I'm having a really rough week. Rough month, even. February is always a tough one for me, but this one has been tougher than most in the last few years. Or maybe it just seems that way every year. This is a leap year, and I hate leap years. My brother died on February 29th. Wednesday will be 20 years. It's kind of a milestone year, you know? His birthday's tomorrow, so with only four days between birthday and death, it's like a double whammy. Most years, there's no anniversary day to mourn, to really hash it all out and wail and gnash of teeth. The first few years after his death, I thought that was a bad thing and I just stayed morose for the whole week - or two or three - around that time frame. These last years, I've accepted his death and just celebrated his birthday every year with a lemon pie (his favorite) and a general "in your face" attitude that we always had with each other, celebrating the time I did know him.
The last time I saw my brother was on my birthday, three months before his death. Mama had made a lemon pie for me (do you hear that Shawn - for ME!), as was our custom. We love our lemon pie in this family. I'd gone out to celebrate catching up with my id (turning 21) and when I got back to his house late that night, where I was visiting for Thanksgiving, he had eaten my last piece of lemon pie. I still fume when I think of that. So now, every year, I eat a slice of his birthday pie, his favorite food on earth, and lift a forkfull up to him, and snicker.
Anyway, I digress. This year has just been rougher. It seems like life has been piling up on me this past week or so. Mostly little stuff, but you know how it can be, right? Unexpected bills, having my feelings hurt, hurting others without intentionally doing so (me and my sarcasm), etc etc. But they pile up and I feel like going back to bed and pulling the covers over my head and becoming a hermit until March. Maybe longer. I'm not in a good place right now.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Shopping with Ainsley
I had to run to Wal-Mart today, for three measly things. Ainsley was with me and wanted (needed or she’d die) to spend Christmas money. She had $20 with her and she wanted a $10 watch and a coat for Scooby (ugly dog) that cost $10.
"Ainsley, you won't have enough money." She looks at me like I'm a moron. Ten plus ten equals twenty, right? Tax, I say.
"Mama," she says, like she's talking to someone with the intelligence of a block of wood, "the watch was $9.88 and the coat was $9.77. So I have enough." Roll of eyes and put upon sigh. Poor thing has to explain everything to me.
"Ainsley." Death stare. "The tax will be more than that."
"No. It. Won't. Mama."
Well, I guess she told me.
"Whatever."
Try explaining something to the nine year old that knows it all. I can't wait until she's a teenager.
We got to the checkout lane and I let her go first because I’m sweet. And I wanted to see the look on her face when…
“That’ll be $21.20, sweetie.”
Ainsley hands her a $20 bill. The cashier looks at it, then at Ainsley. Ainsley looks at her, then at me. The cashier looks at me. I smile.
“She needs another dollar and twenty cents, Punkin,” I say, still smiling. Ainsley looks at me. She bats her eyes. She knows better than to ask, but a well placed eye bat has always worked well, especially with Daddy. “Do you have any more money?” She shakes her head. “Well, which do you want to put back, the coat or the watch?” She gapes at me. I can’t be serious. Really? She tries a lip tremble, but I don’t cave. I smile.
I help her out a little. She’s been wanting the watch for a while, so I suggest she wait until another day when she has more money to get the coat for Scooby. It’s amazing how quickly her face can turn can stroke-level red. She pays for her watch, eyes swimming in hot, angry tears. I’m fairly sure if she had a gun…
I paid for my purchases, getting my change, and I’m almost positive the now-glaring cashier was thinking, “You have $1.20 you could have given that poor little angel-baby. Mean, heartless monster.”
I’m wondering if I’m up for Mom of the Year for that debacle, or Meanest Mom in the History of the World. I really could have spared the buck-twenty.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Deepest Dreams
Tonight my husband and I were sitting on our swing, watching the sun set over our lake-not-a pond when I confided my deepest, most desperate longing to him. Well, maybe not my deepest dream, but definitely in the top ten.
