First and foremost, I want you all to know that I can and have successful done wood-burning and can use a jigsaw. I took wood-working as a 4-H project. I'm really not that clumsy and my hair is not blonde. That is my disclaimer. With that in mind - we all have our moments of...well, stupidity.
I love working in theatre. I love performing, but I'm not a singer so when our local theatre does a musical, I'm backstage.
This particular year the show was Carousel and they were building a carousel to be used on stage. Time was running short and everyone was pitching in. I had been helping with makeup and props, but time was at a premium.
"What do ya need me to do?"
"Well, we need to get these ribbons attached to the sides of the carousel."
The carousel had a center pole with ribbons attached to it. The ribbons were suppose to be stretched to the outer edge and then stapled.
"Sure, no problem."
I grabbed a ladder and a staple gun and climbed up. I pulled a ribbon to the edge, lined it up and "thwap". The staple bounced off the wood and hit me in the chest.
"Must have hit a nail."
I tried again. "Thwap". The staple hit me in the chest again. I was annoyed. I lined the gun up and clicked off three staples. "thwap, thwap, thwap" Owwww. I pulled three from the front of my shirt.
Grrrrrr. I lined it up again and fired. "Thwap". The staple stuck in my skin just below my collarbone. I was getting mad. Why weren't these stupid staples going in.
I glanced around and saw the head of the tech crew. I really didn't want to admit that I was having problems with the staple gun of all things so I tried again. "Thwap" Another staple impaled itself in my skin.
As I was picking the offending staple out, one of the guys who was watching me said, "Have you ever used a staple gun before?"
"Of course, but this wood is really hard, the staples won't go in."
The guy climbed up the ladder and looked at the staple gun and popped in two staples and then handed it back to me.
"It works just fine if you point it the right direction."
After that, staple guns were added to the list of tools I wasn't allowed to use, without close supervision.
A Renaissance Woman's quest to live a clean, green, intellectually stimulating life. Starting over and doing it right. Plus - the snippets of life that make me so totally unique
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Multiplying hairball
Jasmine is my female Persian cat. She's a cat with a bad attitude at best and is down-right evil at her worst. We brought her home to be a companion for my neutered male Persian, Oscar.
We had had Oscar for about 6 months, when Jasmine came to live with us. Life was good; Oscar had a playmate and Jas had some one besides us to torment. She was Queen and everyone knew it.
Oscar was about 3 years old, neutered and totally de-clawed. He was a huge cat weighing in at about 10 pounds. Jas was dainty; She was just over a year old, with silky hair that she groomed by the hour. If anyone interrupted her grooming, she'd swipe at them with her claws - and she had all four of them. Poor Oscar quickly learned his place. When she wasn't grooming herself, Jas would lay in the window sill, sunning. Ah, life for the Queen Kitty-Cat was purrfect.
All was well, until we moved from our house in the country to a modular home in the city. I never let the cats outside at our house in the country, but it was big enough that both of cats and us had ample space. And sometimes, everyone just needed to avoid Jas.
We were at our new home for about 3 months when Jas started acting funny. She wasn't eating and she was laying around whining a lot. Not only that, but when we tried to pet her, we nearly required stitches. She was a bit...touchy.
Around the first of January, Jas really started looking ill. She had a large round bulge in her stomach and when I touched it, it was hard. Well, I didn't spend much time feeling it, Jas bit me. I did some research on the internet and found that Persians, because of their long hair tend to get accumulate hairballs in their stomachs. It figured, with all that grooming she did. Most of the time, a cat will just hack it up, but sometimes, it actually forms a ball. Upon further research, I found that little could be done except surgery if the hairball was too big. This one appear to be enormous.
I called the vet and explained the situation. It was suggested that before bringing Jas in, that I feed her some castor oil and try to get her to pass it on her own. Well, that seemed simple enough and a lot less expensive, so on my way home from work, I stopped by the store and picked up a bottle.
My husband met me at the door and the look on his face told me, he wasn't happy.
"What is it, what's wrong? It's the cat isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's the cat alright."
"What...was it the hairball?"
"You could say, she passed it."
"Is she..."
"Oh she's fine..." But I could tell that he wasn't. My first husband wasn't a cat lover.
"Then..."
"Go look in the closet."
I raced to the bedroom. I could her Jas meowing softly. Thinking the worst, I flipped on the light and there she was - with not one hairball but 4 and they were...moving!
"KITTENS? How, why..."
Jas had delivered four of the cutest hairballs, on the couch earlier that afternoon. I don't know what happened, but Oscar had a miraculous neuter reversal and was the proud baby daddy. I felt more than a little stupid, after all, I did grow up on a farm and had seen plenty of pregnant cats.
What I didn't realise was that cats can reproduce faster than bunnies, and it didn't take long for Jas to be with hairball again and Oscar to be on his way to the vet.
What can I say, it was a miracle, after all, the woman I bought Oscar from, told me he had been fixed.
We had had Oscar for about 6 months, when Jasmine came to live with us. Life was good; Oscar had a playmate and Jas had some one besides us to torment. She was Queen and everyone knew it.
Oscar was about 3 years old, neutered and totally de-clawed. He was a huge cat weighing in at about 10 pounds. Jas was dainty; She was just over a year old, with silky hair that she groomed by the hour. If anyone interrupted her grooming, she'd swipe at them with her claws - and she had all four of them. Poor Oscar quickly learned his place. When she wasn't grooming herself, Jas would lay in the window sill, sunning. Ah, life for the Queen Kitty-Cat was purrfect.
All was well, until we moved from our house in the country to a modular home in the city. I never let the cats outside at our house in the country, but it was big enough that both of cats and us had ample space. And sometimes, everyone just needed to avoid Jas.
We were at our new home for about 3 months when Jas started acting funny. She wasn't eating and she was laying around whining a lot. Not only that, but when we tried to pet her, we nearly required stitches. She was a bit...touchy.
Around the first of January, Jas really started looking ill. She had a large round bulge in her stomach and when I touched it, it was hard. Well, I didn't spend much time feeling it, Jas bit me. I did some research on the internet and found that Persians, because of their long hair tend to get accumulate hairballs in their stomachs. It figured, with all that grooming she did. Most of the time, a cat will just hack it up, but sometimes, it actually forms a ball. Upon further research, I found that little could be done except surgery if the hairball was too big. This one appear to be enormous.
I called the vet and explained the situation. It was suggested that before bringing Jas in, that I feed her some castor oil and try to get her to pass it on her own. Well, that seemed simple enough and a lot less expensive, so on my way home from work, I stopped by the store and picked up a bottle.
My husband met me at the door and the look on his face told me, he wasn't happy.
"What is it, what's wrong? It's the cat isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's the cat alright."
"What...was it the hairball?"
"You could say, she passed it."
"Is she..."
"Oh she's fine..." But I could tell that he wasn't. My first husband wasn't a cat lover.
"Then..."
"Go look in the closet."
I raced to the bedroom. I could her Jas meowing softly. Thinking the worst, I flipped on the light and there she was - with not one hairball but 4 and they were...moving!
"KITTENS? How, why..."
Jas had delivered four of the cutest hairballs, on the couch earlier that afternoon. I don't know what happened, but Oscar had a miraculous neuter reversal and was the proud baby daddy. I felt more than a little stupid, after all, I did grow up on a farm and had seen plenty of pregnant cats.
What I didn't realise was that cats can reproduce faster than bunnies, and it didn't take long for Jas to be with hairball again and Oscar to be on his way to the vet.
What can I say, it was a miracle, after all, the woman I bought Oscar from, told me he had been fixed.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The day I met my husband
Nothing in my life is simple or direct. Everything has it's crazy twists and turns and meeting my husband was no different.
It was a cold evening in February 2003 when my phone rang. It was my boyfriend of 6 months. He traveled a lot for work and I hadn't seen him in a few weeks.
"Hey, I just got back into town. I'm at Good Times. Why don't ya come over."
Good Times? I knew where most of the bars were in my little town, but this one - I wasn't even sure I'd heard that name before.
He explained where it was and I told him I'd be over shortly. I had my trepidations. The bar was on the east side of town, over by the railroad tracks in the factory district. Once I knew the general location, I knew exactly what bar it was -it was the one my mother told me to stay away from.
Good Times Bar and Grill was located in a parking lot of what used to be a stockyard. It had a reputation of being a rough spot. It was one of two bars left on the eastside of town - biker/factory/bad boy bars. Stories were whispered about things that had happened there in it's 40 plus year history - things like drugs, guns, gangs...bad things.
My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry, not only was I heading to a bar with a bad reputation, but it was already growing dark outside. But I wanted to see my boyfrend so I got in my car and headed across town. As I drew near, my heart was beating a tango in my chest. I just knew this was a bad idea.
The parking lot lights were already on when I pulled in. I saw my boyfriend's van parked on the far side of the lot under a light and pulled up next to it. For a couple of minutes I sat in my car, I thought maybe he was watching for me and would come out to meet me. At 39, I had never walked into a bar alone. I'd only been in a couple and that was during lunchtime, in the daylight. In the past, I'd gone to clubs with friends, but here I was, about to walk into this seedy little bar all by myself.
It was cold so I didn't linger outside. The door stuck as I tried to open it and had to push hard, nearly tripping when it gave way. I stepped through the doorway; it was like time froze. The smell of stale beer and hard-working men hit me. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me - the room grew quiet. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the smokey gloom. I swallowed hard and nervously scanned the room.
"Hey Tami, over here." My boyfriend waved from across the room. It was so dark that I could barely make him out, let alone those who were sitting with him. I quickly approached the safety of the group and realized that I was the only woman at the table.
My boyfriend introduced me to his friends - a motley crew. They were dressed in work clothes - jeans and flannel shirts for the most part. There was Bater who sort of snorted at the introduction, Wilson who, thank goodness reminded me of a friendly Labador, and welcomed me and Kenny. This hulk of a man was called Kenny, not Ken, not Kenneth, but Kenny. He was one of the biggest men I had ever met. His arms built like small trees were completely bare as he was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt. His eyes assessed me and quickly dismissed me as an mere annoyance. I think he may have grunted hello. But he made it clear, that where he was sitting was his space and he was not to be crowded.
All in all, I spent the next hour in terror. I didn't say much, even when spoken too. It was apparent to me that I had invaded their man-gathering and my intrusion wasn't welcomed no matter whose girlfriend I was.
A week later, I was back. My boyfriend called me and said to meet him there again so I did. He was late so it was just me and the boys. I sat on the edge of my seat, hands folded in my lap. Kenny stared at me with those piercing dark eyes and ordered me a beer. He didn't say much, but I could tell that I irritated him, but I didn't know why.
The others tried to make small talk with me, but I was to scared to say much back. I finally relaxed when my boyfriend showed up. I shouldn't have, because that's when the teasing began. By the time I left, I don't know if I was mad or annoyed or just plain hurt. My boyfriend explained that was their way of letting me know they liked me. Liked me? I was near tears. But I decided that if they could pick on me, I'd do my best to tease them back and I did and still do. It was the beginning of a love affair that I didn't realize.
Nearly, 6 years after that fateful day, when I gathered up the courage to walk into that scary bar, I was there celebrating my marriage, to Kenny. And yes I still irritate him, but now I invade his space.
It was a cold evening in February 2003 when my phone rang. It was my boyfriend of 6 months. He traveled a lot for work and I hadn't seen him in a few weeks.
"Hey, I just got back into town. I'm at Good Times. Why don't ya come over."
Good Times? I knew where most of the bars were in my little town, but this one - I wasn't even sure I'd heard that name before.
He explained where it was and I told him I'd be over shortly. I had my trepidations. The bar was on the east side of town, over by the railroad tracks in the factory district. Once I knew the general location, I knew exactly what bar it was -it was the one my mother told me to stay away from.
Good Times Bar and Grill was located in a parking lot of what used to be a stockyard. It had a reputation of being a rough spot. It was one of two bars left on the eastside of town - biker/factory/bad boy bars. Stories were whispered about things that had happened there in it's 40 plus year history - things like drugs, guns, gangs...bad things.
My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry, not only was I heading to a bar with a bad reputation, but it was already growing dark outside. But I wanted to see my boyfrend so I got in my car and headed across town. As I drew near, my heart was beating a tango in my chest. I just knew this was a bad idea.
The parking lot lights were already on when I pulled in. I saw my boyfriend's van parked on the far side of the lot under a light and pulled up next to it. For a couple of minutes I sat in my car, I thought maybe he was watching for me and would come out to meet me. At 39, I had never walked into a bar alone. I'd only been in a couple and that was during lunchtime, in the daylight. In the past, I'd gone to clubs with friends, but here I was, about to walk into this seedy little bar all by myself.
It was cold so I didn't linger outside. The door stuck as I tried to open it and had to push hard, nearly tripping when it gave way. I stepped through the doorway; it was like time froze. The smell of stale beer and hard-working men hit me. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me - the room grew quiet. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the smokey gloom. I swallowed hard and nervously scanned the room.
"Hey Tami, over here." My boyfriend waved from across the room. It was so dark that I could barely make him out, let alone those who were sitting with him. I quickly approached the safety of the group and realized that I was the only woman at the table.
My boyfriend introduced me to his friends - a motley crew. They were dressed in work clothes - jeans and flannel shirts for the most part. There was Bater who sort of snorted at the introduction, Wilson who, thank goodness reminded me of a friendly Labador, and welcomed me and Kenny. This hulk of a man was called Kenny, not Ken, not Kenneth, but Kenny. He was one of the biggest men I had ever met. His arms built like small trees were completely bare as he was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt. His eyes assessed me and quickly dismissed me as an mere annoyance. I think he may have grunted hello. But he made it clear, that where he was sitting was his space and he was not to be crowded.
All in all, I spent the next hour in terror. I didn't say much, even when spoken too. It was apparent to me that I had invaded their man-gathering and my intrusion wasn't welcomed no matter whose girlfriend I was.
A week later, I was back. My boyfriend called me and said to meet him there again so I did. He was late so it was just me and the boys. I sat on the edge of my seat, hands folded in my lap. Kenny stared at me with those piercing dark eyes and ordered me a beer. He didn't say much, but I could tell that I irritated him, but I didn't know why.
