February 23, 2009
A Friend We Haven't Met Yet
Back around October I injured my left shoulder. The only thing I can figure out is one day when I was putting up my treadmill it slipped a little and maybe that’s what happened. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how an injury happens.
I tried muscle relaxers but they just made me want to sleep all the time. Pain pills just mask the problem and when the medicine wears off the hurt is still there.
I finally decided to go to a masseur who also does acupressure and acupunture. He’s really good but I’m very ticklish and at one point I was giggling, he was laughing and I almost rolled off the table before he caught me.
According to Yeong being very ticklish is the sign of a good person.
After much massaging and laughing we had a cup of red ginseng tea and talked like old friends. I’m a little tough to understand sometimes because of my thick Okie accent, but we muddled through.
My shoulder seems to be healed but he told me if the acupressure didn’t work to come back and he’d try acupunture on me.
Yeong visited a few states and decided he prefers Oklahoma because we are kinder here. I remember right after the Murrah bombing people who came here from other areas commented on how friendly Oklahomans are. I take it for granted unless I visit another state, try to talk to people and remember I’m not in Oklahoma anymore and not everyone talks to strangers. Arkansas and Texas are close enough they are used to our idiosyncrasies, but travel too much further in any direction and they look at us like “I don’t know you.”
We wave at everyone even the neighbors we don’t like. I’m not sure why we are friendlier than other states. Maybe we have to try harder because of our crazy weather or because we don’t have as many people. I don’t honestly know, but if you come to Oklahoma don’t be surprised when you stand in line if you get in the middle of a conversation with the young tattooed woman in front of you and the senior citizen behind you about the price of gas or the new stop light they installed.
In Oklahoma there’s no such thing as a stranger. You’re just a friend we haven’t met yet.
February 20, 2009
Over Weight Disciples and Gorilla Lovers
I have some old Christian pictures on my walls. None are heirlooms. I’ve bought them over the years from vintage shops. The Lord’s Supper used to hang on the north wall without any incident, but after painting the dining room and rearranging the furniture I put it on the west wall. As you can see it’s crooked. I have lost count of the number of times I have straightened that frame.
One day at dinner, I explained what I had decided was the matter. You see Luke, the guy on the far right (no I don’t know for sure if that is Luke, but this is my silly story so I can name him anything I want), has been eating too much bread. He seems like the kind of man with a healthy appetite. The guy next to him, we’ll call him James, is standing up pointing to the table and telling Luke, “You really need to lay off the bread, dude, the whole painting is going down hill.”
Luke of course thinks they are all over reacting and is holding his hands up, “what?” Matthew, the guy at the other end is trying his best to hold the table down. See his hands on the table? And half of the disciples are giving Luke dirty looks.
Actually, the house has probably settled, but this story is much more fun don’t you think?
I just love some of the stupid advertisements I’ve seen lately. For instance, one woman “cured” her wrinkles forever. I wasn’t aware it was an illness and I am pretty sure she’s going to get them back at some point in her life.
Then there’s the one that says take this pill and eat anything you want and never gain an ounce without exercising. Uh-huh. Sure you can. Does the pill make a person regurgitate the food they’ve eaten? Because if not it’s going to show up somewhere, like on your BUTT.
I’m allergic to the sun and according to my eye doctor it’s from the cave man days when they came out and sneezed to clear their sinuses of mildew. Which really made me feel great knowing I haven’t quite evolved. Must explain why I pay hundreds of dollars to my aesthetician. Just give me a tail and I can swing from the trees scratching my armpits with the rest of the apes. Probably why the gorilla had his eye on me the last time we went to the zoo. His face was pressed up against the glass giving me that look. You girls know the one. I kept telling him I wasn’t his type but he didn’t seem to care. I wonder if he has conjugal visits?
February 13, 2009
Life's a Bowl of Cherries and Right Now I'm in the Pits
There’s a lot of stuff going on in my family right now. Most I can’t tell you about, but if you believe in a greater being you might say a prayer for my family and I.
