"Hey, I need you to do me a favor."
I hate it when he starts a sentence like that. I pull the phone from my ear and roll my eyes. Here we go.
His problems easily and logically (in his mind) become my problems. For instance, when he puts a deer head in my chest freezer, I know it will become my problem. And it does. The freezer dies and the deer head rots. I tell him that there is no way I am opening that freezer. If he wants the rack, he'll have to get it himself. I take a stand. I rarely do that.
When his friend comes to haul the freezer away, he says, "Justin told me to get that head out of the freezer."
You've got to be kidding.
"No, no." I say. "It will be terrible, really, just leave it."
But he's a hunter. At that point, the head is tossed onto the snow in my front yard. There are no adequate words to describe the smell. I won't even try.
Justin isn't due home for three more days and there's no way I can leave a slushy, semi-liquid deer head stew in my front yard. Yes, it is now my problem. As I grasp the antler, the hide slides off the skull. I shovel the rotted flesh into a garbage bag. The head and all of its gooey components are moved to the backyard. I tie a rope around the antler and run it up a tree.
Wrathful does not begin to cover my emotional state. I decide not to mention anything to Justin until I can compose myself.
It takes the full three days.
"Hey, I need you to do me a favor." Rings out of the phone again.
"Yeah? What's that?" Oh please, let it be easy.
"I need you to pick up my dry cleaning."
"Dry cleaning? Sure, no problem."
"Thanks. Gotta go, bye."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Concerns of a Seventh Grade Girl
In retrospect, I'm grateful to have a good story to tell; however, at the time, I was mortified.
My sister and I had been awake into the wee hours of the morning talking. "You know he's going to want to kiss you tomorrow."
I rolled onto my side and propped my head up with my hand. In the moon light, I could make out her outline. She was looking toward me. "I don't know. He is really shy. You know we were going together for a whole week before he held my hand at school." The thought of kissing made me quesy. "Let's not talk about it anymore. I'm going to sleep. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The morning proved to be sunny and fine for our trip to the beach. I called my boyfriend to tell him we'd be there to pick him up in thirty minutes. It seemed like a long time away, but only because my sister was coming up with a whole host of things for me to worry about.
"Do you think your dad will fart in front of him?" She asked.
"Oh my gosh, I hope not."
"He does it in front of everyone else and it is so loud."
"I'd die."
"You could ask him not to." she suggested.
"Then he'd know I was worried about it and do it for sure."
The situation appeared hopeless. I never believed that my father would take pity on me and behave himself. He'd already threatened to "give that boy a talkin' to."
My parents had never met him, so I'm sure they were curious. As he walked toward the car, my step mother commented, "He's awfully cute."
It was true. He was adorable. He had sandy blond hair and an easy smile. Those were just the perks, because his greatest asset was his kindhearted personality.
"Hi," he said, looking toward the front seat. "Thanks for driving all the way out here to pick me up." He sat on the seat next to me and pulled the door closed. He put his hand on mine. "I'm happy to see you."
Everything seemed easier at the beach. We swam and frolicked in the shallows, staying well out of ear shot of my father. It was a flawless day.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" He asked. From behind his back my sister gave me the big eyes.
"Sure. Yeah, that sounds fine."
My stomach rose into my chest and my heartless sister began to laugh."You guys should check out that trail over there. It goes along the woods to the other side of the lake." She was devious.
The path was shady and mild. The birch trees made a rushing sound as the wind blew and I felt that the sound was coming right out of my chest. We arrived at a fork in the trail and paused to consider which path to follow. Facing me he took both of my hands in his and I knew the moment had come. He was going to kiss me. He leaned close to me and I closed my eyes. I could feel that his face was very near my own. The moment had arrived and as I breathed in my last breath as an unkissed girl, I began to choke. I started gasping and hacking. Confused, I moved my hand to my mouth and coughed something out. Oh, it was horrible. In my hand, which was palm up between the two of us, crawled a yellow and black beetle covered in my saliva. I was frozen by the horror of the situation, but with a gentle swish of the back of his hand, he swept the beetle onto the ground. Smooth as ever, he leaned down and kissed me anyway.
