Warning: This post may contain bad/bleeped words!

Since we had some chicken that was nearing its eat at your own risk date, I decided to make stir fry for lunch. I’ve made this chicken stir fry many, many times and without incident. That is, until today.

It all started with the damn broccoli. You know how some supermarkets sell heads of broccoli in plastic bags that are held shut by super strong scotch tape from hell? Well, I tried to break that tape by pulling it apart with my hands. I pulled and I pulled and all I accomplished was nearly severing my fingers. Yes, I could’ve simply pulled the plastic bag apart, but I wasn’t letting the sumbitchin’ tape win! Frustrated (pissed off is more like it), I took a sharp knife and vehemently cut through the evil plastic which was keeping me from my favorite cruciferous vegetable. Feeling vindicated, full of myself and super mighty, I cut the tape off the next bag of broccoli. With a satisfied grin on my face, I slit open the third one, too. Take that!! Ha ha. I blew on the end of my knife as if it were a big ass shotgun — or, like I was blowing out birthday candles — something that makes me seem a little less maniacal.

Next, it was the onions. We keep ours near the sink in a lower cabinet drawer. I reached down, pulled the drawer open and grabbed a couple of small onions, closed the drawer and began the peeling and chopping process. I routinely sauté the broccoli by itself for a few minutes before adding the other ingredients while I also stir fry some cauliflower rice in a separate skillet. Everything was going as planned, the chicken joined the broccoli in the wok and it was time for the onions. I walked over to the counter on the opposite side of our kitchen where the chopped onions awaited on my favorite red plastic chopping board. I picked them up then spun around, a bit too enthusiastically, back toward the stove. Half of those damn onions flew off the board onto the floor [insert my eye roll]. Fine! I’ll just chop another onion and you can just lie there on the floor for all I care! I removed the broccoli from the stove so it wouldn’t burn and headed back to the onion drawer.

There was only one small onion left in that little mesh bag marked “sweet onions,” and I couldn’t find the opening. Obviously, there had to be an opening in this sumbitchin’ bag, otherwise it would still be full of sumbitchin’ onions. I turn it around and around trying to find the opening without success. I even tried to rip the mesh apart with my hands, because that worked so well with the bags of broccoli. At this point, I’m so irritated and seriously through with things being so difficult, I took that bag, the one holding my onion captive, and proceeded to beat it against the open drawer. Onion skins flew everywhere! Breeeeathe. Relentless in my pursuit of that damn onion, I finally got the cotton-picking thing out by cutting a new hole in the bag with my sharp knife (the same one which freed my broccoli)…well, I may have cut a few. Or maybe shredded it completely. Nevertheless, my lone onion was freed and was, surprisingly, still in good shape after its brutal assault. I figured it would be paste. So, I chopped it up and placed it with the others — the ones that didn’t jump ship. By this time, the cauliflower rice was done and I moved the skillet to a burner that was not being used. I scraped the onions off the cutting board and set it aside. A few minutes later, my stir fry is complete and it’s time to do some eating. Ah, paradise.

After I retrieved a bowl from the cabinet, I went to move my cutting board out of the way. I picked it up and it felt uncharacteristically heavy, seeing as there was nothing on it. In the midst of all this, I had laid my favorite red plastic cutting board on the hot burner where the cauliflower rice had been cooking. When I picked it up there were lots of hot, red strings stretched out like tentacles trying to keep the board attached to the stove. Yet another mess for me to clean up. Yay!

At long last…the onion skins along with the dropped onions were swept up, the melted cutting board was cleaned off the stove and its remains tossed in the garbage, and my delicious, hard-earned meal was ready to eat. I paused for a moment, standing in front of the stove, just admiring my culinary masterpiece. I felt proud of myself for conquering all the obstacles that attempted to impede the realization of this delicious lunch. As the wonderful aroma of chicken stir fry tantalized my tastebuds, I reached for a large spoon to fill my bowl and said, “F**k it. I’m eating a turkey sandwich!”

How a person with A.D.D. reads a book in ten easy steps:

1. Select a book. It can be paper or Kindle, matters not.

2. Find a comfortable, cozy place to sit down and read the book.

3. Read a chapter or two, then have the overwhelming feeling that you’re missing something exciting somewhere else near you. Yes, you’re definitely missing something during this reading time.