One thing I can tell you about is that my grandmother is dying. They’ve only given her a few days to live. You may have noticed when I write I tell a lot about my grandmothers and very little about my mother. This is because Grandma raised me until I was seven when my mother got me back and my childhood went to hell.
My mother was wild and had me when she was sixteen. Yes, a little of the wild passed down to me, but enough of my grandmother’s practical ways rubbed off so I at least raised my own children in a normal home.
I didn’t get much sleep last night and am writing this quickly this morning so God only knows what you will get to read today. Sorry, but there will be very little editing.
So with everything else I have to deal with, I’m losing the person that has always been my mother. I’m a big girl I should be able to deal with this. I’ve taken care of other people since I was seven so I should be used to dealing with adult problems.
My grandmother was adopted and the only thing we know is that she is French, English and Native American. They just called her a French Indian. Far as we can tell, her daddy was English and her mother was French and Native American. When she became an adult she found some of her siblings by way of an older sister who tried to track them all down. I don’t know how her parents died, but there were nine children all together.
They were from North Carolina and some of her family is still there. They were all very tall with curly black hair, blue eyes and tan skin. One of my brothers takes after this part of the family. One of Grandma’s brothers was 6’6” or something like that. I don’t know for sure, only that he had to duck to go through doorways when he had on his cowboy hat and boots. The whole family were like giants to me. Grandma was 5’7” which is tall for a woman of her generation.
My mother is only 5’2” and always griped about my height and how I got it from her. I’m 5’6” tall. Grandma pointed out my assets while Mother pointed out my faults.
According to my mother I am too tall, my breasts aren’t large enough, my feet are too big, and because this is a G rated blog I won’t tell you what she said was wrong with another part of my anatomy. Men don’t like mousy brown hair and brown eyes. I guess I was lucky to even get a date.
When we adopted Jennifer, my mother the baby factory asked me why I didn’t have another baby instead of adopting. Of course she missed the whole point. Funny how being fertile doesn’t always give you the maternal instinct.
Sorry for the pity party. You can now go read Deanna Banana or some other upbeat happy person’s blog. Hopefully next week will be better.
Henry (the long haired boy) sure is cute.
One thing I can tell you about is that my grandmother is dying. They’ve only given her a few days to live. You may have noticed when I write I tell a lot about my grandmothers and very little about my mother. This is because Grandma raised me until I was seven when my mother got me back and my childhood went to hell.
My mother was wild and had me when she was sixteen. Yes, a little of the wild passed down to me, but enough of my grandmother’s practical ways rubbed off so I at least raised my own children in a normal home.
I didn’t get much sleep last night and am writing this quickly this morning so God only knows what you will get to read today. Sorry, but there will be very little editing.
So with everything else I have to deal with, I’m losing the person that has always been my mother. I’m a big girl I should be able to deal with this. I’ve taken care of other people since I was seven so I should be used to dealing with adult problems.
My grandmother was adopted and the only thing we know is that she is French, English and Native American. They just called her a French Indian. Far as we can tell, her daddy was English and her mother was French and Native American. When she became an adult she found some of her siblings by way of an older sister who tried to track them all down. I don’t know how her parents died, but there were nine children all together.
They were from North Carolina and some of her family is still there. They were all very tall with curly black hair, blue eyes and tan skin. One of my brothers takes after this part of the family. One of Grandma’s brothers was 6’6” or something like that. I don’t know for sure, only that he had to duck to go through doorways when he had on his cowboy hat and boots. The whole family were like giants to me. Grandma was 5’7” which is tall for a woman of her generation.
My mother is only 5’2” and always griped about my height and how I got it from her. I’m 5’6” tall. Grandma pointed out my assets while Mother pointed out my faults.
According to my mother I am too tall, my breasts aren’t large enough, my feet are too big, and because this is a G rated blog I won’t tell you what she said was wrong with another part of my anatomy. Men don’t like mousy brown hair and brown eyes. I guess I was lucky to even get a date.
When we adopted Jennifer, my mother the baby factory asked me why I didn’t have another baby instead of adopting. Of course she missed the whole point. Funny how being fertile doesn’t always give you the maternal instinct.
