Mother’s Day cake. My supper…

It’s been a week since Mother’s Day and I think I’m finally over it.  I felt like a total failure on Mother’s Day. I read all those blogs and newspaper articles about what wonderful, endearing things good mothers do for their children. Things I never did.  Like leaving little saccharine love notes in their child’s lunch box. And then I thought of all the other things I never did, such as…

I didn’t  bake many cookies.  More likely I baked cakes, like devil’s food cake on Halloween. I never baked bread either.

Did I knit baby booties? Socks?  Sweaters?  Scarves?   C’mon.  You’ve got to be kidding.  The last time I knitted anything, it was a strait-jacket for the dog.

There were no bedtime stories either.  The first time I read Jennifer a story – about the three little pigs – she had nightmares.  All night.  About nasty, fat-assed wolves riding her tricycle.   And then there were the fights to get her to bed.  She had so much energy her bed could have been a trampoline! Genetics?  Sugar? I don’t know.  But reading my daughter bedtime stories?  It didn’t happen.

No homemade crafts either.  I hate crazy glue.   It’s hard to unstick fingers from tabletops.  I remember a dinner guest asking, “What are these little beige circles under my placemat?”  I also outlawed play dough.  Hard dried-out play dough on carpet fibers lacerates feet. Sit on that one.

Some may say I taught  my daughter bad social skills because I once told her, “ If someone hits you, hit them back and harder.  But not if there is a teacher or dean around.”

And I cleaned her face with a spit rag. But  only once.  (Nah, maybe two or three times.)  My mother used to do this to me; she’d dab a kleenex or hankie in her saliva and then wipe my cheek with it.  Not very sanitary but it is convenient.  Ewwww…

Admonish her not to curse?  No.  I’m not a hypocrite.  I can make paint peel.  Funny thing, she doesn’t use profane or obscene language, but it’s not because of me.

Did we make doll clothes and dress her dolls?  No, she made them herself.  What they looked like and how they fit her dolls were her issues.  Did we make little doilies trimmed with lace? Nope.  Play imaginary tea parties?  Sorry. I had to work.  No time.  Make Christmas decorations? Ditto. And did I radiate sunshine when I smiled? Not a chance.  I have a bad habit of seeing things as they are. But …

I did help her with her homework and harder yet, study habits.  I’d like to think my love of learning rubbed off on her, that she believes knowledge is good and necessary for survival.  I may have even inspired her to be a good-hearted person, to love family, life, and nature. I say inspire, but encourage may be a better choice of words. Because I think this is something a person is likely born with, you can’t force it on them.

I taught her to drive.  A car, that is.  Driving other people crazy is something she learned on her own.  As for driving the family car, I am still here to write about it.  I may have a few extra gray hairs but I survived.

I taught her household skills and to clean the garage.  (You don’t think I would clean the garage all by myself?)  I even taught her how to kill a cockroach in a single swat.  An essential skill here in south Florida and all the more impressive because she’s left handed.

Yesterday, I  apologized to Jennifer about not leaving sweet notes of happiness in her lunch.  Her reply: “If you had left me those notes, I wouldn’t have known what to make of them.  I would have thought there was something wrong with you…”  Such cynicism.  I wonder where she got it from!

Short Timer…Short List.

There are at least 10 things I will not think about in my last 10 seconds of life.   I usually don’t have enough time for that kind of nonsense, and hopefully I will continue to exist for more than 10 seconds after I write this.  But because I like lists,  here  are  the big 10.

• What’s for dinner?  Who cares?  How am I gonna cook something in 10 seconds anyway? I can’t’ even open a can of tuna in 10 seconds.

• Did I get enough fiber today?  Should have had seven grams at  breakfast  according to the experts.  Or  was it 7 ounces I should have had?  7 ounces?  That’s almost half a pound. I’d probably die of terminal diarrhea.  Who wants to die of that? Besides it would take a lot longer than 10 seconds.

• Did I pay the electric bill?  What’s the big deal?   My lights are gonna go out anyway. I wonder how long my family will sit in the dark before they figure it out.  Oh well, no problem because I don’t have time to worry about it anyway…

• Annual colonoscopy?  Nope! Not now, not ever. On the other hand if I have a polyp the size of Detroit, and that’s why I’m buying the big one, I should have known  better.

