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Tonight I cooked a supper out of the August issue of Southern Living on pages 218-219. I wanted something different that wouldn’t take brain work or a lot of time. When I came across this meal it pretty much covered the foods I like.
I love pork chops, in fact anything pork.
We were sitting at the table in about 30 minutes without a lot of work.
Looks pretty doesn’t it?
I’m irritated. Oh yes I am, so very, very, irritated.
It’s a small thing to be sure, but hey, this small thing is really bothering me.
A friend of mine gave me a book to read, insists I read it. This book is not one I would ever look at twice.
Sounds silly doesn’t it?
By giving me that book and hound dogging me until I read it is irritating me enough to commit friendacide.
She keeps asking and asking, over and over again, have I read it yet.
Now I’m avoiding her and can’t even stand to look at the book, sitting on my desk, it just sitting there is irritating me.
My consumption of books is phenomenal, well known is the fact that my face is buried in a book every chance I have.
Here’s the thing, what I read and when I read it is my choice, nobody else’s.
But I care about my friend, so I will read the book today. Maybe I’ll enjoy it, be surprised and happy that I didn’t miss this gem of a book. But I don’t think so, I think that I will suffer through the whole thing, miserable and unhappy reading the darn thing.
Yeah, yeah, I will remind myself, my friend has been there for me. Sat with me in some miserable situations, held my hand, buoyed me up, supported me. The least I can do is read the book for her sake.
...Oh, I’m just a rotten person...
But then again, I’ve been there for her in some miserable situations too! Held her hand, buoyed her up, supported her!
Oh now I’m irritated...the nerve of her...I don’t have to read this book I’m all grown up...I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to...
...Oh, I’m just a rotten friend...
Let me tell you something, these internal dialogs’s I have with myself are exhausting, I think I’ll call my friend up and see if she wants to go have breakfast.
Maybe she won’t ask me if I’ve read the darn book yet.
I had lunch with the very dear and wonderful Beth. Let me tell you what a treat!
The woman is a joy, simply a joy to be around. What a sprit she has, and she’s generous enough to share her positive and joyous sprit with me. What can I say; she's great!
Talk about interesting, I have got to get together with her again, I got to, just got to, hear more.
It was a treat, the best treat I’ve had in a long time.
I tell you I’m talked out. Beth and I met for lunch and ended up talking for over four hours.
When I got home later Big Guy asks me how can I talk to someone that long. I told him with Beth it’s easy, conversation just flows.
I deserve better than this horror of a cat that moved into my home years ago.
This homeless piece of fur trash was allowed in, fed, given medical care, shelter, kindness, and she treats me like crap.
I can’t take it anymore, 3AM this morning, once again, she decides life is bereft, that life has no meaning.
The cat beastie takes it out on me. The beastie starts howling, jabbing at my head with her little beastie nose, her nasty little beastie paws. Then because I have some how managed to deflect her work-up attack, the beastie starts nipping at me with her little cat beastie teeth.
I hate her little beastie face, her little beastie paws, and her stupid beastie ways.
Big Guy lies there, sleeping, while I’m under full assault.
What kind of man does that? Who let’s his poor weary wife deal with homeless furry trash like the cat beastie!
What kind of man is that?!
I’ll tell you! One who has gotten enough sleep!
I hope the Wrath of Khan descends on his selfish head today.
I hope he’s constipated.
Guess who I get to meet with tomorrow? Beth over at She Who Will Be Obeyed.
I remember when I first read her blog. Beth had planted some roses (I’m going to have to ask her how they’re doing) recalled how her mom would take one of the thorns from the rose, lick the flat side and place it on her nose and tell her she’s a bee now.
It was very short, written in a kind of tone that spoke of the pure enjoyment and love a grown woman has in remembering an act of love from her mother.
All I know is that when I see roses now I think of that story and I wait until my Adored One is old enough to do the same thing to him. Maybe he’ll remember the love I felt for him, the love he felt for me.
I’ve worked hard to make memories that my children can remember, even some that I would prefer they wouldn’t.
