July 9, 2007
Heady stuff, this! Scary. Makes my chest tighten up while at the same time makes me feel like a citizen again.
The responsibilities aren’t a big problem because even when we rented we usually took care of all that ourselves. Being grownups, it seemed sort of …… I’m searching for a word here …… childish to go running to someone else to fix every little thing that came along. I realize that your landlord is responsible for doing all of those things, however, it just seemed silly to take the time and effort to call him from (possibly) more pressing things when we could just as easily fix it ourselves and get it done right and right now! We knew it was right because WE did it. Plus, you always get a little cred if you let them know that there was a small problem, but that you fixed it and they didn’t have to bother. Having said this, always make sure that you DO fix it and fix it right. Otherwise you leave yourselves open to all kinds of bad things happening down the road at the most inopportune times.
We have been incredibly lucky with the landlords we’ve had since we moved out of the house I used to own with my ex, Ol Pencil Dick, hereinafter to be referred to as OpeeDee.
Our landlords have all been business owners, who by their very nature squeeze a nickel so hard the buffalo poops are very cost concious. So we were always allowed to fix whatever we wanted to and just take the costs off of the rent. That way, we didn’t have to wait for them to arrange for someone cheap and crappy of their choosing to come around when they sobered up could fit us into their schedule.
From now on, though, WE will be the homeowners! Hot doggies! I’m stoked. I’m in the zone. I’m ready. I’m already thinking of seceeding from the Union. I think I shall start my own nation. I’ll have four acres. That’s a good amount. Not big enough to draw attention, yet large enough for a garden and some chickens. I can mint my own currency. I’ll restrict my airspace. We’ll be a dictatorship. Benevolent, of course. Now all I have to do is decide on what to call it. Bite Me Land. Kiss My Foot If You Don’t Like It -erica? I’ll have to put some more thought into it.
Woman’s definition of homeownership: I can paint the walls any color I want!
Man’s definition of homeownership: I can piss off of the back porch if I want!
Hint: Don’t piss off of the back porch. That’s just nasty.
Okay, time to go put on my game face. It’s paper signing time. My Dearest Husband says I’m not allowed to go in there smiling like a goon. Not until after we’re done with all the John Hancocks. THEN I can smile like a goon. 🙂 Which I will faithfully do…..for quite sometime. Until the roof leaks, or the septic tank needs to be pumped, or the shower starts leaking into the wall behind everything, or or or OMG *gasp* ….anyone got a Valium I could borrow????
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Posted by thought4food
June 9, 2007
Yippee!!!!! School is out! Last day of getting up at 6:00 am. Last day of getting surly children out of a comfy bed way too early in the morning. Last day of picking out clothes the night before. Last day of homework! Woo hoo! Last day of sick day notes. Last day of lunch money.
First day of sleeping in. First day of play clothes. First day of sandwiches for lunch. First day of time at the lake. First day of cartoon marathons. First day of lazy time.
Hmmm….last day of Dr. Phil. Last day of peace and quiet. Last day of time to myself. Last day of no fighting. Last day without non-stop screaming through the house all day long. Last day without MomMomMomMomMomMomMomMomMOMMOMMOMMOM.
DAMN! Last day of school! *sob* 😦
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Posted by thought4food
June 8, 2007
Teenagers ………….. *sigh* …………….. nuf said.
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Posted by thought4food
June 6, 2007
Buddha came wandering in the room Sunday evening about 7:00 pm with the news that he had been throwing up all day and his legs were cramping and his stomach hurt. You may think that the fact that I was so far behind on this information means that I don’t pay attention. Let me disabuse you of this notion.
First of all, Buddha is secretive in his personal habits in the extreme. He got this way when he was living at home. I’m not sure exactly what survival instinct led him to that particular behavior, but you will almost never catch him doing anything in the way of personal habits at all. He does do all those things like brush his teeth, take a bath, use the toilet, etc. He just does it all on the sly.
Second, his sister is the twin of the Tasmanian Devil. Being in her proximity is like being inside of a tornado that consists of blond hair and tiny bits of paper and chap stick and fingernail polish and puppies and shards of glass and blue eyes and bug juice and questions and clothes and makeup and arguments and chewing gum and an incessant stream of words and movement. It’s hard to see past her sometimes.
