Grown up men

Posted on November 13, 2012 by cloverhays

Dads are funny. Ask anyone with a dad and they’ll usually agree. I don’t understand the alchemy that happens from teenaged boy to father but I believe there is a scientific study in there somewhere.

When I met the Goose, he was a boy of such breathtaking badness that I actually felt a little giddy and nervous about our first date. He had a tiny sports car I could hear from 2 miles away and drove it with the ferocity of suicide bomber. He knew people who knew people who were criminals. He was all leather jacket and porn mustache. Recently, I had to sit on my hands in the car so as not to smack the living daylights out of him for driving under the speed limit in the slow lane. I’ve also had to ask him not to wear his golf saddle shoes as leisure wear. He takes naps and asked me just yesterday not to drive to the store because it wasn’t safe in the rain.

What happens to men when they become dads? When the Goose reads this he will come storming into the room telling me it’s all about responsibility and the fact that they carry the weight of the financial world upon their stooped shoulders. Blah, blah, blah. He will probably bring up that old refrain about “one of us has to be the adult…”

I think his 21 year old self would hang his heads in shame.

My own father was a man tamed as well. When he was a boy, he and his brothers would take quarter sticks of dynamite, not the lame m80s of today, and throw them back and forth over their house and try not to be holding it when it went off. My dad was missing the tip of his middle finger and his brother was missing the last two of his right hand. My dad was mostly deaf and I’m sure this contributed to the problem.

Because of his hearing problems, my dad yelled. Many a time the True Southern Lady would have to shuush him because he blurted out inappropriate stuff in public. When he would come to Shep’s baseball games, we would have to remind him not to shout out “get that fat kid off second base, he can’t catch anything with those chubby hands!”, AGAIN because said child’s mother hadn’t been happy about it the last time. He commented loudly on the weight of waitresses, on the dullness of the sermon during church and repeatedly shouted “WHAT?” during movies. The True Southern Lady lived on pins and needles at what he might yell. Now, you know he wasn’t like that when she dated him. He was the daring boy from next door.

I know boys that used to fight and race cars and dance on the speakers at the Limelight whose main focus now is keeping the thermostat on an energy saving temperature.

I guess it’s true and someone in the relationship has to take the role of adult. I’m happy it was the Goose and that he’s allowed me to stay the delightful youthful girl that I’ve always been.

Becoming a dad is a crazy kind of alchemy. Now that our kids are mostly grown, I see signs of the old Goose emerging and I feel that it’s possible that during his regression he and Shep will pass somewhere along the way. While I certainly appreciate his responsible attitude that’s taken great care of us all over the years, I’m looking forward to the 21 year old Goose coming back for a visit. Perhaps without the 80s porn mustache, though. Now, I’ll just have to get the advil ready, and some Ben Gay, oh, and maybe we should lower the stereo because high decibel levels are damaging…

Goose, you’re the best Goose ever. Don’t come find me and lecture me!

Gag me with a spoon

Posted on November 8, 2012 by cloverhays

Let me apologize for the horrible nature of this rant. Obviously, there will be NO photo to go along with this disgusting, offensive missive.

Last night, in the depths of my sleep, I heard the sound that strikes fear into my heart. Worse than an intruder, worse than a tree on the house, violating my dreams came the sound of something throwing up on the carpet.

Working with animals, I can handle a lot more than other acrylic tipped, frosty lip glossed women. I can stitch something up, pull out maggots (I hesitate to say that I almost enjoy this?), and can even euthanize something and only cry a little. Blood, I can deal with, even poo and pee. But hurl, I can’t do.

Carpet is disgusting in general. I have a heavy duty carpet cleaner that I whip out at least once a month and clean all carpets with bleach solution. (Again, no environmentalist need complain. I can match you tree hugging for tree hugging.) Why is it, though, with all this hardwood flooring and five fenced acres of any terrain that tickles their fancy, that an animal will seek out my white bedroom carpet to throw up? Matilda actually came IN from outside to do this last night. Apparently, whatever she ate was of such a nuclear red that it can be seen from space, glowing in the dark.

