I've Accepted It...Sigh

I'm OLD. Ancient crone old. Dried up prune hag old.

I used to be the girl who rocked out. I loved concerts. Loved them so much that my hearing is now compromised. I'd sing, I'd dance, I'd jump, and I'd scream. Lord, did I scream. If you could talk the day after a concert, you just weren't doing it right.

My family loves to go to a concert tour every year called Winter Jam. A roster of 5 or 6 Christian artists comes to the local NBA arena, and it's always a fun time. Lately, the artists have been a little more hard-core rocknrolla, and I found out something.

I'd rather be home having a nap.

One of the bands, Hawk Nelson, had a light show. The lights started flashing- not slow enough to be ignored, not fast enough to be a strobe. My vision was blurring slightly, and I got dizzy. I felt like one of those Japanese kids that watch the fast cartoons and have seizures.

The volume was as loud as it always has been, I guess, but it affected me more than it used to. The bass THRUM THRUM THROB practically reset my heart rate. I felt sorry for the people who had pacemakers; they were probably twitching for hours afterward.

And of course, we sat right in front of an entire row of teenage girls. Why do girls scream? I did it. If you're a girl, chances are you did it too. I don't remember hitting decibels unknown to man, however. During intermission, I jokingly told them they had really good lungs. One girl smiled and said, "Oh, did you hear us?"

I did at first, but not by the last act. I had given up hearing by then to concentrate on voluntary brain functions without pain.

My husband had deserted us much earlier, since he's smarter than I am. When I joined him outside on the concourse, wonder of wonders! I can actually hear the music! I can understand the artists when they speak! In the arena, I basically got "GARGLEBLARKFOOSTUSDOO OKLAHOMA CITY!"

If there had just been a video feed somewhere, it would have been perfect. That, and a small drink that didn't cost six dollars.

Do A Favor For Me

Most of you who stop by here also read the blog of Bernita Harris, An Innocent A-Blog, which you can find in my sidebar. Bernita is a fantastic writer, and one of my oldest and dearest blog buddies. She's that rarest of all breeds- a classy broad. Intelligent and witty enough to make you feel slightly intimidated, but she'd be great to knock back a pint or two at the pub whilst reciting limericks.

Her husband had been in very poor health for a few months- cancer surgery, cardiac trouble and pneumonia. She had welcomed him home the last week of January; a joyous time in spite of ongoing problems. But Feb. 3, he passed on.

For those who know and love Bernita and haven't posted your condolences, please do. And if you haven't had the pleasure, please check out her archives. You'll be enriched.

This is all I can do, little as it is. As helpless as I usually feel with family and friends, I feel doubly so with a cyber-relationship. So strange to completely adore a woman I've never met, isn't it?

How Far Should I Go For A One-Finger Neighbor?

Perhaps I should explain the term. My dad maintains that there are levels of neighbors; when driving down your street, people may be out watering plants or washing cars or yelling at kids who have just knocked over the mailbox with their bikes, right? With your hands at the 2 and 10 o'clock positions, you can acknowledge the people you don't know that well with your pointer finger upraised. The ones whose names you know, whom you may have spoken with during a blackout or while the men are in the street looking up at the sky and discussing it when the tornado sirens are going off, deserve a two-finger wave. The neighbors that have actually been in your house for a football game and reciprocated with a barbeque get the whole hand.

Well, I have some One-Finger neighbors that have the most obnoxious dogs on the face of the earth. Seriously, I'd rather deal with the turkey-stealing Bumpus hounds from A Christmas Story. One is a Heinz 57 mix of Akita, Chow, and Satan; the other is a Napoleonic Dachsund. We have leash laws in our town, which are obeyed about as frequently as you think they are, and these dogs Own. The. Street.

When they are let out for a potty break (there's no fences in the back yards) the owners just stand there on the porch and hope for the best. If you happen to be out, the Dachsund will zero in on you like a tiny black yapping missile. He'll completely ignore the shouts of his people and run at you full speed until he reaches your leg, whereupon he quivers and growls. It's like facing a small junkie on a bad trip.

The other one is slower and not as loud, but he will stand about five feet away and stare at you. I kid you not, he'll just stare at you. Spookiest thing I've ever seen. The owners are pretty good about coming right over to take the dogs home, but just once I'd like to go out and get my mail without spying the land for hostiles first.

My little diva can be annoying; she hates big dogs, cats, and squirrels and she'll be all Barky McYipperson if the wind blows hard. But when I take her out I have her on a leash, a plastic baggie for her mess, and I don't let her bark very long. If she does manage to intrude on someone's rose bush, I apologise and try not to go past that yard again. But these One-Fingers? "I'll be right there. You better not move."