Also, on the weekend, His Highness The Buddha, does not like to be disturbed when he is resting. So I leave him to his own resources to decompress and do as he pleases unless I hear screaming or see blood pooling underneath his bedroom door. Flames, smoke, the sound of breaking glass……these will also capture my attention.
So, he tells me that he had been throwing up since morning. *sigh* I figure he’s dehydrated. I give him water with a few grains of salt. It all comes up immediately. I smell a trip to the ER coming up. I pack up the Tasmanian Devil, a few waiting room supplies, and Buddha. Off we go to the ER for a quick IV of fluids to re-hydrate him and then we’ll be home and that will be that.
Not so much.
After about a gallon of drawn blood, about three gallons of IV fluids drained into him, a multitude of tests, and a CAT scan, we find out that he has appendicitis. Wow. Into the hospital he is admitted. The surgeon will be there in the morning to talk about what we will do.
(insert ominous music here) The surgeon comes in and tells Buddha that he must have the appendix out. The instant Buddha realizes what the means he says, “Cut me?!! OH NO! I’m outta here!” It’s everything we can do to keep him in the bed. We talk and cajole and do everything but chase him down the hall and tie him to the bed. By this time his belly is hurting him considerably. We convince him that having the surgery will make his belly feel better and he finally agrees. Whew!
It all happens quite quickly. He’s in surgery in a matter of minutes. They tell us he’ll be back in an hour and a half, be in the room. When they bring him back up, he’s awake. I ask how he’s feeling. He rares up on the bed and yells, “THEY CUT ME AND IT HURTS!!” We kinda forgot in all the excitement to tell him that the surgery was going to hurt pretty bad right at first. Our bad. *grimace*
Once he was in bed and settled and the morphine set in, he informed me that people who were in the hospital get presents. He would accept a video game, thank you. Then whenever anyone called or came by, he would dutifully inform them of the same thing complete with his order. I figure that he’s already calculated what his appendix was worth.
By the time he’s fully recovered, I’m going to have to watch out on eBay because he’ll be trying to sell his kidney for a Volkswagen. A cornea for the downpayment on his college tuition. 😦 *sigh*
He’s home and feeling fine. He disappeared from the couch about two hours after we got him home. My Dearest Husband went looking for him, he wasn’t in the house. Bella said he was up the drive. Um…….up the drive??? Yeah, she says, riding his bike. We walk out on the porch and sure enough, he comes slowly riding back down the driveway. Just over twenty-four hours after his surgery. We’re standing there with our bottom jaws resting on the tops of our shoes, staring at him. He says, “What?”
Kids, ya gotta love em.
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Posted by thought4food
June 5, 2007
I think about this today from the other perspective. From the point of view of the person who is not raising their own child.
I have to preface this by saying that I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. Luckily that has never stopped me before, so here I go.
For those of you who haven’t read this blog before I am raising two of my grandchildren. I also have an adopted daughter, who is my husband’s natural daughter. Hence, other people’s children. They are all children of my heart, and I couldn’t love them one bit more if I had carried them all for the full nine months plus one more just for good measure. But, none the less, they are still other people’s children and they all know it.
They all have mothers elsewhere and they love them and miss them very much.
I can’t imagine how much their mother’s must miss them as well. I have been lucky enough to have been connected to two extraordinary women who had the love and strength to allow me to raise their children. It’s an incredible thing and I’m not sure either one of them realize that.
They both signed papers deliberately that allowed me to be a co-parent with them. I’m not sure that’s how they saw it. I’m afraid that in those dark hours before the morning light, that wasn’t how they explained it to themselves at all. I fear that they told themselves a far different story. I wish they could have seen themselves through my eyes during those times.
What they would have seen would probably have surprised them. Because they are heros to me. These are women who loved their children more than they loved themselves. They put themselves in the position to tell themselves those things in the dark of night when there wouldn’t be anyone there to tell them different. What I see when I look at them are two of the strongest women on earth. They are shining lights. I hope their children see them that way when they are grown and look back.
