Just about me
I’ve seen blogs, read blogs, and even replied to a few. I don’t know if my life is interesting enough to make a good one, but I am going to try one anyway! |
I lead a different sort of life. I am a single mother, who lives with her ex husband, who happens to be one of her closest friends… for financial reasons. I don’t really like dogs, but I have two, and they are the reason I don’t like dogs, as you will read in subsequent posts. Perhaps you will empathize with me! I have one huge cat named Storm Cloud, and he is the love of my life (beside my kids) I am a confessed pack-rat, and I am not a very good housekeeper. My ex husband is the same way. NOT a good combination! I need a steam shovel just to get from the dining room to the living room, but I can’t get one to fit through my door.
I love reading, writing, hanging out with my kids. I abhor people who are arrogant, bossy and snappish. I like finding new, rarely used words and use them in everyday conversation; just to confuse people.
I am different, hard to deal with at times. I am the one they call… DUN DUN DUNNNNNN…
|Dang, I need to update this blog more often…
That being said, I have reached a conclusion about my ex hubby, Brad.
His mom must have been a terrible cook.
He FINALLY got a job, not a very lucrative one, but a job none the less; and it often throws him on the night shift. This means that my children and I often eat alone, and I can make things to their specifications instead of his.
For instance… he likes his spaghetti “Al Dente” which to him means, scare it with hot water a little bit. If it is still kind a crunchy, GOOD! He also likes it dry, with very little sauce, so what we usually do is have the spaghetti and sauce separate, and pour sauce on our plated portion of noodles. My son, who I swear is related to Jethro Clampett, likes to drench his noodles in sauce. My daughter and I do that as well. Brad delightedly pours what’s left of the sauce (which isn’t much after the kids and I get through with it) into the remaining spaghetti noodles. The result is a pinkish tinged pasta with some totally untouched-by-sauce portions.
He munches on that for a couple of days, because when I make spaghetti, I make a lot of it!
Last night, I made a huge pot of pasta and made a double dose of meat sauce. I poured the entire pan of sauce into the noodles (which I boiled for 15 minutes instead of the customary 10) It turned into a saucy red paradise. My son was like, “Wow mom, this spaghetti is really good, it tastes like it has more moisture in it!
This morning, I was making bacon in the microwave, via what I call “The Baconator” I don’t know what it is really called, but my elderly Aunt in Kentucky uses one, and I got one as soon as I returned to Michigan last summer. What is a “Baconator?” A Baconator is a round microwave-safe plate with raised ridges and a reservoir to hold the drippy grease. You put your raw bacon, four strips at a time, onto the Baconator, cover the bacon with a paper towel and microwave it for four or five minutes, depending on the thickness of the bacon. When it is done, you have a relatively crisp slice of bacon, and all the bacon grease is drained away!
Brad, of course, likes his bacon burnt, so “done” that it appears shriveled and the color of a dried plum.
My kids, of course, like their bacon normal crispy.
He likes his mashed potatoes dry, with lumps in them, he prefers eggs that are broken and mangled, he likes sandwiches with mustard only, (gag) he likes pork chops overbaked and crunchy… He can cook a chicken tender until it resembles zombie fingers. I even detest his mom’s stuffed cabbages, which are usually tasteless lumps of meat mixture wrapped in overcooked , sometimes burnt cabbage leaves, swimming in a watery sea of tomato soup.
He doesn’t object to my stuffed cabbages though, which are big and fat and saucy, the total opposite of his mom’s.
It makes me wonder. Was his mom just a bad cook? Is this why he likes “reject” food? Poor thing probably grew up eating those kinds of things on a daily basis and this is his version of good. I have to hand it to Mom though, she raised six children to adulthood and beyond with this kind of cooking, and at family gatherings, there are a lot of “Mmms” to be heard.
