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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
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.
A THOUGHT ABOUT LABOR DAY
Note-Thoughts about Labor Day
Most of us get together on Labor Day and grill outside. We do the same thing for July 4th and Memorial Day. Why?
It makes no sense. It took thousands of years for the human race to quit living in the woods, cooking on an open fire and to invent the stove. This is one of the reasons I think we're just not a whole lot smarter than the apes. Given a chance, I bet the normal ape would move inside a nice home and cook on a stove.
Most of us live an easy life. Our home is warmed in the winter and cooled in the summer. Our kitchen has a stove, microwave, refrigerator, pots, pans, and enough food to feed a small army. We have only to get up off the sofa and walk about 25 feet. Then if we want, we can even eat in a soft bed, while watching movies or football on TV.
But, nooooooooooo, we sit, let it get hot as hell, and then we run outside and build a fire and cook meat. We're lucky our men don't wear our fur coats out there, just like our caveman relatives. Sort of cut off on one shoulder, think Fred Flintstone.
Because it is a long holiday weekend, the real bright humans go one step further.........we go camping.
This can be done two ways and both are totally insane. I know, cause I have done both and thought it was wonderful. I have since gotten on some medication and my mind is clear.
The first way to camp is just with the minimum amount of junk. Maybe a tent. Usually there are sleeping bags, some canned food, and an old pot or skillet. You drive for hours to find a forest. You park and hike into said forest. First an area has to be found that is level and clean. The tent has to be set up with all of the tent stakes and poles. This is where the cussing and sweating starts. The instructions are back home on the table.
Dinner under the stars is always interesting. A fire has to be started (if you remembered to bring matches) and somehow you need a way to set that old pot/skillet over the fire. Usually, it pays to bring extra food. You are surely going to dump the first course into the fire. You restart the fire with dry wood and try again. Supper will be burned and seasoned with ashes. However, it tastes pretty good, because you are starving by this time. There is a restaurant about four miles away, but no one is giving up all this fun.
You have to brush your teeth with an ounce of water. Forget a shower. Nothing is more fun than taking a flashlight and wandering around in the woods because you forgot to pee while the sun was out. This is how I know only men could think up this camping thing. They just find a tree and aim. Women have to squat and we then pee on our ankles and our shoes, and wait for a snake to bite our butts. Trying to balance, unroll toilet paper and wipe is impossible.
And later, when it is dark and still hot, you try and go to sleep, only to find that the ground is not level, your head is lower than your feet. And there are acorns, rocks, sticks, something poking you no matter how you lay. Not a breeze blows to dry the sweat. And I can't sleep with dirty feet or sweat. You find out that people snore and fart a lot. How did that mosquito get in the tent?
One last note on this primitive camping. There is nothing to do out there, it is dark and you can only sing around the camp fire for so long. For a few minutes you enjoy the crickets and frogs then you just want them to SHUT UP!
The second type of camping involves spending money on a portable metal house on wheels. There are many kinds, trailers from 15 feet to around 40 feet and cost many, many thousands of dollars. You spend a week moving items from your perfectly good home into this metal box. TV, games, clothes, a complete kitchen has to be furnished, linens, bikes, lawn chairs, a grill, tool box (cause something is going to break), the list is endless. You fill the bathroom with all the things you might need from toothbrushes to a cute little bath mat.
After you fill the trailer/motor home with everything you own, you are ready to start on your adventure.
You then drive for hours only to find a crowded campground. You rent a small piece of ground with neighbors on both sides so close you can hear their toilet flush. Oh, and someone likes their music loud! There is much to do, setting up your "camp site". Mama takes groceries out of her fully stocked refrigerator and cooks on a gas stove while the kids play with their electronic games and dad watches sports on the flat screened TV. It isn't just like home. Mom has to hand wash the dishes. Showers are taken and everyone settles down in nice clean soft beds. With the air conditioning running you can hardly hear the music from next door. You aren't even aware the crickets and frogs are out there.
Dad will get out his grill and cook hamburgers one night. You will try and sit outside to eat, but the mosquitos will run you inside.
After thinking about the whole thing, I guess, grilling on the patio is better than camping. But I stick to my guns about one thing. It's dumb to do wait until the thermometer is ninety-five degrees. Wouldn't it make more sense to grill on cold holidays, such as Thanksgivings and Xmas, maybe even Valentine's Day? Just a suggestion.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
Most of us get together on Labor Day and grill outside. We do the same thing for July 4th and Memorial Day. Why?
It makes no sense. It took thousands of years for the human race to quit living in the woods, cooking on an open fire and to invent the stove. This is one of the reasons I think we're just not a whole lot smarter than the apes. Given a chance, I bet the normal ape would move inside a nice home and cook on a stove.
Most of us live an easy life. Our home is warmed in the winter and cooled in the summer. Our kitchen has a stove, microwave, refrigerator, pots, pans, and enough food to feed a small army. We have only to get up off the sofa and walk about 25 feet. Then if we want, we can even eat in a soft bed, while watching movies or football on TV.
