Friday, August 8, 2014

And...We're Back, with Things I Overhear Around the House

My teenagers share my odd sense of humor, plus a whole different one of their own, so, a lot of times they'll be laughing their heads off and I don't get it.  But still.

Here are a few things I have randomly heard around here lately, in no particular order.

Youngest:  If I licked a penny, I could tell you what state it's from.

Oldest:  I just sprayed myself with Febreze so I'd smell better.  I think I've hit a new low.

Youngest (to Oldest):  If you were a spice...you'd be onion powder.

Oldest:  Dude.  It's weird to think about things you don't normally...think about.

Oldest to Youngest (who is staring into the fridge):  Whatcha lookin' for?     Youngest:  Love.

Youngest (about extreme close-up of a famous actor on a movie):  Ayy, yo gonna recycle those bags under ya eyes?

Or one of my favorites--this text conversation:

Photo: Oh Christie.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Adult Children of Narcissists: It's Not You, It's Them


I had this post rattling around composing itself in my head overnight, after talking to my mom last night, which means it's time to write it down.  Not everything is funny all the time, (actually, most of life isn't funny, most of the time), but I needed to write this one and get it out of my head and off my heart. 

I can already promise you, I'm going to go long on this one.  It's been hard to write, and even harder to hit *publish*.  

Where to start?

If you know me, and most of you don't, you may know that my parents divorced in 1988, after 21 years together, and about 18 months after our house (that we built) burned to the ground.  I was barely 18; my brother was 12.  My dad was, (and is) an alcoholic, womanizing narcissist with the IQ of a genius, the motivation of a sloth, and the wiliness of a fox.  He was born with the proverbial silver spoon, to wealthy parents who worshipped him and would have given him the moon, if he'd done what they wanted (Yale doctorate, the Air Force, marry a socialite, and live in a mansion on the beach at Ocean City). 

Instead he started drinking, smoking, and philandering in prep school, and he just never stopped.  Even after meeting my mom and spending 21 years married, he never stopped.  He pretended to be sober and even dragged himself to church for about a decade in the 80s with us, while spending exactly no time at any job, but lots of time scribbling new business schemes on napkins and rambling about black helicopters.  He never expressed any interest in us as a family or his responsibilities as a husband and father, unless there was credit to be taken.  He was good at showing up when we were getting awards for stuff.

When I was 16, our house burned down, while my mom was visiting back east in DC.  Three days away, by train.  In fact, it caught fire the morning she was getting on the train, so she got to sit there on a train for 3 days, knowing that she was coming home to:  Nothing.  Rumors abounded that he had set the fire in order to avoid a) bankruptcy and foreclosure or b) having to say that, hey, I hate being married and having a family.  Can you please go away now? So, maybe he did…no one knows but him.  Either way, it worked out pretty great for him, one might think, except for the part where we all still didn't go away.  We're funny that way.

After the fire, our family moved into a rental.  We had a fundraiser and got a bunch of lame second-hand stuff given to us so we could have clothes and shoes and chairs and beds and plates, and our family rolled along under the pretense that we were still a family, in the sense that we all still shared an address.  He started working out of town, which is code for…living a separate life in another town with his new girlfriend(s).  Mom made sure that my brother and I didn't see anything wrong for about another year and a half, until she finally took a hint that maybe this guy just doesn't want to BE HERE anymore. 

 She took my brother and moved back to Vermont, leaving me in Idaho to finish my last 3 months of high school and live on my own, one month shy of my 18th birthday.  I had been dating my now-husband/hero/best friend/soul mate for about 8 months by then, so she couldn't have dragged me with her if she'd tried.  I'm glad I stayed, but it wasn't an easy place to be at 18 years old, with a closet full of *nothing you recognize from your childhood*, a failed plan to get to college, no money or job, and my dad waving his new girlfriend in our face.

My POINT today is that, all these years, we have kept in touch with this man.  We have (and yes, I mean, EVEN MY MOTHER) actually met and accepted many of his various girlfriends along the way.  I truly liked several of them.  Nice women.  Smart women.  Women who were willing to listen to his BS story and carry his weight for awhile, until each one realized they needed to get away from this self-aborbed man before their lives imploded.