4. Put book down and go investigate what you’re sure you are missing.

5. Find that it’s nothing.

6. Get distracted by any other thing on the way back to the comfortable seat and your book. 

7. Hours, days, weeks, maybe even months go by and you still have not returned to your book.

8. Realize that you really do have the desire to finish the book you’d started. But, your comfortable seat is like the repelling pole of a magnet, preventing you from relaxing enough to sit still and focus.

9. Order the book on Audible so the author can read it to you through your Bluetooth earbuds while you do all the other things that distract you from sitting down to read an actual paper/Kindle book.

10. Actually finish a book, audibly. Happy girl!

Who knew?!

We have eight barn cats. Well, let me rephrase that. I have eight barn cats. My husband basically tolerates their presence, for me. He’s very sweet like that. Each of my (he he) barn cats have psychiatric issues, for real. But, for today, we’re going to focus on Whiskers, the spasticat!

Whiskers, is a gray-striped tabby cat that just showed up at our place late last summer and liked it so much she made it her permanent home. From the moment she arrived she was and has remained very skittish, you know, being a street-smart stray and all, she simply didn’t trust humans. She seemed to adapt to her kitty step-sisters and step-brother rather quickly and she was eating alongside them in no time. A few weeks later, I noticed that she was getting awfully plump and instinctively knew she was pregnant. No cat is gonna get that fat and that quickly from dry cat food. I provided her with a lovely birthing place up in the covered playground in our back yard. It was a very cozy box with soft bedding and I knew she’d feel safe up there with her babies, out of the weather and away from would be predators. I’d climb up there at least daily to take a peek at them and, of course, I did it one time too many which prompted Whiskers to move her brood. After some searching, I found them inside some tires in our garage and way too close to my car. Having lost two kittens years earlier after they’d climbed up underneath my car only to fall out onto the road as I was driving, I was not about to experience that again. I quickly moved the kittens back into their cozy birthing habitat and carried it to the kitty loft in the rear of our pole barn. Now, the tricky part was catching the momma and moving her, too. While she was eating with the other cats, I was able to manuever myself close enough to be within grabbing distance of her neck. She very quickly picked up on this, shrewd lil shedevil that she is, and moved away from me. I hung around a minute or two, just watching them eat, then started my manuever again with the Mission Impossilbe theme song playing in my head. At the precise moment that I was close enough, I reached down and grabbed the back of her neck and held on with all my might. With my arm held straight out in front of me and Whiskers’ struggling body dangling from my hand, I went running through the yard to the kitty loft where I tossed her up toward her birthing box as if she were a bale of hay. With utter indignance, she shook it off and then surveyed the new location. Thankfully, other than one more attempt to move her babies back to the tires, Whiskers was content and that’s where they remained for several weeks.

Once the kittens were weaned and about twelve weeks old, the boys went to live with my youngest daughter and I kept the girls. I named the black and white one Pistolina because we thought our male cat, Pistol, was her daddy. Funny note: After this litter, I took Pistol get him neutered, but it turned out he had already been fixed. I always thought that the process of neutering included ball removal, but Pistol still had his balls. At least they looked like balls. Neverthelss, Pistolina kept her name. Who knows who her father could be–her mother was such a slut. The other girl, a gray-striped tabby cat who looks exactly like her mother, I named Whiskers II. Interestingly, the two brothers were also a black and white one and a gray-striped tabby.

It was an incredibly difficult task catching Whiskers to take her to the vet’s office with her daughters for spaying. Since I’d captured her once before, she knew my tactics–on land–with dry cat food. But, this time, the feat would take place in the kitty loft, a much smaller area. Mwah ha ha. I placed a cardboard box up there in anticipation of the great capture. The evening before the group hysterectomies, which had to be rescheduled multiple times because I wasn’t able to catch Whiskers, I climbed up the ladder to the kitty loft and hung out, casually holding a can of wet cat food. Skillfully, I coaxed this hungry momma cat just close enough that I could reach the scruff of her neck. She managed to get away from me twice. The hunger must’ve been intense for her to come for the wet cat food that third time–and she was mine!! I got a handful of the back of her neck and was gonna be damned if I’d let go–come scratch, bite or claws, that bitch was getting fixed because we were having no more kittens! I quickly shoved her into the box and had to hold her close to the bottom while closing all the flaps. After some struggle, she relented, finally accepting defeat and I was able to close the box. While holding the top of the box securely and tightly to my chest, I climbed down the ladder and ran to the garage where I secured the flaps with package tape. I wasn’t allowing any chance of her escaping again. She was already displaying signs of being in heat, the horny bitch. And, off to the vet we went — at last!