But, nooooooooooo, we sit, let it get hot as hell, and then we run outside and build a fire and cook meat. We're lucky our men don't wear our fur coats out there, just like our caveman relatives. Sort of cut off on one shoulder, think Fred Flintstone.
Because it is a long holiday weekend, the real bright humans go one step further.........we go camping.
This can be done two ways and both are totally insane. I know, cause I have done both and thought it was wonderful. I have since gotten on some medication and my mind is clear.
The first way to camp is just with the minimum amount of junk. Maybe a tent. Usually there are sleeping bags, some canned food, and an old pot or skillet. You drive for hours to find a forest. You park and hike into said forest. First an area has to be found that is level and clean. The tent has to be set up with all of the tent stakes and poles. This is where the cussing and sweating starts. The instructions are back home on the table.
Dinner under the stars is always interesting. A fire has to be started (if you remembered to bring matches) and somehow you need a way to set that old pot/skillet over the fire. Usually, it pays to bring extra food. You are surely going to dump the first course into the fire. You restart the fire with dry wood and try again. Supper will be burned and seasoned with ashes. However, it tastes pretty good, because you are starving by this time. There is a restaurant about four miles away, but no one is giving up all this fun.
You have to brush your teeth with an ounce of water. Forget a shower. Nothing is more fun than taking a flashlight and wandering around in the woods because you forgot to pee while the sun was out. This is how I know only men could think up this camping thing. They just find a tree and aim. Women have to squat and we then pee on our ankles and our shoes, and wait for a snake to bite our butts. Trying to balance, unroll toilet paper and wipe is impossible.
And later, when it is dark and still hot, you try and go to sleep, only to find that the ground is not level, your head is lower than your feet. And there are acorns, rocks, sticks, something poking you no matter how you lay. Not a breeze blows to dry the sweat. And I can't sleep with dirty feet or sweat. You find out that people snore and fart a lot. How did that mosquito get in the tent?
One last note on this primitive camping. There is nothing to do out there, it is dark and you can only sing around the camp fire for so long. For a few minutes you enjoy the crickets and frogs then you just want them to SHUT UP!
The second type of camping involves spending money on a portable metal house on wheels. There are many kinds, trailers from 15 feet to around 40 feet and cost many, many thousands of dollars. You spend a week moving items from your perfectly good home into this metal box. TV, games, clothes, a complete kitchen has to be furnished, linens, bikes, lawn chairs, a grill, tool box (cause something is going to break), the list is endless. You fill the bathroom with all the things you might need from toothbrushes to a cute little bath mat.
After you fill the trailer/motor home with everything you own, you are ready to start on your adventure.
You then drive for hours only to find a crowded campground. You rent a small piece of ground with neighbors on both sides so close you can hear their toilet flush. Oh, and someone likes their music loud! There is much to do, setting up your "camp site". Mama takes groceries out of her fully stocked refrigerator and cooks on a gas stove while the kids play with their electronic games and dad watches sports on the flat screened TV. It isn't just like home. Mom has to hand wash the dishes. Showers are taken and everyone settles down in nice clean soft beds. With the air conditioning running you can hardly hear the music from next door. You aren't even aware the crickets and frogs are out there.
Dad will get out his grill and cook hamburgers one night. You will try and sit outside to eat, but the mosquitos will run you inside.
After thinking about the whole thing, I guess, grilling on the patio is better than camping. But I stick to my guns about one thing. It's dumb to do wait until the thermometer is ninety-five degrees. Wouldn't it make more sense to grill on cold holidays, such as Thanksgivings and Xmas, maybe even Valentine's Day? Just a suggestion.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
AN INDULGENT AFFAIR
Note-I'm still just a six year old girl
Today I wear my hair in a ponytail. When I was six years old I would've cut off my arm for a ponytail. For some unknown reason my mother hated my hair. It was always cut too short and I got a home permanent about every three to four months. I don't think mothers abuse their daughters with all those chemicals anymore.
It seemed like I walked around with that chemical smell my entire childhood. Each time the curling solution would burn my skin and there would be red streaks on my face and neck. It was almost impossible to pull a comb through the mass of burned, frizzy, wiry hair.
My cousins and classmates had long hair that was plaited or pulled up into a ponytail for school. For church, it was styled in loose curls cascading down their back. There I was looking like I had put my finger in an electrical socket. I won't even mention the row of school photos my mother still has on her wall. The same horrible style year after year. What did, and what does, she see when she looks at them? I wait for an apology.
Today, mom is eighty-nine years old, her mind is terrible, and her hair style hasn't changed since the 50's. She doesn't notice hurricanes or the oil spill in the Gulf. But she'll look at me, as I drive her to lunch, her eyes will squint up and she will study my hair for a minute as though she has never seen it before. "You need to get that mess of hair cut. You need a good neckline cut and a good tight permanent. You know a good perm will last you at least three months. You look terrible with long hair."
My entire adult life I've had short, and shorter hair. I don't think, even once, I questioned the idea that I had bad hair and it was best to not have much of it. But menopause did one thing good for me; I started doing what I wanted.
