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Been A Rough Week
I don’t suffer from depression.
At least, not on a regular basis.
And, there’s always a catalyst for my blue episodes. I don’t just wake up one morning and have no desire for…anything.
This week has been difficult, and the difficult is getting more difficult.
A year ago, tomorrow, my daddy died.
He didn’t die pretty, he didn’t die peaceful.
It was a death that followed two solid weeks of pain and sickness.
Of 104 fevers, of organ failure, fluid build-up, pain so intense that they couldn’t give him enough morphine to completely block it, and finally he drowned in his own fluids as he lay in a completely clean and dry hospital bed.
And I watched, helpless.
It was an emotionally agonizing time for me, and I really thought I was better…then the past week happened, and it’s as if the year before the past week never happened.
I’m right back there, holding Daddy’s hand and whispering to him that he could let go, that we’d be fine and that his father, mother, sister, and brothers waited for him on the other side.
I wasn’t there when he took his last breath, and for that I’m grateful. I had borne enough pain and I couldn’t watch any more.
In fact, I think Daddy waited until he was alone to finally go home. The chaplain called me at 2:00 AM, and my first words upon hearing the news were “Thank God, he’s free at last.”
I don’t know how many more anniversaries will be hard on me, but I think this one is the hardest.
I’m taking a few days off, and letting go.
Y’all mind the store while I’m gone, okay? Thanks.
Let Me Be Perfectly Frank
I use humor as a defense shield, and sometimes it’s used to soften personal pain. Sometimes, it fails me when I need it most.
All too often it seems I’m facing things that people of my ‘seasoned’ status have had to deal with since time began.
I’m losing friends and family in timely and untimely fashion.
Last week I got the bad news about two of my friends.
Two, in the same week.
SMH
One is a doppleganger for Si Robertson, loves Harleys, Mark Martin, and even though he’s nicknamed “Bear” it doesn’t take long to figure out his first name should have been ‘Teddy’.
He has little time left, as cancer ravages his body.
The other is a funny character; he has battled cancer for years and is now facing a challenge for which there doesn’t seem to be the proper weapon. It’s in his brain.
He, too, has little time.
I’m a carpe diem kind of person, have been known to break into song at the speaker for the drive-in at McDonald’s – ordering a Big Mac or Happy Meal to the tune of ‘God Bless America’, or whatever the name of that “It’s peanut-buttah-jelly time!” song is.
I over-tip – by a LOT.
I open doors, carry groceries, reach things out of reach for people shorter than me <<< granted that one does not happen very often, since I’m only a little over five feet tall myself.
I sit on our picnic table in the yard and am mesmerized by the birds visiting the feeder, the way the lake looks like it’s covered in diamonds as the sun dances across its surface, and the industriousness of a single ant.
I make up fanciful stories for my grandchildren, about fairies mostly, and straight-faced tell them it’s all true.
I delight in frogs.
Hummingbirds are magical to me.
I squee over puppies, kittens, and the pair of cardinals that have decided to nest in the plant that hangs right outside my window.
I love the smells of this Earth.
I love the sounds of the lake when we are in a quiet cove.
Ducks make me smile.
Despite repeated failure, I am convinced I can have a vegetable garden….in Texas…in the summer.
A single tomato, from my very own plant, sent me dancing across the back yard.
It is so important, to me, to you, to all of us, that we really live in the world while we are here. And, if like me you believe that our death brings eternal life and beauty beyond our ability to describe, then this mortal coil is just a temporary home. A pit stop, if you will.
Still, loss is hard for humans. Even knowing my friends are going where they cannot hurt any more doesn’t help much.
It just makes me want to stop and really experience every moment, to hold it, touch it, feel it and commit it to memory so that when the day comes that I face the inevitable I can do it knowing that to that precise moment in time I really lived.
Oh Really, Mr. Spambot?
I got this spam comment on here the other day, and I deleted it because it pissed me off.
And, there’s probably a way to retrieve deleted comments, but damned if I know how.
This post is not about retrieving deleted comments.
It’s about the inability of any blogger to always be on top of her (or his) game.
So Sir Spambot told me he used to come here and read my posts because I was hilarious and uplifting, and now…not so much.
Oh really?
Well, it’s easy to be a critic when that’s all you do.
Which brings me to my next point.
Was this a spammer, or was this an honest opinion?
Doesn’t matter, I deleted it and promptly got all righteous and stuff about how I am such a “brilliant” writer and how dare anyone question my blogging capabilities.
