Reason to Believe, Part One

 

The end of the story.

This was the last picture that night. I was probably 21 at the time. I carefully removed everyone’s eyes from the photograph (except mine) because the people with me are  in the photograph are either way too successful or way too dead to have their picture running at my place.

 

Friday nights we did everything as a group, Saturday nights were theme nights, and on any given Sunday we would be together from noon until about 8 p.m.

In my opinion, theme nights were my favorite because we only chose themes where we thought we would look really great. There were probably close to 25 or 30 of us and everything was carefully planned using a land line telephone.  We never announced the theme until Saturday at noon because we didn’t want any of the other girls having enough time to plan how they could look better than us.

One of the guys we hung out with had a farm house and we’d usually start there with solids before we switched to liquids. In the seventies we weren’t afraid of drunk driving and sexually transmitted diseases hadn’t been invented so we were truly invincible.

The beginning of the story.

Three of us shared an apartment. Two of us were close friends since kindergarten and I was the other one. I took the place of the one that girl that left for college. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now – those are dynamics that never work.

We had great parties. Seriously great parties. Three girls lived upstairs, three boys lived downstairs. The boys cut the grass and shoveled the snow because we pretended we didn’t know how.

Fridays were wild in our two-family home. We’d get home from work, clean and do a week’s worth of dishes. One floor of the house would play the music loud enough for the entire building, most of the time it was Meat Loaf’s Bat out of Hell. Our throats would be raw from screaming lyrics before we even left the apartment for the night.

We were young. We traded clothes and secrets, we were going to be friends forever. We drove each others’ cars, hugged each others’ boyfriends, ate each others’ food, and did each others laundry. We lent each other money, paid each other back, and screamed when the perfect song came on at the perfect moment. Damn, we were loud.

I smoked for a weekend. I’ve rarely admitted that fact, but I’m telling you now. I smoked one pack on Friday night, the second pack on Saturday night, and another pack Sunday afternoon. That would be my addictive personality, I guess. Merit Methol was the brand I smoked, I liked the way the pack looked. I even bought sunglasses that matched the cigarette pack. And after three days of hard core smoking my lungs hurt so I quit.

The incredibly long middle of the story.

We dated softball players. Don’t quote me on this one, but at the time I thought it might have been some kind of crazy ass Wisconsin law. I mean, every girl I knew was dating a softball player. And every girl knew also could tell how good a guy would be by what position he played in the softball game. Don’t think we didn’t notice how quick a catcher could go from his knees to an upright position. Don’t think we didn’t notice how fast a shortstop could switch off between second base and third base without missing a beat. We saw it all. We even knew that the guys who were all talk about playing the field but couldn’t really produce ended up right field. We just knew.

One of the best parts about dating softball players were the tournaments. It was like the World Series every single weekend.  Particulars were well planned. We didn’t have cell phones. Hell, we didn’t even have cordless phones. Four couples shared two vehicles. Usually the guys caravanned, four per vehicle and the girls came an hour later also four to a car. Gas prices weren’t outrageous, cars were inexpensive and music came on eight-tracks.

On one particular World Series tournament weekend, I was the designated driver.  In the seventies that meant you were the one designated to drive. It had nothing to do with starting sober, remaining sober and being a responsible sober person for the duration of the evening. It simply meant you were the one that was designated to do the driving.

We were all crammed into my Ford Pinto, yes it was green. I had a serious juke box with a deafening pair of speakers. They weren’t the little pansy ass box speakers either, these were serious speakers that needed special holes drilled into the flat area between the seat and the rear window. This pair of speakers came from an ex-softball-playing-boyfriend’s first generation Monte Carlo. And yes, they were way too big and powerful for my Pinto which would explain part of my popularity when it came to choosing a designated driver.

To be continued …

 

 

 

Operation Wiener Relocation

Last night we had a good ol’ fashioned wienie roast followed by a couple of hundred marshmallows. We needed to do this because it was thirty two degrees and I refused to turn the heat back on in the house.

