Mean, Old, Crabby Woman's Musings

"What IS That?!!!!"

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 06:34:00 +0000

One afternoon, I was driving home with my son in the car, along a back road that had many twists and turns, so that you sometimes couldn't see very far ahead until you'd actually gone into the turn. That's why I nearly hit something I did not want to hit!

As we came into the turn, there, in the middle of the road, was a huge, black object about two and a half feet tall and about six feet wide.

"Holy s**t!!!" was my reaction as I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting it.

"What the **** is THAT?!!!!" yelled out my son, his eyes as big as saucers.

I reached over and smacked him in the arm for using the profanity, then explained to him as I drove past the object slowly, shook up myself.

"It's a vulture!" I told him.

He'd never seen one before, which I didn't realize. The thing had its' wings fully extended, and they were at least six feet wide, as it was feasting away on a poor rabbit, which apparently had expired as road kill not long before. There was a crow there with it, but we hardly noticed the crow, due to the enormous size of the vulture. Scary thing to see right in the middle of the road. Not to mention unexpected and probably dangerous as well!

So while driving along a curving road, keep a watch out. You never know what's around the next corner!

The Talking Dog

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 22:14:00 +0000

When my friend Chris married her husband, Bob, she also "inherited" a very big, sweet German Shepherd dog named Kita. Chris, who's a cat person as I mentioned in previous stories, didn't have a problem with Kita because he loved cats and was very well trained, not to mention one of the sweetest dogs I've ever come in contact with.

The thing that amused me to no end was whenever I'd go over there to visit. Kita was very well behaved, as always, and waited patiently until I'd talk to him once I was sitting down, and then would come over for his attention. I'd pet him and talk to him, and darned if the dog didn't talk back!

"Oh, there's my good Kita, how are you?"

"Rowr, rowr, owr," he'd answer plaintively as I petted him.

"Yes, I know, they treat you so badly here!"

A bit louder, "Ooor, woor, ooor," he'd agree.

"All those cats and all, just here to torture my poor Kita!"

Even louder, "Rooor, ooor, Roowwrr!!!"

By this time, he'd start climbing into my lap, loving the attention and wanting to tell me more. Now, this was a 120-pound dog in his prime, so not quite a lap dog, but it was so funny and so sweet! You couldn't help but love him!

And I'm a sucker when it comes to most animals, anyway. Especially big, fluffy dogs that talk!

The Plastic Cowboy

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 07:20:00 +0000

Many years ago, when I was little, my parents shared a rental house with another couple. While we lived there was when my brother, the middle child, was born. Dad was in the Air Force and stationed here at the time, as was the man who was married to the other woman they shared the house with.

The house itself was built in 1902, and was one of the first houses built in that neighborhood. The back yard wasn't very big, but at the south side of the back wall outside, there was an indentation that looked like it could've been a window to the basement at one time, but had long since been boarded up permanently. I used to play in the leaves that would fall from the big tree out back and into the sort of window, hiding things there and finding them again when I'd be outside playing. I had several little plastic cowboys and Indians, some with horses and some without that I played with a lot.

Before Dad got a new assignment and we moved away, I hid one of the cowboys under the leaves and left it there for some unknown reason at the time.

Many years later, when I was about eight years old, Dad was stationed back here again and after living in a small duplex for awhile, the house we lived in when I was small went up for sale. Dad had always wanted to move back into that house, so he managed to buy it, and my brothers and I grew up in that house; my parents living there for another 32 years before moving to their present location.

One day after we'd moved back to the house, I was playing out back and somehow remembered the little plastic cowboy from way back when, and went to the sort of window, pushing back the leaves that always seemed to be there, and lo and behold, there was my little plastic cowboy, still where I'd hidden it years before. A bit weathered, but still there. It was as if I'd known when I was small that eventually I'd be back to find him.

Strange how things happen sometimes.

Frank the Bird

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 05:34:00 +0000

As I think I've mentioned before, our cat Frank had a tendency to hold grudges, and for a very long time sometimes! As proof, I offer this story.

My friend Chris had come over to visit, and we were chatting away, as always. Frank would always jump up on the back of the chair or couch where Chris sat, and sniff her hair, apparently liking the smell of the shampoo she used. She'd always talk to him and pet him and give him all sorts of attention that he absolutely loved, and he'd yell at her if he hadn't had enough yet.

This time, however, when he meant to yell, it came out like more of a squeak.

Chris laughed, and said, "Frank you sound like a bird!" which he did, but he didn't mean to, darn it!

Frank looked at her, turned around, and stalked out of the room, highly insulted! I think we made matters worse by laughing at his reaction as he left the room.

From then on, for a long time and whenever Chris came over to visit, Frank would pointedly ignore her. On one occasion that comes to mind, we were sitting and talking, and he came into the room. Chris began talking to him, making sweet talk, and Frank completely ignored her! He actually put his nose in the air and strutted by her with his tail up! It was hilarious! He'd still jump up behind her and sniff her hair, but she was not allowed to touch him any more. If she tried, he'd swipe at her, and sometimes try to nip her as well!

Eventually, he got over being mad at her and they became friends again, after Chris coaxing him a bit every time she came over. I think it took about a year, though, before he finally would let her pet him again.

So yes, animals do remember things. And in Frank's case, sometimes become highly insulted and don't let you forget it!

Papaw

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 06:46:00 +0000

My maternal grandfather was quite an interesting character. He passed away the summer I turned 9 years old, but I remember quite a bit about him.

He worked as a mechanic for one of the trucking lines, and also did carpentry work. He'd built a workshed out back of the house they lived in, but no one was allowed in there without permission, and definitely not when he wasn't in the shed. He kept the place immaculate.

