Foolery

Dear Teeny-Tiny Ant Bastards Who Have Invaded My Home

(Photo stolen from vailst on Flickr)

Dear Teeny-Tiny Ant Bastards Who Have Invaded My Home,

It's war.  I have had it.

Tried to be nice, but you walked all over me.  Tried to blow you away with light little puffs of breath in a gesture of "can't we all just get along" compromise?  Well NO, apparently, we can NOT all just get along, and so it has come to this.

It's ON.

We have tried spraying you, and while that works for a while, it doesn't work for long.  You seem to sense my inner pesticide-fearing, tree-hugging California Hippy (even when no one else I know does), and you come back bolder than ever when the fog clears.

Really, guys?  In the freezer?  You don't seem to mind the cold of the refrigerator, and so one of the last safe places to hide food from you was the freezer.  My latest trip to the sugar canister, safely stowed among the meat and ice cubes in the freezer, yielded what looked like the ill-fated polar expedition of Robert Falcon Scott, only in ant dimensions.  How the HELL did you guys get into the freezer, and then into the sugar canister?

It's bad enough that you vacation in my potted plants, freely roam the countertops as brazen as a hard-luck hussy, and have claimed the cupboards as your own, but your latest invasion was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back:

You got into my Mini Wheats.

A zip-locked bag, also rolled and clamped with a bag clip, and you got in.  How the Holy Heck am I supposed to enjoy my Thursday night bachelorette dinner of steamed zucchini and Mini Wheats?

Well, you know what I'm gonna do, Ants?  I'm going to EAT YOU.  I don't care.  You're pretty small, and those are MY Mini Wheats that I paid good money for and that keep things moving in the lower G.I. tract and also? I really love them.  I am NOT throwing them out.  Cereal is too fracking expensive.  Get ready to be chewed to bits, Ants.  I can take it -- can YOU?  Every time I get that peppery, minty puff of flavor in my cereal, I'll know: another Ant has gone to The Big Sugar Canister in the Sky.

Bon apetit, little creepy guys!

Laurie

Dear Butt

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Dear Butt,

 

I have long needed to get a few things off my chest, so here goes.

 

You are such a huge part of me.  In fact, you may be the biggest thing in my life.  I can't tell you what it means knowing that you are behind me 100%, my biggest supporter.  You are my anchor.

 

Oh sure, there are others in my life who lend their support -- Feet, Legs, and Knees come to mind -- and they're all great, but just between me and you?  They complain a lot.  But not you, Butt -- you almost never complain, even when I really lean on you.  (Don't get me started about Back, who needs way more babying than anybody and frankly? hasn't been reliable for several years.  But this is not a snarky Back-biting session; it's all about YOU, Butt.) 

 

We've been together almost 43 years, and I've watched you grow.  How you've grown.  You've made a career of growth, really.  You're like a growth industry.  Though you don't have a glamorous job, and a lot of your time is spent just sitting, you're always there, two steps -- well, three steps -- behind me, hanging out, waiting to be of service.  You may not be the first one noticed when we enter a room, but you're definitely the one they'll remember when we leave. 

 

I know it is my responsibility to care for you, clothe you, feed you, and feed you, and feed you, and I do, and I am happy to do so, but it isn't enough.  I need to express my appreciation for your solid support, and for being a soft place to land when I'm down.  Thank you, Butt.  You have gravitass, my friend.

 

Love,

 

Laurie

 

p.s. Don't pay any attention to silly Boobs; nobody else does.

For Beth

I'm going to break one of my own rules tonight and write about a close family member without that person's permission.  Normally, the only time I do that is when I am teasing someone who is unidentifiable by name, but this time I am not teasing.

"First, do no harm," while one of the sacred tenets of the medical profession, should also be part of the foundation of blogging.  So I work overtime trying not to offend (even though I'm sure I sometimes do, and sometimes I actually intend to, but I'm getting off track).  But while trying to respect the privacy and feelings of the people I love, I have completely forgotten the sin of omission -- that, by not writing about someone who is important to me, I have wrongly and artificially diminished that person's place in my life.

I'm talking about my sister, Beth.

Technically, she is my half sister, but I cringe every time I have to say it that way.  Let's just call her my sister, because that's what I prefer.

A few months ago I made a brief reference to my sister in a post, without going into detail.  Jessie caught it and acknowledged it in her comment, asking, "You have a SISTER?!" That was like a gut punch, because I realized at that moment that my long-time reader (in fact my second reader EVER here at Foolery, other than those who know me in real life) didn't know I had a sister.  And that was my fault.

My sister Beth is just a few years older than me, and was not raised with our family.  Things worked a little differently in those days than they do now, and after the divorce that separated our father from her mother, she was adopted by a man who became her father in every sense of the word, providing her with a loving home.  But she wouldn't become part of my immediate family.