Now that I am a Grandmother I get to do it again. I want him to remember me a little, but I want Adored One to remember that his Grandma loved him, cherished him, that he is special just because he exists.
So much I would like to tell you about the times when I grew up. What I’m finding out as I try to write it down, that it’s now either politically incorrect or litigious.
I’m suffering here in a weird sort of way. Feels like a roadblock to tell you the truth.
No way do I want to attract the people who will attack me for writing how it was in my family but then, when I think about it, are these are the very same people who made my childhood a tightrope to walk?
Are these the people who burned a cross in our yard years ago?
If I tell you about Grandma’s stories on Gypsies and her hatred of them, am I being a conduit to bringing that hatred into the future?
I want to tell you about Nigger John, he would correct people for trying to call him John. When someone would try to call him John, he would tell him or her that his name was Nigger John. So for me to write stores about Nigger John I have to use his name. Don’t you see, I have to, because if I didn’t it would be a dishonor to him.
How about my uncle, how those huge old Cadillac’s were called Jew canoes? Can I tell you the funny and sad at the same time stories he had about Jews? I’ll get into trouble, just by writing these stories.
I tell you all, I feel caught in a kind of time warp. I’m pre and post all that politically incorrect wordage, yet I remember how it all came into being in the first place, and why.
I remember huge bigotry but at the same time, from the same people, my family, I remember huge kindnesses to people who crossed their path.
How about when, err, how about the time, um, and then I stop writing it down, because I wonder if these stories shouldn’t die with me.
Big Guy went off to work with a big smile on his face.
Wait a minute, with a huge, sloppy, s**t eating grin, on his face.
Oh baby, baby, sometimes life is good.
Wait a minute, wait a minute, what is this? What is this on my face?
Why it's a huge, sloppy, s**t eating grin.
What can I say? When it's good, oh baby, baby, it's so good!
And now for your viewing pleasure:
Adored One at his first baseball game.
The guy with the blue shirt and hairy arm is my ManChild.
Sunday, beginning of another week.
I’m so bummed out.
All the Mu.Nu’s (whatever that means), all your pages are scrunched up on my screen. Why is that? Is it some sort of conspiracy to drive me crazy? You are my favorite reading for crying out loud and your freaking columns on either side cut half of your words off.
I’m having to fill in the stuff that is cut off and it kind of takes away from my reading enjoyment.
I just want to read your words, written your way.
Is it me? Do I have a right to be paranoid? Are you some sort of secret society that is out to mess with people on the edge? Do you just not like me?
Do you want me to go away?
Well, I won’t, because I really, really, like reading your blogs.
I’ve checked, it’s only the Mu.Nu’s, whatever the heck you are! I’ve got a right to be paranoid about this obviously.
So ok, I will keep on reading you, I will keep on figuring out what words are missing because I adore reading all you MUNUVIANS so much.
But can’t you take just a little pity, just a drop of compassion, a moment of time, and give me the secret code to keep you from scrunching up on my screen?
I know it's something I can fix here, I know that, but and this is a big butt, someone needs to tell me what it is on my end that I can fix that will keep your blog from scrunching up on my screen.
Plus you will feel so much better, I just know it.
I’m still bothered by a meeting I had to attend last week.
Since this particular meeting can go on for hours I had manipulated arranged ahead of time, with a friendly faces, to try and hustle it along in a shorter amount of time. In that we were successful and were able to shave it down from previous times by at least an hour.
Let me explain a facet of my own personality. I am a pragmatic person, I have a matter of fact way to approaching and solving whatever problems happens to come my way.
It works for me and I have learned over the years when to settle for half a loaf of bread, knowing I’ll come back for the other half later.
This time I had to have the whole damn loaf of bread.
Now I have to give a short history, at the last meeting I had been thwarted. I didn’t even get half a loaf, nada, nothing. I was effectively blocked by one particular powerful board member and his sidekick who always votes with him.
Anyways, at this meeting I had an agenda that I had to have taken care of and the pressure was on me, I couldn’t fail.
Which is why I wanted that meeting shortened. That meant everyone was pressured to hustle along and not be able to think very long about any one problem or situation.
