Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Lobotomy vs Technology

See that look?

Yep, Mom is the master of the stink eye. Just so you know, this particular stink eye is aimed at all you Smelly detractors, but I digress, which is my right as first born daughter.

Did I tell you that Mom had a lobotomy?

Yep, that's right.

In the seventies she underwent brain surgery to remove a benign tumor and morphed into a technological free zone. Uh huh, can't even operate the remote control for the TV. (Just don't be so naive as to engage her in a cat fight, er conversation, over politics or religion.)

She also learned to swear, mostly at us, while we rolled on the floor belly-laughing over her first attempts at speech.

Hey, the surgeon told us not to help. He said Mom had to find her own words, and we coped in true family fashion. Once we know you'll live, we lapse into hilarity.
Dad was a bit startled to hear his wife call his lovely daughters dip-shits, but it brought stomach clutching tears to our eyes.

So I've set the stage, and I ask you, would you give this woman the new iphone 4S?

Me neither, but she insisted, and you've seen the stinkeye, so I give you the results of her first conversation with Siri.

Now, be tender with your comments. Mom can't
work a remote, but she's a whiz on the
computer.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Short Circuit Clones

"The Wii won't work." 
                                            
"Hi Mom," I snug the phone closer to my ear, "whatever happened to hello?"

"Oh," she laughs, "Hello. The wii isn't working."

"And you think I can fix it from here?"

"Of course."

"Huh," I smother a laugh, "Is there a disc in the machine?" I ask, then hear Brat giggling in the back ground.  "Um Mom ..."

She cuts me off. "Never mind, it's working now."

"Uh huh, just tell me you love me best and get off the phone."

"I love you best."

"I love you too, but I should have been an only child."

"Kelly Louise ..."

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Crash Test Dummy

"You tried to kill me."

Really, we're doing this again? I set down a glass of cabernet and stare at my sister. Beamer is at her historical best. "I did not try to kill you'.

"You were out of control when you slammed into me."

"I hit an ice patch." My voice rises, so I breath deep and reach for my glass.

She smirks. "You could have killed me."

Oh for the love of God. "Did it ever occur to you, that you saved my life?"

Her brows wing up. "Uh huh, and how did I save your life?"

"I was what, fourteen, fifteen?" Sensing a trap, Beamer gives a slight nod, so I continue. "When I hit the ice, I was headed straight for a huge tree trunk." I hold both hands out from my sides. "Huge."

"You were out of control."

"Yeah, well, who knew skis had edges."

She splutters. "Of course skis have edges. Mom and Dad wouldn't let you ..."

Her voice trails off and I nod. "Mom only skied a few times and Dad, well Dad made it up the mountain to film us, but I'm not not too sure how he made it down again."

"Okay, but what about ski team, didn't they check our equipment?"

"Beats me, you were on the alpine team, but I skied cross country."

"Well," she purses her lips, "you stole my car."

Oh for the love of God.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Twisted Intentions

"Oooh," moans Brat, clutching her chest and doubling over, "oooh, oooh, oooh."

Brows raised, Beamer and I look at each other and then turn to stare at Brat. We're in the middle
of the baby supply aisle when our little sister goes into a full body spasm.

Brat rubs a hand across the front of her shirt, and contorts her face. "That has to hurt."

Perplexed, Beamer stutters a laugh. "What has to hurt?"

"That," Brat points at the shelves.

Beamer studies the display, then turns to Brat. "The nipple brush?"

"Oooh," she nods, "oooh, oooh, oooh."

For a moment, we purse our lips and then start to laugh. I snort as Beamer says. "You don't use the brush on your nipples, you use it to clean baby bottles."

"Oh," says Brat, as shes saunters down the aisle, "nevermind."

Monday, December 5, 2011

Domesticated Shrimp

"Honey, please, don't carry the kitchen trash through the house." I say, but Rob clutches the trash can liner and disappears into our bedroom. After a moment, he reappears, pads across the living room and out the front door. He leaves a trail of tiny wet spots.

Arms crossed over my chest, I'm waiting when he gets back. "Dammit Rob. Bags leak. People do not carry trash bags across carpet."

At his blank look, heat prickles the back of my neck. I stab a finger toward a series of small stains. There's a similar trail between the kitchen and the lanai.

"Don't worry," he says, "When Simon's gone, I'll buy you new carpet."

"The dog," I hiss, "Is not the problem."

Puzzled, he looks at me. "What do you mean?"

I press a finger against a blood vessel to keep it from bursting and point at the bait bucket in the middle of the den. "You're the problem."

"Oh that." His shoulders relax and he grins. "If I put the bait bucket on the tile, the bubbler is too loud. Besides, it's cooler in the house."

"They're Florida shrimp," I shout, "they don't care."

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

What pill?

"Hey Bets, what's going on?" I plop on the sofa and smile at my mother in law. She's been in unassisted-living for nearly a month.

Last week she encouraged fellow residents to rise up against the administration. Rob got lots of phone calls. His sister got lots of phone calls.

I ignored a lot of messages.

"Ready to go to lunch?" I ask. Betsy is dolled up and I can't help but glance down at my jeans.

"We could go shopping." She say's and laughs when I roll my eyes.

"Wouldn't help," I say, "Do you have the medications you need?"

She rummages in her purse, pulls out a cookie wrapped in kleenex, a half eaten apple and a stale cupcake, then spots her pill box.

"Keys?" I ask.

This time she fishes out a small plastic container and shakes it at me. "This," she whispers, "is where I hide those 'other' pills they try to feed me."

Oh lord, so that's what's happened to the anti-depressants. She rolls a pill into her palm. The tip has been chewed off and Betsy is so smug I bite my lip. "Better not offer anyone a Tic Tac." I say.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Oranges and Apples

"Something to drink?" I ask, flipping plastic glasses to the edge of the beverage cart.

Nose buried in the Sunday Times, 9C mumbles. "Apple."

The women in the row smile and chat as they make their choices. I nod open the orange juice carton and start to pour. Early morning flights are easy, sleepy affairs.

"Apple," roars 9c, snapping his paper, and breaking the silence, "apple, apple, apple."

My chin whips around and I goggle at 9c. His face is blotched with angry streaks of red and his paper crinkles in his clenched fists. He's kidding, right? I snap my mouth shut and look at the women. They stare back with wide troubled eyes. I shrug and offer a smile.

9c levitates in his seat. "A.P.P.L.E."

Heads are snapping all over the cabin and I can't help it, I start to laugh. When I can breath, I prop a hand on my hip and give him the stink eye. "Yes," I say, "You can spell, but the ladies are still having orange."

Friday, November 25, 2011

Beer Caps, Bathtubs and Bottle Rockets

"Don't get me started on beer."

