September 28, 2007
Don’t say yes if you mean no, then get all pissed off later.
If you have something to say, say it.
If you have nothing to say, say nothing.
If your significant other asks you a question, answer them as honestly as you can. Do NOT expect them to read your mind. That’s just stupid and unfair. If they could read your mind, they would have already got the Pick 6 number and you’d be filthy rich and boppin the pool boy/girl. Give them some information they can use. Play fair.
Keep in mind that it is not being mean if you hang up on someone who has called YOU. Especially if you don’t know them.
When someone calls you and starts asking questions, your automatic response should NOT be to answer, but to start asking questions of your own.
example: Riiiiiiing. Hello.
Is Mr. Whoozit in?
No, may I take a message?
Who am I speaking to?
That’s not really your business. Who am I speaking to?
This is Mr. Soanso from Suchandsuch. Do you have a number where Mr. Whoozit can be reached in an emergency?
IS this an emergency? If you’ll give me your number I’ll get in touch with Mr. Whoozit and give it to him and I’m sure if it’s an emergency he’ll be sure to get back in touch with you as soon as humanly possible.
*SIGH* Nevermind, I’ll just try back later. CLICK!!!!
Seriously, it is NOT someone else’s place to be asking you questions on your phone and it is not rude, mean, or socially unacceptable to refuse to answer them.
Listen to your instincts. Human beings are still alive today because of them.
Pay attention. To Everything.
Be careful what you say. You can’t unring a bell, and you can’t unsay an unkind word or undo the hurt it causes.
Care.
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Blog, Blogging, Blogroll, Crack house humor, Daily Life, Divorce, Family, Friends, Friendship, Help, Home, life, Random, Rights, Self, Self awareness, Self realization, Thoughts, True Story, Uncategorized | Tagged: phone, rude, socially acceptable, stupid, telephone | 
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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
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.
2 Comments | America, Blog, Blogging, Blogroll, Children, Crack house humor, Crazy, Daily Life, Divorce, Free, Freedom, Friends, Friendship, Guilty, life, Random, Seeing Red, Self awareness, Steamroller, Thoughts, True Story, Uncategorized, Whining | Permalink
Posted by thought4food
April 6, 2007
I used to live on a very busy corner in town. (see Great Quest For The Head Of The Possum post) The house was at the bottom of a very steep hill, ” A very steep hill”. When it snowed, all you had to do was look at that bit of road and you could tell how much because no one would drive up it.
One nice summer day I was sitting on the couch in my living room reading, while my dearest husband was sleeping. He worked night shift then and he slept during the day. It was a normal day. As much as you can call any day with me in it normal.
It slowly came to me that something wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. I looked up, I looked around. I didn’t see anything wrong in the house. I looked back down and started to read again. Then it seemed like the couch was beginning to vibrate…..but no, it was the house that was beginning to vibrate. Now that was odd.
I got up, pulled aside the curtain on the door and looked out just in time to see a steam roller knock one of the brick supports out from under my porch roof, ride up onto the porch, hit the house, and then fall through the porch floor into the hole underneath it.
Well howdy! I turned and walked halfway into the bedroom, turned and walked back to the door to look again, walked halfway back to the bedroom again, back to the door. I realize that I have absolutely NO “a steamroller just hit my house” etiquette. I have no idea what to do. I am saved by my dearest husband’s voice calling from the bedroom inquiring as to what the !@#$%^ just occurred.
I walked into the bedroom to explain and he is halfway out of bed and halfway into his pants. I told him a steamroller hit the house. He asked if I was OK. I said yes. He said OK. He then proceeded to add to my already vociferous bad word vocabulary by leaps and bounds. I was impressed! And pleased. You can never have too many bad words to choose from. Especially in a situation like this.
We went back to the door and gingerly went outside. Not easy since the door bumped the part of the steamroller that was still above the porch floor when we opened it. As we came off the porch a very pale, agitated, wet and odoriferous gentleman scampered up to me asking if I was OK. Not quite in full grip of all my faculties yet, and not realizing who he was, I simply told him that I was fine. Turns out he was the man driving the steamroller.
