Gramma,
Happy Halloween. Saturday night's annual Witches Ball was a success. The bike club and some of the Christmas cookie exchange group were in attendance. My floors are covered with leaf litter and footprints. Despite rain much of the day, the guys were able to get a bonfire going with a blow torch.
Blood spurted from a steak stuffed into the neck of the headless guy. I warned him to step away from a quilt that had taken months to make. The flasher's interpretive dance included a stuffed pantyhose appendage, which Freddy Krueger tried to filet. The priest and nun were unsuccessful at saving souls.
Two zombie girls spent hours in the upstairs bathroom doing their makeup. They didn't even take a break to refresh beverages. I checked on them to make sure they weren't locked in. The temperamental door intermittently requires someone from the outside to open it. That can be scary in an unfamiliar house with a haunted reputation. The noise coming from the Halloween village on the main floor drowned out the screaming and door pounding coming from upstairs.
One of the cookie exchange girls showed up late, drunk and disorderly. A big joint was hanging out of her mouth. She is not a big pot smoker, but thought it would be cool to ask people for a light. Her ex-husband-to-be had been a club member, but was kicked out for causing too many mandatory meetings with the Hell's Angels, Girlfriend did not help his cause. It is bad form to criticize another club when you are at a party on their turf.
She decided to kiss all the guys around the fire, claiming it was her birthday and she could do as she pleased. She was also dancing around in dark corners with a member who was there with his girlfriend. This too, is bad form. She will not be invited to anymore events where club members are present. I was glad when her driver dragged her out to the car. I would imagine she is still recovering. Drunkeness and diabetes is not a good combination.
Family drama kept another couple away. The evil drunken mother of two grandchildren threw the family dog out of a moving truck. Then she tried to choke her ex-husband, threatening to kill him and get custody of the kids. This is while he was driving. The kids were screaming. They told the police they never wanted to see her again.
One of the cookie exchange girls and her husband were headed to North Dakota to support the pipeline protest. Otherwise, almost everyone showed up. Two of the dogs were dressed as wieners. Two were sent to their boxes for trying to mark guests as their territory.
As witches arrived, I was just getting out of the shower. There wasn't time to put on some Christmas music. I should have gotten up earlier, but we were out late the night before celebrating at a surprise birthday party.
A friend spent the night and helped put food away. It had taken me all month to prepare for this event. Sunday was spent on the couch watching bad t.v. Then the Packers lost by one point. I shouldn't have chosen to watch NatGeo after that. Seeing the planet destruct from global warming is the stuff of nightmares.
The gates are open for brave trick-or-treaters, It is over fifty degrees here in the northwoods. As I can't keep candy in the house without it disappearing, the kids are getting mardi-gras beads. The grandkids will be here next weekend to help take down the mess. Their next visit will be to install Christmas, much less involved than Halloween.
Showing posts with label Beer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beer. Show all posts
Monday, October 31, 2016
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Indian Summer
Gramma,
October eighteenth was an amazing Indian summer day in Minnesota. Even the morning was warm enough to pull me outside early. Rain and wind from the night before left a vast carpet of heavy, wet leaves waiting to be mowed. Many of the trees are showing their full skeletons. The oaks hang on longer, some till spring. Vines crawling up the house are crimson. Some flowers are still blooming.
I fed the ducks, the peacocks, and the songbirds, then filled the donkey water tank. There were a few more squash and pumpkins to pick before mowing the garden. The dogs trailed behind as I buzzed around the yard picking up sticks, putting away yard tools and finishing the Halloween decorating. The clowns needed to be blood-splattered with red house paint. I fired up the lights to see if the breaker would blow.
Bicycles, power washed by the storm, leaned against an out-building. Some of them are outgrown and will be sent to the Goodwill. They had collected dust in the lean-to where straw is stacked and animals hang out in a fenced section. The floor is dirt. Firewood was stored here until we installed a gas fireplace. Gone are the days of cutting, splitting, and hauling into the garage and then into the house. After we gave it up, I missed the smell of a crackling fire. I don't miss the mess.
The afternoon sun dried the leaves enough to mince with the tractor mower. The litter is good fertilizer. I mowed for hours, taking several breaks to replenish my beer. Sun, warmth, cold beer--it is a halcyon day. This day sums up why I choose not to chase the almighty dollar at the expense of sheer joy. I have "enough" and I can stretch a dollar until it screams.
I worked at a publishing company in Minneapolis for a brief period. The sky was just lighting up when I left in the morning. While stuck in afternoon traffic, I couldn't wait to get home and be outside. It seemed that as soon as I got my clothes changed, the dark slammed down. While I enjoyed the work, the situation did not give me balance or feed my spirit.
Life is about choices. We are all one decision away from a whole different life. While our financial assets may not be as healthy as some of our friends and relatives, I believe our quality of life is richer.
October eighteenth was an amazing Indian summer day in Minnesota. Even the morning was warm enough to pull me outside early. Rain and wind from the night before left a vast carpet of heavy, wet leaves waiting to be mowed. Many of the trees are showing their full skeletons. The oaks hang on longer, some till spring. Vines crawling up the house are crimson. Some flowers are still blooming.
I fed the ducks, the peacocks, and the songbirds, then filled the donkey water tank. There were a few more squash and pumpkins to pick before mowing the garden. The dogs trailed behind as I buzzed around the yard picking up sticks, putting away yard tools and finishing the Halloween decorating. The clowns needed to be blood-splattered with red house paint. I fired up the lights to see if the breaker would blow.
Bicycles, power washed by the storm, leaned against an out-building. Some of them are outgrown and will be sent to the Goodwill. They had collected dust in the lean-to where straw is stacked and animals hang out in a fenced section. The floor is dirt. Firewood was stored here until we installed a gas fireplace. Gone are the days of cutting, splitting, and hauling into the garage and then into the house. After we gave it up, I missed the smell of a crackling fire. I don't miss the mess.
The afternoon sun dried the leaves enough to mince with the tractor mower. The litter is good fertilizer. I mowed for hours, taking several breaks to replenish my beer. Sun, warmth, cold beer--it is a halcyon day. This day sums up why I choose not to chase the almighty dollar at the expense of sheer joy. I have "enough" and I can stretch a dollar until it screams.
I worked at a publishing company in Minneapolis for a brief period. The sky was just lighting up when I left in the morning. While stuck in afternoon traffic, I couldn't wait to get home and be outside. It seemed that as soon as I got my clothes changed, the dark slammed down. While I enjoyed the work, the situation did not give me balance or feed my spirit.
Life is about choices. We are all one decision away from a whole different life. While our financial assets may not be as healthy as some of our friends and relatives, I believe our quality of life is richer.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Dog Tired
Gramma,
Moonshine had a strange Uber customer yesterday--a set of keys.
We got so much rain yesterday, two rivers are flooding. Tornado's of destruction, threw people's shit around. But, today is a top ten gorgeous Minnesota day. There's a nice breeze cloudless skies, low humidity and 84 degrees. I regret that I was too exhausted to take advantage of it. I had planned to continue work on an outdoor peacock sculpture.
Spent much of the day in bed, too tired to even watch TV. I hope this is not Lyme's disease. I've had it before and was down more than a month, plus lengthy after effects of body aches and bouts of no energy. My friend's dog just tested positive. Mercy was limping and had tender joints. I treat my dogs monthly with a preventative. Why isn't there prevention for people?
Poor Eddie has blue balls. Princess is in heat and he can't reach. I would get him some help, but I don't want winter puppies. Next time. Spring puppies. Ready for summer homes with kids. I am looking forward to making Auggies, an Australian Shepherd, Corgi cross. They are herding dogs. Mine are both mini's.
Don't know what I will do with the revenue. It will not be enough to take the grandkids to Iceland and sleep in an igloo under the northern lights. Maybe my sister and I can go through the Keyes in a rented convertible. I would like to go to Cuba with Dave before McDonald's gets there.
Tomorrow is an unplanned day with lots of options. Hopefully, I will have double energy, which sometimes happens. Dave is working late tonight. I will meet him at the fixit shop with his antique truck. First gear has a rattle. There will be room in the shed for me to dig out the plates necessary for my peacock sculpture. It's time for a beer. Hope I can sleep tonight.
Moonshine had a strange Uber customer yesterday--a set of keys.