"Oh," I set the brake on the beverage cart and glance at my co-worker, "why's that?"

"Well," he says, "I got a call from my best friend. He said his wife wasn't happy with him and she really wasn't happy with me, and maybe I shouldn't come to their house for awhile."

"Uh huh." His expression is so comical, I start to snicker. "So, what'd you do?"

"Well, we made beer, and we figured if we we're going to all the trouble to make beer, that we should up the alcohol content." He locks the last galley compartment and settles into his jumpseat.

I've read about hops and oast houses, but never about the actual process. "So ... how?" I ask.

"Basically," he claps a hand under his chin and rolls his eyes toward the overhead, "basically, you add more yeast. Lots of yeast."

"Uh oh."

"Yep. We stored dozens of bottles in my friend's spare bathroom." He bobs his head. "Thing is, the bathtub wasn't as safe as we'd thought. When the beer exploded, beer caps shot into the ceiling drywall and beer pretty much flooded every surface in the room." His eyes close and he smiles.

When I stop laughing, he continues. "Ever try to get the smell of beer out of drywall?" I snort and shake my head. "How about, grout, ceramic tile or backer board?"

"Stay away from my husband." I splutter, making a mental note to scratch the beer kit from my holiday shopping list.

"My buddy worked for a paint supplier, but he had to ask the experts in the industrial side of operations for help." His lips twitch. "We had to coat the entire bathroom in industral grade sealant." He snorts and gets to his feet.

Wait, that's not always compatable. "But, what if ?"

"Yep," he sighs, "normal house paint is no longer an option."

Normality, I think, is just wishful thinking for women.

Thursday, November 24, 2011




Okay, I'll play along, mostly because the last avatar to join my blog was so darn cute and left by Masked Mom. You can find her at http://maskedmom.blogspot.com/  Thanks MM

"Liebster" is a German word meaning dearest and the award is given to up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers.
Here's how it works:

1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.

2. Reveal your Top 5 blogs (with under 200 followers) and let them know by leaving comments on their blogs.

3. Post the Award on your blog.

4. Enjoy the love of some of the most supportive people on the Internet.
So, here are five to enjoy.

http://littlestalky.blogspot.com/ 

http://momoftheperpetuallygrounded.blogspot.com/

http://thechubbychatterbox.blogspot.com/

http://thesecretofthegoldenflower.blogspot.com/

http://tomoveforwardlive.blogspot.com  WilyBCool, who, was kind enough to leave a little gift. So, in the spirit of the season, here we go ...

 

The premise of  the One Lovely Blog Award is simple. Take a second to thank the blogger who bestowed the award and link back to their site. So Thank you WilyBCool @ http://tomoveforwardlive.blogspot.com/

Then list a few of your favorite blogs, visit them and leave a comment. Be brave - admit what you've done. They'll play if they wish, or bow out. Hey we're busy, right? Well, I'm procrastinating so here's mine.

http://mydistanthusband.blogspot.com/

http://www.word-nerd-speaks.com/

http://marliasworld.blogspot.com/

http://millerwrites.blogspot.com/

http://dmcorl.blogspot.com/

http://gailshepherd.blogspot.com/

http://audreyhowittpoetry.blogspot.com/

http://angelaparsonmyers.blogspot.com/

http://laurabwriter.blogspot.com/

http://haiku-corner.blogspot.com/

Enjoy the blogs and have a happy holiday season. -Kelly























































Sunday, November 20, 2011

That's My Car Dammit

"P.S.I. Honey," I stab a green bean and wave the fork in Rob's face, "means pounds per square inch, and you follow the guidelines on the sticker in the door frame."

"No," he says, equally intense, "I bought bigger tires for your car, so you go by the PSI rating on the tire."

The tic is back, I've eaten the green bean and I'm thinking of pricking his fingers with the fork. "No Rob, you don't, you go by the sticker." He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. "Thirty two pounds, Rob. Thirty. Two. Pounds."

"Bigger tires, more air." He shovels in a bite of bar-b-que pork and grins.

"Uh huh," I glare, "You do remember, what happened, when you used the high pressure washer to clean the inside of my last car?" I flashback to Rob standing in the back of the van, water cascading out the open doors and wince.

He watches my expression and shrugs. "The interior was filthy."

"You ruined the electrical system." Aware my voice is rising, I grab for the glass of ice tea and take a sip. I glance up and catch Rob smiling.

"So," he chuckles, "want me to check your tires?"

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Good News Will Find You.

Bad news can wait.

"Honey, just tell her, you're at work."

"I can't do that." Frustrated Rob ignores the phone and stares at me. "I can't lie to my Mom."

"Uh huh," I swipe a cloth through the dust on the end table. "How many messages has she left?"

I get the stink eye, but after a minute, he scrolls through his messages and then glances up. I raise my brows.

"Seventeen." He says.

"And from your sister?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"Honestly, Honey, she's probably calling about a light bulb, or she wants a ride to Walmart." I toss the rag aside and slide a hand across his shoulder. "Go in the back bedroom and call her. Tell her, you're in Dallas, find out what she wants and then decide what to do next."

"I can't," Rob collapses on the couch, "but you can."

His expression is so conflicted that after a serious eye roll, I relent. "Fine, hand me the phone."

After a minute, Betsy answers and I go into stealth mode. "Hi Betsy, I'm in the Dallas airport, how are you?"

"Why hello Dear, how's Dallas?"

We chit chat for a moment or two and then I ask what's she been up to. Turns out she wanted a picture hung. Before help could arrive from the ground floor, she'd left countless messages with her children and the front desk.

"And you like where they hung the picture?" I grin at Rob, but his expression is closed, intense. "So what else is happening?"

"Well," she say's on a breathless sigh, "I went to an epiphany in downtown Detroit."

Okie doke. We chatter a bit and then make plans for dinner. I hang up the phone.

"Well?"

"Well," I plop down beside Rob, "I think your mother went to the symphony at the college in Ft. Myers."

He doesn't respond, he plucks his lower lip and studies me. "What," I ask, "you want to know if I lie to you?"

"Well, yeah."

"No honey," I start to laugh, "I tell you too much."

Thursday, November 10, 2011

My Favorite Veteran

Dad's a lucky man.

He came home to all the ordinary struggles of life. He came home without physical or emotional scars. He came home with his body intact.

He built a life, raised a family, befriended the world. Go Dad.

His brother wasn't so lucky. His test plane crashed in the English Channel.

So many men and women lost.

So many wounded.

Today, there are over sixteen hundred amputees. More than forty have lost three or four limbs.
Listen to Gary.  Enjoy Purple Haze.  Say thank you.

