Gramma,
Just returned from a week in Arkansas for the Bikes, Blues and Barbeques rally. The roads are all winding and it is wise not to exceed the suggested speed limits. After all the chaos of summer, I needed this time to hang out with friends, partying and riding. This year, the heat was oppressive. We cut some of our rides in half to avoid the afternoon temperatures. When the heat index was near a hundred, we drank more beer. My foot still hurt from the bike falling on it, The swelling was worse in the heat.
There are still bars in AK that allow smoking. My asthma forced me to stay outside. There were two dogs tied up while their owners sat in the air conditioning. I joined the dogs on the curb. I got my dog fix hanging out with a friendly pit bull and some kind of happy mutt. I always miss my animals when I am away. My cat, who hates everybody, is likely hibernating under my bed. The house sitter will only know there is a cat by the disappearance of food and water from her dishes.
My house sitter lives in the city. She has no car, so commutes using mine on the few days she is working. She will call in sick and take some vacation. When I get home, the car seat will be moved all the way forward. Finding someone who is good with four needy dogs is problematic. Also, there are no house keys, which city people do not embrace. But I have iron gates and you need a code to get in. The dogs can run free, even when no one is home. Kate is happy to drink and toke and use the fire pit. She likes the country sounds of frogs, the wind in the trees, the braying donkeys and screaming peacocks.
I leave her copious notes for everything. "The sound of werewolves will get the dogs barking after midnight. They are coyotes in disguise. She texts me to ask who is Mr. Peepers. "The canary. Feed the canary." Throw dog food out the front door for the loose peacock. Do not allow Clark outside while feeding the penned peacocks. He will streak past you and terrorize the birds. Kate is a slob and I will come home to a mess, but she is worth it in peace of mind.
While in AK, we take my stepdad, his wife and son out to eat. She is a hoarder, so we do not stop in. Why anyone would move to AK from the north is beyond me. As Norm has "summer teeth," he blends in with the locals. (Summer there and summer not.) He is 80ish. I don't think I will see him alive again. When we are taking pictures, I whisper "I love you," in his ear. We have history. We both endured my mother.
The people-watching in AK should be listed on the tourist sites. While listening to music at a concert, two women got into a heated passion play. "You're not from around here are you," Dave said to a guy in the beer line. "How did you know?" he asked. "You have all your teeth."
Our friend, Stick, smokes. At the hotel, he came in from an outdoor smoking session. I yelled at him and the woman he was talking to. "That's my husband. You leave him alone." She mouthed, "I'm sorry" from the elevator. Stick protested that I was not his wife and he didn't even know me. His wife was amused. "You sit your lily white ass down," I ordered. The black bike group in the lobby laughed. Later, I got the desk clerk to text Stick about the nice time she had talking to him, leaving a fictitious room number.
At an overlook, I kept telling Stick to move over a little more, pretending that it would be a better photo op. He didn't realize that someone had spray painted "Dick," along with a graphic, on the cement barrier he was standing behind.
By the end of the week, I had a pretty good beer gut going. We set off for home in the early morning. Stick left two hours before us and the other couple, He Who Dawdles, left after us. Stick warned us of the traffic ahead, where the cops were thick and where the roads were clear. We almost caught up when they stopped for lunch. I couldn't wait to see my pests. Several interesting texts came from the house sitter.
Where are the garbage bags. WE are taking the recycling with us. WHERE is the vacuum cleaner. WTF. In the past, Kate has had parties at the house and not cleaned up. But, AGAIN, my animals are cared for. Except when Titty, the cat, was trapped in the basement where her litter box is, with no food or water, I came home to a somewhat vacuumed house. The attachment hatch on the vacuum was not violated.
Kate was gone when we got home. The mailbox was clogged. Nests of dog hair had accumulated in every corner. It always takes me a week to get back on track. I posted on Facebook that my dogs had a spectacular time when I was gone, as there were only a few shots of vodka left in the half gallon of high end shit in the freezer. "But, I left you a very nice brownie," she said.
"I'm eating it now with ice cream."