We got so much rain yesterday, two rivers are flooding. Tornado's of destruction, threw people's shit around. But, today is a top ten gorgeous Minnesota day. There's a nice breeze cloudless skies, low humidity and 84 degrees. I regret that I was too exhausted to take advantage of it. I had planned to continue work on an outdoor peacock sculpture.
Spent much of the day in bed, too tired to even watch TV. I hope this is not Lyme's disease. I've had it before and was down more than a month, plus lengthy after effects of body aches and bouts of no energy. My friend's dog just tested positive. Mercy was limping and had tender joints. I treat my dogs monthly with a preventative. Why isn't there prevention for people?
Poor Eddie has blue balls. Princess is in heat and he can't reach. I would get him some help, but I don't want winter puppies. Next time. Spring puppies. Ready for summer homes with kids. I am looking forward to making Auggies, an Australian Shepherd, Corgi cross. They are herding dogs. Mine are both mini's.
Don't know what I will do with the revenue. It will not be enough to take the grandkids to Iceland and sleep in an igloo under the northern lights. Maybe my sister and I can go through the Keyes in a rented convertible. I would like to go to Cuba with Dave before McDonald's gets there.
Tomorrow is an unplanned day with lots of options. Hopefully, I will have double energy, which sometimes happens. Dave is working late tonight. I will meet him at the fixit shop with his antique truck. First gear has a rattle. There will be room in the shed for me to dig out the plates necessary for my peacock sculpture. It's time for a beer. Hope I can sleep tonight.
Monday, July 11, 2016
The Cheese Stands Alone
Gramma,
Dave stayed home today. I don't like that he gives me no advance warning. He knew this on Friday. I plan my days around his schedule. So now I can't spend all day in bed with my boyfriend. Dave is practicing for retirement. Two years till go time. He will have knee surgery and then shoulder surgery. He's hoping he can skate out on that.
Summer TV is pretty dreary. We often watch several episodes of Orange is the New Black in the evening. I binge watched the series while visiting my daughter in Denver two years ago. Granted, I was drinking copious quantities of beer and ingesting pot candy, but I don't remember a lot of details. This concerns me, as my brother is only 52 and has early onset Alzheimer's.
As a former guest of the Wisconsin DOC, I find Orange is the New Black to be a good rendition of how things are. Whites were the minority. Crimes were mostly drug related. My crime of Solicitation of Murder was highly revered, so I didn't get a lot of shit that new inmates get. Nothing there is secret. Inmates worked in the office and had access to information. I had been in the state nut hut for a couple months being evaluated for trial. This gave me the added security of being seen as a loose cannon. I was classified as violent and dangerous.
I was pretty much white bread back woods with no priors. NO STREET SMARTS. I was in church choir, garden club, president of the Fine Arts Board, and worked on Love Baskets at Christmas. I was a secretary where I worked, until I had ten years in and was vested for retirement. Then I grew ginseng for export. We had forty acres of woods to grow it on. I lived in mosquito heaven with three kids and their sperm donor.
I compartmentalized my life--there was this life with my spousal unit and his abusive behavior, the public façade with him, and life with my kids, friends, and work. I led a double life. I didn't have the words or knowledge necessary to understand what he was doing to me. There was some physical abuse, but the majority was emotional, sexual and financial. Even when he was around, he was rarely available to us. When he was, it was mostly not pretty.
The last straw was when he did something to our oldest son that made him attempt suicide. I came home from choir practice to find that he had been taken to a mental health facility more than an hour away. His younger bother was sitting in a rocking chair in a fetal position. The police had surrounded the house and confiscated a gun.
I called his father at work. "What do you want me to do about it," he barked. "I just thought you would want to know." The paternal grandparents blamed me. I went to see an attorney.
After I filed for divorce, things escalated. Marriage counseling was an utter failure. He had done nothing wrong. And, so the stalking, gunfire, harassment and manipulation began. His family was well-known in the area. Friends and acquaintances backed away from me. The cheese stands alone.
Dave stayed home today. I don't like that he gives me no advance warning. He knew this on Friday. I plan my days around his schedule. So now I can't spend all day in bed with my boyfriend. Dave is practicing for retirement. Two years till go time. He will have knee surgery and then shoulder surgery. He's hoping he can skate out on that.
Summer TV is pretty dreary. We often watch several episodes of Orange is the New Black in the evening. I binge watched the series while visiting my daughter in Denver two years ago. Granted, I was drinking copious quantities of beer and ingesting pot candy, but I don't remember a lot of details. This concerns me, as my brother is only 52 and has early onset Alzheimer's.
As a former guest of the Wisconsin DOC, I find Orange is the New Black to be a good rendition of how things are. Whites were the minority. Crimes were mostly drug related. My crime of Solicitation of Murder was highly revered, so I didn't get a lot of shit that new inmates get. Nothing there is secret. Inmates worked in the office and had access to information. I had been in the state nut hut for a couple months being evaluated for trial. This gave me the added security of being seen as a loose cannon. I was classified as violent and dangerous.
I was pretty much white bread back woods with no priors. NO STREET SMARTS. I was in church choir, garden club, president of the Fine Arts Board, and worked on Love Baskets at Christmas. I was a secretary where I worked, until I had ten years in and was vested for retirement. Then I grew ginseng for export. We had forty acres of woods to grow it on. I lived in mosquito heaven with three kids and their sperm donor.
I compartmentalized my life--there was this life with my spousal unit and his abusive behavior, the public façade with him, and life with my kids, friends, and work. I led a double life. I didn't have the words or knowledge necessary to understand what he was doing to me. There was some physical abuse, but the majority was emotional, sexual and financial. Even when he was around, he was rarely available to us. When he was, it was mostly not pretty.
The last straw was when he did something to our oldest son that made him attempt suicide. I came home from choir practice to find that he had been taken to a mental health facility more than an hour away. His younger bother was sitting in a rocking chair in a fetal position. The police had surrounded the house and confiscated a gun.
I called his father at work. "What do you want me to do about it," he barked. "I just thought you would want to know." The paternal grandparents blamed me. I went to see an attorney.
After I filed for divorce, things escalated. Marriage counseling was an utter failure. He had done nothing wrong. And, so the stalking, gunfire, harassment and manipulation began. His family was well-known in the area. Friends and acquaintances backed away from me. The cheese stands alone.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
PTSD
Gramma,
Hail predicted. Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage. That pretty much insures we won't get any weather. Can't believe anything these hacks say. First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m. It was sunny and hot. We need rain. My grass is shredded wheat.
The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere. I deadhead every morning. All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass. Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this. The windows are open and he is singing away.
Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth. My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late. They spent the night. We grilled and drank a lot of beer. The kids had a fire in the pit. I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing. There is a bruise on my ribcage. I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning.
Party at my son's the next night. He bought the house and land where he was raised. I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home. I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things. Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots. It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990.
My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch. Bullets flew past us. The shepherd went down. I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house. "Get Baby," she yelled. Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday. Baby was wearing a bonnet. I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety.
When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet. Later, I called the Sheriff's Department. An officer showed up and blew me off. My husband's family had the police in their pocket. I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help. He too ignored me. I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed.
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time. I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me.
Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed. I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch. That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary. My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time. Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother?
Hail predicted. Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage. That pretty much insures we won't get any weather. Can't believe anything these hacks say. First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m. It was sunny and hot. We need rain. My grass is shredded wheat.
The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere. I deadhead every morning. All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass. Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this. The windows are open and he is singing away.
Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth. My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late. They spent the night. We grilled and drank a lot of beer. The kids had a fire in the pit. I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing. There is a bruise on my ribcage. I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning.
Party at my son's the next night. He bought the house and land where he was raised. I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home. I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things. Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots. It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990.
My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch. Bullets flew past us. The shepherd went down. I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house. "Get Baby," she yelled. Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday. Baby was wearing a bonnet. I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety.
When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet. Later, I called the Sheriff's Department. An officer showed up and blew me off. My husband's family had the police in their pocket. I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help. He too ignored me. I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed.
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time. I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me.
Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed. I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch. That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary. My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time. Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother?
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Busy Busy Busy
Gramma,
It's been crazy busy around here. Dave took last week off to gather his wits for Union negotiations this week. Mostly, that involved sitting on the patio drinking, stewing and putting words on paper that he wanted me to reconstruct. If ever I was to apply for a job, I would put down Union Interpreter as one of my talents. This involves translating Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck Fuck into something more palatable for management.
