This morning I was checking out all the happenings in New Orleans. That town will have a party/parade if a cloud floats by. Therefore, I am fascinated by the things people will take vacation time, travel thousands of miles and spend a ton of money to attend.
Already this month, there has been a New Orleans style "Running of the Bulls." It involves roller derby gals all dressed cute with those opera hats with the big horns. They chase men dressed in all white with the red scarf. It resembles the street run in Spain, except we don't have real bulls. So if running around in ninety degree weather with ninety per cent humidity, appeals to you come on down next year.
But wait, it gets so much better! New Orleans just had a party that should have caught my interest years ago, seeing as how I am endlessly fascinated by people's sex lives. Now, know I don't want to be an active participant, I would just like to have been a fly on the wall for this one. I much prefer my sex life be sort of the garden variety type, in my bedroom with the lights off (remember I'm not 20 years old) with my husband. I would just be a wall flower at this gathering. It is-are you ready for this"" THE NAUGHTY IN N'AWLINS" swingers convention.
I studied this web site, I knew I had a story here. Always like to report on sleazy.
This convention was held over several days and had a full schedule of activities. I ain't making this crap up. They kick off with a parade, where else, but on Bourbon Street. It would have been no different than other parade in the French Quarters. No matter the theme, you're gonna see naughty .
Several years ago I was hit in the head at a parade with a two foot long sperm made of paper mache right there on Bourbon. There I was minding my own business when a man wearing fake breasts and a thong ran up and almost gave me a concussion. A friend went down to ride in the Easter parade and ended up on the bar at Chris Owen's strip club. She left home in her conserative Easter dress and one of those big straw hats and is still trying to live that day down. I understand there are photos.
But I've been hanging in the Quarter's for over forty years, I never knew they had swingers' clubs. This parade ends at one of these clubs. Believe me, my next trip, I'll at least, walk past it and try and see through the door. If I went inside, I wouldn't know the rules for swingers and I'd die if I was approached for a quick dalliance. And, I'd just have the flaming red-ass if no one desired me. It's always nice to have options.
There was some sort of costume party each night. Again, on the surface, nothing shocking since half of the Quarters is filled with people in costumes, beads and such on any ordinary day. And there are several shops on Bourbon Street selling all sorts of skimpy clothes and objects that normally found in the top of decent peoples' closet, where the kids can't find'em. So if you find you haven't brought the "right" clothes, you can make a quick purchase. It would be interesting to see how to dress up or dress down all the leather clothes with the studs and chains. Are you under dressed if you don't have the little short black whip? With some of the equipment they sell, I'd have to have an instruction book.
There's a hotel who offers special package deals for people attending the festival. Lord, I hope there is some sort of warning given to the people coming into town for a regular family vacation. I know there was a library convention the next weekend, and folks usually come early to take in the sights. Tourist come down for the shock value of New Orleans, but explaining swingers to the kids might be difficult. Personally, I won't be staying at this hotel ever again. It'll take more than clean sheets for me to ignore its history.
NOTE-Further on in the web site, I see that the hotel will not book anyone except swingers for the week. The guests are not allowed to be naked and have sex in the halls and other public areas of the hotel. They had to actually post this rule on the web site.
I will stop here and give a moment of silence to the housekeeping staff at this hotel. No one should have to clean those rooms without haz-mat suits. As a nurse, I know the importance of wearing gloves and even face masks when needed.
On the web site some people have the good sense to just share a short comment without a photo. "We had so much fun last year, looking forward to making new friends this year."
Some photos are the semi-naked, fat and old. After a certain age most of us know clothes do more to flatter us than the half-naked look. Just because you can doesn't always mean you should. But scattered among them are the photos of ordinary looking people. One could have passed as a preacher and his school teacher wife. I checked every last photo, but didn't see one person I knew. Thank you Lord. Imagine finding a photo of your neighbor or family member.
But finding a familiar face sure would have made you next family party interesting. When your wife's uncle and aunt showed up after their vacation you could have a blast.
"So, I hear you two went to New Orleans. What did you do? Met any interesting people? Did you see much of them? Attend any parades or parties? Where did you stay? Wasn't that the week of the big swingers' convention? Let us see your photos." Then you would just sit back and wait for them to sweat.
I didn't mean for this essay to go on for so long, but while checking my facts on the site, I see there is more I need to share. And if you have stuck with me this far, I know you want details.
The first night there was a dinner at a local restaurant. You must know the secret knock to get into the room. In case you ever need it-three knocks, pause and three knocks.
A reception will be held for people going on a future swingers' cruise, sort of get to know each other. I would think all of that is redundant with swingers.
A Black Magic Ball was held. They suggested you wear all black and shop the local voodoo shop for your chicken bones and special spirits. No, they don't say what you do with the bones.
There is a schedule of seminars. I couldn't make this stuff up. It takes sex education to a whole new level. Below are the highlights.
TRACE ONE-S & M
1. Beginning Bondage-the name says it all.
2. Flogging for the Beginner-this seminar will teach you how to use that little whip, so go ahead and spring for one when you are getting that little black S&M outfit.
3. Whips, Floggers and Lollipops-I can't even write about this. I don't even understand most of it.
4. Rope Bondage-basic and advanced. They will teach several different Japanese knots.
TRACE TWO-TANTRA
Note-I have no idea what the hell this is
1. Tantra Track-massage class to be held in a Tantra Temple and will have a spiritual atmosphere. Special focus on massages for women for relaxation and whatever...... maybe this is where they teach the massage with the happy ending.
2. Group massage-nothing I can add to this
TRACE THREE-EDUCATION
1. Education for the beginning couples-more experienced couples educated to make the swinging experience more positive. Also, taught how to host conventions and " meet and greets" of your very own.
2. Intermediate Swinging-taught basic swinging etiquette
Late one night there was a pizza and theme room party. Some of the themes are the Tantra Room the Dungeon, the Chocolate Room and Ladies Only Room.
A strip club was a gathering place. There was an "Amateurs Only" stripper pole and you were welcome to strip down to your G-string.
A King and Queen was crowned. There were no details about what it takes to get crowned. Just let your imagination run wild and you will be fairly close to the truth.