My mom spent her married life telling herself that if only he'd get sober, he'd be OK.  So, we watched him go through AA and get sober, after they divorced.  He stayed sober for 10 years, (for real), and you know what? Nothing changed.  He was still the same soul-less narcissist whose stories are all basically just lies…only he tells them in such a way that you believe them, and you realize that he seems to believe them, too.  That is when you realize you may be dealing with a mad man.

We watched him, after 10 years of sobriety (though still a narcissistic center-of-his-own-universe kind of guy), get involved with yet another new woman.  She liked to have wine with dinner, and she can have had no earthly way of knowing what she was encouraging, but he started having "a glass of wine with dinner.  We're all grownups here.  I can have a glass of wine with dinner.  I'm fine."  This fairly quickly escalated downhill.  Fast-forward to today, where it's more like a "glass of scotch with brunch".  Or two.  There have been years where I knew he was coming, so I stashed my Christmas-baking mini-bottles of rum and brandy in the back of my baking cabinet, and after he had gone home, they were all empty.  He did sneakily leave the ones at the front of the cabinet, still somewhat full, but the ones in the back?-- EMPTY. 

WTH? Really?  You have to sneak my rum?  Just ask me…you can have it.

We have all have tried to include him at various holidays through the years.  My mom, God bless her soul, has stayed in our home for the holidays with him here, and there is no crazy drama.  There are no fights, no tears, no recriminations.  They actually laugh together a lot.  They've known each other the longest, and she's honestly possibly the only person on the planet who has been involved with him, and yet still will speak to him, and she has the least reason of anyone alive.  If that's not grace, I don't know what is…

These days I usually go about a year or so without talking to him.  He'll call once a year, usually right before his birthday (and 3 weeks AFTER mine, but who's counting), and mention that it's his birthday coming up.  Me:  Oh.  Right.  Yeah, happy birthday.  Mine was 3 weeks ago…

I wouldn't expect him to remember it, though, because as the story goes…he wasn't even home the night my mom went into labor with me, and no one could find him to tell him she was in the hospital. Their parents were all frantic. Where is he? We are at the hospital! It turned out he was spending some *quality time* with one of the cocktail waitresses at the bar where he worked that night, so he couldn't be bothered to be there for something like the birth of his first child.  So, yeah…I can see why he'd have a hard time remembering that date.

The last few times I've called him, he has begun to sound like a weepy old drunk, which means I called too late in the day (4:30 p.m.? really?) and he's already had too many.  Our conversations will go for about five minutes, and then he starts mumbling and sounding slurry and then…wait.  ARE YOU CRYING RIGHT NOW? Do NOT be crying.  I can not even deal with crying drunk mumbling. 

I hang up.  Wait…no, I don't hang UP.  I nicely say-- What? I'm, uh..having trouble hearing what you're saying, so I'll let you go, Dad.  Talk to you later.  I love you.

Yes, I still say that.  Even so.  Even though I will have a hard time attending his actual funeral for just lack of effing interest, I still say that.  When I love someone, I just…do.  Which makes me sad to even write, because I know he probably doesn't.  Not that *I'm* not love-able, but that he's NOT CAPABLE of feeling it.  Maybe narcissists really can only truly love themselves.  Maybe they truly are missing that part of their soul or their conscience that can feel empathy or love for anyone but themselves.  What a sad place to be, never knowing what it is to love someone else, not even your own children.  What a lot of love to miss out on.

I can't change that for him, and he's running out of years.  He's already had an aneurysm repair and some heart stuff, and he's been smoking and drinking hard for almost 60 years, so yeah, NOW might be a good time.  But I'm not holding my breath.  