I remember peeking around the doorway with my cousins, and me asking, "Pappaw, can we come in?" If he wasn't too busy, we were allowed in (usually me and my cousin Rebecca), and we could sit on a bench across from his work table and listen to his stories, which we loved.

One story that he told was what would happen if anyone ever came into his workshed without permission. He showed us a noose that he'd fashioned out of a rope, and said that the last person that had come in without permission, he had put that noose around their neck and hung them from the rafters! We listened wide-eyed, believing every word he said, but I remember the twinkle in his eyes and slight smirk as he tried to keep a straight face.

My cousin Alan (the same Alan as in the story of the bees) was always on Pappaw's "bad kid" list, though. Alan seemed to take great delight in aggravating Pappaw, and at the worst possible time. Pappaw would get dressed for work and be out front waiting for his ride, and Alan would sneak around and turn on the hose, completely soaking Pappaw and sending him back into the house cursing a blue streak because he had to change clothes, and threatening all sorts of things he was going to do to take care of Alan! Alan must've only been about four or five years old at the time, but for some reason, he delighted in the game. Pappaw was not amused!

One thing that was really special to me that was just my time with him, was that he'd have me come and sit on the couch in front of him, and on a TV tray showed me how to draw three-dimensional boxes, triangles and all sorts of shapes. That was our time just between us.

Years later, I found out that when I was a baby, my grandmother dropped him off at our house after he'd gone on a drinking binge, and once he'd sobered up, he didn't drink another drop for the whole time he was there with us. It was just before my first birthday, and Mom and Dad said that he spent a lot of time with me while he was there. He especially got a kick out of taking pictures of me with my first birthday cake, which my mother let me tear apart and make a good mess of. Unfortunately, there were no pictures of him with me, but I wish there were. Still, looking at those old black and white pictures now still make me think of him.

I have good memories of my Pappaw. I wish he'd been around a bit longer so that I'd have got to know him even better, though. I always felt like I was his favorite, though.

Sheba and Chops

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 06:59:00 +0000

As previously talked about, we had two dogs that were pretty much worthless. Well, Chops was, anyway.

Sheba could've been a terrific dog, and was highly trainable, even if a little nervous at times. She was a very sweet dog and very protective of the kids and everything else, but especially of Chops. Yet every time we tried to train her, there was Chops, right in the middle of things, distracting her and, of course, not paying any attention to being trained himself! Nothing worked with him, that was for sure.

We got her a year after Chops, thinking that having a buddy would calm him down and maybe mellow him out, since he was pretty much wired for sound when he was a puppy. It worked to some extent, but poor Sheba seemed to get it in her head that she was his protector. Considering he was the ultimate Stupid Dog, he needed help from somewhere, and apparently Sheba elected herself to be that guardian.

Whenever anyone new came near him or past the house, she growled at them. If it was another dog, she went absolutely nuts barking and snarling. I don't think we actually realized that she was warning them away from Chops until after he died. Then things changed.

Sheba stopped barking at everything that moved. She relaxed, and seemed as if she was relieved to not have to constantly be on guard. She passed away several months ago, but during the time she wasn't looking after Chops for that last year or so of her life, she finally lost her nervousness and seemed content. Poor girl. Not that she took any nonsense off him when he was alive; she didn't and let him know who was boss, and he found out all too well who was in charge of the two of them.

Strange how animals decide things for themselves sometimes.

Oil Spill

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 05:37:00 +0000

Okay, I'm finally back to torment you all. Sorry for the delay....that's another story that I'll save for much later once it plays out.

Anyway...

My daughter was probably about a year and a half old. She was walking by then on her own, and one of her favorite things to do was to go into the pantry and take out the smaller cans there and stack them. A bit of harmless fun.

Until....

One night I was on the phone while she was playing, when she suddenly sounded rather distressed, so I turned to check what was going on. When I saw what had happened, I quickly ended my phone call.

My daughter was sliding around the floor as if she was on ice skates, with a panicked look on her face. What she'd done was taken a bottle of olive oil from the shelf, and apparently, the top wasn't on the bottle tight enough, and had come off, spilling olive oil all over the floor, which was what was causing her to slide around. I had her brother quickly go get a towel and put it on the floor where there was no oil, lifted her up and put her on the towel, then began the horrible chore of cleaning up the mess.

Helpful hint: spreading flour on an oil spill works great for soaking it up and getting it clean. It's still a pain, but makes it easier. Also works with raw eggs that happen to get broken on the floor as well.

Also, making sure lids are on tight and/or up on a higher shelf than a toddler's reach usually works quite well also!

Busy, Busy, Busy!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 19:39:00 +0000

This will just be a quick post for all of you, especially my regular readers!

Apologies for not having posted in awhile. I'm planning on being back later today or tonight and posting some new stories. Just been busy, I guess.

Meanwhile, thanks for hanging in there with me! There will be more to (hopefully!) keep you amused!

Dog-ish Cat

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 08:05:00 +0000

My son's cat, Chester, is about three years old now, and he's become quite good at playing games, in more ways than one. When my son is around, he follows him around like a puppy, and only has eyes for him, and plays up to him like crazy; nuzzling him, mewing at him for attention, and jumping on his lap to get petted.

HOWEVER.....

When my son's not here, he makes use of everyone else for getting the attention he wants, especially my daughter, who's decided to take advantage of that situation and teach him tricks. He follows her everywhere, even into her little "club," as she calls it (really a blanket over a table and shelves that makes a sort of tent), jumping on her lap or next to her as she watches television. She calls him, he comes. They have a game that they play with each other where she chases him, and then he yells at her when she doesn't follow, and once she comes to him in answer, he runs off again, expecting her to chase him some more.