Remember the dog, Orlando, who ate “the object that shall not be named” from the Goose’s office? He was not an indoor dog but once bolted past me at light speed, through the door, across the clean floors and up onto my bed to upchuck a surprising amount of ick onto my custom bedspread. Custom, as in fancy schmancy fabric that was bought with .com boom money and hand stitched by a sweet faced Asian woman at the drapery workroom.

What’s worse than getting up at night and stepping on a hair ball with a bare foot? I think that if the government used this torture on prisoners of war, things would move along much more quickly. Just thinking about it made me tuck my leg up under me. My kids once knew a disgusting turd of a boy, who threw all the time. Not content to spoil my new sofa in the basement, he got my powder room floor and wallpaper and my son’s bedroom floor. Cricket once saw him barf behind a video game in a restaurant and move on as if nothing happened. I can’t conceive of it.

Thankfully, my kids were tough and I didn’t deal with this often. In my loving motherness, (Why is this not an acceptable word? I think it fits many situations.) I would just pop them into the bathroom and tell them to call me when they were done. I am so grossed out by this that I can’t believe I’m even writing about it.

Bulimia will never be a threat to me, that’s for sure!

There is no way to wrap up this horrible blog. I don’t even know what to call it. It’s disgusting. I just want everyone out there to be living this terrible event along with me. I want everyone to recall their throw up tragedies and send their commiserations and loving thought through the cosmos to me. As much as I enjoy stain removal, THIS is not the way to start a morning.

The DRESS

Posted on November 6, 2012 by cloverhays

Lots of women have asked me about “THE DRESS”. I don’t blame them. It is, frankly, awe inspiring. It’s the piece de resistance in my dress up box, a pink confection of such magnitude that women who see it sigh from both happiness and jealousy. This beauty weighs about five pounds and possesses a train that’s over six feet and so frothy it’s about a foot high. It’s a quinceanera dress, a dress 15 year old hispanic girls wear for their coming out. I am not only delighted to be able to squeeze, albeit uncomfortably, into it and never contemplate the fact that it was probably a chubby youth who wore it originally. I

I’ve worn it to several parties, numerous Friday night cocktail get togethers on my porch or around the fire pit and once, to the feed store. I wore it as a zombie this Halloween. If you’re going to have to be a zombie, might as well be a fashionable one. I still have all my own puffy prom dresses and, believe me, my friends have, on many occasions, put them on as well.

One might think such perfection would be a stand out at the feed store, but that would be incorrect. I had a book club luncheon at my house once. The book was the YaYa Sisterhood book. We all came dressed, well, big. After a long lunch someone mentioned that they had to go home and change and go to the feed store. Then someone else mentioned that there were baby chicks available at the store and somehow, we all ended up in the car, big dresses and hair, on the way.

Walking in, we expected exclamations and fawning, such as we deserved. We got NOTHING. Not a raised eyebrow, not a leer, not one question as to why we were dressed thusly. I can only assume that the feed store man has a wife at home who has him so thoroughly beaten down that nothing surprised him or that he had been taught southern manners by his mama and just didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Either way, we got our 6 bags of horse food, a box of chicks and left.

The one bright spot was that the evil neighbor who lives between The Trophy Wife and me did see us getting into the car and, again, standing at the mailbox dressed beautifully and we know it only goes towards the many reasons why she hates us. We love that.

So many people have called or messaged me about the dress. I’m not kidding. Nothing I’ve done in a while has spawned so many questions and comments. At least not to my face. Next election, I’m lending it to Ron Paul in the hopes that it will help his cause.

Ladies, you too can find your special princess dress at Goodwill or your fine Hispanic supplier. I’m telling you, when you feel down, nothing will pick you up like going through your day with a poofy polyester train. When your husband comes home, he’ll know you’re up to something, but just not what. It’s good to keep your man on his toes. Send me your pictures. We’ll start a movement of sorts. We’ll be the princesses we forgot to be AND get to hide a multitude of sins under those diaphanous layers. We could form clubs, open restaurants where hoops would be a requirement. I’m seeing that this could be the sparkle that’s gone out of many of our middle aged lives.

Let me know how this works out for you. As for me, I’m going to take an aspirin as my tiara is giving me a headache.