I hope they can see what a sacrifice of self, of heart, of hope their mother’s made so that they could have a better chance in life. I got the easy part out of it. I’m the one who got to be here. They got the hard part. They aren’t here everyday to see what goes on. They get bits and pieces. They have to try to make a whole picture out of random puzzle pieces from several different puzzles from different time periods. No matter how much you tell them, it can never be enough.
They took from themselves every holiday, every birthday, every Mother’s day, all those special moments. And they did it for the love of their children. That is the most massively unselfish thing I can imagine. The scope of it is hard to comprehend.
The idea of the pain that they caused themselves is almost impossible to imagine. And yet they did it. And they didn’t walk away afterwards. I think this, to me, is the most awe inspiring part. They stayed as close as they could. They call, they send things. Sometimes they come to visit.
The awkwardness, the sadness, the hurt this must cause has to be enormous. But they do it for the love of their children. I am humbled. I wish sometimes that I could give them my eyes to see through so that they could see themselves the way I see them. I wish that I could give to them the sense of pride in themselves that I feel in them.
But more than anything, I wish that they could know themselves as the heros they are for putting the lives of their children first. They are remarkable women. I admire them both.
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Posted by thought4food
June 1, 2007
Whenever I see someone with their hand in a trashcan the first thing that happens is I say “Teddy!”
Then everyone around me looks at me like I’m crazy. Luckily this usually happens at home. And they only look at me like that because they don’t know who Teddy is. If they did, they would understand completely why I say that and they wouldn’t go digging in the stinking trash can anymore!
They would also understand why it is that it took until I was almost 50 years old to buy my first pair of red shoes.
The town I grew up in had an unusual amount of …..let’s say “unique” people in it. Teddy was one of those unique people. Teddy was not homeless. He was just more of an outside person than most folks were. He found most of the things he wanted in waste baskets and trash cans throughout town. At anytime you might find him rummaging through a trashcan in the park, or in front of a business downtown. Even occasionally inside one of the local businesses. Teddy just plain liked trash. He firmly believed that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. When he got done rummaging and had taken what he wanted out of any particular place, he would transfer it to the basket on his bicycle and ride on to see what might be lurking about in the next trash receptacle.
Everyone in town knew Teddy. He had a home, that’s where he took all that stuff to. What he did with it, we had no idea. I’m not sure we ever even wondered. Teddy was Teddy and he did what he did. He had done it as long as any of us could remember. We never thought to wonder why.
Teddy did have one little twitch though. Teddy had a thing for red shoes. Any red shoes. If Teddy spied you wearing red shoes, he was going to try to chase you down to get them! I’m not sure if Teddy liked red shoes or if he hated red shoes. But it was surely RED SHOES that caught his attention. And he meant to have them if he could. Us kids couldn’t wear our red ball jets gym shoes to town if Teddy was around. And if we did, we had to keep an eye out for Teddy the whole time we were there.
Occasionally someone would forget, or the odd tourist would come through who didn’t know and then the show was on! Oh Lord that Teddy would just get ALL het up! Agitated and flustacated! He would run after her if his bicycle was too far away. He would chase after the poor screaming woman, all bent over with his crabby hands all bent and reaching for those red shoes! Locals would line up on the sidewalk and hoot and holler at Teddy. If it was a local woman who just misjudged, she would fly down the sidewalk laughing and squealing, but knowing that no real harm was going to come to her. If it happened to be some unfortunate tourist in town for some summer fun, well, her story bank was fixing to get a huge deposit! With interest! She would take off like she was running through hell in gasoline britches. Screaming for all she was worth! And Teddy dead on her heels just a grabbin for those red shoes.
In the end, the women would either come out of the shoes and let Teddy have em, or else someone would stop Teddy and tell him he couldn’t chase the red shoes in town any more and he would grumble a bit, take a last longing look at the shoes and go back about his business. Casting glances back over his shoulder at the shoes until they were no longer in sight. All that was left then was the next trash can.