Sorry for the pity party. You can now go read Deanna Banana or some other upbeat happy person’s blog. Hopefully next week will be better.
Henry (the long haired boy) sure is cute.
February 9, 2009
Tell Your Daughter To Keep Her Hands Out Of My Son's Pants
When Nicholas was a baby an elderly woman at my church told me those big brown eyes of his were going to have the girls falling all over him. Little old ladies know about such things.
At seven he had a cool clubhouse with windows shaped like triangles, circles as well as the traditional squares. He had to share it with his little brother but they always got along okay so he didn’t mind.
There was a little girl across the street that sometimes came over. We’ll call her Bambi. She was about nine years old at the time and it never crossed my mind to chaperone their playtime.
Bambi’s mama ran off a couple of years before with another man never to be heard from again and I felt sorry for her daddy having to raise her by himself.
One day, Nicholas came in with a strange look on his face. I asked him what was wrong and he said that Bambi put her hand down his pants. Well, being a young mom I came unglued and when Mark got home I told him what happened.
He grinned and thought the whole thing was quite funny. Of course I didn’t think it was a bit funny. Mark said he had to wait until he was 21 before a girl put her hand down his pants so he thought his son was doing pretty well and no he wasn’t going to go talk to Bambi’s daddy.
A few years a go I heard Bambi got a job as an exotic dancer. I guess now she gets paid for feeling boys up.
At seven he had a cool clubhouse with windows shaped like triangles, circles as well as the traditional squares. He had to share it with his little brother but they always got along okay so he didn’t mind.
There was a little girl across the street that sometimes came over. We’ll call her Bambi. She was about nine years old at the time and it never crossed my mind to chaperone their playtime.
Bambi’s mama ran off a couple of years before with another man never to be heard from again and I felt sorry for her daddy having to raise her by himself.
One day, Nicholas came in with a strange look on his face. I asked him what was wrong and he said that Bambi put her hand down his pants. Well, being a young mom I came unglued and when Mark got home I told him what happened.
He grinned and thought the whole thing was quite funny. Of course I didn’t think it was a bit funny. Mark said he had to wait until he was 21 before a girl put her hand down his pants so he thought his son was doing pretty well and no he wasn’t going to go talk to Bambi’s daddy.
A few years a go I heard Bambi got a job as an exotic dancer. I guess now she gets paid for feeling boys up.
February 6, 2009
Not Really A Potty Mouth
I have on occasion posted the letters WTF but in reality I don’t even use the “F” word. It all comes from having children and having to watch my vocabulary else wise the young ones would shock the faculty and upset the preacher and we certainly can’t have that, now can we?
No matter how old we get, being called in to the principles office is still scary. They always give you those disapproving looks like you are a bad parent raising heathens. Yes, I am but I don’t like having it pointed out to me.
You can’t be too careful around kids and according to some books, it all starts in the womb. So back when I started looking like a hump fronted whale, Mark made me start cleaning up my language which up till then was pretty colorful.
Somewhere along the way I’ve started getting lax and a few damns, hells and the occasional shit snuck through. I don’t use the lord’s name in vain though cause I’m in enough trouble with him and don’t want to press my luck.
The only time the “F” word slips out is if I am drunk to the point my brain has become alphabet soup and a few misplaced letters fall into place spelling God only knows what. Then it’s like that old commercial where everyone is talking until one guy says something and then everyone leans in to listen. I’m not sure if he’s talking about investments or maybe he said the “F” word. It’s all the same really.
I wonder when people first started cussing? Did Adam swear at Eve when they got kicked out of the Garden of Eden? I’m sure he thought it was all her fault because everything comes down to being the woman’s fault. If your kids turn out bad and cuss at school, who do they blame? Not dad.
Kids make up substitutes for the big ones so they can soft cuss at school without getting into trouble. Instead of shit, they say snap or poop. Instead of the “F” word they say freaking or frigging. I can remember when I was a kid, saying heck instead of hell and darn or dang instead of damn, screw instead of f*ck and gosh instead of god. My granny said God knew what I really meant and he was going to get me for it. I just can’t get a break.