Old Friends

Posted on November 4, 2012 by cloverhays

What is it about old friends? I have lots of friends, some close, some acquaintances, some “uppity”, some downright hillbilly. I enjoy all of them. I can pull myself together when the need arises to be as uppity as I need to be and, heaven knows, I can sink to some depths best not remembered. There’s something about OLD friends, though, the ones we make when we’re young, that cause all of us to let down our guard and regress right back to our youth.

I have a friend from fifth grade that I see maybe once a year, the Hollywood Glamour Girl. When we get together, we spend about an half an hour discussing what’s going on and telling each other how great we look and then one of us throws out a name from fifth grade, we both lean in and we’re off. We are still verbally dissecting that big bully, Brett, to smithereens and we still laugh about the time she stuck out her foot and tripped a boy named Fitz into the fireplace. Once, I looked down and she was wearing knee highs under her jeans, which made her ankles look tan, pink pom pom socks and new Adidas tennis shoes and I almost swooned with fashion jealousy. We still have to talk about that. Every time. When she reads this, she will contact me and we’ll talk about it again. You’re laughing because everyone does this. It just feels comfortable, like often washed jammies.

(In a total aside, spell check told me to check the spelling of Adidas and I had to go back to school in my mind in order to spell it. Remember when people said it stood for “all day I dream about sex?” I once wore a t-shirt with Adidas on it and a boy pointed and yelled that and I almost called my mother to bring me another. Now, of course, I’d just smack him but my fifth grade self was not as confident, what with the headgear and such!)

Last night, the Empress came to stay with me. I met the Empress when we ended up in the same beach house with a bunch of mutual college friends. Our old college group calls each other “our decent friends” said with a sneer and an accent. I despised the Empress on sight. I mean, I loathed her, that bitch. By the end of the first night, we were hanging all over each other and singing. I believe there was some table dancing in spandex skirts. She showered me with abuse about my clothes and I told her how she could improve upon her hairstyle. There are photos of our 80s glamour, our giant earrings, enormous hair, shoulder pads, swim suit tops that could stand alone on our frail 100lb. bodies and these should remain hidden. In typical 80s fashion, there was a LOT of time spent in hot tubs with this group. Those pictures have hopefully been burned (right Empress?).

When the Empress arrives, we circle each other for a minute or two and immediately start in on a conversation that does not take a breath for the entire time she’s here. The Goose loves the Empress and especially likes to hug her, often, needlessly, and a little too long, with a little too much caress, but even he has to make a retreat from us after a while.

We made our hair as large as possible and squeezed into our glitzy pants, put on heels and and went to a bar to watch our friend’s brother’s band last night. This friend was there when I met the Empress. Our diminutive best Lesbianese friend (she is not gay, but there is someone from Lebanon way back in her history and somehow, this whole thing got twisted) was in our group as well and I will not take the opportunity here to say that I once saw her and the Empress so altered that they were eating chips with ants on them off the sand at the beach. I would never do that.

ANYWAY, what is it about old friends that causes us to regress? The dancing we did last night has left us sore and achy (but not achy brakey). I know we did NOT look as good on the dance floor as we did in our minds, but who cares? The Goose sat and laughed at us all night, shaking his head like the old man that he is. My decent friends are my only group of friends who know that when someone yells out “boom boom” you immediately shout out loudly, and with gusto “out go the lights” and think it’s poetry. I’m sure I saw a glint of a tear when the band pulled out AC/DC. This was our music and our time. We say the same old things, talk as little about our kids and jobs as possible, revert to the same college behavior and crude humor and still see each other as wildly attractive, even though we are 50ish. It’s possible this is because of our diminished eyesight, but I’m choosing to believe otherwise. There are a lot of suggestive comments bandied about and it causes me, for one, to toss my hair around and bat my eyelashes.

You know fantasy football? I have a fantasy retirement compound that I’m constructing in my head. I am slowly filling it with those I love and would like to circle the wagons with when we get to retire. Pretty houses and gardens, lots of animals and, as the Goose likes to tease me, opossums and martinis hanging from trees. I am definitely filling it with my old friends, and only hope we can survive it and that those others around us that weren’t there back in the day will either join in or choose to be tolerant. Disclaimer: Were not as young as we used to be and there DEFINITELY won’t be any hot tubs!