My sister and I had been awake into the wee hours of the morning talking. "You know he's going to want to kiss you tomorrow."
I rolled onto my side and propped my head up with my hand. In the moon light, I could make out her outline. She was looking toward me. "I don't know. He is really shy. You know we were going together for a whole week before he held my hand at school." The thought of kissing made me quesy. "Let's not talk about it anymore. I'm going to sleep. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The morning proved to be sunny and fine for our trip to the beach. I called my boyfriend to tell him we'd be there to pick him up in thirty minutes. It seemed like a long time away, but only because my sister was coming up with a whole host of things for me to worry about.
"Do you think your dad will fart in front of him?" She asked.
"Oh my gosh, I hope not."
"He does it in front of everyone else and it is so loud."
"I'd die."
"You could ask him not to." she suggested.
"Then he'd know I was worried about it and do it for sure."
The situation appeared hopeless. I never believed that my father would take pity on me and behave himself. He'd already threatened to "give that boy a talkin' to."
My parents had never met him, so I'm sure they were curious. As he walked toward the car, my step mother commented, "He's awfully cute."
It was true. He was adorable. He had sandy blond hair and an easy smile. Those were just the perks, because his greatest asset was his kindhearted personality.
"Hi," he said, looking toward the front seat. "Thanks for driving all the way out here to pick me up." He sat on the seat next to me and pulled the door closed. He put his hand on mine. "I'm happy to see you."
Everything seemed easier at the beach. We swam and frolicked in the shallows, staying well out of ear shot of my father. It was a flawless day.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" He asked. From behind his back my sister gave me the big eyes.
"Sure. Yeah, that sounds fine."
My stomach rose into my chest and my heartless sister began to laugh."You guys should check out that trail over there. It goes along the woods to the other side of the lake." She was devious.
The path was shady and mild. The birch trees made a rushing sound as the wind blew and I felt that the sound was coming right out of my chest. We arrived at a fork in the trail and paused to consider which path to follow. Facing me he took both of my hands in his and I knew the moment had come. He was going to kiss me. He leaned close to me and I closed my eyes. I could feel that his face was very near my own. The moment had arrived and as I breathed in my last breath as an unkissed girl, I began to choke. I started gasping and hacking. Confused, I moved my hand to my mouth and coughed something out. Oh, it was horrible. In my hand, which was palm up between the two of us, crawled a yellow and black beetle covered in my saliva. I was frozen by the horror of the situation, but with a gentle swish of the back of his hand, he swept the beetle onto the ground. Smooth as ever, he leaned down and kissed me anyway.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
What REALLY Happens When You Exercise
I want to revisit the subject of exercise. I've made a few observations and feel they're worthy of recording.
1. No one ever wants to start exercising after enjoying a lifestyle of sloth.
2. "Because it's good for you" will never convince a person they should start exercising. You have to appeal to their vanity or remind them that one day they're going to die and if they don't get on the wagon, they'll get run down by it.
3. Once a person starts an exercise routine and sticks with it, they morph into an alien.
I feel the need to pause and discuss number three. Somewhere around week three euphoria sets in. You feel your entire life has a beautiful new veneer. You look better, your clothes fit, and your friends start to notice a difference in your appearance. You feel enlightened. You realize that the answer to any difficult question is exercise. Everyone should exercise. Your natural inclination is to start badgering your friends about their exercise routines. You can't help it. Someone says, "I've been having trouble with my back." A response leaps out of you, "You need to exercise." You continue, "I used to have the same problem, but now I exercise. It changed my life." You're no longer satisfied with just being healthy yourself, you have to assimilate others. Someone says, "My kids are stressing me out." You say, "you should try exercise." "I get headaches a lot" leads straight to "You need an exercise routine." "My dog won't stop crapping on my living room rug." Clearly, your dog needs to exercise.
Exercise is always the right answer.
4. Once you have become committed to an exercise program, you live in fear of illness or injury. Really, you are fearful of anything that might knock you off the wagon, because face it, you like being an alien.