Teddy usually chased at least one pair of red shoes a summer. It was a rare occurrence during my childhood. Often enough to be expected, but not often enough to be common. Mostly Teddy was the trash can man. And if someone caught you going after something you accidentally tossed in the trash that you didn’t mean to, you were in for it! So you better make sure that that winning lottery ticket was going to be worth the months of ribbing you were gonna get for diggin in that trashcan, Teddy!
So, this is what rolls through my mind whenever I see one of my kids, or My Dearest Husband rooting around in the trash for something and Teddy comes automatically out of my mouth. There are about 3 people on this earth that I know of for sure that will automatically get this post. The rest will have at least visited the South Western coast of Michigan at some point in the past and spent time in a little tourist town that straddles the Black River to get it.
Strangely enough, I ran into one in Research Triangle Park in Raleigh North Carolina once. She had gone there on vacation with her family when she was just a small child. She looked at me funny when I called myself Teddy for going into the trash for something. But when I said “Blue Moon Ice Cream” she nearly fainted. She started asking me questions about where I was from and when she found out it was the same place she used to vacation, she realized that we had been there at the same time and had played at the same park and probably had spent time with each other those summers she was there. It’s always nice to meet someone from home who understands just how unique it was there. You can talk for hours about it.
And laugh your heads off when you both holler “Teddy!” at someone for digging paper out of a trashcan.
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Posted by thought4food
May 24, 2007
I see hand sanitizer all over the place now. People are fanatically clean these days. Times have changed since I was a kid. We never really thought about that kind of stuff when I was young.
Don’t get me wrong, we had to wash our hands before we ate. We had to take our bath. Occasionally an aunt or someone (usually Southern) would make a comment about being able to “grow taters in those ears” to one of my male relatives. But hand sanitizer in travel sized bottles? *giggle* Not hardly.
As a matter of fact, I had an older cousin whose mother kept him so clean when he was young that he got sick. His doctor finally told his mom that she had to let him go outside and get dirty. She was not to clean him up! He was to get dirty and stay that way until evening and only then was she to bathe him! It was excruciatingly hard on her, but she did it for his sake. He got better….physically. Funny thing, he ended up crazy as a bed bug. But that is neither here nor there. (Yes, it does run in the family, smart aleck!)
My grandson, Buddha, used to be such a neat freak that when I gave him a sloppy joe for lunch he couldn’t eat it! He would pick it up, get sauce on his hand, put it down, wipe off his hand, pick it up, get sauce on his hand, put it down, …….you get the idea. Finally, I took pity on the poor little thing, cut it up and gave him a spoon. Sheesh! (Now, he could grow taters in those ears *wink*)
When I was coming up, those things never came into consideration. If they had, we would have never eaten a Louie burger. At this point it is my duty to warn any of you with a weak stomach not to read further. Mom, this means you.
Louie lived and worked next door to the service station that my dad was part owner of. We would go down to “help” dad at the station and he would send us next door for a burger. Louie and his wife, I never knew her name, lived and worked at their house. Louie cooked burgers on the stove in his kitchen. They were GREAT burgers. They were locally famous. Everyone went to Louie’s for a burger on a regular basis. This was good because at some point Louie apparently had a stroke or something and this is how Louie and his wife made their living. His wife would take the orders, give them to Louie, who would shuffle back to the kitchen and cook them, and his wife would chat with you up front until he shuffled back with your greasy bag. Louie couldn’t talk. His wife knew what he meant when he made his noises, but no one else did. She would tell you Louie said thank you and come back again. I used to wonder if Louie was actually saying something that ended in “and the horse you rode in on”, but who could tell?
The reason I believe that Louie had a stroke is that Louie shuffled when he walked and he had this other little thing that he did that was kinda telling. He drooled. Yeah, I know, right? Louie probably kept the handkerchief people in business because I never one time in my whole life ever saw Louie without one. He held them up to his chin to catch the drool. But the handkerchiefs were never wet. It was Louie that cooked. Not Mrs. Louie. Louie cooked. Hopefully with one hand.
Weren’t no hand sanitizer going on in Louie’s kitchen, I can tell you that. And no one ever thought one thing about it. It makes my mom gag when we talk about it now. Louie and his wife wouldn’t have a prayer of making a living on their own now. They’d have to depend on Social Security and Alpo now-days. But back then, they were independent and self sufficient. Proud people with a product to sell that people wanted and liked.