No. You'd better get a chain. If that Black Terror hallucinates that my leg is a big Milk Bone, or if your spook sacrifices a chicken on my front porch, I'll feel free to give you a different kind of one finger salute.

I'm Such A Weenie

So for the past couple of weeks I've been assaulting you with my mouse problems. I've been all MOUSE ON MY COUNTER and I CAN'T KILL IT and GREEN MOUSE POOP EEEWWWW and feeling smug about winning over Mother Nature. Lemony-fresh victory is mine!

Until I was cleaning out some old computer files and found these from some people my Aunt knows in a little bitty town in OK called Watonga:

This woman's kids were playing on the floor in the kitchen last winter. She came in and noticed THIS THING staring at the children.

I should just count my blessings and put up with the mice.

Happy Birthday, Missie!

My bestest friend, Missie, is another year older! Of course, since I'm so much nicer than she is, I won't tell you older than what. I wanted to bake a cake for the occasion, though money is tight. Hmmm...



Okay, I guess bargain shelf Thanksgiving pumpkin cakes with questionable stems are a little crass. Maybe this...



Well, the dead circus clowns on a moldy hill didn't quite have the festive atmosphere I wanted. Let me keep looking...



Naked babies riding carrots! That's the ticket! No? Oh, well. I can always fall back on the old standard that never fails to please-



Old Beefcake.

Happy day, my friend. Enjoy!

(cake images from CakeWrecks)

Does Anyone Have A Ricola?

Right now I'm making that sound. You know the one. The one old men make in the barbershop after they proclaim that Rocky Marciano vas the greatest fighter in de vorld! UUUrrrrrhhhAAAACK.

So I'm taking a day or two to shower with those little vapor tablets that let you bask in the menthol-scented steam, huddle under a blanket with my hot tea with honey and lemon, and ignore my dogs. And watch Iron Man and The Hulk. And Get Smart. If you haven't seen it, you need to.

And I'm also taking a certain amount of unholy pleasure in the fact that Barack Obama will not be able to go take a leak by himself for four years. See ya!

I Am A Sucker With A Capital Suck

Meet the newest member of the family.




My daughter has wanted a dog of her own for a long time. Mazie the diva is really more my dog than anything, my son has his lizards, and my husband has us. And Beth has been a very dependable, mature girl, who keeps her room clean and her grades up. She works hard, so we told her she could adopt a dog.

Of course, what she really wants is a lawn ornament that will put up with her snuggling whenever she wants, but there are dogs who are good for that. Her French club does a community service project every year, which is to help the local shelter with their big adoption day. Perfect opportunity for her to get to know the dogs and choose, right?

Except she chooses a GOLDEN RETRIEVER. We live in a townhouse. True, we're saving to move, but for now you cannot take a step without tripping over this animal. And Rolls (that's her name, have no idea why, except it makes me think of cinnamon rolls and now I get hungry every time I tell her to move) wants to be loved. Every flippin' minute. Mazie's life has changed considerably; she hasn't figured out how to outmanuever Rolls yet, and has received a tail slap in the face a few times.

Really, she's a very sweet dog, who already adores Beth and loves the rest of us. She's patient with the yappy diva terrier, and Lord can that dog eat. But here's the kicker.

She's 11 years old. She's very healthy, and is fairly spry, although stairs aren't her favorite thing. Beth and I talked about a dog's usual lifespan, and how Rolls is getting close. Beth is in high school now, and only has a couple of years before college. My daughter is a very social animal- how is she going to care for an elderly dog when she's in an apartment with roommates, a full load of classes, and the parties and road trips college usually calls for?

Oh, that's right. That's what suckers like me are for.

My Weekend

Celebrating my father's birthday this weekend, complete with chips, queso, tostadas, and birthday cake and ice cream.

Diet Pepsi totally cancels that out, right?

Get Off My Back!

You have no power over me, evil Coke fairy!

Just a quick note to celebrate that I have been clean and sober, NO COCA COLA, for 2 weeks.

And my family deserves whatever their hearts desire for living with an angry, snarling, sugar-deprived demon.

Now if I could just do the same with brownies...

Devious Couplehood

Hope everyone had a great Labor Day, for those who celebrated. My hubby actually had the day off, which floored me. Working in retail means extra holiday pay, but never time off. With the buzz and busyness of back-to-school madness, we haven't had much wink wink nudge nudge time, y'know?

