I DO wonder

This, this is my dad:

he's a pretty cool guy, but he's grown accustomed to being not a topic of the blog, while laughing at everyone else.  According to most, I tend to take after him.  Apparently, I have my mother's eyes...my behavior, however, tends to be all Buddy  (according to my rebel mother).

It really is his fault I'm a liberal ass and a feminist.  He won't admit it, but I DID get him to stop giving money to the NRA.  After he convinced me to stop being a vegetarian.

See, when that man up there was in charge of the children, he drove out into the middle of the dessert, kind of like in the movie "Casino", and you  just weren't quite sure if you'd ever come back.  He always bought a six pack of beer and you got a red Fanta and a burrito, and if you were lucky, he stopped to fish before "The Doors" on 8-track got through the whole album.  Then, he set up his pole, set you free, and he napped.  AND, despite fishing your ass off, he always got the biggest fish..which made me think beer was the trick.  That, or he was a total dick for stealing a panther martin and making his kids worm squirm the lawn for bait.

While our mother convinced us the wind would take us away and a rattlesnake lurked behind EVERY sagebrush, just waiting to send you to the painful depths of death, dad was always, "This is my spot." Like, "Find your f*king own!"
 
Honest to god, it was the only time I ever felt free.  There he was, watching the river...telling us, "Its a big river...find a hole."  And he let us be.

Its probably good Tammy wasn't there.  She has enough Blattner in her to freak out at the thought of anything even remotely close to involving danger (those women DEFINED hysteria).  She used to tell us there were alligators in the canal to keep us out of it, then wondered why we went to look. 

See, Buddy is a redneck version of a hippie.  He gets hauled to court, and the judge deals out the punishment..."Cut your hair!" 

Sunday drives were ALL the rage back then.  Smoked oysters and some easy cheese.  Drive over the mountain.

We usually went over Champagne Creek, where Dad and my brother could get a shit-ton of rattlesnakes and I would lock myself in the car.  There is still a pine tree growing near the summit.

I told Buddy, "That is an awesome Christmas tree!"

He looked at it, looked me right in the eye, and said, "THOSE trees, growing all alone, they have spirits looking over them.  Don't screw with it. Silver crows."  I didn't get it until Oliver Stone did that movie.

Then, he wonders why I hug trees.

Here is an adventure with Buddy:

"Gloria Steinem is evil...but take after her."

" I NEVER said trees have spirits!"

"The Nuge!"

"I voted for Nixon..to end the war."

and best of all:
"how did YOU get so radical??"

hmmm...I wonder

Driving With Miss Tammy

This is my mom:

It is highly likely after she reads this, I'm going to get a phone call. 

See, my mom is a lovely, wonderful, kick-in-the-ass-fun, woman.  I could write about how wonderful she is--how when my anxiety hit overload last week, she refused to take no for an answer: "Pack your shit and get ready," she said. 

"If I can't work, I sure as shit am NOT going on a road trip, walking all over Denver, and being stuck in the car with you driving for 12 hours!"

"We're not walking anywhere.  We're gonna veg at Nikki's, and you can't go to work anyway until you go to the doctor."

Its an argument I lost--mainly because my husband, and everyone else with whom I live, is sick of me and pretty much pushed me out the freaking door. And, to be honest, it saved me from a bad bout of depression.

I should probably write something deep and profound, involving learning something about my inner being, or how much I love my family for putting up with all of my shit.  But, its been a trying day--the one where I fretted and frayed about how SWAMPED I was (I actually got a lot done), the kid faked sick, and the doctor had to reschedule, so I get to sit in the freaking house for a few more days before I can again enjoy the world's shittiest coffee and enjoy learning how much I haven't got done while laid up.  Honestly, I'm more excited than a kid at Christmas to be getting to go back to work and drive---oh, thank you GOD, I finally get to drive!!

So, I need a laugh today (and mostly because I spent the entire time in the car praying "hail Marys" to have much time to contemplate anything deep or profound), and I'm gonna write something that will make my mother wish she never sent me to school.  I'm going to tell you about her driving.  That way, we can all laugh together.

I'm at the age where I've started worrying about my parents.  They're in their mid to upper 50's, and they're starting to do really crazy things, like take off for days at a time like they have no responsibility.  I'm convinced this is a diversion from the empty nest from which they are suffering since my sister decided to abandon them for something called "her own life."

And, I've heard from older friends and relatives how hard it is to take away driving privileges from the elderly, but I think my siblings and I are close to an intervention with Tammy on the subject of operating a vehicle.  Its to the point we have to do something--even if its just a safe driving course so the authorities can tell her and we can avoid responsibility.