Then I threw up in my mouth a little.
Then I decided I was at least partially right. At least the part about the difficulties of writing a blog for entertainment purposes. The rest? Yeah, not so much.
But, I am honest…or at least I try to be.
Look, whoever you are…if you are a real person…you may have a point. I maybe don’t always have that edge. Maybe I’m not all that interesting, maybe I am boring sometimes, but guess what? This is my little corner of the worldwide web, and if you don’t like it go somewhere else.
I Really Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Go Places Alone
I’m kinda/sorta/maybe in the market to replace the 8-yr. old 165K miles-on-it car that I really do like. It’s just starting to have ‘issues’, and much as I hate break-ups I hate breakdowns even more.
Besides, at my age, my ass/back needs something comfy to sit in when I drive. And with the elebenty-hunnert grandchildren around these days we need something larger.
After much looking around the ‘Net I decided I want a Chevy Traverse. Hubby is underwhelmed at the idea of getting into payments again, so he has thus far refrained from shopping or test-driving.
I blame him for what happened Tuesday.
I found a very nice-looking Traverse with low mileage and a great price at a dealership near my house, so I decided to go by there and test drive it on my way home.
I’ve always been one to engage in the idle chatter that a used-car salesman will instigate the minute you get inside the vehicle for the test. This time I was tired, and I was trying to get a feel/listen to the Traverse, so I was silent.
ChattyBoy was not…so, he only has himself to blame for this:
ChattyBoy (CB): This is a nice vehicle, isn’t it? And you just never, ever find one for under $20K anywhere. Not ever.
ME: *silent as I’m navigating the turns out of the parking lot onto the street, but I notice there’s something ‘off’ about this vehicle*
CB: Nosiree, never one this low-priced. And…umm…it’s really nice, not scratches, no dings…..
ME: *except the scratched-to-hell inside of the back hatch door, and the chunk missing from one of the third-row seat backs and there’s something wrong with the way this thing handles*
CB: …and an exceptionally nice ride, for what’s basically a large SUV…handles pretty well, doesn’t it? And, the price! Can you believe it? Did I mention it’s also a ‘Certified’ vehicle? Yep, it goes through a 177 point inspection. All that for a remarkable price. So, what’s your budget?
ME: *finally speaking* I don’t have a set budget, it depends on the vehicle and there’s something really wrong with the suspension or else one of the right-side tires is in the shape of a football.
CB: *after a few seconds* You may be right.
ME: 177 point inspection? Really?
CB: *beaming*Yep, it’s got an extended warranty and it’s Certified.
ME: 177 points, and yet the mechanics missed the fact that one of tires may be in the shape of a football…or, there’s something much larger going on and that’s a big problem.
CB: *nervous laughter* Yeah, sometimes I wonder where the mechanic’s heads are at.
ME: So, if they missed this big a problem, what kind of confidence can I have that any of the other 177 points were addressed?
CB: *silence*
ME *on a roll now* And while we are at it, I’ve seen plenty of vehicles at or below this one’s price.
CB: Really? Where?
ME: At other-much-larger-dealership nearby.
CB: *sulking* Well, yeah..but they do a huge volume…
ME: Look, bud, you’re the one going on and on about pricing…and you know what? I wouldn’t pay that for this vehicle. It’s beat to hell, drives like it’s run the Baja, and is the most vanilla version of a Traverse.
By this time we were back at the dealership and he almost waited for the car to stop completely before getting out.
I walked into the showroom with him as he kept apologizing for the lousy condition of the car and promising it would get fixed.
CB: So, if we fix the problems, how much would you be willing to pay?
ME: No more than $13K (the sticker was $16.5K)…and I mean not a penny more.
CB: *looking crestfallen* I’ll call you.
ME: Yeah, you do that.
As I left I realized I’d just come across as the biggest bitch on the planet, and I also realized I don’t give a shit. I’m there to spend money, my money, and it’s going to be on my terms.
But, I have to admit I’d of been a lot less bitchy if hubby had gone with. He’s the voice-of-reason, and my warrior and protector. ChattyBoy wouldn’t have tried so hard after Hubby gave him that sideways glance the first time the car wonky-wooed to the right.
I told hubby about my adventure when I got home and his only response was, “You really shouldn’t be allowed to go places alone.”
Can’t argue with that logic.
What the what, what?
Anybody get the number of that truck what ran over my head Tuesday morning and gave me a TWO DAY migraine?