5. Exercising regularly makes you want to go to the doctor for your annual physical. Every other year you've gotten the lecture from your doc about how you're NOT exercising, so this year you're ready to really stick it to him. This, of course, opens the door to ask him about HIS exercise routine.
6. Finally, exercising will tell you who your real friends are. You'll separate the wheat from the chaff. Your fair weather friends will simply avoid the new you, while your real friends will tell you outright that you've become a complete pain in the butt. You will hear such loving phrases as "shut up about your exercise, we don't care" or "you can only come in if you're not going to talk about those stupid workout videos" or "no, I don't want to see your ab muscles again."
There they are. Six shining reasons to start your own exercise program. Notice how they started out as observations, but they have become reasons to exercise. I can't help it, the aliens got me fair and square.
Exercise is always the right answer.
1. No one ever wants to start exercising after enjoying a lifestyle of sloth.
2. "Because it's good for you" will never convince a person they should start exercising. You have to appeal to their vanity or remind them that one day they're going to die and if they don't get on the wagon, they'll get run down by it.
3. Once a person starts an exercise routine and sticks with it, they morph into an alien.
I feel the need to pause and discuss number three. Somewhere around week three euphoria sets in. You feel your entire life has a beautiful new veneer. You look better, your clothes fit, and your friends start to notice a difference in your appearance. You feel enlightened. You realize that the answer to any difficult question is exercise. Everyone should exercise. Your natural inclination is to start badgering your friends about their exercise routines. You can't help it. Someone says, "I've been having trouble with my back." A response leaps out of you, "You need to exercise." You continue, "I used to have the same problem, but now I exercise. It changed my life." You're no longer satisfied with just being healthy yourself, you have to assimilate others. Someone says, "My kids are stressing me out." You say, "you should try exercise." "I get headaches a lot" leads straight to "You need an exercise routine." "My dog won't stop crapping on my living room rug." Clearly, your dog needs to exercise.
Exercise is always the right answer.
4. Once you have become committed to an exercise program, you live in fear of illness or injury. Really, you are fearful of anything that might knock you off the wagon, because face it, you like being an alien.
5. Exercising regularly makes you want to go to the doctor for your annual physical. Every other year you've gotten the lecture from your doc about how you're NOT exercising, so this year you're ready to really stick it to him. This, of course, opens the door to ask him about HIS exercise routine.
6. Finally, exercising will tell you who your real friends are. You'll separate the wheat from the chaff. Your fair weather friends will simply avoid the new you, while your real friends will tell you outright that you've become a complete pain in the butt. You will hear such loving phrases as "shut up about your exercise, we don't care" or "you can only come in if you're not going to talk about those stupid workout videos" or "no, I don't want to see your ab muscles again."
There they are. Six shining reasons to start your own exercise program. Notice how they started out as observations, but they have become reasons to exercise. I can't help it, the aliens got me fair and square.
Exercise is always the right answer.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Turning 40
There's a boatload of hype that comes with turning 40. Turning 30 is a nonevent, it just means you're no longer the idjet you were in your twenties and you're probably spending most of your time taking care of kids. Forty comes with accessories that thirty never considered: those little half-glasses for reading, calcium supplements, and a whole new respect for bran.
I'm all for entering a new era. I enjoyed my kids when they were babies, but I love watching them grow into little adults. Don't get me wrong, it's not all a bowl of cherries, like driver's training for instance. No wonder my parents never drove with me. They just turned me loose on my sister's VW Beetle and that was the end of it. Jordan can only do so much, because his brain is highly utilized in the area of making crap up. For instance, when he's approaching an intersection, he struggles between day dreaming and the brake pedal. While I'm stomping a hole in the floor (the imaginary brake pedal, I guess I make stuff up too) he's happy in Jordanland.
Forgetfulness harbors a new level of stress. When you're younger and forget something, it means nothing, but as you age, you begin to assign it value. It becomes a symptom. Am I starting to lose it? Where are my Omega-3 pills? I scrutinize my mother's behavior, looking for signs of dementia. Is it coming for me?