Hallowiner

Posted on November 1, 2012 by cloverhays

So I’m lying here, enjoying Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin and relishing the fact that I’m not out walking little kids around door to door, freezing and trying to balance a flashlight, a two grubby little hands and a wine glass. Really, I’m just happy about the missing the cold. It’s a little sad to see that my mommy Halloween packed up it’s candy bag and left years ago. (This is where I’ll thank you, Cricket, not to bring up the fact that I sometimes let your dad take you and I stayed home to man the door with my friends and cocktails!)

I don’t understand those folks who claim to hate Halloween. I can’t even begin to address those who believe it’s evil. I grew up Baptist, my mother was perfect and thought Halloween was just fine and I’m sure she got that information directly from God. I went to Christian school and I know that NOWHERE does it say “thou shalt not dress as a Power Ranger and collect candy”.

Why, in the world, would anyone not want to put on a costume? I’ve frequently been known to whip on an old prom dress or glittery majorette costume just for Friday night cocktail hour. It just makes things more fun. The other day I had on a gown with a 6 ft. train and walked several times around the kitchen and considered it a good floor cleaning.

The Goose refuses to dress up. Twice, I’ve had him in a Halloween costume. When we were first married and he still could be moved by “a look”, I made him a Jolly Green Giant costume by dying a pair of long underwear green and making him a leaf dress to wear over it. I then covered him with green paint and went with him as Sprout. We went to a party at his boss’ house. Just this weekend I was reminiscing with his boss and he had the audacity to bring up the fact that there were parts of his house with traces of green paint, on carpets and walls for years. I am assuming he was commenting on our exuberant dancing and the Goose’s “nap” on the carpet sometime in the wee hours. I wish I still had a picture of it.

Several years ago, when he had become immune to “the look”, Cricket asked him to dress up and he did, briefly, wear a pair of fairy wings while downing some beers. Fifteen minutes, tops. I DO have a picture of this, but am not allowed to post it lest the Goose’s business associates realize he has a fun side and a family.

When the kids were little, we would become so overcome in the costume isle that I couldn’t say no and we would go home with a 2nd mortgage’s worth of costumes that required a change every hour. As Shep wore his for some part of everyday for two years, I felt I got my money’s worth. The child wore a batman cape and frog boots for two solid years, ever day. Everywhere. The costumes, the pumpkin candy holders, the nip in the air, neighbors, wine. I loved Halloween with little kids. I loved Halloween as a child. I really liked it as a teenager (except for the two month’s worth of trouble I was in afterwards…sorry, Mom and sorry to my date for all the throw up in his car. I mean, really, you make a drink that tastes like peppermint schnapps and expect kids to know when to say when? Seems like some kind of conspiracy to me!)

You know what else is great about Halloween? Parties. Parties where everyone dresses up, there’s lots of good stuff to eat and drink and, best of all, NO GIFTS! There is absolutely no stress about what to take and give. No wrapping, shopping, guessing if what you’ve brought is adequate. I love that. You just throw back a shot or two, put on a wig and, voila, good times. My love, the Trophy Wife and her husband, Big Poppy have a party that beats all others. In years past I have misbehaved to the extent that my children and husband have chastised me greatly for weeks. This year, I was SO good that I remember all parts of it and it was fantastic.

Wrapping up, Halloween is good and bad. On the surface, it’s fun, but it’s the sneaky little holiday that makes us think the oncoming winter is going to be okay. By Black Friday, most of us realize we’ve been duped and are already longing for spring. So it’s a good thing to give this scary night it’s homage. Now, it’s November, though, and I can’t help but think of the ugly woman with her make-up off on the morning after. Things just look bleak and scary with just the cold and the talk of the election. Ugh! Somebody hand me a fluffy dress, quick!

Women, the good, the bad and the crazy

Posted on October 21, 2012 by cloverhays

Talking about men is usually fun. We can poke fun at them and they don’t always understand. Plus, they’re interesting to watch, kinda like a wildlife special. Women aren’t always fun. A lot of the time, they’re dramatic, prickly and believe they’re always right. The women in my life are not like that. I just don’t have time for the serious ones or the ones you have to be careful around so you don’t make them grouchy. I only like REALLY fun women.

