! My people are home!" She was a great protector. To me, she seemed fearless. A bright white spotty fearless bad guy getter.
Screwey lived a long life and she was well loved by our family. Unfortunately, heart worms got the best of her and I think we all cried over her passing. There hasn't been as good a family dog since her. We've had others but none of them compared to good old Screwey. It's been over 30 years since she's been gone but I miss her to this day. I miss her one blue eye and one brown eye. I miss her silky, spotted ears. I miss her sweet nature and goofy antics. One day, I'll see her again up in heaven where she'll probably be floating in a lake on milk jug floats, or catching crawdads with her lips curled back, or eating stickers just like she used to do. And I'll give her a nice warm bath and put perfume on her and paint her toenails bright red. Let's just hope there aren't dead critters laying around up there, waiting to be rolled over to provide serious stink to her.