                                                                                   
The Gary Sinese Foundation   http://www.garysinisefoundation.org/

                                                

Thank You


CSI New York, Second Generation

"Want to come to a mid season bash for
 CSI NY?" Asks Brat. "It'll be fun."

Really? Is there someone Brat doesn't know?

I give her a look. I've worked back to back trips, landed in Miami and caught a flight to New York only to discover she isn't packed, her tires are cracked and she has an agenda that makes my eye balls roll back in their sockets.

"Excellent," she crows, "Beamer is bringing the kids and maybe we can tour the set before the concert."

"Maybe," I manage a civil tone, "you could finish packing so we can get to California on time." Brat is set to photograph the Lt. Dan band as they perform an outdoor concert behind the set of CSI NY. I know Brat. Brat will not travel a straight line from point to logical point. She will hop from friend to friend, regardless of time constraints.

We breezed into Studio City a little after two in the morning.

By three that afternoon, Niece was posing with Jeff Vezain, Vocals and Acoustic Guitar



Nephew had taken over Mac's desk.





Met his demise and wound up in the hands of his sister. I can sympathize. I've been in the hands of my sister for a week. Don't tell her, but I've had a blast.


Kimo Williams, Electric guitar-vocals                                                 Gary Sinise, Electric Bass

Glad to know there aren't any wall flowers in our family. Hey wait, what about me?

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Snot Bubble Stunts Social Development

"I haven't been popular since I blew a snot bubble in first grade." I state.

"Oh that isn't true." Says Mom, angry on my behalf.

"No really," I scratch my head, "The last time I hung out with the cool kids, I was arrested for shop lifting."

"Oh," Mom laughs, "That doesn't count."

"Why," I muse, "because I was on a girl scout trip when I stole a Mickey Mouse ring at Disneyland?"

"Maybe not your finest moment."

I don't mention the coffee cup I lifted from Braniff airlines on my way to Mexico for a USGS wider opportunity, or how adept I was at forging her signature on a credit card.

"You were popular in high school."

I don't miss that her comment is more question than statement. "Maybe for a day and a half."

"Band?" She queries.

"I faked it, so I didn't realize the body of my sax was caved in." I grin at her. "And don't forget the tuba player who use to clean his mouth piece on my jeans."

"Grade school, you loved grade school."

Mom is adament, but no. "Nope," I say, "did you know I wrapped Dad's old rubber boot in casting material, swiped the crutches from the hall closet and faked a broken leg?"

"No." She splutters.

"Yep, the coolest skiers had the best casts." I grin, at what used to be a horrific memory. "I faked a broken leg on thursday, played hooky on friday and on monday, I was completely healed."

"Well," she say's, "I love you."

Huh, turns out I'm popular after all.

All Quack, No Heart

"Hi Hon," Stacking groceries on the counter I grab the carton of Cherry Garcia, "Want ice cream?"

Rob's face creases with worry. "I might need a heart valve transplant."

"Oh really, and the quack told you this?"

"He did a test."

"Of course he did a test. He's run off most of his patients. He's a quack." My voice rises so the dog crawls onto Rob's lap to lick his chin. I ignore the muscle twitching beneath my left eye and calm my voice. "Okay, tell me about your appointment."

"Well, I went in to have my blood work done and he said he'd like to do a stress test."

Rob is a stress test but I bite my lip. "Was the office busy?"

"No, that's why he suggested I have a stress test."

"Uh huh," I grunt, "and you're worried?"

"Well, yeah."

And he is worried. "Listen Honey," I say as patiently as I can, "the man is a quack." Rob opens his mouth but I plow on. "He showed me his brand new sonagram, swiped the wand over my abdomen and decided I had bladder cancer." I stab a finger against the tic. "I had to see a Urologist who told me I was fine, go home."

"But ..."

"No buts Rob, the man is a quack."

"But I have to see a specialist."

"Good," I wrench the lid off the carton and shove a spoon into the melting ice cream. "Someone needs to tell you that you're going to live."




"We'll, are you going to live?"

His face falls, "They didn't tell me."

"But you did a stress test?" He nods. "Okay, I close the laptap and give Rob my attention. "Tell me everything."

"Well, they put me on the treadmill."

"And?" I prompt.

"Well, they kept increasing the speed and then the elevation and after twenty minutes, a doctor came out and asked if I was a marathon runner. I told him no, but I walk my seventeen year old dog around the block everyday."

"So," I say, "that's good." But Rob doesn't look convinced. I heave a sigh. "You're fine."

He shakes his head. "They didn't tell me the results."

"Uh huh," the tic is back.



Parking my rollerboard by the front door I turn to give Rob a hug, and stop. "What the hell is that?"

The worried look is back as Rob fingers the blue box hanging over his chest. "A heart monitor."

"Why?"

He opens his mouth, but I start to quack and after a moment he laughs.

"So, do you think you'll live?" I ask, as I uncork a bottle of Merlot. Usually I peel off the uniform two seconds after I cross the threshold, but I'm distracted by Rob and his damned blue box.

"I have to wear this for twenty four hours, so I've decided to sleep on the couch where I won't bother you."

"Good idea."




"Hi Honey," I greet Rob at the door, "how was your appointment."

"I'm fine." He shrugs, but the sheepish expression gives him away.

"And?" I ask.

"Well," he says, "there were seven of us in the waiting room and we all wore heart monitors."

We laugh for a moment and then I point a finger in his face. "The day you have a serious problem, is the day you go to my physician."

"But I like this guy."

"I'm just sayin."

Thursday, October 27, 2011

So Far, So Stressful

"You'll laugh." Say's Brat

"Don't talk to me." I glower and screw the cap on the gas tank. "I told you I needed the loo and you raced inside."

"But ..."

I cut her off and stomp into the store. Several minutes later, I return to the car and climb inside. "Okay," I laugh, "I get it now."

"Not exactly," she snickers, "I christened them both.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

I'm Taking Duct Tape ...


So that your sympathies will be with me, and not Brat, as we make our way cross country, this is a repeat of my first post.
And no, she hasn't changed.

Never leak your plans to the youngest Sib. This is cardinal rule number one. A rule I violated when I gave the kid an advance peek at my first post.

"Oh," She said, "That's hysterical, but you can't post THAT on the web. "

Well crap. I sighed, dropped my mini masterpiece into the draft column and thought what next. Then I had a vision of wild dandelion hair and glittering blue eyes.

"Stop chasing your sister."

Chase her? I was going to kill her. Sliding a furtive look at Mom, I thundered after the brat, whose chubby legs were pumping up and down as she made her escape. She was naked.

She was always naked.

So I wasn't alarmed when she sat on the small of my back to watch Boris and Natasha outsmart Bullwinkle. Still in my swim suit, sprawled on the carpet, chin in my hands, I ignored her.