So yesterday she decided to take advantage of the situation, and went in to get some treats for him and try something else to see if it would work. I suddenly hear, "Mom, you've got to see this!"

She comes into the room I'm in and informs me that she's taught Chester to "sit" like a dog. I've never known a cat to do that, so I had to see. She called him over and he looked up at her expectantly.

"Chester, sit!" she says, and darned if the cat didn't sit! Just like a well-trained puppy! I was amazed, and told her that I'd never seen a cat do that before on command, which I hadn't. But if anyone could do it, it would be my daughter, who's always had a way with animals anyway. It wasn't just a one-time thing, either, as he's still doing it when she tells him to.

Except when my son's home. He won't do it for anything, and in fact, ignores everyone else when my son's around. Little traitor!

So my daughter told me I should tell this story, and even gave me the title for it, which I thought was pretty apt.

And they say you can't train a cat. I never have believed that, but didn't think they could be trained on command, like a dog, either. Yet another crazy pet that we've seemed to acquire. Not one of them normal, that's for certain. Whatever "normal" is.

Highway Bridge Diving

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 06:18:00 +0000

This summer it seems like it's been more rainy than usual, with several storms that have caused a lot of flooding on the roads and in the streams and ponds, which reminded me of something that happened several summers ago during a huge rainstorm.

The neighborhood we lived in was near the highway, and there was a bridge that ran over it at one point, where the street went through. You could walk across the sidewalk on either side and look down onto the highway and see the traffic speeding by. That part of the highway sloped downwards, and didn't start back uphill for quite a ways up the highway.

One late summer afternoon, we were treated to a downpour that lasted for quite awhile. The gutters in the streets were overflowing, so much so that the manhole covers were raising up and crashing down with the water's movement. The drainage ditches along the highway were full of debris, causing the water to back up onto the highway, and make what looked like a very large pond, right underneath the bridge. Traffic was at a standstill, as the water had risen to well over six feet high, even higher in some places.

Somehow, some person got the idea that it would be fun to go swimming in the "pond" under the highway, since there was no traffic moving and the rain had slowed by then to a normal storm, and several people ended up sliding down the grass at the sides of the highway and into the water, swimming around in there like it was meant for just that purpose. That was bizarre enough, but it got even weirder.

A complete idiot that was walking over the highway got the bright idea to use the railings as diving boards, and began to jump off the top of the railings and down into the water below! What was worse was that once he'd jumped off, several other people decided to try it, and began climbing up on the railings and jumping, too! A couple of my friends and I just stood and watched these morons, wondering how they kept from breaking their necks, but apparently the water was deep enough to prevent that.

Finally, the police arrived with their bullhorns and started warning the jumpers to knock it off first, then told the swimmers still below to get out of the water. Before that, though, every time someone jumped, the idiots would clap and cheer every time someone dove off, as if it was some sort of competition. Luckily, nobody started anything with the police and did as they were told, and everything ended peacefully.

After that, the drainage ditches were cleared on a regular basis, and since then the highway has been widened and a new bridge built over it, so there haven't been any more floods under the bridge. My kids still don't believe me when I tell that story, though. I guess it's just too hard to actually imagine something like that happening.

But it did. Honest.

"Please Come to Customer Service"

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 06:33:00 +0000

My dad and my brother, the wrestler, went to Wal-Mart for a quick trip so that my brother could get a new supply of contact lenses. Once they'd finished at the optical department, my brother asked my dad for $20 and went off to look for something, while my dad was in sporting goods getting what he needed.

When Dad finished up, he went up to the front of the store to wait for my brother, as he didn't know where he'd gotten off to. He waited. And waited, and waited. No sign of my brother.

Dad, not being a shopping kind of guy anyway, got tired of waiting and was well past ready to leave and go home by then. So he decided the best thing to do would be to have my brother paged to come up to the front so that they could leave. He went to the Customer Service desk to ask them to page him.

My dad then got an idea to be funny, but that would get my brother's attention immediately, without anyone else getting the joke.

Suddenly, over the intercom where the whole store could hear, the woman's voice spoke out, "Dick Trailer, please come to Customer Service. Dick Trailer to Customer Service."

Soon Dad saw my brother coming up to meet him, laughing at Dad's use of his wrestling character name instead of his, and shaking his head. Dad was highly amused with himself as well, and laughing as my brother approached.

So the thing to remember here is, don't ever take off and leave Dad to his own devices, especially at Wal-Mart. When he's ready to leave, you'd better be ready as well. And no fooling around!

Having A Baby

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 07:22:00 +0000

After giving birth twice, I'd like to offer a bit of advice on one of the choices moms-to-be are faced with when it comes time to actually have the baby. I mean when you're in labor.

Do not be brave. All that whole malarkey about "natural" childbirth? Yeah, I was going to go that route with my son, then gave up after 12 hours of labor and got the epidural. Truly a gift! I couldn't feel a thing from my chest down, and after that, hardly any pain. The relief was enormous!

When it came time to have my daughter, I'd told the doctor on my last visit before I went into labor that I wanted the epidural. He notated it on my chart, and said it wouldn't be a problem. Yeah, right!

I started having labor pains at about 10:00 a.m., and went to the hospital. After being examined, it was determined that my daughter was turned face down instead of up, therefore she had to turn before she could be born. So they sent me home, with instructions to drink a glass of wine (why, I do not know to this day), and have my husband massage my lower back so that she'd turn. Since I hadn't eaten because you're not supposed to do that when you're in labor, I was starving, so we stopped on the way home for dinner, me having contractions throughout the meal, which I had a glass of wine with, as per instructions.