"I hope you don't plan on doing anything for the rest of the day."
"Unpacking and relaxing."
"You will mostly be relaxing."
"WTF. Why didn't you leave instructions on portion control."
I slept for twelve hours.
Showing posts with label Drinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drinking. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Windows 10 Went Rogue on Me
Gramma,
Windows 10 went rogue on me yesterday, installing itself on my computer without permission. So now I can't find an effing thing and will have to get the computer repair people to find my shit. This is why I haven't written on my blog. I don't like games, especially those that don't come with the rules.
Last night girlfriend stopped over for drinks. Neither of us felt well this morning. She didn't make it to work, again, because of her blood sugar levels crashing. I had to get it off my plate that I wouldn't be renting to her and why. She's too picky. The washer and dryer are old and mismatched. She wants all kinds of things changed. There will be no dog door installed.
She argued and I stood my ground. I said it would ruin our friendship. She nit picked at the weeds in the flower bed in front of the rental. A crew of Mexicans couldn't keep up with my yard. She will be finding a place of her own soon enough and I will have to find another decent renter. New rule here, no friends or family or those related to friends and family.
I like the invisible guy that lives there now. He said he didn't care if I repainted over the odd colors the last renter left behind. I'm sure he is not concerned that I have not yet weed whacked his yard. He comes and goes in the dark. Weeds are not a priority. There's no drama. Hopefully, he will pay the rent on time and I can tell him he can stay.
Windows 10 went rogue on me yesterday, installing itself on my computer without permission. So now I can't find an effing thing and will have to get the computer repair people to find my shit. This is why I haven't written on my blog. I don't like games, especially those that don't come with the rules.
Last night girlfriend stopped over for drinks. Neither of us felt well this morning. She didn't make it to work, again, because of her blood sugar levels crashing. I had to get it off my plate that I wouldn't be renting to her and why. She's too picky. The washer and dryer are old and mismatched. She wants all kinds of things changed. There will be no dog door installed.
She argued and I stood my ground. I said it would ruin our friendship. She nit picked at the weeds in the flower bed in front of the rental. A crew of Mexicans couldn't keep up with my yard. She will be finding a place of her own soon enough and I will have to find another decent renter. New rule here, no friends or family or those related to friends and family.
I like the invisible guy that lives there now. He said he didn't care if I repainted over the odd colors the last renter left behind. I'm sure he is not concerned that I have not yet weed whacked his yard. He comes and goes in the dark. Weeds are not a priority. There's no drama. Hopefully, he will pay the rent on time and I can tell him he can stay.
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
Friday, May 13, 2016
There's Disrespect and There's Disrespect
Gramma
Dave and I went riding with the club on Saturday. Just as we were firing up the bikes, a friend called wanting to join us. He just had to brush his teeth and put on his socks, fifteen minutes tops. We ended up a half hour late because of Dawdles, and that was beating ass when he finally showed up.
The guys had their club meeting in a park chalet while the girls sat outside on a picnic table. As Dawdles is not a club member, he had to stay outside with the girls. He pulled out a Swisher Sweets cigar. I said, "You're not going to smoke that by me are you? I have the asthma." He lit up anyway. The smoke got the best of me and I had to go get my inhaler.
Meanwhile, Dawdles sat down in my spot. On the way to the chalet steps I said to the girls, "I don't mean to be anti-social, but I can't breathe." A friend came over to BS with me. There was some loud yelling coming from inside, but nothing discernable.
Pretty soon one of the younger guys came tearing out, yelling to his wife, "Are you ready to go?" as he started the bike. He had been disrespectful to the older guys, calling them pussies for not doing his bidding. Dave told him what for and he left.
Dawdles doesn't know how to group ride. He lags a quarter mile behind the guy in front of him, so all the other guys are in a whole different time zone. Group riding done properly is staggered and looks like a tight unit of bikes moving as one. I'm not OCD, but it drives me nuts when people don't get this. I told Dave later that if Dawdles called to go riding with us again, it would just be the two of them.