Maybe it was the drool that made Louie’s burgers taste so good?
OK, I’ll stop. My mom says I take this one too far.
We didn’t have flesh eating virus in those days. Or Ebola. And if we did, it was very well contained. We didn’t have AIDS, or Hanta Virus or HIV, or any of the new stuff that’s come along lately. There weren’t as many people in the world back then and mother nature wasn’t trying so hard to thin the herd.
We had stronger immune systems then. And the generation before us had even stronger ones. But, I digress.
I probably wouldn’t buy a burger from Louie today. But not for the reason you might think. It would just be too creepy to buy a burger from a 160 year old guy who’s too dried out to drool but who keeps on holding that dang old white handkerchief under his chin! Yuck!
Note to self: Nice girls don’t blog after they’ve taken their meds! Think about it!
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Posted by thought4food
May 18, 2007
I used to sing. I was pretty good at it. My ex played guitar with several bands and we were together for 10 years before he ever heard me sing. I never sang in front of people in those days, so I really did sing like nobody was listening because …..nobody was. I think it’s fair to say he was pretty much stunned when he heard it the first time.
It was on a tape player. (Can you say “LONG TIME AGO?????) I had been messing around with a new song I had heard and I forgot to erase it. He heard it by accident. He asked who in the hell that was. I said it was me. He didn’t believe me for one second because as far as he knew I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Eventually he got me drunk enough to sing in front of him and prove it was me.
Back in the day we always had music. Everything was accompanied by music. People coming over to hang out always brought guitars, amps, harmonicas and whatever other instruments they had and we jammed. We went to other people’s houses and played. It was alright. And, back in the day, we had beer. I’ll be kind to my momma and leave it at that. So, we started gettin me all drunked up and I started to sing with them.
They came to the conclusion that I sounded like a cross between Stevie Nicks and Bonnie Raitt. With a slight quiver. That was pure terror. There was not enough alcohol invented to take that away. But they gave me songs and booze and I sang. Then one evening out in someone’s barn a sneaky varmint turned on a hidden tape recorder and taped me singing. A few weeks later we were at another guys house hanging out and playing. When I started to sing a song he jumped up and hollered, “You’re the girl on the tape!” I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.
You have to remember that: 1. I was drunk. 2. I didn’t know about the tape.
So he played it and sure enough it was me. Have you ever heard yourself on tape? I really can’t stand it. I don’t mind hearing myself through my own ears inside of my head, but I hate hearing it from outside in. I almost spit up. But they all seemed to love it. So they hatch this plot. The guy who managed the local newspaper at the time was having a Christmas party at his house and had asked the guy who’s house we were at to get together a band and play at it.
Now I’m really thinking I shouldn’t have had those last couple of beers. They want me to sing. In front of people. A bunch of people. Maybe I’ll rethink that beer thing and just have a few more. Cuz those guys are really excited and happy and wanting this to happen. And deep inside of my alcohol induced haze I’m kinda thinkin this might be kinda cool, too. If I can keep from spitting up, that is.
So we practice. We practice a lot. We practice and we practice and I sing and I sing. I’m well on my way to becoming a raging alcoholic. Because there is no way on God’s green earth that I can sing in front of anyone without it. I’ve only been singing in front of my ex for about 3 or 4 months at this time. But it feels good to have people telling me that I can do something well. And everytime we practice more and more people show up to watch us. It’s all really new and exciting.
So, the fateful evening comes. Let me set the stage for you.
This was about 25 years ago. I was young and hot as a two dollar pistol. Long wavy chestnut brown hair, slender, an ass that looked like two puppies fighting under a blanket when I walked. They get me there and we’re in the back room. It’s almost time to go out. The plan is to keep me in the back of the group until it’s time for me to sing. That way I can get used to the atmosphere and I won’t be so nervous. They brought me a bottle of gin. All the quicker to schnocker you with, my dear. And I knocked that baby back as fast as I could.