Stealing time with my husband has become just that- stealing. I feel like we're the teenagers trying to desperately to neck on the couch without getting caught. The kids are old enough now to stay up as late as we do, and with the computer and the PS2 in the same room the loveseat is... not as advertised.

We've smooched in the kitchen, but again, with two teens the kitchen is constantly under attack. "Get a room!" they cry. We reply that, technically, ALL the rooms are our rooms, but it doesn't seem to get us anywhere.

The shower might seem an interesting solution, no? I mean, saving water is all environmentally friendly and I'm all for that. When it benefits me. But we have reached the age, or girth, where the contortions required are an iffy prospect at best, especially terrifying when slippery.

So why not the bedroom, you ask? Seems like the perfect place, and there's a lock on the door. Simple:



SHE OWNS THE BED. If we toss her off, she'll wait until she thinks we're not paying attention and then she'll sneak back up again. One cold nose in a sensitive area is enough to throw off the groove.

If we lock her out, she whines and howls and scratches at the door. Easy enough to ignore if you're dedicated, but the lovely teenagers are now smart enough to know what's going on when the dog's banished to the hall, and they giggle. And giggle. And that? Buzzkill, folks. Major.

We seriously need a nice hotel room.

ETA: Anyone want to have some fun? Writtenwyrdd is having a contest to celebrate her 2nd blogiversary! Go over and check it out.

Maybe You Can Explain It To Me

I love fiction. I've read all kinds of books, of course, but fiction has always reigned for me. Writing fiction, however, has been stalled. I don't have writer's block, I have writer's brick wall.

So imagine my surprise when I was jotting a few thoughts down in the journal, on parenting, of all things- and I decided to start typing it up. Suddenly thoughts are flooding me. I can barely type fast enough to get it all.

Could I be actually writing a non-fiction book? And do I qualify to give anybody advice? I have no alphabet soup after my name. I do have two pretty great kids, though. Maybe you can explain it to me.

Or maybe you can explain why my dog can whine and moan and lie on her back and paw the air like she's saying CAN THE POOR, POOR DOGGIE GET A LITTLE BIT OF AFFECTION FROM YOU, PLEASE and when I reach down to give her the begged-for belly rub she springs up to sniff her butt to check if it's still there. Whichever is easier.

Old Ladies Rule

I just finished washing up after fixing my family a hearty (read: ventricle slamming) breakfast in honor of my son's 15th birthday. Funny how different things make me feel young, and different things make me feel old.

My own birthdays don't really affect me much anymore. I went into a spiraling depression on number 38; all the Things I've Never Done loomed very large. So too did the Things I'll Never Do- not that I wanted to become a ballet dancer or go to the Olympics or be in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Putting things into the file marked "that ship done sailed" hurt more than I thought it would. I got my groove back around age 40. There truly is a freedom that comes with new dreams.

The older my kids get, the older I feel. I find myself telling old stories more, you know the drill: When I Was Your Age, We Had To Walk To School Uphill In The Snow, We Ate Dirt And We Were Thankful, etc. My children never tire of hearing about things they did as babies. It's like they need to fill up that time gap from birth to when their own memories take over. As much as I enjoy it, it blows my mind. I still have trouble saying I did anything 15 years ago, much less I gave birth 15 years ago.

I still get angry that I've been cheated on the wonderful times I could be having with my mom. There's so much she could talk me through right now, so much we could share. I hate cancer.

But there's an odd sort of hope, too- I am very firmly PARENT, but more and more becoming FRIEND. I have so much fun with my kids. Quite frankly, the older they get the more interesting they are. And I'm looking forward to being an old lady with unholy joy. Old ladies can get away with anything. Demand certain seating, tell someone off, pat the occasional young man's tight backside, whatever. Old ladies can do it all.

And as much as I love my children, I'm dreaming of the things I'll be able to do when they're gone. Or at least at college.

Oh, Whatever. I Hate Titles

It's a bummer of a week over here. My son's beloved bearded dragon, Drake, died Monday.

I know, I know. Most of us mammal lovers will say Come On. It was a lizard. A lizard that cost $70, from a reputable pet store. But for my herpetologist, that little reptile was his world. He worked very hard to get it; we made him do all his research on what it needed to live, habitat, feeding, etc. When he finally did get Drake he was so conscientious about when the basking light was to go on and off he set the alarm for 6 am. In the summer. He was a positive demon about cleaning the $120 terrarium- the rest of his room didn't get that kind of attention. I heard him say wash your hands before you touch him, please so many times that I wondered where my messy, procrastinating teenager had gone.