It was beautiful riding on the back roads. I was proud of myself for only drinking two beers at the bar stops. The diet is paying off. But not today. It's raining and I have eaten two dough gobs (pastry), half a bag of chocolate chips and an ice cream bar. Dave is bringing home pizza. The fireplace is going and I would like to be binge watching Netflix.
Dave and I went riding with the club on Saturday. Just as we were firing up the bikes, a friend called wanting to join us. He just had to brush his teeth and put on his socks, fifteen minutes tops. We ended up a half hour late because of Dawdles, and that was beating ass when he finally showed up.
The guys had their club meeting in a park chalet while the girls sat outside on a picnic table. As Dawdles is not a club member, he had to stay outside with the girls. He pulled out a Swisher Sweets cigar. I said, "You're not going to smoke that by me are you? I have the asthma." He lit up anyway. The smoke got the best of me and I had to go get my inhaler.
Meanwhile, Dawdles sat down in my spot. On the way to the chalet steps I said to the girls, "I don't mean to be anti-social, but I can't breathe." A friend came over to BS with me. There was some loud yelling coming from inside, but nothing discernable.
Pretty soon one of the younger guys came tearing out, yelling to his wife, "Are you ready to go?" as he started the bike. He had been disrespectful to the older guys, calling them pussies for not doing his bidding. Dave told him what for and he left.
Dawdles doesn't know how to group ride. He lags a quarter mile behind the guy in front of him, so all the other guys are in a whole different time zone. Group riding done properly is staggered and looks like a tight unit of bikes moving as one. I'm not OCD, but it drives me nuts when people don't get this. I told Dave later that if Dawdles called to go riding with us again, it would just be the two of them.
It was beautiful riding on the back roads. I was proud of myself for only drinking two beers at the bar stops. The diet is paying off. But not today. It's raining and I have eaten two dough gobs (pastry), half a bag of chocolate chips and an ice cream bar. Dave is bringing home pizza. The fireplace is going and I would like to be binge watching Netflix.
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.
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,
Sunday, May 1, 2016
What About Bob
Gramma
Girlfriend's second ex-husband is being buried today. For the benefit of her son, she has been there for the whole end of life thing. Bob died of complications created by his own refusal to take care of himself. He had diabetes and neglected to monitor his blood sugar. For two weeks before Easter, he had been complaining about how he didn't feel well. His son kept asking if he wanted to go to the doctor. No, he would wait awhile longer.
On Easter, Bob decided he wanted to go to the hospital and Jeremy needed to take him. Jeremy already had plans for Easter. Bob, being the selfish, self-absorbed person he is, never gave it a second thought. A few days later, Jeremy took him home. Bob began having diarrhea. Instead of calling the doctor, he called Jeremy to help him clean himself and his bedding. That would be the day when I expect my kids to take care of my shit. Just kill me now. Jeremy lives forty minutes away. This turned into a week long shit storm. Soon, Jeremy's wife was playing Nancy nurse.
Bob's liver shut down. Attempts at dialysis caused fainting from uncontrollable blood pressure. After the third attempt, the doctors said he should get his final wishes in order. They assured Jeremy that none of this was his fault.
Bob was referred to as "What About Bob," the character in the movie by that name. Girlfriend divorced him when she began to have obsessive thoughts about killing him. He refused to unhusband, ingratiating himself with girlfriends third husband. Bob bought a tiller and grew a massive garden on their property. He would show up and let himself in the house to do whatever. They would come home and there would be Bob, sitting in Scott's chair watching tv. Bob watched the house when they went on vacation. Refusing to sleep in the spare room, he slept in their bed.
Girlfriend and I got together after everything was said and done. When my ex husband dies, I will be pissing on his grave. We drank to Bob, laughing fondly over Bob's idiosyncrasies. Bob could weld. I would bring broken yard furniture over and he would fix it. When I needed an animal put down, Bob was happy to come over and plug it. So, here's to you Bob, the husband that finally went away. We lament that it wasn't husband number three, also being divorced because of persistent thoughts of killing him.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Everybody Has Something
Bad Gramma
I have a brain scan today. This is not what I want to do on the only nice day all week. I need to clean out a garden bed at the end of the driveway. I need to kill weeds and till up the dirt, maybe bleach the well. But no, I have a brain tumor that we are tracking for size and attitude. I threatened Dave that I wasn't going to do this if he put off having his knee replacement surgery again. "I'll do it next year," he says, again.
