Sunday, May 20, 2012

Dear Peter,

Dear Peter,

I know how much you hate to throw away food, what with saving up for the next nuclear explosion and all, but listen....I just opened the refrigerator door and something tried to bite me.  I do not like when my food turns the tables on me.  I draw the line there.  And remember that white chocolate pudding we made?  It's not white anymore.  I took the liberty of offering some to Chewie - this is the dog that ate our couch, mind you.  He backed away. 

As for the thing that bit me, I cornered it on the second shelf with my Miracle Blade Ninja Knife, guaranteed to cut through steel or slice a tomato wafer thin - my choice - and again offered it to Chewie.  He ran yelping around the corner of the house and I haven't seen him since.  You weren't particularly fond of him, right? 

So, I cleaned out the fridge
and realized that for once the kids were right.  We really don't have anything to eat.  We have mayonaisse, which is nice.  And olives.  I hope you can forgive me for, and I quote, "throwing out perfectly good food that will make another meal.  After all, these kids are getting entitled, thinking they have to have fresh made food every day.  Left overs were good enought for me, they're good enough for them.  Why, back when I was a kid, I was lucky if I got a home cooked meal......".  And you walked barefoot to school uphill both ways, in snow.  Yes, I know.  I've even caught myself doing it to Chad a few times lately, so I sympathize, Ebenezer.  Just this week, I caught myself saying, "My first dining room table was from a garage sale and had three legs and one chair and I was proud of it! I sat under that missing leg and held the table up."  I even managed a tear. 

We may have to resort to nibbling on the 200 pounds of horse food I so faithfully buy each week for the four leggers, because I've inadvertantly starved the two leggers we brought into the world.  Do you think we can be brought up on charges for that? 

Eat up while your on the ship, dear.  It's lean at home. 

With Much Love,


Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Only two doses of antibiotic and I woke up at 6:30 with energy.  No alarm clock, no drugs, people, real live energy.  I put away the three loads of clothes that were over taking my dresser and chair (you'll be happy to know I now have clean underthings for the day) and I made my bed.  I mean, made my bed.  I fluffed pillows and got down on my hands and knees at the foot of the bed and made sure the bedspread was even with the floor.  I picked up three pennies and found that Nerf dart Pierson's been looking for. 

It's also come to my attention that when he moved out, a certain son of mine - I'm not naming names, but he is the only one of my children that's moved out in the last week (of ever) - took all of the empty hangers out of my closet.  Let it be known, Garrett Chad Whitten (darn, did I accidently mention his name?  So sorry.),  you will pay.  Either you return my hostage hangers, or you will be eating off the couch for the rest of your life.  You know what I mean.

Good grief, it's not like he's ever used a hanger in his life.  I have proof.  Don't make me bring out the pictures of your room, Garrett Chad!  I'll do it, Mister.

I'm feeling so good today, I'm thinking of getting dressed.  Maybe even deodorant.  You never know.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012


In a quest for a lithe body of model proportions - and since I'm not going to stop eating Baskin Robbins to get it - I swam across the lake today without stopping. I'm thinking if I do that about 50 times a week, I'll be in great shape before Jesus' Second Coming.

As I was on my return trip from the beach on the far side, I was thinking about taking a little breather before my lungs were sucked inside out. My arms were agreeing with this idea as with each stroke they screamed obscenities at me. Just as I was about to give up, something under the water swam up my swim skirt and grabbed hold. It let hold once and grabbed again.

I tell you what, I let out a hollering that would have a horror movie director asking me to sign a contract in a New York minute. "PEEEE- TERRRRRR" I shrieked at the dozing man on the raft. "Something grabbed me!"

I couldn't hear his response, since I'm deaf as a post, but he casually waved his hand in my direction and went back to sleep. This from the man that only moments before told the children to watch out for snakes. I screamed again for someone - anyone - to save me from the alligator/water mocassin/shark before I was able to twist free of its grasp. I lit out for the dock like my butt was on fire, I kid you not. I'm fairly certain I was doing a pretty good imitation of Shaggy and Scooby as they ran on water, trying to escape the swamp monster, complete with those cute cartoon curlicues and sound effects. (It's important to note for the record, I beat my previous record.) Peter finally paddled his raft over, taking his sweet time, to see what had endangered his beloved. He was still assuring me nothing bad was out there, but you'll notice he didn't get off the raft?

"It's only a dead fish!" he called from the middle of the lake, laughing himself silly at my expense.

I'll tell you what's funny. I'm sure and certain that fish was alive when it swam up my drawers.

Passive Aggressiveness

Anyone that knows me knows I can be a touch sarcastic. Only a touch, mind you.

Shut up that cackling.

I know sarcasm is thought to be immature, but I love it so much I can't give it up. I tried once. I went through a deep depression. It was the hardest five minutes of my life.

But I'll say this - At least 95% of my sarcasm is in good fun. It's rare that I use it to belittle someone or hurt them, and that 5% is usually at some idiot on tv or in the news. You know what I mean, not real people. I use sarcasm to tease people, but not about things that I think will hurt them. If I think they're sensitive about something, I never go there. I'd never moo at an overweight person, for example. I might moo at my 50 pound nine year old. She could never, in any world, be considered overweight, therefore, she would not be sensitive.

Now passive aggressive remarks, in my mind, are some of the nastiest things out there. They are designed, by their very nature, to take a seemingly innocent remark and shoot an arrow straight into the recipient's weakest point. There is no joking involved; they are intended to wound. And you can't really call the person on what they said, because that person will put on their best "who, me?" look and play the victim. ("I can't believe you would say that.")

Thanks, but I'll take the proverbial - pardon my language here - bitch anyday. If you can't say something nice, then at least say it straight forward. Don't get all underhanded and make everyone miserable because you aren't grown up enough to say what you're really feeling.

In case you're wondering if I have a reason for this post, I do. If you're wondering why I'm passive aggressively posting this to my blog instead of confronting said person about it, trust me I've tried - for years and years. I've tried many tactics, ranging from polite to full blown temper tantrum.

Last year I decided I was done. No longer would I let it bother me. Since I could no longer ignore the snide comments made, I made it so I didn't have access to see them. My mood lightened considerably. I'm at that point again now.

If you feel the need to stir the pot, take it elsewhere. I have more important things to do.

Oh, and by the way, if you think this blog is about you? I can't believe you would think that.