After I told him I needed a new truck because our 99 Dodge Ram was losing it's pulling power going up hill (poor thing has more miles on it than Mater), I added that maybe we should just go ahead and get a new trailer too. And no need to be stingy, because of my dream, you see.
I want to competetive trail ride someday. Oh sure, it'll be when the kids are older. Shucks, Ainsley's only nine now. Soon as I get her out of diapers, I'll be ready to head for the open trail. Whoa, she is out of diapers! I want that truck and trailer combo lickety-split, baybee! I'm partial to blue, but green is okay in a pinch. The trailer should have one of those swing out saddle holder thingees. And a bathroom. I'm so done with public restrooms.
Peter interrupts me. Excuse me, where did he come up with that? It's rude, and just when I was spending his money. He says he'd like to try some of the Extreme Cowboy race stuff. Puh-lease. That stuff costs money, and if anything is going to cost money around here, it's going to be spent on me. Duh.
Besides, it's my dream. Butt out, Mister.
Our marriage is built on a solid foundation. He makes the money; I spend it. Or, as I like to sum it up: what's mine is mine, and what's his is mine. It's all so easy. Why's he want to go messing with that with his silly dreams for, anyhow?
After I told him I needed a new truck because our 99 Dodge Ram was losing it's pulling power going up hill (poor thing has more miles on it than Mater), I added that maybe we should just go ahead and get a new trailer too. And no need to be stingy, because of my dream, you see.
I want to competetive trail ride someday. Oh sure, it'll be when the kids are older. Shucks, Ainsley's only nine now. Soon as I get her out of diapers, I'll be ready to head for the open trail. Whoa, she is out of diapers! I want that truck and trailer combo lickety-split, baybee! I'm partial to blue, but green is okay in a pinch. The trailer should have one of those swing out saddle holder thingees. And a bathroom. I'm so done with public restrooms.
Peter interrupts me. Excuse me, where did he come up with that? It's rude, and just when I was spending his money. He says he'd like to try some of the Extreme Cowboy race stuff. Puh-lease. That stuff costs money, and if anything is going to cost money around here, it's going to be spent on me. Duh.
Besides, it's my dream. Butt out, Mister.
Our marriage is built on a solid foundation. He makes the money; I spend it. Or, as I like to sum it up: what's mine is mine, and what's his is mine. It's all so easy. Why's he want to go messing with that with his silly dreams for, anyhow?
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Battle of Wills
I'm watching a battle of wills, and I think there's a clear victor. Ainsley has decided to clean her horse's feet. Her horse, Sweet Baby Jane - whom I think was named by someone with a perverse sense of humor - has decided that she likes her feet just the way they are. So 49 pounds versus 849 pounds. It's been amusing to watch.
Ainsley runs her hand gently down Jane's leg, just like I've taught her. I can see her mouth the word "foot" from where I sit in the dining room, and I'm pretty sure I can see Jane snicker as she shifts her weight to said foot, refusing to budge. Ainsley tugs, then pulls, harder and harder still, until Sweet Baby Jane turns her head and bites her in the butt. Ainsley stands up and slaps her on the neck, mouths a word I'm fairly sure she's not supposed to say, and shoves the horse to the side. Or tries to, rather. It has the effect of a gnat running into a brick wall.
So she tries another tactic. She goes to the Janie's head and sweet talks her. Murmurs some sweet nothings in her ears, strokes her blaze, and I'm sure compliments her only eye as bright and lovely. Walks back around to try the foot again. Nothing. No response.
She jumps up and down a few times, screaming in rage as I howl with laughter from the table. Jane stands stoic at the trailer, swishing her tail in victory.
Ainsley rallies, narrows her eyes into Slitty Eyes of Death, and walks to Jane. Her fists are balled by her sides and shoulders are hunched. I don't know what she says, but Jane picks her feet up before Ainsley even touches her. Maybe she wants to keep her only eye? What I do know is this: Ainsley can be scary when she wants to be.