By doing that, I was able to throw in, or attach, with some other work that needed to be done, my own agenda.
At this Board Meeting the same powerful board member would be there but, before the meeting, I had manipulated arranged to have it at a time when I knew that one member, his ass kissing sidekick, wouldn’t be able to attend, both would of voted against me.
Then I phoned and lined up the other board members that were friendly to me, to vote with me, which with this one ass kissing sidekick member absent, we would be in the majority and I would get what I wanted.
So I got what I wanted, the whole loaf of bread.
But now, I have one pretty powerful board member, who is used to getting his own way, angry with me.
I really don’t like that, no, no, I really don’t like that. As I was walking out having shortened this meeting, having gotten my own way and having his conversation cut off, he had a few insults to hurl my direction.
Anyways, that’s why I’m bothered and had to write about it.
My feelings are hurt, silly isn’t it, that I’m hurt because he doesn’t like me.
Oh well, now that I’ve written about it, got it out, who really cares if he likes me or not. I got what I wanted, and truthfully this butthead is of no consequence to my life. So now I can just forget about it.
Well, it was nice getting that out of my system. Thanks for reading this crap.
Sometimes as I'm going and reading blogs I see some advice that is just the best. This one is directed to the guys.
I've seen the guy's who have looked back and realized they dodged the bullet and I've seen the one's who didn't listen to good advice and wished they had.
Guys, believe it, it’s true.
I was born in the early fifties and came into my teenage years in the sixties when the big drug craze hit.
I think my mother actually is the one who kept me away from drugs. Mom’s struggle to just remain sane, to be there for her children, was a daily example to me on how important it was to remain clearheaded.
What she wanted so terribly was what the rest of us had, a mind that you could count on to be there, to just know what you were thinking was accurate.
To this day I vividly remember her suffering, to try to clear her mind, screaming and hitting her head, to try to get five seconds, five minutes of clarity. This is the part that haunts me; she wanted to give those precious, precious, clarity of moments to her children.
Sometimes she got those moments and they were indeed the most precious moments of our lives. I simply cannot tell you, write for you, how it felt to have my mother fight for those moments, then look at me, touch me, tell me how much she loved me and my sister and brother.
It was so beautiful, those moments of clear-eyed love shining out of her eyes, when she would see us, in crystal clear reality.
Then Mom would start to lose the fight, but still for those precious moments in time, she was there for us.
Anyways, when the drugs were happening all around us, all three of us, my sister, brother and myself, never touched them. Didn’t understand them, we could not understand why anyone would want to not have clarity of mind.
I get so angry with parents who use and abuse substances. I knew as a child when my mother was all there for me and I knew when her mind was fogged. It’s true that it was mental illness for her, but those moments when she was all there for us clear minded, that she saw us, meant everything.
For the children of practicing alcoholics and drug addled parents, all those kids know is that their parents could stop if they wanted too, but choose to deal with their children through drug addled brains.
I don’t understand why. How on earth can you justify drugs over your own children?
Just makes me sad is all, because I just don't understand putting drugs over beautiful children, I just don't understand.
Spent the day working like a maniac yesterday and in between arguing with Biscuit Butt.
Oh what a day it was, I need some rest.
Biscuit Butt thinks I’m a bad, bad, sister for writing that post about him. He sent me an email that would curl your hair it was so nasty. Then we started phoning back and forth with more arguments, each justifying what we did and said. Sure got lively.
Oh well.
I can live with that.
Damn, I love my brother to bits, so I’ll put up with a lot from him and I know that goes with him too.
One of the problems is verbally he outclasses me. Man, oh man, can he talk circles around me, at times I feel like I have the vocabulary of a three year old.
But then, from some inner place, everything pulls together, and all of a sudden everything snaps into place and whoa, I got the words and the skills to hold my own.
Sometimes I have an inkling of how Rainman feels.
It’s pretty plain when that happens because then Biscuit Butt hangs up on me. When he hangs up on me I do a happy dance, cause I know I just outdebated his butt.
That’s when I know I won that round.