After a lot of years of anger, tears, frustration and pain caused by this self-absorbed, charismatic, intelligent, damaging man, the three of us have, indeed, forgiven.  We have all, in our own ways, given up hope of change--yet we stay in touch.   We don't forget the past, so much as we seem to paint our past with that hazy airbrush of time.  We smile and say 'water under the bridge'.  We remember the crazy fun of growing up in the 70s, in a cabin in the woods.  I remember a childhood I loved, where my mom kept the dysfunction carefully out of sight.  Through that hazy filtered light, we have been able to spend time this man, who destroyed our family and has left a trail of tears behind him all his life, and we can break bread and laugh together.  But somehow, I always come away from those times feeling battered and angry and cheated, all over again.  I can feel tears that haven't been shed, even now.

I woke up with that feeling this morning, but I had sort of a revelation, too.

After talking to my mom last night, I was reminded yet again that this man took himself out of this family (or never really joined it), A LONG TIME AGO.  I realized that maybe it's just *us* who aren't getting on board with the whole concept of:  Divorced And Moved On.

Leaving aside the fact that he spent their whole actual marriage and my childhood not being present in our lives, unless it was to take credit for me being a smart kid or my brother being the best soccer player on the team, we have somehow been blind to the fact that, when they divorced, he expected to actually be DONE with all of this parenting/family stuff.

How did we miss that?

Mom still sends him Christmas gifts.  WHOSE EX-WIFE STILL SENDS THEM FREAKING CHRISTMAS GIFTS??! This was not an amicable split.  He cheated with every woman possible, for the length of their entire relationship.  He overlapped the end of their marriage with the next woman.  He is not sorry that we're not around.  He doesn't miss us.  I'm beginning to think that he can't, for the life of him, understand why we still keep turning up.  He is getting to where he can't even remember our names--that is the extent of his familial warmth.

The last time he was in town was September 2012, when he called to let us know he'd be in the area (not to see US, mind you--he has friends here.  We just happen to also live here).  They were here for a long weekend, so he came to our house with his latest lady-friend (who I haven't bothered to get to know…I'm sure she's nice though).  He hadn't been here in about 5 years, yet he still managed to walk into our house, straight through the living room, and out the back door, where he lit a cigarette and wandered around my back yard, leaving me inside with…"I'm sorry, what was your name again?" Unbelievable. 

The kids were at school, so he and the lady-friend followed me over to our school, where our youngest had a volleyball game, so I thought, "Well, OK then.  Grandpa can watch her game."  We sat down, and my oldest girl showed up to watch (and possibly see her grandfather...)  He immediately mixed up BOTH their names and called them each the wrong name.  He was watching the game and was like, "Yay, Sabrina!" …Sabrina was sitting right next to us, so she's like, "Um.  I'm. right. here.  That's Sydney...on the court." 

He then managed to find a reason why they couldn't stay to see Sydney WIN THE FREAKING GAME, because "We really have to go".  I was like Where?? You're on vacation, and it's 4:30.  Stay and watch the last 8 minutes of this game.  Nope. Had to go.  

My kids looked at me like WTH Mom?  I can't even-- just-- nevermind.  It's not you.  Trust me, IT IS NOT YOU. 

It's taken me a lot of years to get where I believe that, without doubt.  I was blessed in that I didn't spend the after-divorce years wondering if it was my brother's and my fault, or what if I'd been a better kid, or what if this or that.  He wouldn't have stayed, no matter what was different, because his life is about him and what works for him, and nothing else.  It's not me.  It's him.  

I did spend a few years refusing to admit that all my uncontrolling midnight crying bouts and borderline suicidal thoughts could have meant I needed some help, but they passed.

I was also blessed in that Mom hid the crazy stuff from us.  I grew up liking my dad.  I didn't know there was a mess behind the scenes, until they separated.  I didn't grow up with abuse, or belittlement, or feeling abandoned.  He was never around, but I remember believing he thought I was pretty special, (except I was pretty sure he wished I was a boy).  

As it happens, I like how I turned out, thanks 100% entirely to my mom, and in spite of whatever he was or wasn't.  I met a man who I find smart and sexy and fun and honorable, who thinks I'm awesome, too, and we haven't carried these issues with us into our marriage, and I would thank God fasting for that fact, except that I don't really fast.  