I do know that it's a rare woman who can wear long hair after the age of forty. Believe me, I should have a cute short cut right now. The long hair doesn't look good cascading down my back in loose curls. And I don't give a damn!
I found a stylist to care for me, my ego, and my hair. I spend more money on my hair each month than most people spend eating out or joining a health club. My husband refers to Dennis as, "My wife's man that I'm supporting."
I have my hair dyed red, with strawberry blonde highlights. It is thick, shiny, and falls down my back past my shoulder blades. I apply an expensive conditioner after each shampoo. Carefully, I apply an oil that my hair stylist practically had to buy on the black market. In a back room at the salon, I pass him a tight roll of money and he slips me a small bottle filled with this golden liquid.
I went to Wal-Mart and bought banana clips (men, just ask your wife), barrettes, regular clips, bobby pins, headbands, and ponytail ties in every color I could find. My poor little six year old heart had longed to shop from the hair accessories aisle. I have cute scarves, hats, and hand mirrors (the better to see the back of my hair).
I never pass a mirror in my house without looking at my hair. At night, after I brush my teeth, I let my hair fall down my bare back. No one had ever told me that it would feel sensual. I shake my head and it tickles my skin. I feel sexy. I brush it first one way and then another. I run my fingers through it. It is thick and soft. I try different styles with all the hair equipment that I have stored in a carved wooden box. Most women would have their jewelry in the box. My jewelry is a bright red barrette and clips in jewel colors.
At work I am very professional. My hair is up and tightly clipped, I have no time for girly things, my patients come first. For dinner out or weddings, I wear it up in a more sophisticated age-appropriate style.
But the minute I get home, my hair comes down and I put it into a ponytail. The years seem to fall away. I flip my head and my hair swings back and forth. I'm Olivia Newton John in Grease. I swear I think I look slimmer. Life just seems better.
No one knows about this private love affair. Like most affairs, it would appear shallow and self indulgent to outsiders. As I said, I don't give a tinker's damn.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
Today I wear my hair in a ponytail. When I was six years old I would've cut off my arm for a ponytail. For some unknown reason my mother hated my hair. It was always cut too short and I got a home permanent about every three to four months. I don't think mothers abuse their daughters with all those chemicals anymore.
It seemed like I walked around with that chemical smell my entire childhood. Each time the curling solution would burn my skin and there would be red streaks on my face and neck. It was almost impossible to pull a comb through the mass of burned, frizzy, wiry hair.
My cousins and classmates had long hair that was plaited or pulled up into a ponytail for school. For church, it was styled in loose curls cascading down their back. There I was looking like I had put my finger in an electrical socket. I won't even mention the row of school photos my mother still has on her wall. The same horrible style year after year. What did, and what does, she see when she looks at them? I wait for an apology.
Today, mom is eighty-nine years old, her mind is terrible, and her hair style hasn't changed since the 50's. She doesn't notice hurricanes or the oil spill in the Gulf. But she'll look at me, as I drive her to lunch, her eyes will squint up and she will study my hair for a minute as though she has never seen it before. "You need to get that mess of hair cut. You need a good neckline cut and a good tight permanent. You know a good perm will last you at least three months. You look terrible with long hair."
My entire adult life I've had short, and shorter hair. I don't think, even once, I questioned the idea that I had bad hair and it was best to not have much of it. But menopause did one thing good for me; I started doing what I wanted.
I do know that it's a rare woman who can wear long hair after the age of forty. Believe me, I should have a cute short cut right now. The long hair doesn't look good cascading down my back in loose curls. And I don't give a damn!
I found a stylist to care for me, my ego, and my hair. I spend more money on my hair each month than most people spend eating out or joining a health club. My husband refers to Dennis as, "My wife's man that I'm supporting."
I have my hair dyed red, with strawberry blonde highlights. It is thick, shiny, and falls down my back past my shoulder blades. I apply an expensive conditioner after each shampoo. Carefully, I apply an oil that my hair stylist practically had to buy on the black market. In a back room at the salon, I pass him a tight roll of money and he slips me a small bottle filled with this golden liquid.
I went to Wal-Mart and bought banana clips (men, just ask your wife), barrettes, regular clips, bobby pins, headbands, and ponytail ties in every color I could find. My poor little six year old heart had longed to shop from the hair accessories aisle. I have cute scarves, hats, and hand mirrors (the better to see the back of my hair).
I never pass a mirror in my house without looking at my hair. At night, after I brush my teeth, I let my hair fall down my bare back. No one had ever told me that it would feel sensual. I shake my head and it tickles my skin. I feel sexy. I brush it first one way and then another. I run my fingers through it. It is thick and soft. I try different styles with all the hair equipment that I have stored in a carved wooden box. Most women would have their jewelry in the box. My jewelry is a bright red barrette and clips in jewel colors.
At work I am very professional. My hair is up and tightly clipped, I have no time for girly things, my patients come first. For dinner out or weddings, I wear it up in a more sophisticated age-appropriate style.