Perhaps her pork chops burnt because she had to chase down one of her many children, maybe her potatoes were lumpy because she didn’t have time to peel and boil potatoes, and had to use potato buds instead. Perhaps her daughters helped make them and really didn’t know how, and she was too nice to say anything. Maybe her pasta never got cooked enough because she had her seven family members clamoring for food and had to get it on the table faster… There are a lot of variables to how someone cooks. I can’t make any excuses for the stuffed cabbages, however.
|The day has arrived:
I help her pack her duffle bag, making sure she has all she needs for her trip. Why am I so anxious? I should be proud, and I am, but I can’t seem to let her go with grace.
Her long hair shines like copper silk as she runs the straightener through. I like her subtle curls and occasional frizz, but she prefers the smooth look. She is barely thirteen, too young to drive or have a serious boyfriend; yet I see a woman with rounded curves and an hourglass figure. The freckles that brush her ivory face are covered by foundation, but she uses no other makeup.
She will be gone for three days, off to Chicago with her choir group. They will see concerts, eat in interesting restaurants, tour aquariums, malls and piers. They will sing in front of a panel of judges, swim in a pool, and sleep in a fancy hotel room. I envy her. I wish I could go with her.
She is my baby, my only girl, and I will miss her horribly. I am grateful for her experience, but I will be the first one in that parking lot to pick her up when she returns!
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The Stinky Lady
Today I went to the dollar store. It was my first stop on a day long sojourn of shopping. I awoke in a good enough mood; my toothache had subsided a bit, I had the day off, and I had a little bit of money in my pocket. Those three miraculous events rarely occur in my life. I am continually plagued by bad luck, aches and pains, disappointment, and lack of monetary blessings.
So with a heart full of holiday spirit, thanks to our local radio station that plays 100 percent Christmas music, I began my adventure.
My initial reason for stopping there was measuring cups. I got the measuring cups, then passed by the basket section. There were some cute and sturdy red and white baskets, so I grabbed a couple. I then strolled to the front of the store, where they keep all their poorly made winter needs. As I was sifting through the flimsy hats and gloves, I smelled it. The odor was heavy, and smelled like someone had poured the contents of an overnight chamber pot into the hat bin. I was nauseated, and immediately stopped my search. There was a lady beside me, not poor looking, not rich looking either. She was looking at the hats too. I politely excused myself and went to the Christmas decorations, where I was glad to get away from the hats and their stench.
I was relieved for only a while. I smelled the strong urine-feces-BO aroma within two minutes. The lady was beside me again. She didn’t look dirty, nor did she look like she was carrying a loaded depends. I thought it couldn’t possibly be her. So I surreptitiously headed to the wedding and birthday aisle, where I knew she probably wouldn’t be.
The odor was palpable and I turned around. She was looking at party favors right beside me. I had to get away. It had to be her! I managed a brisk clip to the snack section, where I believed the yummy little summer sausages were hidden. (Let me tell you. If you ever have an opportunity to indulge in a Nordic Chalet Summer Sausage, do it. They are fantastic!) But I digress. When I had loaded about fifteen of those little beauties into my shopping cart, my heart sank. I could smell her again. She was heading rapidly down the aisle, her scent following her like the tail of a kite. It was so overpowering, you could actually see it… Not really, but you get the picture.
It was like an expensive perfume gone awry. The first note left behind was the urine. Then the more pungent notes of death and feces combined, followed by a bouquet of God Help Us All.
I decided to go to the bathroom, because I really do have a bladder the size of a pea. That, and I had to go poop; badly. As if reading my mind, Stinky Sally turned around, releasing a fresh cloud of her essence, and made a beeline for the lady’s room. I stood there with an incredulous look, holding my breath, waiting for the scent to die down a little. There was no way in the world, no matter how horribly I had to go to the bathroom, that I would follow after her.
Sooooo. Doing the pee pee dance, and trying hard not to do the other thing, I practically lunged to the check out lane. There were two people in front of me and two people in the next check out lane, so I figured I had time to get out of there before Odiferous Odessa emerged again. I felt like paying for a bar of soap and stealthily hiding it in her shopping cart, but my tunnel vision prevented me from doing so.