On Friday, we took off for a three day weekend with the bike club. We put on about five-hundred miles total, looping through the backroads of Wisconsin farm country. The ditches were full of wildflowers. Hay being baled is one of my favorite childhood smells. The corn looks good this year, a little ahead of the "Knee High By The Fourth of July" rule.
Amish people were farming with horses. We gave a wide berth when passing horse-pulled buggies. The slowest McDonalds on the planet was on our route. Some Amish people left with enough food to for the zombie apocalypse.
The bartender at one stop had on bib overalls. I got lumpy Spotted Cow tap beer at another bar. After dumping two glasses, I asked for a bottle. I do not drink warm beer. Back at the dive motel, we did our serious drinking. Some of the guys had noisemaking fireworks. Surprisingly, we have never been kicked out of a motel. On occasion, the police have shown up to our campsites. Outrageous stories are told and legends are made.
My daughter and her guy friend arrived late Sunday. Guy friend's name is Aashkahn. I call him trashcan. They are here for a week. We have been hanging out, drinking and laughing. They don't get up until around two. My schedule is off until after the Fourth. Stories to follow.
It's been crazy busy around here. Dave took last week off to gather his wits for Union negotiations this week. Mostly, that involved sitting on the patio drinking, stewing and putting words on paper that he wanted me to reconstruct. If ever I was to apply for a job, I would put down Union Interpreter as one of my talents. This involves translating Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck Fuck into something more palatable for management.
On Friday, we took off for a three day weekend with the bike club. We put on about five-hundred miles total, looping through the backroads of Wisconsin farm country. The ditches were full of wildflowers. Hay being baled is one of my favorite childhood smells. The corn looks good this year, a little ahead of the "Knee High By The Fourth of July" rule.
Amish people were farming with horses. We gave a wide berth when passing horse-pulled buggies. The slowest McDonalds on the planet was on our route. Some Amish people left with enough food to for the zombie apocalypse.
The bartender at one stop had on bib overalls. I got lumpy Spotted Cow tap beer at another bar. After dumping two glasses, I asked for a bottle. I do not drink warm beer. Back at the dive motel, we did our serious drinking. Some of the guys had noisemaking fireworks. Surprisingly, we have never been kicked out of a motel. On occasion, the police have shown up to our campsites. Outrageous stories are told and legends are made.
My daughter and her guy friend arrived late Sunday. Guy friend's name is Aashkahn. I call him trashcan. They are here for a week. We have been hanging out, drinking and laughing. They don't get up until around two. My schedule is off until after the Fourth. Stories to follow.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Friends Don't Let Friends
Gramma,
Five-hundred miles and ten t-shirts don't make you a biker. You can always tell a new biker by their leathers--all shiny and black with no scuff marks, creases, or scars. They are proud of this and stand apart like a new kid on the first day of school, full of anticipation and desperately wanting to fit in. They want to be recognized as a biker, but are uninitiated. This process can't be expedited in a special fast lane or by greasing palms. You have to do the time.
Surprisingly, doctors and lawyers, who have endured years of training to reach their goal think they can get a biker degree off a matchbox cover. But, you can become a HOG member if that makes you feel more legitimate. This is a group set up for new Harley riders who want to get to know the road and other newbies like themselves.
My own chaps have acquired a burnished, brown, sunbaked patina from the knees up. My jacket is covered with patches and pins collected from all the places I've been. They are scuffed from hitting the pavement. The lining is torn and frayed. Upgrading my leathers would be like trading in my loyal dog. I have seen vests so worn, they are held together by years of road grime and strategic placement of collected patches with the sentiments they believe in.
Friends don't let friends ride into Sturgis wearing new leathers. So it was an act of kindness when Bubba Dick was forced at beer point to hand his over for modification. Bubba had just purchased a new ride and approximately $600.00 worth of leathers. Bungee cords and rope materialized. Bubba's leathers soon looked like a couple of Cheech and Chong hybrid cigars. They were attached to a dope rope to bounce along the pavement behind the bike.
Fifty miles later, scuffed and scarred, Bubba Dick's leathers were seasoned to perfection. His friends could now take him anywhere with little embarrassment. Unfortunately, he was wearing a white t-shirt printed with "My Mother Says I'm Special." Bikers commune in black.
Five-hundred miles and ten t-shirts don't make you a biker. You can always tell a new biker by their leathers--all shiny and black with no scuff marks, creases, or scars. They are proud of this and stand apart like a new kid on the first day of school, full of anticipation and desperately wanting to fit in. They want to be recognized as a biker, but are uninitiated. This process can't be expedited in a special fast lane or by greasing palms. You have to do the time.
Surprisingly, doctors and lawyers, who have endured years of training to reach their goal think they can get a biker degree off a matchbox cover. But, you can become a HOG member if that makes you feel more legitimate. This is a group set up for new Harley riders who want to get to know the road and other newbies like themselves.
My own chaps have acquired a burnished, brown, sunbaked patina from the knees up. My jacket is covered with patches and pins collected from all the places I've been. They are scuffed from hitting the pavement. The lining is torn and frayed. Upgrading my leathers would be like trading in my loyal dog. I have seen vests so worn, they are held together by years of road grime and strategic placement of collected patches with the sentiments they believe in.
Friends don't let friends ride into Sturgis wearing new leathers. So it was an act of kindness when Bubba Dick was forced at beer point to hand his over for modification. Bubba had just purchased a new ride and approximately $600.00 worth of leathers. Bungee cords and rope materialized. Bubba's leathers soon looked like a couple of Cheech and Chong hybrid cigars. They were attached to a dope rope to bounce along the pavement behind the bike.
Fifty miles later, scuffed and scarred, Bubba Dick's leathers were seasoned to perfection. His friends could now take him anywhere with little embarrassment. Unfortunately, he was wearing a white t-shirt printed with "My Mother Says I'm Special." Bikers commune in black.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Beer Axiom
Gramma,
That mid-morning moment when you reach in the beverage fridge for a coke, crack it open and it's not the sweet taste you were looking for. It's a Coors. Can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Note to self: Always buy the silo beer cans, aka pounders, to prevent this.
That mid-morning moment when you reach in the beverage fridge for a coke, crack it open and it's not the sweet taste you were looking for. It's a Coors. Can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Note to self: Always buy the silo beer cans, aka pounders, to prevent this.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Chili Feed Day Hours
Gramma,
They guys taking money at the gate have plenty of time to eat, drink, and screw off. One of their adult kids is running naked through a nearby field. He has someone with a video camera documenting his life for him. I don't know what he's on, but I don't want some of that. I have enough behavioral issues of my own.
There is an outdoor shitter, a camper, and a picnic table at the gate. While Pus Gut was in the shitter, two club members tipped it over so the door was facing the ground. There sure was a lot of yelling and pounding. He emerged covered in blue toilet juice. Pus Gut's new name is Papa Smurf. Pus Tit and Pus Gut are not amused. He has no change of clothes. How stupid are you? Well then, it is their kid bounding naked through the weeds.
The local police keep close tabs on the party by driving through the campground several times a day. They step it up at night and like to make sure the wet t-shirt contest goes off without a hitch. Other more nefarious bike clubs show up looking for trouble. They are allowed in for the steep discount of free. It's just easier that way. They assess the fun quotient, eat chili, drink beer and leave, all without cracking a smile.
Mid afternoon is game time, fueled by alcohol, and sweetened by a money pot. Slow races involve riding your bike to the finish line with someone on the back. You may not stop or put your feet on the ground. The field is not flat, There are gopher mounds and rocks. The last person wins.
For the balloon toss, water filled balloons are lobbed over a bar that the bike rolls under. The person on the back is in charge of lobbing. Teams go one at a time. When you miss, you are out. Nothing quite like a couple of drunk guys on a bike trying to win. Men don't usually ride bitch at these events, but they are the crowd favorites. The guy throwing is facing backwards.
During the weenie bite, a hot dog is suspended from an overhead bar. The person on the back is supposed to bite off as much as possible. A lot of wieners meet the face, but not the mouth. The crowd is jeering and cheering. It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye is poked out.
I like to sneak off and get in a beer enhanced nap so I can stay up for the evening stunts. When I get in the car, the pet store box with the mice inside is chewed open and they are on the loose. Ugh. I have to catch the little fuckers before I can sleep. I took them to their intended destination--Junior's tent. I am one-upping him for something he has done to me, plus he is fun to fuck with. He hates mice.