We met for the first time when I was in full Scruffy Farm Kid bloom, and Beth was a teenager of the late '70s.  She was everything I wanted to be but could never be: athletic, willowy, California "golden," urban, hip, and glamorous.  Beth was this:

. . . and I was this:

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

So of course I idolized Beth and was terrified of her at the same time.  These things are complicated.  At least I could play the banjo.*

For no reason I can name, we drifted apart again for many years, in fact losing touch completely.  Fast-forward to spring of about 1995, and I had the unique idea of finding my sister.  I looked on-line; nothing.  Okay, now what?  I didn't know if she was married and had therefore changed her name, and I was stuck.  I tabled the idea, and then, within six months of my idea of finding her . . .

Mom and Dad called to tell me that they had heard from Beth.  Father's Day.  Of course.

All of this sounds rather dramatic, but it wasn't, exactly; it was exciting, certainly, but we quickly adopted the go-with-the-flow behavior we instinctively employed in all matters relating to Beth.  None of us had really known what to do or how to proceed.  We just stumbled along.

Meeting Beth all over again, this time as adults, was strange, wonderful, awkward, nerve-wracking, and easy, all at once.  How could this striking urban sophisticate be related to me?  (More specifically, related to DAD?)  And yet, there were signs.  Beth had Dad's nose, and mouth, and brow line.  And she loved animals -- horses and dogs, especially -- in the same fierce way that our mutual father loved cows.  Yes, I could start to see the connection.

The most difficult part of welcoming a far-flung sibling into my life would prove to be figuring out how now to answer the mundane life questions:  how many are in your family?  Did you and your sister fight a lot growing up?  What's it like being the smart one in the family?**  You can see the challenges.  Telling my boyfriend of a handful of months (Chas), "Oh, guess what happened this week?  We heard from my sister.  Oh, by the way -- I have a sister," was an unexpected conversation for which there is no guide; it's strange no matter how you look at it to suddenly change the size of your nuclear family.  I was stunned as recently as last year when I rattled off the now-familiar phrase "my sister" to someone I've known since grade school but see rather infrequently; her jaw hit the floor and she fairly shouted, "Your WHAT?!"  I had never had any reason or opportunity to broach this relatively new part of my life with her, and I suddenly felt at sea, like that Scruffy Farm Kid, above, all over again. 

Getting to know my sister has been like peeling an onion.  I know her on many levels, but every new phase of her life reveals some new part of her.  I'm still learning about her, and I have no doubt that she could say the same of us, times five.  So, I think I've covered what I wanted to cover with this post, but it's like an onion, too: once it's peeled open there are so many layers to dig into.  Consider this an incomplete dedication and the start of a better approach.

Mostly, I wanted to say I'm sorry to my sister Beth -- sorry that I have mentioned her only in fleeting passages without explanation, and sorry that I kind of stink at being a younger sister (something at which I have very little experience).  I'm learning.  But I love you and I hereby promise you two things: 1) we WILL spend some quality time together this year, just we two, and 2) I will never play the banjo.

Love,

Laurie

*No, I couldn't.

**Okay, that never happened.  I have to be the dumb one in the family.

Put Them All Together, They Spell . . .

This is my mom.  She is so many things to the world.



Mom is soft-hearted.  She has inherited several dogs throughout her adulthood, and has patiently fed them and taken them all for walks and games of Throw The Ball, every day.  She did just about the same with her kids, and loads of our scruffy farm-kid friends. 



Mom is adventuresome.  She eagerly tried cross-country skiing and snorkeling, and she took up boogie-boarding WELL past the age at which I plan to stop wearing swimming suits in public.



Mom is musically gifted.  She has played the piano for more choir recitals, weddings, church services, and plays than she probably cares to name.  She loves opera, the symphonic classics, and certain hand-picked-by-her-children Beatles songs.  (For the sake of family harmony she pretended to like Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Doors, but drew the line at Aretha Franklin and The Rolling Stones.)  With exasperation Mom coined the pop music category "I Fed The Cat Songs," for songs that go on and on and on and talk about nothing of consequence.  Gee, that sounds familiar.



Mom is funny.  I think you'd have to have a refined sense of humor to keep from yelling all the time, around our house anyway.



She puts up with her children, which is my working definition of a mother.  There you go -- Mom is the template by which I judge all other mothers.



I love you, Mom.

Happy Mother's Day to my wonderful mother, and to all of the mothers and grandmothers out there.

-- Laurie

*     *     *     *     *

An edit to add this, which I found in my inbox, from my brother Mantel Man.  He's so darned good:

Our Mom certainly deserves all the accolades you gave her, and more. So here are a few more.