The others tried to make small talk with me, but I was to scared to say much back. I finally relaxed when my boyfriend showed up. I shouldn't have, because that's when the teasing began. By the time I left, I don't know if I was mad or annoyed or just plain hurt. My boyfriend explained that was their way of letting me know they liked me. Liked me? I was near tears. But I decided that if they could pick on me, I'd do my best to tease them back and I did and still do. It was the beginning of a love affair that I didn't realize.
Nearly, 6 years after that fateful day, when I gathered up the courage to walk into that scary bar, I was there celebrating my marriage, to Kenny. And yes I still irritate him, but now I invade his space.
She-Devil
I love cats. I have always loved cats. They're independent and finiky. They have clearly defined personalities. They're a bit fickle, one day they like you, the next day they don't. They're playful and full of surprises.
About 12 years ago, I fell in love with Persians. Their smushy faces are so expressive. I bought my first one at an flea market - sans fleas. His name was Oscar. The woman who sold him to me for $50 was teary-eyed as she handed him over. A giant white fluff ball, with orange tipped ears and tail and big blue eyes. She assured us that he was neutered and declawed. We were definitely thankful for the declawing, on the way home. We hadn't expected to buy an animal and so we were lacking the proper carrying case. Oscar spent the hour drive home hissing at us from under the seat and jumping at the back window.
By the time we got home, the kids had made friends with him and we took him in the house. Months went by and the kids went off to school and I went back to work. Poor Oscar was bored and lonely and a bored and lonely kitty is trouble! I would return home to find the house a mess, plants would be dug up, dishes knocked on the floor, rugs bunched up. Oscar needed a friend.
I started watching the classified ads for a friend for Oscar. I really wanted to get another Persian. One day, I found one and not just any Persian, but a flame-tip - just like Oscar.
The girls and I made an appointment to look at the new cat. I'm not sure what to say about this cat, except she was a diva to the max. She sat staring at us from a pillow, like we were far beneath her status. We talked to her owner and agreed to a price and Jasmine was placed in her carrier.
She hissed. She spit. She screamed all the way home. I took her in the bathroom - the smallest room in the house and opened the cage. I wanted her to feel safe while she acculmated to the sights and smells of her new home.
During the day, while we were all gone, she must have explored the house. I never found any messes in her cage or the bathroom and she was eating food from her little Princess Kitty-Cat bowl. But as soon as she heard us returning, she hid in her cage. When anyone tried to peek at her, she hissed and tried to claw us. I figured she'd eventually figure out that we weren't going to hurt her.
About five days of playing hide and seek with the cat, I came home before the kids. I don't think Jas heard me come home or she didn't care. Anyway, I went to use the bathroom and never thought twice about the cat, when I shut the door behind me. As I was washing my hands, I heard a hissing noise and looked down. There between the door and myself was Jas, her ears flattened against her head, her eyes narrowed to slits and her fangs glistening. She had been hiding behind the toilet.
I stared at her, she stared back -unblinking. I took a step toward the door and she lunged at me, her teeth gnashing, her claws slashing. I jumped back. Jas lunged again. MAD CAT! I thought. It was a warm day and I was wearing shorts and no shoes. I was no match against the razor sharp claws and needle like teeth. I had no intention of ending up a bloody mess.
Jas lunged again and this time I hopped in the tub and shut the sliding door. I could her the vicious She-Devil, hissing and caterwauling. I was trapped. No one was home and the neighbor's house was too far away for them to hear me yelling. This 6 pound hairball had me cowering in the tub with no way out. Once in awhile, I'd slide the door open a crack. There she sat - staring at me with pure hatred. If I attempted to open the door any farther, she'd hiss and jump at me. Resigned to my fate, I made myself as comfortable as I could.
I'm not sure how long I was trapped in the tub, but finally, I heard my kids coming home from school.
"Help, Help." I yelled.
"Mom?"
"Open the bathroom door, carefully and try to get the cat out."
"Why?"
"Because..." I sighed, "because, she has me trapped in the bathtub."
I heard a lot of giggling and for a moment I thought that my kids might leave me stuck in the bathroom with this vicious cat guarding me. But then I heard the door open.
"She's out Mom. You can come out." I peeked out and didn't see or hear the cat.
"Where is she?"
"don't know...she just ran out." I quickly climbed out of the tub and was able to escape the confines of the bathtub.
As for Princess Jasmine Kitty-Cat, well as I write this she's sitting beside me, editting my writing to be sure. She wanted me to tell you that at 11 years of age, she's now called Queen Jaz or Your Highness and she still rules the house.
About 12 years ago, I fell in love with Persians. Their smushy faces are so expressive. I bought my first one at an flea market - sans fleas. His name was Oscar. The woman who sold him to me for $50 was teary-eyed as she handed him over. A giant white fluff ball, with orange tipped ears and tail and big blue eyes. She assured us that he was neutered and declawed. We were definitely thankful for the declawing, on the way home. We hadn't expected to buy an animal and so we were lacking the proper carrying case. Oscar spent the hour drive home hissing at us from under the seat and jumping at the back window.
By the time we got home, the kids had made friends with him and we took him in the house. Months went by and the kids went off to school and I went back to work. Poor Oscar was bored and lonely and a bored and lonely kitty is trouble! I would return home to find the house a mess, plants would be dug up, dishes knocked on the floor, rugs bunched up. Oscar needed a friend.
I started watching the classified ads for a friend for Oscar. I really wanted to get another Persian. One day, I found one and not just any Persian, but a flame-tip - just like Oscar.
The girls and I made an appointment to look at the new cat. I'm not sure what to say about this cat, except she was a diva to the max. She sat staring at us from a pillow, like we were far beneath her status. We talked to her owner and agreed to a price and Jasmine was placed in her carrier.
She hissed. She spit. She screamed all the way home. I took her in the bathroom - the smallest room in the house and opened the cage. I wanted her to feel safe while she acculmated to the sights and smells of her new home.
During the day, while we were all gone, she must have explored the house. I never found any messes in her cage or the bathroom and she was eating food from her little Princess Kitty-Cat bowl. But as soon as she heard us returning, she hid in her cage. When anyone tried to peek at her, she hissed and tried to claw us. I figured she'd eventually figure out that we weren't going to hurt her.
About five days of playing hide and seek with the cat, I came home before the kids. I don't think Jas heard me come home or she didn't care. Anyway, I went to use the bathroom and never thought twice about the cat, when I shut the door behind me. As I was washing my hands, I heard a hissing noise and looked down. There between the door and myself was Jas, her ears flattened against her head, her eyes narrowed to slits and her fangs glistening. She had been hiding behind the toilet.
I stared at her, she stared back -unblinking. I took a step toward the door and she lunged at me, her teeth gnashing, her claws slashing. I jumped back. Jas lunged again. MAD CAT! I thought. It was a warm day and I was wearing shorts and no shoes. I was no match against the razor sharp claws and needle like teeth. I had no intention of ending up a bloody mess.
Jas lunged again and this time I hopped in the tub and shut the sliding door. I could her the vicious She-Devil, hissing and caterwauling. I was trapped. No one was home and the neighbor's house was too far away for them to hear me yelling. This 6 pound hairball had me cowering in the tub with no way out. Once in awhile, I'd slide the door open a crack. There she sat - staring at me with pure hatred. If I attempted to open the door any farther, she'd hiss and jump at me. Resigned to my fate, I made myself as comfortable as I could.
I'm not sure how long I was trapped in the tub, but finally, I heard my kids coming home from school.
"Help, Help." I yelled.
"Mom?"
"Open the bathroom door, carefully and try to get the cat out."
"Why?"
"Because..." I sighed, "because, she has me trapped in the bathtub."
I heard a lot of giggling and for a moment I thought that my kids might leave me stuck in the bathroom with this vicious cat guarding me. But then I heard the door open.
"She's out Mom. You can come out." I peeked out and didn't see or hear the cat.
"Where is she?"
"don't know...she just ran out." I quickly climbed out of the tub and was able to escape the confines of the bathtub.
As for Princess Jasmine Kitty-Cat, well as I write this she's sitting beside me, editting my writing to be sure. She wanted me to tell you that at 11 years of age, she's now called Queen Jaz or Your Highness and she still rules the house.
Oklahoma City Bombing
At a little after 9am on April 19th a truck exploded outside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. When the dust settled, and the rescue efforts were finally stopped 168 people were dead including 19 children in the day-care center located in the building.
It was a normal April day for us. Katie was in first grade and left for school a little after 8am. Sarah was in afternoon kindergarten and wouldn't catch the bus until 12:30. Seth was only 3 at the time and was seeing a speech pathologist at U-M and that's where we were when the devestation began.
We had no idea what had happened halfway across the country that morning until, we were on our way home. For us, it was a nice spring day - perfect for an hour drive. We had the radio on and were singing along to silly songs.
By the time the 11am news rolled around - the media had grabbed the story and was speculating, we hadn't the whole story - just mentions of a breaking news story in Oklahoma between songs. Oklahoma was so far away, we didn't listen too closely, we heard there was an explosion in front of a building. Now, I wish I had listened closer.
When we got home, we turned on the TV to catch the latest news, never expecting to see the chaos, the destruction, the wounded so close-up. For the first time, the news media decided that we as a nation needed to see the gore, the blood, the anguish on the faces of all of those involved.
The first images that came into focus were of blood and injuries. My 5-year-old daughter stood transfixed in front of the TV. Then they started showing pictures of the dead babies. I shoo'd her away from the TV, but I couldn't stop watching. What kind of a monster blows up a day-care? What evilness kills babies while they lay sleeping in their cribs or playing with trucks? It was too late to save their lives and too late to save the innocence of my daughter.
I had hoped that sending her to school, she would be so occupied with her friends that she would forget what she had seen in those few moments. It took our nation weeks to begin to recover, but how does a young child recover from the horror that is beyond adult understanding?
It wasn't until months later that I realized that Sarah still thought about the images none of us seemed to be able to escape. Everything had become some sort of terror, something to be feared. We were traveling in Florida when we drove by a construction site in Daytona Beach. Sarah stared at the steel girders, the open spaces and she said "How many people died there mommy?" Even the new became a symbol of the evilness that invaded our country that April day in Oklahoma.
May we never forget those who lost their lives in Oklahoma.
It was a normal April day for us. Katie was in first grade and left for school a little after 8am. Sarah was in afternoon kindergarten and wouldn't catch the bus until 12:30. Seth was only 3 at the time and was seeing a speech pathologist at U-M and that's where we were when the devestation began.
We had no idea what had happened halfway across the country that morning until, we were on our way home. For us, it was a nice spring day - perfect for an hour drive. We had the radio on and were singing along to silly songs.
By the time the 11am news rolled around - the media had grabbed the story and was speculating, we hadn't the whole story - just mentions of a breaking news story in Oklahoma between songs. Oklahoma was so far away, we didn't listen too closely, we heard there was an explosion in front of a building. Now, I wish I had listened closer.
When we got home, we turned on the TV to catch the latest news, never expecting to see the chaos, the destruction, the wounded so close-up. For the first time, the news media decided that we as a nation needed to see the gore, the blood, the anguish on the faces of all of those involved.
The first images that came into focus were of blood and injuries. My 5-year-old daughter stood transfixed in front of the TV. Then they started showing pictures of the dead babies. I shoo'd her away from the TV, but I couldn't stop watching. What kind of a monster blows up a day-care? What evilness kills babies while they lay sleeping in their cribs or playing with trucks? It was too late to save their lives and too late to save the innocence of my daughter.
I had hoped that sending her to school, she would be so occupied with her friends that she would forget what she had seen in those few moments. It took our nation weeks to begin to recover, but how does a young child recover from the horror that is beyond adult understanding?
It wasn't until months later that I realized that Sarah still thought about the images none of us seemed to be able to escape. Everything had become some sort of terror, something to be feared. We were traveling in Florida when we drove by a construction site in Daytona Beach. Sarah stared at the steel girders, the open spaces and she said "How many people died there mommy?" Even the new became a symbol of the evilness that invaded our country that April day in Oklahoma.
May we never forget those who lost their lives in Oklahoma.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Herbert the Stinky Ghost?
Ghosts like me. They attach themselves to me. I'm not sure why - I bathe regularly so I don't smell like rotting flesh, but the perpetual lack of sleep does make me look like the undead.
When I was in college, my roommate and I had a corner room in the back of the dorm. Our lone window looked out on the back yard, our door opened into the hallway. If you turned right, you could go through the security door to the back foyer. There were steps leading to the upstairs where the boys lived or a door leading outside to the parking lot. If you turned left out of our room, you went through a long hallway, to the bathroom (communal)and the main part of the building.
Now the women who lived across the hall were an odd combination. Deb was ok. She was smart, hard-working, cute; but her roommate - she was just downright strange. Maybe she put a hex on us. Then there was the girl down the hall - Janet. She was a giant dork! My roommate loathed her. She would leave dead roses in front of Janet's door or flush the toilet when she was in the shower. Maybe Janet conjoured up a ghost to torment us. Who knows, but Herbert came to live with us one afternoon in the early part of 1985.
It was just starting to act like spring. The days were brighter, the snow was nearly gone, but there was still a chill in the air. I was a senior, my roommate Kel was a sophomore. Kel was a big girl - not fat - big and she scared me somewhat.
One afternoon, we both ended up in our room trying to do homework. I was trying to research a paper and Kel was reading. For once, we were both seated at our desks. Kel's faced the window and mine was at a right angle to hers a few feet away. The room was a bit stuffy. We had the door closed because of the noise of people coming and going. That's when the smell hit me.
At first, it was just a mild annoyance, like a tickle under my nose, like the first wisps of burning rubber or the first scent of dust burning on a light bulb. I rubbed my nose, but the smell grew stronger.
I glanced toward Kel but she was busy underlining her book. I sniffed in her direction, nothing. I turned back to my work and there was the smell. Next to my desk was a trash can and I glanced in there to see if maybe there was moldy food - but it was empty. Next to the trash can was a mini fridge - maybe we had spoiled milk in there so I opened it. Outside of two stale doughnuts and a can of juice, it was empty too.