Over the last 12 months or so, I’ve been able to pet Whiskers, but only while she’s eating. Ironic, isn’t it, seeing as that’s how I captured her butt on both occasions. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed those brief moments of affection, she is so fluffy and soft. She and her daughters are still very close and most times all three sleep together on a cushioned chair on our back porch. Without fail, though, whenever I open the back door, they jump off the chair and run into the yard before I take the first step outside. That is, except for Pistolina. She’s been warming up to me over the last several months and I can actually pet her pretty easily.

Earlier this afternoon, I was looking out the back door, glanced at the communal chair and saw Whiskers, sleeping alone. As I began turning the knob to unlock the door, I watched for her routine and expected departure from the chair. I mean, any other time, a simple knock on the door would have her running. But, she remained asleep. I turned the door handle and it made it’s usual metallic sounds, and she remained asleep. I opened the door completely and waited a few seconds for her to acknowledge my movement. She remained asleep. Well, this was new! No longer attempting to be subtle, I went out onto the porch, let the door shut, and called, “Kitty kitty.” Nothing. This was getting seriously weird. I moved closer to her and noticed her ears and paws were twitching and I called out, “KITTY KITTY,” in a louder voice. Still nothing. Oh my gosh, is she dead? Is that rigor mortis I’m seeing — not mere twitching? I called again, much louder. Nothing! Does anyone know cat CPR?! As the image of hubby having to dig yet another hole in the pet cemetary for this cat who was obviously on her way out began running through my head, I touched the cushion near where she was resting her chin to see if that would get a rise out of her. Still nothing! Having an aversion to touching dead bodies, I mean any dead body, I tapped the cushion near her head a bit harder to confirm that she was dead or in the process of dying while anticipating an emergency trip to the vet when — she flat bolted off that chair like a firecracker had been shot out of her butt! It scared the crap out of me! While I was standing there catching my breath and tryng to slow my racing heart, Whiskers proceeds to sit in the grass looking dazed and confused with a face that said “What the….?” Then, I said, “I didn’t know cats could sleep that deep!” She had no response, of course, and continued to sit there in the grass, still stunned as if I’d rudely awakened her after a night of heavy drinking.

Well, who of you knew cats could sleep that soundly? I sure didn’t!

A word of encouragement for parents of two kids

Do your children seem to fight nonstop and constantly accuse you of favoring their sibling? Well, congratulations. That means you are doing a fantastic job! My theory is that if both kids have the same complaint about the other, that means they’re both getting the same treatment, right? You’re welcome. Now, have a beer or a glass of wine and relax with your favorite Netflix series. You got this.

The same goes for families of three or more children. That is, if they are each pointing to a different sibling. Now, if you’re the parent of two or more children and all fingers are pointing toward the same child as being the favorite, golden child–well…you’re screwed. I don’t know how to help you feel better about that. I tried. No beer or wine for you. [I’m kidding, of course.]

Good night.

I’m a late bloomer

No, I’m not talking about the development of secondary sex characteristics, I was on time for that. I’m talking about current trends, popular movies, and the latest music, etc. For instance, ABBA was a huge sensation when I was in high school, yet I wasn’t thrilled with their music at the time. Sure, I sang along when I knew the lyrics, but I’d do that with any song on the radio. Currently, I find myself in love with their music and the meaningful lyrics to each song. However, it could be connected to me attending two community theater productions of Mamma Mia last fall.

Y’all may want to sit down for this one: I have not see the original Star Wars movie, or any of the sequels. Are you okay? Breathe!! Should I call 9-1-1? The movie premiered when I was in high school and I went on a drive-in movie date to see it. My boyfriend and I were lying on our stomachs with hatchback open, our heads supported by our arms and our eyes glued to the big screen. We were ready to be completely mezmerized by this motion picture. Less than thirty minutes into it, I was completely bored, rolled over onto my back and proceeded to watch the real stars up in the sky until the movie was over. I’m pretty sure he forgot I was even in the car with him, he realllly liked the movie.

When Titanic was the motion picture of the moment, I didn’t go to the theater to see it. I didn’t watch it until a few years later on a VCR in the comfort of my living room. I knew one of the main characters died and I wouldn’t watch it until someone told me which one. I don’t normally want to hear any spoilers, that time was different.

I haven’t watched a single episode of Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, or any crime drama series on primetime TV or Netflix. Pretty sure that’s not going to change. No offense to anyone.