I don't like having to take off all my jewelry so the big magnet doesn't suck it off. When Dave said all my bracelets looked ridiculous, I added more. I look like a gypsy. More is better. Too much is just right.
I kind of enjoy the weirdness of the head banging machine. The noise is reminiscent of industrial music, which I don't mind. I put on the headphones and listen to some background music. I breathe deep and go into a meditative state. I could have had the tumor taken out six months ago when it had doubled in size, but I didn't want to cut my hair.
It is benign, or I would be dead by now. It was discovered when I had an MRI done for a neck injury. The doctor didn't call back and didn't call back. So I called his office to ask what gives, I need my results. The nurse said she would have the doctor call me. He didn't. I called again and the nurse said she would give me the results. I waited on hold. She came back and said that she would have the doctor call me. WTF.
The doctor called one evening. He tells me that I have a brain tumor. "What?" I say.
"You have a brain tumor and ....." I didn't hear any words after that and then my shitty Verizon phone dropped the call. I couldn't call back. I sat there stunned. Nice bedside manner. Who delivers that kind of news over the phone?
"Who was that?" Dave asked. He always wants to know who called. I tell him.
"Now? What did he want?
"I have a brain tumor."
Now we are both stunned.
The next day I call the office for an appointment to find out WTF. The doctor shows me the images. He tells me not to be worried, that it is a meningioma and they are usually not cancerous in women. But, I should have brain scans every six months for a while.
That was six years ago. Sometimes I have balance issues, but then I drink and there's the bi-polar meds. Sometimes I have trouble accessing words, but, there's old age approaching and then there's the meds, and stress. Could be stress related. I like when I can't access a simple word and something extravagant comes out. I think my brain is re-circuiting. I have headaches, but who doesn't. Everybody has something.
I have a brain scan today. This is not what I want to do on the only nice day all week. I need to clean out a garden bed at the end of the driveway. I need to kill weeds and till up the dirt, maybe bleach the well. But no, I have a brain tumor that we are tracking for size and attitude. I threatened Dave that I wasn't going to do this if he put off having his knee replacement surgery again. "I'll do it next year," he says, again.
I don't like having to take off all my jewelry so the big magnet doesn't suck it off. When Dave said all my bracelets looked ridiculous, I added more. I look like a gypsy. More is better. Too much is just right.
I kind of enjoy the weirdness of the head banging machine. The noise is reminiscent of industrial music, which I don't mind. I put on the headphones and listen to some background music. I breathe deep and go into a meditative state. I could have had the tumor taken out six months ago when it had doubled in size, but I didn't want to cut my hair.
It is benign, or I would be dead by now. It was discovered when I had an MRI done for a neck injury. The doctor didn't call back and didn't call back. So I called his office to ask what gives, I need my results. The nurse said she would have the doctor call me. He didn't. I called again and the nurse said she would give me the results. I waited on hold. She came back and said that she would have the doctor call me. WTF.
The doctor called one evening. He tells me that I have a brain tumor. "What?" I say.
"You have a brain tumor and ....." I didn't hear any words after that and then my shitty Verizon phone dropped the call. I couldn't call back. I sat there stunned. Nice bedside manner. Who delivers that kind of news over the phone?
"Who was that?" Dave asked. He always wants to know who called. I tell him.
"Now? What did he want?
"I have a brain tumor."
Now we are both stunned.
The next day I call the office for an appointment to find out WTF. The doctor shows me the images. He tells me not to be worried, that it is a meningioma and they are usually not cancerous in women. But, I should have brain scans every six months for a while.
