Category Archives: I May Have a Problem Here
We all have them, the things that you see or do or see others doing that freak you right. the hell. out.
Here’s a partial list of mine:
1.Getting a text from my dentist’s office about how excited they are to see me on such and such date. Really? You look forward to inflicting pain? Dentists are freakishly weird.
2. Having the vet’s office ask me which of my “kids” or “babies” I’m calling about, AND when I’m there and go into an exam room, they announce that so-and-so’s “mommy” is waiting in such-and-such room. I’m pretty sure mating with animals is illegal…wait, it’s still illegal to mate with critters, right? Tell me I’m right. PLEASE. Because, if it’s not then I’ve crossed over from freaked to full-on fecked up.
4. I skipped 3.
5. You just went back to look.
6. Drones. I actually swatted at my hair the other night, thinking the drone overhead was a swarm of bees trying to kill me. In my defense, it was my first droney-bee encounter, and it was high enough above me that I missed. Dammit.
7. My frat-boy neighbors, a/k/a The Dronemasters. They NEVER sleep. Never. Go to bed at midnight? They’re up. Get up at 2:00 a.m.? They’re up. 4:00 a.m.? They’re up! They do this every night, then all their vehicles leave during the day. I think they’re vampires…and now I’m really freaked out. And lest you think I’m that neighbor peering out my windows at the frat boys, may I remind you that I can’t see their house from the only window I have that faces them. I have to go outside to verify this. I’m just looking out for you. You’re welcome.
So, what freaks you right-the-hell-out?
Did you ever just have so much going on in your life, some good, some not so good, that you felt like you should build a blanket-fort, get inside with some cookies, milk, and a stack of books and threaten anyone who dared peek in with maiming?
Yeah, me either.
I was just checking.
I love music.
No, I mean I really, really love music.
I have two genres that are tops on my list.
#1 – Blues and Swing; from Billie Holiday to Voodoo Daddy
#2 – Celtic; from the Celtic Women to..well, everyone else, it’s not a large pool here in the States
Numbers three through elebenty-hunnert include gospel, classic rock, Rat Pack, and country.
The other day, as I was shopping, I was listening to Pandora radio on my headset. I have one station called “Thumbprint”. It’s fairly new (to me), but I’m sure you kids have seen it. It takes music you’ve “thumbed up” and lumps it all together in one station.
(An aside, you young’uns don’t remember but back in the day radio stations were mostly AM and most of them played a wide variety of music. It wasn’t until electricity came along, and FM was born, that specific stations with specific music were created.)
I was getting my groceries to the crooning voices of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, and tapping my feet to the huge sounds of Voodoo Daddy and Brian Setzer.
I was in the produce aisle when a beautiful hymn called “Down To The River to Pray”, sung by the incomparable Alison Krauss, came on and I stopped and closed my eyes for a second.
Then I started to sing.
You know how when you have headphones on you think you’re being really quiet when, in fact, you’re being exceedingly loud and everyone around you notices only you don’t because you’re so caught up in the moment and sure at any second someone from a major label is going to spring up from the fruit display and offer you a million dollar contract on the spot because you’re the most amazing singer since singing was invented and angels weep every time you use those pipes?
Well, let me tell you, it’s every bit as interesting as finding out you left the house without pants again. Except with fewer recording contracts.
Totally busted while belting out a song in the middle of the produce aisle? Can check that one off my bucket list.
Just…it can’t be.
I can’t even….
Please tell me it’s not necessary for someone to post this:
I read blogs, I mean I check on and read probably 20+ blogs a day.
I may have a problem.
But, I digress.
I have noticed something, and formed a hypothesis.
The most popular bloggers aren’t that because they are particularly entertaining – although I gotta admit, The Bloggess makes me ’bout pee my pants on a regular basis.
No, the popular blogs are that because they stick to it. Day after day, year after year.
So, yeah, come see me in about 5 years and we’ll see just how full of shit I really am.
When I was a kid my parents bought a condo in a really nice community. It had lush common areas, a large floor plan, even a small back yard with a storage shed.
It was perfect.
It was also intended as a retirement community, but apparently Mom and Dad didn’t get that memo.
As I reached the teen years, my penchant for mischief increased exponentially. It didn’t help that the elderly residents of the complex were batshit crazy, but I think had they not been already me and my cohorts would have pushed them over the edge in due time.