Once home, we followed the rest of the instructions re: the massage. And did that ever work! I immediately began having very strong contractions, and could hardly walk. I called the Doctor on call (not my regular doctor), and she argued that if I could talk through the contractions, more than likely I still wasn't ready, even though the contractions were very close together.

"Lady," I told her, "I can talk through anything. I'm going to the hospital to have this baby. Whether you show up or not makes no difference to me," and I hung up.

I was lying in the back seat of the car as my husband drove, convinced that he was going to have to deliver the baby, especially after my water broke on the way. We finally got to the hospital after what seemed like forever (we didn't live all that close to it, either), went into emergency.

The girl at the emergency room desk asked, "You're not going to have that baby here, are you?" to which I replied, "I can't guarantee anything at this point."

They had someone come down from labor and delivery to examine me, and determined that yes, I was ready to deliver, so they put me on a gurney and began wheeling me up to the maternity ward, telling me not to push! Somehow, my body didn't want to cooperate with that order, and pushed anyway a couple of times on the way up.

Once in the delivery room, I asked if I could have my epidural.

"Oh, honey," the nurse said, "you're way too far gone for an epidural!"

"Excuse me?" I asked. "Are you insane?"

She assured me she wasn't, and from then on, I yelled and screamed and threatened my husband with bodily harm, until finally, my daughter was born at 12:55 a.m. and the pain was over, thank goodness! Right after she was delivered by the resident there, the doctor on call walked in, telling me how "good" I'd done.

"How do you know?" I asked, still annoyed with her. "You weren't even here!" and the resident smirked.

I have since had great respect for women who give birth without drugs. They say that you forget that birthing pain once it's over. Bull-loney! The only thing positive I can say about it is that the recovery time is easier without the epidural, but that's it.

So I've done both, and my advice, whether it matters to anyone or not? Get the epidural. It's worth it. Really.

Chocolate Shake

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 22:31:00 +0000

One thing I've learned over the years about small children, they usually know what they want, and they have no problems letting anyone else know, either. And they want it NOW!!!!

Case in point: Many years ago, my friend Sherri's daughter, Barbie (who's now over 30 and a mom herself) must've been about three years old or so. It was summer and hot, and we'd decided we'd drive to Dairy Queen and get something cold to drink, figuring we'd get milkshakes, because they make the best ones.

Barbie had been very quiet in the seat between us, and Sherri drove around to the menu board and speaker. However, as soon as the person inside asked, "May I take your order?," Barbie decided that was the time to make herself known.

She leaned over Sherri and out the window, yelling, "Chocolate shake! Chocolate shake! I want Chocolate shake!"

Sherri was absolutely mortified! Barbie continued on, repeating the same thing over and over, until finally Sherri managed to get her to stop hollering, while I, meanwhile, had been no help whatsoever, as I was laughing too hard to do anything else!

There was no sound from the speaker for a few seconds, until the person came back on, laughing as well, and said, "I'm guessing someone wants a chocolate shake?"

"Um...yes," Sherri replied, then continued to give them the rest of our order before driving forward to the window.

As we drove up, the employees were still laughing, as was I. Sherri had blushed beet red, though, she was so embarrassed, though she was finally smiling! She passed the cups to me and a small one to Barbie, who grinned from ear to ear.

She nodded, took a drink, nodded again, still smiling and said, "Chocolate shake!"

I started laughing again; she was so happy to have gotten what she wanted. Sometimes it definitely pays to let people know what you want, and be consistent about it! It worked for Barbie, anyway.

The Wrestler vs. Taco Bell

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 07:56:00 +0000

My youngest brother, at the very least, is a character. Things are never dull when he's around; that's a given. He's been a professional wrestler for the past several years, and though not in the "big leagues," he's quite popular in the local wrestling leagues, known as Big Dick Trailer, a redneck character that actually is a lot like he is in person. He stands about 6'4" tall, and is well over 200 pounds. Not a small person. But I digress.

He was over here recently while my parents were away for a weekend, and was planning to spend the night. We were waiting for my nephew to come over, as he'd called earlier saying he was going to stop by. My brother kept asking, "Where is that boy, anyway?" and finally decided he'd call him. They went back and forth for awhile, as my brother didn't bother to say who he was, just, "Where the hell are you?" when my nephew answered the phone, to which my nephew replied, "Who IS this?" to which my brother pretended he was insulted. Eventually they got that settled, and my brother informed my nephew that before he came over, he'd have to go by Taco Bell and get us some food. Of course, my nephew had no money, so he had to come by the house first for that, and also to get a list of what everyone wanted, which he did, taking my son with him along with one of his fraternity brothers who was with him when he arrived here.

After quite awhile, they finally arrived back with the food, laughing and carrying on, and saying that we'd better check the bags and make sure all the food was there, because they went through the drive-through, which was extremely busy, and were convinced that the employees at the Taco Bell were, and I quote, "smoking something." Sure enough, after checking, there were a few items missing.

This did not please my brother. He took the receipt, checked to see what was missing, circled those things on the receipt plus a few other things for good measure, and called the Taco Bell! He explained to the guy who answered the phone there that his nephew had just been there and that we were missing food from our order, then says, "First off, we ordered a box meal, and there's no box! What's up with that, man?"

The person on the phone replied that they were out of boxes.

"They said you guys are down there smoking something!" my brother then said.

The idiot on the phone replies, "Quite possible," instead of denying it as he should have, then tells my brother to bring back the food and the receipt and they'd make it right.