At that moment in time I almost feel like I could walk on water, make world peace happen, feed all the starving children and simply cure the worlds problems in one fell swoop.
Of course, about then something happens that brings me back to reality.
One of those things was an employee calling me up hysterical, needs to talk to me private, as soon as possible. I’ll call him Jeb, that’s not his name but I really need to use a name here.
Jeb’s location was close so I said I would be there in about ten minutes, I didn’t know what the heck was going on but I expected the worst.
We go into an office and sit down, then Jeb tells me he has to show me something and starts to unbutton his shirt. You can only imagine what I’m thinking, nothing sexual, just that I might be in a room with a wacko.
But then he shows me.
Holy cow, for crying out loud, I was shocked! Speechless!
I had never seen anything like this in my life! Are you ready?
His nipples had grown green, moldy stuff on them, like a crusty mold, growing, creeping, completely disgusting.
Jeb told me he saw it in the shower that morning, tried to wash it off, and it wouldn’t wash off, then he tried to pick it off and couldn’t. That it's attached to his nipples.
Jeb said he didn’t have it yesterday, that it had grown overnight.
Jeb was just plain freaked out, geez, just looking at it I was freaked out.
Told me to touch it, see what I thought. I told him, “No, fucking way!”
I think I could have handled it better but man I was freaked out and said the first thing that came out of my mouth.
I asked him if he had called the Dr. yet and he said yes, but he wouldn’t be able to get in until Friday.
So I asked Jeb if he had told them what the problem was, and Jeb said no, that the receptionist asked but how on earth could he tell her that he’s growing green, moldy, blackish hard stuff on his nipples.
Jeb says she’s good looking and wanted to ask her out and if she hears this he doesn’t stand a chance of ever going out with her.
Sex always comes into it doesn’t it? Gotta love it.
I made him get back on the phone, call and tell them it was a personal emergency, and he had to be seen that day.
Just think about it, if it can grow like that overnight, who in the heck knows how more he’s be covered by Friday. Creeps me out just thinking about it.
Anyways, he goes to the Dr., show’s him and finds out that it’s a reaction to some antibiotics that he has been taking for dental work being done. Take different antibiotics and it will go away.
Creepy, just plain creepy, eww, looked like something from another world.
I have so wanted to tell you the story of the time I shot my brother, why I shot Biscuit-Butt, but when I asked his permission he said no, no how, no way.
I have to respect that, but that doesn’t mean I can’t talk about how I felt does it? I’m such a brat sometimes, anything to aggravate my brother Biscuit-Butt works for me.
Biscuit-Butt can really be an ass sometimes. The poor man, even after all these decades he is still waiting for an apology that will never, ever come out of my mouth.
I wish I could shoot him again, I enjoyed it that much. I have always said that one big regret of mine is I didn’t leave him with a limp to remember me by on a daily basis. I love saying things like that to him any time he tries worming an apology out of me.
Nothing hot tempered about this girl, I am one cool, calm, collected chick, even as a child. I shot Biscuit-Butt and in the same circumstances, I would shoot him again in a heartbeat.
The only regret I have about the whole shooting to this day is I got the worst beating of my life, but truthfully, that was just an obligation on the part of my family. Little girls shouldn’t go around shooting their big brothers. But it was worth it, in that brief moment in time, I stepped up to the plate, shot Biscuit-Butt and took my beating.
But the aftermath is really what gives me that deep feeling of pleasure, leaves me with that warm fuzzy feeling.
When I think about my brother, lying across the big wooden kitchen table, bare ass with his pants around his ankles, howling, no, I take that back, squealing like a pig. Moaning in agony, horrified as only a 16-year-old man-child can be because everyone but everyone is digging at his ass. There are his private parts, dangling down for the world to see.
Greatest show I had ever seen life. The Greatest!
Why? Because it was the only time that fat ass lawyer brother of mine ever put on a show that had any great honesty that was genuine.
The fact that it was me, Biscuit-Butt knowing it was me, his little sister that had reduced him to that state. Mmm, I sigh with contentment thinking about it even now.