But the minute I get home, my hair comes down and I put it into a ponytail. The years seem to fall away. I flip my head and my hair swings back and forth. I'm Olivia Newton John in Grease. I swear I think I look slimmer. Life just seems better.
No one knows about this private love affair. Like most affairs, it would appear shallow and self indulgent to outsiders. As I said, I don't give a tinker's damn.
© Copyright 2011 Southern Writer All rights reserved.
MY LATEST FASCINATION
In America we no longer have bad manners or bad behavior. Everything that will get you a divorce or put you jail is no longer your fault. Get in trouble and head for the nearest recovery clinic. Everyone will praise you for getting help for your illness. I am endlessly fascinated with the sex addiction support groups and clinics that are popping up everywhere.
What with Tiger and Sandra Bullock's husband, this is the latest pop culture illness. In the old days, we called this kind of person, whore or whore monger. We didn't know how sick these people were. I do remember yelling at some old boyfriend who slept with my friend that he was a sick, sick, bastard. I need to look him up and apologize, and see if he's had treatment. I don't normally yell at the sick.
The fear of going to hell or getting pregnant kept me from catching this illness when I was younger. Guess I was practicing preventive medicine. By the time they were sixteen, several of my gal pals, must have been suffering from sexual addiction. They sure looked happy and had dates galore. This must be the happiest illness in the medical books. Who knew?
I don't know why or how some people get addicted to sex. What is the cut off line between normal and addiction? Is it ok to have sex with one person a year or can you have up to six, or sixty per year? Is it like heroin, can you get addicted the first time you do it? I know I really, really liked it the first time, but I was able to control myself and not go after my friend's men or pick up strangers in bars.
There seems to be a difference between men and women and their sexual behavior. If women have lots of sex they can turn it into a business. If they're smart they end up with lots of good jewelry and owning a beach house. I've always wanted a beach house.
Men used to get along ok, unless someone got pregnant, or their wife caught them. They could usually pick up a woman at the corner bar or stop for a twenty dollar quickie on their way home from work. Today with all the cameras, the internet, and twenty-four hour cable TV it isn't easy to be sneaky, especially if you are a well known personality. Plus, it can cost a lot of money to support this "illness." Just like with drugs.
Apparently Tiger Woods was paying women not only for sex, but to keep their mouths shut. He flew them around the world, paid for the finest hotels, paid their rent, it was endless. It didn't work. Those women spilled their guts when the first camera was pushed in their face. They were shocked there were other women and a wife in his life. They want us to believe they were just the gal next door who fell for this man's lies. "He said he loved me. I thought I was the only one."
When Tiger disappeared into the sex clinic in Mississippi, I was surprised. Not that he was a coward and turned tail and ran from all the women, including his wife. I just didn't think he had an illness. Most of us were pretty sure it was just a rich good old boy who got caught with his winky in all the wrong places. We could understand that, but we thought his wife had the best cure for him. Beating the hell out of him with a golf club can do wonders. Works better than sitting in a circle for group therapy talking about how they just never felt loved.
How would you like to be a fly on the wall and watch all of these sex addicts all gathered together under one roof? That clinic must be like the mother ship for these people. Bet it sure got busy about two a.m. with everyone hooking up and then feeling bad about it. But there is always another group therapy later that morning.
I was shocked that Mississippi even needed a sex clinic. Women in the South have been shooting wayward men for years and years. It works every time. They either kill'em or scared them to death. Either way, the sex addiction was cured. From then on the woman only had to walk into a room and pat her purse with the .38 pistol inside. Even today the cops down here don't have the stomach to mess with a done-wrong woman. Tiger's wife just scared the dickens out of them. You can't subdue a woman swinging a golf club. And they know you can't outrun a bullet.
Like drugs, it seems there is a favorite kind of sex for each person. Tiger liked women that looked like what they were, cheap. Jesse James, Sandra's husband, liked tattoos, especially, politically incorrect ones. Nothing like a swastika to get the juices flowing.
I know I have sort of rambled on but I still can't get my mind around the idea of this being an addiction/illness. With alcohol you have a headache, your hands shake, and you throw up. At least you end up sick, right? Choose your drug and you choose your symptoms, shaking, throwing up, sores up and down your arms, all the way to a full coma. Once again you end up sick. If you suffer with any of these symptoms after lots and lots of sex, you just ain't doing it right. There is just no quick punishment for your "illness" therefore I refuse to call it anything except what it is....bad poorly thought out selfish behavior.
However, if you get caught doing the Tiger thing, head for the nearest clinic. Might just save you from getting shot. I understand they have guards at the door to stop irate spouses.
What with Tiger and Sandra Bullock's husband, this is the latest pop culture illness. In the old days, we called this kind of person, whore or whore monger. We didn't know how sick these people were. I do remember yelling at some old boyfriend who slept with my friend that he was a sick, sick, bastard. I need to look him up and apologize, and see if he's had treatment. I don't normally yell at the sick.
