Bah Flippin’ Humbug

Posted on December 22, 2012 by cloverhays

Is anyone else having an uh-oh feeling about this time a year? In the midst of all the cheer and bustling about, I feel about as incongruous as a dog poo on the good living room rug.

Those who know me casually, my design clients, the Goose’s business associates, store clerks, all assume I’m marching to the same holiday theme as everyone else. Actually, there is something more akin to a dirge playing through my head. My deep, dark and unseemly secret? I despise the whole Christmas hoopla. It puts a damper on my tropical colored mojo. I know, this makes many feel the need to hand me a cocoa, snuggle me or else sequester me away in a research facility so that I might be probed to discover what’s wrong. I just do not enjoy it.

The mere thought of shopping makes me insane. My kids know I have a limited number of minutes that can be spent in a mall during the year and they watch me anxiously when shopping with me lest I fall to the floor in front of Macy’s, scratching and clawing my clothes off and blurting out obscenities. Nothing says birth of a savior like a middle aged woman naked in a mall.

It could be true that my heart is two sizes too small at this time of year. All the stress, though, has most likely caused my liver to grow a size or two.

I so look forward to the time after Christmas when the entire world goes on a diet and thoughts turn to cleaning up houses and buying new furniture (hopefully, from me).

I just saw a study where 65% of Americans say they would like to just forget Christmas this year. I’m with them. I think if it came around, say, every three years or so, I could get behind it.

My blogs lately have been whiny and blah. It’s just the time of year. I’m one of those people, however, who if I hate something, I want the whole world on board with me. I love it that the check out girl looked at me today and said “Merry Christmas” and then looked down and whispered “bah humbug”. I asked her to repeat it and she looked at me, scared and afraid that her true feelings had been exposed. She deadpanned another “bah humbug” and started to apologize but I interrupted with “high five, sista, I hate it too” and we shared a conspiratorial smile. As I walked away I feel certain that she was wearing a Lilly Pulitzer bikini and hiding a flask of rum under her red sweater too. There’s nothing wrong with that. We all do what we have to just to make it through.

Kids

Posted on December 19, 2012 by cloverhays

I’ve never been very, um, “mommy”. I mean, I was a good mom when the kids were little but I didn’t lose myself in being mommy. Maybe it was selfishness, maybe immaturity, maybe it was a deep desire never to wear high waisted jeans or drive a mini-van. I stuck to my bimbo code and the kids dealt with it.

I’ve mellowed, become more tolerant and find that I’ve had so much fun with my kids as they’ve gotten older and now there are lots of kids that I truly love. There are so many friends of my kids who have become like my own. I wash their clothes, feed them, yell at them, play sardines with them, chauffeur them around on the boat and listen to their secrets, hopes and dreams.

In return, the kids that I love have drawn giant genitalia in my front yard. They have written dirty words on my car and let me drive around with truck drivers honking and nodding at me. They have changed my status to “I’m gay” at least 400 times. They changed my Apple password to “Penis” and I now cannot figure out how to change it back. Every time I walk into see a Genius, I have to mumble this to them while their whole demeanor changes and they sneak sideways glances at me. They have set their carpet on fire, set the car seat on fire, set themselves on fire. They have thrown up vodka and blue juice onto the carpet in my basement. They’ve turned over the ATVs, grounded jet skis, and one has had crying fits worthy of an oscar, but I’m not saying which. They constantly add mess and confusion to my household, glasses stuck to nightstands, plates with pizza stuck to them, clothes everywhere, friends everywhere. I am single handedly pulling my son through high school using threats, manipulation and little treats, just like I trained my Jack Russell.

In the shadow of all the tragedy surrounding us lately, both in our community and in the country, I’ve been looking at things differently I think of all the moms that won’t have kids come home to annoy them. Their kids won’t make messes, won’t make mistakes, won’t embarrass them. They won’t be there to spontaneously grab their moms, pick them up and squeeze them until they scream. They won’t share sweaters, won’t borrow their cars, won’t remind them of the stupid things they’ve done, repeatedly. Their kids won’t ever become smarter than their parents and be there to hook up technical devices. They won’t still snuggle and watch a movie, even though they’re almost grown. The enormity of that makes me want to fall to my knees and be thankful that I have one more day with my babies.

This makes me forgive all the craziness and realize that this is what makes life fun, watching them make mistakes and learn from them. Watching them struggle through senseless biology and math. Seeing their hearts get broken and then seeing them rise above it. It makes me want to hug them until they say “Mom, this is awkward”. I’m seriously thinking of asking if they want to climb in and sleep with me and their dad tonight, but anticipate rejection and looks of concern.