There were to be live remote broadcast and live web cams. Now, I'm not up on the web cams and such. But this sounds like trouble. Wait 'til the folks back home see this.
I wish I had a smart ass ending to this essay.....but I don't. And I know that several of you might be able to give me more personal information about this lifestyle. Please don't, I'm a grandmother.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD
He lived in the country and knew about death. His daddy had run over one of the kittens and they had buried it under a fig tree. He had even watched his daddy kill a chicken and then his mom cooked it for supper.
Today four year old Jack was all dressed up in a white shirt, his itchy church pants and his hair was still wet from his mom combing it to one side. He looked in the mirror and hardly recognized himself. He was going to the funeral of his great grandmaw, Granny Sue. His mom told him that they would wear their dress up clothes and meet with all his cousins, aunts, and uncles to tell Granny goodbye. They were going to be sad, even the grownups might cry. Jack was nervous about this crying stuff. He didn't even know grownups could cry.
Mom and Dad parked the car in front of a big white building with wide brick steps. Jack could see some of his cousins standing by the front door. They looked different too, all dressed up. And none of them looked like they were having any fun. Why weren't they playing chase and yelling at each other?
Jack's mom stood by the car and as soon as his feet touched the ground, she started tucking his shirt into his pants. She licked a tissue and wiped a spot off his face. "Now, Jack, this isn't the time for your foolishness. This is a funeral. Be a very good boy and we'll have something to eat afterwards. Remember Paw Paw Bill is going to be very, very sad and we are here to support him. You give him a big hug, he'll like that," instructed his mom.
Jack knew he better mind his mom. She didn't forget when you misbehaved.
Jack was glad to see his Nanna and PawPaw Randy, his other grandparents, sitting just inside the door of the funeral home. They were all dressed up and not smiling, until they saw Jack. He forgot and ran over to them, "Granny Sue died! We're going to put her in a hole in the ground! Daddy said they dug the hole with a backhoe. I am going to have a backhoe when I grow up."
"Shhhh, Jack, we know, you need to sit here with us, and be very quiet," said PawPaw Randy.
Nanna stood up and asked, "Jack, would you like to see Granny Sue and tell her goodbye? See up front, that's the coffin that holds Granny's body. See all the pretty flowers, people sent those to show how much they loved her."
Jack just shook his head, "What do I say to her, can she hear me?"
Jack, Nanna, and PawPaw walked down the aisle and stopped in front of the coffin. PawPaw picked him up and stepped a little closer. Jack leaned over and even Granny Sue looked different. He had never seen her so still, her hair was combed flat, without all the frizzy stuff around the edges of her face. Her eyes were closed and she looked like she was just sleeping. Jack decided it wasn't a good idea to talk to Granny Sue.
When they were back in their seats, Jack whispered, "Nanna, why did they cut Granny's legs off?"
"What? What do you mean? They didn't cut her legs off!" Nanna said with a worried look on her face.
"Yes, they did too. She doesn't have any legs in that box."
"Oh, Sugar, she has legs. See how the box is only half open. They just opened one part so you could see her face."
Jack was sure relieved, 'cause he thought just dying was bad enough.
Today four year old Jack was all dressed up in a white shirt, his itchy church pants and his hair was still wet from his mom combing it to one side. He looked in the mirror and hardly recognized himself. He was going to the funeral of his great grandmaw, Granny Sue. His mom told him that they would wear their dress up clothes and meet with all his cousins, aunts, and uncles to tell Granny goodbye. They were going to be sad, even the grownups might cry. Jack was nervous about this crying stuff. He didn't even know grownups could cry.
Mom and Dad parked the car in front of a big white building with wide brick steps. Jack could see some of his cousins standing by the front door. They looked different too, all dressed up. And none of them looked like they were having any fun. Why weren't they playing chase and yelling at each other?
Jack's mom stood by the car and as soon as his feet touched the ground, she started tucking his shirt into his pants. She licked a tissue and wiped a spot off his face. "Now, Jack, this isn't the time for your foolishness. This is a funeral. Be a very good boy and we'll have something to eat afterwards. Remember Paw Paw Bill is going to be very, very sad and we are here to support him. You give him a big hug, he'll like that," instructed his mom.
Jack knew he better mind his mom. She didn't forget when you misbehaved.
Jack was glad to see his Nanna and PawPaw Randy, his other grandparents, sitting just inside the door of the funeral home. They were all dressed up and not smiling, until they saw Jack. He forgot and ran over to them, "Granny Sue died! We're going to put her in a hole in the ground! Daddy said they dug the hole with a backhoe. I am going to have a backhoe when I grow up."
"Shhhh, Jack, we know, you need to sit here with us, and be very quiet," said PawPaw Randy.
Nanna stood up and asked, "Jack, would you like to see Granny Sue and tell her goodbye? See up front, that's the coffin that holds Granny's body. See all the pretty flowers, people sent those to show how much they loved her."
Jack just shook his head, "What do I say to her, can she hear me?"
Jack, Nanna, and PawPaw walked down the aisle and stopped in front of the coffin. PawPaw picked him up and stepped a little closer. Jack leaned over and even Granny Sue looked different. He had never seen her so still, her hair was combed flat, without all the frizzy stuff around the edges of her face. Her eyes were closed and she looked like she was just sleeping. Jack decided it wasn't a good idea to talk to Granny Sue.
When they were back in their seats, Jack whispered, "Nanna, why did they cut Granny's legs off?"
"What? What do you mean? They didn't cut her legs off!" Nanna said with a worried look on her face.
"Yes, they did too. She doesn't have any legs in that box."
"Oh, Sugar, she has legs. See how the box is only half open. They just opened one part so you could see her face."
Jack was sure relieved, 'cause he thought just dying was bad enough.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
DEFINING LIFE CHOICES
Note-Ever wonder how you got to where you are today?
Recently my husband walked through the den while I was watching Jimmy Buffett singing his heart out about the sea, marqueritas, flip flops, beaches, and such.
"That SOB is living the life I should've had," he mumbled as he flopped down on the sofa.
I had to laugh 'cause we all can name someone who is living our dream life. It would be very interesting to know what turn in the road of life, what choices, we took that ultimately led us to where we are today.