Sadly, I have heard so many stories of people who grew up with a similar parent…and are in such a different place.  A harder place.  A painful, unhappy place that follows them around for years.  I wish I could hug all of them and tell them it's going to be OK, and that it's NOT THEM.  

I have to remind my own girls that they don't have a grandfather involved in their lives, but it's NOT THEM.  It's him.  He's the one who's missed out on some really amazing people, by not getting to know any of us.  That doesn't make us any less amazing.

My stories are always long, so if you're still here, thanks for listening while I ramble on.

My original point started with my conversation from yesterday with my mom.  She just got back from a visit to California to see her sister.  My dad happens, and I literally mean he happens to live less than 2 blocks away from my aunt.  What are the odds?  So, it is completely not unusual for my aunt to literally bump into him when she walks her dog.  Every day.  And of course, when mom visits my aunt, she will stop in at his house (because--hello, she was literally walking past his front yard) and go-- "Hey, I'm in town.  Let's get together for a quick visit."

Last night she told me that she did exactly this, last month when she was there.  They made a plan for her to come by at 1 p.m. the next day for an iced tea on the porch.  She went over there the next day, and she, his lady-friend, and my dad sat on their front porch for a total of about 20 minutes.  Then she said he simply got up and went inside.  She thought he was going for a drink and coming back, but when he came back out, they had this conversation:

Him:  Well.  It's time for my nap.

Her:  What?  You're kidding, right? I've been here 20 minutes.

Him:  Nope.  I'm going in now.

Her:  Oh.  Wow.  OK…well, I guess I'll see you maybe next year or something.

Him:  Yeah.  Unless the creek rises.    (whatever that means)

And he went inside, leaving her with the lady-friend.  Not like there's a lot to talk about THERE, so she left.

Listening to her tell this story made me start thinking about this whole thing with him over the years, and I realized something.  He really did check out of our family a very long time ago.  He really doesn't care what we're up to and doesn't need or want to be in touch with us.  Why we keep reaching out to him is beyond me anymore. 

The door closing behind him in that story, really just sort of clarified something for me.  I've been out of touch with him long enough to feel like it doesn't matter, and I'm not mad at him, but somehow it feels more final now.  I get it.  We should all get it, with him.  It's like a silent scream of why won't you people just go the heck away? And I finally really let myself hear it.

For anyone out there who has lived any variation of this story, I just want to offer you a long, hard hug and a smile, and these words.  IT'S NOT YOU.  IT'S THEM.  

It's. Not. You.  That's all.                 


Wednesday, August 6, 2014

So THIS is What the Stone Age Looked Like--No A/C


I'm the one in the back.  Waiting for someone to INVENT A/C.  
It's been hot here lately, but I'm a summer person entirely, and I'm happiest when the sun is shining and it's warmer than 75-80, so I love our recent 95-97 degree heat.  I'm also totally aware that for many states...that qualifies as practically winter temperatures, so, yeah.  Don't be all 95 DEGREES? THAT'S NIGHT TEMPERATURES HERE.  Each to their own.

I am also painfully aware that we have two months, 60 ACTUAL DAYS of reliably nice weather here, so let me say very much on the record, that I am not complaining about the heat. I love the heat. We spend 10 months of the year waiting for days like today, and it's the most perfect place on earth for those 60 days. The rest of the months, we sit inside and watch travel videos and mutter about how the weather is nicer EVERYWHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD and maybe we should just move to Europe.

Growing up, we never had air conditioning, because hello--it was before global warming, and it doesn't get that hot in Idaho.  We just slept with the windows open, because where we lived, the worst thing that could come in through the window and get you was the back-woods mosquitoes.  Screens would have been a nice touch, though, Dad.  I still have scars!   
When you don't have electricity growing up, THIS is the way you get rid of mosquitoes in your bedroom.