Shrugging, I went back to my work. No sooner had I started when the smell returned- stronger this time. It was a sulphery smell. I glanced over at Kel, who was still apparently oblivous to the stench in our room. Well, as my daddy used to say, "A skunk never smells his own stink."
"Kel, did you fart?"
"What? NO!"
"Are you sure? Cuz it sure stinks in here."
"You're high." and with that she went back to reading.
The smell was getting too much for me. Maybe it was a dead mouse in the wall. I gathered up my books, preparing to go elsewhere, when I stood up, I noticed the smell went away. I sniffed myself - it wasn't me. I sat down, there was the smell again. I crawled under my desk.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for the source of this odor."
Kel got up and came over to my desk. "P.U., you're right it does stink over here. Sure ya didn't poop your pants?" Kel started opening the desk drawers but there wasn't anything in them that would cause this smell. If we moved away from the desk - we couldn't smell anything and finally, by moving around, we determined that the strange odor was contained in a 2 foot by 1 foot orb shape. At the moment, it had decided to hover above my chair. I left.
When I came back after class, the smell around my desk was gone. Kel was laying on the bottom bunk of our bed.
"the smell gone?"
"Yeah, I think so."
But it wasn't, over the next couple of months we learned that most of the time, the stinky orb lived in a corner near the ceiling. Ocassionally, it would drift down and "visit" us, usually when one of us had a guest. I know that it "stunk" Kel's boyfriend more than once. Just when they were getting "amorous" the smell would envelop both of them, killing the mood. We took to calling it Herbert. I mean what else do you do with a slightly annoying smelly orb besides name it and try to act friendly.
Once I went home for the weekend. When I returned I asked Kel if Herbert behaved and she said he had been missing all weekend. She hadn't been able to sniff him out. That's when we found out that Herbert couldn't go through walls or doors. See when I went home, I took a bunch of clothes out of my closet to take home and shut the door. Herbert, being the nosey orb that he was, had gotten locked in the closet and he was mad. When I opened the door, Herbert stunk me good. We had to open the window, the door and light candles to get him to calm down and get the smell to go away. But that wasn't the worst of it, Herbert was so mad that he slimed my stack of records I had on the top shelf. An amber color goo was all over the top record and the stuff was dripping down the sides. After that, we left all of the doors and drawers open just a little bit, just in case Herbert got locked inside.
A couple of months after Herbert made himself known, I moved out of the dorm. Kel stayed behind and ocassionally we'd run into each other. We never mentioned Herbert outside of our room so asking about him in public was taboo. So I don't know if Herbert stayed behind or left with me, but I never smelled the stench of Herbert again.
When I was in college, my roommate and I had a corner room in the back of the dorm. Our lone window looked out on the back yard, our door opened into the hallway. If you turned right, you could go through the security door to the back foyer. There were steps leading to the upstairs where the boys lived or a door leading outside to the parking lot. If you turned left out of our room, you went through a long hallway, to the bathroom (communal)and the main part of the building.
Now the women who lived across the hall were an odd combination. Deb was ok. She was smart, hard-working, cute; but her roommate - she was just downright strange. Maybe she put a hex on us. Then there was the girl down the hall - Janet. She was a giant dork! My roommate loathed her. She would leave dead roses in front of Janet's door or flush the toilet when she was in the shower. Maybe Janet conjoured up a ghost to torment us. Who knows, but Herbert came to live with us one afternoon in the early part of 1985.
It was just starting to act like spring. The days were brighter, the snow was nearly gone, but there was still a chill in the air. I was a senior, my roommate Kel was a sophomore. Kel was a big girl - not fat - big and she scared me somewhat.
One afternoon, we both ended up in our room trying to do homework. I was trying to research a paper and Kel was reading. For once, we were both seated at our desks. Kel's faced the window and mine was at a right angle to hers a few feet away. The room was a bit stuffy. We had the door closed because of the noise of people coming and going. That's when the smell hit me.
At first, it was just a mild annoyance, like a tickle under my nose, like the first wisps of burning rubber or the first scent of dust burning on a light bulb. I rubbed my nose, but the smell grew stronger.
I glanced toward Kel but she was busy underlining her book. I sniffed in her direction, nothing. I turned back to my work and there was the smell. Next to my desk was a trash can and I glanced in there to see if maybe there was moldy food - but it was empty. Next to the trash can was a mini fridge - maybe we had spoiled milk in there so I opened it. Outside of two stale doughnuts and a can of juice, it was empty too.
Shrugging, I went back to my work. No sooner had I started when the smell returned- stronger this time. It was a sulphery smell. I glanced over at Kel, who was still apparently oblivous to the stench in our room. Well, as my daddy used to say, "A skunk never smells his own stink."
"Kel, did you fart?"
"What? NO!"
"Are you sure? Cuz it sure stinks in here."
"You're high." and with that she went back to reading.
The smell was getting too much for me. Maybe it was a dead mouse in the wall. I gathered up my books, preparing to go elsewhere, when I stood up, I noticed the smell went away. I sniffed myself - it wasn't me. I sat down, there was the smell again. I crawled under my desk.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for the source of this odor."
Kel got up and came over to my desk. "P.U., you're right it does stink over here. Sure ya didn't poop your pants?" Kel started opening the desk drawers but there wasn't anything in them that would cause this smell. If we moved away from the desk - we couldn't smell anything and finally, by moving around, we determined that the strange odor was contained in a 2 foot by 1 foot orb shape. At the moment, it had decided to hover above my chair. I left.
When I came back after class, the smell around my desk was gone. Kel was laying on the bottom bunk of our bed.
"the smell gone?"
"Yeah, I think so."
But it wasn't, over the next couple of months we learned that most of the time, the stinky orb lived in a corner near the ceiling. Ocassionally, it would drift down and "visit" us, usually when one of us had a guest. I know that it "stunk" Kel's boyfriend more than once. Just when they were getting "amorous" the smell would envelop both of them, killing the mood. We took to calling it Herbert. I mean what else do you do with a slightly annoying smelly orb besides name it and try to act friendly.
Once I went home for the weekend. When I returned I asked Kel if Herbert behaved and she said he had been missing all weekend. She hadn't been able to sniff him out. That's when we found out that Herbert couldn't go through walls or doors. See when I went home, I took a bunch of clothes out of my closet to take home and shut the door. Herbert, being the nosey orb that he was, had gotten locked in the closet and he was mad. When I opened the door, Herbert stunk me good. We had to open the window, the door and light candles to get him to calm down and get the smell to go away. But that wasn't the worst of it, Herbert was so mad that he slimed my stack of records I had on the top shelf. An amber color goo was all over the top record and the stuff was dripping down the sides. After that, we left all of the doors and drawers open just a little bit, just in case Herbert got locked inside.
A couple of months after Herbert made himself known, I moved out of the dorm. Kel stayed behind and ocassionally we'd run into each other. We never mentioned Herbert outside of our room so asking about him in public was taboo. So I don't know if Herbert stayed behind or left with me, but I never smelled the stench of Herbert again.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Another topic
I've decided that I'm going to branch out a little. I'm going to include ghost stories and folk tales that I've heard. I'm hoping to compile 45 minutes worth of ghost stories for a storytelling performance this coming October.
So if you like the snippets of my life - look for posts entitled Misadventures; Ghost stories - will be labelled ghost - duh!
The other thing I'm doing is trying to put together genealogy for both myself and my husband - between the two of us we have some pretty strange family tales. Those are labelled genealogy.
Ocassionally, I'll throw some other stuff in those are labelled misc.
So if you like the snippets of my life - look for posts entitled Misadventures; Ghost stories - will be labelled ghost - duh!
The other thing I'm doing is trying to put together genealogy for both myself and my husband - between the two of us we have some pretty strange family tales. Those are labelled genealogy.
Ocassionally, I'll throw some other stuff in those are labelled misc.
Spot the Pregnant Pig
When I was growing up I was a proud member of the Raisin Slickers 4-H Club. My grandfather actually started it in the late 40s. Now, 30 years later, I was carrying on the family tradition. At the Lenawee County Fair, I exhibited my woodworking projects, my garden vegetables and rabbits. I won some blue ribbons, some red ribbons and my only white ribbon came in woodworking. Even as a 10-year-old I wasn't good with power tools.
The bunny barn was a small enclosed building at the fairgrounds. It was dark, dusty and there truly were dust bunnies. The rabbit dander, dust and urine caused me to develop a terrible allergy to the rabbits thus ending my illustrious rabbit breeding career before it barely got started.
My dad raised cattle - 200 head a year - and I assumed that when he decided I was old enough - I would take a steer to the fair. My father's friends had sons and they showed steers, leading them around the show barn arena, showing off their grooming and handling skills. I knew that if the boys could do it - I could do it - better.
The summer that I was 11, I had almost talked my dad into letting me have a steer to take to the fair the next summer. But Leon Jones ruined it for me. Leon was a little bit older and a lot bigger than me. He was already in high school. Leon was leading his steer around so it could get some exercise when it spooked. Leon tried to hold on and was dragged a bit before he let go of the lead line. The steer took off, running down the mid-way of the fairgrounds. That incident sealed my fate - NO STEER!
That incident happened in August and by February, I was still pestering my dad for a steer.
Every month we had a 4-H meeting. I'd only been in the club for a couple of years and was still considered one of the little kids. We didn't really take part in the meetings, we just sat there. True, most of the business meeting went over my head. Except at this meeting, I heard a word that grabbed my attention - RAFFLE. The meeting would conclude with a raffle.
"Dad, Dad - can I put my name in the raffle?"
My dad and the other dads were hanging out in the back of the room talking and not paying much attention to us kids.
"I don't care."
I raced back up front and put my name in the hat. Those who didn't enter the drawing were already putting on their coats and heading out. My dad and a couple of others were still in the back talking.
The club president reached into the hat and drew out a name. I held my breath - I didn't even know what the drawing was for, but I din't care.
"Tami Frye"
"YEAH! I won!" I raced to the back of the room. "Dad, I won, I won!"
One of the other men congratulated us.
And what did I win? I won...a...300 pound pregnant pig. Due date about a month. The goal of the raffle - raise the litter, show them at the fair and breed one of the piglets for next year's drawing. It was a year long learning experience! Hooray for me!
"Tell them to draw another name."
But the names of the others had been thrown away and almost everyone was gone. There wouldn't be a second drawing. We were told we could pick up the sow in the next few days.
It was a very long 5 miles home. My dad didn't say a word. He just gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
When we got home, I raced in the house. "MOMMMMMMM" I screamed. "Guess what? I won a pregnant pig. She's going to have babies and I'm gonna raise them and show them at the fair!"
My mother looked strickened. My father sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. I understand he sat there most of the night. Did I mention, we raised steers - NOT pigs. We weren't equipped to raise pigs.
But within a few days - Spot - that's what I named my pig - came home. She had a litter of piglets and that summer I showed - not a steer, but a pair of pigs. I took Reserved Grand Champion, but showing pigs at the fair is another story for another time.
Within a few years, the cattle were gone, the barns converted over and we were raising pigs. All because one night, I put my name in a raffle for a pregnant pig.
I could say there is a lesson to be learned, but winning a pregnant pig, raising piglets and showing them at the fair is something you just have to experience to appreciate.
What's that black stuff creeping up the wall?
I'm not a bad cook, actually, I consider myself a pretty good cook, but with anything that gets done a lot, there will be some mis-steps, some accidents; I'm not sure what category this falls under, but it definitely was a cooking boo-boo.
My husband was at work so it was just me for dinner. He isn't a fan of pizza, but I am so once in awhile when I know he won't be eating dinner with me, I'll pick up a frozen pizza for myself.
The directions said to pre-heat the oven to 425 - which I did. Remove the pizza from the packaging except for the cardboard baking sheet, and place in the oven 6 inches away from the bottom. I did precisely what it said. It was to bake for about 18 minutes.
I puttered around the kitchen for a few minutes, putting dishes in the dishwasher, and wiping down the counter. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and I still had 10 minutes before I could eat my cheese stuffed crust pizza with everything on it. The kitchen smelled a bit funny, but it had earlier when I made lunch. The oven had smoked a bit, but when I looked at it, I didn't see anything and figured that maybe some food had spilled and was burning off.
Well, I figured the smell was the rest of the food burning off and I headed to the living room and my laptop. I had 10 minutes to play around on Facebook. The couch where I was sitting was facing directly into the kitchen and I had a good view of the oven. As I pulled up my farm, I glanced into the kitchen. Hmmm, I never noticed that shadow on the wall behind the stove. I looked at the front of the oven, black streaks were shooting up the white front. Wow, I thought, I didn't realize I spilled anything down the front. I sat there pondering why my kitchen and especially my oven was so dirty when I noticed an orange glow coming from the back. BEEP BEEP BEEP! The fire alarm started screaming.
FIRE! My oven, my kitchen was on fire. But first I put my laptop carefully on the floor. I ran to the kitchen - now black streaks were creeping across the linoleum floor. FIRE! I glanced at my bread machine chugging away next to the oven. Crap - Kenny's bread will be ruined if I unplug this.
FIRE! Oh yeah, I better do something about the fire. I turned off the oven. I looked around - should I just run to the neighbor's house, call the fire department. I ran into the laundry room where the fire extinguisher was. Hmm, should I use it? I've never used one before and I've heard they really make a mess. Maybe I should just go to the neighbors.
FIRE! oh yeah, there's a fire in my kitchen and I live in a trailer - maybe I should do something. Grab stuff? What should I grab? My laptop? Pictures; Shoot I better find the cats.
FIRE FIRE FIRE! Oh yeah - better try to put it out. I grabbed a gallon jug of water. Where to pour the water, better not open up the oven -I saw "Backdraft". So I just poured the water over the stove hoping the water would run through the appliance and put out the fire. After I poured the water, I remembered that grease fires don't go out with water - what puts out a grease fire. Shoot, I should look that up.
By now, the soot was covering the back wall, the front of the oven, and 6 inches of floor. But the orange glow was gone. Carefully, I opened the oven. No fire. I opened the broiler, no fire.
I pulled out my pizza. It was dripping water, but the cheese was melted and it didn't appeared burnt. Shrugging, I put it on a cutting board, no use letting it go to waste.