After a short study, which involved me sitting with my eyes closed for a few minutes, I can point out several turns that Dr. Phil refers to as defining moments. Since I spent the first part of my life just "going with the flow" usually I just settled for whatever happened to me. Circumstances and other people had way too much control.
The first decision I made, totally my own, was enlisting in the military when I graduated from high school. College wasn't an option in my family. I looked around my hometown and even checked out a couple of jobs. With no experience and no higher education, these were jobs to nowhere. Add in my dad being an alcoholic and the desire to see something of the world, I enlisted in the Navy. One of my aunts paid a visit to the recruiter and gave him a good tongue lashing. The fear was I would, either, see all the men and turn into a whore or I would see a woman with short hair and become gay.
This move probably saved me from the obligatory first marriage, to the childhood boyfriend, and two kids before I was twenty-five. It opened me up to new experiences; my first big love, how to travel alone, and the opportunity to meet different people. I found out I was not going to be happy married to that Yankee boy from New York. The culture shock was too much. Dating a Jewish boy was less jarring. Who would have known a Southern gal and a Jew would have been a pretty good match. But he too was a Yankee, it wouldn't have worked, you can't overlook that difference.
I love bad boys, always have. In the first grade, I was attached to a little boy named Donnie. He was the bad boy of the six year olds. Being dumb as a brick, I had my heart broken many times, but I kept going out and finding myself another bad one. Never dawned on me to take stock of my choices. I was always just so thankful to have a boy on my arm. In the 60's you were no one without a man.
I took nothing jobs after being discharged from the Navy. I took the first one offered, complete with the low pay. Bad choice. And I dated the first man that came along. Bad choice. Now, he wasn't a bad boy, he was a CPA, all his ducks were in a row, he took time to figure out to the penny how much tip to leave when we went out, he wanted to wait to have sex after we were married. He thought out every move, he had rules for everything. I drove him crazy. I drank, partied hard with his friends, and refused to think about what life would be like after the wedding. He bored me to death. And I couldn't imagine having sex with him. His biggest selling point was I would not have to work outside the home. This would've just given me lots of time to find the bad boys and make more bad choices.
It was a complete accident that I married a good guy. But, I didn't know he was a good guy. Imagine my surprise! When I met him he was unemployed, drank all the time, was sarcastic, and acted like he was too cool for this earth. Seemed like just another bad boy. We had the same friends and started partying together. We shared many a Saturday night up to our eyeballs in jungle juice.
I was still engaged to the boring man, and broke up with him on the phone. I was just plain white trash. Who breaks up like that? But that morning I woke up and without anymore thought than I had taken to get engaged, just picked up the phone and broke off the engagement.
Wham, Bam, before I knew it I was involved in a shotgun wedding with a man that was mostly a stranger. With blind dog luck, I got a wonderful husband. I think I'm one of those people who can fall in sewage and come out smelling like a rose.
Flash forward, forty-two years, my life has continued to be a series of choices, some good, some not so good. Perhaps because I did accidentally make the right choice in husbands, I have been sheltered from paying too large a price for the bad ones. I continue to ditty- bop through life. My husband, he must wonder what his life would've been like had he made a different choice in women forty-two years ago. He gets that far away look in his eyes each time Jimmy Buffett sings about the sea, margueritas, flip-flops, beaches and such.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
Recently my husband walked through the den while I was watching Jimmy Buffett singing his heart out about the sea, marqueritas, flip flops, beaches, and such.
"That SOB is living the life I should've had," he mumbled as he flopped down on the sofa.
I had to laugh 'cause we all can name someone who is living our dream life. It would be very interesting to know what turn in the road of life, what choices, we took that ultimately led us to where we are today.
After a short study, which involved me sitting with my eyes closed for a few minutes, I can point out several turns that Dr. Phil refers to as defining moments. Since I spent the first part of my life just "going with the flow" usually I just settled for whatever happened to me. Circumstances and other people had way too much control.
The first decision I made, totally my own, was enlisting in the military when I graduated from high school. College wasn't an option in my family. I looked around my hometown and even checked out a couple of jobs. With no experience and no higher education, these were jobs to nowhere. Add in my dad being an alcoholic and the desire to see something of the world, I enlisted in the Navy. One of my aunts paid a visit to the recruiter and gave him a good tongue lashing. The fear was I would, either, see all the men and turn into a whore or I would see a woman with short hair and become gay.
This move probably saved me from the obligatory first marriage, to the childhood boyfriend, and two kids before I was twenty-five. It opened me up to new experiences; my first big love, how to travel alone, and the opportunity to meet different people. I found out I was not going to be happy married to that Yankee boy from New York. The culture shock was too much. Dating a Jewish boy was less jarring. Who would have known a Southern gal and a Jew would have been a pretty good match. But he too was a Yankee, it wouldn't have worked, you can't overlook that difference.
I love bad boys, always have. In the first grade, I was attached to a little boy named Donnie. He was the bad boy of the six year olds. Being dumb as a brick, I had my heart broken many times, but I kept going out and finding myself another bad one. Never dawned on me to take stock of my choices. I was always just so thankful to have a boy on my arm. In the 60's you were no one without a man.
I took nothing jobs after being discharged from the Navy. I took the first one offered, complete with the low pay. Bad choice. And I dated the first man that came along. Bad choice. Now, he wasn't a bad boy, he was a CPA, all his ducks were in a row, he took time to figure out to the penny how much tip to leave when we went out, he wanted to wait to have sex after we were married. He thought out every move, he had rules for everything. I drove him crazy. I drank, partied hard with his friends, and refused to think about what life would be like after the wedding. He bored me to death. And I couldn't imagine having sex with him. His biggest selling point was I would not have to work outside the home. This would've just given me lots of time to find the bad boys and make more bad choices.
It was a complete accident that I married a good guy. But, I didn't know he was a good guy. Imagine my surprise! When I met him he was unemployed, drank all the time, was sarcastic, and acted like he was too cool for this earth. Seemed like just another bad boy. We had the same friends and started partying together. We shared many a Saturday night up to our eyeballs in jungle juice.
I was still engaged to the boring man, and broke up with him on the phone. I was just plain white trash. Who breaks up like that? But that morning I woke up and without anymore thought than I had taken to get engaged, just picked up the phone and broke off the engagement.