Then a warm trickle hit the small of my back. Slid down my side.

What? And then it hit me, I howled and lept to my feet.

Already on the run, she shot past my mother with a feral grin.

In the hallway, I almost caught her, but there's not much to grab on a naked toddler. My fingers were inches from her hair when Dad stepped out of his office. She slammed into his legs, clinging and crying now that she had a sympathetic audience.

"Kelly Louise, go to your room."

My mouth fell open. Didn't he understand. "But, she ... she ..."

"She's a baby." He patted her back and gave me a long patient look. "You're a fifth grader. She looks up to you."

Outraged, I heaved a sigh. "But ..."

Dad's brows rose. Safe in his arms, my sister smirked.

Narrowing my eyes, I stomped to my room and slammed the door against the frame.

"Kelly Louise ..."

Clones

"The wii won't work."

"Hi Mom," I nestle the phone in the crook of my neck and take a seat, "whatever happened to hello?"

"Oh," she laughs, "Hello."

"Yeah hello yourself, so whats with the wii?"

"Nothings happening."

Great, nothing's happening and I get to troubleshoot from three thousand miles away. "Is there a disc in the machine?"

"Kelly."  Mom's voice is a bit indignant, but then I hear Brat laughing in the background and I start to snicker.

"Mom?"

I like these shorthand conversations with family, they make me laugh, but with google, not so much. I am now anonymous. I was shy for forty years, so I don't want to be anonymous. I am sure at some point I'll find my way back from anonymity and splatter my face across the web, but first I have to drive Brat from New York to Los Angeles. So ... pray for me, or pray for Brat, or send me the address to really great diners that serve really great pie ... Sigh

Friday, October 14, 2011

Evil Intent

gene pool diva
Mornings are meant to be enjoyed in solitude. All I need is a pot of coffee and the opportunity to glare at the wall for an hour, or two.

Rob is perfect. He stumbles out to the couch, around two or three to watch old movies, and when I make an appearance, he greets me like I'm the best thing on the planet and then nods off for a few hours. Yep perfect.

Until ...

I can't find my coffee cup.

I can never find my coffee cup and the longer I search, the harder I snick the cabinet doors. "Dammit Rob." I hiss and grumble. I know this is his fault. It's always his fault.

Sprawled on the lazy boy, he lifts his head and blinks at me.

A muscle twitches beneath my left eye. "What have you done with my cup?" I roar, and then find it perched on a precarious pile of glassware.

Instead of nestling the bowls, like God intended, Rob has stacked them, small, medium, and then large in a growing pile of imminent disaster. An oblong casserole pan tops his creation and there in the center is my prized, insulated coffee cup."Dammit Rob."

The corners of his lips twitch.

And then I get it. "Oh my Gawd," I narrow my eyes, "you do this on purpose."

He grins.

"For eight years?"

He nods and I want to poke him with a fork. "Walk the dog," I say, "and make it a long one."

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Busted Bottles and Fish Guts

Gene Pool Diva
"Dammit Rob." I scoop shards of glass and frozen beer out of the freezer. "Will you ever learn?"

"Yeah well," He hands me a wet rag, "at least it doesn't smell funny."

Whipping around, I slam my hands to my hips and give him the stink eye. Last year he left shark guts in the vegetable bin and by the time I got home a funky odor permeated the fridge. I grit my teeth.

He grins

I don't.

"Use your own damn refrigerator." I hiss, turning back to clean the sticky ooze.

Rob shrugs and dissappears into the garage. Several minutes later he returns, holding aloft a frosted six pack of black and tans. "Well," he says, "look what I found in my freezer."

Huh, so that's where I put them.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Duplicity

"What,d you do, pack your little brother in that bag?"
Gargantua slides a paw across the overhead bin and glares down at me.

I grin.

He grunts. "It'll fit."

"Maybe," I allow, "but I'll just stick around for the entertainment value."

Muscles bulging, tattoos shifting, he wrestles his bag, changing angles, swearing and finally conceding defeat. "You could help."

"No," I tilt my head from side to side, "I forgot to put UPS on speed dial."

Laughter surrounds us and he gives a frustrated grin. "Help."

"Oh okay. Get out of the aisle so the good travelers can take a seat." I weave through the crowd and then call over my shoulder. "Pull some of the crap out of your duffle and I'll bring you a silver bag."

Five minutes later Gargantua's luggage makes it's way into the bin and he struggles into his seat. "Now, isn't that comfy." I say, handing him a dum-dum sucker. He looks so harrassed, I chuckle, then realize his attention is focused on the forward cabin. I turn just as my coworker thunders down the aisle.

"I told you to check your bag sir, we do not have time ... " She breaks off as Gargantua and I widen our eyes and raise our brows.

"What bag?" I ask.

"What bag?" He echos.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Lost Assets

"Who are you talkin to?" Asks precocious four year old Jaime as she clings to my knee.

"Winnie the Pooh." I tell her.

"Oh." She breaths. " Can I say hello to Winnie the Pooh?"

"Well," I say, "Pooh is rather shy, but I'll ask." Jamie bounces in delight and her eyes glitter as I suppress a grin. "Winnie the Pooh," I say into the phone, "I know it's a lot to ask, but my niece Jamie would like to speak to you."

After a moment, I give my niece a solemn nod and pass the phone into her outstretched hands. For several minutes her excited chatter charms the adults in the room and then we hear her ask. "Oh Winne the Pooh, is Eeyore there?"

Jamie shoots us a triumphant look and I know Mom's turning the conversation over to Dad. In seconds his voice rumbles over the phone, low, slow and endearingly pessimistic.

"Hi Eeyore," Jamie dances in place, "are you having a good day?"

"No, no, I don't believe I am."

"But why?" She cries.

"I've misplaced my tail." Eeyore gives a dramatic sigh. "Everyone knows a donkey needs his tail."

"Oh Eeyore," Jamies voice rises, "I'll find your tail."

Eeyore sniffles and my sister rolls her eyes.

"I will find your tail Eeyore. I will find your tail and mail it to you."

"Oo kaay." As Eeyore, dad is so morose, I bite my cheek.

"Have a nice day Eeyore."

"I don't know if I can," Eeyore heaves another sigh, "but I'll try."

Friday, October 7, 2011

Shake em Honey

Gene Pool Diva
Shrugging into a parka, I reach for an old pair of leather gloves and catch dad watching me.

His blue eyes twinkle. "Shake out the gloves, honey."

"Really Dad, we're still doing this?" I smirk.

He guffaws and wiggles his fingertips in the air. "Want the gore-tex pants?"

"Nah, jeans are fine." I take one last sip of coffee and then work my hands into the gloves.