"I can't bring back the food!" my brother replies, "I've got a bunch of drunk people here (we weren't!) and they're hungry, so they've already started eating the stuff you did give us! Tell you what. I'm gonna send my nephew back down there with the receipt and what we're missing marked on it, and you guys can make us some new stuff, how's that?"

The idiot didn't even bother to argue, just agreed to it, so off go the boys, back to get the missing food. My nephew said that when they drove up, he said into the speaker, "Yeah, my uncle just called..." and the guy interrupted him and said, "Yeah, we know; pull on through!" So they did, gave him the receipt, and soon had the missing food, along with a couple of "extras" that they brought back. That made my brother very happy!

Another lesson in life: Do NOT EVER mess up a wrestler's food order. They're very serious about what they want, and they expect to get it. Especially if it has to do with food.

How Frank Adopted Us

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 07:25:00 +0000

We had never intended to have a cat. At the time, we had a dog and three birds, so a cat just didn't seem to fit in. But Frank had other ideas. Or someone did, anyway!

It was November, and getting cold out in the evenings. Mom and I were walking to the polling place to vote, as it was election day. I don't remember what or who we were voting for at the time, but the polling place was just around the corner from where I lived at the time. As we turned the corner, we began to be followed by a cute little black kitten, who meowed at us on the way, so we reached down and petted him, then went in to vote.

When we came back out, the kitten was sitting there patiently, as if waiting for us, and proceeded to follow us back to my house. I opened the door and he followed us in, as if he belonged there, the little stinker, but Mom took him back outside as she left, as we were thinking that as friendly as he was, he had to belong to someone. I felt a little bad about leaving him outside since it was cold out there, but tried not to think any more about it.

My husband came home from work, and after he'd sat down, I told him that we almost had a kitten earlier, and was going to tell him about the kitten that followed us.

He replied, "You mean that little black cat that's out front jumping around?"

"He's still out there?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah, I saw him when I came up. He ran right to me, and he's out there jumping around and playing in the bushes."

We both looked at each other, and I said, "You know, it's going to get awfully cold out there...."

We both got up and went to the door, and sure enough, there was the kitten, sitting at the bottom of the steps and looking up at us. So we brought him in.

Mischa, the dog, was thrilled! She loved cats, and immediately tried to make friends with him, but he was having none of it, at least, not then. Instead she got growls and hisses, so we put the cat in what was our spare bedroom just for the time being, borrowed food and cat supplies from my brother, and kept him as ours for the next 19 years.

So you see, we didn't adopt Frank. He adopted us. He was quite adamant that we had no choice in the matter. Silly humans that we are.

"It's.....BLOOOOOOD!!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 21:48:00 +0000

My son, when he was younger, had an aversion to the sight of blood, especially his own. He has since gotten over that problem, thank goodness, but back then it upset him to no end.

It was a Sunday morning, and he and his father were out in the back yard, his father throwing horseshoes while he was playing something else. I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and talking to my mother on the phone, when I suddenly heard this ear-piercing scream coming from the back yard, and in races my son with his father following close behind. All I saw was my son with his hand over one eye, and blood dripping through his fingers as he ran through the house to the bathroom, still screaming. The only thing that came to my mind was, "Oh my god, he's lost an eye!"

My mother asked what was going on, and I replied that I'd have to call her back and hung up the phone, then went to see what had happened.

It turned out that as my husband had reached back with the horseshoe in his hand to throw, my son had been right behind him (which he'd been warned not to do, of course!), and it caught him in the face. My husband was shook up as well, and kept asking did he need stitches, until I told him that he was just making our son worse, so he needed to leave the room, which he did.

My son, meanwhile, continued screaming at the top of his lungs, over and over, "It's bloooood; it's bloooood!" until I told him he needed to stop screaming so that I could find out where the blood was coming from. I took a wet rag and wiped the blood away, thankfully seeing that his eye was fine. The blood was coming from a split in his skin on the bone just above his eyebrow, where the horseshoe had clipped him, and with a bit of cleanup, antiseptic and a bandage, everything went back to a semblance of normalcy.

Somehow, despite both my son and my husband's reactions, I managed to remain calm and do what needed to be done. I think I realized that someone needed to be the voice of reason throughout the ordeal, as they both were just making each other worse!

As it turned out, my son didn't need stitches. But he still has a scar to remind him of what happens when you don't follow directions. Horseshoes are really hard and heavy.

Don't Forget to Tell the Cat!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 08:07:00 +0000

When my husband and I went on our honeymoon many years ago now, we booked my dog at the time, Mischa, into the kennels where she'd always gone when I'd go out of town before. They were so great with her, and she knew the people there, so she didn't seem to mind "visiting" there for a few days or so. We didn't book Frank the cat there, though, as we had someone coming over to look after him each day, and make sure he had food and water while we were gone for the four days.

The surprise came when we returned from our trip. Frank was not at all happy with us for leaving him, and boy, did he let us know about it! He yelled at us for ages after we came through the door, and once we sat down anywhere, he'd take turns sitting in our laps and yelling at us some more, and giving us really dirty looks when we'd get up to go do something, then follow us everywhere we went, still yelling.

I left awhile after we'd gotten in to go and pick up Mischa from the kennels, leaving my husband with Frank, hoping that might appease him a bit. Mischa came barreling through the door, as she pretty much did everything, and ran up to Frank to say hello, as they were great buddies and she was happy to see him.

Frank, however, was not pleased with her, either! He sniffed her nose, then turned, putting his fluffy tail and nose in the air, and snubbed her completely! It was as if he were telling her, "You left me, too, so don't try to be friends now!" He wasn't at all happy until a few days went by and things got back to normal.