Ainsley runs her hand gently down Jane's leg, just like I've taught her. I can see her mouth the word "foot" from where I sit in the dining room, and I'm pretty sure I can see Jane snicker as she shifts her weight to said foot, refusing to budge. Ainsley tugs, then pulls, harder and harder still, until Sweet Baby Jane turns her head and bites her in the butt. Ainsley stands up and slaps her on the neck, mouths a word I'm fairly sure she's not supposed to say, and shoves the horse to the side. Or tries to, rather. It has the effect of a gnat running into a brick wall.
So she tries another tactic. She goes to the Janie's head and sweet talks her. Murmurs some sweet nothings in her ears, strokes her blaze, and I'm sure compliments her only eye as bright and lovely. Walks back around to try the foot again. Nothing. No response.
She jumps up and down a few times, screaming in rage as I howl with laughter from the table. Jane stands stoic at the trailer, swishing her tail in victory.
Ainsley rallies, narrows her eyes into Slitty Eyes of Death, and walks to Jane. Her fists are balled by her sides and shoulders are hunched. I don't know what she says, but Jane picks her feet up before Ainsley even touches her. Maybe she wants to keep her only eye? What I do know is this: Ainsley can be scary when she wants to be.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Sugar Rodeo
As most of you know, we moved this week, and we're now in our new home. We don't have a stove, microwave, or heat, but we're in, and that makes us happy.
Last night, Sugar joined us on our second night here. We made the decision about five years ago that if we ever moved, Sugar would become an outside dog. She rolls in mud and then comes in our house and lays on our couch. We love her dearly, but we love our new living room set more. So sue us. This house is beautiful and we want to keep it that way.
Last night, due to an abundance of french doors along the back patio and a lack of curtains, we were treated to beseeching eyes begging to be let in and an adorable pink tongue that would be better suited to a fluffy puppy than our 80 pound half black lab/half pony. Feeling guilty, but sticking to our guns, we moved "her" couch to the sunroom, which was surprisingly warm, so she wouldn't freeze to death under her piles of blubber. Then we gave her a blanket, tucked her in, and called it good.
She didn't.
We woke up to accusing eyes at the bedroom french doors. I'm wondering if we're going to be trapped in the house by Cujo now. She looks affronted.
Ainsley let the other dogs out to do their business, and that's when the rodeo began. I heard a shriek by the front door and looked to see Ains hanging on to Sugar by the neck, clinging like a tick to her back. Sugar zigged and Ainsley listed to the side, sliding under her. I dodged couches and jumped over boxes to get to them before Sugar could become free and dirtify my beautiful new home with her presence.
"I've been injured!" Ainsley shrieked when Sugar trampled over her on her bolt to freedom. She'd fought the good fight, and now it was my turn to take over.
I caught Sugar as she galloped through the kitchen - no furniture there, just sharp knives - and tried to tackle her. She tried her zig zag routine with me, but HA! I'm not a 50 pound ankle biter. I won. She was push/pull/dragged out the back door, where we faced each other through the glass and she gave me her best hairy eyeball look and I stuck my tongue out at her.
Human trumps dog.
Last night, Sugar joined us on our second night here. We made the decision about five years ago that if we ever moved, Sugar would become an outside dog. She rolls in mud and then comes in our house and lays on our couch. We love her dearly, but we love our new living room set more. So sue us. This house is beautiful and we want to keep it that way.
Last night, due to an abundance of french doors along the back patio and a lack of curtains, we were treated to beseeching eyes begging to be let in and an adorable pink tongue that would be better suited to a fluffy puppy than our 80 pound half black lab/half pony. Feeling guilty, but sticking to our guns, we moved "her" couch to the sunroom, which was surprisingly warm, so she wouldn't freeze to death under her piles of blubber. Then we gave her a blanket, tucked her in, and called it good.