Then we went out to the stage. It gets a little hazy around here. There were many people, pretty lights, music, clinking, talking, and then they brought me to the front and set me on a stool and started playing my music. I think I had my eyes closed because I was ok at first. I just started to sing and I was having fun for the first few lines. Then I noticed that it was very quiet in that place. I opened my eyes. Everyone was standing there with their drinks in their hands and they were all looking at me! I immediately stopped singing. I thought I had messed up really bad. I turned around and looked at the guys in the band. They said, “Keep singing, they love it!!”
I turned around and looked at all those faces again and they were nodding their heads yes! Holy Crap! The band started playing again and so I started singing again. They sang with me and they clapped and sometimes they just stood there and listened to me. It was probably the most incredible thing ever. I sang every song we practiced. Somewhere along the line I forget the rest of what happened. It all just sort of melts into one big good ol time.
We played alot of other places and I got to sing alot of other times. It was always a big surprise to me. And it always felt really great. But that first time will always be my favorite. I don’t do that anymore. But, once upon a time, long long ago………
I used to sing.
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Posted by thought4food
May 15, 2007
I have recently been subjected to , and by extension subjected a dear friend to, Tacky Behavior On The Part Of People Who Should Know Better. Now, I have been around this kind of trashy behavior all my life and I’m tired of putting up with it.
In my younger more feisty days I would have put the gloves on and gone hunting down the offending trashites, looking for some much deserved justice out of their persons in some shape or manor, preferably involving bruising. However, as I am older and slightly calmer now, I will wait for a bit, let things settle down , and find the right time for the information to come out.
You see, I myself take part of the blame for this trailer-park tinged behavior. I accepted an invitation from a secondhand person to an event. And since my radar isn’t in proper working order anymore, I completely missed the significance of that little faux pas. However, knowing the inviter like I do, I had to believe that it was ok to accept, as he has always been one of the most considerate and honorable men I know. Therefore, when I was asked to invite a friend, I had no qualms about inviting a very, very good friend who is tenderhearted and a LOT of fun to be around. We would go together, meet the rest of the group, and have a rip roarin good time at a few slightly raunchy places, thereby having stories to tell the grand-kids later that would make them blush and look at us in new and exciting ways! It would all be good.
NOT! We were excluded from the beginning. It was rude to the point of ruthlessness. It would have been kinder to have just told us after dinner that we wouldn’t be included in the rest of the festivities planned for the evening and so thank you for coming to the dinner and we’ll see you at the wedding. Instead we were to follow the other two cars to a hotel and join them in a room that had been reserved. We were out of the car and following them across the parking lot when they hit the door. As we got to the door maybe ten feet behind them, we found it remarkable that the fifty feet across the lobby was entirely empty of the approximately 10 women who had just entered in front of us. They were very swift of feet! We also found that the door required a key card to open and we didn’t have one. So we proceeded around to the front and inquired at the front desk as to whether they had a room in either of the names we knew. She informed us that she couldn’t help us. Not that there were no rooms in that name, but that she couldn’t help us.
We spent a good fifteen minutes walking through the ground floor hall trying to see if we could hear a bunch of white trash bitches honking off behind any of the doors, but no such luck. So, now having to admit that we had been deliberately ditched by this marvelous bunch of common hos, we have a few hours to kill. We are both nearly speechless. I mean seriously, how many times after you get out of the sixth grade do you honestly have to consider things like this happening to you?
So we found a couple of ways to spend our time and then went home. It was kinda sad. It was even more sad the next day when again I saw two of the girls in the group and watched as they caught sight of me, turned to each other and began to giggle and laugh uproariously with each other.
It makes me wonder about the kind of people who think that hurting people for sport is a good thing. I wonder what kind of things they tell themselves to make it ok to hurt someone’s feelings just for fun. I wonder what they say inside of themselves when they are choosing the next person to cause pain to, is there some certain trait that they are looking for? Or is it just the next unfortunate person who comes into their sight? I don’t understand how one goes about telling themselves that they have soooo many people just waiting in line to be their lifelong friend, that they can afford to callously toss good people aside like garbage and laugh about it.