No, it had to be a truck. My neck/back/shoulders feel like I’ve gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson….*feels for ears*…umm..pre-crazy Mike Tyson.
I hate when I get a migraine, but day-ummm…two days?? Really? They usually only last a few hours to a day at most.
And I still have a headache….just more of a dull throb now.
It’s complicated, the ‘why’ of it all, but in a nutshell one of my ruptured discs is in the first cervical spine joint, so when that one presses on some nerve in there BAM! I get a migraine.
I’ll be back, eventually…I was awarded a “Liebster Award” last week and I still haven’t written the post about it. But I will.
But, But, I Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaant One
I remember watching my grandma’s fancy stand mixer turn out amazing breads, cakes and pies. I’d stand on a chair mesmerized by the constant motion and *whirr*whirr* sound it made.
It was thirty pounds of metal and white porcelain, a Kitchenaid by Hobart, and it was magical.
I grew up and in my poverty frugality decided I could make do with a $10 hand mixer.
The Kitchenaid was never far from my mind, though.
Recently we finally paid off the grocery debts from feeding four teenagers for…umm…ever, and now visions of a pretty butteryummy yellow Kitchenaid stand mixer have been dancing in my head.
Naturally, I posed the question of getting one to my husband.
Hubby: How much does one of those cost?
Me: Oh, three-hundred something.
Hubby: *gasps*chokes* WHAT?
Me: Are you okay?
Hubby: Yes, I just could have sworn you said you wanted to spend $300 on a mixer.
Me: I did.
Hubby: Are you completely insane?
Me: Yes, but what does that have to do with a mixer?
Hubby: No, I mean are you insane enough to think I’d agree to spending $300 on a mixer?
Me: *blink*blink*
And so began hubby’s endless pursuit to convince me that at $350 (as I later found out) no mixer is worth it, unless it churns out real fecking gold…by the pound.
He dug through every post, review, sale, and blurb he could about the Kitchenaid Stand Mixer.
He found it.
Apparently, when the Hobart Corporation sold it’s interest in the Kitchenaid mixer (and other items), to Whirlpool Corporation in the 1980′s something happened. And it wasn’t a good thing.
What had once been a damn-near indestructible hunk of metal and porcelain was now metal and plastic/nylon – specifically the gears – and that means it breaks.
A lot.
When Hubby told me this, I had to concede that if I was going to by a stand mixer with a limited life I could buy a $100 one and be just as happy, and less likely to get stabbity when it does break, than I would be if I spent $350.
So, another sweet childhood memory and lifelong dream bites the dust.
Dammit.
Unless………I think I’ll see if Ican convince Hubby to put as much effort into finding a vintage working Kitchenaid stand mixer as he did in finding a reason not to buy a new one.
The Kingdom’s Travails – Day Nine
Life was so simple back then.
If some article of clothing, or household linen, got dirty – mussed in some way or even stained with the tears of mine enemies – the queen could simply toss it into her top-loading beauty, add the necessary chemicals, turn the dial and magically this machine would erase all traces of every transgression in thirty minutes.
But these are dark times for the Kingdom.
The washing machine hath vexed even the noblest of repairmen in the Shire. It hath brought them to their knees, and coaxed forth curses muttered under sweaty breath as one by one they try to best it and unlock its wizard’s secrets.
Day by day and hour by hour the machine sits quietly and patiently awaiting the next challenger.
Who among the realm’s repairmen can tame the terrible beastie?
Today a new challenger shall enter the lair, and take with him the hoped-for miracle that will once again send the castle into realms of clean socks, clean undies, and clean towels.
The occupants of the castle light a candle and pray the machine is bested, lest the queen be forced to enter the other dragon’s lair (also called a ‘laundromat’) and do battle with numerous beastly machines that steadfastly refuse to dissolve detergents properly or dry clothes without a mound of coins being fed to them that would rival the national debt for all of Ankh-Morpork.
The last trip the queen made to this terrible place did not end well as the vicious witch of the southerly winds grabbed and clawed at her freshly-laundered and folded clothes as she struggled to place them in her carriage for the trip back to the castle.
Much muttering of unspeakable curses upon all who would vex her so was heard, and the menfolk of the castle did tremble…except the cat, he simply one-eyed the ruckus and went back to sleep.
I fear further outbursts from the queen may involve breakage of nearby objects, and so I light a candle myself and ask the gods of electricity to be kind to the noble Repairman of the Whirlpool today.
The whole of the Shire doth wait with baited breath…
Someone Please Get This Woman Some Grandchildren, STAT!