I called my friend Chris a couple of days later to fill her in on the trip, and got around to telling her about Frank's reaction, finding it amusing now that he'd gotten over being upset with all of us and back to acting normal. She's a true Cat Lady, and since I'd never had a cat before Frank, I often asked her "cat questions."

"Didn't you tell him you were leaving and would be back?" she asked me.

I laughed, thinking she was kidding, but no, she was dead serious! It had never even occurred to me that you had to tell a cat that you were leaving!

From then on, though, whenever we'd go anywhere overnight and leave him, I'd tell Frank that we were leaving, and would be back in a couple of days. It really did make a big difference! Even though he'd yell at us a couple of times when we got back for leaving at all, a general scolding, after a few minutes he was back to his normal self.

So whatever you do, if you have a cat and plan on leaving them home while you go gallivanting here and there, if you don't want a huge scolding and a cat attached to you for the entire day you return, don't forget to tell them you're leaving. It works wonders, really!

And I know it wasn't just Frank, thanks to the Cat Lady!

Mr. "Not So Perfect" Either!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 07:03:00 +0000

I have two younger brothers, the oldest one being the one that won't let me forget the brownies episode. Considering that, I think it's time I told a few things about him, even though he'd deny all of them.

When he was younger, he was the type of kid that would get even, rather than get angry at the time he got in trouble or punished. He was always causing what my mother referred to as "quiet trouble," and usually that meant he'd do something to either our youngest brother and/or I, causing us to yell and get in trouble for something he did. He'd also swear that he'd never done anything; he was the perfect child, you know! Yeah, right!

Once when he was very young, he'd been punished for something he'd done (probably just not listening and doing exactly what he pleased despite warnings to the contrary!), and our mother put him in his room and told him to take a nap. She didn't hear any noise after a few minutes, so figured he'd gone ahead and fallen asleep. After awhile, she went to check on him, only to find that he'd taken all the sheets, blankets and pillowcases off the beds, just to get even with her for putting him in there in the first place, and thrown them all on the floor in a pile.

He got angry another time with our mother for something, and quietly went into the kitchen and turned off the refrigerator. Mom couldn't figure out for quite awhile why things were getting warm in there, and of course, was worried that something was wrong with the fridge. By the time she figured out what he'd done, a lot of the food had spoiled and thawed, and had to be thrown out.

The one that I now can understand, having dealt with my own children, and that must have been the most infuriating of all to my mother, was what he'd do during one of our punishments. The punishment would be to have us sit in a chair in the living room, no television or anything to play with whatsoever, until Mom felt we'd been punished enough and learned our lesson. It was pure torture, not being able to move aside from squirming from time to time, or talk, or do anything but think, but it didn't make a difference to my brother. He'd just fall asleep in the chair, seemingly not caring that this method was supposed to be a punishment. He didn't like it, so he chose to rebel by taking a nap, and just making Mom even more frustrated.

So see, he's not so perfect as he'd like everyone to think. As I mentioned earlier, though, he'll deny all of it anyway. Even though I speak the truth, and he knows it! Rotten kid!

Do NOT Try This At Home!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 07:21:00 +0000

I love to cook most of the time, and at the risk of sounding a bit like I'm bragging, I'm usually a pretty amazing cook. But like all of us who like to cook, I've had a few mishaps in the kitchen with certain recipes.

I must've been about 13 years old, and was home alone while the rest of the family was out somewhere. I decided that I'd do something nice for everyone, and make a batch of brownies that would be ready when they got home, and perhaps still warm and gooey. So I got out all the ingredients that the recipe called for (these are from scratch, mind you, not a mix), and unfortunately, we were out of eggs.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remembered my Mom and a friend of hers discussing a recipe for mayonnaise cake, and saying that the mayonnaise was used in place of the eggs, so I thought to myself that why wouldn't that work for brownies, too? So out comes the mayonnaise, and into the brownie mix, stirred it all in and into the pan, then to the oven.

I didn't think anything more about it, and waited the time called for to take them out of the oven. When I did, the brownies didn't look at all good. In fact, they were a greasy, gloppy mess, bubbling in the pan and looking completely disgusting! I couldn't figure out why it didn't work until after my Mom got home and saw what I'd done, then figured out where I'd gone wrong.

In talking about making the mayonnaise cake, they'd neglected to mention that in addition to replacing the eggs with the mayonnaise, it also replaced the oil or butter in the recipe. I'd gone ahead and put the butter in the brownie mix as usual, not realizing or thinking about what it would do.

Needless to say, those brownies weren't eaten or even tried, obviously. They were completely inedible, to say the least. To this day, though, my family has not let me forget about mayonnaise in the brownies, and my brother is still highly amused by the whole episode, and reminds me of it from time to time with great glee.

Brothers are a pain. Seriously.

The Problem with Elmo

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 08:48:00 +0000

When my son was young, he had a small, stuffed Elmo doll, the little red, furry character from Sesame Street that all the kids seemed to love, I think because he spoke more like a small child and thus the kids related to him more than the others because of that. He took Elmo everywhere with him, and had to have him when he went to bed at night.

One day, my friend Chris and her daughter, Jennifer, were over visiting, and Chris and I were chatting while the kids played in my son's bedroom. Jennifer is about three years older than my son, and at the time, he had a major crush on her that lasted for several years. They were getting pretty loud, but we didn't think much of that, because that was normal. Until we heard a bang and the sound of glass breaking.

Chris and I looked at each other, and both yelled at the same time, "DON'T MOVE!!!" and went back to see what had happened.