"Shake ... "

Jinxso bounds up the stairs. " ... The gloves out honey." We say in unison.  She takes a look at me and grins. "Did I ever tell you how I found out about Dad's fingers?"

"No." I watch Dad flip a hand in the air.

Jinxso's smile widens. "When I came up the stairs to Dads office and saw his bandaged hand. I said, 'what'd you do, stick your hand in the snow blower?'"

I smirk and reclaim my cup. "And?"

He said, "As a matter of fact, I did and your old boyfriend's father did the same thing, only he stuck his hand in further."

We howl. Dad's grin is sheepish, and Mom rolls her eyes. "Earl," she barks, biting back a laugh, "it's okay to be useful as well as ornamental. I'm sure the girls want waffles."

Of course we want waffles.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Stamp my Ticket

The Brat and her hairdresser on the set of the newest Bourne film. She'll be a gate agent.

Are we kidding people? Do you now see what I'm up against?

As the only kid in the family with a shy gene, I once told my father I was adopted.



His response. "No honey, you're mine. The rest are adopted."

I love Dad.

So gentle reader, I have a favour to ask. When you're sitting in a dark movie theatre and a certain cheeky blonde flits into view, please fling a few milk duds at the screen for me.

Honestly, I love her. This is just therapeutic exercise.

Oh come on. What if I told you, she takes pictures for the Lt Dan Band and spent a Madrid layover backstage with Bon Jovi?

Ah Hah, I thought you'd be on my side. May I suggest the extra large box of candy?

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

A Link to Share




"So Mom, you wanted me to share a picture with my sisters, but you didn't send one."

She laughs and I can hear Brat's voice echoing on tile. Mom and Brat are butterflies. They flit in and out of conversation and often chatter in unison. "Brat sent a picture." She tells me.

Uh huh. "I see," I roll my eyes at hubby and speak into the phone, "so you sent me a text, and then six hours later, Brat sent a picture, of someone I don't know, and I'm suppose to connect the dots?"

"Of course." She says.

"Of course." I echo. "So, what's been going on?"

"Well, Brat took us to the Lt Dan Band concert for wounded vets and while she took pictures, we enjoyed the show, which was a little loud for your father, but we had a delightful time, and then today Tara taught me to make earrings, and now we're going downtown for waffles, ... "

She pauses for breath, so I cut in. "Tara, who?"

"Tara. Oh she's a delight. She's a wounded veteran who has reinvented herself as a jeweler. She's a wonderful young lady and her designs are very clever."

"Really?" I manage, before she regales me with stories of her afternoon, of Tara's jewlery and Brat's agenda.

Several days later, Dad forwards a copy of Tara's email and his reply. I'm afraid that it's too late for Tara. My parents have claimed her and now that she's one of us, there is no escape. Next thing I know, Tara will be white water rafting with Jinxso, and hobnobbing with Brat.


Now, Tara sacrificed a lot for her country, and Mom's right, she's a delightful young woman. So get your butts over to her website and buy a shiney bauble or two for your loved one. I have a feeling she's going to be very busy this holiday season. Cheers.

Friday, September 30, 2011

Judge, Jury, and ...

"What did you do," I ask without looking up, "egg someone?"

"How'd you know?"

I drop a dish in the sink, surprised that I got it in one. "Spill."

"Well," hubby scratches the top of his head, "some teenage boys tossed soda cans over our fence and into the pool. So I waited a few minutes and then followed them in your car."

"My car?" I squeak. I don't want to be a teen target. I don't want egg yolks splattered on my windshield, or, or ... I slam my hands on my hips and narrow my eyes. "Rob damm it, I ..."

He cuts me off. "Don't worry, it's dark, and I tracked them from a side street and then lobbed a handful of eggs over the car as I passed them at an intersection."

I give a horrified choke of laughter. "And?"

Delighted, he grins back. "Bullseye. Hit one on the top of the head." I groan and he adds, "Don't worry, boys are oblivious."

Uh huh, maybe, but this is why Beamer says I'm on the bus to hell and Rob's driving.

Expectations

"So Niece," I tuck the phone under my chin, "Your mom tells me you'd rather have a phone call than a birthday present."

Silence.

"So what'd you get?"

"Nothing yet."

 I swear I can hear her shrug and I can't help it, I grin.  I remember all the awkward birthday calls when I was a kid. The silence continues, so I ask. "What would you like?"

She sighs and then says. "A phone call."

Niece has a quick wit. Laughing, I hang up the phone and do a little online shopping. Better late than never.

(Just got a call from Beamer. "Nice earrings. Too bad her ears aren't pierced.")   Sigh.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011



Thank You Nancy at A Rural Journal for nominating me for the Versatile Blogger Award


I appreciate the nod and now I'm supposed to tell seven things about myself and then nominate others for the award. I agree to do the following;

1) Thank the blogger who nominated me and link back to his/her blog.
2) Share seven things about me.                                                     
3) Pass the award along to fifteen other newly discovered blogs. 

So, things you may not know about me.


#1.  I was destined to be an only child.   
#2.  I have three sisters.
#3.  I swear like a sailor.
#4.  I bake a darned good cake.  
#5.  My husband is demented.
#6.  Dad is a sweetheart.
And most important.  # 7. Mom loves me best.
                                   

I'll try anything, so the following folks will either appreciate the attention or curse my blog. Lets play shall we.

7.    Lighten Up!
12.  I Was Born Very Young  Oops 2, but I'm keeping em both. Look...Shiney

Hey kids, this is purely voluntary, but seems to be a good way to meet your neighbors. So, go forth and blog. : )











                  
                




Saturday, September 24, 2011

Karma?


I'm off to sit on Alligator Alley, while Jinxso greets the sun in paradise. Is this Karma?


Friday, September 23, 2011

Back in the Fold


"Nooo Daddy." Sobs Jinxso as she flings her small body against the front seat of the station wagon.

Eyes locked on mine, Dad grips the steering wheel and ignores her. "Get. Out."


Shoving the car door, I step into the night, into six inches of slush and snow. Nostrils flaring, chin tucked, I vow to get even. I'll show him. I'll show them all. Dad's friend lives a block away. I can see light spilling from the cabin's front window.

He'll know how cruel my family is, when I stand on his porch, in the dark, in the snow, no jacket, no ...

"Daddy." Cries Jinxso and I flinch. Ice water squishes into my wool socks and I fight the need to whirl around and slug her again.

Sensing my father's hesitation, I'm impatient to move, before he changes his mind, before I get revenge. Only I have to wait for an oncoming car. Behind me, Mom's voice, warm and controlled, floats above the melee.

Tears flood my cheeks. They don't love me.