Wham, Bam, before I knew it I was involved in a shotgun wedding with a man that was mostly a stranger. With blind dog luck, I got a wonderful husband. I think I'm one of those people who can fall in sewage and come out smelling like a rose.
Flash forward, forty-two years, my life has continued to be a series of choices, some good, some not so good. Perhaps because I did accidentally make the right choice in husbands, I have been sheltered from paying too large a price for the bad ones. I continue to ditty- bop through life. My husband, he must wonder what his life would've been like had he made a different choice in women forty-two years ago. He gets that far away look in his eyes each time Jimmy Buffett sings about the sea, margueritas, flip-flops, beaches and such.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
HENNY PENNY'S LOST PANTIES
Note-Just one more reason I'm crazy
My mom is old and has a terrible memory. She lives in a retirement apartment building where she's spoiled rotten.
And just to get a clear picture of this darling lady, she is a dingbat (exactly like Edith Bunker), ditzy, and scatterbrained. Her name should be something like Bambi or Candi. She should have blonde hair. No disrespect, but she has always been like this, it's nothing new. Close your eyes and picture Henny Penny, the little chicken, running down the road yelling, "The sky is falling,the sky is falling!" That's my mom.
Her only job is to get out of bed, breathe, and once a week, do a small amount of personal laundry...underwear, pants and blouses, that sort of thing. She has to walk down the hall about thirty feet to a very nice free laundry room. She, actually, sees no reason why I don't do this for her. It's a running power struggle between the two of us.
Last week, I noticed her laundry bag was full. On my way out the door, I wasn't in the mood for a discussion. I reminded her to get snapping and get her laundry done. Any discussion would just end up with me saying, "Lordy Woman, I'm surprised you don't have me breathing for you."
Her smarty comeback, "Would you? If you loved me you would."
I pay her bills, drive her everywhere, take her to lunch, and cut her old lady toenails. But even I have boundaries.
"Someone went into that laundry room and stole all my panties. I can't believe it! People will steal anything, anything!" she informs me a few days later.
When questioned, she gave me several stories, all amounting to the fact that on Tuesday or Wednesday or maybe Thursday, they were either in the washer or dryer or somewhere. Somehow they had just disappeared.
After the third story, I got dizzy and just called the apartment manager, asking if anyone had found a bunch of old lady, white, cotton panties. The manager said probably some other confused old lady took them. I got the idea that this isn't the first time there has been a panties raid in the laundry room.
I checked her closet, her underwear drawer, and I put up a sign in the laundry room. Someone surely would return the drawers, they were old, baggy, and several probably had holes in them. Mama was overdue to shop for new undies.
Last Saturday I picked her up for a trip to Wal-Mart. Now, no one in their right mind shops at Wal-Mart on the weekend, but she was down to the last pair of clean underwear. Taking forever to find a parking spot, I was already sweating and nervous. Mom does that to me.
Mama was happy to be out and about, and asked every five minutes, "Where are we? Why are we here? Are we going to have lunch here? I'm hungry."
Then she had to search her purse every two minutes, while asking, "I wonder if I have any money?"
(Just a quick note--we went through three months of her hiding her wallet and then couldn't find it. Each time she hid it, I had to listen to, "Someone stole my wallet! It was right here in my purse, I never take it out. Why do people steal?")
(Another quick note--once she quit hiding her wallet, she just started hiding her money. And, yes, each time, "Someone stole my money!")
"Mama, listen to me! I don't plan on answering you again. We are here to buy you underwear. You lost yours. And you've counted your money a dozen times! You have sixty-seven dollars. Say it three times. Just get out of the car."
"How did you know how much money I have? Why would people steal my panties? Just tell me why? There are thieves everywhere," she mumbled as I pulled to get her out of the car. She looks little, but she weights a ton.
Whether buying a toothbrush or a month's supply of groceries, Mom has to have a shopping cart. I'll push it and she stretches her arm out and grabs the side of the cart in a death grip. We take up the whole aisle. If someone heads toward us, it becomes a game of chicken. Who will be forced to give up floor space as we pass? I can tell you, it ain't Mama. She will run people into the shelves before she will walk closer to the cart.
Other days she wants to help me push the cart. She insists the cart has to be right in the middle of the aisle. Again, she just runs people down if they challenge her. I attempt to reach over and aim her to one side, but she isn't having any of that.
Thank you, Sweet Jesus, Hanes still makes white, cotton, granny panties. We go all out; we buy a dozen brand new ones. She seems happy, but still questions why people steal.
Entering the apartment lobby, mom, again, lets the manager know in no uncertain terms that a thief lived there.
I write her name in the new panties, just as if she was going off to summer camp. One of the maids stopped by to see if the panties had been found. And, yeah, you guessed it. I turn away from the table and there under the china cabinet is a bag of dirty laundry, filled with white old lady drawers and a couple of blouses.
Her only reply was, "Well, someone could have taken them. You know there are thieves everywhere."
I removed the sign from the laundry room. I stopped by and told the manager the mystery had been solved. She had a good laugh.
I went home and opened a bottle of wine. It was only eleven in the morning, but it was five o'clock somewhere... like Iceland. Close enough! By tomorrow there will be a new crisis.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
My mom is old and has a terrible memory. She lives in a retirement apartment building where she's spoiled rotten.
And just to get a clear picture of this darling lady, she is a dingbat (exactly like Edith Bunker), ditzy, and scatterbrained. Her name should be something like Bambi or Candi. She should have blonde hair. No disrespect, but she has always been like this, it's nothing new. Close your eyes and picture Henny Penny, the little chicken, running down the road yelling, "The sky is falling,the sky is falling!" That's my mom.
Her only job is to get out of bed, breathe, and once a week, do a small amount of personal laundry...underwear, pants and blouses, that sort of thing. She has to walk down the hall about thirty feet to a very nice free laundry room. She, actually, sees no reason why I don't do this for her. It's a running power struggle between the two of us.
Last week, I noticed her laundry bag was full. On my way out the door, I wasn't in the mood for a discussion. I reminded her to get snapping and get her laundry done. Any discussion would just end up with me saying, "Lordy Woman, I'm surprised you don't have me breathing for you."
Her smarty comeback, "Would you? If you loved me you would."