The hardest part is she is in denial and truly believes she is the most awesome driver. This is despite the fact I once witnessed her blow through three consecutive red lights in downtown Salt Lake City at a cool 45 mph.  I've seen her hit a 3' high fire pit she had walked by all weekend in a campground. 

See, it starts out like this: she gets in the car with her phone, and everything else vital to her being all within easy reach for a good 10-12 hour drive.  Inevitably, Buddy (that's my padre) calls within 45 minutes to make sure she's answering the phone, but MOST importantly, to ask what she's doing.  Because, God forbid, she might not be driving.

This is terrifying 1) because she swerves like a raging drunk without yacking or trying to dial numbers without her glasses, 2) it takes away the precious little attention she gives to driving, and 3) it never fails to occur whilst passing an overloaded semi, on ice, and she thinks she HAS to answer the phone. For the record, I am a pansy ass when it comes to passing trucks, but on a scale of scared to shitting-my-pants, when Tammy does it, I'm off the charts at a nice "OMG!! WE'RE GONNA F*ING DIE!!!"

She will go on like this, answering the phone numerous times, completely oblivious to the fact she has crossed the center line 5,472 times (because she hugs that sucker to avoid getting a ticket for something called "following the fog line") or the fact that the rumble strip has been rumbling for 5 minutes. 

Then, it gets really scary.  She'll actually hang up, and not talk on the phone for about 20 minutes, and then it starts.  We have termed it, "Tammy aerobics."  Despite not having gotten out of the car, she becomes convinced she has lost everything but her mind.  While driving, she begins looking for the phone, a lighter, her cigarettes, her purse, papers for the first house she bought in 1974. Then, as she's swerving and everyone in the car is white-knuckled on the oh-shit-handle and screaming like its a Shanghai taxi ride, she blames it on the wind blowing the car or ruts in the road.

Instead of waiting to pull into the parking lot of the truck stop, she will begin putting on her shoes while she is driving up the exit ramp.

While trying to determine if she spilled the General's Chicken she had for lunch, she contorts into positions only achieved by Beijing acrobats.

Somehow, by the grace of God, we survived.  So, please excuse me while I take this phone call about being a backseat driver.

All Aboard The Crazy Train

I have always hailed myself as not quite a girly girl.  I detest shopping to the point that a couple of years ago, Tammy tricked me into shopping with her by saying she’d pick me up for lunch.  I was so pissed, I pretended to be a special spirit and sat down in the middle of the store and started crying for my mom.  No more shopping when I say no.  

I get my nails done, because otherwise I chew them until they bleed, and, let’s face it, my hands are huge and it adds a little feminine factor.

Sure, I like to get dressed up and look good every once in a while, but for the most part, I’ve always kind of prided myself on being pretty low maintenance.  I’m perfectly fine with not wearing make-up or fixing my hair—in fact, this is the first job I’ve ever had where I actually try to do it every day.  Before, my job mostly entailed being your average granola-crunching, Birkenstock wearing tree-hugger.  Well, there was that two year stint where I worked from home and rarely put on anything more fancy than a t-shirt, too.

Anyway, I like beer.  My idea of a hot date is live music and a trip to the burrito wagon. If I’m really splurging, I might by some Kendall Jackson Cabernet to go with a Totino’s pizza for Friday night Netflix. 

I’ve always been convinced I’m not one of those drama mama’s who constantly have something to rave and bitch about.  

This, my friends, is a LIE of epic proportions. Perhaps THE biggest lie I am guilty of telling myself. A huge lie I came to realize yesterday when I went FULL-THROTTLE, balls to the wall, certifiably, one-way ticket CRAZY trainwreck.

I want to be clear here, I’ve had my hormonal moments when the McDonald’s commercial made me cry, or that one time the cute guy in my Technical Writing class broke up with me, and I spent two days skipping class and work, while eating ice cream in my sweats and watching “Sense and Sensibility.” (O.K  MAYBE that should’ve told me I’m more girly than I thought).  

Anyway, I’ve been pushed to edge of irrational anger (like the time I cleaned the toilet with my ex’s toothbrush because he wouldn’t aim), but never quite took a flying, double swan dive over the edge into the abyss of insanity quite like I did yesterday.  See I have a really long fuse and it actually takes a legitimate reason to make me blow.  I HAVE reasons when I have these moments and all those other girly girls are just being stupid and need to find some intestinal fortitude and buck the f*k up.

Not so much yesterday.  I’m talking “The Yellow Wallpaper” almost creeping around the room, Cameron Diaz-at-the-end-of-Very Bad Things-running-into-the-street, bat shit insane.