No matter how old we get, being called in to the principles office is still scary. They always give you those disapproving looks like you are a bad parent raising heathens. Yes, I am but I don’t like having it pointed out to me.
You can’t be too careful around kids and according to some books, it all starts in the womb. So back when I started looking like a hump fronted whale, Mark made me start cleaning up my language which up till then was pretty colorful.
Somewhere along the way I’ve started getting lax and a few damns, hells and the occasional shit snuck through. I don’t use the lord’s name in vain though cause I’m in enough trouble with him and don’t want to press my luck.
The only time the “F” word slips out is if I am drunk to the point my brain has become alphabet soup and a few misplaced letters fall into place spelling God only knows what. Then it’s like that old commercial where everyone is talking until one guy says something and then everyone leans in to listen. I’m not sure if he’s talking about investments or maybe he said the “F” word. It’s all the same really.
I wonder when people first started cussing? Did Adam swear at Eve when they got kicked out of the Garden of Eden? I’m sure he thought it was all her fault because everything comes down to being the woman’s fault. If your kids turn out bad and cuss at school, who do they blame? Not dad.
Kids make up substitutes for the big ones so they can soft cuss at school without getting into trouble. Instead of shit, they say snap or poop. Instead of the “F” word they say freaking or frigging. I can remember when I was a kid, saying heck instead of hell and darn or dang instead of damn, screw instead of f*ck and gosh instead of god. My granny said God knew what I really meant and he was going to get me for it. I just can’t get a break.
February 2, 2009
Fart and Run
As recommended by some of you, I changed Basil’s food. I was unable to find the ones y’all told me about but the nice lady at Petsmart suggested Purina One for sensitive systems. It has salmon instead of lamb. He wasn’t thrilled about the switch, but he finally started eating it.
Here’s what we have discovered. The Petsmart lady told me that meat can give dogs gas. I thought that sounded crazy. I guess wild dogs don’t mind the smell or maybe the aroma is carried away with the wind. I’m pretty sure they don’t have access to fancy pet store food. Anyway, I told my family to not give him any and in the beginning we all kept to that. (After a while we all caved into those sad puppy dog eyes.) I have noticed that he smells worse after he gets meat scraps. His aroma has changed with the new food. It’s still not great, but not as offensive as it was.
When he was really bad I would yell, “Basil get out of here” and he would run to the living room and get in his little bed. After a while he would fart and run to his bed before I said anything. Then a little bit later he would peak around the corner at me to see if it was okay to come back in. lol I guess he figures she’s going to send me in here anyway so I might as well go. Plus, he probably got tired of hearing me yell. Poor doggy.
This is off subject, but I had to tell you anyway. Mark ordered this God awful ugly blue and yellow plaid tie from Land’s End. I told him he used to have good taste. What the hell happened? I would hate to see what kind of woman you would pick now.
He said he has his priorities and she had to at least have teeth. Good thing I still have my teeth.
Here’s what we have discovered. The Petsmart lady told me that meat can give dogs gas. I thought that sounded crazy. I guess wild dogs don’t mind the smell or maybe the aroma is carried away with the wind. I’m pretty sure they don’t have access to fancy pet store food. Anyway, I told my family to not give him any and in the beginning we all kept to that. (After a while we all caved into those sad puppy dog eyes.) I have noticed that he smells worse after he gets meat scraps. His aroma has changed with the new food. It’s still not great, but not as offensive as it was.
When he was really bad I would yell, “Basil get out of here” and he would run to the living room and get in his little bed. After a while he would fart and run to his bed before I said anything. Then a little bit later he would peak around the corner at me to see if it was okay to come back in. lol I guess he figures she’s going to send me in here anyway so I might as well go. Plus, he probably got tired of hearing me yell. Poor doggy.
This is off subject, but I had to tell you anyway. Mark ordered this God awful ugly blue and yellow plaid tie from Land’s End. I told him he used to have good taste. What the hell happened? I would hate to see what kind of woman you would pick now.
He said he has his priorities and she had to at least have teeth. Good thing I still have my teeth.
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