Truth Be Told

A few weeks ago, My Sweetie and I were having a conversation. And in the midst of this conversation, he looked at me calmly and stated, "You know, I believe you are going to go to Hell."

I, of course, ask him, "You're telling me this why?"

He responds with, "You're not a very nice person."

I laughed. "Fourteen and a half years in, and you're just figuring this out? I'm good!"

We both laughed.

Buckets

I've heard that everyone has a "Bucket List." I don't actually have mine written down, but there are a few things I've wanted to do, and I realize over the past few years, I've been able to do them.

They're not big things. They're not world-changing things.

But they've been things I wanted to do, and I've gotten to do them.

One of them was this:

See Nick Lowe perform. A year ago last September, that happened. A friend from work, who actually knew who he was and I drove 2 hours to see him. He performed my favorite song (I Knew the Bride) and hers (Allison) Also, heard a few songs I either didn't know were his, or hadn't heard before.

Two:

See Lynyrd Skynyrd. Did that this summer, with My Sweetie, the Toad, and the Howler. They also knew I was in the audience, because they also played my favorite song (Gimme Three Steps) the Howler's (Sweet Home Alabama) and the Toad's (Simple Man) The Howler got the T-shirt, because as parents, we're pretty great that way.

Three:

At first, it was to get myself to Conneaut Lake Park and ride the Blue Streak--one of the oldest wooden roller coasters in America--then it was to take the Toad so he could ride it. Did that several years ago. Gave up being able to take the Howler, because CLP is in sad shape these days. Discovered that it was open this summer, and took the Howler. (She absolutely loved it!) Does that count as 3 items, or one with sub-categories? I think it's a 3-fer, and it's my List. So nyah nyah nyah.

Four:

Eat John's Wildwood Pizza. Ate a LOT of it in 3 years at Edinboro University, but haven't had it since 1992 or 1993. Did that at the beginning of this month. We were in Edinboro anyway, and My Sweetie (always a good sport about my insanities) got ourselves a pizza. It was as good as I remember! Not sure if that counts as a Bucket List item either, but again, nyah nyah nyah.

Five:

Design & build a store display window. A good friend of ours has her office downtown, and I asked if I could do her window for Christmas. Luckily, she was ready for a new thing--and I got to do it! Of course, My Sweetie was, as always, a very good sport about it, and built the fireplace (in 2 days!) and was a good-natured pack-mule for hauling, lifting and moving. He also decorated the tree, helped with the higher stuff this short girl couldn't reach, and in general was helpful and non-grouchy about it. I'm pretty pleased with my first effort and will spend the next month gearing up to do it again in January!

In 14 months, I've completed 5 things I've always wanted to do. Now if I could just get my damned poetry manuscript published, I'd have to start over on with a new Bucket!

Uncle Dad

So, My Sweetie has FINALLY won the "Who's Family is More Hillbilly?" unofficial contest we've had going on for 12 years.

The other day, he shares a story about some "news" that was shared with his parents at his mother's family reunion.

His cousin, Charlie Brown, has a brother. The brother has a wife. Brother Brown and Mrs. Brother Brown have several half dozen chillen'. At some point in the last few years, Brother Brown and Mrs Brother Brown were havin' som o' them thar marital issues. And Charlie Brown stepped in to help alleviate Mrs Brother Brown's loneliness during that time.

Brother Brown & Mrs Brother Brown worked out their differences, and are still together. Charlie Brown's child by Mrs Brother Brown calls his daddy "Uncle Charlie."

My family gets more normal the more I learn about My Sweetie's extended fam.

Not Funny Really, But It's Really Funny

Today was really fricking HOT! It's still really fricking HOT!

My Sweetie says, "I'm gonna call the fam. I worry about my old people in the heat."

I sez, "Yeah, well, I do too, but if you'd just remember to put out an extra bowl of cold water and add ice cubes, they usually do okay."

He sez, "My old people aren't as bitchy as your old people."

I sez, "Yeah, that'd be why I don't always give mine ice."

Funny isn't always nice, yanno.

Viral

If you hadn't noticed, it's cold & flu season. And that means, in Retail Hell, it's also paranoia time.

What that means is that every cash register, counter, and phone smells of Lysol, and that's not perfume, it's disinfectant hand sanitizer.