"Nooo Daddy," wails Jinxso, "she has no shoes."

In the next instant, a large hand clamps onto my shoulder and I'm herded back into the car. Mom slants a look in my direction. Beamer smirks, Brats eyes are wide and Jinxso's smile is watery.

I'm home

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Snot and Circumstance

Five days on duty, nine flights, twenty one hours aloft, thirty six hours in uniform, eighty three hours away from home, twelve hours commuting. I'm punch drunk happy. I'm exhausted, but I'm not too tired to recognize trouble.

Trouble is easy to spot. She boards the aircraft swathed in Prada and Gucci. Frigid air swirls in her wake. Face frozen, she claims a seat by the window. Her husband blocks the aisle, digs through his bag and carefully places his treasures, one by one, minute after minute, into his seatback pocket.

There is no hurry, no concern. The line of passengers waiting for him to nest, does not exist.

Patient, I wait, but when he fails to move, I suggest he step out of the aisle. He lowers his chin and stares over the rim of his glasses. I smile. After a long moment he complies. He's not happy. She's not happy.

I shrug, continue hanging jackets, greeting customers and repacking overheads so bags won't be sent to the belly of the beast. Passengers are seated, bins are closed and we're off, soaring high above the clouds.

Now frequent fliers know the meal choices as well as I do. They accept their lack of culinary choice with grace. Of course, I run out of options before I get to Trouble and Spouse.

"Beef." I offer.

"No," cries trouble, "We do not eat beef. We shouldn't be last. We're always last. This is unacceptable. Unacceptable."

"Unacceptable." Echos Spouse, his finger wagging in time to Trouble's. "We have not eaten all day. This is unacceptable."

"Policy." I start to explain, but they're off and complaining.

"Unacceptable. Unacceptable. Unacceptable." The tight folds of their skin pinken in anger.

 "I could bring the side salad and ..."

"No, we had that on the last flight." Says spouse. "Unacceptable." Says Trouble.

I excuse myself and stalk to the back of the aircraft. After a mini rant in the galley, I bandy words with a few funny passengers, bolster my humor and return to first class.

Several customers have lost their appetite and offer up their chicken. Spouse and Trouble do not question how they get their way. This is their right. Their due.

My coworker is a dream. We click. We grin. We circle and duck around each other in the tight confines of the first class galley. Our service is quick. Glasses are refilled before they empty, trays are wisked away and cookies are served warm.

With Trouble and Spouse I am polite, civil, not about to give ammunition to an adversary. When Trouble is through with her glass, she snatches it up and shoves it my direction.

I catch the glass before it falls and return to the galley. "She wants your name." Says Coworker.

Well of course she does. "She can have it," I gesture at my name tag and grin. "I'm just thankful she's not my mother," I raise my brows, "can you imagine?"

At last we arrive. Three of us, two flight attendants and the Captain, crowd into the galley to say goodbye to our travellers. The first officer is out inspecting the plane. The atmosphere is warm, friendly, then the tempurature drops.

Trouble points an index finger at me, "I want your last name."

"Sorry, that's a security breach. I'm the only Kelly on the plane, the company knows who I am."

She glares and stalks off, Spouse right behind her and I swear I hear "unacceptable," echoing down the jetbridge. Before I can shake my head, a frequent flyer gives me a warm smile and says, "Great job, don't ever change."

The clouds part. The chill evaporates. Life is good.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Stuck Like Glue

"Oh my," say's a woman as she peers at my name tag, "I wanted to fly." She sighs, then claps her hands. "Let me tell you about the interview."

I nod.

"Well, it's a long story."

"Better paraphrase," I say, "I have a flight to catch."

"Oh okay, but let me set the stage." She waves a hand in the air. "At the last minute a friend told me about an open house for prospective flight attendants, and even though my hair was long and thick," she shakes her silvery bobbed cut, "she suggested I add a hairpiece and wear false eyelashes."

I smile. I've just purchased my first ever set of false lashes hoping for a miracle cure to sticky mascara.

She's laughing. "I wore a red, white and blue mini skirt, a hairpiece anchored at the crown of my head and of course I had a small purse with a chain strap. Everybody who was anybody owned a purse with a chain link strap. They were very hip."

So much for a quick story, but I have time.

"Okay," she stamps her feet. "go go boots in white and I was all set. Only it was a humid day and the glue on one of my lashes got sticky and the damned thing slid around and I didn't know it was stuck about a inch above my right eye." She waggles her brows and gives a significant look. "I'm leaving out a lot of detail."

"Don't worry, " I grin, "I'm getting a great visual."

"Well, I set off to the interview. The reception area is on the lower level and I'm halfway down the stairs before I decide to let go of the rail so I'll look poised." She sniggers. "I tripped."

"Uh oh."

"Uh oh is right. I tripped. I tripped, went down several steps face first and knocked the hair piece askew."
She grins. "Oh let me tell you, three guys were laughing and five more looked downright comatose."

"So, what did you do?" I ask, knowing she doesn't need any encouragement.

"I tucked my hair under my arm, and looked around the waiting room, then took the last spot on a love seat, only I was so nervous, I knocked a girl off the other end."

The clerks are leaning on the counter and we're hanging on her every word.

"Okay, so you know I have an eyelash stuck under my brow, I've fallen down the stairs and all I can do is stuff the hair piece in my purse." She rolls her eyes. "I'll have you know that the interviewer was really sweet. She told me if I didn't make the final cut, to please try again and not to take it as a rejection."

She grins. We're captivated.

She claps her hands again. "Well, I thanked her and barreled out of that room, stopping only when I heard crashing behind me." Her eyes gleam. "Remember the purse with the chain link strap?"

We nod.

"A corner of the table cloth, caught in the purse strap, was attached to the cubicle." She grins. "Turns out those cubicles were all attached and when I charged off, they fell like dominoes."

"Oh no."

She grins at us. "I looked at that lovely young lady and told her if she didn't tell anyone I'd ever been there, I wouldn't either."

I grinned all the way to work.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

"Stoopin It" In the Suburbs: Wordless Wednesday- Raccoons Just Want To Stoop

"Stoopin It" In the Suburbs: Wordless Wednesday- Raccoons Just Want To Stoop

Floundering in Blog Space

Okay, I admit it, I was the kid who knew, just knew, who was buried in Grant's tomb, but without proof I never raised my hand. Now I've snooped into other blogger's business, couldn't locate the new member doc and won't ask questions, so ...

Just dive in right?

GBE 2  would like to know what I was doing one year ago. That's easy, I was exhausted. Three times a year I'm on call in Miami. I'm suppose to be within a two hour radius of the airport, but my home is closer to three. So, when I get nervous, often at two in the morning, I toss my roller board in the trunk and head east.