Mom is soft-hearted: I'll never forget something she said at a party by the pool on the ranch, with Gubby and several of our other friends there.  A foolish old woman who rented a mobile home on our ranch (one of three formerly used to house dairy employees) had a mangy little dog that had already turned the trailer into a superfund site because the woman was too lazy to take the mutt out for its fifty-times-a-day constitutional.  That very day the little vermin had expired and gone to a  special place in Doggy Hell.  Any other landlady would have shouted, "At last, at last!"  Our mother instead wept a bit and lamented that the woman would probably be lonely.

Mom is funny.  Your readers might be amused to know that whenever we kids quote her, we instinctively use a sing-song falsetto voice for some reason - prob'ly because we tend to be teasing her a bit when we quote her.  "Anyone want a sandwich?  How about a margarita?" 

Mom is musically gifted:  besides having perfect pitch, which I'll never grasp, Mom also knew opera was a perfect way to get her noisy kids to go outside without her having to pitch us out.  One day in early December, when we were little, she announced she had something special for us as we gathered in the living room.  "What is it, what is it?" we asked her as she carefully began removing an LP record from a box.  With a mischievous, "here comes the boogeyman" look on her face, she replied, "It's an OPERA RECORD!"  Then, after driving several miles to pick us up, she complimented us on our foot speed and brought us home for the first playing of what soon became our favorite Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer album.

Laurie, you are absolutely right that our mom is the standard by which all other moms must be judged.  She sets the bar.

But you are horribly, criminally mistaken about the origins  of the "I Fed the Cat Song" category.  It was MY invention -- and it came to me while we were listening to one of YOUR records, by the way.  And Mom agreed with me.  Sorry.

Laurie adds: That, right there, is why children should be seen and not heard.  Thanks, Mantel Man.

For Hallie: An 8-Legged Dinner Plate

Click on image to open.  If it doesn't open right (I 'm having trouble, grrrrr) right-click and open in a new window.  Cheers!

Break Me Offa Piece-a That Kit Kat Bar

A quick note to my Blog World friends out there:  I am unable to visit Typepad sites (and some others, like Bossy and OK, Where Was I?) from work this week!*  I don't know why, but there you go.  I can't even see my own site, although I can see the work pages (but I can't upload photos -- this stinks).

 

So half of my favorite blogs to visit have been largely unvisited by me this week (evenings are usually for writing).  I am working on the problem.  I'm not ignoring you -- in fact, I feel sort of panicky and crabby because of it.

 

Time for an internetvention.

*That'd be on my lunch hour, of course.

I Can Feel Her Rolling Her Eyes Already

The happiest of birthdays ever to my darling Smedley today.



I know it's boring to hear your mom say this, but I wish you'd stop growing up, darnit.



We're too much alike for comfort.



I sure do love you, my Baloney Girl.

Love,

Mommy

Thanks to Kathy for the photos, six years ago!

This One's For My Pal Snorphty

Dear Snorpht,

I know you won't believe this, but this ornament has been part of our (warped) family tradition for a few years now.  We dredged it out of the box the other night, and I thought of you.

Season's Eatings, Poots.

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada

I think it's almost Thanksgiving in Canada.  Checking my calendar would be WAY too difficult, so I'll just pretend I know what the heck I'm talking about.

Happy Thanksgiving, my Canadian friends!  In case you need some things to be thankful for, I'll loan you some of mine tonight.

-- Red wine, big sweaters, bare feet, full tummy, first chill of fall, quiet house, nothing pressing.

-- Peanut butter balls, jeans made with lycra, Canada geese, fresh clean sheets.

-- Functioning hot water heater, bralessness, Lyle Lovett and His Large Band, terrible jokes, husbands who cook, siblings, mute buttons.

-- Generous grandparents, digital cameras, thick hair, Jolly Ranchers, friendly convenience store owners, rainy Saturdays, donkeys.

-- Sleeping past dawn, lifelong friends, the armed forces, Swiffers, homemade soup, electricity.

-- Scotch tape, good mousers, volunteer firemen, Queen Latifah, literacy, the love of my children.

I may have forgotten a few things, so feel free to add your own.  Spelling doesn't count, but originality does.  Happy Thanksgiving to Shellie, Shelley, Jennifer, Fay, Sharon Rose, and all Canadian friends out there.

Laurie

Peekaboo

My friend Jed in Newcastle, Australia, sent me this this morning, in honor of International Womens' Day.  I thought I'd share.  If I do it right you can click on it to make it big enough to read.

Knowing Jed, who is a bus driver, he's been driving past this sign for weeks and brought a camera along to record it for posterity.  Or, maybe not.  Anyway, cheers to you, my cheeky friend, and Happy International Womens' Day to all.

I'm celebrating by NOT pole dancing, for a change.

Note to powertothepeaceful

Note to powertothepeaceful:

 

Thanks!!  And please send me a link to your blog; I can't seem to find you, but I'm helpless that way.

 

-- Laurie