The Weasel has been coughing. And every time he coughed on Saturday, he also offered to lick a keyboard, a counter, a phone.

With one exception: Me. He coughed, and when I asked him if he was infectious, he offered to lick me to find out.

Er, uhm, NO.

When telling My Sweetie this little tale of modern healthy living, My Sweetie asked if the guy had been more specific...then offered his own services. But My Sweetie was specific with his offer.

'nuff said.

Who's On First?

My Sweetie has been married before. Before me, I mean. His first wife was, basically, his HS sweetheart. They were on-again-off-again for their entire history. And they got married (by his admission) because both of their families thought that they should be married, not just shacked up. Their actual marriage lasted less than a year, although they were still together after the divorce. (He'll be the first to admit that his so-called romatic history is fraught with strangeness. Lifetime Channel Movie-of-the-Week strangeness. If someone had been murdered, Ann Rule would love this story strangeness.)

When he was moving here, from there, the divorce was already in progress, but they both thought that a total change of scene would do some good. They let the divorce go through anyway, and moved here.

Of course, the way he tells it, the weekend they moved was "shit kicker weekend" here. It's hilarious to think that from hillbilly farmtown PA he moved here, and thought here was backward, small town, hillbilly-ish.

Needless to say, they settled in and continued on their merry self-destructive ways. They eventually had the obligatory ugly split, and he met wife #2, aka Roly-Poly Trolly (the sociopath.)

That's the back story. Which you need to know to understand this: My mother-in-law told my Sweetie that she thinks I've got some jealousy regarding the First Ex. And this is why she thinks that:

I've been told that the First was petite. Small. Thin. Cute. Now, I've seen pictures, and even taking into consideration the horror of 80's fashions (those puffy pants and suspenders, really, why did we think that looked good?!) and the 10 lbs the camera supposedly adds...she wasn't that small. And no, I've seen pics from several angles, and even taking away the 80's fashion, and big hair and the 10 lbs the camera added, maybe, maybe on their wedding day she was small. But for their entire relationship? Uh, no. And yes, I'm a petty, judgemental, Grinch-hearted woman enough to see that. Even if he, and his family, isn't.

Onward: Once, while tripping through the drawer of years-old pics at his parents house, My Sweetie and I came across the photos from their wedding. Oh, MY! But it was 80's. Hillbilly 80's. Hillbilly 80's teenager. I giggled. I guffawed. I roared with laughter (honestly, did anyone really think that a fru-fru lacey tiered cloud of marshmallow fluff with teeny weeny pink bows ala Bjork channelling Scarlet O'Hara would look good on anybody? Seriously? The hoop on that thing could've housed Barnum & Bailey!)

It was, as they say, all fun and games until someone takes a picture of My Sweetie kissing that woman. And I found it. And I stopped laughing. There were DOUBLE prints. Can you imagine?

My mother-in-law, thought my reaction was adorable. Cute. Funny.

No, I did not destroy those blasted double prints, although I really really wanted to. A Pagan Ritual Burning would have been good about then.

My mother-in-law commented that, didn't I know? They were married. And I did, of course, already know their history together.

Sure, sure, whatever. He had no business kissing that woman. I don't care if they were married, he should not have kissed her. EVER.

My mother-in-law maintained that I was cute for feeling that way. Funny. Adorable.

Until later, when the Ol' Man discovered an old scrapbook he forgot he still had...and there it was: the picture of my mother-in-law's Sweetie, her husband of 50 years, with his arm around some woman. A woman who was, obviously, from the picture, someone special to him.

The Ol' Man's photo of him with his arm around some woman, and the double prints of My Sweetie kissing that woman both went away that day. (none of the other pics went, just those horrid, objectionable ones.)

And, best of all, my reaction is no longer cute. Nor funny. Nor adorable.

27 Days to Go

Today wasn't so bad. Since we were both on a mission from God, he was busy. He wasn't bothering me...much.

Now, though, he's trying to get thru to the unemployment hotline, to see if he can open the claim now, or if he has to wait until this weekend.

"We're sorry. Due to current call volume, all lines are busy. Please call again at a later time."

And he's grumping around about it.

*sigh*

Tomorrow, he's got big-big man plans: the truck needs inspected, and it's new driver's license time. I send a small thank you to the DMV.