You even have to be careful about fun women sometimes. You can’t always spot the underlying crazy. Women who were once fun can take a drastic turn once they reach “a certain age”. I had a really fun friend who went, basically, how can I say it…bat shit crazy a few years ago. And not in a fun way. Everyone walks on eggshells around her and lives in fear. I haven’t spoken to her in two years. Scary stuff. Nothing feels better than cutting the bad ones free. That’s why we need a universal ladies intervention when we see it coming. There should be a ladies farm where they can go away and be reprogrammed.

My friend, the Trophy Wife, and I have “in case of crazy” clause in our friendship. If one of us does something wrong, the other will tell her and then hide behind something. I made her somewhat mad a while back and she said “this made me mad” and I said “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you mad. I’m sorry” and she said “k” and it was over. That’s how true friendships should work. Any unhappy drama takes away from the time that should be spent talking about important stuff. Like how much you both hate the mean women you know and how ugly their clothes are.

I’ve figured out that I like smart women. I have some women in my life that can fire back such rude and intelligent comments that a night around the dinner table with them is like a shoot out in the old west. I love that. I like to laugh and I want women who will pull out a boob at the mall if it will make me giggle. My daughter has inherited this and is so witty and sharp that the Goose and I are sometimes downright afraid.

My son picked up my phone the other day when I was driving and told me, shocked and quiet, that someone had sent me a message that that said “play, you disease ridden whore from hell”. Who would do such a thing? My favorite Words with Friends rival, that bald headed, wine swillin’, CHEATING, gorgeous fiend from my 9th grade english class, the Sweet Talker. The Sweet Talker is all the more shocking because every word that comes out of her mouth is sweet. She is the kindest, most supportive, lovingest woman on the planet, irresistible to dogs, children and baby pigs, but every so often, she comes out with something so vile that it’s hilarious. She is such fun that she let me take a 24 pack of sharpies to her head and draw paisley tattoos. Now that’s a cool chick.

My long time best buddy, the Empress, will mince no words telling me if I’ve come down with a case of chubby. She will come right out and tell me that my jeans are doing me no favors or that I could be doing something, anything, else with my hair. She will reach right out and re-situate my bosom in my shirt, in public. She would also be there to bail me out of jail should I need it, if she were not incarcerated along with me. One of her husbands once told us he had never heard two louder women when we’re together. Well, he’s gone and I’m still here so…

I like loud women. I like a woman who will root through my closet and take what she wants and then deny it (Peaches…okay, maybe I was wrong and there are TWO of those shirts) or dress up along with me if I want to wear my old prom dresses. I like a woman who will, after I make a tipsy fool of myself, tell me “no, honey, you were CUTE!”.

A good friend will hate your ex with you, hate your husband’s ex with you, will leave your drive thru dry cleaner with you and move to one in which you have to get out, in the rain, all because the old one shrunk something and then wouldn’t fix it. They will steal a boat with your encouragement. (Notice that I won’t elaborate on this.)

When I had Shep and my boobs became so engorged and miserable that I had to put cabbage in my bra, my friend chose that day to explode her implant, thus making her boobie condition as miserable as mine. I love that she spent hours on the phone with me, both of us on pain meds, describing our miserable racks. That is true and abiding friendship.

I hope all fun women have friends as cool as mine. I adore my girls. They entertain me every day. When I look back, there will be a LOT, a LOT of stories that will cause me to laugh. While all those other, quiet and respectable women are telling stories about their grandchildren, I hope to still be calling my friends in the morning and saying “Do you think we’re going to get caught? Think we got away with it?”.

Honey, I figured out what I’m doing off the TEE!

Posted on October 17, 2012 by cloverhays

I know I’ve discussed men. Most of us have one or have had one and some of us have had multiples. There are several repetitive discussions that go on in most homes that have a man living within it’s confines. The problem, as I see it, is that we women have failed to band together to formulate acceptable textbook dialogue for our part of these discussions. I imagine that the amount of superfluous conversation that could be rerouted and redirected towards a happier and more productive man could increase as much as 65%. It is our failure, ladies, not to take this situation in hand.