The fear of going to hell or getting pregnant kept me from catching this illness when I was younger. Guess I was practicing preventive medicine. By the time they were sixteen, several of my gal pals, must have been suffering from sexual addiction. They sure looked happy and had dates galore. This must be the happiest illness in the medical books. Who knew?
I don't know why or how some people get addicted to sex. What is the cut off line between normal and addiction? Is it ok to have sex with one person a year or can you have up to six, or sixty per year? Is it like heroin, can you get addicted the first time you do it? I know I really, really liked it the first time, but I was able to control myself and not go after my friend's men or pick up strangers in bars.
There seems to be a difference between men and women and their sexual behavior. If women have lots of sex they can turn it into a business. If they're smart they end up with lots of good jewelry and owning a beach house. I've always wanted a beach house.
Men used to get along ok, unless someone got pregnant, or their wife caught them. They could usually pick up a woman at the corner bar or stop for a twenty dollar quickie on their way home from work. Today with all the cameras, the internet, and twenty-four hour cable TV it isn't easy to be sneaky, especially if you are a well known personality. Plus, it can cost a lot of money to support this "illness." Just like with drugs.
Apparently Tiger Woods was paying women not only for sex, but to keep their mouths shut. He flew them around the world, paid for the finest hotels, paid their rent, it was endless. It didn't work. Those women spilled their guts when the first camera was pushed in their face. They were shocked there were other women and a wife in his life. They want us to believe they were just the gal next door who fell for this man's lies. "He said he loved me. I thought I was the only one."
When Tiger disappeared into the sex clinic in Mississippi, I was surprised. Not that he was a coward and turned tail and ran from all the women, including his wife. I just didn't think he had an illness. Most of us were pretty sure it was just a rich good old boy who got caught with his winky in all the wrong places. We could understand that, but we thought his wife had the best cure for him. Beating the hell out of him with a golf club can do wonders. Works better than sitting in a circle for group therapy talking about how they just never felt loved.
How would you like to be a fly on the wall and watch all of these sex addicts all gathered together under one roof? That clinic must be like the mother ship for these people. Bet it sure got busy about two a.m. with everyone hooking up and then feeling bad about it. But there is always another group therapy later that morning.
I was shocked that Mississippi even needed a sex clinic. Women in the South have been shooting wayward men for years and years. It works every time. They either kill'em or scared them to death. Either way, the sex addiction was cured. From then on the woman only had to walk into a room and pat her purse with the .38 pistol inside. Even today the cops down here don't have the stomach to mess with a done-wrong woman. Tiger's wife just scared the dickens out of them. You can't subdue a woman swinging a golf club. And they know you can't outrun a bullet.
Like drugs, it seems there is a favorite kind of sex for each person. Tiger liked women that looked like what they were, cheap. Jesse James, Sandra's husband, liked tattoos, especially, politically incorrect ones. Nothing like a swastika to get the juices flowing.
I know I have sort of rambled on but I still can't get my mind around the idea of this being an addiction/illness. With alcohol you have a headache, your hands shake, and you throw up. At least you end up sick, right? Choose your drug and you choose your symptoms, shaking, throwing up, sores up and down your arms, all the way to a full coma. Once again you end up sick. If you suffer with any of these symptoms after lots and lots of sex, you just ain't doing it right. There is just no quick punishment for your "illness" therefore I refuse to call it anything except what it is....bad poorly thought out selfish behavior.
However, if you get caught doing the Tiger thing, head for the nearest clinic. Might just save you from getting shot. I understand they have guards at the door to stop irate spouses.
CRAZY, WE ALL ARE
Several years ago, a group of friends and I were sitting around having one of those conversations that comes at the end of the evening, sometimes after several glasses of wine. You have discussed politics, sex, work, and the TV reality shows. Each subject would end with someone looking disgusted and making the statement, "Hell, they're all just crazy as piss ants."
I asked, "Do you know anyone that's not crazy?"
Everyone got quiet, took a sip of their wine and shook their heads, except for one gal. She said she knew her entire family was nuttier than a fruitcake. But she thought her husband's family was sane. I bite my tongue. She hadn't been married long enough; she still had stars in her eyes and refused to see what was right in front of her. It had taken everyone else about three minutes, at the wedding, to know those people would be interesting to watch. You can only hide crazy for so long, it will come out.
I come from a long line of insane folks, got it from both sides of the family. I'm not talking serial killer stuff. But go back and read my essay about my grandpaw being a bulimic and grandmaw being a passive aggressive hypochondriac. These people had a good reputation, money, and power. Not once did anyone confront the insanity or try to get'em in therapy.
On my mama's side, my grandmaw was a control freak who thought if you had fish and milk at the same meal, you would get sick and if you sat on a feather pillow during a rain storm, lighting wouldn't hit you. My grandpaw was just passive or as I call it, lazy. They lived way out in the country, so they sort of ran under the radar. Just trust me, the gene pool started going downhill long before I was born.
