It Must be Hot

I went to buy groceries, this afternoon, and discovered 3-things:

 1: I’m afraid of being rear-ended by the car that is behind because the car behind him, hit him sending him into me.

 2: It’s too hot to grocery shop (people in Wally Worlds are never in a good mood on a good day).

3: You probably could fry an egg on the sidewalk, but you will have passed out from the heat before the egg has the opportunity to cook.

I sat behind 20, then 15, then 10, and finally 1, car waiting to get through a light this afternoon, so that I could get to the store. Notice that “I”, there were several “I’s” and no teams on the road with me. Wally Worlds sits at the intersection of highways 75 and 82 and is one big cluster-truck of cars and lights, almost any hour of the day.  You have to take the exits—two lanes because of traffic flow—off 75 to get to the lights (3 in all) that lead you around and about to Wally World. We, a cluster of approximately 25 cars, were sitting on the highway exit ramp because there was a car that could not or would not move under its own power.

It’s a very rare day, indeed, when you cannot find a friendly and helpful Texan, and today was that day. I only discovered the problem when I became the 10^th car from the light and saw a man, from some vehicle ahead of me, get out of his vehicle—large truck with multiple lights and probably had whistles too—and approach the car at the head of the line. There was a conversation, the door to driver’s side opened, and they began to push the car out of the way. Gee, and the whole time, I had imagined some awful scenario, in which, there was blood, guts, and screaming. Not so, the car wasn’t moving because the heat had gotten to it, too.

I saw the cars ahead of me lane-jumping but had no idea why, and there was little chance for my truck to make the same maneuver as the vehicle beside me had 14-more wheels and wasn’t about to give way to my truck. I kept waiting to hear the sound of crashing metal as one, and then the next vehicle was forced from the rear-end to move creating an awful pile-up of wreckage. Today, is the first time that fear has entered my mind, in a very long time.

The cashier, whose line I graced with my present, could scarcely contain the excitement of my large order as she scanned the food in a less-than friendly manner. People hate the heat, and when it gets hot enough, people hate each other. I felt relieved to leave the store alive but it was a short-lived repast, because the heat continued to climb all the way home. I saw a turtle in the middle of the highway holding a sign that read, “Please run over me, it’s too hot for man or beast and I’m a reptile with a shell.”

There is nothing green alongside the road either. In fact, I think Wally World’s bushes will have to be replaced. They’re browner than the bags once used for groceries. Every stray animal that has been dumped or never had a home is either residing under our house, or under our cedar tree. If it doesn’t rain soon, the oil-rich state of Texas will self-combust and Oklahoma will be hanging onto Missouri for dear life.

You Called Today

You called today and I knew you were upset. I’ve known since the day you were born when you were upset, when you were happy, and when you were angry. It’s hard for me to hear the different moods you go through. It’s hard for me to know that your moods swing like a pendulum and the hardest part, is not knowing what to do or how to help you.

Your voice wasn’t trembling and yet, you were hurting. Your words were not angry but they spoke volumes of the faith that has been betrayed in your hopes and dreams for a future. You call and all I can do is cry, and wish that there was a way to take you back to the day when it all started. You call and I become a basket case of emotions that runs the full scope of human feeling. You call and I’m reminded that there are some things that mothers cannot do.

Your life is a mess that I cannot fathom. Each day, you live through one more of the nightmares brought on by one-part your doing, and one-part that was so unfair and so evil that even the devil would wrestle with the reality of it. The days of your life must seem like a living Hell and your nights are very likely, worse. You have to live your life alone when all you wanted was to be loved. It’s almost as though you are a stranger in this world.

You called today and my heart broke again, because I can do nothing but hope. Hope that you find your way through the darkness and into the light. Hope and pray that some justice is served out to the demon that started this mess. Hope and pray that you will be loved, by a good love, by a good woman, some day. Each night, I pray for your safety and the light that leads you back to us, and each time you call, I ask God again for the things that will make you whole.

There is no hurt, like the hurt, that I feel when I hear your voice and know that the days are wearing on you and that you want to come home. There’s no magic pain killer to salve the pain that you go through, daily, and your pain rests in my heart. I love you son. I hope and I pray for you so-often that I fear God will tire of hearing me ask for the one thing that will make your life right again.

Yes, you called today, and again I’m crying for you and your situation and safety. I wonder if the demon that caused this mess, ever prays?

Five-year-Old Interprets Baby Babble

Five-year-old interprets baby babble and it’s a miracle. No, it’s not, she’s barely advanced passed the baby babble stage, herself, so it’s a natural that she would be able to understand the “&%$#(*^%$#” her sister utters. Speaking of utters, I need an utter attached to a Guernsey, somewhere out back in a fence, with a very-very long hose attached to a sippy cup that the baby, almost 3-years-old now, carries all over the house with her. I’m going broke buying milk.