People began showing up fairly quickly. As I said in a previous post, the entire world passed our door 3 times a day at this house. A steam roller sitting where the porch used to be drew a fair amount of attention.
It just so happened that our landlord had a business just across the street and he saw the whole thing. Bless his heart, I believe he nearly had apoplexy on the spot. Everyone was very excited. Especially that poor smelly fella that was driving the thing. Eventually he began to explain to my dearest husband what happened.
He had driven the steam roller to the top of the very steep hill to use it paving a parking lot that was located just below the top. As he got near the driveway to the parking lot, the brakes gave way on the steam roller. He tried the emergency brake, but that gave way as well. By that time, the steam roller was well on its’ way down the hill. He decided that he would turn the roller towards the curb, with the idea that rubbing against the curb would stop it, or at least slow it down. No such luck.
By the time he realized that it was getting away from him and he wasn’t going to be able to stop it, he was fast approaching the intersection. He couldn’t see beyond our house to see what was coming andhe was very frightened, so he bailed out. The odoriferousness came from the fact that after he bailed out, he realized that what could have been coming was a bus load of children. The imagery was too much for his bowels.
When the steam roller was rolling down the hill scraping against the curb, I felt it shaking the house. When it reached our driveway, it turned slightly and ran up into our yard, crushed a bush, abolished the brick porch post, broke through the brand new 2 x 6 flooring of the porch right before my eyes, hit the house about 3 feet to the left of me and the rest is history.
We made the front page of the paper. The insurance put a new porch on the house and bought us a new table and chairs to put on it. And we were known for years afterwards as the people who’s house got hit by the steam roller.
I ask people this all the time……….Is it just me, or do things like this happen to you too?
The answer is always………No, Red, It’s Just YOU!!!!!
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Posted by thought4food
April 3, 2007
Where, in any logical manner of thinking, is this a good idea? We do not trust children under the age of 21 to have enough judgement or enough ability to divine the consequences, to buy alcohol. We don’t believe that children under the age of 21 or 18 to have the mental facilities to understand the significance of signing a contract. We will not allow a child under the age of 18 to put his life on the line for his country.
We will however, decide that we find a child’s actions maddening enough to decide that we want to punish him as an adult. We decide that because his actions resulted in devastation, he certainly must have known all along that it would come to pass.
How can we hold children to such a high standard over criminal actions only? We don’t hold them to such standards in any other area of their lives. We do not believe in their ability to judge the consequences of their choices in the legal arena, in the military, in the area of mind altering drugs. Why should they be able to judge the consequences in that one area only? What is it about crime committed by youth that so infuriates us?
Is it guilt? Is it the fact that this country should be protecting our children so much better than we are? Is it that our social services departments are geared specifically towards keeping families together rather than towards the welfare of our children?
Why is it that we find it so easy to say that 16, 14, 12 year old children knew with an adult certainty that what they did was wrong and that they knew precisely what the consequences would be? That they perpetrated whatever crime it might be with malice and knowledge of all that would befall their victims at the end?
We would never decide that those same children, if found not guilty, could then sign a contract with their lawyers, go out and buy a mixed drink to celebrate, or be allowed to drive home from the courthouse. They could not then go join the army and defend their country after being tried as an adult and found not guilty. They are only considered adults for this one, very particular, thing.
What is wrong, wrong, wrong with this picture?
We can’t have it both ways. Our children are either children or they aren’t. They are either too young to make informed decisions or they aren’t. Regardless of how we feel about the devastation they may cause. We call them children specifically because they are not equipped to make rational, informed decisions. There is an age of majority because children have not been prepared for adulthood until then.
The real problem is that we don’t really prepare children for adulthood at all. We send them to school to learn some arbitrary set of lessons, and send them out into the world with no real knowledge of how the world works. We have absolutely no markers of progress for children except for certain religions. We have no standards of progress except for a high school diploma, which basically means that you can sit still for 12 years and not be too annoying. You don’t particularly have to learn anything. And you don’t have to graduate high school with anything of value under your belt. You don’t have to be able to read if you can make a 30 yard pass, or even if you’re just quiet and don’t make trouble. You don’t have to be able to balance a checkbook, know what compound interest is, or understand the importance of a good credit rating.