There was soot everywhere, but I was hungry. The clean-up could wait. I cut the pizza- everything appeared ok, until I bit into it. My lovely pizza tasted like charcoal or at least what I assumed it tasted like. Sighing, I dumped the pizza in the trash. I looked at the blackness covering everything and decided since I couldn't eat I might as well clean.
It took me two days to clean up all of the soot - it was on the walls, the floor and oven. After the scrubbing - the house and the oven were better than new. And I haven't cooked a pizza since. And what caused the fire? I'm not really sure, there was a little grease in the broiler pan and a small piece of charred paper or maybe the oven just didn't like my cooking and thought it would be better incinerated.
My husband was at work so it was just me for dinner. He isn't a fan of pizza, but I am so once in awhile when I know he won't be eating dinner with me, I'll pick up a frozen pizza for myself.
The directions said to pre-heat the oven to 425 - which I did. Remove the pizza from the packaging except for the cardboard baking sheet, and place in the oven 6 inches away from the bottom. I did precisely what it said. It was to bake for about 18 minutes.
I puttered around the kitchen for a few minutes, putting dishes in the dishwasher, and wiping down the counter. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and I still had 10 minutes before I could eat my cheese stuffed crust pizza with everything on it. The kitchen smelled a bit funny, but it had earlier when I made lunch. The oven had smoked a bit, but when I looked at it, I didn't see anything and figured that maybe some food had spilled and was burning off.
Well, I figured the smell was the rest of the food burning off and I headed to the living room and my laptop. I had 10 minutes to play around on Facebook. The couch where I was sitting was facing directly into the kitchen and I had a good view of the oven. As I pulled up my farm, I glanced into the kitchen. Hmmm, I never noticed that shadow on the wall behind the stove. I looked at the front of the oven, black streaks were shooting up the white front. Wow, I thought, I didn't realize I spilled anything down the front. I sat there pondering why my kitchen and especially my oven was so dirty when I noticed an orange glow coming from the back. BEEP BEEP BEEP! The fire alarm started screaming.
FIRE! My oven, my kitchen was on fire. But first I put my laptop carefully on the floor. I ran to the kitchen - now black streaks were creeping across the linoleum floor. FIRE! I glanced at my bread machine chugging away next to the oven. Crap - Kenny's bread will be ruined if I unplug this.
FIRE! Oh yeah, I better do something about the fire. I turned off the oven. I looked around - should I just run to the neighbor's house, call the fire department. I ran into the laundry room where the fire extinguisher was. Hmm, should I use it? I've never used one before and I've heard they really make a mess. Maybe I should just go to the neighbors.
FIRE! oh yeah, there's a fire in my kitchen and I live in a trailer - maybe I should do something. Grab stuff? What should I grab? My laptop? Pictures; Shoot I better find the cats.
FIRE FIRE FIRE! Oh yeah - better try to put it out. I grabbed a gallon jug of water. Where to pour the water, better not open up the oven -I saw "Backdraft". So I just poured the water over the stove hoping the water would run through the appliance and put out the fire. After I poured the water, I remembered that grease fires don't go out with water - what puts out a grease fire. Shoot, I should look that up.
By now, the soot was covering the back wall, the front of the oven, and 6 inches of floor. But the orange glow was gone. Carefully, I opened the oven. No fire. I opened the broiler, no fire.
I pulled out my pizza. It was dripping water, but the cheese was melted and it didn't appeared burnt. Shrugging, I put it on a cutting board, no use letting it go to waste.
There was soot everywhere, but I was hungry. The clean-up could wait. I cut the pizza- everything appeared ok, until I bit into it. My lovely pizza tasted like charcoal or at least what I assumed it tasted like. Sighing, I dumped the pizza in the trash. I looked at the blackness covering everything and decided since I couldn't eat I might as well clean.
It took me two days to clean up all of the soot - it was on the walls, the floor and oven. After the scrubbing - the house and the oven were better than new. And I haven't cooked a pizza since. And what caused the fire? I'm not really sure, there was a little grease in the broiler pan and a small piece of charred paper or maybe the oven just didn't like my cooking and thought it would be better incinerated.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
will return by this weekend
Sorry everyone who has become a loyal reader - I had to 1) go back to work, spring break was over 2) finish a few projects 3) clean my house. On top of the daily grind, I've been battling a mild, but annoying health issue now for 3 months. So my energy level has been decreasing - saw a specialist on Monday, and will be having an ultra-sound done in the next week, with a follow-up in office procedure which will hopefully, allievate the problem.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Scared of the dark
Hi, my name is Tami and I'm afraid of the dark. I have to sleep with a night light on; I can't walk into a dark room and coming home to an empty house is awful. I sing walking up the steps. My singing will scare anybody.
A few years ago, I finally figured out the root of this phobia and no it's not because I'm a chicken, but because of a scary fall night when I was about 10.
My job apparently has always been to take out the garbage. This time though, it was night time and chilly. We were getting ready to go visit my cousins and mom was finishing up the dishes. She handed me a bowl and told me to run it out and dump it in the garden.
Not a problem, the garden wasn't far away and the light from the kitchen window would allow me to see until my eyes adjusted to the dark. I hurried out the door across the driveway, past my swingset and my playhouse, and now I was in the shadows. The light from the window didn't extend this far and our yard light was blocked by the pole barn. Ahead of me was blackness, but I knew the way. I kept going, but then..."pooofffff" I heard something. Not a snort, but a loud exhale. I slowed down. Ahead of me I saw something glowing. I could see two of them, no four...glowing circles about 4 feet off the ground. Poooooffffff. I stopped. I could see huge hulking black shadows.
I didn't stop for long! I screamed, (I do that well and often)drop the bowl of garbage and fled back to the safety of the house. Well, I was 10 now so I should be a bit braver, so when I got close to the house I stopped and turned back. I squinted against the darkness.
There was something out there. Something big and black with glowing circles. Well, of course everyone heard me scream and came running from the house. I tried to explain that there were glowing, floating circles in the garden. My dad was carrying his heavy duty flashlight and started search the area.
I'm sure that no one believed me at first, but then dad came running back to the house. He ran right to the telephone and called the neighbor.
Yep those four glowing circles were eyes. The neighbor's steers had gotten out earlier in the day and were out running around the area and I had just scared them off. It took a few days but eventually they were rounded up. As for me, whenever I hear something go pooooooofffff in the night, I don't stick around, I don't want to run into any big scary steers who are out for a midnight stroll.
A few years ago, I finally figured out the root of this phobia and no it's not because I'm a chicken, but because of a scary fall night when I was about 10.
My job apparently has always been to take out the garbage. This time though, it was night time and chilly. We were getting ready to go visit my cousins and mom was finishing up the dishes. She handed me a bowl and told me to run it out and dump it in the garden.
Not a problem, the garden wasn't far away and the light from the kitchen window would allow me to see until my eyes adjusted to the dark. I hurried out the door across the driveway, past my swingset and my playhouse, and now I was in the shadows. The light from the window didn't extend this far and our yard light was blocked by the pole barn. Ahead of me was blackness, but I knew the way. I kept going, but then..."pooofffff" I heard something. Not a snort, but a loud exhale. I slowed down. Ahead of me I saw something glowing. I could see two of them, no four...glowing circles about 4 feet off the ground. Poooooffffff. I stopped. I could see huge hulking black shadows.
I didn't stop for long! I screamed, (I do that well and often)drop the bowl of garbage and fled back to the safety of the house. Well, I was 10 now so I should be a bit braver, so when I got close to the house I stopped and turned back. I squinted against the darkness.
There was something out there. Something big and black with glowing circles. Well, of course everyone heard me scream and came running from the house. I tried to explain that there were glowing, floating circles in the garden. My dad was carrying his heavy duty flashlight and started search the area.
I'm sure that no one believed me at first, but then dad came running back to the house. He ran right to the telephone and called the neighbor.
Yep those four glowing circles were eyes. The neighbor's steers had gotten out earlier in the day and were out running around the area and I had just scared them off. It took a few days but eventually they were rounded up. As for me, whenever I hear something go pooooooofffff in the night, I don't stick around, I don't want to run into any big scary steers who are out for a midnight stroll.
Housework can be dangerous to your health
I don't want to say I'm clumsy, but looking over my list of ideas for these stories, it seems that many of them involve me injuring myself. And this one is no different.
Unexpectedly, I lost my full-time job in 2004. No one saw it coming and I packed up my office which took me all afternoon because I lived at my office. When I "moved" home, I had no place to put my stuff and with lots of time on my hands, I decided to do some serious spring cleaning.
I decided to start in my bedroom. As I began digging out, I made stacks and piles to be moved to other places. I have a bad habit of tossing books on the floor when I finish reading them. So as I worked my way alongside my bed I piled the books behind me. As I finished up on that side of the bed, I began backing up, big mistake! I didn't see the pile of books behind me, tripped over them, sending them flying in every direction, but even worse I went flying too, like a turkey with a broken wing. I reeled into the side of my bed - a waterbed with wooden sideboards. Oomph! I hit the board with my ribs. But like a crazy ball, I kept bouncing, ricocheting off anything in my path; next a banged into a small cabinet bruising my shins and knocking it over, of course it had been covered in knick-knacks and they too went airborn. The noise was deafening, argh, wham, crash, oomph, bang. As I attempted to stop my fall -I stuck out my hand but crushed my fingers between myself and the wall. Snap, ow!
I ended in a lump on the floor. My children came running and stood over me staring as I lay on the floor assessing the damage. It hurt to breathe, my pinkie finger was quickly swelling and my shins hurt. Plus, I was going to have to pick up all of my stuff again. Once my kids saw that I was still alive, they hightailed it out of there before they were roped into helping me clean up.
You'd think I'd learned my lesson that day, but no. The next day I decided to tackle the big bookcases in my living. I had four of them along one wall. I had never cleaned behind them in 5 years and I had never taken all of the books down and dusted. I usually just ran a cloth over and in front of the books.
A side note - I had three white Persian cats and a lab mix dog which makes for a lot of hair. Plus we lived near some type of steel foundry that leaves a fine coat of dust on everything. Not a good combination for someone with allergies as I do.
I gathered my dusting supplies and started pulling books off the first bookcase. I was doing well until I got to the second one. My eyes were starting to water and my nose was stuffy. I kept going, it was just allergies, a little dust wasn't going to kill me.
By the third bookcase, my cats had decided to help me and were crawling on me, the books and the shelves. I was working on the lower shelves and was sitting on the floor. I was moving slower than normal because of the injuries I suffered the day before, otherwise I might have already been done and my exposure to the allergens, limited, but two hours later I was still working. My eyes were now starting to swell shut, tears streaming down my dust-coated face. I was breathing out of my mouth and...oh no...I felt the first sneeze building.
Achoo! Argh. I sneezed and my ribs ached. Not another one, I tried to stifle the sneeze to no avail. Snot was flying; I couldn't see and grabbed my dust cloth to wipe my nose. I got a lungful of Pledge fumes and dust. This set off more sneezing and I promptly peed my pants. Crap! I struggled to my feet and staggered toward the bathroom. ACHOO! As I walked through the doorway, I sneezed again, an expecially strong one this time and slammed my head into the door jam - face first. The edge creasing my forehead.
I made it to the bathroom and got cleaned up. I was a bit concerned, I didn't have a bump, but a dent in my forehead. But I didn't think too much about it because it didn't really hurt and I got ready for my night class.
Things were as good as could be with bruised ribs, a sprained finger and a crease running from my eyebrow to my hair line. Then I stood up in front of my class. The back row was fuzzy, I swayed a little and grasp the podium.
"Professor?" I heard one of my students call my name as I quickly sat down. A call to one of the nursing instructors down the hall, confirmed I had probably given myself a concussion and I should go home preferably to a padded rubber room.
Unexpectedly, I lost my full-time job in 2004. No one saw it coming and I packed up my office which took me all afternoon because I lived at my office. When I "moved" home, I had no place to put my stuff and with lots of time on my hands, I decided to do some serious spring cleaning.
I decided to start in my bedroom. As I began digging out, I made stacks and piles to be moved to other places. I have a bad habit of tossing books on the floor when I finish reading them. So as I worked my way alongside my bed I piled the books behind me. As I finished up on that side of the bed, I began backing up, big mistake! I didn't see the pile of books behind me, tripped over them, sending them flying in every direction, but even worse I went flying too, like a turkey with a broken wing. I reeled into the side of my bed - a waterbed with wooden sideboards. Oomph! I hit the board with my ribs. But like a crazy ball, I kept bouncing, ricocheting off anything in my path; next a banged into a small cabinet bruising my shins and knocking it over, of course it had been covered in knick-knacks and they too went airborn. The noise was deafening, argh, wham, crash, oomph, bang. As I attempted to stop my fall -I stuck out my hand but crushed my fingers between myself and the wall. Snap, ow!
I ended in a lump on the floor. My children came running and stood over me staring as I lay on the floor assessing the damage. It hurt to breathe, my pinkie finger was quickly swelling and my shins hurt. Plus, I was going to have to pick up all of my stuff again. Once my kids saw that I was still alive, they hightailed it out of there before they were roped into helping me clean up.
You'd think I'd learned my lesson that day, but no. The next day I decided to tackle the big bookcases in my living. I had four of them along one wall. I had never cleaned behind them in 5 years and I had never taken all of the books down and dusted. I usually just ran a cloth over and in front of the books.
A side note - I had three white Persian cats and a lab mix dog which makes for a lot of hair. Plus we lived near some type of steel foundry that leaves a fine coat of dust on everything. Not a good combination for someone with allergies as I do.
I gathered my dusting supplies and started pulling books off the first bookcase. I was doing well until I got to the second one. My eyes were starting to water and my nose was stuffy. I kept going, it was just allergies, a little dust wasn't going to kill me.
By the third bookcase, my cats had decided to help me and were crawling on me, the books and the shelves. I was working on the lower shelves and was sitting on the floor. I was moving slower than normal because of the injuries I suffered the day before, otherwise I might have already been done and my exposure to the allergens, limited, but two hours later I was still working. My eyes were now starting to swell shut, tears streaming down my dust-coated face. I was breathing out of my mouth and...oh no...I felt the first sneeze building.