I guess it’s that I’m not immediately interested in the next big thing or the most popular shows or movies. I march to my own drum in state of sweet oblivion to the current trends, and may or may not catch up later. Can you visiualize a comic strip of me doing that? I can. Ha ha. I suppose that’s why the peer pressure in high school wasn’t that effective on me. If I didn’t want to “C’mon, just try it, you might like it,” I simply wasn’t going to do it. Maybe it’s that I am a rebel–that is, according to an online personality quiz I took recently. Or, maybe it’s procrastination, you know, the I’ll get around to that sometime and my sometimes take a long while.

This is just me pondering on a Saturday morning, enjoying my daily cup of the juice of life, while swaying and singing along with ABBA on Apple Music.

“I believe in angels, something good in everything I see…”

Patience…or, what I refer to as the “P” word

I’ll start with this: My husband has told me many times, “Patience is a virtue.” This is like telling a hysterical and emotionally unglued person to just calm down. Works great, am I right? Not! My typical response to my husband is, “Well, I never claimed to be virtuous.” Patience is not one of my virtues although I strive to improve upon it every day–I really do. That being said, I have a few thoughts on the subject.

If you’re driving 10-20 miles below the speed limit on a 2-lane road and there are cars lined up behind you as far as the eye can see, you are an inconsiderate jerk! Pull over and let others pass. Yes, you have the right to drive slowly if you choose, but we also have the right to do the actual speed limit–sometime today! To the elderly man who lives near us who routinely drives 25 mph on our country roads, I sincerely apologize. I’m striving to do better.

If you are one of those people who drives the exact same speed as the car in the other lane thereby blocking every other car behind you, both of you are jerks! I have no apology for you right now, but I’m striving to do better.

I have a confession. I am an impatient driver. I apologize right now if I’ve ever cut you off in traffic, honked or flipped you the bird. I’m striving to do better. Seriously, I am. There are days when I have the purest of intentions to drive only the posted speed limit, to not pass a single car, and to enjoy a nice peaceful drive to my destination. I have, I’m proud to say, actually achieved that goal–like 4 and 1/2 times.

If you are one of those people at the grocery store who waits until every one of your 124 items are scanned and placed in bags before you even begin to remove your payment method, you are a jerk! I apologize to those of you who must do things in a certain order for your emotional stability. I’m striving to do better.

If you’re one of those people in the drive-thru line who pull forward 6 feet and then stop to check your food order, you are a jerk! I mean, seriously. You’re too far from the window at that point to even attempt backing up if you find your order to be incomplete. That, and the car behind you is about 9 inches from your bumper, and the car behind me is 9 inches from my bumper, and so on and so on. Get out the way, park and check your freaking food! Deep breath. I’m striving to do better.

Is a lack of sufficient patience a character flaw or is it simply one’s nature and, more importantly, is it something which can be learned? I’d sincerely like to know the answer to that while I’m striving to do better. Can anyone answer the question? Anyone?! Sometime today would be grrrreat!

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Patience is a virtue. Well, I got your virtue right here!

I’m striving to do better.

I thought I’d share another one of my poems with you tonight. I wrote it in December 2017, after this interaction.

I Hugged A Stranger Today

I saw her in the doorway

Tears streaming down her face

We were strangers to each other

Meant to meet here in this place

Others walked on past her

Without a word or glance

I simply could not do that

And decided to take a chance

I asked her politely

“Hello, are you okay?”

She said that she was fine

But, I couldn’t walk away

Instead, I walked up toward her

Around her, my arms did go

I hugged her warm and gently

I cared, and she should know

We didn’t exchange a name

And went our separate ways

But my life feels much fuller

I hugged a stranger today

It’s day thirteen, I need to blog

But my head seems in a fog

A power nap I tried indeed

And dreamed that I was smoking weed

I’ve not done that in 40 years

Though I can hear the hippies’ cheers

It’ll be legal one day you’ll see

But don’t you pass that roach to me

It made me restless years ago

And paranoid the cops would know

My train of thought done left the station

To an undisclosed location

Tomorrow is another day

Surely I’ll have more to say

It could be funny or may be deep

Could be thoughts that rob your sleep

Regardless you’ll be entertained

My 10+ readers who have remained

The things that really surprise me…

The subject of today’s blog comes to you via the suggestion of a very sweet man named John S. Thompson. It was six days ago that my eldest daughter asked John what I should write about in my blog. John answered, “The things that really surprise me.” I’ve thought about this every day since and couldn’t come up with a thing. I had no monumental answers, nothing that wouldn’t be on most people’s list of life’s surprises such as having twins when only one child was expected, winning an award, or a surprise party on a milestone birthday. But, I’ll share a couple of mine anyway.