We had originally planned to do this over the weekend, but the wind picked up speed and we had our plans blown into the next week. Anyone that has/had children needs to forewarn parents planning to have children that you can’t postpone something fun and then just go on with your life.

Oh, life does go on but it is no where near like it was before, oh no. After twenty four hours my ears were bleeding because I heard the same words over and over and over.

** When can we roast marshmallows? (times five bazillion gajillion)

** How long until we can have hot dogs made outside? (times seven gugatrillion)

No more questions, my adorable little peeps. We will proceed with our original plans when the weather changes.

** I know you said no more questions, so this isn’t a question, because you wouldn’t like that so this is more of a run-on sentence where my voice gets higher and higher and it sounds like a question but it still isn’t a question but there is no wind right now.

When my kids were little they didn’t even know when Christmas was coming because I couldn’t handle the questions. One day, it was just Christmas. The tree went up, stockings were hung. They just marveled at all of it, never knowing that something big was following. It wasn’t until they went to school and everything I carefully orchestrated was ruined by “The System” teaching them about calendars. And time. And reoccurring events. School sucks that way. I totally understand it now when homeschooling parents say that it is a matter of priorities.

Any way, as preparations are underway for our fine cuisine, it is quickly discovered that there may be a problem with the hot dogs.

Back up, my kids are raised with responsibilities. The youngest kids came from rocky beginnings and we were in a series of foster homes before landing safely on our front porch. From early on, my kids get involved in meal planning and preparation. One reason is so that they see there is always food available because sometimes that hadn’t been possible, and another reason is that it makes my life so much easier when I delegate.

Part of their responsibility is to unload the groceries. It further cements the idea that we will always have enough food, no matter what. I wasn’t crazy about this plan right away, but it made a huge difference for the kids.

I can’t always find what I am looking for because they put things where they think they belong, which isn’t always the case. They clear the dinner table, too. Sometimes a funky smell is coming from a cabinet but a brief search will teach you why a half used can of tomato paste needs to go in the refrigerator and not back in the cabinet.

You are now flipping to the current time of last night. The hot dogs were put in the cabinet and not in the refrigerator. At the time the groceries came home from the store on Saturday, the plan was a cook out Saturday night. One of the kids thought the hot dogs would cook faster if they were at room temperature instead of refrigerated (brilliant, I say), which explains why the hot dogs were put in the same cabinet as the buns. Sadly, once the festivities were postponed Operation Wiener Relocation was not initiated.

One more quick trip the to grocery store included a discussion about it being best to put stuff away properly at the original time of purchase and always be prepared for something unexpected occur. The general consensus was to avoid playing hide the wienie at all costs, keep your wienie where it belongs and forget about it until you need it for real.

Now, that we are done with our wienies, let us progress to to our next pressing topic. As the fire went from person to person, the crowd echoed “I Hate White Rabbits” whenever the smoke went in their direction.

I did not grow up with the safety net of White Rabbit, so when the smoke blew in my direction and I moved. Simple, pure, easy. Get up. Move. So, I am marvel at my posse and ponder the following, “will my work here ever be done.”

I don’t know how story of The White Rabbit began, nor do I really need to know. My kids didn’t learn it from me, it was taught by others as a folklore or tradition as a part of their past that they bring with them to our campfire today. Who am I to destroy it all by pointing out that fire doesn’t speak English?

Radio-Related Mid-Life Crisis, Guest Bredenz

It’s just a radio.

It’s a radio won at a casino-themed dinner held by an employer I worked for so long ago, it seems like someone else’s lifetime.  I can’t recall whether I actually did anything to earn it; there’s a good chance that it was a door prize. I’ve never been much of a gambler.

Specifically, it’s an Aiwa CS-N15U, and the serial number sticker on the back claims that it was built in 1988. Knowing this particular employer, it most likely sat in an ocean container in a warehouse in Newark for about three years after that, until it was claimed from a prize table by a much younger me somewhere around 1991. And this radio has graced a variety of my domiciles throughout Wisconsin in these nearly twenty years since.