Achoo! Argh. I sneezed and my ribs ached. Not another one, I tried to stifle the sneeze to no avail. Snot was flying; I couldn't see and grabbed my dust cloth to wipe my nose. I got a lungful of Pledge fumes and dust. This set off more sneezing and I promptly peed my pants. Crap! I struggled to my feet and staggered toward the bathroom. ACHOO! As I walked through the doorway, I sneezed again, an expecially strong one this time and slammed my head into the door jam - face first. The edge creasing my forehead.
I made it to the bathroom and got cleaned up. I was a bit concerned, I didn't have a bump, but a dent in my forehead. But I didn't think too much about it because it didn't really hurt and I got ready for my night class.
Things were as good as could be with bruised ribs, a sprained finger and a crease running from my eyebrow to my hair line. Then I stood up in front of my class. The back row was fuzzy, I swayed a little and grasp the podium.
"Professor?" I heard one of my students call my name as I quickly sat down. A call to one of the nursing instructors down the hall, confirmed I had probably given myself a concussion and I should go home preferably to a padded rubber room.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Snakes Alive!
I don't like snakes! That's an understatement. Last summer, I saw one in my backyard, ran in the house, called my son at his dad's house, called my husband at work and insisted that one of them come home and kill it! Right now! It took me three more days to go in the backyard again and then only if I was armed - I had a hoe and a baseball bat. Worse still I saw it slither - that's just a creepy word - slither - under the house.
I have a snake phobia! Sometimes, when I'm driving at night, I have to turn on the interior lights because I'm convinced there is a snake slithering around on the floor and it will crawl up my legs. It's very hard to drive with your feet tucked up under you, but if you floor it and then coast for a ways you can. I figure I'm safe for a few seconds at a time.
Plus there's that whole porta potty thing. I won't use them unless I can peer down into that stinky hole and make sure 1) there are no ledges near the seat where a snake might be lurking and 2) the poop isn't high enough that a snake could leap off it and bite me in the butt.
I am the only person to ever, EV-ER, be bitten in Mr. P's biology class by a garter snake. And it wasn't really a bite I was told more of a taste, a nibble. I'm sorry, that slithery thing twisted around and grabbed hold of the skin between my middle and ring fingers, I screamed and jerked my hand, flinging the snake into the air. I wanted to vomit.
Why this horrible, irrational fear? Because one day, when I was just a little girl of about 6 years of age. I stepped on a snake.
It was summertime and my dad had put up a swingset for me and my sister under the big Maple tree in our backyard. It had a slide, and a glider and two swings. Next to the set was a tire tractor sandbox. We didn't play in the sandbox very often because the cats pooped in it all of the time.
It was a warm day and I rarely wore shoes and this day was no exception. I raced across the driveway to the yard, eager to play on the swings. But before I made it, I felt something wriggling between my toes. I looked down and there was a huge, mammoth, cobra - ok it was a little, common garter snake - sliding between my toes!
I shrieked. Jumped straight up in the air and didn't touch the ground again until I was safely in the house. I kept shrieking like I was dying or at least seriously injured. My mother came racing from the bathroom.
What's wrong?
I was hysterical. My mother grabbed me "Calm down." More shrieking. Finally she shook me and nearly slapped me to get me to breathe. "what's wrong?" By now she was dragging me to the door because apparently I'd encountered something traumatic. The shrieking began again. I was not going back out there again.
Of course, in the end, I finally explained that a snake wriggled between my toes and now it was out to get me. My mom laughed. Later my dad went out and looked around the tree and saw a hole at the base. He assured me that there was no way a snake was going to stick around and run the risk of a giant stepping on it again so it moved away. I believed him, because I never saw another snake in that yard again.
I have a snake phobia! Sometimes, when I'm driving at night, I have to turn on the interior lights because I'm convinced there is a snake slithering around on the floor and it will crawl up my legs. It's very hard to drive with your feet tucked up under you, but if you floor it and then coast for a ways you can. I figure I'm safe for a few seconds at a time.
Plus there's that whole porta potty thing. I won't use them unless I can peer down into that stinky hole and make sure 1) there are no ledges near the seat where a snake might be lurking and 2) the poop isn't high enough that a snake could leap off it and bite me in the butt.
I am the only person to ever, EV-ER, be bitten in Mr. P's biology class by a garter snake. And it wasn't really a bite I was told more of a taste, a nibble. I'm sorry, that slithery thing twisted around and grabbed hold of the skin between my middle and ring fingers, I screamed and jerked my hand, flinging the snake into the air. I wanted to vomit.
Why this horrible, irrational fear? Because one day, when I was just a little girl of about 6 years of age. I stepped on a snake.
It was summertime and my dad had put up a swingset for me and my sister under the big Maple tree in our backyard. It had a slide, and a glider and two swings. Next to the set was a tire tractor sandbox. We didn't play in the sandbox very often because the cats pooped in it all of the time.
It was a warm day and I rarely wore shoes and this day was no exception. I raced across the driveway to the yard, eager to play on the swings. But before I made it, I felt something wriggling between my toes. I looked down and there was a huge, mammoth, cobra - ok it was a little, common garter snake - sliding between my toes!
I shrieked. Jumped straight up in the air and didn't touch the ground again until I was safely in the house. I kept shrieking like I was dying or at least seriously injured. My mother came racing from the bathroom.
What's wrong?
I was hysterical. My mother grabbed me "Calm down." More shrieking. Finally she shook me and nearly slapped me to get me to breathe. "what's wrong?" By now she was dragging me to the door because apparently I'd encountered something traumatic. The shrieking began again. I was not going back out there again.
Of course, in the end, I finally explained that a snake wriggled between my toes and now it was out to get me. My mom laughed. Later my dad went out and looked around the tree and saw a hole at the base. He assured me that there was no way a snake was going to stick around and run the risk of a giant stepping on it again so it moved away. I believed him, because I never saw another snake in that yard again.
Dad in a tutu!
Vaudeville is dead, which is sad. Basically, it was an 8 act performance with singing sisters, dancing brothers, a comedien, and a skit, much like the Donnie and Marie Show or Hee Haw. Good clean family variety entertainment. Unfortunately, my dad never got that memo.
My grandparents wintered in Florida and we would visit them over Christmas break. A couple of times we flew, but usually we drove. Usually, my cousins would already be there because their other grandparents lived there all the time.
I'm not really sure who's idea it was to exploit the talents or lack there of us but someone did in the form of let's do a show! So we would find ourselves at one senior center or another entertaining.
My mother would sing songs like "A bicycle built of two" or "Yabba Dabba Honeymoon". She had a beautiful soprano voice and was an accomplished pianist. My younger sister, also sang and played the violin. Me - well, I don't sing so well and transposing music on the fly for my clarinet was never my strong suit - so I got to be the comic relief. Well, I was suppose to be the funny one.
I got to put on clown makeup and do silly skits like "Sucker on the Line" or "Is it time". Once in awhile, I might put on my tap shoes and dance, but by then I was in high school and that wasn't so cute.
My dad was a frustrated performer. Secretly, I think he wanted to be a star, but he didn't sing or play an instrument. No he did something far better than that - he scarred his daughters for life.
No, my father did parody ballet dances. At the time the instrumental song "Music Box Dancer" was popular. My mom would start playing the first few notes - dadadadada...and my dad would appear from behind the bedsheet curtain we had up on the back of the stage. He would be wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, bermuda shorts, white knee socks and tennis shoes and a tutu! He had all of the grace of a swan....with a broken leg, which he played to the hilt.
My sister and I, were in junior high when this first began, and it continued while we were in high school. Watching my father try to do a piruette and twirl was bad enough in front of strangers, but he also performed this routine at church talent shows. He would ocassionally add a new performance to his repertoire. I remember that he and my sister sang and danced to "A bicycle built for two". I, on the other hand was hiding, hoping that no one realized that I was with them.
I was a sophomore in high school before the vaudeville days were over, but maybe, just maybe I can convince Dad to take one more spin across the stage just so his grandkids can say...I remember when Grandpa danced in a tutu.
My grandparents wintered in Florida and we would visit them over Christmas break. A couple of times we flew, but usually we drove. Usually, my cousins would already be there because their other grandparents lived there all the time.
I'm not really sure who's idea it was to exploit the talents or lack there of us but someone did in the form of let's do a show! So we would find ourselves at one senior center or another entertaining.
My mother would sing songs like "A bicycle built of two" or "Yabba Dabba Honeymoon". She had a beautiful soprano voice and was an accomplished pianist. My younger sister, also sang and played the violin. Me - well, I don't sing so well and transposing music on the fly for my clarinet was never my strong suit - so I got to be the comic relief. Well, I was suppose to be the funny one.
I got to put on clown makeup and do silly skits like "Sucker on the Line" or "Is it time". Once in awhile, I might put on my tap shoes and dance, but by then I was in high school and that wasn't so cute.
My dad was a frustrated performer. Secretly, I think he wanted to be a star, but he didn't sing or play an instrument. No he did something far better than that - he scarred his daughters for life.
No, my father did parody ballet dances. At the time the instrumental song "Music Box Dancer" was popular. My mom would start playing the first few notes - dadadadada...and my dad would appear from behind the bedsheet curtain we had up on the back of the stage. He would be wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, bermuda shorts, white knee socks and tennis shoes and a tutu! He had all of the grace of a swan....with a broken leg, which he played to the hilt.
My sister and I, were in junior high when this first began, and it continued while we were in high school. Watching my father try to do a piruette and twirl was bad enough in front of strangers, but he also performed this routine at church talent shows. He would ocassionally add a new performance to his repertoire. I remember that he and my sister sang and danced to "A bicycle built for two". I, on the other hand was hiding, hoping that no one realized that I was with them.
I was a sophomore in high school before the vaudeville days were over, but maybe, just maybe I can convince Dad to take one more spin across the stage just so his grandkids can say...I remember when Grandpa danced in a tutu.
Spontaneous Combustion
It was one of the first warm days of spring and I was heading toward home, my window down, hair blowing in the breeze. The sun was shining and I didn't have a care in the world.
I was within a few blocks of home when I pulled up to the stop light. I was in the far right lane. In the left lane was one of those "I don't have enough testosterone in my own system so I'm compensating" trucks. You know the type, jacked up, big tires, diesal so you can notice them coming, if the flames on the hood didn't attract your attention. Of course, sitting in the truck were two men, sleeveless, t-shirt wearing men. My poor little car barely came up to the middle of the door.
I couldn't see the driver, but his buddy was smoking a cigarette, his arm hanging out the window. He was talking with his hands gesturing every now and then.
Well, the light turned green and off I went, toodling along. Of course, Mr. I have a really big truck didn't toodle - he roared off down the street leaving me in the dust. I hadn't driven more than a block when I smelled burning rubber, like a hose or a belt was getting hot. I didn't need car repairs, but even more, I didn't want to get stranded on this busy street. I moved into the left lane so that I could make a left-hand turn in another block.
But now, I had another problem, it felt like I was being stung on the top of my head. Just two days earlier, I had a bee fly in my window and land on my steering wheel. I shook my head trying to get the bee to stop. It didn't work. So I flicked my hand through my hair, hoping to get it to fly away without having it sting my hand.
It didn't work! Now, the bee had multiplied. I was getting attacked by several. I could feel at least 4 or 5 places where this bee or bees were at. I had no choice I had to swat them. Now mind you, I'm still driving down a busy 5 lane street.
I reached up and smacked myself on top of the head with the flat of my hand. I hit myself once, twice...arghhhhhhhhh! What's this? I had a handful of hair. My hair was falling out. My car was on fire...no my head was on fire. MY HEAD WAS ON FIRE?????
I began smacking myself with my left hand as I steered with my right trying to get home. I'm sure people were pointing and staring as that crazy woman drove down the street with smoke pouring from her head. I quickly turned on to a side street and drove as fast as I dared because no matter that my head was combusting, I did NOT want a ticket. Besides, how do you explain that you were speeding because your head was spontaneously combusting. No one is going to believe you. And if I was going up in flames, my body charred beyond recognition, I at least wanted to be in my own driveway.
Guess what? I made it home and by then, the flames were out. The fire wasn't caused by my overwhelming intelligence, my mega-watt personality. Nope, I realized that when that truck roared past me, the red-hot ash from the man's cigarette must have blown into my car, landing on my head where it ignited my hair.
The end result, I had 4 or 5 places where my beautician had to cut out the charred spots and I had a couple of blisters but thankfully nothing more serious, but now, I drive with the windows closed.
I was within a few blocks of home when I pulled up to the stop light. I was in the far right lane. In the left lane was one of those "I don't have enough testosterone in my own system so I'm compensating" trucks. You know the type, jacked up, big tires, diesal so you can notice them coming, if the flames on the hood didn't attract your attention. Of course, sitting in the truck were two men, sleeveless, t-shirt wearing men. My poor little car barely came up to the middle of the door.
I couldn't see the driver, but his buddy was smoking a cigarette, his arm hanging out the window. He was talking with his hands gesturing every now and then.
Well, the light turned green and off I went, toodling along. Of course, Mr. I have a really big truck didn't toodle - he roared off down the street leaving me in the dust. I hadn't driven more than a block when I smelled burning rubber, like a hose or a belt was getting hot. I didn't need car repairs, but even more, I didn't want to get stranded on this busy street. I moved into the left lane so that I could make a left-hand turn in another block.
But now, I had another problem, it felt like I was being stung on the top of my head. Just two days earlier, I had a bee fly in my window and land on my steering wheel. I shook my head trying to get the bee to stop. It didn't work. So I flicked my hand through my hair, hoping to get it to fly away without having it sting my hand.
It didn't work! Now, the bee had multiplied. I was getting attacked by several. I could feel at least 4 or 5 places where this bee or bees were at. I had no choice I had to swat them. Now mind you, I'm still driving down a busy 5 lane street.
I reached up and smacked myself on top of the head with the flat of my hand. I hit myself once, twice...arghhhhhhhhh! What's this? I had a handful of hair. My hair was falling out. My car was on fire...no my head was on fire. MY HEAD WAS ON FIRE?????