That was six years ago. Sometimes I have balance issues, but then I drink and there's the bi-polar meds. Sometimes I have trouble accessing words, but, there's old age approaching and then there's the meds, and stress. Could be stress related. I like when I can't access a simple word and something extravagant comes out. I think my brain is re-circuiting. I have headaches, but who doesn't. Everybody has something.
Friday, April 22, 2016
Steve Stories
Gramma
Ben and I ended up sitting in the driveway/patio telling Steve stories.
"Ask Steve about setting the prison gym on fire. He gets teased about that a lot. Fire trucks from two departments showed up. It wasn't his fault. Turned out to be electrical. Caused a lockdown though."
When Steve first moved in, he bought lambs. Thought he'd make some money selling them in the fall. They took up residence under his deck and shit all over the yard. So he decides to put up a fence to keep them away from the house.
Early one morning I hear him pounding in fence posts. He has not put up a straight line first, so the fence weaves back and forth like a drunken sailor. I sit up on the roof deck with my coffee watching this fiasco. I don't know where he got the used fence, but when it was unrolled the stuff was about three feet high. It had looked more like five feet when it was rolled up. So Steve decides to put a layer of fence above the other stuff. WTF. He was raised on a farm.
I asked Steve what his co-workers said about him having sheep. He hung his head and shook it slowly. "I never should have told them." he drawled. I could just hear it. "Bo Peep, how's the sheep? Which one is the prettiest? Baa, baa."
I told Ben the story about when I had sheep and had dressed them up in lingerie because a guy from Dave's work was coming to borrow something. The guy went back to work and never said a word about it. He figured it would be like saying you'd seen a UFO.
I had planned to dress Steve's sheep up and take pictures to send to the warden, but they wouldn't have reached his co-workers, which defeated the purpose. It would still have been fun to do it for Steve's benefit alone.
Then there was the time I watched from across the pond while Steve set to starting a huge brush pile on fire with a can of gasoline. I figured I would be calling an ambulance, but he jumped back just in time. I went over with my beer and said, "Only start a brush pile with used oil or diesel fuel." Steve raised his beer, as if to say "right." It got to be a late night drinking. I knew Steve would have a hangover, but not me.
Dave does not have any appreciation for bonfires and would only come outside if I called his phone yelling, "Bring a rake," or "Bring a fire extinguisher, and hurry up." Dave has two speeds, not so fast and stop. At work he says, "If you don't like this speed, you won't like my other one." I have never seen Dave run. He was snoring when I got home.
Ben and I ended up sitting in the driveway/patio telling Steve stories.
"Ask Steve about setting the prison gym on fire. He gets teased about that a lot. Fire trucks from two departments showed up. It wasn't his fault. Turned out to be electrical. Caused a lockdown though."
When Steve first moved in, he bought lambs. Thought he'd make some money selling them in the fall. They took up residence under his deck and shit all over the yard. So he decides to put up a fence to keep them away from the house.
Early one morning I hear him pounding in fence posts. He has not put up a straight line first, so the fence weaves back and forth like a drunken sailor. I sit up on the roof deck with my coffee watching this fiasco. I don't know where he got the used fence, but when it was unrolled the stuff was about three feet high. It had looked more like five feet when it was rolled up. So Steve decides to put a layer of fence above the other stuff. WTF. He was raised on a farm.
I asked Steve what his co-workers said about him having sheep. He hung his head and shook it slowly. "I never should have told them." he drawled. I could just hear it. "Bo Peep, how's the sheep? Which one is the prettiest? Baa, baa."
I told Ben the story about when I had sheep and had dressed them up in lingerie because a guy from Dave's work was coming to borrow something. The guy went back to work and never said a word about it. He figured it would be like saying you'd seen a UFO.
I had planned to dress Steve's sheep up and take pictures to send to the warden, but they wouldn't have reached his co-workers, which defeated the purpose. It would still have been fun to do it for Steve's benefit alone.
Then there was the time I watched from across the pond while Steve set to starting a huge brush pile on fire with a can of gasoline. I figured I would be calling an ambulance, but he jumped back just in time. I went over with my beer and said, "Only start a brush pile with used oil or diesel fuel." Steve raised his beer, as if to say "right." It got to be a late night drinking. I knew Steve would have a hangover, but not me.