• Do I  need a Heimlich?  I should have swallowed some coffee with that mammoth piece of cheesecake (hope it was chocolate. )   I feel like a snake that just swallowed a hog.  Too late now…

• The septic tank is full.  The toilets and drains are on overflow.  Nobody called the honey wagon.  The tide is rising and its not just water…That stinks.

• My credit cards are over charged.  So sue me!

• Why did I overeat?  I feel like I’m  gonna explode. Who’s in charge of cleanup?   Begin countdown.  Ten.  Nine.  Eight…five…three…two…   Better get an umbrella or better yet, a raincoat.

• Rash?  Itch?? Jungle rot?? It better not be leprosy.  At least it’s not worms.

• What did I just step in? All the way up to my ankles.  Was I  wandering around in a cow pasture in the dark?  Or was it my dog?? Pookie!  Don’t eat so much!

One foot in, one foot out…sole facing heaven.

I woke up feeling morbid today.   Like I had one foot in the grave.  All because I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep.  I  had fallen asleep watching Channel Nada, Worthless TV.  When  I woke up, my addled brain began chasing lethargic butterflies of insomnia… Or maybe they were dragonflies.    Anyway, I just sat there.  In the living room.  In the dark.  For hours…

I channeled my groggy self into an awful mind  rut of worry… about things I have no control over and don’t like to think about…like dying.  I worried that, one of these nights, I might croak in the middle of the night. I was digging myself deeper and deeper.  Out there.  In the living room.  In the dark.  Just  me and  the dog.

What will it take to get my somnambulant spouse, Howard,  to find me?   A trip to the refrigerator for a late night snack?  Breakfast?  Will he  even notice?  Maybe the dog will tell him.

When Howard sees me stone cold, will he even know the difference? Maybe he’ll just get me a blanket and tell me I look a little pale. Then what?  What if I turn blue?Will he turn on the heat?  Or just get another blanket.  Maybe I’ll just look pasty (especiallyafter the undertaker slathers on embalmer’s putty…)  And how long do I have to sit…or lie there before I become a bonafide stiff?  Is it easier or harder to move a stiff? Way to go, rigor mortis!

And then there’s the ultimate indignity…loss of bladder control.  What’s the use of all those Kegel exercises if you can’t hold it in the end?  Maybe I’ll be lucky and Howard will think the dog did it (again).   Did somebody say intestinal disfunction?? Like my bowels will be unloading  harder than a grave digger shoveling dirt? Say it isn’t so.

Afterlife?  Hmmm… sounds optimistic to me.  Something to look forward to. There must be some invisible dimension somewhere, up there.  Or is it out there?  Is it Heaven?  Hell?  If it’s hell, maybe it’s down there.  And who else is gonna be there? Seems to me it will be verrrrrry  crowded considering the billions of people who have lived and died.  At least they won’t be driving cars.

How about people I don’t like.  If I didn’t like them the first time around, how’s it gonna be the second time.  Heaven?  With THEM?  I don’t think so…So what if they do have an entitlement to Heaven.  Forget it.  I don’t want to see them again.    (See???  Who am I kidding? With what?) And  it would be a special kind of hell if I was  stuck having to be around  stupid people.  Idiots.  Dummies with single digit intelligence.

Do the dead linger? What if I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel?  I could go to a séance and find out.  It would be worth the drive.  Séance? What am I thinking? Is there even such a thing as a credible séance?  And who the hell would I talk to?  My irritable, cantankerous, tired of waiting mother??   I can hear her now, “Everything I did  for you, and this is what I get…You never talk or call anymore.   Not for 10 years.  10 long years….”. That’s it!   Dead for 10 years and she’s pissed off.  Then she’ll scold me  saying, , “Where’s that husband of yours?”  To which I’ll  reply, “Getting me a blanket, Mom.”

We all have them, irrational fears.  Fears of things we shouldn’t be scared of, things we would not give a hoot about.   If only we just didn’t think about them.  Here are a few of my own, and maybe a few of some people you know….

