I’m really working hard on a post detailing the insanity of our move to the sticks. It was like a bad “B” movie, but with worse lighting.
Anyway, as I work on that, some random observations from things that’ve been going on.
- Our new ranch has a house and guest house (insert sarcastic “yay” for doubling the square footage I have to clean) and in both houses we got satellite television. Except in the guest house we didn’t get…something..some piece of equipment – a router? – that let’s us access the Internet on the television. This is important. Because Netflix and Hulu. So, I called my provider to get that fixed. And I spent a SOLID HOUR on the phone with a tech as she told me, I shit you not, her ENTIRE LIFE STORY. She is in her 20’s and has had a rough go. Dad’s done time, Mom died when she was young, she’s raised her sister. It’s a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie waiting to happen, kids. She kept saying to me “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t even told my sister or Granny yet.” as she relayed recent events or innermost feelings. Since we only get landline coverage in the hinterlands I was trapped at the kitchen table, listening, as my husband kept going in and out looking perplexedly at me as each time he passed he saw the glassy-eyed look on my face. Finally, we got to the end of her story and she said a tech would be out to fix the problem. I hung up the phone with a headache, and I think a small country might have gone to war and won in the time it took for that conversation to end.
- Yesterday, I went to the post office to drop off my out-of-town packages for mailing. I’d already printed the postage and put it on the box, so I normally just set the packages on the counter and leave. But, yesterday I needed to get stamps so I stood in line. I’m so glad I did. The woman in front of me was 80 if she was a day, and she had on BRIGHT green pants, a trench coat over a simple blouse, and a matching BRIGHT green floppy hat with a long purple/pink/green paisley print ribbon wrapped around it. She was carrying a backpack that had skateboards and graphics all over its black exterior. Inside, she had a few packages she was sending. She giggled as she tried to extricate them one by one, saying “I wrapped these up so neat, and now I am going to tear them up just trying to get them out of here!” I offered to help her and her smile lit the room. Just when I thought she couldn’t be any cuter, the clerk called her to come up to the counter asking, “And how are you today, ma’am?” to which she LOUDLY replied, “I AM BLESSED IN THE LORD, YES I AM!!” Everyone in line, myself included smiled broadly and a few chuckled softly. Floppy Hat turned that sunny smile on all of us and said, “MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL!!” And I thought as I watched her, ‘I want to be her. Just like that. Now and always.’ It was a magical moment, and I hope I can keep the memory.
…why I love my husband. so. very. much.
Picture a blender, filled to the brim with:
- Greek yogurt
- protein powder
And by “filled” I mean 8 cups full. The above is what goes into my blender every morning to make the smoothies we drink/eat for breakfast every day.
This morning was no different, at least not until the moment when I pushed the button and the bottom of the glass jar separated from the plastic fluglebinder what screws onto the bottom and fits over the pin that makes the whirly-whoosh go ’round.
It’s very technical, so try to keep up.
Suddenly it looked like some unfortunate soul had blown chunks all over my stove, the counter, the tiny space between the two, the blender and me.
“Feckity, feckity, feckity, FUCK!” I screamed.
Hubby, from the bedroom said, “What happened?”
To which I replied, “The blender came apart and there’s blender-puke everywhere!”
He came out of the room, obviously not able to grasp the concept of “blender-puke” and upon surveying the carnage said, “But, what happened? I mean how?”
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing paper towels to try and stem the river before it hit the floor. “but, it looks like it separated.”
“How?” He asked, his voice registering agitation.
“Look,” I began, getting pissed, “I don’t have time to argue with you about how it happened right now.”
“What? You can’t multi-task?” He said, his face a deadpan.
I started to giggle, and then he started to giggle, and then we cleaned up the barf.
And that is why I love him. He makes me laugh, even when I don’t want to.
And you thought I was going to relay some sappy story about hearts and flowers and shit like that, didn’t you? It’s like you don’t even know me.
One of my granddaughters is 4, and this is what happens when she gets a hold of her Daddy’s cell phone.
First, she figures out how to get to the text message screen, then she figures out how to find me in the Contact list, and then she starts sending me texts. This kid is brilliant, I tell you, just brilliant.