How often I find myself standing in a room, wondering why did I come in here? The other day I was standing in the laundry room wracking my brain. Do I need something in here? I scan the linen closet, no. The washer and dryer are both going, I don't need to change out laundry. Then a familiar pang hits me. My bladder is full. I meant to go into the bathroom, but I missed the turn and headed straight into the laundry room.
My mammogram schedule is stepping up this year. I've been doing this every two years since I was thirty. Most women don't even start mammograms until forty, but my mom and grandma both had breast cancer, so that puts me into a high-risk category. The two most prominent genetic diseases in my family are Alzheimer's and breast cancer. My grandma got them in that order, so as I was helping her get dressed after the mastectomy, she insisted on wearing a bra. I told her I didn't think she needed to put one on, but she motioned toward the area where her breast used to be and said, "I've always been busty. I can't run around without having these in a bra." Well, you can't argue with that. We put her imaginary boobs in and away we went.
I guess I'm not ready for the boobless funny farm just yet. I've got other mile stones to pass. My boys need to graduate high school and college. I'm looking forward to menopause. Since global warming has turned out to be a bust, I'm ready for those hot flashes. Maybe I'll do some shopping. Now that Montgomery Ward has gone under, I don't even know where people my age are supposed to shop. Who sells half-glasses and moo-moos? Oh, I know, it must be Walmart!
I'm all for entering a new era. I enjoyed my kids when they were babies, but I love watching them grow into little adults. Don't get me wrong, it's not all a bowl of cherries, like driver's training for instance. No wonder my parents never drove with me. They just turned me loose on my sister's VW Beetle and that was the end of it. Jordan can only do so much, because his brain is highly utilized in the area of making crap up. For instance, when he's approaching an intersection, he struggles between day dreaming and the brake pedal. While I'm stomping a hole in the floor (the imaginary brake pedal, I guess I make stuff up too) he's happy in Jordanland.
Forgetfulness harbors a new level of stress. When you're younger and forget something, it means nothing, but as you age, you begin to assign it value. It becomes a symptom. Am I starting to lose it? Where are my Omega-3 pills? I scrutinize my mother's behavior, looking for signs of dementia. Is it coming for me?
How often I find myself standing in a room, wondering why did I come in here? The other day I was standing in the laundry room wracking my brain. Do I need something in here? I scan the linen closet, no. The washer and dryer are both going, I don't need to change out laundry. Then a familiar pang hits me. My bladder is full. I meant to go into the bathroom, but I missed the turn and headed straight into the laundry room.
My mammogram schedule is stepping up this year. I've been doing this every two years since I was thirty. Most women don't even start mammograms until forty, but my mom and grandma both had breast cancer, so that puts me into a high-risk category. The two most prominent genetic diseases in my family are Alzheimer's and breast cancer. My grandma got them in that order, so as I was helping her get dressed after the mastectomy, she insisted on wearing a bra. I told her I didn't think she needed to put one on, but she motioned toward the area where her breast used to be and said, "I've always been busty. I can't run around without having these in a bra." Well, you can't argue with that. We put her imaginary boobs in and away we went.
I guess I'm not ready for the boobless funny farm just yet. I've got other mile stones to pass. My boys need to graduate high school and college. I'm looking forward to menopause. Since global warming has turned out to be a bust, I'm ready for those hot flashes. Maybe I'll do some shopping. Now that Montgomery Ward has gone under, I don't even know where people my age are supposed to shop. Who sells half-glasses and moo-moos? Oh, I know, it must be Walmart!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Ferrets for Better Cardiac Health
The average ferret sleeps 18 to 20 hours each day. It takes a mere two hours for a meal to exit the back end of a ferret. Like a cheetah, they have bursts of great energy followed by extreme sloth. I am becoming a ferret.
I did not choose this path for myself, but my husband in his great wisdom, purchased me an all-in-one, do it yourself exercise program. To get me into shape, it hijacks my life.
Six days out of seven, I gear up and stand in front the the television. What I experience is nearly as bad as Basic Training, but remember, when I went through Basic I was a full twenty years younger. A cheerful, bald masochist leads me in the most intense, muscle-burning, cardiac-wrenching workout I've ever done. At this point I am pathetically unequal to the challenge, but I'm hanging in there.