Unreasonable (irrational) Fears:

1. Can’t breathe.  Suffocation eminent. It’s just my congested sinuses.  It      happens every time I get a bad cold or the flu and it always happens at      night.  You know, when I’m out in the living room all by myself and its 3AM. Why am I out in the living room by myself?  Because I’m trying not to wake up the congested, inconsiderate family member who gave me this plague.  Maybe it would be better to go into the  bedroom and match his grizzly bear snores with my own sneezes and hacking coughs. The two of us could keep each other up.  All night.
2.  Gynecologist: the big spread.  I guess the male equivalent of a      gynecological exam is the big testicular squeeze.  Good thing men aren’t sheep. At least they don’t need  bricks for anaesthesia.  Male or female, there’s always the fickle finger…. And then there’s the worry that the gynecologist’s examination light will shine up your zing zang and radiate      out your ears…
3. Gas- are you sure?  You thought you farted, but guess what?  It wasn’t      gas.  Now you need a new pair of underwear, maybe an entire clothing change.  Couldn’t you tell by the sound?  Maybe you just thought it was your Fartmaster key chain, you know, the one with the Mr. Juicy button.  You should have stayed home!
4. Going to the dentist- Now this is a rational fear.  You have good reason to be scared.  When the doctor says, “ I am going to use this 2,000 rpm nuclear-powered servo drill to remove 17 of your old fillings in five minutes…”, you should  spit out your saliva slob gobbers and head for the hills.
5.  Bogyman- On the other hand, this may be rational too…. It’s often combined with another irrational fear, fear of the dark. Add to it the condition of sinusitis and total congestion, you will really think you’re headed to the hereafter.  It’s a good time to ring up the old celestial telephone and call God. But if you get an answer, you have worse problems.  But tell him (or her) about the scratching at the door and window anyway. Now if you don’t get an answer, you still have a problem but at least you won’t think you are hallucinating.

“There’s something spectacular about chasing a wild boar through your own backyard.”

Most South Floridians have accents that originated from the Northeast.  They do not and probably never will “speak southern”.  But, since understanding each other is part of daily civility, here are a few more southern words with definitions and uses…

Most people don’t (usually) go outside without any clothes on.  But if you were to see a naked person, you would say they were nekkid, not naked, as in…

• How come you nekkid? You no good for nuthin’…you up to summpin’!!

Cletus forgot his shoes outside.  It rained for two days.  Are his shoes  ruined or whuzzled?  If the toes of his shoes curl, you could tell Cletus…

• Your shoes are all whuzzled.  You look like an elf!
• Of course, after you tell him that, you better run like hell.  A safer use of the word whuzzle is…
• After spending the night with the hogs, Homer’s clothes was all whuzzled.

You have diarrhea.  You called the doctor’s office but all they did was put you on hold.  You tell Bubba…

• Get me the kaopectate! I’m  et up with something bad.

Your nephew, Elmer, tells you he’s going to get his high school diploma and go to college.  You can’t stand indecision so you tell him….

• Elmer, make up your rabbit-ass mind!

Some people are more than stupid.  They are et up with dumbass.  For example….

•  Bubba Junior caught his head between the fenceposts because he wuz  et up with  dumbass!

Cawhumpus   (not to be confused with cattywampus) can mean rear end or butt. It is a very useful anatomical word to indicate mood – especially when coupled with profanity- as in….

• Get your @*#!#%$  cawhumpus  outta here!  Or…

•  Your cawhumpus is so big, it oughta go freight.

Snarfel can mean chew or suck up or chew and suck up at the same time  as in…

•   Bob Dawg done snarfeled his ass bloody chasing that flea. I think he liked to chased it clean to Arkansas.

Now if you’re not into reality TV, you might think Honey Boo Boo  is a boil or a really big zit as in…

•  Sugar Honey, that honey boo boo on your ass is gonna pop!

Now I know there are lots of other sayings and expletives, but I think I’ll just leave them for another time and go watch Swamp People.  It has captions, but I don’t need them.

My foot…at least what’s left of it…

Now don’t get me wrong, we are both equal in this house, but I have this husband who has a set of rules that he thinks he can enforce.  Not that he will consciously admit to these unspoken rules but here they are:

1)      Never pay anyone to do something you can do yourself.  If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it at all.  Pretty soon you’ll have your wife out mowing the lawn in addition to all that vacuuming and laundry.  Of course if she refuses to vacuum, you’ll both be clutching your throats in asthmatic fits, and as for the lawn, there’s always code enforcement.  And if you don’t want to ever do something  again, just do a very lousy job, like putting her white lacy lingerie in the wash  with your red sweat pants.