They guys taking money at the gate have plenty of time to eat, drink, and screw off. One of their adult kids is running naked through a nearby field. He has someone with a video camera documenting his life for him. I don't know what he's on, but I don't want some of that. I have enough behavioral issues of my own.
There is an outdoor shitter, a camper, and a picnic table at the gate. While Pus Gut was in the shitter, two club members tipped it over so the door was facing the ground. There sure was a lot of yelling and pounding. He emerged covered in blue toilet juice. Pus Gut's new name is Papa Smurf. Pus Tit and Pus Gut are not amused. He has no change of clothes. How stupid are you? Well then, it is their kid bounding naked through the weeds.
The local police keep close tabs on the party by driving through the campground several times a day. They step it up at night and like to make sure the wet t-shirt contest goes off without a hitch. Other more nefarious bike clubs show up looking for trouble. They are allowed in for the steep discount of free. It's just easier that way. They assess the fun quotient, eat chili, drink beer and leave, all without cracking a smile.
Mid afternoon is game time, fueled by alcohol, and sweetened by a money pot. Slow races involve riding your bike to the finish line with someone on the back. You may not stop or put your feet on the ground. The field is not flat, There are gopher mounds and rocks. The last person wins.
For the balloon toss, water filled balloons are lobbed over a bar that the bike rolls under. The person on the back is in charge of lobbing. Teams go one at a time. When you miss, you are out. Nothing quite like a couple of drunk guys on a bike trying to win. Men don't usually ride bitch at these events, but they are the crowd favorites. The guy throwing is facing backwards.
During the weenie bite, a hot dog is suspended from an overhead bar. The person on the back is supposed to bite off as much as possible. A lot of wieners meet the face, but not the mouth. The crowd is jeering and cheering. It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye is poked out.
I like to sneak off and get in a beer enhanced nap so I can stay up for the evening stunts. When I get in the car, the pet store box with the mice inside is chewed open and they are on the loose. Ugh. I have to catch the little fuckers before I can sleep. I took them to their intended destination--Junior's tent. I am one-upping him for something he has done to me, plus he is fun to fuck with. He hates mice.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Chili Feed Prelude
Gramma,
The night before the party, the club sets up. It is the party before the party. The beer tappers on the trucks are tested and retested. A leaf blower is used to clean the bat and mouse shit out of the chalet. The storage truck is unloaded; the chili is made. The bar is stocked. A circus tent arrives and the band stage is set up. Planks of wood are stacked like a teepee for the bonfire.
The usual suspects show up early to secure their prime real estate by the lake. Our closed camping area on the hill behind the Chalet is cordoned off with police tape. Club wives supply a spread of food. Some of us bring our dogs or grandkids. Only adults and three-legged dogs will be allowed tomorrow. Classic rock blares from the outside speakers. I bring ear plugs so I can sleep. I hate chili, so I have a cooler of cheese, water, and sandwich meat.
The girls sit outside and talk trash about the guys while they have their private meeting. No topic is taboo. We talk about our sex lives. Long ago, we refused the idea of wearing "Property Of" on our backs, but we have made aprons for tomorrow. They say "Chili Bitch" on them. There is grumbling over the schedule for who works at which location and when. Some of us are stuck for a shift with people or hours we don't like.
The prospects, new guys not yet patched in, are scheduled to work during the wet t-shirt contest. We women are expected to recruit girls from the audience for this. It is a skin to win event for a combined pot from the club and audience. There are three categories: Classic for "older" women; Sportster for small breasted women; V-Twin for above average girls. Some "professional" girls show up.
Tonight we are all drunk. The guys chant "Show Us Your Tits." Some of the girls are pretty shy, others not so much. Add alcohol , and clothes disintegrate. The shy girls are teased relentlessly. "Okay, show us your beavage." Our response is, "You guys line up behind a wood fence with holes strategically cut, so we can do some judging.
The night before the party, the club sets up. It is the party before the party. The beer tappers on the trucks are tested and retested. A leaf blower is used to clean the bat and mouse shit out of the chalet. The storage truck is unloaded; the chili is made. The bar is stocked. A circus tent arrives and the band stage is set up. Planks of wood are stacked like a teepee for the bonfire.
The usual suspects show up early to secure their prime real estate by the lake. Our closed camping area on the hill behind the Chalet is cordoned off with police tape. Club wives supply a spread of food. Some of us bring our dogs or grandkids. Only adults and three-legged dogs will be allowed tomorrow. Classic rock blares from the outside speakers. I bring ear plugs so I can sleep. I hate chili, so I have a cooler of cheese, water, and sandwich meat.
The girls sit outside and talk trash about the guys while they have their private meeting. No topic is taboo. We talk about our sex lives. Long ago, we refused the idea of wearing "Property Of" on our backs, but we have made aprons for tomorrow. They say "Chili Bitch" on them. There is grumbling over the schedule for who works at which location and when. Some of us are stuck for a shift with people or hours we don't like.
The prospects, new guys not yet patched in, are scheduled to work during the wet t-shirt contest. We women are expected to recruit girls from the audience for this. It is a skin to win event for a combined pot from the club and audience. There are three categories: Classic for "older" women; Sportster for small breasted women; V-Twin for above average girls. Some "professional" girls show up.
Tonight we are all drunk. The guys chant "Show Us Your Tits." Some of the girls are pretty shy, others not so much. Add alcohol , and clothes disintegrate. The shy girls are teased relentlessly. "Okay, show us your beavage." Our response is, "You guys line up behind a wood fence with holes strategically cut, so we can do some judging.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Annual Chili Feed
Gramma,
Our annual Chili Feed is a biker camping event. We rent the whole park for the weekend, a beautiful wooded area with acres of camping available. No adults are banned from this event and some of the locals show up for the all inclusive price of unlimited free beer. They often stick out like a sore dick. More often than not, it is windy and rains, but that doesn't dampen the spirits.
It's never a good idea to fall asleep or pass out during anything involving alcohol. The guy nearest the lake had his tent stakes pulled out so that when he stood up in the morning, the wind blew his tent skyward. With vertigo and a hangover, the not-yet-awake man with no tent stakes battled his way out. The tent ballooned, flying across the lake like a tumbleweed. A guy wearing boots should not try to chase a tent across a lake.
My lipstick color inspired my friends to call me Boozo the Clown. If you are throwing this party, you should plan on not sleeping. A new club member violated this law, and woke up half naked with lipstick drawn arrows suggesting in and out orifices. He should not have engaged Tequila Girl to a drinking challenge. She has a reputation.
"If you're going to hang with the guys, you're going to drink like the guys," he said. "Okay," she said. "Let's go." When he pulled out a bottle of tequila, he thought he had her. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Eventually, he was puking his guts out. When he finished, she took another shot for good measure, then sallied up to the bar.
A local, wearing a striped shirt and a bowtie, stalked her through his glasses. She was wearing a short skirt, spike heels, and a scant top. She had mastered the art of riding on the back of a bike in this attire. "Wow," he said hopefully. He asked if she would please let him talk to her. She said no. Bikers looked on in amusement. "Please," PeeWee begged.
"I'll buy you one if you talk to me while you drink it." She summoned Smitty, the bartender. He shook his head, knowing how this was going to go down. In one gulp, it was gone. She turned and walked away, pinching his ass on the way out.
Our annual Chili Feed is a biker camping event. We rent the whole park for the weekend, a beautiful wooded area with acres of camping available. No adults are banned from this event and some of the locals show up for the all inclusive price of unlimited free beer. They often stick out like a sore dick. More often than not, it is windy and rains, but that doesn't dampen the spirits.
It's never a good idea to fall asleep or pass out during anything involving alcohol. The guy nearest the lake had his tent stakes pulled out so that when he stood up in the morning, the wind blew his tent skyward. With vertigo and a hangover, the not-yet-awake man with no tent stakes battled his way out. The tent ballooned, flying across the lake like a tumbleweed. A guy wearing boots should not try to chase a tent across a lake.
My lipstick color inspired my friends to call me Boozo the Clown. If you are throwing this party, you should plan on not sleeping. A new club member violated this law, and woke up half naked with lipstick drawn arrows suggesting in and out orifices. He should not have engaged Tequila Girl to a drinking challenge. She has a reputation.