Here is a sample conversation as it stands in my home at least four days a week:

Goose: Honey, I’ve FINALLY figured out what I’m doing off the tee.

Me: Uh huh

Goose: See my wrist? It was turned .007% too much towards my elbow.

Me: Uh huh

Goose: It’s all in the wrist. Look! (Displays same wrist position I’ve seen 6,798,444 times).

Me: You’re blocking the tv.

Goose: See how straight that is now? (Shoots imaginary ball across the bedroom)

Me: Uh huh

Now, as I see it, men are only interested in telling us things we’re not interested in hearing. Do they ever talk to us about upholstery fabric? Shoes? Our deep thoughts and feelings? He’s only blabbering on about this because he’s not getting a reaction. The other day, I feigned interest and the conversation went like this:

Goose: Honey, I’m going to go to the club and use my new swing. I’ll probably shoot a 30 or something.

Me: I’d like to go along! I have a new golf skirt! We can hit the range for a while and then walk (for the exercise) 18 holes.

Goose: Uh, yeah, that sounds…

Me: And then I might like to look at some new clubs myself…

Goose: Well, actually, someone already asked me to play…

And this “off the tee” conversation has not been repeated in two weeks. This is because men are really talking to themselves and don’t want us in their stuff. In the same way that I ask him to run with me, I’m really thinking heaven forbid I have to drag his lazy fanny around with me. The one time he went with me this summer the moaning and complaining was biblical in nature. Still, I ask to be nice.

Men, no matter how great they are (and the Goose is a truly great husband), are simple in the way a good dog is simple. They want to be acknowledged, they don’t want us to know what they’re up to all the time and the just want a pat on the head when they do a good trick. And then there is Jeff Foxworthy’s take on what men want that is the Goose’s standard answer when I ask him what he’s thinking, “I just want a beer and to see something naked”.

I love it that men don’t come with all the drama that goes along with women, but if a man gets sick, we all know how that goes. Recently, I’ve had the first cold in years. It has been pretty miserable and has caused me to snore. Snoring is something I’ve heard for years. Now that the tables have turned, the Goose is walking around, pale and wan, from loosing a few moment’s sleep. I could literally be giving birth and the man would ask the doctor about his own suspicious symptoms . Once, I had to see an infectious disease doctor and when the doctor was through examining me, the Goose actually said the sentence “now, back to me…” while I reclined on the table, close to death. This has become a code sentence in our family and I think it sums up men in general. Maybe people in general. We care about our loved ones. We really do, we just want to talk about our own stuff and figure out what we’re doing off the tee.

My Divine Swine

Posted on October 12, 2012 by cloverhays

Soooo, I’m just a normal wife and mom. Today, I had the car cleaned and went and bought a new purse. I also returned library books and went by the bank and the cleaners. I am undistinguishable from lots of other women doing the same things to get their families back on track on a Monday. Of course, I’m doing all this with a pig in the car.

Remember a while back when I shared our mantra of “there’s no lovin’ like pig lovin”? This may be true but we have plenty of others that take precedence such as “I need new shoes”, “where are we going for dinner” and “who wants wine?”. The Goose looks forward to a time when he can retire, travel and golf without the restrains of a farm. I, myself, am a little tired of cleaning and feeding creatures. I don’t know what I’m looking forward to but I know it’s not cleaning up poo!

That said, I now have a tiny stunning little pig named Babette, currently wearing a little turtleneck sweater and a pink rhinestone harness sitting in the seat of my fabulous new grown up car. Uh huh, I said grown up.

Let me digress and discuss how this happened. I realize that faced with the evidence of a hog in my house that my tippling may, indeed, be more of a problem than I’d previously thought. You know those low carb diets? All last week I ate low carb. By Friday, I was not only so much smaller that my jeans once again fit, but I was angry enough to commit a gory dissection of anyone crossing me. It just makes a girl angry to pass up a chip!

So, after being good all week I made a low carb cocktail. Then, I made just one more little one…Then, my family went to the fair.