I pay her bills, drive her everywhere, take her to lunch, and cut her old lady toenails. But even I have boundaries.
"Someone went into that laundry room and stole all my panties. I can't believe it! People will steal anything, anything!" she informs me a few days later.
When questioned, she gave me several stories, all amounting to the fact that on Tuesday or Wednesday or maybe Thursday, they were either in the washer or dryer or somewhere. Somehow they had just disappeared.
After the third story, I got dizzy and just called the apartment manager, asking if anyone had found a bunch of old lady, white, cotton panties. The manager said probably some other confused old lady took them. I got the idea that this isn't the first time there has been a panties raid in the laundry room.
I checked her closet, her underwear drawer, and I put up a sign in the laundry room. Someone surely would return the drawers, they were old, baggy, and several probably had holes in them. Mama was overdue to shop for new undies.
Last Saturday I picked her up for a trip to Wal-Mart. Now, no one in their right mind shops at Wal-Mart on the weekend, but she was down to the last pair of clean underwear. Taking forever to find a parking spot, I was already sweating and nervous. Mom does that to me.
Mama was happy to be out and about, and asked every five minutes, "Where are we? Why are we here? Are we going to have lunch here? I'm hungry."
Then she had to search her purse every two minutes, while asking, "I wonder if I have any money?"
(Just a quick note--we went through three months of her hiding her wallet and then couldn't find it. Each time she hid it, I had to listen to, "Someone stole my wallet! It was right here in my purse, I never take it out. Why do people steal?")
(Another quick note--once she quit hiding her wallet, she just started hiding her money. And, yes, each time, "Someone stole my money!")
"Mama, listen to me! I don't plan on answering you again. We are here to buy you underwear. You lost yours. And you've counted your money a dozen times! You have sixty-seven dollars. Say it three times. Just get out of the car."
"How did you know how much money I have? Why would people steal my panties? Just tell me why? There are thieves everywhere," she mumbled as I pulled to get her out of the car. She looks little, but she weights a ton.
Whether buying a toothbrush or a month's supply of groceries, Mom has to have a shopping cart. I'll push it and she stretches her arm out and grabs the side of the cart in a death grip. We take up the whole aisle. If someone heads toward us, it becomes a game of chicken. Who will be forced to give up floor space as we pass? I can tell you, it ain't Mama. She will run people into the shelves before she will walk closer to the cart.
Other days she wants to help me push the cart. She insists the cart has to be right in the middle of the aisle. Again, she just runs people down if they challenge her. I attempt to reach over and aim her to one side, but she isn't having any of that.
Thank you, Sweet Jesus, Hanes still makes white, cotton, granny panties. We go all out; we buy a dozen brand new ones. She seems happy, but still questions why people steal.
Entering the apartment lobby, mom, again, lets the manager know in no uncertain terms that a thief lived there.
I write her name in the new panties, just as if she was going off to summer camp. One of the maids stopped by to see if the panties had been found. And, yeah, you guessed it. I turn away from the table and there under the china cabinet is a bag of dirty laundry, filled with white old lady drawers and a couple of blouses.
Her only reply was, "Well, someone could have taken them. You know there are thieves everywhere."
I removed the sign from the laundry room. I stopped by and told the manager the mystery had been solved. She had a good laugh.
I went home and opened a bottle of wine. It was only eleven in the morning, but it was five o'clock somewhere... like Iceland. Close enough! By tomorrow there will be a new crisis.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
HAPPY OLD WOMAN
Note-I no longer keep up appearances
I've hated getting older. What have I become? If I was headless and my body was in a police lineup, I wouldn't recognize myself. Or, I certainly wouldn't claim to know me. I try not to look down. When I do, I can't find my perky breasts with the tan lines. They are still there, but heading south. I can see my stomach, it sticks right out there. I have my mother's knees and ankles. The back of my beautiful hands are now sort of....hell, I don't know, but they aren't the same as when I was younger. I would hold them with such grace, near my face. Looking in the mirror each morning shocks me awake.
The only thing I still love is my hair. When I was thirty, I washed it and that was pretty much it. Now, it cost a small fortune to cover the gray, and apply expensive oils and conditioners. If it was natural and gray, I'd shave my head.
I miss the days when I walked down the street and a man would smile and watch as I walked away. I do remain quite popular with the old men in the produce department at the grocery. But the only place I feel young anymore is when I visit at the retirement apartments where my mom lives. Why I'm a young hot thing there. A couple of old men make a point of hugging me front on..........sort of an elder "feeling up" of the breasts. It's all I get anymore. I'm grateful.
No matter how much weight I lose now, the two piece bathing suit won't look good. I wear an old purple one-piece when swimming with my grandsons. I make them turn away and close their eyes when I get in the pool. They point out, "Nanny, we didn't laugh at you. But you know you are sort of roundish."
At work, I'm the oldest nurse in my department. After several hours of non-stop running, here and there, my feet and legs about kill me. The young nurses say things like, "Let me lift that for you." Or, "I'll run to the lab for you." I'd die before I would let'em help me. But by the time I get home I'm just the walking dead. I sit and think about my retirement. And I never ever work two days in a row. My co-workers go home to care for their young kids, cook dinner or go out for the evening... Then they get up the next morning and head back to work.
It is with deep regret I have to admit, staying up half the night to party about kills me. It takes days to recover. I fully expect my family to have to plan my funeral after Mardi Gras this year. Playing any kind of sports demands more rest time than play time. Even traveling sounds like more trouble than it's worth. I've been there before, why go back.
In years past, I would've been looking forward to New Year's Eve. It was a time to get a new dress, get the hair styled, get out there and have a good time. What was more fun than going to a couple of boring parties, hitting a few loud crowded bars, dancing, drinking cheap booze, and dragging my sorry butt home right before daybreak? Oh, I'd laugh a little too loud at dumb jokes and kiss a few guys at midnight that made me want to gag. It was party night and I was determined to have a good time. It was expected.
The hubby and I could have gone out this year. Our best friends wanted us to go ice skating. That would have entailed an ambulance trip to the emergency room for me. They made reservations at a great steak house. I could buy a half a cow for what that meal cost. Then it was on to a gay bar, with their gay neighbors. I saw photos, there was flashing lights, loud music, guys dressed as women, women dressed as men, some people without enough clothes on to make you guess which was which.