For the past seven of those nearly twenty years, with very little deviation, my morning routine has been the same: Grab coffee, walk downstairs, flip the switch on this little radio, turn on the shower, and allow myself to be reborn. Celebrate that I’ve cheated death, and actuarial science, for yet another day.

This radio has been my trusted companion through, in no particular order: Three jobs, more failed relationships than I wish to admit, eleven years of marriage, seven years of fatherhood, a car crash that should have killed me, two Green Bay Packer trips to the Super Bowl, resulting in one Lombardi Trophy, Opening Days at both County Stadium and Miller Park, a forest fire, raking leaves, re-siding my grandparents’ home before their death, burying my grandparents, planting trees (not related to forest fire) watering said trees, fishing, splitting wood, caulking and staining a log cabin, many garage cleanings, more washed windows than I can remember, many things I wish I could forget, windy fall afternoons throwing a Frisbee with my daughter, and countless peaceful summer evenings spent sitting by a fire-pit with a beer in my hand. (Which, for the record, is how I started the forest fire.)

“Good times, bad times, you know I’ve had my share.” Yes, those words have emerged from this radio many times, also.

This radio has been witness to remarkable personal diversity. As my politics have leaned left and right through the years, this radio was surprisingly consistent, and never once judged the content, nor placement of the dial.  These speakers have known everything from NPR to Art Bell.

I listened to Brewer games on this radio with my grandfather, who passed away in 2001, and when I hear Bob Uecker’s voice through the speakers of this radio, I still picture my grandfather sitting next to me.

It was from the speakers of this radio that John Jagler informed me that a plane had struck the first of the Twin Towers on the morning of 9/11.  Every time I hear his voice, it reminds me of how that morning changed us.  Sadly, perhaps, not enough.

It’s almost staggering to admit that this simple piece of consumer electronics predates my first home computer purchase by nearly three years.  Processors have gotten faster, hard drives have gotten bigger.  This silly little radio has never known the difference.

About once a year, I notice that my friend’s little red “operation” LED is going so dim it can barely be seen, and the voices emerging from its speakers are becoming garbled. So, as a ritual, I put four fresh ‘D’ cells in the battery compartment, and my friend is given the gift of new life.  It’s fitting, then, that in these days just following the Christian holiday of Easter, this morning, my friend was longing for resurrection.

Today, something inside of me is different. This modest radio still works just fine; though, admittedly, much like its owner, it is showing some signs of wear. So, I am left wondering whether there’s something better out there. Experiencing a bit of a “radio-related mid-life crisis,” I guess.  I’ve made the decision: The time has come to retire my longtime companion. Nineteen years spent with the same miniature boombox is, quite frankly, enough.

Going radio shopping this afternoon.  Have no idea what to expect.

Bredenz can be read at Badger Blogger.

Follow @Bredenz on Twitter.

 

 

Best April Fool’s Joke Ever

We’ve all been to the Dollar Store, right?

So about two years ago, I was at the check out in the Dollar Store and I am patiently waiting in line for the friendly clerk to scan my items so I can stash them into an odd-shaped cardboard box. I scope out the awesome impulse items such as really cheap batteries, really cheap tape, really cheap word search magazines, really cheap pregnancy tests, really cheap wet wipes, wait … did I just see Early Detection Pregnancy Tests for just one dollar!

Whoa, I grabbed five home pregnancy kits and threw them in with the rest of my own really cheap groceries and laughed the entire drive home. In fact, by the time I got home, I was laughing so hard I could barely see straight, much less pee straight.

You need to understand that at that point in time, I had been cursed with a big bad case of baby fever and had a temperature so high, it had me seeing double. I was pestering David endlessly about having a baby. Ignore the fact that we already had more kids than anyone else we knew, ignore the fact that he already had a vasectomy, ignore the fact that my eggs were so old there was no way anything good could be coming out of them, ignore it all … I wanted a baby in such a serious way that I could smell the Baby Magic Lotion on my unborn child’s bare bottom and it smelled great.