Along came my parents, those two would never been allowed to breed if they had been dogs or horses. Mother has always seemed to live off in some fuzzy world of her own. She was, and is a precious woman, who was ripe for the pickin' when she met my dad. I doubt dad was an upstanding citizen by the time he spotted mama. But he was cute and could be quite a charmer. They came together and became poster children for "Passing On The Crazy Genes."
I could look around at my life and see that my parents weren't doing a very good job of raising me. Way before I had a name for it, I knew I wasn't right. That explains me. So I'm not responsible.
Hell, even Hitler had times when he could go for hours or days looking normal and sane. Have you seen the old movies of him and his gal pal in the mountains on vacation? If it wasn't for a world war and the murder of millions, who would have known.
And I hate to bring his name up, but they're going to find out poor Mel Gibson isn't just being mean. He's insane, he has lost contact, bent the old brain stem. He did give us hints. Remember those movies with Danny Glover. Gibson played a hero cop and told people he was insane. We should have believed him then. He knew just how to have that "look" in his eyes. Check out his mug shot.....crazy eyes.
I actually didn't name my particular crazy 'til I was in my forties. Please understand I didn't go to counseling for myself. One of my sons just didn't hide his insanity very well. He didn't give a crap if the whole world knew he was nuts. OK, he was sixteen.
I was sort of puzzled and insulted when the therapist said, "Yes, I see, you are having trouble with your son, so let us get busy and help you." I repeated the whole sordid story, thinking he wasn't the smartest therapist I could've chosen. He kept repeating that we were going to work on me. Maybe he was hard of hearing. I sat in his office once a week for several months. Didn't help my son one bit, but he kept gently pointing out my shortcomings.
I ended up in group therapy. Lord, a room full of 'me.' Of course, I didn't see myself in these people at first. I just wanted to jump up and slap the crap out of several of them. All the whining and complaining. I swear they enjoyed getting the attention. I think they looked forward to the meetings. They showed up once a week just busting to tell their newest sad story, or repeat an old childhood memory of not getting that red bike when they were eight.
Therapy went from me standing up and screaming to one guy, "You've been separated from your wife for 11 years and are engaged to someone else for five! You need to get a damn divorce! I'll drive you to the court house myself. What the hell do you think you're doing or do you think?"
It ended with some gal looking across our little circle of insanity and yelling at me, "I want to walk over there and just slap the shit out of you! You sit there without an expression of any kind when I talk about my mama!"
I had spent an unusual amount of time wondering how this group thing would know when to end. No one seemed to get better. I figured out it would be one of two ways. The first was when your insurance ran out. The second was when the patients threatened bodily harm to each other. Both happened about the same time. Several folks still had a story or two they wanted to share, but the decision was made when the therapist announced he was moving to Houston. Ha, he couldn't take it anymore.
Sort of lost faith in the therapist when I discovered he was a recovering addict, and was leaving his wife and kids, "cause I just can't be myself with her. I'm just feeling like I am being held back." Hell, it was a marriage, not a movie. None of us would stay married if we were our true self. Who wants to see that disaster? And, ha, that proves he was crazy too.
I never got much self awareness, I just decided to straighten up and behave, 'cause I didn't want to be grouped with those people. I was able to see that I was co-dependent, adult child of an alcoholic, and depressed. That was just the top layer of my crazy. Later I found ADD in the mix. So now I could name it, but didn't work too hard to change my behavior. Like most crazy people, I just though that's what made me interesting.
My son grew up and became as normal as anyone in our family can be. He didn't even thank me for all the therapy I went through for him.
At this place in my life, I don't have time to fool with the idiots that claim to be sane. They are either telling a lie or actually believe they are ok. And the sure sign of insanity is to think you're sane.
Most of my friends are taking great pleasure in being insane. We are of the age where we just don't care if we embarrass our adult children. And our grandchildren think we are the coolest because we keep their parents upset and crazy.
See there's that word again "crazy"........we all are.
copyright 2011, Southern Writer
I asked, "Do you know anyone that's not crazy?"
Everyone got quiet, took a sip of their wine and shook their heads, except for one gal. She said she knew her entire family was nuttier than a fruitcake. But she thought her husband's family was sane. I bite my tongue. She hadn't been married long enough; she still had stars in her eyes and refused to see what was right in front of her. It had taken everyone else about three minutes, at the wedding, to know those people would be interesting to watch. You can only hide crazy for so long, it will come out.
I come from a long line of insane folks, got it from both sides of the family. I'm not talking serial killer stuff. But go back and read my essay about my grandpaw being a bulimic and grandmaw being a passive aggressive hypochondriac. These people had a good reputation, money, and power. Not once did anyone confront the insanity or try to get'em in therapy.
On my mama's side, my grandmaw was a control freak who thought if you had fish and milk at the same meal, you would get sick and if you sat on a feather pillow during a rain storm, lighting wouldn't hit you. My grandpaw was just passive or as I call it, lazy. They lived way out in the country, so they sort of ran under the radar. Just trust me, the gene pool started going downhill long before I was born.