I began smacking myself with my left hand as I steered with my right trying to get home. I'm sure people were pointing and staring as that crazy woman drove down the street with smoke pouring from her head. I quickly turned on to a side street and drove as fast as I dared because no matter that my head was combusting, I did NOT want a ticket. Besides, how do you explain that you were speeding because your head was spontaneously combusting. No one is going to believe you. And if I was going up in flames, my body charred beyond recognition, I at least wanted to be in my own driveway.
Guess what? I made it home and by then, the flames were out. The fire wasn't caused by my overwhelming intelligence, my mega-watt personality. Nope, I realized that when that truck roared past me, the red-hot ash from the man's cigarette must have blown into my car, landing on my head where it ignited my hair.
The end result, I had 4 or 5 places where my beautician had to cut out the charred spots and I had a couple of blisters but thankfully nothing more serious, but now, I drive with the windows closed.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
splish splash taking a toilet bath
Most parents have their fair share of kid stories and so do I, but let me remind you, my children aren't normal - they weren't born to a normal mother, they weren't raised in a normal environment and so I didn't expect anything other than slightly bizzare behavior from them.
Potty training can be challenging, even with the most cooperative child and the most patient parent. My middle child wasn't cooperative and I'm not patient so potty training was destined to be a miserable chore.
My eldest is easy going and it took awhile but potty training was accomplished. Unfortunately for me, Katie's younger sister Sarah had been watching to proceedings with care. There is only 16 months between the two and I had read not to push the potty training so Katie was about 26 months and Sarah was nearing her first birthday. There is a lesson here - never underestimate the drive of a second child trying to catch-up.
One day, a few months later, when Sarah was about 14 months old she toddled out of her bedroom, pulled off her diaper and threw it into the living room. "I do it myself!" and then she went and got a new diaper and attempted to put it on herself.
Well, if that's how she's going to be, I figured she was ready for potty training. For two days I put her on her little potty chair and she'd scream. I'd beg. I'd plead - just a little in the potty. She just gritted her teeth and refused. So, I'd let her play and the next thing I knew she was throwing her diaper at me. "I do it myself!" and she'd scamper off to get a new diaper. This went on for a couple of days, but honestly, I was getting really annoyed. I'd be watching TV when a soggy diaper would land on my lap. I'd be playing on the computer and whack - I'd get nailed in the back. I found diapers everywhere. It was a game. I'd beg and she'd throw diapers. And her mantra - "I do it myself" every time.
Fine, if she wants to do it herself, she can, I thought as I picked up yet another diaper. This time I hadn't seen it and stepped on it, barefooted. I didn't have the strength to fight any more and everything was starting to smell like old diapers.
I wasn't going to push the issue, but maybe I should've supervised her a bit more closely. I was home that afternoon, surfing the internet when things got very quiet. Every parent knows that quiet...the too quiet, quiet; the "uh oh" quiet. I listened intently to see if I could discern where the girls were. I heard nothing, but Barney on the TV. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle, my ears fine tuned for the tiniest sound, I sniffed the air - danger was near. Something was very very wrong...and then...I heard it - "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" followed by blood-curdling screams coming from the bathroom; I raced to the bathroom - all sorts of thoughts flying through my head at lightening speed - Sarah had got soap in her eyes, she poked my mascara in her eye, she had the comb tangled in her hair, what could it be? I should've been watching her better. I'm a terrible mother. She's maimed for life.
And then I saw her, my little blonde baby was completely naked on the big potty, folded in half, with her butt hanging in the toilet - stuck. I couldn't help it, but I laughed. Her little legs were pumping the air as she pushed and wiggled to free herself, but she was really, truly stuck in the toilet. And she was mad!
When she saw me laughing she glared at me, her blue eyes blazing, her little voice as full as indignity as an 14 month old could must and she said - "I did it myself!"
It took a little doing but I wiggled her free and that was the end of potty training - because - she did it herself!
Potty training can be challenging, even with the most cooperative child and the most patient parent. My middle child wasn't cooperative and I'm not patient so potty training was destined to be a miserable chore.
My eldest is easy going and it took awhile but potty training was accomplished. Unfortunately for me, Katie's younger sister Sarah had been watching to proceedings with care. There is only 16 months between the two and I had read not to push the potty training so Katie was about 26 months and Sarah was nearing her first birthday. There is a lesson here - never underestimate the drive of a second child trying to catch-up.
One day, a few months later, when Sarah was about 14 months old she toddled out of her bedroom, pulled off her diaper and threw it into the living room. "I do it myself!" and then she went and got a new diaper and attempted to put it on herself.
Well, if that's how she's going to be, I figured she was ready for potty training. For two days I put her on her little potty chair and she'd scream. I'd beg. I'd plead - just a little in the potty. She just gritted her teeth and refused. So, I'd let her play and the next thing I knew she was throwing her diaper at me. "I do it myself!" and she'd scamper off to get a new diaper. This went on for a couple of days, but honestly, I was getting really annoyed. I'd be watching TV when a soggy diaper would land on my lap. I'd be playing on the computer and whack - I'd get nailed in the back. I found diapers everywhere. It was a game. I'd beg and she'd throw diapers. And her mantra - "I do it myself" every time.
Fine, if she wants to do it herself, she can, I thought as I picked up yet another diaper. This time I hadn't seen it and stepped on it, barefooted. I didn't have the strength to fight any more and everything was starting to smell like old diapers.
I wasn't going to push the issue, but maybe I should've supervised her a bit more closely. I was home that afternoon, surfing the internet when things got very quiet. Every parent knows that quiet...the too quiet, quiet; the "uh oh" quiet. I listened intently to see if I could discern where the girls were. I heard nothing, but Barney on the TV. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle, my ears fine tuned for the tiniest sound, I sniffed the air - danger was near. Something was very very wrong...and then...I heard it - "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" followed by blood-curdling screams coming from the bathroom; I raced to the bathroom - all sorts of thoughts flying through my head at lightening speed - Sarah had got soap in her eyes, she poked my mascara in her eye, she had the comb tangled in her hair, what could it be? I should've been watching her better. I'm a terrible mother. She's maimed for life.
And then I saw her, my little blonde baby was completely naked on the big potty, folded in half, with her butt hanging in the toilet - stuck. I couldn't help it, but I laughed. Her little legs were pumping the air as she pushed and wiggled to free herself, but she was really, truly stuck in the toilet. And she was mad!
When she saw me laughing she glared at me, her blue eyes blazing, her little voice as full as indignity as an 14 month old could must and she said - "I did it myself!"
It took a little doing but I wiggled her free and that was the end of potty training - because - she did it herself!
First attempt at being a housewife or the day I nearly killed my husband
From the time I was little, I knew I'd be anything but a housewife. For a year in junior high I was going to be a neuro-surgeon and learned all of the bones in the body, but I really didn't like dissecting things. Then I was going to be a camera operator - but I'd rather be in front than behind the camera; my favorite career choice - NFL Football coach! I thought it would be great to order around a bunch of really big guys and no woman had ever done that before. Along the way, I wanted to be a writer, a reporter, an actress, but never a housewife.
But then I got married and had a daughter. Things changed. We lived in a small townhouse and well, there were chores to do. Housework! I could clean, since I had gotten pregnant the first time, it was better if I didn't inhale too many chemicals so my job was going to be fixing meals.
Breakfast was a piece of cake - we didn't eat it, and my daughter was eating baby food. Lunch was usually sandwiches and Dinner was whatever we brought home from work. At the time, my husband and I were both working at a restaurant.
But then came the day that we both had a couple of days off together. Oh crap! I was going to have to cook something. I wracked my brain. My grandmother was a great cook, and I had her recipe box. My mother never used a recipe so cooking from scratch couldn't be that hard.
The first question was what to cook. I wanted to make something we couldn't get at work so burgers and chicken was out. And it should be nutrious - protein, vegetables. It was shortly after Christmas and it was cold outside so whatever I made it should be hot and hearty.
I remember my mom making pasties. For those of you who never went to Northern Michigan, a pasties is a meat and vegetable stew in a pastry crust. It was the perfect solution.
I stopped by the store and picked up some stew meat, a few potatoes, onions and carrots. I skipped the rutabagas because they're gross. I put the stew meat in a crockpot and turned it on. Next I chopped the vegetables, made the crust and was read to put them together.
Basically, I put some beef and vegetables on one half of the crust and folded it over, sealed it and tossed it in the oven. After about 15 minutes, I checked, the crust wasn't even brown yet. I waited another 15 minutes and the crust was golden so I figured another 15 minutes and they should be done. I'd present my husband with a nutrious, hot, home-made meal. I was beaming when I served him his pasty.
We began eating and I noticed he was drinking lots of milk. I noticed, the pasties didn't quite smell like my mom's, but then I used different vegetables. I kept eating. The taste...there was something a bit odd. Maybe it was the onions or maybe I used the wrong seasoning. I noticed my husband had stopped eating and was watching TV. It wasn't so unusual for him. I asked him if he wanted more and he assured me he was ok.
Even though the taste was slightly off, I ate a few more bites and discreetly dumped mine in the trash. So much for that idea. I had made a cake for dessert and told my husband that he could have a piece when he finished his dinner.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard my husband groan and roll out of bed. He staggered to the bathroom where I heard him vomiting. I was too tired to be concerned and there were some stomach viruses going around. So I rolled over and went back to sleep. My sleep deep last long. It was a good thing we had two bathrooms because we were both violently ill.
My husband dragged himself to the couch and looked positively green. I tried to continue to be the good wife and got him a glass of water. I made him toast and for lunch, I warmed up his left-over pasty. He took one look at it and threw up again.
Two days of gastro-intenstinal distress finally sent us to the ER. You guessed it - I had served us up a big plate of salmonella. Yummy! I've never made a pasty since and my husband - well for the remainder of our lives together 20 more years he didn't eat my cooking. To this day, my children are suspicious of anything I cook and fearfully poke at it until I take the first bite.
For those of you interested making a pasty, I've included a recipe and a bit about where they came from. They are quite tasty if made correctly.
History of Pasty - Cornish Pasty:
Pastie or Pasty (PASS-tee) - individual pies filled with meats and vegetables that are cooked together. They typically weigh about two pounds or more. The identifying feature of the pasty is really the pastry and it’s crimping. When pasties are being made, each member of the family has their initials marked at one corner. This way each person’s favorite tastes can be catered to, identifying each pasty.
Original Pasty
3 c. flour
1 1/2 sticks butter (cold and cut into bits)
1 1/2 tsp. salt
6 tbsp. water
In a large bowl, combine flour, butter and salt. Blend ingredients until well combined and add water, one tablespoon at a time to form a dough. Toss mixture until it forms a ball. Kneed dough lightly against a smooth surface with heel of the hand to distribute fat evenly. Form into a ball, dust with flour, wrap in wax paper and chill for 30 minutes.
filling
1 lb. round steak, coarsely ground
1 lb. boneless pork loin, coarsely ground
5 carrots, chopped
2 lg. onions, chopped
2 potatoes, peeled and chopped
1/2 c. rutabaga, chopped (can substitute turnip)
2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Divide the dough into 6 pieces, and roll one of the pieces into a 10-inch round on a lightly floured surface. Put 1 1/2 cups of filling on half of the round. Moisten the edges and fold the unfilled half over the filling to enclose it. Pinch the edges together to seal them and crimp them decoratively with a fork. Transfer pasty to lightly buttered baking sheet and cut several slits in the top. Roll out and fill the remaining dough in the same manner. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 30 minutes. Put 1 tsp. butter through a slit in each pasty and continue baking for 30 minutes more. Remove from oven, cover with a damp tea towel, cool for 15 minutes.
This recipe is from Michigan Tech University and is close to the ones my mother used to make - except she didn't use a recipe. She uses only beef and usually stew meat.
But then I got married and had a daughter. Things changed. We lived in a small townhouse and well, there were chores to do. Housework! I could clean, since I had gotten pregnant the first time, it was better if I didn't inhale too many chemicals so my job was going to be fixing meals.
Breakfast was a piece of cake - we didn't eat it, and my daughter was eating baby food. Lunch was usually sandwiches and Dinner was whatever we brought home from work. At the time, my husband and I were both working at a restaurant.
But then came the day that we both had a couple of days off together. Oh crap! I was going to have to cook something. I wracked my brain. My grandmother was a great cook, and I had her recipe box. My mother never used a recipe so cooking from scratch couldn't be that hard.
The first question was what to cook. I wanted to make something we couldn't get at work so burgers and chicken was out. And it should be nutrious - protein, vegetables. It was shortly after Christmas and it was cold outside so whatever I made it should be hot and hearty.
I remember my mom making pasties. For those of you who never went to Northern Michigan, a pasties is a meat and vegetable stew in a pastry crust. It was the perfect solution.
I stopped by the store and picked up some stew meat, a few potatoes, onions and carrots. I skipped the rutabagas because they're gross. I put the stew meat in a crockpot and turned it on. Next I chopped the vegetables, made the crust and was read to put them together.
Basically, I put some beef and vegetables on one half of the crust and folded it over, sealed it and tossed it in the oven. After about 15 minutes, I checked, the crust wasn't even brown yet. I waited another 15 minutes and the crust was golden so I figured another 15 minutes and they should be done. I'd present my husband with a nutrious, hot, home-made meal. I was beaming when I served him his pasty.
We began eating and I noticed he was drinking lots of milk. I noticed, the pasties didn't quite smell like my mom's, but then I used different vegetables. I kept eating. The taste...there was something a bit odd. Maybe it was the onions or maybe I used the wrong seasoning. I noticed my husband had stopped eating and was watching TV. It wasn't so unusual for him. I asked him if he wanted more and he assured me he was ok.
Even though the taste was slightly off, I ate a few more bites and discreetly dumped mine in the trash. So much for that idea. I had made a cake for dessert and told my husband that he could have a piece when he finished his dinner.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard my husband groan and roll out of bed. He staggered to the bathroom where I heard him vomiting. I was too tired to be concerned and there were some stomach viruses going around. So I rolled over and went back to sleep. My sleep deep last long. It was a good thing we had two bathrooms because we were both violently ill.