It turned out that they'd been throwing various stuffed animals up to the ceiling in his room, Elmo being one of them. Neither of them took into account that Elmo had very hard, plastic eyes, and when those eyes hit the light cover, he must've hit just right, because it completely shattered to the floor.

I have to say, both of them followed directions well, as they were standing like statues and weren't moving at all, and stayed that way until Chris and I got the big pieces of glass picked up, then the rest vacuumed so that they wouldn't get cut. Their eyes were huge and they were scared to death, expecting that they were in major trouble and would be punished, but instead we warned them of the dangers of throwing things inside the house, figuring the scare they got was punishment enough.

That time.

Several visits later, the two of them were playing in another room in the house, and we heard, again, another crashing noise, only this time not the sound of shattering glass, and went in to find that, yet again, Elmo had been used as a UFO in the game they were playing, and again, hit the light cover on the ceiling in that room! This time, the cover didn't shatter, but instead broke into two pieces. My son was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "Ow, ow, ow," but in a very soft voice, then finally showing us where the corner of the light cover had hit him in the shoulder, leaving a round, bleeding mark.

This time, they were punished, and told in no uncertain terms that there would be no throwing of any stuffed animals in any room, ever again. And there never was.

My son, however, still has a perfectly round scar on the back of his shoulder where the corner of that light cover hit him, to remind him of that day.

Poor Elmo, though. Being used as a projectile couldn't have been much fun.

Personally, I favored Oscar the Grouch and the Cookie Monster.

The Slumber Party

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 07:02:00 +0000

My daughter has recently begun asking when she can have a slumber party. So far, since we don't have a house of our own, I've been able to put her off, but once we do, I've agreed that she'll be able to have one. This brought back memories of when I had my own many years ago, and doesn't exactly make me feel as if it's such a good idea, judging from what went on back then.

I'd begged and begged my mother to be able to have a slumber party, as they were all the rage when we were in 6th grade, and finally she agreed. I was allowed to invite four of my best friends at the time, and we settled on a date and time for one Saturday night. Included in the festivities were Sherri, Debbie, Sheryl and Renee. The night started with snacks, then pizza, then later, of course, popcorn and we watched television and played games, did each others' hair and told ghost stories, but of course, the main idea was that there was no "slumber" involved whatsoever. The point was to stay up all night long.

We all had sleeping bags laid out in the living room once my parents and brothers went to bed, though my parents didn't get much sleep, either, what with four giggling girls downstairs. We talked about everything we could imagine, including boys, of course.

There was a bit of friction between Debbie and Renee, though mostly on Debbie's side. When she found out I was inviting Renee, she was not happy in the least, and asked me to "un-invite" her, but I wouldn't do it because I wanted Renee there. So she didn't speak to Renee all night, and at one point, in protest, got in her sleeping bag and went to sleep. Or at least, pretended to. So this, to the rest of us, made her fair game!

We poked her, whispered in her ear, dripped water on her head, shook her; all with no reaction, and we all knew then that she was faking, so we started talking about her as if she wasn't there. That did it! She "woke up" and was absolutely furious, as we all smiled at her until she stopped ranting, then said, "Gotcha!"

She was not amused.

The next morning, after we all did finally fall asleep due to complete exhaustion, my mother woke us up for breakfast, which we sat through bleary-eyed and not talking much, and the other parents came and picked their daughters up, one by one. Once everyone's things were gone from the living room, we had to clean up.

Feathers. Everywhere and all over the place. My mother says to this day that that's what she remembers most about that slumber party, is cleaning up all those feathers. Back then, everyone had feather pillows.

And we didn't even have a pillow fight.

I'm thinking maybe I should think twice about allowing my daughter's slumber party. But knowing me, I'll probably go through with it. Yeah, sucker for punishment, I know.

The Unknown Comic

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 20:54:00 +0000

Starting back in 1976 (again, showing my age! Not that I care....!!), there was a television show called "The Gong Show" that ran for about a half hour on the days it showed. It included people coming onstage and doing various entertainment acts, and if they were terrible, the panelists would "gong" them by banging on a huge gong behind them, which meant they were out of the strange sort of competition.

There were several "regular" acts that came on as well, one being The Unknown Comic, a guy who wore a paper bag over his head with eye and mouth holes in it, who'd come out in a really bad polyester suit and tell terrible jokes. So bad that you laughed at him anyway, I think mainly because the whole concept was bizarre.

My son was about 12 or so when one night, thinking he was going to be funny, came into the family room with a paper bag on his head, with holes poked in it for the eyes and mouth, and started dancing around and acting silly. I looked at my husband and he at me, and at the same time, we both said, "It's the Unknown Comic!" and laughed hysterically. Meanwhile, we watched our son, who had no idea what we were talking about, literally "deflate" in front of us. The dancing completely stopped as he slowly removed the bag from his head, looking completely confused.

"Who's the Unknown Comic?" he asked, which of course, sent us into another round of laughter, so we explained the whole thing to him. He didn't seem very impressed, however.

Parents are so mean sometimes. You try to be entertaining, and they just ruin everything.

Cucumbers?!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 08:07:00 +0000

I've mentioned before, briefly, our other dog, Sheba. She was a Boxer-mix that we got when she was a puppy from a co-worker of my husband's, and grew up into a really sweet dog, great with the kids and very protective. For some reason or another, she seemed to think that she was supposed to be Chops' protector as well. But that's another story for later.

One summer, we planted a vegetable garden in the back of the very small rental house we lived in at the time. It was our first attempt at doing a garden ourselves, and we made a big one, and were really pleased at how well everything grew and at the quantity of delicious vegetables we got out of it. We planted all sorts of things.