You don’t have to understand self esteem, or even have any. You don’t have to understand self respect or respect for others. You don’t have to understand helping, sharing, kindness, sympathy, empathy, or just plain being nice.
We build our schools like prisons and our prisons like schools. If we paid our teachers like professional athletes, can you imagine what kind of presidents we would have? Instead, we put them in jail if they have a fight in school. We expel them from school for having aspirin. We charge kindergartners with sexual abuse for kissing their friends, and we try children as adults.
The question I keep asking myself is this: What the hell are we thinking?
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Posted by thought4food
March 31, 2007
I used to live in town. The entire world passed my door 3 times a day. My front porch was one push-mower width away from the road. Across the street was a small ravine with a creek running through it. Just one of those little areas that couldn’t be built up. Just behind the ravine was the local crack house. It was empty except for the middle of the night when all the local crack heads used to come and use it.
Now, I told you that story so I could tell you this story.(vague Ron White reference) When we lived in town we had a cat named Psycho Kitty. She lived outside. Her food was on the porch. It came to pass that several nights in a row Psycho Kitty would fight with something over her food. In the morning there would be much loose fur floating around on the porch. Some of it was NOT Psycho Kitty’s. It was beginning to fret me. But try as I might, I couldn’t seem to catch sight of what PK was fighting with.
Then one night I got lucky. It was autumn and I had left the inside door open and the fighting began. I ran to look and almost wet my pants. It was a possum. Holy crap! Do you know how big those jokers are? The only ones I had ever seen before were about an inch and a half tall because they were dead in the road and pretty mushed. This thing was alive and as big as a medium sized dog!!!!! I couldn’t believe they were that big! And my cat was fighting with it! And winning!!!!!!!!
Now, Mr. Possum wasn’t remotely concerned with me. I stomped, I yelled, I banged on the door. It glanced at me once, gauged my sincerity, and dismissed me completely. Hurt my feelings something terrible. Mostly because at that moment he was right. I wasn’t about to come out that door. I was in too much shock about how big that rascal was. It did however, set a wheel in motion. When this happens, it’s almost never a neutral thing. (see Haircut post)
PK took care of things, Mr. Possum ate what he could and moseyed away. He really did mosey too. Only time I’ve ever seen anything mosey in real life. He came back several more times. Taunting me. However, the wheels were spinning now. It was only a matter of time. I was working out a plan. And this time……..it was personal.
The night finally arrived to put my plan in motion. The Great Quest For The Head Of The Possum began.(now, I realize that really this was a quest for the butt of the possum, but the great quest for the butt of the possum just didn’t have the same ring, so I used poetic license here) The whole idea was this. I was going to go sit on the porch on a high stool that we had. With a big ol stick. I would be very quiet. I would wait for Mr. Possum. Being a dumb animal he would never divine my presence. Then, while he was happily eating PK’s food, I would poke him in the nether regions with said big ol stick. Thus scaring the living bejesus out of him, humiliating him, and discouraging him from coming back, red faced, onto my porch to eat in future.
However, I happened to notice in our previous meeting that Mr. Possum had some nasty looking little teeth. So, along with my large stick, I also had a small firearm, just in case Mr. Possum took exception to being poked in the nether regions with a stick. You know, he might get testy on me. He might also have rabies or something. And he was picking on PK. And I was mad. And I was me. And he had pissed me off with that look.
So, My Dearest Husband goes for a boys night out, and I put my plan in motion. The Great Quest is on. I slide outside on the porch with all my paraphernalia and sit quietly. Waiting. I’m patient. I’m slick. I’m cool. I’m congratulating myself on my brilliant plan. I’m chuckling to myself about the look of embarrassed horror Mr. Possum will have when that big ol stick is half way to heaven with me on the other end ………..when suddenly I hear loud banging and loud voices. They seem to be coming from the house just past the crack house.