Anyway, for every reason I had for wanting a baby, David had two reasons why it wouldn’t be a good idea and I’ll admit they were good reasons. His vasectomy, my old eggs, more kids than we could fit in a booth at McDonald’s, etc.

I did know there wouldn’t be a baby in our future and I think if I use my super keen 20/20 hindsight vision all I really wanted was for him to say something like:

I love you so much that I would move heaven and earth to have a baby with you and if only insurance would pay for my vasectomy reversal, we could cheerfully reproduce and the world would rejoice with us as we showed them our newly created sweet Baby Magic scented offspring.

Nothing more than what most women want, just the standard “I love you so much, we should have a baby” thing.

Anyway, when I got I home I had to lug that odd-shaped cardboard box of really cheap groceries from the car to the house, and put away my really cheap groceries, and dispose of the odd-shaped cardboard box, but I could barely live within my own skin because I was laughing so hard. I was about to scare the crap out of the greatest man that ever walked this earth and and life was good and this was going to be the Best April Fool’s Joke Ever.

Groceries put away, check.

Empty bathroom waste can, check.

Pee on four sticks, check check check check.

Only garbage in the bathroom waste can was from the pregnancy kits, checkity-check check-checkity.

Unused pregnancy kit on bathroom counter near toilet. Cha-cha-cha-check. (Now the really good thing about the really cheap pregnancy test is that there is no “plus/minus” or “yes/no” but more like a color comparison thing. If you haven’t got the directions right in front of you, you really don’t know if it is a genuine potential pregnancy scare or just a stick that had some pee on it.)

Wait for David to come in and use the bathroom. One big freakin’ slow c h e c k.

Well, David’s a no show. He’s been outside most of the day cutting down the tremendously large dead trees that have been slowly deteriorating. These trees are large and hollow and a safe haven for squirrels, rats, mountain lions and whatever else likes to live in large dead trees.

David’s got the tree chopping-down thing to a science only smoother. First one branch, then another branch, filling the back of his truck as he goes. Smiling, chainsawing, crushing, it is poetry in motion. He has demolished all but the bottom fifteen feet of a dead tree.

I approach him, trying not to laugh on the outside

He stops cutting, looks at me with eyebrows raised as if to say: I am not going to turn this thing off because I really like cutting stuff up so if you have something to say you are going to need to yell it.

Then I realize, ooops there is probably a law somewhere about not telling a man about a pregnancy test (real or imaginary) while he is using a chainsaw. I yell at him, “Hey, it looks nice out here. Can I get you anything?”

He nods his head no. But he raises his finger, as if to say wait, I’ve got something so cool to show you!

I politely wait. He raises the chainsaw and rev’s it up one more time for what I know is totally about emphasis and then he lowers it and starts to lob off the bottom of a dead tree. It was at that point I saw the most disgusting sight I had ever seen in my life … it was like liquid mice were pouring out of the top of the tree and the bottom of the tree. There had to be nine maybe even ten thousand of them squirting out of the top of that dead tree. Some made it down the side and out the bottom safely while others took flying leaps, and still others were shooting out of the tree like a circus clown through a giant cartoon cannon! I screamed so hard and so loud AND I did my “I hate mice, you dirty son of a buck” dance all the way to the house.

I was now exhausted. In one short day I had been through way too many emotions for a menopausal woman. To this day, David pinky-swears he didn’t know the mice would fly that far and in so many directions or that there would be close to a million mice or that I would scream that loud and be unable to sleep for that many weeks.

The day progresses, David’s chopping and smiling, crushing, sawing, going to the dump and back, and happy happy happy.

Meanwhile, my cheeks that had been frozen from my self-induced laughter festival and starting relax, my eyes are burning from the giddy, gloating, happy tears. Any trace of make up I had on is pooled under my chin, but I was hellbent on completing my Best April Fool’s Joke Ever and even more so since the mice-capades

Everything remained laid out in the bathroom, ready for him. I take quick glance and make sure nothing’s been moved. Awesome. Finally, David afternoon of Mouse Murder and Mayham is now complete and he heads towards the shower.