Before you rush to a harsh judgment, I DID have a hysterectomy, bladder surgery, and MCL reconstruction on the same day (like a true moron), have been OUT of my house, aside from Physical Therapy and a drop-by the office to pick up a computer, 3 times in 6 weeks.  I have read nearly 10 books, watched 2.5 seasons of The Walking Dead, play over 600 games of mah jong, completed the application from hell (otherwise known as the Federal Electronics Challenge, which actually was a challenge after 4 weeks of nothing to feed my brain but helping with 1^st grade math), watched the neighbor lady lock her husband out of the house and him scream at the window for a full 30 minutes, pinned God-only-knows how much shit to Pinterest, and had a couple of babysitters Brian called after I did things I am not supposed to do.

I have been unable to bend over to tie my shoes or pack a bowl of cereal to the couch, been so doped up I saw the bats from Fear and Loathing (not EVEN kidding), and been unable to do pretty much anything but sit and get up to use the bathroom.

On a positive note, I am pleased to report I can now sneeze without pissing my pants, but that has seemed a small consolation to missing fresh air, or walking outside, or just walking…or being able to take my pants off unassisted (which is fine when you're 22 and drunk; not so much when you're almost 40 and stone cold sober).

So, you can maybe see a little bit of why I fell a little short of Charles Manson psychotic. 

I actually think I broke the world record for longest hysterical sob-fest, and it all started a week ago when the hubster loaned me his phone while I went to physical therapy, because I can’t drive and needed to call a ride and my phone refuses to hold a charge.  While I had said phone, I got pissed (again, irrationally, over a phone call he missed and I saw who was calling).  This was compounded Sunday when I lost a $5 ring I bought in the Grenadines in the car and he wouldn’t let me look for it (something that TOTALLY reminded of me of an aunt who went nuts over a comb she had “had since childhood").  

 Further compounding the situation was that no one bothered to do the dishes for three days; I went to feed the dog and three sacks of garbage were sitting next to the back door; and my living room looked like something out of hoarders, not to mention the phone started ringing off the hook about work.

Well, I got up at 2:30 in the morning because all I could think of (after Brian has done everything, and I do mean everything, for the last month) during a hot flash, was how much I hated him for not doing a goddamn thing.  So, I did the dishes and stomped, as best as a mad woman can on one crutch, through the living room, picking things up, and I got madder and madder at orders of magnitude every second. When he got up at 6:00, I went back to bed—unable to walk and back to two crutches.

At 9:30, I decided to take the trash out, fell flat on my ass trying to descend the icy mess that is the back steps, and commenced a crying session that lasted a good seven hours.  When the poor soul got home, I layed it on.  *this is to be read in your best sobbing, whiny, poor-pitiful-me voice* “You never think about what I need or want.  You never do anything for me. That ring was special!  Why was so and so calling?  How much of MY money did you give?” And a list of just about everything he had said wrong, when he’d moved wrong, and even when he’d breathed wrong in 14 years.  

I even pulled out the MOTHER of kindergarten tantrum threats, “I’m going to my mom’s!!”  Which is hysterical comedy seeing as I cannot drive.

Then, realizing I was in the middle of the most irrational moment of peri-menopause, I cried even harder because I had “gone crazy.”

About a week before my grandmother died, she fell down in the middle of night, and, not wanting to wake anyone with her Life-Alert, she laid on the floor by her closet all night until someone showed up in the morning.  I’m sure, trying to will herself up.  Later, when my mom and aunts told her she couldn’t do something, she threw her walker across the room and cussed. 

 

I laughed at the time, but now I understand.  I STILL want to throw these crutches through a plate glass window.  I don’t want any F*ING help.  I wanna scream “I DO IT!!” like my Schmoo did when she was a toddler and you tried to help her, but on the other hand, I want someone else to do it without me having to ask. 

I’m stuck in this totally bizarre world of contradictions…and I don’t like it.

I have survived one girl child making it through puberty.  I watched my mom go through menopause.  Through all of it, I will never forget thinking, “Dear Lord Jesus, can we get any F*ing crazier?”

The answer to that question was staring at me in the mirror this morning—with puffy eyes from the world’s greatest cryfest.  

 So, please excuse me while I go laugh at myself for my behavior, humble myself and apologize to my husband who really did nothing but be totally awesome, eat my words about crazy women, scrub the sweat stains out of my shirts, burn some incense while trying to meditate through this, and rely on my sisters who have been there.

To all the women out there that may be wondering…puberty was a piece of f*ing cake compared to this shit. And, if you aren’t laughing, you should be; I’m convinced it’s the only thing to get a person  through this.

To all the men, we really don't practice this level of crazy.  We hate it too...and you sometimes.  Don't take it personal.