Fast forward back to last night, when our modern-day A/C decided to go all faint and iffy and started blowing out sort of tepid, "meh"-feeling air.  This is NOT the kind of can-do attitude we need from our A/C unit on a 97-degree day, right when Shane gets home from a long day of working outside in the million-degree heat, when the only thing he wants to be subjected to when he gets in the house is a steady blast of FREEZING COLD AIR COMING OUT OF THE VENTS.  OMG, WHY IS THIS AIR NOT COLD???  This is like the stone age.  We might as well be in a cave.  I can't even-  

So we turned on a giant industrial fan that is strong enough to put all my dust bunnies into orbit, put on goggles, and sat around the fan wearing as little clothing as possible, and wondering if this is how the pioneers had to live and why did they even come here anyway?

By bedtime, our indoor temp was 79 degrees.  We sleep with the A/C at at night 71, because otherwise you wake up all melty and tangling up in a sheet that feels like a wool blanket inside a comforter in the desert and WHY THE HECK IS IT SO HOT IN HERE?

So, yes, something's wrong with the A/C, or it needs a new filter.  Probably for sure needs a filter.  Because why would I "change the filter every month" when every six months works fine?  Not that I don't love bringing an extension ladder in the house, turning it around a 180 corner and taking it up two landings of stairs to lean it on the stairs to change the filter.  Because I totally do.  After last night, it's seeming like a better idea to possibly have more than one filter on hand, in the summer, though... (note to self).


Picture THIS.  Except without the table.  Precious moments, guys.
Anyway, we turned off the A/C, to avoid spending money to blow recycled not-even-cool air around all night, and went to bed, but we left our window open, because one of the really great things about Idaho is that the night temperatures are usually about 40 degrees less than the day temperatures.  Our bedroom window is fronted by a wall of huge rose bushes, which means no one is going to try and get anywhere near that window without a severe loss of blood, so it seems like a great idea, right?  No.

Because TRAINS, guys.  Trains are the one single downer thing we live with (other than 10 months of *not summer*).  Our property is 1/4 mile away from a double set of tracks AND a major traffic crossing, which runs an average of 85-100 trains a day (I'm not making that number up), and every one of them, EVERY SINGLE ONE, has to lay on their horn for the traffic crossing EVERY SINGLE TIME. It's a rule; I get it.  But it means that if you're asleep behind an open window, it sounds like you are sleeping possibly ON the actual train tracks, about every 10 minutes.

And I'm the lightest sleeper in the world.

Since I know I'm the lightest sleeper in the world or possibly in the history of people ever, I also am never without earplugs, so I put in ear plugs, pulled up the sheet, and tried to sleep.  Unfortunately, I also happen to have possibly the smallest ear canals in the history of ears, so ear plugs don't always work the way they should for me, in the sense that they quietly just fall out, right after I'm asleep, and I end up like this:

The first time one of the train horns went off last night, with the window open, I was dreaming, so the sound became part of the dream, except in the dream, it was that sound that your computer makes when you do something stupid--you know, that *someone just sat on a piano* sound?  I dreamed it was that, until it got louder and kept repeating steadily, because you know train conductors have to be really sure there's no one at that crossing who didn't see those drop-down RR gaits with all those flashing red lights, at 3 a.m.
in case THIS doesn't get your attention

I have heard train horns at that crossing that sound like the guy is seriously playing the theme to Jeopardy on his 1-million-decibel horn at 3:00 a.m., or sometimes there are two trains, and they're bored or something, so it's like dueling banjos, or they think, well, sure, there are houses nearby and no traffic on any road in this entire county right now, but we should lean on these freaking horns for about 15 seconds in a row, just in case.

Not that I'm bitter.

I do remember thrashing around in the too-hot sheets, clamping my hands over my ears to keep the ear plugs from falling out, and still hearing the trains, and thinking "Great.  We've just reverted back to the stone age."  I'm not sure why I thought that, but at 3 a.m., it seemed true.  It also made me think of Haley Joel Osment in that movie Secondhand Lions, where he's pulling the lever for the clay skeet-shoot thingee for the old guys, and he has potholders tied on his head for ear protection; then I wondered if I had some decent potholders and a good neck-tie, because they'd probably stay on better.  I also wondered what Shane would think if he woke up to find me sleeping in full 1980's type headphones.
too bad I sleep on my stomach...