He comes back out and says, “Who’s stuff is that in the bathroom?”

I reply, “Mine.” See, that was the truth, it was mine.

He said, “Why?”

I said, “Because I was two weeks late and I was curious.” Which I really was two weeks late, but I wasn’t that curious because of the vasectemy.

He said, “What were the results?” At this moment he is holding all the sticks and plops on the couch.

I said, “You look and tell me, I can’t dare to look.”

I encourage him to look, pleading because I know he won’t be able to read the results without the instructions and then I will be able to decide if he has had enough.

He looks at the sticks, “It doesn’t say anything, they are blank.”

I’m all like, what is up with that but I keep those thoughts in my head. I look at the stick and no kidding, there really wasn’t anything there. I guess that is why these kits were a dollar.

Quickly thinking, “Hon, it is because you are color blind. There is a peach dot there, don’t you see it.”

He blurts out, “I can’t see peach, you know that.” Ahh, good quick thinking on my part. Only, he stood up without speaking and headed towards the bathroom again.

I didn’t tell him what peach meant, “Don’t you want to know what peach means?”

He kept walking and got in the shower.

Uh oh, I may have gone to far. When he comes out of the shower I will tell him and beg forgiveness. But he calls me in the bathroom and tells me to sit down. So, I sit on the toilet.

“The truth is Carrie, this isn’t a good time to be pregnant and you know the reasons why.” I start to interrupt and he says, “Don’t interrupt, I need to finish this.”

“Your eggs are wicked old and I can’t imagine I’ve got a halfway decent swimmer in the group and if there is a swimmer in the group it wouldn’t even be good enough to swim in the Special Olympics.”

I’ve got tears running down my cheeks, I am laughing and crying, as he continues, “We can assume because of our ages and statistics plus the fact that other than finding each other, neither of us have seen much good luck and I doubt we will have, no offense, a regular baby. But I promise I will love you forever and our probable special needs baby, too.”

Just when I think I can’t possibly love this gorgeous guy any more he comes along with this speech. It was the hottest, most awesome, love filled proclamation in the history of me.

I opened the shower curtain and we laughed and cried together until I said April Fool’s and then he was furious. I got sprayed with the shower nozzle until I promised no more April Fool’s jokes or baby talk.

That night in bed I thanked God that I was this old and this happy and this kind of crazy in love. I prayed that everyone could feel this safe and loved in their marriages.

So, yeah, it was two years ago and I haven’t done any April Fool jokes ever again and I doubt I ever will and now YOU know what kind of woman buys those one dollar pregnancy tests as an impulse item at the check out of the Dollar Store.

I Was Downloading Songs Before Downloading Songs Was Cool*

I wish I loved the beach.

I can’t imagine living somewhere that doesn’t have water, I love to drive by and “make sure Lake Michigan is still there” but beyond reconfirming its existence, my love affair with the beach ends.

Let’s break it down.

Maybe it is the sand that really gets to me. I get cramps in the arches of my feet when I walk on sand. Those are probably the sneakiest of all cramps because they usually spring up later when you aren’t expecting it and then you have one of those flashback moments like Oh crap, I forgot all about walking on the beach today until I got these horrific cramps!

The sand can hide bad news. And by bad news I mean glass, knives, guns, bodies, etc. Well, mostly just glass but glass is dangerous enough and the other stuff was thrown in as an attention grabber.

Sun + sand = intense pain. My brown eyes burn, my pink toes burn, and the intense sunshine bouncing off the gugajillion specks of sand cause my white flesh to burn, hence pain is produced.

Sand can also show up in places I never anticipated. It is bad enough to have sand in between the crevices of my toes, but I end up with sand in every crevice. Even the crevices that haven’t seen daylight in decades get sprinkled with sand. Everybody knows at least one kid that can’t eat a teeny tiny chocolate chip without ended up with a brown face, well that is me with sand.