Along came my parents, those two would never been allowed to breed if they had been dogs or horses. Mother has always seemed to live off in some fuzzy world of her own. She was, and is a precious woman, who was ripe for the pickin' when she met my dad. I doubt dad was an upstanding citizen by the time he spotted mama. But he was cute and could be quite a charmer. They came together and became poster children for "Passing On The Crazy Genes."
I could look around at my life and see that my parents weren't doing a very good job of raising me. Way before I had a name for it, I knew I wasn't right. That explains me. So I'm not responsible.
Hell, even Hitler had times when he could go for hours or days looking normal and sane. Have you seen the old movies of him and his gal pal in the mountains on vacation? If it wasn't for a world war and the murder of millions, who would have known.
And I hate to bring his name up, but they're going to find out poor Mel Gibson isn't just being mean. He's insane, he has lost contact, bent the old brain stem. He did give us hints. Remember those movies with Danny Glover. Gibson played a hero cop and told people he was insane. We should have believed him then. He knew just how to have that "look" in his eyes. Check out his mug shot.....crazy eyes.
I actually didn't name my particular crazy 'til I was in my forties. Please understand I didn't go to counseling for myself. One of my sons just didn't hide his insanity very well. He didn't give a crap if the whole world knew he was nuts. OK, he was sixteen.
I was sort of puzzled and insulted when the therapist said, "Yes, I see, you are having trouble with your son, so let us get busy and help you." I repeated the whole sordid story, thinking he wasn't the smartest therapist I could've chosen. He kept repeating that we were going to work on me. Maybe he was hard of hearing. I sat in his office once a week for several months. Didn't help my son one bit, but he kept gently pointing out my shortcomings.
I ended up in group therapy. Lord, a room full of 'me.' Of course, I didn't see myself in these people at first. I just wanted to jump up and slap the crap out of several of them. All the whining and complaining. I swear they enjoyed getting the attention. I think they looked forward to the meetings. They showed up once a week just busting to tell their newest sad story, or repeat an old childhood memory of not getting that red bike when they were eight.
Therapy went from me standing up and screaming to one guy, "You've been separated from your wife for 11 years and are engaged to someone else for five! You need to get a damn divorce! I'll drive you to the court house myself. What the hell do you think you're doing or do you think?"
It ended with some gal looking across our little circle of insanity and yelling at me, "I want to walk over there and just slap the shit out of you! You sit there without an expression of any kind when I talk about my mama!"
I had spent an unusual amount of time wondering how this group thing would know when to end. No one seemed to get better. I figured out it would be one of two ways. The first was when your insurance ran out. The second was when the patients threatened bodily harm to each other. Both happened about the same time. Several folks still had a story or two they wanted to share, but the decision was made when the therapist announced he was moving to Houston. Ha, he couldn't take it anymore.
Sort of lost faith in the therapist when I discovered he was a recovering addict, and was leaving his wife and kids, "cause I just can't be myself with her. I'm just feeling like I am being held back." Hell, it was a marriage, not a movie. None of us would stay married if we were our true self. Who wants to see that disaster? And, ha, that proves he was crazy too.
I never got much self awareness, I just decided to straighten up and behave, 'cause I didn't want to be grouped with those people. I was able to see that I was co-dependent, adult child of an alcoholic, and depressed. That was just the top layer of my crazy. Later I found ADD in the mix. So now I could name it, but didn't work too hard to change my behavior. Like most crazy people, I just though that's what made me interesting.
My son grew up and became as normal as anyone in our family can be. He didn't even thank me for all the therapy I went through for him.
At this place in my life, I don't have time to fool with the idiots that claim to be sane. They are either telling a lie or actually believe they are ok. And the sure sign of insanity is to think you're sane.
Most of my friends are taking great pleasure in being insane. We are of the age where we just don't care if we embarrass our adult children. And our grandchildren think we are the coolest because we keep their parents upset and crazy.
See there's that word again "crazy"........we all are.
copyright 2011, Southern Writer
A PLAY THING FOR THE ELDER
Like everyone, I have dreams, fantasies and hopes. Not one of them involves me and a whole apartment house full of old people. But someone said, "Life is what happens, while we are busy making plans." I, personally, think it's just more proof that God has a sense of humor.
Since moving my mom to this retirement community five years ago, I am spending more and more time with people that should just go lie down and conserve their energy. They are very quiet; they sneak up on you when you come in the lobby. They put their walkers right in the door of the elevator; you have to talk to them.
It is sort of flattering, to them, I'm just a kid. I still have my own teeth, no gray hair (thank you, God, for my hair stylist and his supply of chemicals), I still walk with a bit of pep in my rear, I can still move fast. They must, at the very least, be jealous.
You look at this group; they look so fragile, like a slight breeze could throw them off center. Ha! These are the toughest, most stubborn bunch you can find. The weak had died off long ago. I have learned to be afraid of them. It is easier to do whatever they want than to try to reason with them or to just say, "No." They don't understand the word.
Yesterday afternoon I arrived to take my mother to the grocery store for her week's supply of snacks.....junk food. Try telling an eighty-nine year old woman that donuts, breads, and candies are not healthy. Go ahead; you try to explain it to her. I've given up.