She didn't.
We woke up to accusing eyes at the bedroom french doors. I'm wondering if we're going to be trapped in the house by Cujo now. She looks affronted.
Ainsley let the other dogs out to do their business, and that's when the rodeo began. I heard a shriek by the front door and looked to see Ains hanging on to Sugar by the neck, clinging like a tick to her back. Sugar zigged and Ainsley listed to the side, sliding under her. I dodged couches and jumped over boxes to get to them before Sugar could become free and dirtify my beautiful new home with her presence.
"I've been injured!" Ainsley shrieked when Sugar trampled over her on her bolt to freedom. She'd fought the good fight, and now it was my turn to take over.
I caught Sugar as she galloped through the kitchen - no furniture there, just sharp knives - and tried to tackle her. She tried her zig zag routine with me, but HA! I'm not a 50 pound ankle biter. I won. She was push/pull/dragged out the back door, where we faced each other through the glass and she gave me her best hairy eyeball look and I stuck my tongue out at her.
Human trumps dog.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Dog Life
My children have reached the age - finally - where they no longer follow me from room to room all day long. Instead, they have passed that torch on to the dogs. Now I'm followed from the moment I wake up in the morning by the click click of little nails on the floor as we walk about the house.
Are you going to the potty, Mama? Not by yourself, surely? Do you want me to keep you company?
As I shut the door in the sad puppy's face, I have a moment of guilt before I'm flood with a sense of freedom. It only lasts until I open the door again to be faced with not only the one rebuffed dog, but the rest of his tribe as well. Three pairs of eyes stare reproachfully at me. How dare I do my business without them? Such selfishness.
Are you going to sit on this couch, Mama? I call shotgun!
No, I called shotgun first!
No, me!
Nuh uh! Stupid! I'll bite your face off, you rat-face!
Weiner dog!
Maybe I should have just kept have kids? It's really not any different.
Are you going to the potty, Mama? Not by yourself, surely? Do you want me to keep you company?
As I shut the door in the sad puppy's face, I have a moment of guilt before I'm flood with a sense of freedom. It only lasts until I open the door again to be faced with not only the one rebuffed dog, but the rest of his tribe as well. Three pairs of eyes stare reproachfully at me. How dare I do my business without them? Such selfishness.
Are you going to sit on this couch, Mama? I call shotgun!
No, I called shotgun first!
No, me!
Nuh uh! Stupid! I'll bite your face off, you rat-face!
Weiner dog!
Maybe I should have just kept have kids? It's really not any different.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
My Day
I'm going to tell you alllll about my day. You can thank me later.
First, some insights: I don't like this packing business. Nope, not at all. And I've come to the conclusion that we have too much STUFF. Mostly Peter has too much stuff. My stuff is cool. He called me a book whore earlier today, but after packing four boxes of HIS books, let the record show I think the pot is calling the kettle black.
I maybe over=scheduled my day just a bit. I was a little high on my Supermom skills and forgot to figure in stupid drivers. I had a dr's appt for Scotlyn in Covington, followed by a cross country meet in Hammond for Pierson at the exact same time that I was supposed to drop Ainsley off for dance in Franklinton, which is 40 miles away. Then we had Awanas, also in Franklinton. I was rescued by my friend Lori, who kept Ainsley for the afternoon (vacay from Ainie!!!) and took her to dance, so that freed me for everything else.
After the dr appt in which I was told there is no cure for having a teenager, we headed to Hammond on I12. I12 is a bad bad place, in case you ain't from these here parts. It has Louisiana drivers on it. We passed a wreck that had already happened. It was cleared off the road, and traffic was flowing through. We were completely clear of it by several hundred yards, when the idgit two cars in front must have gotten a wild hair to rubber neck around and take a lookie-loo. He/she/it came to a full and complete stop from 60 mph. Car two missed them by inches, and I (car three) missed car two by a foot. I didn't realize how bad it could have been until I saw cars four and five slide past me - sideways - in the median. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw three more cars skidded at various angles behind me. I've been hankering for a new VW Jetta, but this is not the way I want to get it. And this crazy person in the blue car number one was still sitting there, completely stopped. If only I'd had a gun...