To me, sand is beautiful at a distance. In fact, I guess I feel that way about most things Mother Nature has to offer. I consider it to be drive-by beauty giving my life some curb appeal.

Now, another irritating thing about the beach is the water. Sand plus water equals beach so I understand that both are key ingredients but let us pick apart the water for a few moments.

Water, as beautiful as it is, can kill. Read that sentence again because truer words were never spoken. And unless the fish carcasses that are offering to caress my lily white ankles are victims of the swine flu … well, water routinely kills fish and lays them on our sandy shores as evidence. Sure, the fish might have died from old age, aqua palsy**or even something genetic but let us stick to the ol’ “the water killed ‘em” theory because I haven’t got time to math out the statistics regarding this ectothermic phenom right now.

You can never judge a lake by its water.

Still waters run deep.*

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down, enough said.

Moon River, wider than a mile.

How do you make Holy Water? Boil the hell out of it.

Do you see where I am going here? Although water can render you squeaky clean or partially blessed, it also has a dark, mysterious side to it.

As further proof of the hypnotic seduction provided by water, I offer the guitar riff from Deep Purple’s Smoke On The Water.

If you aren’t familiar with this early seventies anthem, you can take a look at the guitar riff here but you can’t steal it because it belongs to someone. Wikipedia describes that philosophy better than I do so when you are looking at it you should stop bangin’ your head and read why you can’t steal other people’s audio.

Back to the water. Let me enter a quick disclaimer, today’s post is about my dislike of the beach. Please don’t let me persuade you in one way or another. I couldn’t convince people to vote the way I wanted them to so don’t even let me convince you that beaches are evil. Bitches, however, are often evil but that is another day, another topic.

My favorite thing about the beach, actually is this song by First Class, Beach Baby.

Why? Because I was going to Sheboygan North High School during the seventies, Mrs. Lorenz was my shorthand teacher. I worked on improving my shorthand skills by using a cassette recorder to tape songs as they were played by Bob Berry from WOKY, 920AM, a radio station out of Milwaukee Wisconsin. Beach Baby by First Class (above) and Badfinger’s Baby Blue (below) were the first two songs I downloaded …

… and by downloaded I mean I stole them from the radio and had to make sure no one spoke during my recording session or it would totally screw up my shorthand!*

*Please note that I very rarely use exclamation points when writing so when I do use them be sure to give them the respect they deserve!

Beach Baby made the Sheboygan region of Lake Michigan’s beach seem romantic. But I am older and wiser and more discriminative now that I am fifty years old. I don’t need to have algae embedded in my pinkie toenails. And let me point out that I have almost non-existent pinkie toenails except for the one time I was seduced into entering Lake Michigan and hauling out some green foamy growth with a baby alewife carcass attached to it via my almost non-existent pinkie toenails.

In conclusion:

Swim at your own risk. 

Shorthand might make a comeback.

I was downloading songs before downloading was cool

First Class is still first class (to me, anyway).

 Badfinger equals cool music multiplied by three decades.

The Statute of Limitations has hopefully run out regarding radio-theft.

* originally written May, 2009

** I invented the term aqua palsy, don’t even bother googling it.  

Twenty Eight Is Great

I am talking about degrees, baby. Twenty eight glorious degrees. Does anyone else in Wisconsin realize what follows twenty-eight degrees on a late March morning? Fifty degrees in the afternoon! I was overcome with shock and awe. Jaw droppin’ eye poppin’ frost meltin’  shock and awe.

I felt like spring cleaning but only for like a split second. Then take that split second and divide it by, hmmm, maybe twenty-eight degrees and that’s about how long I felt like spring cleaning!

Gardening, I felt like gardening … that’s what I am talking about here. Twenty-eight felt so great I felt like gardening. Actually, I felt like thinking about gardening. Not literally thinking about gardening, more like looking at a catalog about gardening but I sure felt like turning the pages in a more excited manner than I did when it was twenty-eight below zero.