My husband dragged himself to the couch and looked positively green. I tried to continue to be the good wife and got him a glass of water. I made him toast and for lunch, I warmed up his left-over pasty. He took one look at it and threw up again.
Two days of gastro-intenstinal distress finally sent us to the ER. You guessed it - I had served us up a big plate of salmonella. Yummy! I've never made a pasty since and my husband - well for the remainder of our lives together 20 more years he didn't eat my cooking. To this day, my children are suspicious of anything I cook and fearfully poke at it until I take the first bite.
For those of you interested making a pasty, I've included a recipe and a bit about where they came from. They are quite tasty if made correctly.
History of Pasty - Cornish Pasty:
Pastie or Pasty (PASS-tee) - individual pies filled with meats and vegetables that are cooked together. They typically weigh about two pounds or more. The identifying feature of the pasty is really the pastry and it’s crimping. When pasties are being made, each member of the family has their initials marked at one corner. This way each person’s favorite tastes can be catered to, identifying each pasty.
Original Pasty
3 c. flour
1 1/2 sticks butter (cold and cut into bits)
1 1/2 tsp. salt
6 tbsp. water
In a large bowl, combine flour, butter and salt. Blend ingredients until well combined and add water, one tablespoon at a time to form a dough. Toss mixture until it forms a ball. Kneed dough lightly against a smooth surface with heel of the hand to distribute fat evenly. Form into a ball, dust with flour, wrap in wax paper and chill for 30 minutes.
filling
1 lb. round steak, coarsely ground
1 lb. boneless pork loin, coarsely ground
5 carrots, chopped
2 lg. onions, chopped
2 potatoes, peeled and chopped
1/2 c. rutabaga, chopped (can substitute turnip)
2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
Combine all ingredients in large bowl. Divide the dough into 6 pieces, and roll one of the pieces into a 10-inch round on a lightly floured surface. Put 1 1/2 cups of filling on half of the round. Moisten the edges and fold the unfilled half over the filling to enclose it. Pinch the edges together to seal them and crimp them decoratively with a fork. Transfer pasty to lightly buttered baking sheet and cut several slits in the top. Roll out and fill the remaining dough in the same manner. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven for 30 minutes. Put 1 tsp. butter through a slit in each pasty and continue baking for 30 minutes more. Remove from oven, cover with a damp tea towel, cool for 15 minutes.
This recipe is from Michigan Tech University and is close to the ones my mother used to make - except she didn't use a recipe. She uses only beef and usually stew meat.
Clown - aphobia!
A bit of background before I jump into this story. I've been working as a professional clown for years. I stand 5'2 if I stretch so I'm not intimidating to anyone older than 8. I have travelled the world performing, attending classes and conventions. I know how to back off from those who might be frightened - small children, people trapped in an elevator with me or people on pain meds in a hospital, but never, NEVER did I expect this next misadventure.
Clown makeup is hot. Clown costumes are hot. Women who are fat and middle-aged are always hot! And this was mid-July, mid-day. It was very very hot. I'd just spent 2 hours working a small festival at an airport. I'd spent most of the time on the tarmac - no shade just lots of cement. Needless to say, when the gig was over, I was parched! I could hardly wait to get home and take off my costume and hop in a nice refreshing shower, but I also recognized the early signs of dehydration. I'd been sipping water, but it wasn't enough and I knew I was quickly nearing the point of "clown melt-down".
On my way home, I had to pass by a McDonald's restaurant. It was a new building, but the business had been there for at least 30 years. My son is anemployee there so I frequent the drive-thru often. Would could be more refreshing than an ice cold Diet Coke and a small burger. It would wet my whistle and revive me until I could get home.
I don't drive one of those gaudy clown cars - I know enough not to distract drivers on the roads so my car is a silver Bonneville - pretty non-descript. I pulled up to the drive-thru speaker and looked directly into the camera as I placed my order. The employees could clearly see my face.
I patiently waited in line, and finally it was my turn at the pay window. This particular McDonald's is so new it has all of the latest bells and whistles - two-lanes to place your order, the windows have one-way glass - they can see you, but you can't see them. The teenage girl opened the window and told me my total. I smiled as I handed her my money, I asked her if she wanted a sticker. Fast food workers love to get stickers in my experience and of course she said yes.
I pulled ahead and waited to get my food. I could see the manager was having fun. He was dancing around, laughing and chatting with customers as he handed out bags of food.
From experience, I figured she had quickly spread the word that there was a clown in the drive-thru and was giving out cool stickers. So as I pulled up to the food window I turned slightly to get some more stickers out of my bag.
I heard the window slide open and turned around with a big clown smile on my face.
"OH SHIT! OH SHIT! SHI...." I blinked. The manager, who was an African-American man about 30 had actually turned white and then...he was gone.
"Oh my God! Oh shit!" I could clearly hear him screaming. The window was still open and I could see people inside running in my direction. Customers standing at the counter were trying to see who was at the window. I'm sure some thought the manager had been shot.
"Oh shit!" He was still screaming. And I realized that he was laying on the floor. Another manager came to the window. It was obvious he had stepped over the hysterical man.
"I'm so sorry," I stammered.
"Um, what was your order?" I repeated it and he said just a minute. By now, most of the employees had gathered around their leader and were helping him away from the window.
The other manager came back and handed me a fresh order, apparently mine went flying. He told me to have a nice day and I left.
Never would I have expected that someone who works for a company who's mascot is a clown would have a clown phobia! I haven't been back in my makeup. And my son, well, he still works there.
Stick a Needle in my Eye
To say that I'm clumsy is a bit of an understatement. I'm not allowed to use any kind of power tool and there are days that my husband just quietly puts away the knives so I won't hurt myself. My little toes are permenantly crooked from being broken and I'm usually nursing some ailment or injury, but this incident, well it deserves a story of it's own.
The night before I'd been working on a cross-stitch pattern in bed. It was getting quite late and I'd finished the section I was working on. I secured the thread and cut it off. Usually, I put the needle in the fabric I'm working on, but this time, I didn't. Maybe I'd finished the project, I don't remember. Anyway, instead, I stuck the needle in the lapel of my bathrobe so I wouldn't lose it. I figured it was safe and I'll remember where I put for the next evening. I put the robe across the end of my bed and went to sleep.
The next morning I got up, slipped on the robe and made myself a quick breakfast. I remember it was a Sunday morning and the kids had left for church. I was sitting at my computer reading the news and sort of crying - not big gulping sobs, just a tear or two would well up in my eyes. My boyfriend was leaving that afternoon and would be gone for 6 weeks; we'd been having "problems" and I knew this was probably the end for us.
As my eyes filled with tears, you guessed it, I lifted the lapel of my robe to dab them. As I pushed the terry cloth fabric to my eyes a sharp pain pierced my right eye. What was that horrible pain? I pressed the fabric a bit harder and then...it dawned on me - the needle! The needle was in my eyeball! Oh my God!!! I'm just stuck a needle in my eyeball. I pulled the fabric away and out popped the needle - it really did make a popping sound.
Liquid started seeping from my eye and this time, it wasn't tears. My eye was leaking. I closed my eye and pressed my finger on my eyelid. With one hand, I managed to call my boyfriend. Thank goodness his father was an eye doctor.
He answered the phone and I could tell he had just woken up. "I just stuck a needle in my eye!" I blurted out.
"What?"
"I stuck a needle in my eye and it's leaking."
"Why would you stick a needle in your eye? That's just stupid" and the phone went dead.
Of course it was stupid, I didn't plan it. I'm just clumsy like that.
The phone rang and it was my boyfriend calling me back.
"Sorry, I dropped the phone. You should go to the hospital. Does it hurt?"
Strangely, it didn't hurt, I was more concerned about the clear gelatin like stuff that was trickling from the hole. I had gone to the bathroom to look at the damage in the mirror. Halfway between the inner corner and the middle of my eyeball was a small dark spot where the needle had pierced.
"Dad says you should go to the hospital and we'll meet you there. Can you see?"
Of course I could see. I didn't touch the actual part you see with. It was like a sunny-side up egg. The yolk was intact. By now, at least 10 minutes had passed and the leaking had stopped.
I decided that it would be alright. I'd keep an eye on it - so to speak and if it became infected or I had trouble seeing - more than usual that is - I'd seek medical attention. I just didn't see the point of spending hundreds of dollars in the emergency room only to be told I shouldn't play with sharp pointy objects.
For a few weeks, my right eye was visibly smaller than my left. The hole went away very quickly and the fluid I lost replenished and the eyeball returned to normal. I had no vision problems due to the incident, but I never, ever put needles in my bathrobe again.
The night before I'd been working on a cross-stitch pattern in bed. It was getting quite late and I'd finished the section I was working on. I secured the thread and cut it off. Usually, I put the needle in the fabric I'm working on, but this time, I didn't. Maybe I'd finished the project, I don't remember. Anyway, instead, I stuck the needle in the lapel of my bathrobe so I wouldn't lose it. I figured it was safe and I'll remember where I put for the next evening. I put the robe across the end of my bed and went to sleep.
The next morning I got up, slipped on the robe and made myself a quick breakfast. I remember it was a Sunday morning and the kids had left for church. I was sitting at my computer reading the news and sort of crying - not big gulping sobs, just a tear or two would well up in my eyes. My boyfriend was leaving that afternoon and would be gone for 6 weeks; we'd been having "problems" and I knew this was probably the end for us.
As my eyes filled with tears, you guessed it, I lifted the lapel of my robe to dab them. As I pushed the terry cloth fabric to my eyes a sharp pain pierced my right eye. What was that horrible pain? I pressed the fabric a bit harder and then...it dawned on me - the needle! The needle was in my eyeball! Oh my God!!! I'm just stuck a needle in my eyeball. I pulled the fabric away and out popped the needle - it really did make a popping sound.
Liquid started seeping from my eye and this time, it wasn't tears. My eye was leaking. I closed my eye and pressed my finger on my eyelid. With one hand, I managed to call my boyfriend. Thank goodness his father was an eye doctor.
He answered the phone and I could tell he had just woken up. "I just stuck a needle in my eye!" I blurted out.
"What?"
"I stuck a needle in my eye and it's leaking."
"Why would you stick a needle in your eye? That's just stupid" and the phone went dead.
Of course it was stupid, I didn't plan it. I'm just clumsy like that.
The phone rang and it was my boyfriend calling me back.
"Sorry, I dropped the phone. You should go to the hospital. Does it hurt?"
Strangely, it didn't hurt, I was more concerned about the clear gelatin like stuff that was trickling from the hole. I had gone to the bathroom to look at the damage in the mirror. Halfway between the inner corner and the middle of my eyeball was a small dark spot where the needle had pierced.
"Dad says you should go to the hospital and we'll meet you there. Can you see?"
Of course I could see. I didn't touch the actual part you see with. It was like a sunny-side up egg. The yolk was intact. By now, at least 10 minutes had passed and the leaking had stopped.
I decided that it would be alright. I'd keep an eye on it - so to speak and if it became infected or I had trouble seeing - more than usual that is - I'd seek medical attention. I just didn't see the point of spending hundreds of dollars in the emergency room only to be told I shouldn't play with sharp pointy objects.
For a few weeks, my right eye was visibly smaller than my left. The hole went away very quickly and the fluid I lost replenished and the eyeball returned to normal. I had no vision problems due to the incident, but I never, ever put needles in my bathrobe again.
Monday, April 4, 2011
future stories
Ben the Sheep; Spot the Pig or the day I won a pregnant sow; -yes I had original names for my pets. Henriette the soccer playing pig; showing pigs at the fair, the half hour I was pork princess. Hmmm I did have other pets, but pigs were my life for awhile.
Piano lessons while the old man lay dying.
Driving while my head was on fire
Stick a needle in my eye
the Clown at McDonald's
The day I nearly killed my husband with my cooking
Burning down the house
please don't let me poop!
Family vacations here there and everywhere
Mom I got a job!
These are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.
Piano lessons while the old man lay dying.
Driving while my head was on fire
Stick a needle in my eye
the Clown at McDonald's
The day I nearly killed my husband with my cooking
Burning down the house
please don't let me poop!
Family vacations here there and everywhere
Mom I got a job!
These are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.
notice
If you're just starting to read my blog - please start with the Misadventures of Me the prologue, then the introduction, where to begin and then the Duck.
I have no way to rearranged these without going all the way back to my very first post - which has nothing to do with these vignettes. Thank you
I have no way to rearranged these without going all the way back to my very first post - which has nothing to do with these vignettes. Thank you
The attack of the Duck
Ducks are nice birds. They quack, they swim around and they poop - a lot. But as far as being dangerous, they rank pretty low, maybe down there with fuzzy little lambs. But let me tell you, when I was little we had one dangerous duck!
I grew up on a good size farm. The large 2-story farmhouse sat to the south of the barns. Between the house and the barns was a large round driveway - big enough to handle farm trucks and tractors turning around. The house probably sat about 60 yards from the feedlot. My dad was raising beef steers in addition to grain crops. I must have been about 4 at the time. I was small for my age. I was a rather sickly orphan as I heard my grandmother say on ocassion when she didn't think I could hear. I had allergies and bad tonsils. Anyway, on a farm, everyone has chores and one of my chores was to take the table scraps out and dump it in the feedlot so the steers could eat it. It was mostly potato peels, lettuce leaves, carrot tops. Now this wasn't a tough job for me. I just had to walk down our short little sidewalk, across the gravel driveway, across a grassy patch and dump the bowl of scraps over the fence or in my case under the fence. The steers were safely penned in and would walk over and look at me, if one was brave enough, he'd let me pet his wet nose and ocassionally I'd get a lick from one.
The problem was our male duck. He was mean and nasty and rather territorial. One step off the sidewalk and he'd come running, his neck stretched forward, mouth open, flapping his wings and hissing. He was a good size duck his head reaching up past my waist. He terrified me.
On this particular Saturday, my mom was giving piano lessons and my grandma was over "watching" me and my sister so we didn't interrupt. Mom had told me to take out the scraps. Why I went outside alone, I don't know, maybe I was in a hurry, maybe I didn't do my chores when I was told. I don't remember, but I headed out the door by myself. I made it down the sidewalk, I walked across the driveway and dumped the bowl. I didn't think twice about the consequences.