The first thing that surprises me is that no matter how old you are, you don’t feel any differently just because you’ve had another birthday. It doesn’t matter if you’re 20, 41, or 58. People may ask me, “What’s it feel like to be fifty-eight years old?” Well, the truth is, it feels just like it did at 57, 56, 55…23. That’s exactly what my mother told me many years ago when I’d asked her how it felt to be her age. As it turns out, you bring you along with you through every birthday. It’s not like you go to bed one age and wake up in morning a year older with a whole new perspective. It seems that chronological age does not directly affect your core self. You still feel like — well, you. That is unless you have a midlife crisis at 29 years old like I did (not a joke), then you feel like somebody else, temporarily.

The second thing that surprises me is that the love you will feel for your grandchildren is immense, powerful and defies description. It’s not that you love them more than your children, it’s that the love you feel for your children is multiplied exponentially and heaped onto the grandchildren. It’s not easily explained, though anyone who’s been a grandparent will surely understand. It is an exceptionally, very special relationship.

Today, thanks to a funny photo shared by my magical friend, Linda, I became inspired to answer John’s question by my dearly departed father’s immortal words. The photo Linda shared was of a candle with a naughty word on it and the scent of this candle was Go-Ask-Your-Dad Vanilla. I giggled and messaged back, “My father’s candle would be named Peace-and-Quiet Chocolate!” Let me explain.

As far back as I can remember, whenever any of us asked Dad what he wanted for Christmas, or his birthday, or Father’s Day, he would inevitably shout, “PEACE AND QUIET!” I always took it as joke or that it was just our Dad being our Dad. Maybe he said it because he didn’t even know what he wanted. We just adopted it as a family joke and blamed it on him being a cantankerous and grumpy father at times, not that we kids were loud and obnoxious — ever. Now, I wish I would’ve asked him what exactly he meant by it.

Now…What really surprises me is how I’ve come to understand Dad’s statement and how I wish for the same things. It’s not a joke or me being cantankerous or grumpy. I truly, in my soul, desire these things in my life.

As my head hits the pillow every night, I wish for peace in knowing that I’d done all I could that day, that I did my best, and to quiet that squeaky inner voice that points out what I could’ve done and how much better I could have done it. I wish for peace in the awareness that I can handle anything that life throws at me, just as I have done thus far, and to quiet the tenuous, staticky, underlying feeling of impending doom and waiting for the other shoe to drop that ever so subtly attempts to erode that peace. I wish for peace in the realization that my my husband, our children and their children are all healthy, happy and well taken care of, and to quiet that logical realist who whispers, “But, anything can happen to anyone at any time.” I wish for peace in knowing that it’s all going to be okay, that it is what it is and we will get through it, and to quiet, stifle and successfuly gag that annoying doubting Thomas who doesn’t believe that to be the case. Thomas just needs to shut the hell up.

Tonight, as your head hits the pillow, I wish you peace. You did all you can do today. You are doing the best that you can. And, I wish you quiet. Take a deep breath and release it slowly, along with your worries. Repeat. Your weary mind needs to rest now. Tomorrow is another day and it’s going to be okay.

While caring for my father years ago…

One night, I told Dad the story of a patient I’d had at the VA when I was working nights as a nurse aide. Every time I’d go into this man’s room, he’d ask me, “Am I dead yet? Am I dead yet?” I’d say, “If you were dead, how could you be talking to me?” He’d answer, “I don’t know. Am I dead yet?” He literally asked me this every time I entered his room. Later that night, this patient’s nurse and I had to clean him up as he had soiled himself. Once we had him all cleaned and cozy, we had to pull him up toward the top of the bed so his head would be on his pillow. As we were lifting and pulling him with the draw sheet, his eyes rolled back in his head, his body went limp, and he died. Light’s out. Game over. Dead. During this same week, the same nurse and I pulled another patient up in bed, and that patient also died, but not immediately. It was later that night. Due to these events, my co-workers gave me the lovely nickname of–you guessed it, “The Grim Reaper.” 

Evidently, Dad had given my story some thought, and the next morning he asked me why those events had earned me such a nickname. I told him, “Because both patients died after we’d pulled them up in the bed.” After a brief pause, Dad asked, “Did you pull them up by their necks?”