So, last September, I was either hurdling down the highway, racing through the airport or languishing at a rest stop in the middle of Alligator Alley, the highway bisecting the state from Naples to Ft Lauderdale. I vote for day dreaming and I give you the view from my car window.

And Wordless Wednesday, forget the prose and stick with the lilypads.

Now open to "Hey Stupid, It works this way," comments










Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Great Legs, Bruised Ego

I'm about to wheel my suitcase past a group of flight attendants when I hear ...


"I was adjusting my bra strap and one of the guys leaned forward and said, well let me help." Palms on her hips, freshly laquered nails in the air, Blondie's voice inches up another incredulous notch. "Can you believe it?"


Yep, I can.


Generally I stay away from flight ops. I prefer to pass on the aging recliners, the heightened sense of drama and find a quiet corner in the airport where I can maintain my sanity.


Only this time, I can't help it, I stop and drop my chin. Once I have my laughter under control, I look up and clear my throat. "Um, ladies, that guy is my husband," three shocked expressions meet mine, "he didn't mean anything, he just thinks he's funny."


"You can't know who I mean," Blondie's brows twitch, her nostrils flare, but a hint of uncertainty quirks her mouth. Crimson lipstick matches her manicure. "Do you have a picture?"


"Sure," I shrug and dig into my wallet. "Is this the culprit?"


The photograph is plucked from my fingers and the trio chatter like tropical birds before the group leader turns back to me. "How could you tell who we we're talking about?"


"You sound just like him."

This happens often and being more tom boy than fashionista I'm often entertained by Hubby's oddball remarks. Like;

"Hey honey, I just flew with this flight attendent who pulled up her skirt and asked if she should raise her hem."

My brows knit as I give Hubby a look. "And?"

"And I told her, not with those legs." Delighted with himself he grins.

"You didn't"

He nods. "Yep, she had great legs. I think she wanted a compliment."

I start to laugh. If she wanted a compliment, she got the wrong guy. I told him once he had great legs and he told me my bruise wasn't so bad.

Phew, I'm Back

Maybe it was a brief spurt of insanity, but I decided to switch to a custom domain and fell into the black abyss.

For a week I stabbed keyboard buttons, snapped at my husband and swore at the diabolically unhelpful, helpful forums on Google.

"Speak to the people," I'd scroll through the endless, helpless options and grumble, "speak to the people."

Nothing, can make a sane, reasonably intelligent person feel like a complete idiot quicker than gobbilty gook.

My father once told me the aptitude tests he took in college suggested he pursue English instead of engineering. He ignored that questionable advice and fashioned a career as a civil engineer. An engineer with the talent for explaining his projects in layman's terms.

People understand him. They value his opinion, his willingness to be open and helpful instead of lofty and patronizing, which explains why he enjoys a robust career at the age of 82. Go Dad.

Anyway, back to the issue. When I grew tired of wailing and banging my head on the wall, I channeled the remnants of my inner peace and emailed for help.

Jack G., who wasn't the missing link, was kind enough to set me on the right path, but just like in the depths of  the wilderness, the path wasn't quite as clear cut as I'd hoped. And then I saw it, something familiar, something Jack had tried to illuminate, something I couldn't quite grasp.

Screw it, I was ready to try anything. So what if I created everlasting damage. My pitiful, barely published blog could .... what? Vanish?

So, holding my breath, I stabbed a few buttons, entered a code and presto bingo, I was back.

Eureka!

To celebrate, I would retrace my steps and post a helpful little 'how to' for that poor helpless schmuck over in the WTF forum who was as frustrated as I had been. Only I couldn't find him.

As if by magic, I landed on the clear, concise, instructions that I had just spent a week searching for.

Sigh.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

No Way, Not Me.

"Who farted?" K.K. stomps into the room.

Now I'm not about to wave my hand in the air and draw her attention. Nope. No way. K.K. is a pitbull and I am a wimp. This is not a combination that works in my favor.

She stops in the middle of the room, plants her hands on her hips and stares at each one of us in turn.  Nostrils working, she sniffs the air. Sweat trickles down my spine. "Who farted?" She roars.

When no one answers, she motions for us to rise. "Fine, get up. I can tell who did it by smell."

We stay put.

She glowers and then moves behind her younger sister who promptly sits and foils her plans. This is all the proof K.K. needs. "It's you." She says, certain her announcement is humiliating enough to be newsworthy.

Her sister ignores her, I breath a sigh of relief, and K.K. stomps off yelling for her brother. "Goonie bird. I know you're out there Goonie Bird."

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

"Why aren't you dressed?"

"I don't have any clothes." I wail and collapse onto the bright red sofa.

Mom, hands on hips, cocks her head and gives me the stink eye. "Really?" She waits a beat as my siblings, sensing a row, stop what they're doing to watch. "What about the new cordurory pants?"

She can't be serious. I cannot show up at school in bright burgundy, wide wale pants or any of that other gold and orange crap she insisted I have for the school year. Slouching lower, I glare back and heave a sigh. "I hate them."

"Is that so?"

I nod, and hold my breath until she leaves the room.  My sisters return to their game. Five minutes later, Mom marches back and drops a load of clothes on the table. Still angry, I ignore her.

"So," she says in a voice that promises retribution, "who wants this shirt?"

My head snaps up. "That's mine." Outraged, I leap to my feet and make a grab for my favorite t-shirt.

She snatches it out of reach. "Not so fast," she tosses the shirt to Jinxso, who is dancing in delight.
"According to you," her grin is feral, "your clothing is unacceptable."

My lip curls down as I stare in disbelief. Beamer smirks and Brat paws through my belongings. MINE. I want to howl. Turning on my heel, I run from the room, slam my bedroom door and fling myself across the bed. I sob.

They laugh, and it takes two weeks to reclaim my clothes from the laundry.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Bring it Sister!

The front door slams as Jinxso sails into the living room. I ignore her and continue shredding cheese at the kitchen counter.

"We can't watch TV until our homework is finished." She tosses her books on the table and glares at me. "Turn it off."

Well I'm watching Donny and Marie and I've graduated, so the rules don't apply to me. "So," I smirk, "go study in your room."

Her chin shoots up and she stomps toward the set. I knock her aside and pull the knob from the set. "Go. Study. In. Your. Room."

Fine curls trembling, she howls and lunges over the back of the couch to pull the plug. I roll my eyes, shove the sofa with my foot and knock her into the wall.

She lunges.

I grab her shirt with both fists. Cloth tears. If she'd listen to me in the first place, this wouldn't happen. With a sob she shoves her books off the table and runs to her room.