From what information we could get, some lizards are very picky about their diet. But they will turn their pointed noses up to the point of starvation, which is what Drake did. We had just bought a different food source and vitamins and what not, prepared to force feed him, when he went South.

My son held him when he died. We buried him under the irises off the front patio, and Lord but there are times when being a mother sucks. Since he's a young man now, he's past crying on my shoulder. Since he's a carbon copy of his father, he won't talk much. My main worry is that he'll blame himself- but there's not much he could have done. He worked as hard for that animal as I worked for him. Thank God the salamander we got from a kiosk in the mall for $30 is still going strong.

The Best Romance Hero Ever

This guy is definitely the best hero I’ve ever seen. He isn’t an Alpha male;

He isn’t a fireman, a cop, or a Navy Seal;

He isn’t a cowboy, a pirate, or an eligible Duke;

He isn’t a Greek businessman, a powerful Sheikh, or a ruthless Italian millionaire;

And he certainly isn’t a shape shifter, demon hunter, or vampire.

But he has worked jobs he didn’t enjoy for 20 years to provide for his family;

He has loved his daughter and shown her the way a true man treats a lady;

He has overcome his natural ‘men don’t show emotion or affection’ to give his son both;

And he has made his wife feel important, wanted, sexy, smart, and loved- so, so loved.

Waking next to him is like turning the next page of the greatest love story ever written, and for once, I am the heroine of the tale.

He’s my hero, and today we celebrate the 21st year of our happily ever after.

Happy Anniversary, Gary. I love you.

Books: Dead Or Undead?

My daughter went to the release party for the new Twilight book, Breaking Dawn, Friday night at Borders. She had a blast. There were total strangers bonding over character dissections, the overpriced iced coffee in the cafe, and whether or not they thought the movie would be any good.

There were also frenzied groupies screaming in the parking lot. "Oh My God, this is the best book EVAAAHHHH!"
"SECONDED!"
"WOOOOHOOOO!"

She and her best friend had so much fun, and have had their noses stuck in the pages all weekend. Which leads me to ask:

Is the printed page truly going the way of the dodo, as has often been prophesied? If it is, then how could a book warrant this kind of fangurl squeeing? Especially from the text message-OMG-LOL-will not capitalize my i's-generation, who supposedly have the attention span of a gnat?

I will admit I do not understand people who hate reading. I'm sure they have their reasons; one friend of mine said it was because she couldn't take just sitting there. She got anxious if she just sat for too long. Nevermind that she and I could have an Antonio Banderas marathon with no problem.

But if Twilight and the Harry Potter phenomenon and even the Left Behind series (they had to build a 2,500 square foot warehouse just for the release of the last book) are any indication, books aren't going anywhere soon. Maybe it's just with all the competition, they have to be better.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time

We're not actually going anywhere for vacay (who could with these gas prices?) but the kids have got some cool things planned for this week. I think sunburns, head-shearing, and reptiles are included. I'll tell you all about it next Monday. Though if there are photos, I may have to burn them.

And check these guys out. I'm glad they can find a little PBJ time, too.

Oh Good God

In the middle of Get In Shape Summer, and I was idiotic enough to do Billy Blanks' Tae Bo workout yesterday.

Am sore. Can't move.

Have church picnic tomorrow with a jillion screaming children going down an inflatable water slide.

Pray for me. Or hold a pillow over my face, either one.

You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

SciFi channel has been having a Hulk marathon this week, to hype the new Incredible Hulk movie. As interesting as the movie looks, I prefer the old TV series. Probably because I grew up with it; but it was a great story on a lot of levels.

“Dr. David Banner, physician, scientist, looking for a way to tap into the hidden strengths that all humans have…”

It’s quite obviously a reworking of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; the Stevenson allegory that says we all have a monster deep inside that could come out given the right circumstances. And the image from the end credits of the lonely Banner, forced into isolation, hitchhiking down the road while a haunting piano plays, is etched into my memory.

"The world believes David Banner to be dead. And he must let the world believe he is dead, until he finds a way to control the raging spirit that dwells within him."

I cried all the time watching that show. My brothers, of course, just liked watching HULK SMASH!!! It was the perfect formula. Guys got to see cars tossed around and girls got to sigh over the hero.