Like I said at the beginning of this whole thing, I’ve been around this kind of common, trashy, unraised, behavior all my life. I’ve seen it a million times. It comes from not being raised right in the beginning, then being too lazy to make sure that you choose to act right when it’s your turn to call the shots. It’s just easier to roll on back to those less than humane beginnings .
I have accepted my part in the hurt caused to my friend. I have apologized to her several times. If my brain was in proper working order my red flags would have been dancing the macarena at me over that invitation and I would have known better than to accept. I was trying to help celebrate a new beginning for friends. My friend was only there because I asked her to come with me. It was my disability that caused her pain and for my part in that I am deeply sorry and ashamed.
Now let’s add to the entertainment by adding that the main person at the previous event managed to top off the event the following evening by hurting the feelings of an eight year old girl by popping off at the mouth to her at the end of a very long evening when said eight year old girl went to tell her that she was leaving.
I am no longer surprised by the stupidity of people or the incredibly stupid things they do to hurt people for no good reason. I see it and I feel it all the time. It just makes me terribly, terribly sad. I hope that they accomplished whatever it was they were planning to do by excluding us, and I hope it was worth the cost.
Because (to quote myself) I’ve managed to live my entire life without them in it, and I’ll manage quite well to live the rest of it without them in it as well, and never really notice the difference at all.
My friend is owed a huge apology. A heartfelt apology. I hope she gets one.
As for me, I am neither owed an apology, nor will I accept one. I am done.
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Posted by thought4food
May 8, 2007
It’s Buddha’s birthday today. He is twelve. Criminy, how did he get this age so fast? Have we changed kids to dog years now? He put us on a “money diet” about a month ago so we could prepare for this momentous day. Told us we had to “slim down our budget” so that he could get more presents. He’s a lil corker, that one. This has nothing to do with the title of this blog, I just had to toss that one in.
One of my kids will invariably come to me at least once a week (there are three of them, I think they draw straws and take turns at this) and say, “Ma, it hurts when I do this:” and then proceed to make some kind of unholy, improbable gyration. My response is always, “Where is my rubber chicken? Then don’t DO that!” And I make like I’m hitting them on the head with the invisible rubber chicken. Well…….(insert maniacal laugh here) I bought a ……wait for it…….RUBBER CHICKEN at Eckerd’s Drug Store on Sunday! That’s right, folks. I am now the proud owner of a brand new rubber chicken! Oh the joy I felt in my heart at the sight of that little ol box just chock full of rubber chickens! The heavens opened up, a beam of pure heavenly light fell upon it, and the choir of angels began to sing! A real live rubber chicken! In all my days I never thought to really own one of my own! I snatched that bad boy up before anyone could stop me and nearly ran to the checkout counter to pay for it. Then, I took it to My Dearest Husband’s cousin, Turtle Neck’s, birthday party. Heh.
Oh My God! If I had not been there myself, I would never have believed that it was possible to come up with three solid hours of cock jokes. But we did. Luckily we all have very low humor thresholds. Doesn’t matter what it is, we can find a way to laugh at it. (If you have a sensitive bone in your body it won’t be good for you to attend a family funeral with us.)
Every person there, adults and children alike, played with my cock. Technically it’s not a cock, but like I said, we have a low humor threshold. We choked the chicken. The kids tossed my cock around the yard. My Dearest Husband hit Possum’s friend Bubbles in the face with my cock.
Birdie, my only natural child and the mother of Buddha and Bella, was half mad at me and half jealous when I told her I had it. She said that her boyfriend is really afraid of looking forward to meeting me, because he wants to know where she gets her crazy unique way of looking at things. First thing she said when I told her I had it was this: Where’s my rubber chicken? Then don’t DO that!!! HAHAHA
It was almost as good as the time the Pillsbury Dough-boy died. Well, the voice of him did. We did jokes all damn day. We speculated all day about whether he committed suicide by sticking his head in the oven, or if he died of a yeast infection. We thought we should send flour to his family. We thought maybe we could bring about a miracle by putting him in a warm draft free place, placing a dishtowel over him, and seeing if maybe he would rise.
*sigh* Good times, Good times.
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Posted by thought4food
Thought For Food 