Day 2, part 2

At some point yesterday or today, My Sweetie sez, "Geez. I think I've got a bad case of the mid-40's."

I sez, "Oh?" giggle

He sez, "Yeah, and the doc says there's no hope for a cure."

giggle

Day 2

With 28 more to go. Sheesh.

Yesterday wasn't bad because I slept in, while he was busy cleaning the kitchen top to bottom. He did get a bit on my nerves with his chatting away to the cats (and sometimes me) and his hyperactivity. But not like today.

Today, I was up, awake, and dressed to go do some Christmas shopping. Okay. We spent about 2 hours together, out in public. Which was fine, and fun, especially in the toy aisles at WalMart.

But then we get home.

And he's still talking.

And talking.

And talking.

I swear that this is God's way of punishing me for my constant blather years ago. (and yes, it WAS TOO years ago.)

He has been talking about EVERY BLESSED MOVE he makes. He claims its to the cats, but I think, secretly, deep down, he's doing it to annoy me.

I suggested that he find one of those bizarre screech-shoot-and-swear manflicks he's always finding, you know the ones I mean. There's an f-bomb, a scream, and an explosion every 3 minutes. Real Academy Award winners, those are.

Anyway. I also suggested that to go with the movie, he could call his hearing-aid-less father, and talk REALLY REALLY REALLY LOUD! to him, while pacing behind me while I try and read.

There's a reason I'm enjoying work right now.

Snooty Susie, The Church Lady

Years ago, I left the church in my hometown. There were reasons, not the least of which is that I had, apparently, outlived my usefulness to them. Of course, my "bad attitude" and questioning of their motives for certain decisions was probably part of it. At first, they refused to allow the Toad to move forward away from being a little boy in his role during services; by the end, they were actively pursuing ways to condemn and chastise me (making some of the shit up, and yes, I could prove it) and to humiliate and repress him.

While there were some who didn't want to see us go (and whom I missed seeing weekly) there were others who, I'm fairly certain, did the Happy Dance when they heard that we'd left.

Snooty Susie was probably one of them. She & I didn't have problems, it was more of a low-level general mutual dislike.

This year at the Diocesan convention dinner, My Sweetie & I sat with my first Sunday School teachers from the local church and Snooty Susie. When we sat down, Snoots asked me how well I knew our Bishop. Since he's only been our Bishop 3 years, and their last priest really didn't like him (and most of those parishioners parroted whatever their attention whore priest said) she said it like she fully expected me to have nothing good to say about our Bishop.

Okay, so it's not just that, I don't generally like people much. And clergy get no special exemption in my graces, either.

I asked her what she meant by "know well" and she said, "Well, does he know your name?" as if there's no way he would (the prior Bishop didn't know my name, but he knew my face--and he always looked at me like he'd just stepped in something nasty when he saw me. No lie.)

I told her how many ways I'd met the current Bishop, and that he'd been to my house. My Sweetie confirms that, no, I wasn't being snooty or holier than her about it. I was simply telling a story about how I knew the man. Snoots looked like I'd slapped her.

HAH! Score one for me--I was being a grown up.

Clash of the Titans

So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.

We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)

The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)

Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:

Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"

My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."

Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.

Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!

My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.

Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.

My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?

Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)

My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.

Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*

My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!

My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?

Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!

My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.

Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!

My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!

Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!

My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?

Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.

My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.

Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.

My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.

Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.

Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.

The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)

He's a Keeper

And here's why:

First, the back story.

My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.

My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.

Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.

One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?

Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.

She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.

The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.

Over the fucking tree.

She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.

At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.

I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.

Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.

God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."

After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...

And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.

Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"

Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.

Hussy

Another adorable Frodo story:

Last night, at close, I had to run from returns to customer service. When I got there, Frodo asks me, "So are you a natural redhead or what?"

Because, apparently, working with me for 10 years, he'd never noticed before. Duh.

I just laughed. He sez, "Yeah, I thought so."

Since he knows my Aunt--she of the asshole questioning--I tell him a funny story.

When I first started coloring my hair red, my aunt comes to the Howler's birthday party and sez, "What in the haaaaillll did you do to your hair?"

I sez, "Why? Don't you like it?"

"You look like a goddamned hussy."

I laugh. She asks My Sweetie what he thinks of it, and he says he likes me as a hussy. (bwhahahahahahahaha)

Later on, we go to visit his family, and when I get out of the car, his father sez, "Oh." snort "I din know he liked redheads."