My kids are enjoying the series, and enjoying watching me squee over it. Yes, the plastic rocks and easily bent metal and special effects- if you could call them that- are laughable by today’s standards, but I still get that feeling when his eyes turn white. He’s gonna Hulk out! He’s gonna Hulk out! The stories are standard 70’s TV fodder, but my attention-deficit Nintendo kids still liked it. I have to believe it’s because of one thing:

The talent and charm of the late Bill Bixby. Oh, my gravy, did I have a crush on him. I know, I know, who didn’t I have a crush on, but still. He was wonderful. And it goes to show that a great character can transcend some mediocre storylines.

And, yeah. They liked seeing Lou Ferrigno roar and toss around cars, too.

I’m So Glad I Didn’t Marry My Dad

Okay, that needs some explanation. I was reading this cool post by StarvingWriteNow about a childhood staple, car trips. It pushed my nostalgia button, and brought back these wonderful memories…

Like sitting on the hump in the middle of the back seat because I was the youngest and the smallest. The most uncomfortable seat in the car. I was really positioned there because my mom wanted a barrier between my brothers. They would smile at me, highly pleased with themselves, since they always won Animal Rummy or License Plate Tag or any game of that kind. I didn’t stand a chance since I wasn’t near a window. That was okay. When it came time to break into 99 Bottles of Coke on the Wall, I blasted them out of their smugness.

I would have taken those trips over the teen ones, though. By then my oldest brother was living with our father, and I sometimes had the backseat to myself. Good thing. My stepdad was a trip all by himself. I love the man dearly, but he drove like he was on a mission. He had to conquer the road. Gotta make time, gotta make time.

One of the ways he made up lost time? Not stopping for bathroom breaks. We kept a 10 lb. coffee can and a roll of toilet paper in the backseat floorboard. When my mom needed to use the facility, she and I would simultaneously climb over the seat, changing places. To tinkle, you had to put the can on the seat, take off the cover (yours and the can’s) and hover over the opening at 75 mph. You prayed that the road was smooth and no semi trucks passed.

This torture ended when Mom was emptying the can- which happened in motion as well, gotta make time, gotta make time- but she didn’t just pour it out the window. She gave it a heave, hoping the contents would fly out far enough to miss the side of the car. They blew back in her face.

Dad had a choice. Bathroom breaks, or divorce papers. He had a few manic ideas, but he’s no dummy.

When Gary and I were putting together our wedding vows, I nearly put in “I promise to love, honor, cherish, and stop at the first available porta-potty.”

Venus And Mars Both Blow

As Tammy Wynette sang, “Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman.” And I don’t want to stand by my man, because he’s thinner than I am. It’s like those Slimquick commercials: a rotund couple sits on the sofa. The man has a bowl of chips on his lap. The woman tells us that her husband just started drinking diet soda, and lost 17 pounds. She’s been drinking nothing but water for a year, and…nothing.

Why, why, why can men just barely start doing exercise or eating more salad, and they can fit into their old pants; but when we skip breakfast and eat 1 little chocolate covered diet granola bar for lunch and splurge on exactly four raisins, and cannot get the sound of Billy Blanks out of our heads (“Go! Work it! Go! Work it!”) and feel guilty over having a skinny latte with Splenda and three weeks later, exhausted, we can proudly point to a two pound weight loss?

I don’t know if it’s hormones or metabolism or age, but I’m sick of it. And the weight is hard enough- I’m going through peri-menopause. Which means hot flashes and moodiness coupled with cramps and PMS, and could continue for the next seven years. Can’t my body just pick one or the other? Do I have to have both? Or could I at least get skinny while the hormones duke it out?

But talking to my son lately made me realize that men don’t have a bed of roses either. Recently a men’s group at our church decided to go coed. And that bummed him out big time. “Mom,” he said, “why is it that every time guys get to do something together, a girl decides to crowd in?” I had the typical response ready- that’s the price you pay to live in a patriarchal society, etc., etc., but then I thought about it. I wouldn’t want to tell my daughter that there was anything she couldn’t do, but should there be places or groups she shouldn’t try to join?

Does “For Men Only” automatically make it chauvinistic? I had more male friends than female growing up, and I’m very comfortable with the company of men. But I also know that the very air changes when a man walks into a group of women. It changes the dynamic. And there are times when I just like talking to women. Ain’t nobody gonna squawk if there’s a sign on the door that says For Women Only. Are men any less deserving?

My son said it wasn’t just being invaded. It was that he thought he’d get blasted for thinking it sucked. I’m going to suggest that he start a guy’s club, and hang up a big NO GIRLS sign. I think the females of the world can take it. Heck, I’ll even jeopardize my diet and make them snacks.