In the lobby there was a one man band and my mom and all these elderly people were sitting there in a large circle. My mom and her friends were grinning and clapping their hands to the rhythm of some old rock and roll tune.
I just sat down in the nearest chair, 'cause I liked the music too. Before long, I was swinging my foot to the beat.
Suddenly, this old lady, about ninety years old, grabbed her walker and came across the lobby toward me. She stopped in the middle of the floor, all bent over, and waved at me. Thinking she was giving up her seat on the sofa to me, I sort of mouthed the words, "No, No, I am fine here."
Again, she peeks at me and waves for me to come there. "No, I’m fine right here," I mouth the words slowly and patted the chair.
With her third wave, she looked mad. I got up and walked to her, leaning over close to her ear, I told her I liked where I was sitting.
In a strong voice she asked me to dance. I lean over again, the music was loud, and tell her I can not and do not dance! I haven't danced with another female since high school. In a mad strong voice she tells me, "I can't dance either. Do you want to dance?" She had grabbed my arm in a vise, we were going to dance.
Everyone was watching and the singer was grinning. I moved her walker to one side, took her hands, and danced. It was a sorry sight on so many levels. She was never able to lift her feet or move them more than a couple of inches at a time. Several dozen eyes watched. The manager came out of his office and leaned against the wall. The music filled my soul. I danced.....just like I do at home when no one is watching. My behind went one way and then another, my feet moved like magic. I was totally embarrassing myself and it was wonderful, like flying. I helped the old lady turn around once, it took awhile, her feet moved one at the time in a careful slow shuffle. But she didn't look mad anymore.
The song was over way too soon for me, but she was beginning to glance at her walker. She gave a big sigh of relief when I helped her sit down. I knew she would be upstairs and in her apartment for a nap within minutes. But for a few minutes she danced. Me? I was feeling wonderful. That old lady had forced me to step outside my comfort zone. But I didn't make eye contact with the singer or the manager, they might not understand. They most certainly knew I wasn't a dancer.
Since moving my mom to this retirement community five years ago, I am spending more and more time with people that should just go lie down and conserve their energy. They are very quiet; they sneak up on you when you come in the lobby. They put their walkers right in the door of the elevator; you have to talk to them.
It is sort of flattering, to them, I'm just a kid. I still have my own teeth, no gray hair (thank you, God, for my hair stylist and his supply of chemicals), I still walk with a bit of pep in my rear, I can still move fast. They must, at the very least, be jealous.
You look at this group; they look so fragile, like a slight breeze could throw them off center. Ha! These are the toughest, most stubborn bunch you can find. The weak had died off long ago. I have learned to be afraid of them. It is easier to do whatever they want than to try to reason with them or to just say, "No." They don't understand the word.
Yesterday afternoon I arrived to take my mother to the grocery store for her week's supply of snacks.....junk food. Try telling an eighty-nine year old woman that donuts, breads, and candies are not healthy. Go ahead; you try to explain it to her. I've given up.
In the lobby there was a one man band and my mom and all these elderly people were sitting there in a large circle. My mom and her friends were grinning and clapping their hands to the rhythm of some old rock and roll tune.
I just sat down in the nearest chair, 'cause I liked the music too. Before long, I was swinging my foot to the beat.
Suddenly, this old lady, about ninety years old, grabbed her walker and came across the lobby toward me. She stopped in the middle of the floor, all bent over, and waved at me. Thinking she was giving up her seat on the sofa to me, I sort of mouthed the words, "No, No, I am fine here."
Again, she peeks at me and waves for me to come there. "No, I’m fine right here," I mouth the words slowly and patted the chair.
With her third wave, she looked mad. I got up and walked to her, leaning over close to her ear, I told her I liked where I was sitting.
In a strong voice she asked me to dance. I lean over again, the music was loud, and tell her I can not and do not dance! I haven't danced with another female since high school. In a mad strong voice she tells me, "I can't dance either. Do you want to dance?" She had grabbed my arm in a vise, we were going to dance.
Everyone was watching and the singer was grinning. I moved her walker to one side, took her hands, and danced. It was a sorry sight on so many levels. She was never able to lift her feet or move them more than a couple of inches at a time. Several dozen eyes watched. The manager came out of his office and leaned against the wall. The music filled my soul. I danced.....just like I do at home when no one is watching. My behind went one way and then another, my feet moved like magic. I was totally embarrassing myself and it was wonderful, like flying. I helped the old lady turn around once, it took awhile, her feet moved one at the time in a careful slow shuffle. But she didn't look mad anymore.
The song was over way too soon for me, but she was beginning to glance at her walker. She gave a big sigh of relief when I helped her sit down. I knew she would be upstairs and in her apartment for a nap within minutes. But for a few minutes she danced. Me? I was feeling wonderful. That old lady had forced me to step outside my comfort zone. But I didn't make eye contact with the singer or the manager, they might not understand. They most certainly knew I wasn't a dancer.
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