Sure enough, there is a feisty gentleman outside of that house banging on it with much force while simultaneously shouting to the folks inside about a certain kind of mayhem he would like to perpetrate against them if they would just come outside! Dang! This just might put a kink in my plan! He sure is making a lot of noise! Then many, many police cars arrive with sirens and lights. Policemen begin to issue from them in alarming numbers. There are folks on megaphones. There is shouting from the feisty gentleman. There is shouting from the inside folks who have now come outside.
Suddenly, the crack-house comes to life. About twenty occupants decide that now is the time to decamp. They all make a beeline for the ravine across the street from my porch, where I am sitting, patiently awaiting Mr. Possum with my big ol trusty stick.
I find myself faced with a dilemma. I fear that if the crackheads see me there, they will assume that I have alerted the authorities to their presence in the crack-house, thus wrongly developing ill feelings towards me. Do I sit quietly hoping that they will not notice me? Or do I haul natural ass inside the house, bolt the doors, and hope for the best? As I sit there, frozen with fear, trying to decide what to do, the crack heads crawl out of the ravine one by one and scurry off into the darkness, until there is only one left. I can hear him shuffling around down there in the dry leaves.
Now is my chance. I jump up, run into the house and lock the door. But now……..I can’t see him! What if he sneaks up on me? I have to watch for him! So I go to the dining room window, open it, put on my glasses, get down on my knees and peek out. I’m watching across the street at the ravine. Ha! Can’t sneak up on me now!
And this is where My Dearest Husband’s headlights find me as they sweep across the front of the house on his way into the driveway. He comes in the front door and this is how it goes:
My Dearest Husband😦in singsong voice modulated to calm lunatic) Hi Honey. Whatcha doin on your knees lookin out the dining room window like that?
Me: Trying to poke a possum with a stick.
I think it sort of lost something in the translation.
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Posted by thought4food
March 31, 2007
I thought maybe it was time for me to introduce you to my family. We are the typical blended family. Well, we’re not so much blended as pureed. (that word looks so misspelled it’s pitiful, but the free on-line dictionary assures me that it is correct so think bad thoughts at them if it’s not)
First there is me, AKA Red. We won’t go into the other things I’m called. It would be way too easy and for the most part this is a semi family oriented site. I’m the one in the “About me” page. Click on it, I was being pretty honest that day.
Then there is My Dearest Husband. He is my first and only husband. The only man I ever wanted to marry. He Rocks. He’s DA MAN! He says he married me just to see what would happen next. He is one of the last truly good guys left. We are friends with the most of the rest of them. Anyway, he puts up with me. That would be past the limits of most men, but he seems to enjoy it most of the time. Which probably brings his sanity or at least his judgement into question. But that’s OK with me. Cuz, if he was sane, he probably wouldn’t be married to me and then I would be all sad and shit and not nearly as amusing and you wouldn’t be here reading this and (we could go on and on here but you get the idea). He is DROP dead gorgeous, incredibly intelligent, down to earth, fun, funny, and my very best friend in the whole wide world. He is every other beat of my heart.
Then there is Possum. She is my husband’s daughter with his first wife. I adopted her. She’s 16. She’s just coming out of that surly, angry, enraged, snotty teenaged angst. She is also drop dead gorgeous. She is growing more and more concerned about people and situations outside of herself. She is very good at giving advise, and the advise is usually very rational and down to earth. She is smart, funny, fun, down to earth, snotty,(OK she didn’t come out of everything) and every inch an almost 17 year old girl. I’m kinda proud of that. I’m happy to have been part of every minute I got to spend with her. And like every good mother, I’m already beginning to develop my selective memory regarding her teenage years. (bless my mom’s heart, she tells me all the time what a good kid I was!!!!! LOLOL even I know better than THAT!) She is rapidly turning into a beautiful, self confident, independent woman. It makes me very proud. It also makes me want to drop to the floor, grab her leg and beg her to stop growing up right this minute!