I just wanted to buy my groceries and go home. I’m not normally the grumpy-granny type, but in my defense I’d been up about 14 hours already and had just found out that my washer was still not repaired, despite two trips by my very reliable repairman.
The washer is THREE years old, people! THREE!! And it’s developed some kind of electrical short. On Tuesday, Sid the Repair Guy came to my house and after much noggin’ scratching decided the electrical problem was definitely the timer mechanism. Definitely. Without a doubt.
On Wednesday, Sid’s assistant Eddie came out and installed the timer, plugged in the machine and ZAP! Breakers tripped and sparks flew.
Apparently, it’s not the timer.
On Thursday, Sid and Eddie are both coming out to troubleshoot and (hopefully) figure this thing out, although when all is said and done I probably could have bought a new washer for what this will cost.
Which brings me to my state of grumpocity (it’s a word..now..deal) on Wednesday, when standing in the flour/spices/shit that’s bad for you aisle I was accosted by a sweet white-haired woman.
“I’m babysitting my granddoggers this weekend, so I have to buy food I can prepare ahead of time.”, she said as I stood looking for an angel food cake mix (I didn’t buy it, by the way).
“Oh, I know what it’s like when the little ones are around.” I said, fully empathizing with the lack of time/energy when you are babysitting the grandkids.
“Yes, and I’m taking my girl with me.”
Her girl? I looked at her. She had to be 80 if she was a day.
“She just loves their back yard. She gets out there and runs around and gets all muddy and then I have to wash her little feet when she comes inside. And she knows to stop right inside the back door until I get her cleaned up.”
Dogs..she was talking about dogs. Grand-dogs, or in her case grand-doggers.
I could tell this conversation was going to keep on keepin’ on, so I did the only thing a woman with a broken washer and piles of laundry at home could do.
I turned around and walked away.
Yes, I Realize Valentine’s Day Was Last Week
But, if you had any idea what kind of week last week was for me, you wouldn’t be making such a big deal about my missing Valentine’s Day right now.
For that matter, if you knew how I really feel about Valentine’s Day we wouldn’t even be discussing it. We’d be talking about the dynamic synergies of post-modern banjos instead, because that would be far less controversial.
Yes, I said ‘controversial’.
I hate Valentine’s Day.
Let me ‘splain.
When I was a kid I remember having Valentine’s Day parties at school. We’d all bring decorated shoeboxes with little cutouts in the tops and set them on our desks.
At the appointed hour, we’d go around the room dropping our handwritten Valentines in the boxes of our classmates – always reserving the fanciest ones, with all the glitter on them, for our super-not-so-secret crush.
Then the teacher would pass out the heart-shaped candies, cookies, and cupcakes with red icing on it that wound up on your face, hands, and clothes. Every. Time.
It was fun. Lots of fun.
I carried on this tradition with my children, until it wasn’t a ‘thing’ anymore and just like that one more party in school went ‘pfffffffft’.
C’est le vie.
We still had Valentines and cupcakes at home.
Then one day about ten years ago, and my kids had long since grown out of Mom’s Valentine’s Day celebration and onto their own, I happened to be at the store on Valentine’s Day.
I was getting ready to check out in the Express Lane (no more than 15 items, and God help you if you accidentally overlooked that lone lemon in the bottom of your cart which put you firmly at 16 items as the jackass behind you will LOUDLY proclaim), when I noticed a long, long, long line in front of me.
Everyone in the line was male. Each was holding flowers, candy, and cards…in some combination – many with all three.
Every one of them looked sad, depressed and anxious….as if they were in line for vasectomies, not simply to pay for the undying expressions of love they held.
That was when it hit me.
Valentine’s Day is one of those Hallmark holidays, made up to make men feel guilty and women entitled.
From that day on, I told my husband that if he wanted to give me a card or flowers or candy he better NOT do it on February 14th. Do it on the 13th, the 15th, or even not at all…just take out the garbage without my asking. That tells me more about how you feel than any pre-packaged, wrapped in hearts and flowers, sentiment just waiting for you to pay more than it’s worth at the local store does.
It’s been freeing, if sometimes awkward when someone asks me what I ‘got’ for Valentine’s Day and I launch into my tirade about how I hate that day – incidentally, they don’t ask how I feel about too many things after that, so it’s a win!win! for me.
And you know what? My hubby empties the garbage without my asking a lot more nowadays, too. Now that, my friends, is romantic.