I also totally tried to find a picture of that movie scene for you, but it doesn't seem to exist.  You should watch the movie, though.

I don't even have a way to end this...except that now we get to live like we did growing up, where you open the windows in the morning to let in some cool air, and hope for the best.  And yes, I KNOW I should just run to the store and get an A/C filter, but we don't even have my daughter's car right now, which is a whole other story, and I'm getting a rental, but it won't be til the weekend.  And I'm not driving an ATV down the highway with an A/C filter strapped to the back.


Pretty lame how we think we're all capable and tough, until one little convenience fails us, and we completely lose it.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Ok, So I May Need Coffee

I was telling my kids this morning that I probably wasn't going to make coffee because:

1.  I don't really like the taste.  Unless it has so much cream and sugar in it that it becomes something else.

2.  I tend to gain weight when I drink coffee (see #1).

3.  Coffee doesn't really make me feel more alert, anyway.

I decided what the heck, I'll make some coffee.  So I measured some whole beans and dumped them in the filter and added water.  That was my first clue.  My kids were like, "Ummm, yeah..."

THEN while waiting to have my coffee, I was talking to my oldest about shipping guitars internationally, because she's selling one on ebay, and I said, "It's totally do-able.  Your uncle sent his Stradivarius to...." then I forgot the word for a minute, so I came up with...  "English."

She just stared at me, "Mom. Stratocaster. England.  Just stop talking."

Then they were like, "Omg, what is she going to be like when she's really old?"

Meanwhile she totally drew a cartoon me to illustrate, and put it on her comic blog.



 In the meantime, I said about three more totally wrong things, then I had to do some other stuff, and now my coffee's cold, so if there are wrong words here, too, I apologize.  Maybe I'll start over and have an iced coffee...

Nice to know I'm not a special snowflake, and I probably need coffee as much as the next person, but seriously??  Wrong words??




Thursday, July 31, 2014

Time Traveler--Summer 1977, Year of the Tent

Ready for more hippie child family history?  Good.

If you've been following the Time Traveler posts, you know we moved to Idaho from California in July 1977 in a van with a goat.  We arrived safely at our heretofore-unseen new property in Idaho, which was basically just 20 acres of forest, 25 miles from nowhere, where any phone and electric lines had yet to exist.  Which was kind of the whole point.
This is from 2012.  If you look closely, you can see a dark gap in the trees. That was our driveway in 1977.  It's grown over now and you have to walk in, but I used to stand out in that turn-out IN THE DARK at 6:40 a.m. and watch for the bus to come down that road.  At age 7.  No, that wasn't scary, but thanks for asking.

We pitched a tent to live in while we started building our house--a pole structure that my dad had carefully designed on the backs of various napkins late at night.  Dad set poles to soak in 55-gallon drums of creosote about halfway up the driveway, and got started.

There were five of us at the time, because we had my parents, 7-year-old me, my 2-year-old brother, and Patrick, who was one of the nomadic 70s friends who lived with us on and off through those years.  He had come along for the move from California, and he doubled as a big brother/babysitter for us, a carpentry/building assistant for the house, and a drinking partner for my dad.

We camped out in a square 4-man tent, all five of us, until like October, and then we moved into the one semi-finished room of the house, which would later become the kitchen.

I remember keeping our food cold by packing it around blocks of ice in a big Coleman cooler, and I remember packing gallon jugs for water, which Mom tells me we did for 7 years.  SEVEN YEARS? YOU GUYS.  OMG.  It makes me want to go and stand in our shower right now, just thinking about that many years of no running water.  So, that's why I recall taking baths at other people's houses...because we did it for. SEVEN. YEARS.

Oh sure, we were able to bathe at home.  In a metal tub.  With water we heated on the wood stove.  We weren't entirely heathens.