"If you're going to hang with the guys, you're going to drink like the guys," he said. "Okay," she said. "Let's go." When he pulled out a bottle of tequila, he thought he had her. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Eventually, he was puking his guts out. When he finished, she took another shot for good measure, then sallied up to the bar.
A local, wearing a striped shirt and a bowtie, stalked her through his glasses. She was wearing a short skirt, spike heels, and a scant top. She had mastered the art of riding on the back of a bike in this attire. "Wow," he said hopefully. He asked if she would please let him talk to her. She said no. Bikers looked on in amusement. "Please," PeeWee begged.
"I'll buy you one if you talk to me while you drink it." She summoned Smitty, the bartender. He shook his head, knowing how this was going to go down. In one gulp, it was gone. She turned and walked away, pinching his ass on the way out.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Fuckitol Meds Not Working
Gramma
I don't think my meds are working. The pharmacy has been using another manufacturer to fill one of my prescriptions. Since then, things are less than. My daughter's insurance company is forcing her to take a generic form of Abilify. It gives her migraines, and the co-pay is astronomical, whereas the name brand provides a manufacturer subsidy that makes it affordable. We need our Fuckitol pills to work right.
Last week I did not blog. I sat in the driveway/patio area contemplating the hanging trees again. And I was incredibly crabby. My beer supply was exhausted, and didn't want to use my limited funds on more. It didn't help that my tractor was in the shop. If I don't hound them daily, it will be fall before I get it back. I spend a lot of time on hold. If I leave a message, they won't call back.
The neighbor stopped over with a beer in hand and a backup to put in the freezer. I told him I was out. He said he would give me one, but that will just agitate people like us. He was planning to drink himself stupid and suffer the hangover. After he left, I drank Dave's last Chelado with an old Hamm's chaser.
Dave was in union negotiations all week, which ramps up his blood pressure and puts him in irate overdrive. I was hoping he would bring home some calming fluids. When he showed up empty-handed, my inner bitch went silent treatment, which rarely happens.
I went to bed early to escape with an episode of Grace and Frankie. The gay guys were throwing temper tantrums and the women were making bad decisions. Next to my dearth of beer, this was ridiculous. Disgusted, I opted to listen to the frogs.
It is not like me to want to stay in bed when the weather is nice. On Friday, I couldn't overcome the gravitational pull of my mattress. I got out of bed at noon to pick up the grandkids. Having them around usually lifts me out of a fugue. Bubba and Veve were sitting in Dave's big man's chair when I overheard Bubba say, "Grampa's foot is bigger than your head." They make me laugh, the next best thing to Fuckitol.
I don't think my meds are working. The pharmacy has been using another manufacturer to fill one of my prescriptions. Since then, things are less than. My daughter's insurance company is forcing her to take a generic form of Abilify. It gives her migraines, and the co-pay is astronomical, whereas the name brand provides a manufacturer subsidy that makes it affordable. We need our Fuckitol pills to work right.
Last week I did not blog. I sat in the driveway/patio area contemplating the hanging trees again. And I was incredibly crabby. My beer supply was exhausted, and didn't want to use my limited funds on more. It didn't help that my tractor was in the shop. If I don't hound them daily, it will be fall before I get it back. I spend a lot of time on hold. If I leave a message, they won't call back.
The neighbor stopped over with a beer in hand and a backup to put in the freezer. I told him I was out. He said he would give me one, but that will just agitate people like us. He was planning to drink himself stupid and suffer the hangover. After he left, I drank Dave's last Chelado with an old Hamm's chaser.
Dave was in union negotiations all week, which ramps up his blood pressure and puts him in irate overdrive. I was hoping he would bring home some calming fluids. When he showed up empty-handed, my inner bitch went silent treatment, which rarely happens.
I went to bed early to escape with an episode of Grace and Frankie. The gay guys were throwing temper tantrums and the women were making bad decisions. Next to my dearth of beer, this was ridiculous. Disgusted, I opted to listen to the frogs.
It is not like me to want to stay in bed when the weather is nice. On Friday, I couldn't overcome the gravitational pull of my mattress. I got out of bed at noon to pick up the grandkids. Having them around usually lifts me out of a fugue. Bubba and Veve were sitting in Dave's big man's chair when I overheard Bubba say, "Grampa's foot is bigger than your head." They make me laugh, the next best thing to Fuckitol.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
The Other Woman
Gramma,
My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's. His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone. I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life. His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard. I got to know all his friends this way.
Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman." Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property. After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing. We stood around drinking and laughing.
After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them. They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing. Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck. He had a special compound bow that he used.
Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage. He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time. Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it.
He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?" Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B. There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take.
Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease. His tiny wife was his primary caregiver. She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom. Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck. The police would look the other way.
He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid. He didn't want me to have a friendship with her. He wanted me all to himself. I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck. "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job. It's not like he's in a position to check it out."
Near the end, he told me not to hug him. His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much. When he left, I was one of the first people called. The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him.
I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends. Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope. I look forward to seeing him again.
My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's. His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone. I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life. His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard. I got to know all his friends this way.
Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman." Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property. After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing. We stood around drinking and laughing.
After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them. They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing. Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck. He had a special compound bow that he used.
Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage. He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time. Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it.
He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?" Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B. There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take.
Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease. His tiny wife was his primary caregiver. She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom. Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck. The police would look the other way.
He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid. He didn't want me to have a friendship with her. He wanted me all to himself. I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck. "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job. It's not like he's in a position to check it out."
Near the end, he told me not to hug him. His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much. When he left, I was one of the first people called. The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him.
I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends. Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope. I look forward to seeing him again.
Monday, June 6, 2016
The Inbred Bar
Gramma,
There is a double-wide trailer in rural Wisconsin where you can get a cold beer. Just kick the chickens away from the front door and come in. Watch for holes in the floor. Grampa Pissy Pants sits in his wet, urine soaked Lazy Boy next to a Juke Box that is not working. The needle is broken.
At the Inbred Bar, also known as The Dollar Store, beer is a dollar. There is a reason for that. Making change is too complicated for the beertender. The one on duty now is the son. One eye looks up, the other down. There is a goat path lined with newspapers and other hoarder detritus that leads to the living quarters. It smells bad.
Don't eat there. Don't ask for a glass. The refrigerators are never cleaned, the gaskets are moldy and no cleaning products have ever been used on anything. Boiled eggs are sitting out for available eats. The clientele rivals the bar scene in Star Wars. Someone made the mistake of asking for a glass for their beer. The bartender grabbed a used plastic cup from the pile on the bar, emptied it out and poured the beer in it. The patron wasn't watching this.
My friend asked for a soda and got told, "This is a beer bar." The next visit, another friend asked for a Coke. My friend informs girlfriend, "You can't order that." "We have Coke today," says the beertender, testily. Give the bartender a twenty for three beers and you sometimes get eighteen back.
We like to stop at these places for the entertainment value. There is another bar that rivals this one. It is on the beaten path of four-wheelers and snowmobilers. Smoking in the bars is verboten, but not in the bar with a maximum occupancy of twelve. There is nobody to police these places.
We sit outside on the picnic tables. There is a lake far below. Up here, there are several non-motorized kid size three-wheelers and four-wheelers. Drunk adults race them down the steep hill towards the water. Unfortunately, nobody is willing just now. Bikers know all the best places to take a beer break.
There is a double-wide trailer in rural Wisconsin where you can get a cold beer. Just kick the chickens away from the front door and come in. Watch for holes in the floor. Grampa Pissy Pants sits in his wet, urine soaked Lazy Boy next to a Juke Box that is not working. The needle is broken.
At the Inbred Bar, also known as The Dollar Store, beer is a dollar. There is a reason for that. Making change is too complicated for the beertender. The one on duty now is the son. One eye looks up, the other down. There is a goat path lined with newspapers and other hoarder detritus that leads to the living quarters. It smells bad.
Don't eat there. Don't ask for a glass. The refrigerators are never cleaned, the gaskets are moldy and no cleaning products have ever been used on anything. Boiled eggs are sitting out for available eats. The clientele rivals the bar scene in Star Wars. Someone made the mistake of asking for a glass for their beer. The bartender grabbed a used plastic cup from the pile on the bar, emptied it out and poured the beer in it. The patron wasn't watching this.