The first guy had a couple decorations in his cart, so he moved quickly. Still no sign of the Smellmeister.
Then the sweet little lady in front of me couldn’t get her holiday mugs to ring up, and the cashier kept trying and trying and trying. Meanwhile, I was praying that I would be out before Stinky Pants emerged from the bathroom.. Wouldn’t you know it, the sweet lady in front of me was having trouble finding her money in her purse. Meanwhile, I’m sweating bullets, trying hard not to crap my pants. I began doing Lamaze breathing to get me through the ordeal.
Before Grandma Sweetness got her money out, Gagatha had joined the queue behind the other cash register. Good, I thought, the line is moving fast, she may get done before we do.
I almost had it. I was this close. I could smell her as she got closer. Miracle of miracles, she arrived at her register, just as I was arriving at mine. Only seven feet away from me, my eyes were watering, and the back of my throat was burning. On the bright side, I temporarily forgot I was going to load my drawers. So with my luck, my tenth summer sausage refused to be read. The lady tried and tried, as she had done with the adorable grandma (she really was a cute thing) Still no luck. With unpracticed fingers, she slowly punched in the UPC code… (FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, LADY IT’S ONE DOLLAR! EVERYTHING IS A FREAKING DOLLAR! DON’T THEY HAVE A JUST A DOLLAR BUTTON ON THE FLUFFIN CASH REGISTER?) She made a mistake entering the numbers, and had to start over. Meanwhile, Eau De Restroom woman was having a lengthy conversation with the other poor cashier , who nodded and “yepped” in all the right places. Good thing she was the last one in that line…
She got done before I did, and I waited until she was thoroughly out the door and into her surprisingly nice car before I exited. The urine note struck me first…
I managed to make it to Walmart, and ran immediately for the restrooms. As I got up from my frantic relief fest, the automatic toilet flushed on its own; violently, savagely, it sprayed the toilet seat, and probably me, with what I had just given it.
Oddly enough, I still have the Christmas Spirit!
But… I can still smell her in my mind’s olfactory memory storage, I’ll probably have nightmares tonight.
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|Or at least, get a filter for my verbal diarrhea. (I don't know if I spelled it right)
A friend of mine sent me a message on Myspace, asking how I was, and if it was true I moved back in with my ex husband.
I really need to get a life, because this was my reply to her.
And I quote:
LOL yes, we have been living together for about five years now. Not a very romantic situation, but it beats the hell out of poverty. We are really good friends, however, and he did make me dinner and coffee tonight, so I guess I can't complain. When you're my age, priorities change... (along with various anatomical structures which have a tendency to grow cobwebs)
Life seems wonderful right now. I am worried about my teeth, which seem to be falling apart lately. Luckily, none in the front have collapsed yet, but I vanquished one molar last night eating a Jimmy Johns sub. It was an old, huge filling though, and it had a good life. LOL
Work is going well; with the economy and everyone getting laid off, I guess I'm lucky to have a job. You know how December is there, lots of folk going on vacation, so counts will be down, and so will our hours.
I hope the hollidays find you well, and I hope your little man enjoys good health also! You need to get more pictures of him on your myspace, without the paccy. I can't tell what he looks like! But it looks like he takes after you, THANK GOD! I hope he has your curly hair!
Take care and keep in touch!
I am such a dork.
What’s up with that?
I work in a day care center, and the counts are low. A majority of our kids have teachers for parents, and well, it is summer, and a lot of teachers are off for three months.
That means that the center’s instructors, myself included, get our hours drastically cut for several weeks, because there aren’t enough children to make our ratios sensible.
While I enjoy the time off, it makes me sweat to think of how small my paycheck is going to be.
My kids need braces, my pets are overdue for vet visits, and my teeth need worked on.