One thing I began noticing, though, was that where the cucumbers climbed up the wire fencing, once they'd bloomed and the cucumbers started getting to pretty good size, any of them that slipped through the fencing to the outside while they'd grown looked like something had been eating at them, and I assumed it was some sort of bug or worm at the time.

Until one day, when I'd picked all the ready cucumbers, sorting through to look for the ones that had "bad" parts, and was going through the bag. Sheba was sitting patiently at my feet, staring at me as I separated the good ones from the bad ones, and I teasingly asked her, "Do you want this?" and held out one of the cucumbers, not expecting for a second that she'd actually take it. After all, dogs don't like cucumbers!!! Do they?

Apparently, Sheba did! She took the cucumber gently from my hand, walked over to the other side of the yard, then lay down with the cucumber between her front paws, chewing on it as if it were the best treat ever! It was then that the realization dawned of what was really going on with the bitten cucumbers that had slipped through the fence. Yep, Sheba was taking nibbles off the ends that poked through the fence, though not being at all grabby about it, seemingly just taking a taste off the part she could get to.

If nothing else, she was very dainty and polite about it. Obviously, though, we were not meant to have pets that didn't have some sort of quirk in their personality. Definitely keeps life interesting.

Bees!!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 08:50:00 +0000

One summer that we spent in Memphis, we spent time also at my maternal grandmother's house with the cousins on that side of the family. One of the things the six of us that were old enough at the time would do for entertainment while there was to walk down the street and around the corner to a small church that was located set back from the road and at the top of a hill there. We would take cardboard boxes, unfold them, and slide down the hill on the cardboard, which kept us busy and out of our mothers' hair for awhile.

At the bottom of the hill was a small patch of trees that we called the forest, as that's what it looked like to us as kids at the time. There was a lot of undergrowth around the bottom of the trees, and the trees were thick and green. When we tired of sliding, we'd explore in the trees a bit.

There we found a huge wasps' next hanging from one of the trees, with the wasps buzzing around it, and didn't dare get too close, knowing enough to not want to rile them up, but it was fascinating to watch them go in and out of the basketball-sized nest.

My cousin Randy, who was just a few months younger than me, was more fascinated than the rest of us, and couldn't stop talking about that nest. Being a bit of a trouble-maker, Randy came up with the idea that he wanted to throw a rock at the nest just to see what would happen. The rest of us, tried to talk him out of it, but once Randy got an idea into his head, he was going to follow through with it, and to heck with the consequences. Yet, of course, we all watched to see if he would really do it, and if he could actually hit it from a distance.

It took about three or four tries, and we were all laughing at Randy and teasing him, saying he'd never hit it, and were just about to go back to grass sledding, when suddenly, we hear this very loud "thunk!" as the rock he threw hit the next, knocking a hole in it, and turned to see the sudden swarm of extremely angry wasps coming out of the nest and towards us!

We all scrambled, screaming, "BEEEEEEESS!!!!" and running as fast as we could back to our grandmother's house. All of us but one, that is. Our cousin Alan. For some reason, Alan just froze when he saw the wasps swirling out of the nest, and they seemed to head right for him, landing and beginning to sting as we were yelling at him to run. He finally did, screaming and flailing his arms to try to get them off him, and the rest of us ran ahead and down to our grandmother's house, running in and talking all at once to our mothers and grandmother, trying to tell them what was happening and not making any sense at all, until Alan came crying to the door.

The wasps had gone, but the poor kid was covered in stings. My aunts and my mother set him on a high stool, all three working on putting baking soda paste on the stings, as we all stood around watching, and Alan sniffled every so often. We all felt sorry for him. Thank goodness he wasn't allergic!

Meanwhile, our mothers kept asking what had happened, and we kept looking at each other but not saying anything, until we were threatened with a day of sitting on the couch without being allowed to talk or move until somebody confessed. A fate worse than death, I tell you!

After this threat, and knowing full well that they'd follow through on it, all at the same time, the rest of us pointed at Randy and told on him, completely ratting him out for throwing the rock. Needless to say, Randy was punished to the extreme.

Randy passed away a few years ago, and I hadn't seen him for many years before. Hard to believe I'll never see him again. But you can bet I'll never forget him.

Or the day of the bees.

Mammaw's Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 07:45:00 +0000

When I was very, very young, I remember visiting my paternal grandmother and grandfather in Memphis during the summer. I always called her "Mammaw" and him "Papa." Now that it's getting into summer, and as it does every year, it reminds me of going there to visit, even though it's not nearly as hot here as it is there.

They lived in what I remember being a duplex, made up of four apartments; two downstairs and two up, made of dark stone with concrete floored porches at the front of each. A little ways down the street there was some sort of store, and the sign hanging outside had a happy, smiling pig on it, though I'm not sure why. I think it had something to do with barbecue, as a lot of things in Memphis seem to do.

The thing I remember most, though, is the garden out in front of their apartment. It was walled in, and right next to an alley that went down the side of the building. I don't remember there being a gate to get in and out of there, but instead remember jumping down from the wall into the garden, where it seemed to be a lot cooler and always damp. There were plants in the garden, but I don't know what type they were, just the smell of them; a kind of bitter, earthy smell that I haven't ever smelled since then, but remember to this day, and would remember now if I ever smelled it again.

I used to love to go into that garden and play by myself; it was my own special place when we visited there and like my own world, closed off from everything else by the wall that was higher than I was.

That building has long since been torn down, and the neighborhood has gone downhill since. I don't think there's anything there that was there when I was a child. But I still think of it fondly from time to time, when life was simple.