See in years past, I would've been belly deep in this sort of thing. I would be more drag in my sparkling dress and big hair than the best drag queen. If forced, I could have danced on the bar for just a minute. Later I would have told funny stories about the lesbians who wanted me to join their team and the gay men that said they'd go straight if I'd just dance with them.
This year I came home from work. My husband served me a nice dinner. After a hot shower, I dressed in my pj's and sat down in front of the TV. After watching all the bundled up people in Times Square at midnight, I went to bed. The kids next door shot off some fireworks. I got to enjoy them while all warm and toasty. I'd never been so glad to be old. I didn't have to work so hard to be happy anymore. I just was.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
I've hated getting older. What have I become? If I was headless and my body was in a police lineup, I wouldn't recognize myself. Or, I certainly wouldn't claim to know me. I try not to look down. When I do, I can't find my perky breasts with the tan lines. They are still there, but heading south. I can see my stomach, it sticks right out there. I have my mother's knees and ankles. The back of my beautiful hands are now sort of....hell, I don't know, but they aren't the same as when I was younger. I would hold them with such grace, near my face. Looking in the mirror each morning shocks me awake.
The only thing I still love is my hair. When I was thirty, I washed it and that was pretty much it. Now, it cost a small fortune to cover the gray, and apply expensive oils and conditioners. If it was natural and gray, I'd shave my head.
I miss the days when I walked down the street and a man would smile and watch as I walked away. I do remain quite popular with the old men in the produce department at the grocery. But the only place I feel young anymore is when I visit at the retirement apartments where my mom lives. Why I'm a young hot thing there. A couple of old men make a point of hugging me front on..........sort of an elder "feeling up" of the breasts. It's all I get anymore. I'm grateful.
No matter how much weight I lose now, the two piece bathing suit won't look good. I wear an old purple one-piece when swimming with my grandsons. I make them turn away and close their eyes when I get in the pool. They point out, "Nanny, we didn't laugh at you. But you know you are sort of roundish."
At work, I'm the oldest nurse in my department. After several hours of non-stop running, here and there, my feet and legs about kill me. The young nurses say things like, "Let me lift that for you." Or, "I'll run to the lab for you." I'd die before I would let'em help me. But by the time I get home I'm just the walking dead. I sit and think about my retirement. And I never ever work two days in a row. My co-workers go home to care for their young kids, cook dinner or go out for the evening... Then they get up the next morning and head back to work.
It is with deep regret I have to admit, staying up half the night to party about kills me. It takes days to recover. I fully expect my family to have to plan my funeral after Mardi Gras this year. Playing any kind of sports demands more rest time than play time. Even traveling sounds like more trouble than it's worth. I've been there before, why go back.
In years past, I would've been looking forward to New Year's Eve. It was a time to get a new dress, get the hair styled, get out there and have a good time. What was more fun than going to a couple of boring parties, hitting a few loud crowded bars, dancing, drinking cheap booze, and dragging my sorry butt home right before daybreak? Oh, I'd laugh a little too loud at dumb jokes and kiss a few guys at midnight that made me want to gag. It was party night and I was determined to have a good time. It was expected.
The hubby and I could have gone out this year. Our best friends wanted us to go ice skating. That would have entailed an ambulance trip to the emergency room for me. They made reservations at a great steak house. I could buy a half a cow for what that meal cost. Then it was on to a gay bar, with their gay neighbors. I saw photos, there was flashing lights, loud music, guys dressed as women, women dressed as men, some people without enough clothes on to make you guess which was which.
See in years past, I would've been belly deep in this sort of thing. I would be more drag in my sparkling dress and big hair than the best drag queen. If forced, I could have danced on the bar for just a minute. Later I would have told funny stories about the lesbians who wanted me to join their team and the gay men that said they'd go straight if I'd just dance with them.
This year I came home from work. My husband served me a nice dinner. After a hot shower, I dressed in my pj's and sat down in front of the TV. After watching all the bundled up people in Times Square at midnight, I went to bed. The kids next door shot off some fireworks. I got to enjoy them while all warm and toasty. I'd never been so glad to be old. I didn't have to work so hard to be happy anymore. I just was.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
Friday, February 18, 2011
GRANDPAW WAS A BILIMIC
Note-Every family has a nut or two
You know when you're just a little kid, if your family is strange or different, you don't know it until you go to school and get out in the world a bit. Looking back over my family there seemed to be an unusually large number of people that, today, would be in therapy, or on some talk show.
I'm one of 'em, did the therapy thing, but it didn't help much. Today I think the advancement of our technology has made it almost impossible to keep family secrets. Now if your Aunt Molly drank and didn't wear underwear, someone would be there with a digital camera to catch her when she fell down the steps. It would be on social web sites by dark.
My family can count on me to drag up the stories from our world before computers. I should warn you, however, if you have a weak stomach, just go read the newspaper. This is not a story you'll enjoy and I am not interested in your lectures that a grandmother shouldn't write such trash. Trash is never boring and I am not smart enough to write serious stuff. I write what I know.
The head nut in our family was my Grandpaw Larry and I loved him. He has been dead more than 30 years, so I hope it is safe to write about him.
Grandpaw owned a large cattle and cotton farm, Cammack Plantation, along Red River, outside of Natchitoches. He never learned to read and write, other than signing his name. But he could outsmart anyone in a business deal and could do math in his head. He was a small man, about 5' 7", ordinary in the face and always wore freshly ironed clothes. He looked just like all the plantation owners portrayed in movies from the 40's and 50's. He was a control freak, but back then we didn't have a name for it, we just knew that his word was law. Three of his frightened sons and their families lived on the farm. When PaPa spoke, everyone jumped.
My Grandmaw had learned to live with him by being passive aggressive and a hypochondriac. She wore a rag around her head holding a piece of brown paper bag soaked in vinegar for headaches, sort of her signature fashion statement, day in and day out. No, we didn't think this was strange, so we never thought to suggest that a couple of aspirin might do the trick. She was a store house of dysfunction. But this is Grandpaw's story.
Each morning he awoke about day break and would sit down to a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits, and several cups of black coffee. Grandmaw would scurry back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room as he barked orders. They never really talked, with the marriage having settled into one of convience years ago. He did his control freak thing and she visited the sick and was a big fan of funerals.