My friend asked for a soda and got told, "This is a beer bar." The next visit, another friend asked for a Coke. My friend informs girlfriend, "You can't order that." "We have Coke today," says the beertender, testily. Give the bartender a twenty for three beers and you sometimes get eighteen back.
We like to stop at these places for the entertainment value. There is another bar that rivals this one. It is on the beaten path of four-wheelers and snowmobilers. Smoking in the bars is verboten, but not in the bar with a maximum occupancy of twelve. There is nobody to police these places.
We sit outside on the picnic tables. There is a lake far below. Up here, there are several non-motorized kid size three-wheelers and four-wheelers. Drunk adults race them down the steep hill towards the water. Unfortunately, nobody is willing just now. Bikers know all the best places to take a beer break.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Frog Symphony
Gramma,
The spring frog symphony has arrived. Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00. This is one of my favorite sounds. It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas. Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell. I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep.
My mind races most of the time, much like the breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time. There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall. I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects.
My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground. I can't sleep without it. Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep. Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations. I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing clear, too much static.
Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard. This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head. Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction. The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is therapeutic. If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy.
I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert. Unproductive is intolerable for me. The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that. Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer. Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much. Beer helps.
When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit. And mainline the beer please. I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed. Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven.
The spring frog symphony has arrived. Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00. This is one of my favorite sounds. It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas. Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell. I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep.
My mind races most of the time, much like the breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time. There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall. I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects.
My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground. I can't sleep without it. Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep. Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations. I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing clear, too much static.
Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard. This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head. Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction. The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is therapeutic. If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy.
I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert. Unproductive is intolerable for me. The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that. Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer. Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much. Beer helps.
When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit. And mainline the beer please. I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed. Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Family Tradition
Gramma.
The other day, Dave was behind an Uber car with "Whiskey" plates on it. The WU prefix is used for drunk plates. A friend of mine just got a DUI. She likes her Jamison and lots of it. Dave has it figured out that by the time you are done paying the ticket, attorney fees, higher insurance and the cost of mandatory classes, it comes out to a good ten-thousand dollars. That buys a lot of beer.
I will admit that I have done my share of drunk driving, but never got caught. Dave doesn't drink a whole lot, as it gives him a headache. I can drink a case of beer and not get a hangover. I like when I can be the designated drunk. Since I do not have a spare ten-thousand dollars, I like that my girlfriends have spare beds in case my alcohol content gets too high.
I love beer, especially craft beers. I like my beer so cold it's just starting to form ice crystals. I'm always looking to broaden my knowledge base on the subject. The first thing I do in a new locale is to ask for a local beer. I have made my own beer, but I drink it so fast that it really doesn't pay, unless you enjoy the process.
My drinking began in utero. One of my earliest memories is of watching the bubbles in my grandfather's beer glass rise to the top. It was mesmerizing to me. As I kid, I toured plenty of Wisconsin breweries with relatives. I was never denied samples.
I remember going to Drive-In movies with my dad. He always brought beer. If he didn't want me to drink it, he shouldn't have left it in the backseat. So I come by my habit honestly. Drinking was a family affair.
Wisconsin tradition is not dead. Not all that long ago, we were in a rural Wisconsin bar when some grade school boys showed up on a snowmobile. They handed a note to the bartender, who sent them home with a paper bag full of beer. Well then.
My brush with a DUI came after a night of drinking in small town Wisconsin. "Why aren't your headlights on?" asked the officer. The streetlights were bright enough that I hadn't noticed they were not on. "Get out of the car," commanded the big, burly woman. I painstakingly pulled crutches from the passenger seat and attempted to get out. I was pathetic, She told me to get back in the car and turn on my headlights. I slowly drove away. They weren't even my crutches.
This is my favorite childhood picture. I think it should be the photo for an ad promoting high achievement.
The other day, Dave was behind an Uber car with "Whiskey" plates on it. The WU prefix is used for drunk plates. A friend of mine just got a DUI. She likes her Jamison and lots of it. Dave has it figured out that by the time you are done paying the ticket, attorney fees, higher insurance and the cost of mandatory classes, it comes out to a good ten-thousand dollars. That buys a lot of beer.
I will admit that I have done my share of drunk driving, but never got caught. Dave doesn't drink a whole lot, as it gives him a headache. I can drink a case of beer and not get a hangover. I like when I can be the designated drunk. Since I do not have a spare ten-thousand dollars, I like that my girlfriends have spare beds in case my alcohol content gets too high.
I love beer, especially craft beers. I like my beer so cold it's just starting to form ice crystals. I'm always looking to broaden my knowledge base on the subject. The first thing I do in a new locale is to ask for a local beer. I have made my own beer, but I drink it so fast that it really doesn't pay, unless you enjoy the process.
My drinking began in utero. One of my earliest memories is of watching the bubbles in my grandfather's beer glass rise to the top. It was mesmerizing to me. As I kid, I toured plenty of Wisconsin breweries with relatives. I was never denied samples.
I remember going to Drive-In movies with my dad. He always brought beer. If he didn't want me to drink it, he shouldn't have left it in the backseat. So I come by my habit honestly. Drinking was a family affair.
Wisconsin tradition is not dead. Not all that long ago, we were in a rural Wisconsin bar when some grade school boys showed up on a snowmobile. They handed a note to the bartender, who sent them home with a paper bag full of beer. Well then.
My brush with a DUI came after a night of drinking in small town Wisconsin. "Why aren't your headlights on?" asked the officer. The streetlights were bright enough that I hadn't noticed they were not on. "Get out of the car," commanded the big, burly woman. I painstakingly pulled crutches from the passenger seat and attempted to get out. I was pathetic, She told me to get back in the car and turn on my headlights. I slowly drove away. They weren't even my crutches.
This is my favorite childhood picture. I think it should be the photo for an ad promoting high achievement.
Be All That You Can Be
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Waiting for Rain
Gramma,
I am waiting for the rain. It's been ten days of beautiful, sunny weather and the yard is under control, except for the weeds. The earth is so dry that they break off instead of pull out. It has been hot, dry and windy so far this season. I worry about fires and stupid people who burn in their fire pits during the burning ban. They don't realize that the wind can gust and carry hot ashes to dry fields and forests. This happened in the nearby Carlos Avery Wildlife Sanctuary.
Some moron didn't put his fire all the way out and it started a massive burn that ate up 6,500 acres of wildlife habitat and houses. He has since moved out of state to get away from death threats and lawsuits. For days, airplanes hauling water flew so low, I thought they would hit our roof.
Dave and I had been out riding our bikes all day. On the way home, we stopped in town to get gas. I could see heavy black smoke coming from the direction of our house four miles away. I skipped the gas and beat ass home to find Dante's Inferno raging at the end of our dead end road, brilliant orange and red flames piercing the sky. The road was clogged with emergency vehicles, which despite protests, I maneuvered around to get home.
People were heading out with boat trailers, animal haulers and other vehicles carrying their possessions. Some had let their horses and livestock loose, hoping they could beat the flames and catch up with them later. Friends of ours pulled up with a bike trailer and hauled our bikes out. Dave threw some of his things in the back of my mini-van. Guns first and some clothes on top. I didn't know where to start.
There were turkeys, tons of them hurrying out of our woods, looking for a safe haven. It was then that I decided not to leave. So much had been lost to me through divorce that I said no. I was going down with my ship of beer. This wasn't just a ninety-year-old house to me. It represented my freedom. I had put all my anger and hostility into making a thing of beauty come alive again.
Since then, I have become more careful about my own fire making. I spray the air above the fire to keep live ashes from floating away. My tractor bucket is ready to push a pile of dirt over the ashes after dousing the flames. But last fall, I was burning leaves and branches on my little island in the pond when the fire crawled up a hole in a large, dead pine.
I called Dave on my cell phone, telling him to bring the fire extinguisher and hurry up about it. Even after I emptied it, a tail of smoke continued to come out of the tree hole. I put it out with beer. After shaking a can, I opened it into the hole. The spray went up the inside of the tree. It is always good to have beer nearby when burning. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I am waiting for the rain. It's been ten days of beautiful, sunny weather and the yard is under control, except for the weeds. The earth is so dry that they break off instead of pull out. It has been hot, dry and windy so far this season. I worry about fires and stupid people who burn in their fire pits during the burning ban. They don't realize that the wind can gust and carry hot ashes to dry fields and forests. This happened in the nearby Carlos Avery Wildlife Sanctuary.