Dave does not have any appreciation for bonfires and would only come outside if I called his phone yelling, "Bring a rake," or "Bring a fire extinguisher, and hurry up." Dave has two speeds, not so fast and stop. At work he says, "If you don't like this speed, you won't like my other one." I have never seen Dave run. He was snoring when I got home.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Chillin' with Bengay
Gramma
Then the neighbor and I got to talking over the fence. He was drinking rum. I was working on a case of Stella. Ben was young enough to be my son. He worked as a guard at the prison and lived with the Steve, also a prison guard. Ben was a gym rat and played baseball. In the summer, the donkey's, alpaca's and llama's kept the grass down in Steve's fenced field. Ben and I proceeded to get drunk.
"So are you guy's a couple?" I asked. Dave and I thought so. The summer before, they had been painting Steve's fence along the road. Ben was working in short shorts with no shirt. It looked pretty condemning.
"Hell no. I am not gay." Dave and I referred to him as Bengay.
"Don't the guys at work give you shit about living together?"
"Not really." Maybe not to their faces. "Steve is real weird about me having girls over. I have to go to their places."
"He brought a girl here once."
"No way. What did she look like? I've never seen him with a girl."
"She was a little cross-eyed, a little stocky, dishwater hair. She was wearing a button down shirt with puffy sleeves, like in the 70's. I think she was a co-worker. She was into the donkey's and asked Steve if she could come and see them. She seemed to really like Steve, in spite of his habits."
"You mean the constant spitting?"
"And he's always adjusting his junk and has a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. We had him over for dinner one time. He had his arm around the plate, his face near the food, shoveling it in." Steve is the youngest of twelve. It was likely a survival tactic.
Steve was like a stealth. I would be doing something outside or in the shed, turn around, and there he was. When I was plowing his driveway he hopped up on the back of tractor. Scared the shit out of me. He reminded me of Lurch, a prison guard where I had been a guest of the state.
Lurch liked to sneak around and catch women having sex. Before sending them to the hole, he would let them finish. One night I was in the basement doing my laundry and stitching a voodoo doll. He comes up behind me and says to me in his deep voice, "Very good work" then disappeared back into the dark.
Then the neighbor and I got to talking over the fence. He was drinking rum. I was working on a case of Stella. Ben was young enough to be my son. He worked as a guard at the prison and lived with the Steve, also a prison guard. Ben was a gym rat and played baseball. In the summer, the donkey's, alpaca's and llama's kept the grass down in Steve's fenced field. Ben and I proceeded to get drunk.
"So are you guy's a couple?" I asked. Dave and I thought so. The summer before, they had been painting Steve's fence along the road. Ben was working in short shorts with no shirt. It looked pretty condemning.
"Hell no. I am not gay." Dave and I referred to him as Bengay.
"Don't the guys at work give you shit about living together?"
"Not really." Maybe not to their faces. "Steve is real weird about me having girls over. I have to go to their places."
"He brought a girl here once."
"No way. What did she look like? I've never seen him with a girl."
"She was a little cross-eyed, a little stocky, dishwater hair. She was wearing a button down shirt with puffy sleeves, like in the 70's. I think she was a co-worker. She was into the donkey's and asked Steve if she could come and see them. She seemed to really like Steve, in spite of his habits."
"You mean the constant spitting?"
"And he's always adjusting his junk and has a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. We had him over for dinner one time. He had his arm around the plate, his face near the food, shoveling it in." Steve is the youngest of twelve. It was likely a survival tactic.
Steve was like a stealth. I would be doing something outside or in the shed, turn around, and there he was. When I was plowing his driveway he hopped up on the back of tractor. Scared the shit out of me. He reminded me of Lurch, a prison guard where I had been a guest of the state.
Lurch liked to sneak around and catch women having sex. Before sending them to the hole, he would let them finish. One night I was in the basement doing my laundry and stitching a voodoo doll. He comes up behind me and says to me in his deep voice, "Very good work" then disappeared back into the dark.
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