How am I going to manage this?
I wanted to go on a small vacation somewhere this year. But that’s out of the question. I heard that you can plan a Disney vacation up to a year and a half in advance and gradually pay on it. I may do that. My family has never been to Disney, and I would risk a plane ride if I had my family with me.
That would mean next year, around late August, my family and I could hop aboard a plane and spend an entire week in the most magical place on earth.
I checked the numbers, and with hotel, airfare and tickets for everyone, the cost is around 2,500. Sounds like a lot, but if you spread it out evenly over a period of a year… that would be… Over two hundred dollars a month. Crap. I knew it was too good to be true!
My oatmeal is lumpy, I have a headache, and no money to take my kids somewhere special on my day off.
I would like a nice wedge of Brie, please, to go with my whine!
I wish I could say I am a dog person, but I am not. I have never had a dog that anyone would consider “normal.” My first dog was obtained by my family when she adopted us. I was seventeen, and her name was Mindy. We also had a cat and a parakeet named Mindy, and a chicken we were thinking about naming Mindy, but that is another story altogether.
Mindy was sweet, smart and adorable. She lived until I was twenty five, and I miss her to this day. When I got married a short time later, got divorced, and became a single mother, I decided a dog would be the answer to my lonely prayers. I guess vet bills and hairballs from two psychotic cats weren’t enough to tell me I needed no more “companionship.”
My cousin Mel had an English Springer Spaniel that had just given birth to seven puppies that looked suspiciously like the large chocolate lab next door. I picked the one with no white on her, the one that howled at passing sirens, and the one that seemed skittish.
NEVER get a puppy that seems shy… or skittish… or psychotic. Word to the wise. My darling Chocolate, as my kids named her, became a member of our dysfunctional family, and she seemed as dysfunctional as the rest of us. She would yelp and tremble if I had her anywhere but tucked in my shirt. On her first official vet check up, the vet cleared her throat and Chocolate screamed out a howl that made my hair stand on end. She gnawed on everything, pulled at the leash, was obsessed with humping her brother (long story) and was impossible to train. Bathroom or trick etiquette eludes her to this day.
About a year that Chocolate ripped a hole in our lives, a friend of mine moved to Texas. She asked if I would like to take her Pomeranian, because they could not take him with them… Yeah right… There is no such thing as a free dog. Within a week of getting our precious little pure bred black evil satanic menace, he had lunged at my son’s face, peed all over the house and ran out the door to confront a Lincoln Town Car. The car knocked the wind out of him, but the little imp survived, even more determined to use our house as his personal bathroom, and with a head tilt that gave him a permanent questioning look.
Pomeranians are prone to luxating their patellas. In other words, their bones come out of joint easily. In my financial strain, I had to have his leg put back in place three times, at 500 dollars a pop. No pun intended. The little angel even thought he could crawl through a neighbors fence and take on a full grown pit bull. This other animal picked him up by the back and shook him like a rag doll while my son stood at the fence screaming . Shadow, the black fur ball, ran into the house and hid under the couch. He snapped at us as we tried to get him to the vet. He was fine; he only had two puncture wounds in his back side and was scared. Another three hundred bucks down the tube.
Both Chocolate and Shadow are geriatric now. Their muzzles are grey, they still crap and pee in the floor any chance they get. Chocolate howls at ambulances, she's a fear biter, she scratches holes in our screen doors, she chews all my spatulas; she is impossible to walk because she pulls your arm out of joint… Shadow won’t let us groom him, so we have to spend close to fifty bucks a pop to get him groomed, he is losing teeth now, and the vets want us to do dental on him… How expensive… Wow I love those dogs…
But they are family members, and we will be with them till the end. And much to our better judgment, we will probably get another dog when they pass. What is this hold that canines have over us? Why do we put up with the pee, poop, frustration, and non trained ness? Is there such a thing as a bad dog? Or do we have the only two in the universe?