"Waaaallll, he likes this one!" big smile.

I confide to My Sweetie that his Ol' Man had a run-in with a redhead, and therefore, doesn't like 'em. I confide same to my mother-in-law. Neither of them know anything about it.

A year or so later, I get a phone call from my mother-in-law, informing me that they were going through some old pics of when the Ol' Man was in the service...and found pics of this woman who dun him wrong. She was a redhead.

HAH!

Bible Quiz

So, once upon a loooooooooooooooong time ago, My Sweetie was on his church's Bible Quiz team. I believe him when he says it was because there were pretty girls on the team, because he certainly remembers very little scripture from it.

Recently, the Howler moved up to the next level of AWANAS. No more foolin' around! She needed a Bible, and we need to work with her on those verses. So, the former Bible Quiz Guy decided he would also begin reading the Bible.

He starts, of course, at the beginning. A few chapters into it, he announces that "all those begats and whose dad is whose is pretty boring. And hard to follow." Well, yeah. Why do you think I'm not also reading it? He also discovered that there are no guys in Genesis named Bob, but decided that any names he couldn't pronouce would be simplified into Bob and Bill and Biff. But I remember when I created a book of the Bible for the Toad called Inertiates, and made up verses, he said I was "so very wrong. Funny, but wrong." But he doesn't remember that Vince is a prominent figure in Inertiates, either.

Last night, though, he proved for once-and-for-all that the Howler's parents are really not the kind of people who should be helping the Howler understand the Bible: he sez, "You know, in the Old Testament, if a guy thinks he's not getting enough kids from one wife, or two, he just takes a few handmaids too."

I responded with, "So, you've made it as far as Jacob, then?"

He seemed a little surprised that I knew that much, since, as I stated before, I don't read the Bible, unless I have to. And I've never mentioned Jacob to him, so that must be part of the Black Hole that is my less-than-Christian accumulation of knowledge.

Then he tells me, "Yeah, and that guy Jacob would stick it in just about anybody."

There you have it: Bible Stories from Heathen Headquarters.

Trolling the Neighborhood

Apparently, my BFN (best friend neighbor) has decided, again, that she's going to make a play for My Sweetie.

We say that, because yesterday, when I got home from work, the Urchins were up to play with the Howler. And Waif, I guess, had the secret squirrel mission to try and get my Sweetie down to their house. Even after I got home.

We believe that a few years ago, BFN & Loser Boy were the ones to spread the rumors that various neighbors were engaged in illicit adult activities--and that I was the one keeping track of all the children so that the adult hi-jinks could go on. My Sweetie was mentioned sparingly in the rumors, but his name did come up some. I know that these rumors were simply rumors--untrue and very crass (and believe me, I know crass & vulgar.)

This past spring, she made the same attempt, with the same "excuse." She wanted to talk to my Sweetie about her garden. She called and kept him on the phone once for about an hour--yapping on and on about her pretend garden and that she expected My Sweetie to call her when HE went to get his tomatoes, etc, so SHE could go with HIM.

After the crap she was spreading through the neighborhood about my daughter (that the Howler was a vandal and that I was unbalanced) and my 2 hours conversation with her about how Loser Boy doesn't hit her with his fists, and that the 10 year old Waif would know when to call 911 if he ever got "truly out of hand," My Sweetie totally blew her off (not that he had any intention of calling her or going anywhere with her, anyway.)

She didn't call here, nor did she show up. Not even when I was not here.

Yesterday, Waif started telling the Howler to help get her daddy to go down to talk to her Mom about her garden. I'm guessing that this genius in a 40DD bra doesn't understand that it's September, and her pretend garden doesn't need anything now.

The Waif tried to get My Sweetie to go down there herself. The Waif told me that My Sweetie needed to go down to her house to talk to her mom about the garden.

I told the Waif that not only was it our suppertime--we weren't going--but that if her mom needed to talk to US about her garden, she could come up here.

Haven't heard a peep from her, not last night; not today. Go figure.

We Don't Go Out Much

And this is exactly why:

The Howler is at her grandparents' house for the week. That means, NO KIDS! PRAISE THE LORD--NO KIDS!