But, I may be prejudiced. Below is a screenshot of the actual conversation.
You be the judge.
I don’t know, I think it’s rather poetic. Don’t you? Look at how she cleverly inserted an actual word – derided – into the message, and then left me wondering…am I being derided? Did I do something that deserved such an outburst? Or is she simply pondering the condition of man, and his inhumanity to his fellows? Or is it just ‘Ed’? And who is this Ed person anyway?
The kid is a genius.
Well? Is it?
Is it YOUR fault?
And, in many ways he’s right.
What say you?
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.
*clears throat, considers what to put out there on the Internets, decides she’s way too boring/paranoid to say anything other than what’s already here*
Well, that got awkward in a hurry.
Here’s a picture of a cute puppy to make up for it.
My family is not normal. Nothing we do is normal. No event is normal. Hell, if we had a “normal” day, that’d be abnormal, so right in line. Even our normal is weird.
Easter egg hunts are not normal at my house. The grandchildren generally get along, the bigger kids help the little ones find eggs, and there is much rejoicing.
The parents, however, are another story. It’s Hunger Games, Easter Egg Hunt at our house. There’s tripping, shoving, misdirection (“Holy shit, you just stepped in pile of dog poo!”), and general foolishness as each parent tries to gain an advantage for their offspring.
In short, they’re a bunch of miscreants. I couldn’t be more proud.
This past Easter’s egg hunt was the same as all the others. The only differences, for me, were 1) for once the yard wasn’t a mudpit as it had been pretty dry all week and 2) I had to watch from afar having smashed the ever-lovin’ shit out of my big toe that morning when I opened the back door to let the dog out and shoved the bottom of the door over the top of my toe. It still hurts like a sonofa….
And then, the Outbreak Monkey arrived.
C’mon, tell me you have seen the scary movie “Outbreak” starring Dustin Hoffman and Renee Russo. If not, get thee to a Red Box or Netflix, or something and watch it.
*builds storage shed*
*cures world hunger*
You back already? Good, now I can finish the story.
So, in my family the first person to get sick with whatever is the one we call the Outbreak Monkey. This time, it was my 8-yr. old granddaughter and our first clue was the text her mother sent as they were driving home:
“Aaaand…we have pukage in the van!! AWESOME!”
At 1:00 a.m. the next morning, the poor baby was still puking in her sleep, no less. My daughter called me asking for the magical potion I keep to stop pukages, so instead of sleeping at 1:00 a.m. I was dispensing wizardry in the hopes my sweet granddaughter would stop the pukies. She did, and there was much rejoicing in the land…
….until this morning, when my daughter texted me again and said her other daughter has it now…
We had FIFTEEN people at our house on Easter Sunday. Two are sick, that makes thirteen more to go…except I think I had it already. I think it’s the nasty new norovirus that has been going around and which I got right after Christmas.
At least I hope that’s what this is.
Or, if my daughter is right – as she said in a follow-up text this morning – it only affects kids 8 and under, or as she put it “the very geriatric, like you Mom”.
Age has its advantages.
It’s that time of year, when bloggers post either sappy, sentiment-filled thank yous and I love yous to all their devoted readers.
But, that just wouldn’t be me.
So, keep the merry in your Christmas,
The happy in your New Year,
And most of all, keep your nuts away from the fire.
Have a good one, see you next year.
There’s this thing, called the Internet, that is truly one of nature’s most amazing black holes ever.
I mean, one minute you’re asking Aunty Google about where to find the best gingerbread cookie recipe, and the next thing you know you’re reading about famous gingers in movies – my personal favorite being Maureen O’Hara.
Hours can go by and before you know it, it’s time to go home and you won’t even be in the running for Most Productive Employee this week/month/year.
Oh well, might as well console yourself with trolling comments on hilarious Amazon products – like uranium and unicorn in a can (go look, and don’t say you haven’t been warned) – or watching BuzzFeed videos and then accidentally coming up with:
“The Most Awesomesauce Phrase of The Day” in the comments.
Today’s phrase was about makeup application, and one commenter was lamenting the cost of makeup and how if she put it on she wanted it to be seen, dammit…so she said:
“…put that shit on like you’ve been slapped n the face with a PopTart ladies…”