At the cross country meet, Pierson's coach heard me saying that he'd fun a 28 minute 5k. I'm not sure how she overheard me, except maybe how I told everyone. She gave him the hairy eyeball and then a little peptalk about how if he can run three miles in 28 minutes, he can run his one mile quicker than 8 minutes. For crying out loud, he lopes through the race like a giraffe out for a Sunday stroll. When it came time for his race, he was told to run the first 1/2 mile at normal pace, then really give it his all in the second half. She actually expected him to break into a sweat today.
Well, my boy beat his own personal record by 47 seconds and won a medal. And then he came *this close* to puking himself. Now he knows what it means to leave it all on the field, and I don't think he's impressed. *singing* My boy has a medal, my boy has a medal....
Left the race and headed to church. Construction. Dead stand still on the interstate. My life bites. Finally it started moving again and my life quit biting as much. I made it to church, dragged myself up the stairs, yelled at kids to say their verses on patience and fruits of the spirit, picked Ainie up from dance, got milk, came home.
Good night.
First, some insights: I don't like this packing business. Nope, not at all. And I've come to the conclusion that we have too much STUFF. Mostly Peter has too much stuff. My stuff is cool. He called me a book whore earlier today, but after packing four boxes of HIS books, let the record show I think the pot is calling the kettle black.
I maybe over=scheduled my day just a bit. I was a little high on my Supermom skills and forgot to figure in stupid drivers. I had a dr's appt for Scotlyn in Covington, followed by a cross country meet in Hammond for Pierson at the exact same time that I was supposed to drop Ainsley off for dance in Franklinton, which is 40 miles away. Then we had Awanas, also in Franklinton. I was rescued by my friend Lori, who kept Ainsley for the afternoon (vacay from Ainie!!!) and took her to dance, so that freed me for everything else.
After the dr appt in which I was told there is no cure for having a teenager, we headed to Hammond on I12. I12 is a bad bad place, in case you ain't from these here parts. It has Louisiana drivers on it. We passed a wreck that had already happened. It was cleared off the road, and traffic was flowing through. We were completely clear of it by several hundred yards, when the idgit two cars in front must have gotten a wild hair to rubber neck around and take a lookie-loo. He/she/it came to a full and complete stop from 60 mph. Car two missed them by inches, and I (car three) missed car two by a foot. I didn't realize how bad it could have been until I saw cars four and five slide past me - sideways - in the median. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw three more cars skidded at various angles behind me. I've been hankering for a new VW Jetta, but this is not the way I want to get it. And this crazy person in the blue car number one was still sitting there, completely stopped. If only I'd had a gun...
At the cross country meet, Pierson's coach heard me saying that he'd fun a 28 minute 5k. I'm not sure how she overheard me, except maybe how I told everyone. She gave him the hairy eyeball and then a little peptalk about how if he can run three miles in 28 minutes, he can run his one mile quicker than 8 minutes. For crying out loud, he lopes through the race like a giraffe out for a Sunday stroll. When it came time for his race, he was told to run the first 1/2 mile at normal pace, then really give it his all in the second half. She actually expected him to break into a sweat today.
Well, my boy beat his own personal record by 47 seconds and won a medal. And then he came *this close* to puking himself. Now he knows what it means to leave it all on the field, and I don't think he's impressed. *singing* My boy has a medal, my boy has a medal....
Left the race and headed to church. Construction. Dead stand still on the interstate. My life bites. Finally it started moving again and my life quit biting as much. I made it to church, dragged myself up the stairs, yelled at kids to say their verses on patience and fruits of the spirit, picked Ainie up from dance, got milk, came home.
Good night.
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