The scene was repeated at dinner, with only the menu changed, the table loaded down with fried chicken, pork chops, or steaks. There were all sorts of vegetables cooked down with pieces of fatty pork. Rice and gravy was served up each day at lunch and supper. Then, he was served homemade pie or cake, along with a second glass of milk.
At supper it was a repeat of lunch, but year in and year out his weight stayed pretty much the same. And this was his diet secret, long before all the little rich girls, were starving themselves to get back at their perfect controlling mothers. Grandpaw was a bulimic. He just didn't know to be ashamed.
He would stuff himself with food, give a big burp, and walk out to the front porch. His sons would follow him; they would take a straight back chair and leaning back until they touched the wall, close their eyes for a quick nap. I think napping this way is a lost art. Grandpaw would pull his rocking chair to the edge of the porch and remove his false teeth, putting them in his shirt pocket. Leaning over he would start gagging. He had a real gift for gagging, it was loud and long. Soon he started vomiting up all of food from his meal. Out from under the porch came the hound dogs that had been sleeping and waiting. They didn't mind that the food was a bit chewed up and secondhand.
Any dinner guest would follow him to the porch, thinking they were going to sit down after such a wonderful meal, and pass the time of day, while rocking or swinging. You know like normal people. At first they would look around for someone to explain what was happening. Since we didn't know any better, the men didn't open their eyes and the women would just pick up the mealtime conversation, talking about recent deaths or the weather. Neither Grandpaw nor any of the family thought to be embarrassed or to offer an explanation to any guest. The weak stomached guests took to visiting between meals.
After several minutes of this show stopping performance, he would wipe his face with his handkerchief, and shout at my grandmother, "Isora, bring me some soda water."
She would come running to him with a glass half filled with water and baking soda. He would drink it and wait for the big burp. Replacing his teeth, he would slide his rocker around and join the conversation.
It is now 20011 and our family has never talked about this strange behavior. But I bet after this story gets around, they'll not only discuss it with me, but ask why I felt it was necessary to bring it up at all. I won't have any explanation. Then they will kill me with their pitch forks and torches.
You know when you're just a little kid, if your family is strange or different, you don't know it until you go to school and get out in the world a bit. Looking back over my family there seemed to be an unusually large number of people that, today, would be in therapy, or on some talk show.
I'm one of 'em, did the therapy thing, but it didn't help much. Today I think the advancement of our technology has made it almost impossible to keep family secrets. Now if your Aunt Molly drank and didn't wear underwear, someone would be there with a digital camera to catch her when she fell down the steps. It would be on social web sites by dark.
My family can count on me to drag up the stories from our world before computers. I should warn you, however, if you have a weak stomach, just go read the newspaper. This is not a story you'll enjoy and I am not interested in your lectures that a grandmother shouldn't write such trash. Trash is never boring and I am not smart enough to write serious stuff. I write what I know.
The head nut in our family was my Grandpaw Larry and I loved him. He has been dead more than 30 years, so I hope it is safe to write about him.
Grandpaw owned a large cattle and cotton farm, Cammack Plantation, along Red River, outside of Natchitoches. He never learned to read and write, other than signing his name. But he could outsmart anyone in a business deal and could do math in his head. He was a small man, about 5' 7", ordinary in the face and always wore freshly ironed clothes. He looked just like all the plantation owners portrayed in movies from the 40's and 50's. He was a control freak, but back then we didn't have a name for it, we just knew that his word was law. Three of his frightened sons and their families lived on the farm. When PaPa spoke, everyone jumped.
My Grandmaw had learned to live with him by being passive aggressive and a hypochondriac. She wore a rag around her head holding a piece of brown paper bag soaked in vinegar for headaches, sort of her signature fashion statement, day in and day out. No, we didn't think this was strange, so we never thought to suggest that a couple of aspirin might do the trick. She was a store house of dysfunction. But this is Grandpaw's story.
Each morning he awoke about day break and would sit down to a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits, and several cups of black coffee. Grandmaw would scurry back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room as he barked orders. They never really talked, with the marriage having settled into one of convience years ago. He did his control freak thing and she visited the sick and was a big fan of funerals.
The scene was repeated at dinner, with only the menu changed, the table loaded down with fried chicken, pork chops, or steaks. There were all sorts of vegetables cooked down with pieces of fatty pork. Rice and gravy was served up each day at lunch and supper. Then, he was served homemade pie or cake, along with a second glass of milk.
At supper it was a repeat of lunch, but year in and year out his weight stayed pretty much the same. And this was his diet secret, long before all the little rich girls, were starving themselves to get back at their perfect controlling mothers. Grandpaw was a bulimic. He just didn't know to be ashamed.
He would stuff himself with food, give a big burp, and walk out to the front porch. His sons would follow him; they would take a straight back chair and leaning back until they touched the wall, close their eyes for a quick nap. I think napping this way is a lost art. Grandpaw would pull his rocking chair to the edge of the porch and remove his false teeth, putting them in his shirt pocket. Leaning over he would start gagging. He had a real gift for gagging, it was loud and long. Soon he started vomiting up all of food from his meal. Out from under the porch came the hound dogs that had been sleeping and waiting. They didn't mind that the food was a bit chewed up and secondhand.
Any dinner guest would follow him to the porch, thinking they were going to sit down after such a wonderful meal, and pass the time of day, while rocking or swinging. You know like normal people. At first they would look around for someone to explain what was happening. Since we didn't know any better, the men didn't open their eyes and the women would just pick up the mealtime conversation, talking about recent deaths or the weather. Neither Grandpaw nor any of the family thought to be embarrassed or to offer an explanation to any guest. The weak stomached guests took to visiting between meals.
After several minutes of this show stopping performance, he would wipe his face with his handkerchief, and shout at my grandmother, "Isora, bring me some soda water."
She would come running to him with a glass half filled with water and baking soda. He would drink it and wait for the big burp. Replacing his teeth, he would slide his rocker around and join the conversation.