My son, The Boy, recently said “Mom, we’ll both be gone in two years. What will you do? You’ll have no life. Who will play with you?”. It caused me to feel sad and go straight to bed because they’re right. I think I’m one of them. Who is going to play with me? The thing I hold onto is that, unlike those poor moms for whom I can’t stop crying and praying, I’ll still be able to call my kids once, twice, maybe 26 times a day. I can sleep over at their dorms and apartments. Oh, and I will.

Also, the Goose is going to have to step up and get me a puppy.

10 Things that Confuse Me Today

Posted on December 18, 2012 by cloverhays

Why a dog will stand and bark for 20 minutes at a napkin ring that has rolled under the table in the dining room until I come and tell him it’s okay, I see it. Then it is, apparently, fine.
Why the Goose can drink six Mountain Dews a day, a sleeve of cookies and three giant meals and remain slim while I exist on two celery sticks, one saltine and one chardonnay. Seems downright unchivalrous.
Why people are interested in celebrities. I don’t get it. When I have been forced to watch TMZ, I don’t know anyone except Donny Osmond and Cher. How do people keep up with these HoneyJerseyHousewifyboo people and WHY? Isn’t life interesting enough right outside our doors, if not quite as trashy?
Why anyone enjoys Christmas at all. It seems like a big ol’ mess to me.
Why a woman, with H1N1, a throbbing ovarian cyst and a mortal shaving injury can still do six loads of laundry, find tights that match her daughter’s outfit, mentally located her teen aged son anywhere in the cosmos at any given second, run five miles, uphill, and still keep her home smelling like lemons while a man can sneeze and take to the bed, moaning and crying for soup like he enjoyed, from a dented, discounted can, when he lived with his mother, and no one even questions it.
Why someone can’t find an earth changing use for those “silk” ficus trees from the eighties. Everyone had one, some had two. No one has them now. There must be a giant “silk” ficus forest somewhere. Could they be used in prisons? I think this is a thought for our representatives.
Why do we continually allow everyone to think for us? My car tells me when and how to back up, my appliances tell me what they’re thinking, 20/20 tells me how large my meal from McDonalds should be, my government tells me everything else. My inner rebellious princess is getting pretty tired of it all. Am I normal? Isn’t anyone else feeling like they want to be a little, I don’t know, deviant? I may have to roll someone or something. Graffiti anyone?
Why do strangers sometimes call me “hon”. Sounds snippy, I know, but it makes me really cranky. The Goose gets nervous when a waitress directs a “hon” toward me. My gentleman neighbor calls me “little princess” and I’m good with that. “Hon”, however, makes me want to snap my gum and order chili and black coffee from a woman named Flo. I just don’t like it.
Gravity. I include this for my daughter, who worries about me and my Dekalb County education. As evidenced in a conversation with her recently, “gravity, it just don’t make sense”.
How is it a house that looked sparkly and clean in the morning can look like a crack house by 6:30 in the evening? In a direct link to number 9, is it possible there are small gravity deposits under the floor and on the bench in the mudroom, under the counters, under every surface within 30 feet of the door that would cause people to throw down their mail, books, scarves, jackets, cups still full of red colored drinks, shoes, bras (!?!) or anything they wanted out of their cars and LEAVE them there until they are put away. Bowls and plates of food, NEXT TO THE SINK! Does anyone every wonder how they get put away? People today are too soft, brought up with fairy tales and elves. I think family members need to be sat down and told the truth about the chore fairy, shown a picture of her haggard self, low on botox and hair color, pajamas held up by one remaining strand of elastic, swollen eyes from wine and salty food consumption. Show them the real truth, the crime scene photos, the haggard mess the chore fairy has become, and maybe, just maybe, we can save the chore fairy. Every time a cup is placed in the dishwasher, a chore fairy loses a wrinkle. I do believe, I do.

Close the Door, PLEASE!

Posted on December 12, 2012 by cloverhays

I had a funny situation last weekend that has caused the Goose and me to laugh repeatedly.

I saw an article the other day, written by a recently divorced man, giving advice to married men. Ironic, I know. Most were nice, hold hands more often, open doors, etc. One, however, caused me to blanch. It said, “do not use the bathroom in the same room as your spouse”. Actually, it was more descriptive than that. WHAT THE HECK??? Please tell me who, in the world, would do this? Does this actually go on? Even my dog, Matilda, will not “use the loo” with anyone looking.