It also means that we had the opportunity to go out and have a nice, but high priced meal, at a restaurant, without the benefit of wondering if the Howler would have an unsuspecting adult tied to a chair with duct tape.

We went to Red Lobster, mostly because our hometown is pathetic enough to not have an Olive Garden, and while I love the one local Italian restaurant, I wasn't in the mood to look at the owner (he's an ass) or his wife's ass (as she bends over while wearing her low-rise cords.)

The waitress was a bit gung-ho, but I assume that's the new, all invasive grab for dining dollars that's going on--drive the diners to distraction by asking them, literally every 3 minutes, if "everything okay?"

Shortly after our meals arrived, a woman in a gray pantsuit stops at our table and says, "Meals okay and all?" Startled (with full mouths) we nod and she enters the ladies room.

The Flypaper for Freaks magnetism has now extended into dining out: She had nothing on her person that would lead the casual observer to know that she worked there.

Hostage

Last weekend, we went to visit My Sweetie's fam. I like 'em well enough, although, there are some pretty obvious differences: namely, I am a vile, vulgar thing with a potty mouth, and there's not a potty mouth among them. Even Sweetie's rebel sister doesn't swear.

They are kind, decent people, every last one of 'em (except his brother & sister-in-law, but that's a totally different story.) I love each of them for who they are, honestly.

BUT, it drives me absolutely crazy that his father regards women, in general, as incapable of anything more than cooking, cleaning, shopping, tending children and pets. (Case in point: we were there once when it was time to take down a tree. They were using a chainsaw that was exactly like the one I use every year to trim live Christmas tree lower branches and trunks. He refused to allow me to touch it (Look, yes. Touch? Hell, No. He actually jerked it away and held it practically behind his back to keep from despoiling it. No lie, I felt like Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear when she touched the hunting weapons and they burned them because a woman touching it would curse it & the hunter who used it.)

I understand that his father is more my grandmother's generation than my own parents. And I get that he's pretty much set in his ways. (Case in point: he nagged My Sweetie for fully 2 years after the Howler was born because I went back to work. Nevermind that I get weird when sentenced to remain at home for extended periods of time; nevermind that I'm competent at what I do; nevermind that I chose to continue to work, instead of shrinking our budget to one vehicle-no extras-no frills. He actually called My Sweetie, one of the hardest working, annoyingly busy people I've ever known, LAZY. When the Howler turned 2, the old man realized, and admitted, as much as he was able, that he finally understood. What we'd been telling him for over 2 years!)

BUT, it annoys the shit out of me that the womenfolk fold, spindle, and occasionally shred themselves to the old man's ideas & will. "If Papa ain't happy, it's some woman's fault" is pretty much the unspoken Golden rule.

He's not a wife beater, and he truly loves his family. He'd give anything (except his tools & power equipment) to save his wife, children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. He provided for 5 children in the 50's, 60's, & 70's. My Sweetie's childhood was fairly normal and happy.

BUT, he cannot seem to grasp the idea that the womenfolk are worthy of anything except being womenfolk. And certainly, his daughters or granddaughters should submit to their betters--their men, or more specifically, HIM. (Case in point: my one sister-in-law lives right next to her parents. She had a room in her basement fixed up--Papa did most, if not all the construction work for it--and it promptly flooded every time there was a substantial rain. The indoor-outdoor carpeting would need to be rolled up, wrastled out the door and dried in time for the next rainfall, so it could flood again. After spending several months in this Groundhog Day-like nightmare, she announced that she'd rather live withOUT the carpet, because it was too stressful, taxing, and tiring to continually deal with the flooding-rolling-dragging-drying of the carpet. She stated, absolutely, that she did not care where, who, what, or how the carpet never re entered her home, she just flat out did not want it--Absolutely Not Ever Again. What does Papa do? He waits for her to go to work, then returns the carpet to her basement. What does she do? She quietly cries and seethes and takes it. My response to the story is that the old man would not only NOT have access to my house any longer without supervision, but he'd be given a deadline to remove the carpeting from my house. She told me it was disrespectful to do that to him; I countered with he isn't respecting YOU very well, and he's not going to until-and-unless you put a stop to this. Classically, I am wrong, and I misunderstand the situation.)

In his favor, he wore a Princess crown for the Howler's birthday because she asked him too. He most recently took her, in her pajamas, to drive around the county in search of the Thurston Classic balloonists' takeoff point Sunday morning. He fixes stuff, and charges cheaper interest on car loans than the bank.