The baby, all 40-pounds of wiry mischief—though her mother swears she’s only 30 some-odd pounds—has been a royal pain this week. Obstinate, bull-headed, stubborn, none of these words accurately describe a child that could plow fields with the determination she possesses. I only thought her mother had a head made of molten steel; this kid has proven that a combination of her father and mother is a willful determined child, not to be toyed with. If she screams at me, one more time this week, her dad will find her duct taped to the wall and I will call CPS and report myself…good grief. Not only can she scream in decibel that cannot be measured with any known instrument, she can stand her ground like a bull ready to charge.

We take her with us, from time-to-time, and people coo over the little tousled-hair darling…if only they knew. She is, she’s perfectly adorable, a beautiful child with a wry sense of humor and a temper that the devil turned down. She’s part angel, part devil, and part concrete formed from some accidental spill that would not clean up. My daughter didn’t believe the child had a mean-streak until the little angel whacked her sister in the head with a mermaid tail on a fairly large doll. She doesn’t need a toy to split your ears and crater your brain, her scream, alone, will do nicely for that task.

My daughter jokes about duct-taping them to the wall when they misbehave, and it is just a joke, but honestly, wouldn’t it be nice if someone made a non-allergenic tape or Velcro piece you could attach to the children in need of disciplinary actions. Just stick that little sucker on the wall and tell them, “I’ll let you down, when you quit screaming at me.”

Meanwhile, back at the baby UN, we need an interpreter because she is stubbornly refusing to say her words clearly enough to be understood. Not sure everything her sister is telling me is factual, since yesterday, she claimed the baby wanted a spanking…yea, sure, that happens a lot.

I need Valium, a boat-load of rum, and a nap!!

Properly Beating One’s Wife

Image from Creeping Sharia

A friend posted this on the Facebook wall. It’s an Imam giving instructions on how to properly beat your wife. My comment on the post was, “If I find my husband reading or listening to something like that, he had better hope they included a chapter on How to Outrun Your Wife” because the fight would be “ON.”

There’s a reason that deeply religious Muslims don’t marry Irish women; we don’t lie down and roll over. You hit us, and you have the fight of your life on your hands. In my particular case, with the instant menopause brought on by surgical removal of my femaleness, its best, most days, not to even look at me. My husband, to his credit, was raised Pentecostal, saving him the pain and embarrassment of ever thinking of “wife beating” as a marital disciplinary-action. In other words, he hasn’t met my fry pan, because good sense and religious raising spared him a hefty whop over the head.

The first Mr. Me wasn’t quite so bright and when I got fed up, he ended up between a desk, the corner of the wall, and sitting over a trash can. It was the last time he thought about hitting or knocking me around. He and I parted ways when word of all the women keeping him happy, got back to me. There’s another big “no-no” with me. I’m just stubborn enough to believe that if some other woman is keeping you happy, she might as well be doing your laundry and taking care of the rest of your needs.

Of course, that’s not to say I don’t ever have bruises, in fact, bruises have become a portion of my body’s make up. I’m exceedingly clumsy, therefore, I don’t need a man beating on me, I can even do that myself. There was a case, on television, that my husband and I had been watching and listening to that included accusations of spousal abuse; one of the woman’s children said she was abused, while the other said she was clumsy. I turned to my husband and said, “You know, my kids would testify that you didn’t beat me either, because they know I’m clumsy.”

They ended up convicting the woman of murdering her husband because there was no proof, other than the one child, that showed any history of abuse by the dead man. Personally, I think when two people can no longer get along, don’t love each other, or have found another person they think will make them happy, then they should simply divorce. No need for violence, just walk away with your body, soul, and pride intact.

As to disciplinary actions when a spouse has become errant, check to make sure all fry pans, sharp knives, and those handy little six shooters can be accounted for, before deciding that a beating is in order. The option to not being sure could be your name in the headlines of tomorrow’s paper, accompanied by a nice obituary in the back-pages of the daily news.

Nuclear Meltdown and Radiation

http://www.wikipedia.com

Yes, there is excessive nuclear waste in the air, I can feel it, and my eyelids are growing. What’s more, my ears have strangely developed super hearing and my toes are dancing on the floor. Remarkable, isn’t it?

I’m wondering, which will kill us first, nuclear waste, government interference, or fear? I’m betting on fear being the first to pay the reaper.

There most certainly are unusual levels of radiation over Fukushima’s nuclear plant...all that nuclear fuel was meant to be contained, but now…well, yea, it’s out. What are the nuclear levels? I don’t know and apparently, between sources, either people’s limbs are falling off, crops are being poisoned, or there’s nothing to worry about. That’s the problem, the sources.