2)      If you are doing a household repair or improvement of some kind, make sure that you hurt yourself at least once doing it.  It might be a cut or falling out of a tree, or something very insignificant, but let your wife know how much pain you are in.  If it is a sticker in your foot, make sure you get her to dig it out, and be sure to put your foot up on the dining room table. After she has strained her eyes to remove the microscopic and invisible thorn, walk around with a limp and swear that it is still there even though she’s dug a hole in the sole of your foot big enough to bury the dog in.

3)      If you’re really pissed about something, don’t say anything.  Just stare at the television and glare.  Curl your lip and snarl if it’s appropriate.  Then continue not speaking  the rest of the day.  When you finally do start to talk to each other, tell your wife how you didn’t appreciate the silent treatment, after all, she started it.  On the other hand, if you want sex, you better come up with another solution.

4)      If you don’t like her cooking, cook the meals yourself.  There is an advantage to this in that you can control volume and you don’t have to clean up.  You can cook whatever you want (to heck with that macrobiotic and Mediterranean stuff) in large amounts and you’ll be able to eat like a pig –every night.  Having your wife do the cleanup  could also keep her out of your hair for a long time, like the duration of a foot ball game.  But, don’t let her go to the doctor with you.  You don’t want her telling him how you ate almost half a chocolate cake  all by yourself.

The egg had to land somewhere…

Reunions bring out the worst in me.  My facebook site is full of posts on an upcoming high school reunion.  I haven’t decided whether or not to go.  I just looked at the list of potential attendees  and, even with the absentees, it will be a big group.  It’s gonna take me days to  go over this list.  Who are these people?  I can’t believe I actually went to school with them.   Maybe they’re imposters.

Posts from former classmates are coming into facebook fast and furious.  I’m laying low, keeping my mouth shut and my keyboard quiet.  I’m not sure I should communicate the thoughts I have coming to mind.  My comments might produce indignant or hurt feelings….or indifference.

Susan P. posts, “ I can’t come to the reunion.”  This statement is followed by a lot of boo-hooing.  I guess I should sympathize, but out of a graduating class of 700+, Susan P., I can’t even remember who you are.  Then her post goes on to say, “ I’m gonna have surgery, serious surgery.”  Oh geez, that’s not good.   But, somewhere in the scuttlebutt of my brain, I can feel insensitivities brewing; do I really care?  She then adds to her missive lament, “I hope the scalpel is sharp and the doctor’s eyesight is good.”  Well Susan P., although I don’t know who you are, do get well, but watch out for the robot!

Darlene N. posts two days later….”Hope y’all have an amazing reunion!  I can’t come because I’ll be out of the country.  We’re going on a cruise to France!”  Great!  But who cares?  I certainly don’t.  Why?  Because I can’t miss you if I can’t remember you.  It’s not Alzheimer’s and I’m sure somebody else will miss you, at least two of them.

There’s a list  of the action committee members, the people who are in charge of the reunion.  Would you believe they are the same old (and getting older by the minute), clicky people? They were snobs all during high school, and probably still are.  They were always close, very close… more than friendly.  They probably gave each other Herpes or at least, UTI’s. Shoot, some of them are even married or divorced from each other. A future divorce reunion?  That sounds more interesting.

I hate dressy attire.  And what would I wear?  Obviously Spanx (a new name for girdle?). But how many?  One, for sure.  Two, probably should.  Three?  That’s tough to bear and if the heat made them stick to me,  I’d have to get Howard to cut them off.  Scissors, scalpel anyone?  And then there’s Howard in a coat and tie.  No way.  A suit in the summer heat is even more insufferable than pantyhose, heels, and hairspray.

I can’t wait for the photographs.  Twenty-five years later. and it will be tedious to count the pot bellies and thinning hair.  I probably wouldn’t know them if I passed them on the street.  I have a directory from last year.  There’s actually one friend I wanted to see and talk to.  Problem is, she’s on the deceased list.