I started back to the house, across the grassy lawn and was halfway across the driveway when...WHAM! Something grabbed me from behind! It was the DUCK! He had me by the seat of my pants. Now ducks don't bite, they grab with their long beaks that have a razor like edge for cutting grass and weeds to eat and then they pinch and twist and beat their wings. This duck had me in a death hold - pinch, twist...flap, flap, flap. pinch, twist...flap flap flap.
I screamed, the duck grabbed again this time getting a good hold on my pants. Luckily for me, they were little girl pants with an elastic waistband. Somehow with all of the pinching and grabbing, the duck managed to pull down my pants and I managed to get away. Yep, I ran screaming and crying and half naked into the house and the duck, well he had my pants that day, but we soon had him...for dinner.
I grew up on a good size farm. The large 2-story farmhouse sat to the south of the barns. Between the house and the barns was a large round driveway - big enough to handle farm trucks and tractors turning around. The house probably sat about 60 yards from the feedlot. My dad was raising beef steers in addition to grain crops. I must have been about 4 at the time. I was small for my age. I was a rather sickly orphan as I heard my grandmother say on ocassion when she didn't think I could hear. I had allergies and bad tonsils. Anyway, on a farm, everyone has chores and one of my chores was to take the table scraps out and dump it in the feedlot so the steers could eat it. It was mostly potato peels, lettuce leaves, carrot tops. Now this wasn't a tough job for me. I just had to walk down our short little sidewalk, across the gravel driveway, across a grassy patch and dump the bowl of scraps over the fence or in my case under the fence. The steers were safely penned in and would walk over and look at me, if one was brave enough, he'd let me pet his wet nose and ocassionally I'd get a lick from one.
The problem was our male duck. He was mean and nasty and rather territorial. One step off the sidewalk and he'd come running, his neck stretched forward, mouth open, flapping his wings and hissing. He was a good size duck his head reaching up past my waist. He terrified me.
On this particular Saturday, my mom was giving piano lessons and my grandma was over "watching" me and my sister so we didn't interrupt. Mom had told me to take out the scraps. Why I went outside alone, I don't know, maybe I was in a hurry, maybe I didn't do my chores when I was told. I don't remember, but I headed out the door by myself. I made it down the sidewalk, I walked across the driveway and dumped the bowl. I didn't think twice about the consequences.
I started back to the house, across the grassy lawn and was halfway across the driveway when...WHAM! Something grabbed me from behind! It was the DUCK! He had me by the seat of my pants. Now ducks don't bite, they grab with their long beaks that have a razor like edge for cutting grass and weeds to eat and then they pinch and twist and beat their wings. This duck had me in a death hold - pinch, twist...flap, flap, flap. pinch, twist...flap flap flap.
I screamed, the duck grabbed again this time getting a good hold on my pants. Luckily for me, they were little girl pants with an elastic waistband. Somehow with all of the pinching and grabbing, the duck managed to pull down my pants and I managed to get away. Yep, I ran screaming and crying and half naked into the house and the duck, well he had my pants that day, but we soon had him...for dinner.
Where to begin
I have a whole bunch of stories, adventures, dramas, crisis and they will not be in any particular order. They won't be arranged alphabetically, chronologically, spacially or in intensity of catastrophic nature. They will be arranged as to the way I think of them. Maybe someone will leave a comment - you better leave comments or I will stop writing and no one will ever hear my stories again - or maybe something will remind me of an event and that will lead me down the road of misadventures - or maybe it will be something that happened to me that very day - not a memory yet - but will be soon.
I grew up in a family of storytellers - my grandmother was a great storyteller and I loved to hear stories of my parents growing up. Obviously, my parents are carrying on this tradition as my children will say "oh I heard what you did...when you were my age!" I cringe because I don't want to set a bad example for them. They're all blondes and will have plenty misadventures of their own, they don't need their mother to lead by example. By the way, I'm not a blonde, I'm...well...I've been coloring my hair since high school, it used to be a dark brown with auburn highlights, now it's whatever color will best hide the gray. But I digress, like I said, my grandparents and my parents would tell my sister and I stories when we were growing up. What can I say, we were poor and lived way out in the country - miles away from town so storytelling was our adventure. Plus our TV only got 5 channels and it was black and white. We'd sit around the dining room table doing a puzzle or playing cards in the kitchen and the next thing we'd know my dad would tell us about how he spit in his baby brother's eye or how his brothers (never him) would light paper airplanes on fire and throw them out the upstairs window. (Grandma's house would eventually burn down, but not from that adventure). Looking back, I wonder why I didn't write those stories down or tape them. My grandparents are all gone now and I'm hoping maybe writing random stories will bring back some of those long forgotten stories.
So don't expect this to make any sense as a whole - because I'll jump from present to the distant past, to the not so distant past and back again. For those who know me, you know that's how my mind works - I'm not linear in any way shape or fashion. At least you can re-read my stories if you get lost or confused.
When I finish writing all of my stories, maybe I'll put it in some sembalence of order, but for now, just enjoy each story as a stand alone. As for when I expect to finish this, never because with me - the adventure begins every morning when I crawl out of bed.
I grew up in a family of storytellers - my grandmother was a great storyteller and I loved to hear stories of my parents growing up. Obviously, my parents are carrying on this tradition as my children will say "oh I heard what you did...when you were my age!" I cringe because I don't want to set a bad example for them. They're all blondes and will have plenty misadventures of their own, they don't need their mother to lead by example. By the way, I'm not a blonde, I'm...well...I've been coloring my hair since high school, it used to be a dark brown with auburn highlights, now it's whatever color will best hide the gray. But I digress, like I said, my grandparents and my parents would tell my sister and I stories when we were growing up. What can I say, we were poor and lived way out in the country - miles away from town so storytelling was our adventure. Plus our TV only got 5 channels and it was black and white. We'd sit around the dining room table doing a puzzle or playing cards in the kitchen and the next thing we'd know my dad would tell us about how he spit in his baby brother's eye or how his brothers (never him) would light paper airplanes on fire and throw them out the upstairs window. (Grandma's house would eventually burn down, but not from that adventure). Looking back, I wonder why I didn't write those stories down or tape them. My grandparents are all gone now and I'm hoping maybe writing random stories will bring back some of those long forgotten stories.
So don't expect this to make any sense as a whole - because I'll jump from present to the distant past, to the not so distant past and back again. For those who know me, you know that's how my mind works - I'm not linear in any way shape or fashion. At least you can re-read my stories if you get lost or confused.
When I finish writing all of my stories, maybe I'll put it in some sembalence of order, but for now, just enjoy each story as a stand alone. As for when I expect to finish this, never because with me - the adventure begins every morning when I crawl out of bed.
The misadventures of me - introduction
Every good story has an introduction. I'm not sure how much to put here, because well, you're going to get to know me, my family, my friends, my pets, my adventures in great detail - as long as I keep writing. And I'll keep writing as long as I know I have an audience to entertain. So please leave me comments or subscribe so I know you're reading.
I'm 46, quickly nearing 47 which is old. Remember when you were little and your parents were *gasp* 30. They were old, so I must be ancient. My only consolation is that my second husband is older, much much older than I - he's almost 60!
In addition to 2 husbands - neither of them are dead by the way although...but that's an upcoming story. I have 3 children of my own, 2 or 6 step-children some who are nearly as old as I am, the questionable number comes from the fact that I'm not sure if I should count his step-children who we see more often than some of his biological children. And then there are his grandchildren either 3 or 5 - but who's counting.
I also have several sets of parents. There is the couple who produced me, the couple who raised me and a few that I just adopted along the way.
As for extended family - wow - plenty and they're the kind of people that you're ok with and you understand, but you dread introducing to your new much older husband. Odd? yes - my grandmother used to chase my uncle around with a can of aerosal deodorant; Strange - uh huh - my cousins used to skin their skin-less hotdogs. Large - well I thought my family was big until I married Kenny who has 9 - yes - 9 sisters and 1 brother still living. Everyone in this town is related to one of us.
Yes, I live in a small rural community in Michigan, population of the 36 square mile county just a tad under 100,000 people. Average IQ - let's just say we're not Ivy League material for the most part. Most people here are unemployed - there were a lot of car -related factories and then...there were none. The rest of the people farm. The economy is so bad here the drug dealers have all packed up and moved away because none of our stuff is even worth stealing any more.
I live in a trailer park, even though the sign says modular home community, but that's a whole story all on its own or maybe two or three.
Throughout my life I've had a few jobs - pig raiser, fast food restaurant worker, I sold Avon and Pampered Chef; I was a free-lance reporter for a newspaper (loved the job) worked in all areas of radio from DJ to news director (loved that job too) taught college (love that job) oh yeah and then there was that gig with a circus and a few other odd jobs here and there.
What will you read in these upcoming vinettes? Hopefully a chuckle or two. Once in awhile maybe a tear - hey my life hasn't always be silly. I promised my loved ones I won't use their last names because let's face it - these are suppose to be stories about ME! Me, me me! If you're reading one of my little gems and you recognize yourself, well, the next time you decide to do something stupid in front of me, maybe you'll think again My humor tends to be a bit sarcastic, tongue in cheek and ironic. Please don't leave me comments saying you feel sorry for me or that I need help. We all need help. And when I'm poking fun at myself - well, obviously I feel pretty confident about who I am - I am posting it for the whole world to read. I know who I am -I'm a middle-aged, over-weight, twice married, slightly frustrated wanna-be famous for something woman who lives with her old man, weird cats and a cowardly dog.
I'm 46, quickly nearing 47 which is old. Remember when you were little and your parents were *gasp* 30. They were old, so I must be ancient. My only consolation is that my second husband is older, much much older than I - he's almost 60!
In addition to 2 husbands - neither of them are dead by the way although...but that's an upcoming story. I have 3 children of my own, 2 or 6 step-children some who are nearly as old as I am, the questionable number comes from the fact that I'm not sure if I should count his step-children who we see more often than some of his biological children. And then there are his grandchildren either 3 or 5 - but who's counting.
I also have several sets of parents. There is the couple who produced me, the couple who raised me and a few that I just adopted along the way.
As for extended family - wow - plenty and they're the kind of people that you're ok with and you understand, but you dread introducing to your new much older husband. Odd? yes - my grandmother used to chase my uncle around with a can of aerosal deodorant; Strange - uh huh - my cousins used to skin their skin-less hotdogs. Large - well I thought my family was big until I married Kenny who has 9 - yes - 9 sisters and 1 brother still living. Everyone in this town is related to one of us.
Yes, I live in a small rural community in Michigan, population of the 36 square mile county just a tad under 100,000 people. Average IQ - let's just say we're not Ivy League material for the most part. Most people here are unemployed - there were a lot of car -related factories and then...there were none. The rest of the people farm. The economy is so bad here the drug dealers have all packed up and moved away because none of our stuff is even worth stealing any more.
I live in a trailer park, even though the sign says modular home community, but that's a whole story all on its own or maybe two or three.
Throughout my life I've had a few jobs - pig raiser, fast food restaurant worker, I sold Avon and Pampered Chef; I was a free-lance reporter for a newspaper (loved the job) worked in all areas of radio from DJ to news director (loved that job too) taught college (love that job) oh yeah and then there was that gig with a circus and a few other odd jobs here and there.
What will you read in these upcoming vinettes? Hopefully a chuckle or two. Once in awhile maybe a tear - hey my life hasn't always be silly. I promised my loved ones I won't use their last names because let's face it - these are suppose to be stories about ME! Me, me me! If you're reading one of my little gems and you recognize yourself, well, the next time you decide to do something stupid in front of me, maybe you'll think again My humor tends to be a bit sarcastic, tongue in cheek and ironic. Please don't leave me comments saying you feel sorry for me or that I need help. We all need help. And when I'm poking fun at myself - well, obviously I feel pretty confident about who I am - I am posting it for the whole world to read. I know who I am -I'm a middle-aged, over-weight, twice married, slightly frustrated wanna-be famous for something woman who lives with her old man, weird cats and a cowardly dog.
The misadventures of me - prologue
My mother has been after me since I was little to write my life stories as I see them. You see, I have a knack, a gift, for bringing drama to everything. I see things as a movie, all of the boring stuff cut out, the action and conflict heightened. My stories are all true as seen and experienced by me. But did I listen to my mother? No
My friends, my colleagues, my students have suggested to varying degrees that I should write down the stories I relate to them. I have procrastinated. I don't have time. Writing a story is a long process of editting, re-writing, fine tuning. I just don't want to drag my stories through the mud - they might lose something.
About the only people who don't want me to write are my children -because I might embarass them if any of their friends, colleagues, co-workers read these stories. My ex-husband - for obvious reasons and my current husband -because he doesn't get my self-degenerating, sarcastic sense of humor.
The other problem with writing my stories has been - they're fairly short and wouldn't make for a decent book.
But today, I realized, I'm starting to forget my stories. It could be old age, lack of sleep or the fact that there are too many stories vying for room in my memory. If I don't get some of them written down, they'll be lost forever. So here I am sharing them on the internet for not just my friends and family to read and chuckle, but I'm sharing them with the whole world. So my children - everywhere you go - you could potentially run into someone who has read about the time you fell in the toilet.
My friends, my colleagues, my students have suggested to varying degrees that I should write down the stories I relate to them. I have procrastinated. I don't have time. Writing a story is a long process of editting, re-writing, fine tuning. I just don't want to drag my stories through the mud - they might lose something.
About the only people who don't want me to write are my children -because I might embarass them if any of their friends, colleagues, co-workers read these stories. My ex-husband - for obvious reasons and my current husband -because he doesn't get my self-degenerating, sarcastic sense of humor.
The other problem with writing my stories has been - they're fairly short and wouldn't make for a decent book.
But today, I realized, I'm starting to forget my stories. It could be old age, lack of sleep or the fact that there are too many stories vying for room in my memory. If I don't get some of them written down, they'll be lost forever. So here I am sharing them on the internet for not just my friends and family to read and chuckle, but I'm sharing them with the whole world. So my children - everywhere you go - you could potentially run into someone who has read about the time you fell in the toilet.
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