One of our favorite spots to hangout, act goofy, play our music on portable radios, smoke, and eat junk food, was a common area between two large buildings that had a lovely hillside to roll down in summer or sled down in winter. One building had windows facing the common and if we were out there one nanosecond past dark a blue-haired woman stood in her window taking pictures.
Naturally, we posed and strutted or tried to time jumps in the air so she’d catch us mid-somethingcrazy. We’d also crank up the tunes and dance for her.
She’d then take those pictures and distribute amongst the various bulletin boards in the complex. Or, if she knew our parents, she’d go straight to them with the incriminating evidence of….kids being kids…dun..dun…DUNNNNN!
She called the police so many times on us that we got to know each of them on a first-name basis. They were decent enough, understanding, and exasperated with batshit crazy blue-haired women, and unruly teenagers. Whatever they were paid, it wasn’t enough.
Fast forward to a month ago when my sweet neighbor across the street apparently sold her house to me and my friends from lo those many years ago.
They act crazy, racing around the yard and up and down the street on their John Deere riding mower, have turned the workshop into a mini-club complete with a full drum set, and play music loudly at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
I’ve lived in this house 18 years, and never called the police once. And now, I’ve called the police to complain five times in the last two weeks.
I’ve refrained from getting out the camera and standing at my window to take pictures.
I’m not ‘that’ old woman, not yet anyway.
Which reminds me, it’s time to get the bluing added to my hair.
Last weekend the oldest daughter-child requested the use of my sewing machine. She’s going to teach herself to sew, and make clothes for her family.
I haven’t used my sewing machine since 2005, but it was new then so I knew it’d be fine for my budding pioneer woman – no lie, she’s turned from a rampant woman’s rights activist into the model of 1950’s domesticity. She bakes her own bread, grows her own food, raises chickens, and keeps a spotless house.
Not sure if a string of pearls is involved, but her hair is always perfect because when she’s not playing June Cleaver she’s a hairstylist by trade.
But, what does this have to do with the title to this post you ask?
I’m getting there.
The sewing machine is waaaaaaaaaay back in the corner of a closet. We have some very large and deep closets in my house, a fact that may be heartening to those who are organized, but to those of us who are “just going to put this in the closet and deal with it later” it’s a nightmare.
I dove into the chasm Saturday morning, and an hour and a half later my hubby walks into a room knee-deep (I am not exaggerating) in clothing, shoes, what-the-hell-is-this, and so-there’s-where-that-went.
“What are you doing?”, he asked, staring wide-eyed at the mess.
“K wants to borrow the sewing machine and I had to unbury it.” I said, breathless and sweaty.
“Oh”, he replied and scampered out of the room before I put him to work. He can always tell by that look in my eye when I’m about to pounce, and suddenly he has to go clean the andirons on the fireplace. And we don’t even have any andirons, and we don’t use the fireplace much anymore. It was a selling point when we bought the house, but that was before the reality of a wood burning fireplace set in. It’s messy, kids.
FASCINATING, SAUCY, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE POST TITLE??
You are an impatient crowd-of-two aren’t you?
I dragged the sewing machine out and put it in the hallway so we’d remember to take it the next day to the birthday party we would all be attending.
I then grabbed three ginormous trash bags – I’m talking the heavy duty contractor bags, made for clean-up of construction sites and disposal of compact cars here – and proceeded to fill three of them with items for Goodwill, and one smaller bag was filled with trash.
I was left with a gloriously organized closet – the rod had all the clothes I do wear hanging on it, and the floor contained shoes lined up in a row not piled willy-nilly.
More than that, I had room, empty space, a place to put something.
I proudly showed hubby, who asked, “So, what are you going to put in there now that you have all that room?”
My eyes glazed over as I smiled wistfully while visions of crochet projects yet-to-be danced in my head. “Yarn.”
“Yarn? What yarn?”
“I have to go shopping, of course.”, l replied looking at him like he should know better than to ask. I swear, sometimes it’s like he doesn’t know me at all.
He walked away mumbling something about my “problem” as I stared into the closet’s abyss and imagined blues and greens, tans and yellows, bulky, baby fine, heavy-duty and threadlike..yarn…
And that’s why I’m a yarnoholic. I don’t need any more yarn, kids, but I have a void.
In a closet.
I have space.
And, I have a 40% coupon for Hobby Lobby.