Next we have Buddha. He is my grandson. His mother is my daughter with the man I lived with before I married my husband. He’s 11. He grew three pants sizes in two weeks. You think I’m exaggerating. I’m not. One second he was a size 10 slim. Five thousand dollars worth of groceries(ok, now I’m exaggerating) and two weeks later we had to go out and buy him all new clothes. Size 16. REGULAR!!!! WTF???? I thought all that banging in his room was him pretending to be a rock star or something. Turns out it was him growing! He is very smart, with a sly, dry sense of humor. He’s thoughtful, but if you tell anyone, he will deny it. He is incredibly handsome, tall, built like brick shit-house but hides it under baggy clothes like all the other boys his age. We laugh at the stoopidest things. We make up stories like….Remember when we were kids and we lived in New York and our mom used to take us to Yankee games? It’s crazy but we like it and it makes everyone else look at us like we’re nuts. Makes it even funnier. He is turning into a thoughtful, sensitive, caring, sweet young man. I want to grab his leg and beg him to stop growing up too. I’m going to start sneaking into his room at night and rubbing Crisco on his head. Why, you ask? Because, it’s shortning!!!!! LOLOLOL I crack myself up sometimes!
Then there is Bella. She is my granddaughter. Also my daughter’s child. Different father from Buddha. She’s 8. She’s too smart for all our good. She’s 15 steps ahead of all of us. She is as beautiful as an angel, and mean as a snake. We like to remind people that the devil was the most beautiful angel in heaven. You have to keep your wits about you around Bella. She is the sweetest child on earth, until you make her angry. Then God help you. She has no natural stops. And no indicators of when she’s mad until you get to know her…..well. She is remarkably helpful. She helped me allllllllll day once. When I finally stopped shaking, dried my tears and crawled out of the corner, I called my mom and apologized for helping her when I was little. They call Bella Red Jr. I’m not sure why. >looks at ceiling all innocent like< She likes to hear stories about the old days and what it was like when I was young. She is interested in finding out about everything under the sun. She writes songs and sings like a pro. Bella is funny, and sweet, smart and tough, and her sense of humor mirrors mine. Nuff said.
And last but certainly not least we have DeeDee. Our puppy. She’s an insane clown puppy. She’s a nut. She’s adorable and smart. She covers her face with her paws if you say daddy farted. She puts her toys away better than the kids. Her toilet habits are far and away better than the kids’. Except for that butt licking thing. I’m trying to break the kids of that but……….lol just kidding. She sticks her nose in the air if you tell her she’s rich. She thinks she is a kid just like the rest of them and can’t understand why she can’t eat at the table. Kinda makes me feel like an abuser when I put her food in a bowl and make her eat on the floor. I fully expect to see her on the commode one day.
So that’s us. We’re usually pretty nice. Stretched so thin we’re transparent most of the time. Probably pretty much like you. Last night we set up all the empty plastic bottles we’ve been saving (fifty some at last count) and were bowling in the hall. You do that too, right? ……..Right????
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Posted by thought4food
March 31, 2007
I have this poem floating through my head and I can’t remember all of it and I have NO idea who wrote it. I can’t find out what the rest of it is if I can’t remember the name of the poem, or the author. Help me!!!!!!! PLEASE!!!! It’s driving me crazy!!!!!! *sob* This is what I can remember of it……..and I can’t guarantee that the words are even right but the gist of it is correct.
When you are home from the long road and the open sky
I wish it would be my house that you are passing by
I wish it would be my house where you would sit down
and tell your tales of the land and sea and the strange far town
Oh come you from the eastward, or come you from the west
Here’s good cheer to greet you and welcome of the best
Oh come you with your pockets full or come you home poor
Here’s a place by the fireside and an open door.
You’ll tell me where you’ve been since and the things you’ve seen
Up and down the wide world where so long you’ve been
………………That’s all I’ve got. But there’s more….something about a storm……….criminy!
Anyone? ANYONE????????????
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Posted by thought4food
Thought For Food 