Victorious, I retreat to the kitchen and spread mayonnaise on a slice of white bread. As she returns, I launch into a speech about mental stability and wait for her reaction. When she erupts, I shove the prepared bread against her cheek where the mayo holds it in place.

Jinxso eyes are glassy with unshed tears. She snatches the knife I've left on the counter. Hair prickles the back of my neck. I've gone too far, so I stroll to the front door, turn and give her an airy little wave. "See ya."

The front door rocks on it's hinges as she hits the other side. I start to laugh, but now I'm stuck outside in the heat. Our old yellow station wagon is unlocked so I crawl inside and crank down the windows. Sweat trickles down my back.

Beamer and Brat saunter up the walk. Tail wagging, Bandit trails behind them.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you." Playing for an audience, I fill them in. The Brat's eyes get wide. Beamer smirks and heads for the house, but the doors are locked, the windows are bolted. Unhappy, they glare at me and then shrug and climb into the car.

Eventually Mom and Dad return. Bandit barks, Beamer and Brat whine, Jinxso, her cheek glistening with mayo, flings open the door and adds her voice to the chaos.

I am about to die.

But in the next instant, Mom's hand shoots into the air. "I do not want to hear it."

Five angry voices fill the air. She repeats herself and Dad steps in. "Girls, you heard your mother, now everybody get a bag of groceries and while you're at it, find a way to get along."

In that moment I hear angels sing, but I know, I know, Jinxso will win the next round.








Friday, September 2, 2011

"Masturbation." Says my mother ...

"Masturbation," says Mom, waving her spatula in the air and looking pleased, "is when people pleasure themselves."

 I freeze.

At twelve, I do not discuss bodily functions of ANY kind with my mother.

She should know this. As my mother, she should really, really, know this. I narrow my eyes. My sisters hold their collective breath.

Mom's lips twitch, her eyes sparkle and I am not amused.

My job is to ask for a definition. Her job is to point to the book shelf and tell me to use the dictionary.

I want to disappear, but Jinxso giggles and Beamer gives me a sly sidewise glance, so I stalk to the fridge and fling open the door. 

Mom turns back to the skillet and flips bacon. "Would you like to set the table, or would you like to ask another question?"

"I hate you." I sob

"That's nice dear, now set the table."












Wednesday, August 31, 2011





Happy August. Heartfelt Thanks.

Gracias, Merci, D'akujem, Tack, Grazie,
Go raibh maith agat, Thank you!

To Jennifer, who lives life as a wild woman, but took the time to follow along. Be nice to her, she's pulling my plug if the time comes, and not the blog plug, we're talking THE BIG PLUG!

To Braja, my first follower from far, far away. Her site, Lost and Found in India, is a festival of sight, sound & inspiration. Find her at brajas.com

To Kat in Kentucky who brought her warm fuzzies. Yeah Kat. Look for her at myviewthroughkateyes.blogspot.com

To Sour Milk who's delightful humor is on display at sourmilkandselby.com

To Crystal, at, crystalsapistol.com who's emergency shopping sprees include red flamenco dresses. Yup, go see, and while you're there, follow along!

To Irish, GPS pondering Joan, let her provoke your thoughts at anythingfitsanakedman.blogspot.com

To wine sippin, boat floatin, Margaret, Peggy or Peg, whose wacky tales take place at straightupnochaser.blogspot.com

To Jess at unforgettablefashion.blogspot.com whose adventures lean toward tulle. Congrats Ember!

To Lacey, who tagged in at number twelve. My heartfelt thanks.  

I also have a soft spot for danneromero at mydistanthusband.blogspot.com whose lovely comments inspire me, and whose lovely blog will inspire you.

And to Marlia!  Don't forget to visit the happiest site down under,  marlia'sworld.blogspot.com   :)

To my new friend over at recoveringchurchlady.com  Love your dress. Mom shopped the JCPenney catalog store and my back to school outfit was a deep green, drop waisted number. Good times.  Welcome!

And don't forget to visit Amy over at croquetandcocktails.blogspot.com where she's whipping up ginger margaritas. Honey child, the last time I had a margarita was at the church taco feed, just before I  put my mother in time out!

Thank you Ladies for making my first month in blogger heaven a joy!






                  





Friday, August 26, 2011

"Git Momma"

A woman in her fifties should not suffer ice cubes in her shower. This is a rule.

Hubbie forgot to read the playbook, and as I'm shaving my legs, a frigid wave of water hits my back. I jerk, check for nicks and then howl for blood.

"Dammit Rob, I'm too fat to have a sense of humor."

Quicker than snot, he shoots back, "You're too fat not to," and then the dog slides under the shower curtain and tries to catch my ankle. I go down laughing, but I'll get even. Maybe I'll turn the water off at the source the next time he suds his hair.

Have I told you Rob taught the dog to bite me on command?

Now before you twist your knickers defending me, you need to know, our dog is more mop than wolf. More lively than disobedient, and absolutely as untrainable as my husband.

As the deadly duo streak from the bathroom, I snag a towel and step from the shower. They leave me in peace for all of five minutes, but the moment I shove a toothbrush in my mouth I hear a shout.

"Git momma."

Simon's front paws hit the back of my knees, my legs buckle and I smack the bathroom cabinets. "Dammit Rob." White foam dribbles from my chin.

Rob is laughing, the dog is wheeling in delighted circles and I know with absolute certainty that Mom was right. By the time you get man or beast trained, they go senile.











Monday, August 22, 2011

Directionally Challenged

“So,” I ignore the squabbling in the back seat and try again, “right or left?”

“Straight.” Says the The Brat

“Straight.” Echoes Mom

I give them a baffled look, but sis is draped, ass up, over the passenger seat and mom doesn't look in my direction. For a moment, I ignore the chattering duo to concentrate on the view.

Reno is caught in the midst of a heatwave and the campus parking lot shimmers in the late afternoon sun. Clouds drift by. A hawk soars high above the gorge. If I wait long enough, one of them will notice the car hasn't moved.

When they don't, I thunk my forehead against the steering wheel and mutter. “Right or left?”

“Straight.” They shout.

Through clenched teeth, I try again. “Right. Or. Left.”

The Brat swivels in her seat, gives me the stink eye and stabs her finger at the windshield. “Straight,” she demands, “and I need to be there before noon.”

“Yup.” I drawl, as Mom gets ready to defend her baby. “I understand you wish to go straight, but, the road only goes right or left.”

“Kelly …” Splutters Mom.

“Huh.” Says Brat.

After a minute, I roll my eyes, engage the gears and pull away from the curb. “I should have stayed home.”

Brat stares down her nose. “You could have asked  for directions.”

“I did.” Her fine brows arch into her hairline. I shake my head and repeat myself. “Right or left?”

“Straight.” They shout and dissolve into giggles.