BUT, Friday night, at the big deal balloon take off, he was a jackass. And we all got held hostage to the Man.

He didn't want to go, and argued against it. He was informed that we were all going, and there would be no supper cooked for him. So he went too. (Case in point: in building the house they live in, he planned a dining/kitchen area that would not hold the dining room furniture and the appliances. The only reason the smallish cramped kitchen area--there is at least one cupboard that is practically inaccessible unless you stand on your head, sing the Star-Spangled Banner backwards while someone else holds your ankles to the chair for safety--got added was because my mother in law refused to move in until he changed the plans. The dining room is cramped, and the kitchen is cramped. My bathroom has more room, and it can't hold 2 people at the same time unless one is in the shower or standing in the toilet.)

Not having been there before, we were ill-prepared. No chairs, no umbrellas, beating down summer evening sun. It was hot. It was bright. It was a loooooooooong wait.

While everyone was in a make-do attitude, there was an garbled announcement that take off may be delayed by an hour or more. We were hungry, hot, tired, and sweating. At one point, the old man commented that he hadn't seen anyone he knew to me. I commented that I hadn't either. He promptly informs me that "Wall, you don't know anybody, anyway." Nevermind that I went to college for 3 years less than an hour away. Nevermind that between church and work, I did know people from the area. Hell, I once went to Baltimore to visit my sister, and ran into someone I knew from college. At our niece's baby shower, I knew the owners of the Inn where it was held. But, go figure, I certainly couldn't know anybody. My response was certainly clear, "Don't you tell me that I wouldn't know anybody here. I know people YOU don't know from here, so do not begin to tell me who I know and who I don't."

I'm already oozing annoyance, when the Committee (above mentioned sister in law is known as The Committee because there's not a decision that can be made in 30 seconds that certainly can't be made in 3.8 excruciating years in her hands.) begins clucking about how hot, tired, sore footed, and hungry everyone is.

I decide that rather than take it upon myself (and not have it thrust upon me anyway) to make the decision to leave before lift-off, I would take a poll--yet another learning experience I'll never have to repeat:

I begin with the Howler--not out of a sense of childhood entitlement, but to be sure that her voice was heard without the whinging that comes from being smallest and lastest. I move on to the old man. He announces that, "YES, I'M HERE AND I'M STAYING." and then goes back to talking to total strangers and ignoring the rest of us. My Sweetie abstains, the wuss. The Committee announces that she also refused to answer, and will not be cajoled or coerced into an answer. You can see where this is going, right? "I want to leave, but the old man doesn't, so we'll all stay here, in the hot sun, without chairs, bleating about how sore our feet are, watching each others' faces turn into lobster ornaments."

Nobody's going anywhere. Nevermind that the Committee has driven herself, and can load any takers into the vehicle. Nevermind that My Sweetie drove, but I have my keys with me, and we can load any takers and go. The OLD MAN HAS SPOKEN.

My Sweetie, bless his heart, tries to find his way out of the dilemma of having been raised to accept being held hostage & made miserable or pacify his anger-vibe producing wife. He fails, by asking quietly if I would like to take the Howler and any takers (with continued bleating in the background) and go--he'll stay with Dad.

Do you see the problem yet? Seven people--SIX of them adults--and the only one willing and able to stomp the Commandant's tyranny to dust cannot, out of "respect" and the open air-public access placement of the party.

Through clenched teeth I told My Sweetie that this was not the time nor the place for this particular conversation, and he'd better just go back to his indecision. I refused, for the next hour, to make any decision--I'd do what my menfolk told me to do. And grind my teeth, aggrivating my TMJ.

I was angry at my father in law for having no concern for anyone except himself. I was briefly angry at my husband for being a dishrag. I was angry at my mother in law and sisters in law for being unable to make a move against the old man's statement. I was angry, at myself, for not foreseeing this when we arrived, sans chairs and shade producing implements, and I was angry at the old man for the womenfolk he so thoroughly held hostage.

Finally, My Sweetie made the decision to leave, and I dutifully followed. He stopped, I stopped. The Howler questioned, I sent her to her father, because, and I quote, "I'm not allowed to make decisions, baby." (Hopefully, someday she'll wonder about that, too.)