Once the exercises are over, I peel my carcass off the floor and it's time to eat...again. I have to eat five times a day. It's like it never ends. Just as I start to get something done, it's time to head for the trough again. I'm living on protein, roughage, and water. It seems like I'm spending all my time between the kitchen and the bathroom.
Rumor has it that when you exercise, you're supposed to have more energy. Maybe that's true for the younger generation, but given the opportunity, I'd be napping at every turn.
I'm only five days into this routine, so it would be unfair to assume that things won't change. I'm hoping to achieve better results than the muscle-twitching fatigue I've got going on now. The best news is that I get Sundays off. So, when we're not eating or using the litter box, the ferrets and I will be sleeping it off.
I did not choose this path for myself, but my husband in his great wisdom, purchased me an all-in-one, do it yourself exercise program. To get me into shape, it hijacks my life.
Six days out of seven, I gear up and stand in front the the television. What I experience is nearly as bad as Basic Training, but remember, when I went through Basic I was a full twenty years younger. A cheerful, bald masochist leads me in the most intense, muscle-burning, cardiac-wrenching workout I've ever done. At this point I am pathetically unequal to the challenge, but I'm hanging in there.
Once the exercises are over, I peel my carcass off the floor and it's time to eat...again. I have to eat five times a day. It's like it never ends. Just as I start to get something done, it's time to head for the trough again. I'm living on protein, roughage, and water. It seems like I'm spending all my time between the kitchen and the bathroom.
Rumor has it that when you exercise, you're supposed to have more energy. Maybe that's true for the younger generation, but given the opportunity, I'd be napping at every turn.
I'm only five days into this routine, so it would be unfair to assume that things won't change. I'm hoping to achieve better results than the muscle-twitching fatigue I've got going on now. The best news is that I get Sundays off. So, when we're not eating or using the litter box, the ferrets and I will be sleeping it off.
Monday, November 30, 2009
I won a writing contest
I was inspired to write this piece by my friend, Laura. We know several folks who write, so she put forward a couple of titles and challenged us to spin a yarn in the form of a blog entry. She threw in some encouragement by way of competition and of course, the promise of great fame.
It is said to write well, you must write what you know. Well, I know rednecks and plenty of them. This story came to me fast and furious. Laura limited our word count to 800, which is about half of my unedited version. Pared down, my entry was still somewhat over the limit, but it was good and I was ready to shoulder the penalty for my word count violation.
Turns out that the joke was on me. No one else entered the contest. I write a Redneck Pulitzer and everyone else decides to take a powder. Needless to say, I won the contest by default.
So, if you've got a nice cup of coffee and a soft spot for those lovable fellas who are full of adventure and yet entirely void of sound judgment, click the link below and enjoy the ride.
http://inmylittletown.blogspot.com/2009/11/maiden-voyage-ends-in-disaster.html
It is said to write well, you must write what you know. Well, I know rednecks and plenty of them. This story came to me fast and furious. Laura limited our word count to 800, which is about half of my unedited version. Pared down, my entry was still somewhat over the limit, but it was good and I was ready to shoulder the penalty for my word count violation.
Turns out that the joke was on me. No one else entered the contest. I write a Redneck Pulitzer and everyone else decides to take a powder. Needless to say, I won the contest by default.
So, if you've got a nice cup of coffee and a soft spot for those lovable fellas who are full of adventure and yet entirely void of sound judgment, click the link below and enjoy the ride.
http://inmylittletown.blogspot.com/2009/11/maiden-voyage-ends-in-disaster.html
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Other Son
My brother-in-law once told me, "If we don't harness Nathan's powers for good, he's going to become an evil genius and take over the world." That's a heavy burden to carry, considering I'm his mother. I must admit, I was duly cautioned. My mom warned me about second children. "If the first one is easy, the second one will be the end of you." I didn't believe her.