There are certain subjects that are not broached in my house. I grew up that way, my children grew up that way, we’re just that way. The bathroom is one of those subjects. Until I had babies, neither the Goose, nor I, had ever mentioned any bodily function that goes on in the bathroom. We’d already been married eight years and had traveled to strange countries and eaten a variety of unsettling foods and had still managed not to make any bathroom references. If someone feels the call of nature, we seek out the farthest, most secretive and unused restroom in the vicinity. Jiminy Crickets! There are just some things that don’t need to be discussed or announced.

Our drama began when I took NyQuil the other night. It’s my sleep drug of choice when I need one. I adore that velvety blackness with a lack of hangover then next morning. NyQuil is more than welcome to call me for a paid endorsement. The Goose is a nighttime grazer. I can’t imagine a scenario when I would find the call of cookies more important than sleep, but the Goose gets up every night and eats. This night, I was out of it. I awoke in the night, after several glasses of water and had to visit the powder room. Since it was dark and I was groggy, I didn’t even look for the Goose in the bed. I slipped, zombie like, into the bathroom and there most likely continued what could only be considered a drug induced trance. It’s warm in there. There’s a heat vent and the room is small. I might have dozed off for a second. The Goose was coming back from the kitchen and saw the light on and opened the door to turn it off. He didn’t know I was in there, of course. I was quiet. I am lucky I wasn’t in a coma. Seeing me, he tried to quickly close the door but his movement caught my eye and I issued the longest, most blood curdling B movie scream that’s ever been uttered at my house. At any house. I mean I wailed. Loudly and for a long time. I scared the Goose into screaming too. It was a confused, nighttime terror as we looked anywhere but at each other, both bawling and bellowing like when Drew Barrymore sees ET for the first time. The Goose, still hollering, slammed the door and I continued my shrieking for a good minute or so. By the time I got to bed, though, we were giggling like a couple of stoners.

Then, the Goose got a text from our daughter, Cricket. The kids’ rooms are far away from ours and we didn’t think they could hear us. Apparently they can. This brings up other questions that we are choosing not to address.

Cricket called the Goose from her room and the Goose, genius that he is, clicked decline. She called again, he accidentally did it again. Then she texted: I am hiding in the troll door in my closet. I’m scared!” This caused us so much enjoyment that we were literally limp, cackling and howling. During the time we ignored her, she called her boyfriend to tell him that we were being murdered downstairs and he got up ready to come kick some burglar ass. Finally, we managed to text her what had happened to which she texted back “freaks” and it was over. We still lay there giggling for a good half hour though. I might interject that during this entire episode, which went on for a while, Cricket did not go and make sure her brother wasn’t being killed, and for this, I will tell him that he is the favorite, for at least a week.

My point, and to bring it back around, according to the divorced man’s article, I would say that there are apparently weird people out there with no shame whatsoever. Some things are private and I am pushing the bounds of privacy by even writing this. If this is you being disgusting, stop it. It’s not nice. It’s gross. If you wonder why the zip is gone, this could be the reason. Close the door, LOCK it!

Blahs

Posted on December 10, 2012 by cloverhays

I’m not a huge whiner. I said whiner, not winer. That’s a whole different issue. I am a person who, usually, sees the glass as half full. Again, not the wine glass, that’s a different issue.

I get sad in the winter, though. I am NOT a Christmas lover. I loathe it. I hate the mess, the drama, the sugary foods, tacky sweaters and the color red in general. It just makes me grouchy. The gloomy weather, though, makes me downright sad.

I’ve always been this way. My mother, the True Southern Lady, recognized this and used to take me out of school to ride through the country on a sunny day so I could absorb a sliver of vitamin D. Today, I take more than 35,000 units of D and still can’t stay on top of the blahs. A week like this last one leaves me clinging to the Goose as he leaves for work, begging him to stay in bed and watch sappy movies. It forces me to rest my head on my children and expect them to tell me I am the center of their world. It prompts me and my dog, Matilda, to gaze balefully at each other and sigh. She gets it.

I know that exercise is a great remedy for what ails me so, considering the rain today, I dragged myself to the gym and listened to inappropriate music designed to further damage my aged ears. I felt better. Much better! Then I came home.

Home should be a clean and serene place. An oasis. Today I came home to two bored dogs and a pig loose in the house. Babette has rounded a corner to become a friendly and sweet pig. She’s a jumping pig and launches herself onto my white sofa several times a day. I have an entire stack of snout cleaning towels in my laundry room. She had rooted up most of the yard, removed all my pansies and decorative cabbages and turned over two garden statues. Still, I love that little swine.