This is probably 1979, two years later, and yes, there I am, packing water.  So, yeah.
I also use the term "semi-finished room of the house" loosely.  It was "finished" in the sense that it had a wooden floor and ceiling. The walls, however, were clear plastic, I guess because LIGHT, (besides, who'd use black plastic for walls? There'd be no windows.  Everyone knows this).  Dad had nailed a blanket in the doorway, so, other than not sleeping on the actual frozen ground and having wood heat (and even more smoke) from a temperamental potbelly stove, plus a little more square footage to put all our sleeping bags on the (not earth) floor, it wasn't a huge improvement.  Still, at the time, it felt like we were pretty Uptown Now, with the added bonus that the chickens and goats couldn't get in as easily any more, mostly because they had to come up two steps to get through the blanket, and that's just a nuisance if you have four legs, or those little chicken legs.  Ever see a chicken go up stairs?  

I also remember having to duck outside the blanket when brushing our teeth, to spit, so obviously we didn't have anything inside during that first winter that would qualify as a sink or a drain.  Mom had been doing dishes outside on the ground, but of course now I can't remember HOW Mom did dishes in the plastic-walled room that winter..Buckets?      Mom? How the heck, woman?  

Dad had definitely improved on THIS situation, by October.  I think.  I'm also really sure he never did dishes, ever.

This also should make it self-explanatory that my mom and I both severely dislike camping , unless it involves a microwave, running water, and a door that locks.  It may have been an adventure for me, and probably definitely was one for my dad, who spent a lot of time drinking and scribbling on napkins, but I can't imagine being the "mom" in that situation.  sorry, mom!!   Someone needs to build a statue in her honor, I'm pretty sure.  Or a fountain, with actual running water.

So, to wrap it up--by the end of that first year, 1977, we were definitely up off the ground and safely behind the locked blanket/door, and the goats were outside where they belonged.

Which reminds me, I also distinctly recall having problems with mountain lions being attracted by the sound of those stupid loud screaming Nubian goats, because Nubian goats have two volumes: loud screaming goat sounds, and WE JUST GOT OUT AND ARE RUNNING DOWN THE ROAD INTO THE WOODS AND YOU'LL HAVE TO CHASE US THROUGH 20 ACRES OF UNDERBRUSH ALL THE WAY TO THE RIVER HAHAHAHAHA.

More to come, but right now I'm inspired to go do dishes, laundry, AND take a shower.  Don't forget to appreciate the simple fact that you can turn on water INSIDE your house...




Wednesday, July 30, 2014

More Awkward Encounters--My Earliest Awkward Memory

If you've read much here, you may know I have a dorky tendency to always blurt out the wrong thing either in the wrong way or to the wrong person, so it got me thinking...when did this start?

I immediately knew.

I will try to make it brief.  (I said try.  Not promise).

When I was about 8, there were a boy and girl (siblings) who I equally adored (her) and loathed (him).  She had saved my life once, for real, when I managed to slip and fall down in the fastest current of our local river swimming hole, and found myself suddenly sputtering and tumbling along in a part of the river that was strong enough to CARRY ME ALL THE WAY DOWN THE WHOLE RIVER AND POSSIBLY THROUGH THE DAM WHERE I WOULD SURELY DIE.  aieeeeeeeee

She saved me by simply stepping into the water and grabbing my scrawny self, and saying, "Put your feet down".  It was like 6" deep.  But I was reallyreallyreally sure I almost died, right there; and Diane saved me, for real, so I adored her.

Her brother, Dale...I loathed.  I don't even remember *why*.  I just remember despising him.  I remember that he was bigger than us, and he was hateful and greasy and mean, and us younger kids all hated him, especially me.  I hated him with the fire of a thousand suns, with all the hate an 8-year-old could muster.
Still waters, guys.
One day, Dale was teasing someone--my brother, me, or one of the other kids, and it must have been just the last straw with this boy, because I remember I just--snapped.  He was giggling and tormenting one of us over who knows what, and I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth and glared at him.  I summoned up the worst thing I could think of, feeling like I wished I could rip him apart with my bare teeth and he would exist no longer (I still remember how angry I was).  And I screamed at him:

"You're BACON!    AND I LOVE BACON!!!!"

