Tag Archives: up

Grown up men

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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!

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Gag me with a spoon

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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.

Hallowiner

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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!

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