It was obvious that I had succumbed to the latest disorder, the Seasonally High Induced Temperature Teasing Emotional Reaction Sydrome. I am officially requesting a grant from the grant-giver-outers so that I can conduct more studies on the S.H.I.T.T.E.R.

The S.H.I.T.T.E.R. is serious, but not as serious as S.H.I.T.T.I.E.R., Seasonally High Induced Temperature Teasing Emotional INTERNAL Reaction Syndrome. These folks are unable to communicate how they feel, they keep it inside and let it fester.

Further along those lines, I’ll be using my much needed grant dollars to review my friend’s cousin’s ex-sister-in-law’s niece. Now she had a serious case of Seasonally High Induced Temperature Teased Intensified Extremely Severe Tantrums. Once these guys start talking about their weather related emotions, they just can’t shut up. They rant, they rave, it is a full blow adult tantrum and is unattractive no matter who you are.

In summary, there is some serious S.H.I.T. going around out there. Be careful, please.

Lucky Little Books, Lucky Little Bird

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve a many curious things to show when you are there.”

We are going to skip the part where the Fly dies, but I’m going to let you walk around my house today and you can see some of the curious things that make me smile.

For example, this white bracket is from the first home I ever owned. It was propped up on a ledge in the basement directly above the slop sink. In my very own naive way, I was excited to discover that I not only owned a home, I also owned a metal bracket.  The wooden “READ” that is perched within the bracket is from a great book store located in Mequon Wisconsin called Next Chapter.  I follow @lanora on twitter and her tweets are what lead me into pick up a few books, a fabulous purse-sized photograph album and this tiny wooden sign.

Here’s another glimpse of “READ” resting in the bracket. I’ve got it nestled within a shelf of some more curious treasures that make me smile. Lake Breeze and Springtime soda bottles and an odd assortment of green glass collect more dust and pet dander than I really want to talk about but I’d rather smile while I wipe off stuff that I’m fond of than clean a house that makes me crabby.

The pressed board mystic tray is a favorite from my grandparents’ basement, the telescope is dysfunctional but I love the shape and weight of it. And by dysfunctional I mean it no longer functions as a telescope, it’s only remaining function is to make me smile. The bright orange ashtray with the white bird perched on the edge is another fun piece from my grandparents’ basement home.

The cowboy hat on the wooden green bird is actually from my very own Jane West doll and the books have no sentimental value whatsoever, they just totally sealed the decorating deal by being the perfect shades of orange and green at the time I needed them.

Lucky little books, lucky little bird, lucky wooden tray. They know only my favorites get displayed at eye level.

Next time in you can meet the monkeys!

 

 

 

March Madness, The Big Dance

Everything I know about basketball I learned from Cheech and Chong.

Still struggling with my math facts, but I know all the words to Basketball Jones.

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The One Where I Am Remarkably Inappropriate, Again

I know it is inappropriate behavior on my part, but I’m declaring that up front and you can quit reading right now if you want because I’ve already got your page hit and you are now my statistic.

Hundreds of thousands of people enjoy “celebrity immersion” by following tabloid television shows, fingering through celebrity magazines, and tweeting through award ceremonies. Not that there is anything wrong with this kind of behavior …

Me? I’d rather watch the World’s Tallest Man try to lay down in a regular size bed because I am fascinated by extremely inappropriately sized humans. Another thing I’d love to see would be a car built to the proportion that would be necessary to transport the World’s Tallest Man, hopefully not built by Toyota.

And while most people would marvel at the shoe size of the World’s Tallest Man or wonder where he gets his socks,  not me … I’d like to see him perched on the World’s Only Proportionately Accurate Bar Stool. Seriously, how cool would that be?

I completely understand that Extreme Individuals, as I like to call them, risk being exploited by circuses and carnivals but that falls under the jurisdiction of People for the Ethical Treatment of People. I also understand Extreme Individuals come with Extremely Uncomfortable Lives that make it difficult to move, walk, eat, sleep but I inappropriately choose not to think about that part of their situation.