I also stood in the kitchen and continued to scream at him, jeered at him, trying to cause even more damage, trying to get at him and being held back. I was screaming and crying at the same time.
It was one of the most delicious moments of my life. Still leaves me giddy with joy.
Now this probably sounds pretty horrible to you, doesn’t it? But my reasoning was sound on shooting him, and as time passed, my family agreed.
Actually, thinking about it, time didn’t have to pass, they all pretty much agreed then he should have been shot, just that grown ups don’t want to encourage that kind of thing with a kid.
Every one of my family members, and some who weren’t family, at one time or another said he should have been shot long before, that they wished they had done it.
And the laughter and joy displayed as he was laying over that kitchen table with his dangles dangling down, family trying to restrain themselves from laughing, oh my, what a great memory. Everyone kept erupting into laughter.
I’m just the one who stepped up to the plate and actually did it.
Shooting Biscuit-Butt was the best thing that could ever of happened to him.
Now if Biscuit-Butt would agree that it was the best thing that ever happened to him, maybe, just maybe, I might apologize, but probably not.
Biscuit-Butt and I talk all the time, he loves me deeply and I love him with the same devotion.
So anyways, until the day Biscuit-Butt allows me to tell the whole story, this is really all I should write.
Biscuit-Butt I love you, you turned into the best brother in the world. I hope my little story aggravates and irritates you whenever you finally get around to reading it, but I’m still glad I shot your ass.
That is also how I got my name that I have been called by ever since, BeeBee. I forget how many BB's they took out of his ass, butt (heehee, had to use that word) you can see that it wasn't quite life threatening but painful anyways.
When I think of him coming towards me ready to hurt me bad, and me with my great BB gun, and his running away with his great fat ass, I can only think about what a great BB gun I had and truly what a good shot I was.
Sorry this is so long but I keep thinking about it and just wishing I could write better and more, more, more, just so you can maybe see in your mind a little of that tiny slice of my life.
I guess I’m going to live, shit. I sure didn’t want to but what’s a girl to do? After my sister died all I could think about was dying, wanting to die, wishing for it, wondering if I should just do it myself.
I’m fifty-three years old and I was tired and weary of it all.
My life has been lived to the fullest, surrounded with passionate and crazy ass people. If you think what I write borders on unbelievable, let me tell you right now that I haven’t even told you even a portion of what I could have.
I’ve just given little dabs of what my reality is, just tiny little drops, smidgens of what I could of wrote. To write it all would have meant that maybe people just wouldn’t have believed me. Yes, my life has been that bizarre, that strange.
But now? As my dream boy Rhett would say, “Quite frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.”
So many stories to tell, so much to tell someone about, and I think, what the hell, maybe I’ll just do that. Tell it all, put it out there.
When my sister died I quit writing, it was the best way to punish myself for being alive. Most of my life, every morning I wrote in my journal. It was my way of staying sane, my way of dumping the trash.
Damn, did I suffer when I quit. It was like a little death everyday, no way to get those thoughts out, and no way to dump it so that I wouldn’t carry it with me all day and night. I wanted to carry that trash with me, I wanted to hurt.
This morning I started writing in my journal again, I wrote for over 3 hours, just wrote and wrote. Let me tell you, I dumped some really nasty, stinky, smelly, trash.
Whoo eee, did it ever feel good.
Big Guy asked what I was doing, and I told him writing. I thought he was going to cry with happiness.
I know he has been scared, upset, with my grief, of what I’ve been going through. Big Guy wanted to help me but he couldn’t find a way to do that. I just wouldn’t let the poor man in to help. I cut him out of my life and hurt him badly by doing that.
But when Big Guy saw me writing this morning, he called work and told them he wasn’t coming in today.
That is our bond, that my friends, is a deeply committed relationship and years of struggle of two people who have held each other tightly through thick and thin.
Big Guy is staying home so we can spend the day together because, by my writing again, he knows I’ve chosen to get on with life.
My beloved and cherished Big Guy wants to spend the first day of the rest of my life with me. I am one lucky woman.
So here is a post for you, one honest and heartfelt post, that has no story to it, no point to make. Just letting you in on my life.