Those who know me know my hatred of all animal cruelty. I hate circuses, I hate animals for sale at the fair, giveaway goldfish, I even hate the men who drive the Tyson chicken trucks that drive the little chickens to their doom. The fair is NOT the place to offer animals for sale because some stupid person who cannot take care of an animal might just be overcome with the loveliness of livestock and take something home. Again, those without sin, cast the first stone.

So, I apparently rode the Himalaya twice, said two wildly inappropriate things and gave the man working the Tyson tent a dressing down that he won’t soon forget. Filthy rotten killer. I also said Cricket could get a pig.

In my rational mind, I am sure I would have told her no. I have no idea what the breakdown was with the Goose, but she must have beaten him down as well. He’s middle aged, it’s not hard to do.

We are now cooing over this baby like she’s our own little black bristled, snouted, illegitimate grandchild, swaddling her and passing her back and forth lest she become fatigued walking from room to room. My friends have come to behold her lovely countenance and to snuggle her divine little jelly bean shaped body. There is a lot of sickening baby talk and coochie-cooing. When I was placing an order for a client on the phone the other day, I scooped up Babette, who produced a demon possessed pig squeal, and I just brushed it aside with a “oh, I’m babysitting” comment. If the person on the other end had concerns about my baby’s respiratory condition or soul she didn’t say.

This morning, my housekeeper, who continues to amuse me with her limited English sayings, said “Miz, there is little pork in room”. I can only imagine the things she tells her family about us.

We wanted to make her wear preemie diapers but she is already house trained! She is so tiny that Chihuahua clothes won’t fit. Her teensy hooves? Painted and glittered. She oinks every little step she takes just like a child’s toy. She chases the dogs when they chase a ball, her front feet moving together and her back feet together so that when both are extended, she looks like she’s flying. I will not stoop to a “when pigs fly” joke here. I have some pride. Yesterday I got her a bed, a halloween costume and a special little bowl with roses and bows, but I’m not bragging.

Not being a huge human baby person, I fail to see how I could be a better grandmother to any baby than I am to Babette. I feel I am doing a great job hiding my resentment every time Cricket and her BF, Tutu, walk in the door and demand her, believing themselves to be her actual parents. I just hope my children appreciate me and remember it when I file for joint custody when Cricket tries to move out with her. Nobody takes MY baby!

Signs

Posted on October 10, 2012 by cloverhays

My friend and running partner, Peaches, is a great girl. In any situation, she has my back. She will listen to my problems, nodding wisely and always agreeing. If I were in a barroom brawl, she would first hold my earrings and take my plate of nachos. After eating them (the nachos, not the earrings), she would join right in the fight. We talk about a lot of things that make us shake our heads during our runs and she has a saying that sums up a lot of situations, “people, they’re the worst!”.

People are the worst many times, but, dang it, they’re entertaining. My daughter Cricket gets a big kick out of signs. She takes pictures of some that she knows will one day be included in her great coffee table best seller. (We already have our outfits picked out to wear on the Today Show.) The sign that started it all for us was near our lake place at the Baptist church. Imagine the conversation with the kids on the way home Easter Sunday after reading “The Easter Bunny Did Not Rise From the Grave!”. Now, that’s a real egg hunt downer.

Some churches are getting into the groove by trying to be hip. Picturing Jesus with a Facebook kinda seems wrong to me, but I don’t know…

Some are just taking it too far and it’s downright creepy! Recently, we’ve seen the church around the corner from us ask “Have You Had Your Heart Checked By Dr. Jesus?” and the even more disturbing “Sin, Drop It Like It’s HOT!”. These bother me. And, worst of all, what about these two? WTH???

Cricket sent me a picture of this sign, which sums up the thinking of my friend, The Trophy Wife, and me at our local package store. Several times, we’ve laughed so hard we’ve had to put our heads down on the counter while Mr. Wong, who just doesn’t get it, patiently waits while we go through the visual in our heads. We have certainly entertained others waiting in line with our long and laughter interrupted explanation of what we think might have been tried in the past. Mr. Wong refuses to join in our mirth by either confirming or denying what has been tried. The sign simiply says “Finger Use Only” on the pen pad. Well, WHAT, exactly has been tried that caused this? Because of our enhanced senses of humor and our immaturity this has been causing us to laugh for three years. But maybe that’s just us…

Our whole family enjoys a misspelling. For years, we’ve frequented the corner store near us that sells “bisquites and cantalopes”. This has caused a permanent pronunciation issue with all of us. Spelling is important. I am sure this church was confused about the meaning of this sermon!