I’ve never watched an episode of Little People Visiting It’s A Small World or whatever that show is called, but I am without a doubt enjoying every moment of 22 inch tall Ping Ping’s life. Now that Ping Ping has reached his eighteenth birthday (legal man age) he plans on getting professionally measured in hopes of getting into the Guiness World Book of Records.

My personal hope for Ping Ping would be to see him walk down a red carpet and be asked, “Who are you wearing,” only to have him shout back “Cabbage Patch Kids 25th Anniversary Line” as he smiles and waves. That, to me, would be good television.

I Invented A.S.S.

I have a reputation for operating a squeaky clean place. I may or may not deserve that reputation, but that’s the word around the blogosphere. I have revealed my unhealthy respect for authority countless times. Look at me with crossed-eyes and I spill so much information that it takes a Hazardous Waste team to get things clean again.

For example, although we are on the no-call list sometimes solicitors sneak through the “system” and manage to find me.

*Disclaimer: If you are an amputated veteran or know one or love one or know a neighbor who might have an accountant that is one I apologize in advance.

I routinely get calls from the *Amputated Veteran’s Society (not their real name) asking me for money because these amputated vets needs stuff. I usually zone out once they start talking about light bulbs and garbage bags for sale but I wake up again when they ask if I can help in just a small way by purchasing three cases of their products (available in any combination).

*These callers are never amputated vets themselves. They just try to talk like one. I have nothing against vets. I swear. I tear up when I see really big American flags, I stand the entire time during most parades. I stand out of respect but also because the constant up and down, up and down, up and down thing get me crazy. I even cry during that one coffee commercial where the vet secretly comes home and wakes up his parents with the smell of fresh brand name coffee on Christmas morning. That soldier’s parents are all cheerful where I would have been angry because I don’t like surprises no matter how much I missed my kid. Oh, I put my hand on my heart during the Pledge of Allegiance AND the National Anthem. That’s serious respect, people.

Anyway, while I am on the telephone I am wondering what the veterans actually need and why can’t we just have a concerned friend of a real amputated veteran put together a grocery list of requests and we could send them magazines or videos and whatever else it is instead of us having to buy stuff we don’t really need.

So, my mind is rambling and even though I was thinking this In My Head I must have announced it aloud to the caller. I told the American Veteran’s Society that about ten minutes earlier I donated fifty dollars to the American Starfish Society (A.S.S.) because they have the ability to grow new limbs and the starfish are trying to help the amputated veterans.

Caller: Are you sure?

Me: Yes, I am sure. I am sure starfish can grow new limbs and I am sure I gave them fifty dollars via PayPal. The A.S.S. explained that since starfish can grow new limbs they should learn more about starfish and help all the amputated people in the world and not limit themselves to veterans.

Caller: Silence.

Me: Hello?

Caller: I was not aware of this program.

Me: Now that’s a surprise because I thought A.S.S. was International, maybe they should concentrate their efforts in your area. A.S.S. is where it is at, I’m telling you now.

And our conversation concludes. And I wasn’t asked for anymore money. And then I realize that maybe I, too, could be a scammer during these tough economic times.

I am not saying the caller for the amputated vets was scamming, I had a revelation that I might be really good at scamming. I’ve got a quick enough mind to take people in directions they never saw coming. Up until now I have used that power for good. That is, until I invented A.S.S.

Here’s a few more of my invented organizations:

Santa Has Icky Teeth (S.H.I.T.) By donating to me I could help all the mall Santa’s get their teeth whiter and brighter and even teach them how to enhance their smile.

Common Rodents Are People Too (CRAP2). I would just work off of PETA’s mailing list on this one. Ka-Ching.

People Have Unnecessarily Clean Kitchens (P.H.U.C.K.). By purchasing my not-quite perfect sanitizing products they could keep the right amount of germs necessary so our bodies are experience the inability to fight bacteria. If you would like more information on that you can take a nominally priced on-line course entitled People Have Unnecessarily Clean Kitchens Education (P.H.U.C.K.ed).

Now, who wants to be on my call list? I can add your name for a small fee.

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