Some moron didn't put his fire all the way out and it started a massive burn that ate up 6,500 acres of wildlife habitat and houses. He has since moved out of state to get away from death threats and lawsuits. For days, airplanes hauling water flew so low, I thought they would hit our roof.
Dave and I had been out riding our bikes all day. On the way home, we stopped in town to get gas. I could see heavy black smoke coming from the direction of our house four miles away. I skipped the gas and beat ass home to find Dante's Inferno raging at the end of our dead end road, brilliant orange and red flames piercing the sky. The road was clogged with emergency vehicles, which despite protests, I maneuvered around to get home.
People were heading out with boat trailers, animal haulers and other vehicles carrying their possessions. Some had let their horses and livestock loose, hoping they could beat the flames and catch up with them later. Friends of ours pulled up with a bike trailer and hauled our bikes out. Dave threw some of his things in the back of my mini-van. Guns first and some clothes on top. I didn't know where to start.
There were turkeys, tons of them hurrying out of our woods, looking for a safe haven. It was then that I decided not to leave. So much had been lost to me through divorce that I said no. I was going down with my ship of beer. This wasn't just a ninety-year-old house to me. It represented my freedom. I had put all my anger and hostility into making a thing of beauty come alive again.
Since then, I have become more careful about my own fire making. I spray the air above the fire to keep live ashes from floating away. My tractor bucket is ready to push a pile of dirt over the ashes after dousing the flames. But last fall, I was burning leaves and branches on my little island in the pond when the fire crawled up a hole in a large, dead pine.
I called Dave on my cell phone, telling him to bring the fire extinguisher and hurry up about it. Even after I emptied it, a tail of smoke continued to come out of the tree hole. I put it out with beer. After shaking a can, I opened it into the hole. The spray went up the inside of the tree. It is always good to have beer nearby when burning. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Mother's Day
Gramma,
My Mother's Day was sunny and warm, a perfect day for being outside. Before Dave left for his mother's, he took the time to take the snow blower and cab off the tractor so I could do my favorite thing, mow lawn. By now the lawn needed baling. It hasn't rained in a while, so there's a huge fire danger and mowing is dusty work, so I don't have a beer in hand. Smoke from the fire in Canada has reached this far south and there is an air quality advisory.
My bonus mom was on her way out the door when I called. We will talk tomorrow. I have talked to my girlfriend, who is having breakfast with her son. She plans to have a talk with him about how something he did hurt her feelings. She is justified. When I asked another girlfriend how her day was, she said, "A good Mother's Day is when they don't show up." So this is how it is for some of us, not a day of pampering, thanks and gifts.
My second eldest son called in the morning. He is not doing anything in particular today, but he is not coming over. I know not to expect a card or gift. But, I hit him up for things I need done as birthday, Mother's Day, or Christmas gifts. This year I asked him to install a new ceiling fan in the rental unit. It will take him less than an hour to swap out the fans, but it is a two person job. The ceiling is vaulted and we need two tall ladders.
I ask him what he got his pregnant wife for Mother's Day. Basically, nothing. He has offered to make her dinner. What a GUY. He is like his father, who told me that I was not his mother, so don't expect a gift. The kids should always go with their father to pick out something from them to her, but my ex has set the standard. I often help the kids make her something, but didn't get to it this year.
My eldest is coming over to cut up a few downed trees that are blocking my trail into the woods. Even though he is pretty dependable, I don't hold my breath. It's an hour drive and I know he will do it another day if necessary. I am used to being alone on holidays, if not physically, emotionally. It's just another day to do laundry, cook, clean and take care of necessary things.
My daughter texted that she would try to call later. "Later today, or later this year?" Dave quipped. Exactly. She did not call. Maybe I will get a late card. Meanwhile, I make a turkey breast, potato salad, and fresh bread for sandwiches in case anybody shows up. I am happy to mow lawn and drink three beers, one for each of my children.
My eldest brought his girlfriend and her daughter. He brought me the gift of his mending. We had a nice visit. As he was leaving I said, "You make me happy twice, when you come and when you go." We laugh because we know it is true and without malice. I spend the rest of the day with my dogs, who never hurt my feelings and are always concerned about how I am doing.
My Mother's Day was sunny and warm, a perfect day for being outside. Before Dave left for his mother's, he took the time to take the snow blower and cab off the tractor so I could do my favorite thing, mow lawn. By now the lawn needed baling. It hasn't rained in a while, so there's a huge fire danger and mowing is dusty work, so I don't have a beer in hand. Smoke from the fire in Canada has reached this far south and there is an air quality advisory.
My bonus mom was on her way out the door when I called. We will talk tomorrow. I have talked to my girlfriend, who is having breakfast with her son. She plans to have a talk with him about how something he did hurt her feelings. She is justified. When I asked another girlfriend how her day was, she said, "A good Mother's Day is when they don't show up." So this is how it is for some of us, not a day of pampering, thanks and gifts.
My second eldest son called in the morning. He is not doing anything in particular today, but he is not coming over. I know not to expect a card or gift. But, I hit him up for things I need done as birthday, Mother's Day, or Christmas gifts. This year I asked him to install a new ceiling fan in the rental unit. It will take him less than an hour to swap out the fans, but it is a two person job. The ceiling is vaulted and we need two tall ladders.
I ask him what he got his pregnant wife for Mother's Day. Basically, nothing. He has offered to make her dinner. What a GUY. He is like his father, who told me that I was not his mother, so don't expect a gift. The kids should always go with their father to pick out something from them to her, but my ex has set the standard. I often help the kids make her something, but didn't get to it this year.
My eldest is coming over to cut up a few downed trees that are blocking my trail into the woods. Even though he is pretty dependable, I don't hold my breath. It's an hour drive and I know he will do it another day if necessary. I am used to being alone on holidays, if not physically, emotionally. It's just another day to do laundry, cook, clean and take care of necessary things.
My daughter texted that she would try to call later. "Later today, or later this year?" Dave quipped. Exactly. She did not call. Maybe I will get a late card. Meanwhile, I make a turkey breast, potato salad, and fresh bread for sandwiches in case anybody shows up. I am happy to mow lawn and drink three beers, one for each of my children.
My eldest brought his girlfriend and her daughter. He brought me the gift of his mending. We had a nice visit. As he was leaving I said, "You make me happy twice, when you come and when you go." We laugh because we know it is true and without malice. I spend the rest of the day with my dogs, who never hurt my feelings and are always concerned about how I am doing.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Happy Estrangement Day
Gramma
It's the day after Mother's Day. My favorite Facebook post included a clip from the movie Mommy Dearest and a toast to all the brave kids who broke up with their toxic moms. After my sisters and I saw the movie, we referred to our mother as Mommy Dearest. There should be a Happy Estrangement Day for us.
Coincidentally, my mother's name was Joan. Late one night, Joan took me for a ride to the Ember's where she worked. We didn't go in. She was probably stalking someone. On the way there, she told me not to call her mother, but to call her Joan. I never called her mother after that. It was meant as a barb on my part, but I don't think she noticed or cared. I was eight and my parent's were divorcing. Joan often said I was just like my father. It was meant to be demeaning.
My birth receptacle died on Cinco de Mayo. I love that beer drinking holiday. When I learned of her death, I called my favorite sister and sang, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. I didn't have to say who had died. We did not attend the funeral. I hadn't seen Joan since the 70's. Until then, we had a relationship based in fear.
Belts hung in all the looped window openers. It was a tacit threat. On the rare occasion that someone was coming over, they were removed. Joan got rid of our Collie dog because Dundee would not let her hit us. I was often grounded to my room for one ridiculous thing or another. This included no TV, no electrical devices, such as a radio or hot curlers.
Thank God for the weekly bookmobile that stopped in front of our house. I would sneak out the window, make a dash and exchange one pile of books for another. Books were my escape to other worlds. I hid them under the bed. One of my favorite series was Little Women. For the life of me, I could not understand why our household was not like that.
I wanted to be Anne of Green Gables, sent to live with kindly people where there was no screaming and yelling, no beer bottles rushed to the floor with one angry swipe of the hand. Joan was always charming and kind to other people. She could turn it on and off like a light switch. When I was eighteen, Joan kicked me out of the house. Until then, I had been college bound.