Here’s the deal; we all care what happens to the Japanese and I think most worry and send prayers up for them, but its a million miles away from where I live and it’s certain that no one, in any country, has much faith in the governing powers. There’s supposed to be a plant, along the Missouri River, that is flooded and dangers exist that it could radiate us all into “glow-stage” but according to “sources,” the media has placed a black out on the news surrounding the plant.

If my squash, in the garden, develops legs and begins to talk, I’m going with the idea that maybe, just maybe, there’s a little too much radiation in the atmosphere around my home. As long the squash don’t talk, the maters don’t attack, and the peppers don’t take on a personality of their own, I’m going to wonder if there really is a plant leaking anywhere on the American continent.

You see, we won’t notice anything is amiss, if we are forced to go by our local news station, because bad hair, poor choices in clothing, and un-edited scripts are a staple of the local news. If the anchor were delivering a bit on nuclear waste and his/her arm fell off, she suddenly began to stutter, or some tragedy—not that the station is not a tragedy of poor proportions, already—were to occur, my husband and I would just say, “Well, that’s a new one.”

So, if I see a herd of cows leading a pack of dogs down the road out front, or the neighbor suddenly quits appearing in her backyard when my husband mows, then I might think the nuclear radiation has arrived. Until then, I’ll simply assume that running up and down the road, yelling, “The sky is falling, the sky is falling,” is a-bit that’s more suited to the talents of Chicken Little.

Unfortunately, I’m more concerned about surviving an irritated 2 (almost 3-year-old) until her daddy or mommy arrives to relieve me of the task. That’s another 3 and a half to four hours away, right now…do you really want to know what fear is, try it… you’ll love it.

It’s Me, No Really, It’s Me

“Mrs. Farrell, Mrs. Farrell, your daughter’s out in the drive and she done got rocks stuck up her nose!” These were the words of a lady that had babysat us from time-to-time and I was the daughter with the rocks stuck up my nose. Don’t ask me why I would do such a thing; I was only 3 or 4-years-old. If the rocks up my nose seem strange to you, then what about the fact that I was this little kid, playing outside, by myself? That’s the thought I always had when mom would tell this particular story.

I remember waking up when I was not much older than my granddaughter Alyssa—almost 5-years-old—and being within inches of the floor furnace. Do I know why? Nope, haven’t a clue, but I do know mom would tell people about it as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a kid to do. We lived in a house with floor furnaces, when our children were small, and I would threaten them within an inch of their lives if they got near the things, but not my mom. I often wonder if she thought, ‘Oh well, we have five kids, what’s the harm?’

I can remember my mom introducing my sisters and me, “These are my three beautiful, smart daughters, Duhha, Durhee, and Diddee, and this is Donna, she can draw.” It was rather like, “Yes, we do have to let her out of the closet from, time-to-time.” Mom and I were always like fire and ice. Not the best relationship a girl or woman can have with their mom. Most of the really, really stupid things I did, while growing up, I did to irritate her.

Mom was right, I could draw, and I stopped drawing because it seemed to be the only thing she ever really knew about me, but it was never enough. I was my father’s child, with his ability to hide  feelings within myself. However, while my dad was out-going, never met a stranger, and had the rare talent for telling people “How the cow ate the cabbage” I was very introverted and shy. If I had not been, it’s doubtful I would have lived to see life after mom.

But, I learned a lot from watching my mom interact with other people and the lessons, once learned, stuck with me through life. Mom taught us that it was impolite to make a scene in public, and then she would proceed to do what she had taught us not to do. She was the worlds worst for making a scene in public and she was right, it was extremely impolite, and worse, it was embarrassing.

She was, and still is somewhere behind the mask of Dementia, one of the smartest women one could ever know, but she had a temper. My dad and I could set her on edge without really trying. Making mom mad, didn’t require a great stroke of genius, on my part, just my presence was enough to do it, most days. It’s not as if it was all bad, sometimes she really didn’t like me…and as an adult, I learned that her silence was my piece of mind.

 I believe that children learn everything their parents teach them, but are not always willing or able to be the person the parent wants them to be. My brother and I have had psychological discussions about things…neither of us is a psychologist, yet we have come up with some interesting theories pertaining to the “Whys” that lead to children growing up in the same house, with the same parents, and the same set of rules, and turning out so differently. We agree that exterior forces have the most impact on the differences, friends, and environments that one might find themselves in that the other does not, also figure in to the theories.

And perhaps, the last reason; not all children are treated the same by their parents. While dad always treated me as if I were one of the kids, mom treated me as if I had a learning disorder and was a thing to be ashamed of, so I reacted in kind. If drawing were the only thing good that I ever accomplished it occurred to me, at some point, that it was not worthwhile. I still draw, occasionally, but more in cartoon form and most often when making fun of myself. It’s my sense of humor, finally unleashed, after all these years.