We did see the balloons take off.

Then we all headed to a restaurant. I sat far away from my father in law and managed to dampen the death-vibe and keep it from spilling over and poisoning my wonderfully-herself daughter.

I tactfully got my sister in law to drive my daughter homeward, and once I knew the AC was on, and no one would hear, promptly let forth a spitting diatribe against this sort of jackass, self centered chauvanstic passive idiocy. The language I used was vile, vulgar, and most definitely not ladylike. (I know, big shocker, for those who know me RL)

My Sweetie didn't like it, but I told him, the next time we do something like this, either we won't be doing something like this, or I'll leave his ass, with the Committee, and leave. I will NOT be held hostage by an old man who treats me as second class because I can't piss my name in the snow. I will not cater to a man who has no concerns for the feelings and opinions of me and my daughter because we're not men.

I don't expect the old man to change his ways--but dammit, I'm not going to sit back and have my daughter see-hear-learn that making Papa happy at the expense of herself is okay. It's not okay, I won't be doing it any longer, either.

It's Time for ... Family Feud

Grrr Argh.

And this will be the RD Condensed version: my brother is a very self-centered person. He is currently in the habit of borrowing my Sweetie & my (step) Dad's tools and keeping them for upwards of a year. There are things he borrowed at the beginning of his "little" project--and at least one none-too-cheap item is currently unaccounted for.

His MO is that he will call me (or the Gator) and ask if he can borrow something. (No lie, a few weeks ago, The Crown Prince called me and wanted me to go into my attic and look through the stuff he's still storing here for an I-don't-know-whatsis. When I told him to c'mon over and look, he suggested that my Sweetie do it when he got home from work...and when I insisted that he come over whenever he wanted and help himself to looking through his stuff for the whatsis, he said, "It's not that important.") Gator always says, "Of course, your Majesty" and I usually say, "I'll give him the message and we'll let you know." The Crown Prince ALWAYS gets his way, one way or another.

Currently, though, the menfolk in the family (My Sweetie and My S.Dad) are working on getting the other 1/2 of the duplex ready to be rented to new and hopefully improved tenants. The C.P. spent a few hours "painting."

After spending upwards of 3 hours in the same building as S.Dad, the C.P. leaves (and of course, the job is unfinished! Why on earth would anyone expect him to actually FINISH what he started?!) and waits patiently until I get home from work to call and ask me to go tell S.Dad that he's borrowing this one thingybob.

I ask him a legitimate question: "What if he needs that tonight for what he's working on?"

The C.P. calls me a "smartass" and hangs up. Hasn't really spoken to me since. (Yes, devastating, I'm sure.) The Gator promptly takes up his cause: I am assinine, and she will continue to bitch at S.Dad and My Sweetie, until one, or the other, agrees.

So far, neither has agreed. And she won't mention it to me. I talked to my sister last night--the Waffle. She usually sides with my mother, on all things, simply because she'd rather pick her own fights with me, but partly because she'd honestly rather fight with me than with the Gator.

Waffle actually agreed with me...and even reminded me how The C.P. got his name.

Y Chromosome

I love my husband, truly I do.

With that said, someone please explain to me Y when he gets an idea in his head to do something, it must be done EXACTLY THIS MINUTE?! It cannot wait even 10 minutes beyond THIS EXACT MINUTE.

Last evening, he was outside scraping the leaves off the garden beds. (YAY Spring!) He noticed that the grapevine, which should by rights be dead but isn't, needed pruned.

That means that today, when he got home from work, that grapevine MUST BE PRUNED. THIS EXACT MINUTE. Doesn't matter that he's mentioned it, only in passing. Doesn't matter that neither of us knows the how-tos and whereofs of doing it. RIGHT NOW. is the ONLY TIME EVER that he will have to prune it. Tomorrow would be too late. And waiting for me to call, or email, someone who would know would take wayyyyyy to long.

Then he's hurt because I'm grumpy. Go figure.

Priceless

Wiper blades (2)..............................................$25

Full Tank of Gas for Trip Home......................$57

Speed at which yer travellin' when the Man decides to slap ice off wiper blade........65 mph

Replacement Wiper Blades from Small Town off Interstate Auto Parts Store..............$40

7-year-old Voice from backseat saying, "Daddy, that was really stupid"...............PRICELESS