From what I read in the papers and hear on the news, human nature is mostly rotten. People are, oftentimes, the worst. Still, there’s that crazy bit of humanity that causes some man to roll over and wake his wife saying “honey, I got an idear” and the next day Jesus, Santa and a gnome are installed in the plastic Playschool playhouse in the front yard, strung with Christmas lights as the nativity scene, and that, folks, is what gives me hope.

What Would Doris Day Say?

Posted on October 1, 2012 by cloverhays

Occasionally, when my good family gets up to attend church, I decline. In past years, I sometimes made up a headache (not always made up after Saturday night), a sore throat or female malady. These days, I just decline on the basis of not being able to face my closet. It seems monumental, especially in winter, to pull together an outfit. So, sometimes, I opt to be home alone. This allows for my favorite indulgence ever, the Doris Day movie event.

Inevitably, on any given Sunday, (take that, you sports freaks), there will be a Doris Day movie playing during the morning hours. If the day is cloudy and cold, it is almost too delicious to bear.

I get that women needed to vote, I understand equality, I fully agree that women should be paid on level with men, but ladies, ladies, oh what we let slip along the way.

There are 11 truths that can be gleaned from Doris Day. They are, in no particular order:

Gold Lame goes with anything. If you are wearing your husband’s t-shirt and boxers and whip on a gold lame wrap, you can achieve a glamour level of 7 or above in an instant.
If you just use a soft voice and a lovely smile while you are plotting something devious, adding in a sexy nod of the head, you will certainly get away with it. I’m sure DNA evidence and detailed autopsies will make this harder for today’s ladies, but, in the event of questioning, I’d again suggest the lovely toothy smile.
Every woman should own and wear long silk peignoir sets instead of the aforementioned t-shirt and boxers. Apparently, the sight of these render a man senseless and this, girls, is when you should ask for that kitchen remodel or new car. If you are asking for a new kitchen, I know a really good designer.
A rich handsome man can always be reformed.
If one is angry, there is no need to swear, crossing one’s eyes and blowing one’s bangs is enough to cause husbands, shopkeepers and milkmen to quake. In this case, I’d have to agree. Today’s TV has upped the epic tantrum level across the board and no one pays attention to an angry chick unless a car is driven through the garage door or something is thrown and broken. I say, bring back the seething and the searing looks.
There just can’t be enough satin, leopard prints, and kitten heels in our lives.
Periodically, men should be coming home with gifts artfully wrapped where we can just lift off the lid and the box will remain beautiful. There should be something really good in there. Really good.
Everyone needs a handsome gay friend like Rock Hudson.
Women look great in hats. When and why did we give up hats? Women love accessories and we just let that one get away. I submit that the emergence of the enormous handbag is overcompensating our phantom pain over the loss of our hats. Can you imagine going shopping with your friend and getting a fabulous hat? Taking it home in a box? How fun would that be? If every woman went out today and purchased a glamourous hat and we all agreed to wear them, say, next Tuesday, we could change the world.
All the remaining problems in the world, once we bring back hats, can be solved while talking on the phone to our best friend while sitting in a bubble bath.
Sleeping with Cary Grant is the best revenge. Wait, that just slipped out. Well, I’ll let it stand because, um, CARY GRANT! Without a doubt still the dishiest man ever. Ever.

So, by the time my family comes home I’m out of bed, a blue bird on my shoulder, wearing an apron and humming a tune. If I knew how to bake a pie I would, but I don’t want to have to try out the toothy smile while explaining poisoning to the police just yet. These movies give me a happy feeling all day and it makes me think that we’ve gone awry somewhere. Things just seemed lovelier back then. I am longing for a big hairdo and a pastel colored car.

My Doris has, in fact, given us many life lessons not the least of which is why have we given up being glamorous? Today, let’s all put on our gold wraps and false eyelashes, don our heels and try out our lovely smiles and nods today and see just what we can get away with.