I have to go, Shadow just snuck into the kitchen, and I am pretty sure he left me a little golden puddle in the floor.
I am NOT a dog person!
|I made it through the child care conference with little or no emotional baggage. One of my classes, which was totally unrealated to child care or teaching, I thought, was "Fill Your Own Bucket" a seminar about appreciating those around you and letting them know how you feel, and why you feel that way.
There were a lot of tears. I almost went over the edge, but I fought it like a champ and didn't cry. WHOOHOO!
AAaaAAaaany way, one of the sessions had to do with writing children's books. Now THAT is something I think I would like to persue. The only real expense is the paper, ink, and postage it takes to send out manuscripts.
The guy told me this, and if any one of you are thinking about having a children's book published, take note.
If a publisher wants a large sum of money to publish your book, they are not legit. If they want your manuscript bad enough, they will pay YOU, and take care of all the publishing expenses.
I may or may not try. I have a few good poems geared toward children that might translate well into a book.
|I drove by the house this morning. Or what used to be my house. The landlords house is still to the right of the school, but his ornate mailbox is smashed in. My other neighbors house is there too, as are two other little crapboxes (new prefab homes) squeezed onto a quarter acre of divided land.
As we drove by, my ex (let's give him a name, shall we? Let's call him Brad, for future reference) said "Oh my God, the tree is still there! "
Sure enough, the gargantuan pine tree that stood in my front yard was there, as well as the partially truncated maple tree and buck eye tree. They were all there, where my front yard used to be, in a patch of grass about a quarter acre. They rest in a diagonal pattern from NE to SW. My theory: The landlord must have planted these trees for his children when he was younger, and refused to have them removed, even though he deemed the property to the High School developers. Is that even possible?
AAaaany way, Brad parked in a small space adjacent to the road, and I hopped out to pick up some of the pine cones the tree had dropped. They were stunted and much smaller than the ten inch monstrosities that used to fall from that tree. It's as if the tree was mourning the loss of the land too. I plan on putting them in a shadow box, along with a few pictures of the house when it was in its glory.
It's amazing how things change.
|Gotta love those Cream of Spam contests!
Thanksgiving at mom’s house was great!
Each year it was the same,
Nicotine flavored food on plates!
The whole damn family came!
My cousin Mel and her Mother,
Grandma, Aunt Ailene and Brother,
My cousin Mel,
My cousin Mel,
All crowding in on each other!
Thirty pound turkey over baked
Stuffing moist and runny.
The smiles on our faces were faked
The pies? Waste of money!
Here comes Uncle George with his bowl,
Heaped with mashed potatoes and roll,
Here comes uncle,
Here comes uncle,
And Aunt Debbie thinks he’s a troll.
My favorite was the “Shucky beans.”
My mom’s *urp* specialty.
Dried green beans steeped in nicotine,
Boiled, pale green tragedy.
Funny thing is, I’d give my soul
For one more hard thanksgiving roll
Funny thing is,
Funny thing is,
That’s an unattainable goal.
I miss my family, and the house where all those memories were made. I haven't lived there for twenty years. Our landlord sold the property to a high school developer, and a brand new high school now sits where our house once was.
The big red barn is gone,
The empty silos with pigeon families are gone,
The feeding trough where me and my husband (now ex) inscribed our names with chunks of moisture solidified lime is now a tennis court.
The field where I used to ride my minibike is now a parking lot for High school students.
God only knows what happened to the antique car parked in the barn, or the phone booth, or the sentimental stuff I had secretly stored in there.
Probably in some landfill, rotting away and contributing to global warming.
I hope my neighbor at least saved some of the wood from the barn. If I had been aware of it, I would have done it. I didn't find out about the High School until I created a Myspace account and got in touch with one of my old neighbors from two miles down the road.
I am really depressed about this. I have to go to a child care convention in that VERY HIGH SCHOOL on Saturday. I'm going to be a nervous wreck.
Wish me luck!