Birth Order Theory is not an idea that I support, but I have to say, there is something to it. Those first children are responsible, law abiding, and so interested in justice. They're like little adults. The second child, however, is a different creature altogether. They are about joy. I've never seen a group of children happier in everything they do than second children. Why is that? It could have something to do with parents being more at ease with a second child. Or, it could be that we just "gave up" a little bit. I mean control.
Nathan is a joyful bugger. He delights in life. The high points of his day include badgering his older brother into a fit, tormenting the dogs, and weaseling his way out of homework. These all sound a bit dark, but he proceeds through each activity with ease and cheer.
I was talking with one of the youth group leaders at church. She was telling me what a fine job he's doing. He participates appropriately, listens carefully, and has beautiful manners. The bells and whistles go off in my head. "We are talking about Nathan? Yes, I'm Nathan's mom." We laugh together and I'm grateful for the encouragement.
Each morning, I wake Nathan up by getting into bed and talking with him. He pretends to be asleep and I pretend to smother him with a pillow or sick the dogs on him. I suppose it's unconventional, but this is Nathan. The first thing he says to me is: "I was really gassy yesterday." I have no idea where this is going. "Yeah, I farted huge during prayer time." I recall the lovely conversation with the youth leader. Yes, that was short-lived and now I'm back to reality. "It must have been really bad, because the kid next to me picked up his stuff and moved." He beams with pride. I am speechless.
Before I reserve my seat next to Stalin's mom in the Evil Leader's Hall of Fame, I consider his softer qualities. He is a sympathetic soul. Though he is a ruthless tease, he is heartbroken when someone is sad, sick, or hurt. Gift-giving is also serious business. Even if we give someone a gift from the family for a birthday, that is not good enough for Nathan. He will make or buy something to give just from him. At Christmas, his gifts sit unopened until each one of us has opened the gifts he bought for us.
I'm not exactly sure how to harness his powers for good. So far, his energy doesn't seem to be focused entirely toward the dark side. What is a mom to do? Be practical. I'll continue to be a diligent teacher, a fair disciplinarian, and try to remember that it's not illegal to fart in church.
Birth Order Theory is not an idea that I support, but I have to say, there is something to it. Those first children are responsible, law abiding, and so interested in justice. They're like little adults. The second child, however, is a different creature altogether. They are about joy. I've never seen a group of children happier in everything they do than second children. Why is that? It could have something to do with parents being more at ease with a second child. Or, it could be that we just "gave up" a little bit. I mean control.
Nathan is a joyful bugger. He delights in life. The high points of his day include badgering his older brother into a fit, tormenting the dogs, and weaseling his way out of homework. These all sound a bit dark, but he proceeds through each activity with ease and cheer.
I was talking with one of the youth group leaders at church. She was telling me what a fine job he's doing. He participates appropriately, listens carefully, and has beautiful manners. The bells and whistles go off in my head. "We are talking about Nathan? Yes, I'm Nathan's mom." We laugh together and I'm grateful for the encouragement.
Each morning, I wake Nathan up by getting into bed and talking with him. He pretends to be asleep and I pretend to smother him with a pillow or sick the dogs on him. I suppose it's unconventional, but this is Nathan. The first thing he says to me is: "I was really gassy yesterday." I have no idea where this is going. "Yeah, I farted huge during prayer time." I recall the lovely conversation with the youth leader. Yes, that was short-lived and now I'm back to reality. "It must have been really bad, because the kid next to me picked up his stuff and moved." He beams with pride. I am speechless.
Before I reserve my seat next to Stalin's mom in the Evil Leader's Hall of Fame, I consider his softer qualities. He is a sympathetic soul. Though he is a ruthless tease, he is heartbroken when someone is sad, sick, or hurt. Gift-giving is also serious business. Even if we give someone a gift from the family for a birthday, that is not good enough for Nathan. He will make or buy something to give just from him. At Christmas, his gifts sit unopened until each one of us has opened the gifts he bought for us.
I'm not exactly sure how to harness his powers for good. So far, his energy doesn't seem to be focused entirely toward the dark side. What is a mom to do? Be practical. I'll continue to be a diligent teacher, a fair disciplinarian, and try to remember that it's not illegal to fart in church.
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