It is now 20011 and our family has never talked about this strange behavior. But I bet after this story gets around, they'll not only discuss it with me, but ask why I felt it was necessary to bring it up at all. I won't have any explanation. Then they will kill me with their pitch forks and torches.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
DISEASED
A short note about moldy teeth and snot
My grandson was sick last week. His face was pale, his nose stopped up, his eyes had a hangdog look to them. He was precious. I pulled out all my mother/nurse/nanna tricks. I encouraged fluids, tried to keep him quiet and placed my hand on his cheek often, checking for fever.
OK, I yelled at him, when he grabbed a coat and ran outside into the cold wind. And, yes, I yelled when he decided to have a wrestling match with his brother and Pawpaw. It made me feel better if he played quietly. A kid can be dying and if something that looks like fun comes along, he is up and at it. I think like a nanna; when I'm sick, I just want to lie down. Nothing can make me want to play.
So, the boy gave me his illness and got on with his life. I've been laying around making old lady noises, blowing my nose, wearing the same pajamas for two days in a row. And how gross! My teeth and tongue felt like they had mold growing on them. A shower and all the oral care in the world would last only long enough for me to go from freezing cold to hot and sweaty. Then there I was again, smelly with a bad taste in my mouth. And the cough, all wet, croupy, lots of mucus. How does a head make so much snot?!
I wasn't sick enough to just lie in bed and pray to die. Therefore, I went from the recliner to the bed several times a day. My pillow was too soft, it was too hot, my blanket was too thick, and then I would freeze. My tissue was always in the other room. My eyes burned, my face looked all swollen. My hair stuck up in weird places. Not a good look for a woman of my age.
No one wanted to be with me. I became an outcast in society. My husband sat across the room from me and would withdraw even more when I took to wheezing. Between the germs, snoring and coughing, I was sent to live in the guestroom. Friends called to check on me, but they all said they wouldn't be in the same room with me unless I was wearing a mask. Ha, didn't matter, several of them got sick too. Then they called for medical advice.
I had been inside for days and was bored. Just to be mean, I made them describe their illness in great detail. I asked questions, made them repeat things. I, especially, wanted to know if their mucus was clear or yellow and how much? Did they have gook in the back of their throat, were they coughing up stuff from their lungs? My nice lady-like gal pals hate talking about any sort of body secretions. They like to pretend they don't have secretions. As a nurse, I wasn't bothered, I just listened and continued to drink my hot chocolate and eat my toast.
And yes, I finally gave them the same advice their doctor would have given them and it was free. I used big medical terms, but all they had to do was increase liquids, take an OTC cough medicine and wait it out. Everyone will be better in a week or two no matter what they do.
My grandsons stopped by for a visit while I was ill. They weren't interested in the aches and pains. The youngest one looked at me and wanted to know why my hair had a big bump on top and was flat in the back? I attempted to tell him all about being sick. He just asked, "Nanna, you got any cookies? And, please, I need some milk too."
Today, feeling a little better, I picked up some old clothes off the floor, dressed and took a walk to the park.
I felt a little like being out of jail. The sky was sort of extra blue, the cool breeze refreshing. People were going about their day, walking their dog and playing tennis. I wanted to stop and tell them to appreciate their good health. "If you don't have your health you don't have anything." But then the words of my husband came back, "Lord, Woman, all you have is a cold, you're not dying. Get over yourself!"
Life goes on.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
My grandson was sick last week. His face was pale, his nose stopped up, his eyes had a hangdog look to them. He was precious. I pulled out all my mother/nurse/nanna tricks. I encouraged fluids, tried to keep him quiet and placed my hand on his cheek often, checking for fever.
OK, I yelled at him, when he grabbed a coat and ran outside into the cold wind. And, yes, I yelled when he decided to have a wrestling match with his brother and Pawpaw. It made me feel better if he played quietly. A kid can be dying and if something that looks like fun comes along, he is up and at it. I think like a nanna; when I'm sick, I just want to lie down. Nothing can make me want to play.
So, the boy gave me his illness and got on with his life. I've been laying around making old lady noises, blowing my nose, wearing the same pajamas for two days in a row. And how gross! My teeth and tongue felt like they had mold growing on them. A shower and all the oral care in the world would last only long enough for me to go from freezing cold to hot and sweaty. Then there I was again, smelly with a bad taste in my mouth. And the cough, all wet, croupy, lots of mucus. How does a head make so much snot?!
I wasn't sick enough to just lie in bed and pray to die. Therefore, I went from the recliner to the bed several times a day. My pillow was too soft, it was too hot, my blanket was too thick, and then I would freeze. My tissue was always in the other room. My eyes burned, my face looked all swollen. My hair stuck up in weird places. Not a good look for a woman of my age.
No one wanted to be with me. I became an outcast in society. My husband sat across the room from me and would withdraw even more when I took to wheezing. Between the germs, snoring and coughing, I was sent to live in the guestroom. Friends called to check on me, but they all said they wouldn't be in the same room with me unless I was wearing a mask. Ha, didn't matter, several of them got sick too. Then they called for medical advice.
I had been inside for days and was bored. Just to be mean, I made them describe their illness in great detail. I asked questions, made them repeat things. I, especially, wanted to know if their mucus was clear or yellow and how much? Did they have gook in the back of their throat, were they coughing up stuff from their lungs? My nice lady-like gal pals hate talking about any sort of body secretions. They like to pretend they don't have secretions. As a nurse, I wasn't bothered, I just listened and continued to drink my hot chocolate and eat my toast.
And yes, I finally gave them the same advice their doctor would have given them and it was free. I used big medical terms, but all they had to do was increase liquids, take an OTC cough medicine and wait it out. Everyone will be better in a week or two no matter what they do.
My grandsons stopped by for a visit while I was ill. They weren't interested in the aches and pains. The youngest one looked at me and wanted to know why my hair had a big bump on top and was flat in the back? I attempted to tell him all about being sick. He just asked, "Nanna, you got any cookies? And, please, I need some milk too."
Today, feeling a little better, I picked up some old clothes off the floor, dressed and took a walk to the park.
I felt a little like being out of jail. The sky was sort of extra blue, the cool breeze refreshing. People were going about their day, walking their dog and playing tennis. I wanted to stop and tell them to appreciate their good health. "If you don't have your health you don't have anything." But then the words of my husband came back, "Lord, Woman, all you have is a cold, you're not dying. Get over yourself!"
Life goes on.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
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