Joan had kept us so sequestered and isolated that I had no support system. I moved in with my boyfriend at his parent's house, became pregnant and got married. I lost the baby before the wedding. Joan was approached by the county nurse regarding the miscarriage. Joan told all her family and friends that I had an abortion. I walked down the aisle feeling hopeless. It turned into another eighteen years of pain.
Between Joan and my husband, I ended up in therapy. The therapist I saw validated me. He said I should cut ties with my toxic mother. I had spent years poring over phone books looking for my dad. Joan had cut him out of our lives. When I found him, he had married a saint. My dad's wife became the mother and friend I never had. For that, I am eternally grateful,
It's the day after Mother's Day. My favorite Facebook post included a clip from the movie Mommy Dearest and a toast to all the brave kids who broke up with their toxic moms. After my sisters and I saw the movie, we referred to our mother as Mommy Dearest. There should be a Happy Estrangement Day for us.
Coincidentally, my mother's name was Joan. Late one night, Joan took me for a ride to the Ember's where she worked. We didn't go in. She was probably stalking someone. On the way there, she told me not to call her mother, but to call her Joan. I never called her mother after that. It was meant as a barb on my part, but I don't think she noticed or cared. I was eight and my parent's were divorcing. Joan often said I was just like my father. It was meant to be demeaning.
My birth receptacle died on Cinco de Mayo. I love that beer drinking holiday. When I learned of her death, I called my favorite sister and sang, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead. I didn't have to say who had died. We did not attend the funeral. I hadn't seen Joan since the 70's. Until then, we had a relationship based in fear.
Belts hung in all the looped window openers. It was a tacit threat. On the rare occasion that someone was coming over, they were removed. Joan got rid of our Collie dog because Dundee would not let her hit us. I was often grounded to my room for one ridiculous thing or another. This included no TV, no electrical devices, such as a radio or hot curlers.
Thank God for the weekly bookmobile that stopped in front of our house. I would sneak out the window, make a dash and exchange one pile of books for another. Books were my escape to other worlds. I hid them under the bed. One of my favorite series was Little Women. For the life of me, I could not understand why our household was not like that.
I wanted to be Anne of Green Gables, sent to live with kindly people where there was no screaming and yelling, no beer bottles rushed to the floor with one angry swipe of the hand. Joan was always charming and kind to other people. She could turn it on and off like a light switch. When I was eighteen, Joan kicked me out of the house. Until then, I had been college bound.
Joan had kept us so sequestered and isolated that I had no support system. I moved in with my boyfriend at his parent's house, became pregnant and got married. I lost the baby before the wedding. Joan was approached by the county nurse regarding the miscarriage. Joan told all her family and friends that I had an abortion. I walked down the aisle feeling hopeless. It turned into another eighteen years of pain.
Between Joan and my husband, I ended up in therapy. The therapist I saw validated me. He said I should cut ties with my toxic mother. I had spent years poring over phone books looking for my dad. Joan had cut him out of our lives. When I found him, he had married a saint. My dad's wife became the mother and friend I never had. For that, I am eternally grateful,
Monday, May 2, 2016
Gramma Gets Eighty-Sixed
Gramma
Went to an Abate party Saturday night. Abate is a national motorcyclist advocate group. The acoustics are horrid, making it difficult to talk while the band is playing. There are door prizes to bid on. The same group shows up every year. Lots of alcohol is consumed while catching up on a year of history. There are more diehard oldies than newbies.
I laugh as a newbie who manages a gas station tells us her hobby is checking out the male crotch. She does a running commentary of what is coming and going in the nearby vicinity.
During intermission, there was midget bowling. A very long plastic runway is generously coated with baby oil, Two guys pay ten dollars each to play. The midget is on his belly. He tells them to grab him by the shoulders and calves, then send him flying towards the bowling pins.
Dave and I go in on fifteen dollars worth of fifty/fifty tickets. This is a great money maker for the cause. I win the drawing and come away with about three-hundred fifty dollars. As I am pocketing this wad of cash, Dave furrows his brows and asks where his half is.
I whisper sweet nothings in his ear about my planned trip to Menards Sunday morning where I will buy doors to replace the ones the renter took or destroyed. I promise to bring him a bag of his favorite candy from this horrid but necessary evil of a store. It is the local Wal-Mart of home improvement needs.
I don't take Dave along because it raises his blood pressure and he scares the employees with the fumes coming out of his ears. He is irked by the need to forage through wood to find something not warped or crooked. He thinks the man's mall should not sell large appliances and mattresses. However, he is okay with them selling pre-cooked ribs and candy.
My friends are asking what the hell is sitting at the end of the bar. I believe it is a man dressed as a woman. Never good at a biker event in backwoods Wisconsin. I need another beer, so belly up to the bar. I say hi. She says hi and laments that they won't serve her because she used the ladies room.
I tell her I will order for her. The owner is watching from the corner of the kitchen, I am then refused service.
I am pissed off and ask the bartendress what the problem is. "We don't serve that kind," she snots at me. I confront the owner, who backs away like the fat little POS he is. I follow him into the kitchen, telling him what for. He threatens to call the cops. I tell him to go ahead. He is on the phone, claiming that he is afraid of a customer that has him cornered in the kitchen and is pushing and shoving him and his employee, which is actually what they are doing to me.
I go back to my table of friends. I don't need any more beer. Pretty soon an officer is motioning me from the Entrance. I motion him in. Dave and I go outside. I explain the situation. Dave says we were just getting ready to leave. The cop writes my name and birth date on a small notepad. I think he will run a check and throw it away. I go back in and say goodbye. Then we head home.
I have friends who are members of the GBLT community and I think this whole thing about bathroom use is not unlike the days when blacks had separate bathrooms. I do not feel bad about getting eighty-sixed (kicked out of a bar) for this. After midnight I put it on Facebook and go to bed.
Went to an Abate party Saturday night. Abate is a national motorcyclist advocate group. The acoustics are horrid, making it difficult to talk while the band is playing. There are door prizes to bid on. The same group shows up every year. Lots of alcohol is consumed while catching up on a year of history. There are more diehard oldies than newbies.
I laugh as a newbie who manages a gas station tells us her hobby is checking out the male crotch. She does a running commentary of what is coming and going in the nearby vicinity.
During intermission, there was midget bowling. A very long plastic runway is generously coated with baby oil, Two guys pay ten dollars each to play. The midget is on his belly. He tells them to grab him by the shoulders and calves, then send him flying towards the bowling pins.
Dave and I go in on fifteen dollars worth of fifty/fifty tickets. This is a great money maker for the cause. I win the drawing and come away with about three-hundred fifty dollars. As I am pocketing this wad of cash, Dave furrows his brows and asks where his half is.
I whisper sweet nothings in his ear about my planned trip to Menards Sunday morning where I will buy doors to replace the ones the renter took or destroyed. I promise to bring him a bag of his favorite candy from this horrid but necessary evil of a store. It is the local Wal-Mart of home improvement needs.
I don't take Dave along because it raises his blood pressure and he scares the employees with the fumes coming out of his ears. He is irked by the need to forage through wood to find something not warped or crooked. He thinks the man's mall should not sell large appliances and mattresses. However, he is okay with them selling pre-cooked ribs and candy.
My friends are asking what the hell is sitting at the end of the bar. I believe it is a man dressed as a woman. Never good at a biker event in backwoods Wisconsin. I need another beer, so belly up to the bar. I say hi. She says hi and laments that they won't serve her because she used the ladies room.
I tell her I will order for her. The owner is watching from the corner of the kitchen, I am then refused service.
I am pissed off and ask the bartendress what the problem is. "We don't serve that kind," she snots at me. I confront the owner, who backs away like the fat little POS he is. I follow him into the kitchen, telling him what for. He threatens to call the cops. I tell him to go ahead. He is on the phone, claiming that he is afraid of a customer that has him cornered in the kitchen and is pushing and shoving him and his employee, which is actually what they are doing to me.
I go back to my table of friends. I don't need any more beer. Pretty soon an officer is motioning me from the Entrance. I motion him in. Dave and I go outside. I explain the situation. Dave says we were just getting ready to leave. The cop writes my name and birth date on a small notepad. I think he will run a check and throw it away. I go back in and say goodbye. Then we head home.
I have friends who are members of the GBLT community and I think this whole thing about bathroom use is not unlike the days when blacks had separate bathrooms. I do not feel bad about getting eighty-sixed (kicked out of a bar) for this. After midnight I put it on Facebook and go to bed.
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