Wait.  What?

I meant that to sound like..."You are the one thing I want to rip with my teeth and just...destroy."  Instead, there was this shocked silence from the other kids.  Then:

Them:  AaaaahhhhhahahahahahahaHAHAHAHA.  You LOVE DALE!!  She loves Daaa-aaale!

Me:  NO!! Aughh!  I hate him! I want to BITE him.  (I actually had a bit of a reputation for literally biting people at that age, but that's a different story)

Them:  Stef and DAy-le, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!!!

They would not be dissuaded.  Hysterical childish laughter still echoes in my head.

*shrivel*  *hiss*

I've been saying dumb stuff like that, pretty much ever since.



What's your earliest awkward foot-in-mouth memory?  Didn't we all have that one kid we wished would just disappear?


Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Queen of Awkward Ice Breakers-- More Awkward Encounters

Recently I stopped at a grocery store, (which fortunately wasn't one I normally shop at), where I was UNpleasantly surprised to find that the parking lot was hosting what appeared to be a good-sized loud, public argument.  It looked like a Jerry Springer/white trash convention of screaming, crying, arm-waving, jumping-up-and-down random adults and small children, all of whom appeared to be attacking each other VERY LOUDLY.  And apparently it's always a good thing to include the small children if you're going to have a complete screaming cursing meltdown in a public parking lot.  Start young, is their motto. This whole thing was happening one car away from where I parked, because of course I'm not a savvy driver enough to notice a small gang war going on in a parking lot, so I accidentally parked right next to this giant drama.

I actually hurried to get inside, while trying not to listen for possible gun shots behind me, because, yes, it was that dramatic.  One lady was actually jumping up and down.

Like this, only with way more tattooed people.  And babies.
I got up to the check-out, and the cashier was this nice 20-something girl with a lovely foreign accent.  She asked for my I.D. for some wine, then she very flatteringly did a double-take at my age and then looked back at me, and back at my driver's license, and was like, "What?  Seriously?  No way you're that old."  I smiled and said, "Aww, thanks!" because there is no better compliment on the face of this earth.  

She went back to checking items through, then stopped and actually came back to study my face closely, then:  "Seriously.  Just...wow.  You look GREAT."  Again, "Thank you.  That's so sweet."  She did it a third time.  Not even kidding.  By now the kid who's bagging the groceries is sort of staring at me, so I looked at him and said, "It's OK...I'm actually 120 years old.  Don't tell anyone."

She was so sweet about it, and she kept going on about it in this lovely foreign accent, and it was very flattering.  Of course I wanted to say something witty and grateful in return, so I said, "Could you just come home with me?"

I MEANT it to sound like "Could I just adopt you, and you could live with my kids and teach them to always tell me I look young and beautiful every day, forever? Even when I wake up all cranky and snarling at everyone?"  But the shortened version of that thought...didn't come out sounding right.  Instead, it sounded kind of ...weird.

She kind of laughed and was like, "Oh.  Uh...no, I can't."  *pause*   "Not that it's not a nice offer..."

Oh.  Oh, my Lord...   No.  Wait.

I didn't even have the sense to be like, "Oh, no. I meant it like 'can I just adopt you?'" ...so I just ignored the whole part where THIS JUST GOT WEIRD and decided to babble on about the frackas in the parking lot.  "Did you guys have to send someone out to settle that big fight in your parking lot a little while ago?"  They were like, "What fight?"  So I described it, and she let us know, in her cool European accent, "Yeah, that's an AMERICAN thing," so apparently Europeans keep their big noisy fights at home or in back alleys or something.

Then the bagging kid decided that he should probably walk me out to my car, because by now it was getting dark, and remember...I'm possibly 120 years old, and no one wants to see an old lady get knocked down in a gang brawl.

He followed me most of the way to my car and apologized for the fight, like it was his fault--"I'm so sorry you had to see that."  Still, I could tell he was probably wondering if I was going to ask HIM to come home with me, too, judging from the careful distance he kept behind my cart.

*sigh*

I'm just glad it wasn't my regular grocery store.