The thing about pigs is, they are hungry, and they are smart. They oink about it about once every three seconds, rhythmically, loudly and with a passion. They hear the most covert opening of a Kit Kat bar in the kitchen, no matter how hard one hides. In all the years my dogs have lived with me they have never entertained the notion that they could find food in the house and feed themselves. Today, Babette learned to open the cabinets and serve herself. She then helped out her friends, the dogs, and together, they devoured some Apple Jacks, several Kit Kat bars, chips, drink mix, pet treats (which I am thinking were pork flavored and I shudder at the cannibalistic implications), some oatmeal pies, unpopped popcorn and some straws. She even gnawed through the prune container. That’s dedication. She was straining the elastic on her pink harness when I arrived home, fat and swollen, but is even now trying other cabinets to see what treasures they hold. The dogs have named her their messiah and are in awe of her ingenuity.

So, I no longer have time to be sad and gloomy. This house looks like a set for a scary movie. The Goose says I love any emergency in which something must be cleaned or repaired. He once dropped a can of latex paint in the kitchen and just stood there and said “Go to it! You know you love it.” and it’s true. I just need a mission, no matter how lame. We all do. So I’ll get to it now, turn on all the lights, turn up some of the kids loud music with lyrics that make me blush and clean up for when my family comes back in from the world and tracks mud right back across the floor. Days like today cause me to want to sniff my coconut oil furniture polish and dream of summer.

Rise of the Machines

Posted on December 4, 2012 by cloverhays

I have been in blog purgatory. This is the holding pen for those of us not quite able to get to writing. It’s not that I haven’t had things to say, oh, I always have something to say, it’s just that I’ve been technologically unavailable.

First, I had to have a new car. I was happy with my old car. I liked it so much that I bought three of the exact same cars in a row. Then my last baby turned 16 and it just made sense to my family for him to rip my beloved car away from me and for me to get a new one. Well, they don’t make the old kind anymore. Shopping for a new car made me angry and confused. The Goose complained, my kids offered useless advise by continually asking if I’d driven a Maserati. Finally, I actually did go test drive a Maserati and this made me grouchier than before because I found that I WANTED a Maserati. I realized I was TIRED of driving a mom car and, by golly, it was about time for MY midlife crisis since the Goose has already had two. Of course, he is older.

When I finally chose my cute convertible, a cheaper, slower, more trailer trash cousin of the Maserati, I tried to settle back into life, but I still didn’t feel like myself. My car wanted to converse with my phone. My daughter, Cricket, set this up for me and, though I didn’t understand it, I accepted it. Sometimes people call me and they speak to me through the radio and I’ll have to confess this freaks me out. I saw a lot of scary movies as a teenager. Now it’s happened, they are heeeerrre. I just shout back into space and hope someone can hear me.

The next trouble came when my children declared my comfortable old green phone a dinosaur. A veritable covered wagon of a phone. A brick. It’s true that it no longer did everything I asked of it, but I understood, feeling much the same about things myself. There is much I’m asked to do that I just don’t feel like doing anymore. Still, I went forth and bought the most up to date, space age phone known to mankind. Because I don’t understand the phone, I am still unable to do everything, just like before, but I have the added bonus of constantly being afraid I’ll break it.

Tired of this tech hell and feeling dazed, I came home and curled up with my sweet little white Mac, writing, emailing, Facebook stalking and, low and behold, my phone of the future cannot talk with my computer of 2008. WTH! That’s okay. Just breathe. I’m good with that. Except, oh yeah, my wonderful little laptop, who has traveled with me and been by my side for years took issue with having the space age phone try to initiate foreplay with it and sent me the black question mark of death. Thus, I traveled BACK to Apple and just handed over the deed to my house to them for yet another purchase. Oh, you want another little white laptop? Guess what, DON’T FREAKIN’ MAKE THEM ANYMORE! Wake up, lady, we’re all stainless steel now, just like the dishwasher you had to replace last year and the stove that is a bitch to keep clean even though you never use it.

I can’t keep up with technology. I just want to get something, stick with it and have it work on some basic level. I don’t need my appliances to converse with me or each other. In fact, I’d prefer they wouldn’t. That little song my washer sings when it’s through? I don’t want my refrigerator singing something back. They could be talking about me.

Washer: Did you see the giant ass in these jeans I just washed?

Refrigerator: No duh, she’s in here every 10 minutes.

Dishwasher: I can’t keep up with all these wine glasses!

Oven: I feel so unloved. She never even glances at me!

While my old car is out there, sleeping in the driveway, saying nothing because it can’t. It’s just a car, like it’s supposed to be. This is the age of the rise of the machines. We should all be very afraid.

and a possum in the dishwasher

Monthly Archives: December 2012