Grown up men


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!



ImageSo 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!


My Divine Swine


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!