Mom, Remember That Time???

I'm probably so 2010, but I've just discovered Mama Kat and her fan-tabulous Writer's Workshop.  I like her writing prompts.  Since I'm not a writer, I don't do fiction.  Nor do I do self help stuff.  No informative nonfiction either.  I just like to ramble...um...I mean, write about me and all the craziness in my head.  Because I'm a bit of a narcissist.  And I have no life.  And my husband doesn't care to talk about all the crap spiraling around in my great, big brain.

Shit, there I go again.  Where was I???

Mama Kat.  So I'm tagging along with Mama Kat because I find her prompts intriguing.  They aren't fantasy but real questions.  More like playing Truth or Dare.  And I'm out of material.  It's been a slow week in LB Land.

My parents didn't whip my siblings and I very much.  Although corporal punishment was the preferred method in the South in 1971, I was lucky enough to have lazy parents who liked to holler instead.  However, I do remember getting a severe beating once.  My sister and I both.  We had to be about 4 and 5 years old.  Maybe even younger.

In those days, my mother was obsessed with order.  Everything had its place.  Away.  Out of sight.  There was nothing on the floor of the room shared by my sister and me.  Nothing under the bed or on the floor of the closet.  The dresser was clear of everything except for two small jewelry boxes.  Our bed was always made; our house was always clean.

For those of you who knew my mother, you can pick your jaws up from the floor now.  She was a neat freak at one time.  Real talk.

As I said, our room was immaculate.  The decor was typical of the 70s with the white dresser and matching white bed.  Our bedspread (no comforters back then) was bright yellow.  We had tile floors covered with a fuzzy little rug in the shape of feet.  Our closet doors were also decorated with decals of those fuzzy little feet.  The feet were arranged so that it looked as though they were climbing the closet doors.  Pairs in yellow, pink, green, orange.  Fuzzy.  Very 70s retro.

One morning, my mother came to inspect our room.  We were not allowed to come out until our bed was made and we were dressed.  When my mom entered, I could see her face drop.  Her smile quickly turned to a grimace with pouting lips, clenched teeth, and furrowing brows.

Who did this??  She snapped.

My little innocent eyes became as big as saucers as I looked over towards my sister.  What?  What did we do, Mama?  I had no idea to what she was referring but I was certain that my sister must have done something wrong.  I knew I hadn't done anything.  Besides, she was always getting into trouble.

She pointed to the closet doors where one of the fuzzy feet had been removed.  All that was left was the adhesive backing used to affix the decal.

Who did it???

Not me, Mama, I said. 

Well, I didn't do it either, came from my sister.

Well, I know one of you did it.  It didn't just fall off the closet door, she growled angrily.

My sister and I both stared at each other then stared back at her.  But we didn't do it, Mama!  We replied in unison.

Well, one of you is lying.  You are both going to get a spanking until I find out the truth.  She went to her bedroom and came back with my daddy's belt.  Bend over!

I can remember being so pissed at my sister.  After all, who else could it have been?  She had to have done it.  Now I was going to get a whipping because she wouldn't admit to it.  I remember saying to her, "just tell her the truth, Mi Mi."

After the first round of licks, my mom asked us again who took the decal off the door.  And again, we both denied any wrongdoing so she proceeded to give us a couple more licks.  This went on for what felt like an eternity.  We were screaming and crying and begging.

Finally, my dad came back to our bedroom after having heard all the commotion.  What's going on back here?  Why are you whipping them?  What did they do???

My mom told him the story about how the fuzzy decal was pulled off our closet door and how we refused to tell her the truth.  She was so angry.  My sister and I were inconsolable.


You mean that fuzzy decal?  He pointed to the spot where only the adhesive remained.

Yes, my mom replied.

My sister and I were unable to speak through the hysterics.  Our butts were on fire from that leather belt.

Well, I pulled it off, said my dad.  It was starting to come apart around the edges so I just pulled it off.  They didn't do it.  Besides, that foot is too high for them to even reach!

I was so mad.  And remorseful for blaming my little sister.  I could not understand why my dad would do something like that.  Or how my mom could be so pissed off about a damn wall decal.

Later on, I found my mom crying like a baby.  She had been in a blind rage, and was just then realizing what she'd done.  She hugged my sister and I both so tight I thought my guts were going to come out.  I almost felt bad for her.

That was the last time I got a spanking.  And I never let my mom live it down.  Of course, my reminders of that day were always in jest.  I picked on her a lot about it.  Remember that time when you whipped us for that??? ha ha ha... 

I suspect, though, she got an ill feeling in the pit of stomach every time I mentioned it.

Still I wonder if my dad did, in fact, remove that decal or if he just admitted to it so that my mom would stop.  I didn't consider it then, but my dad never really had a reason to go into our bedroom.  Nor was he the type to care about something as insignificant as decorative decals.

I suppose the truth will remain a mystery for all of eternity.  My sister is gone now so there will be no confession from her.  My mom is too.  And I doubt seriously my dad even remembers the incident.  It's etched in my memory forever, though.    

The Graduates

Today my oldest graduated from kindergarten.  My youngest had her preschool graduation last week.  I'm sure I should be sad, but I'm not.  Yes, I am in awe that the time has gone by so quickly.  It seems like just yesterday that I was crying about the fact that I had two under the age of two and neither could walk.  Time keeps a rollin' by.  Hours and days quickly turn into months and years.  

G with her diploma

E with his sweet teacher

While we all know that the aging process is not my friend, I do appreciate the fact that my kids are growing up.  In addition, I'm totally psyched about our new found wealth!

No more daycare payments!  Woo hoo!!!  Mr. OCD can buy me the Hope diamond now.  Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog!  <-----------*me celebrating*


Instead of being sad about them growing up, I'm ecstatic!  I personally cannot wait for the day that I can leave them home alone.  Even for just 5 minutes!  Do you think 6 is a bit young for that???

Call me an optimist, but I'm choosing to see the glass half full.  Besides no daycare debt, some other things I won't miss:

• Diapers!  Or pull-ups!  Or baby wipes or Boudreaux's Butt Paste...
• Late night pampering and early morning entertaining.  Finally, Mama can get the 14 hours of uninterrupted sleep she needs. 
• Sippy cups.  Big kids drink out of big cups.  Wait a minute; that only increases the number of spills in my house exponentially.  Ok, we'll keep a few sippy cups until they are 15 around for a while.
• 400 pound diaper bags.  Twenty minute trips to the grocery store are no longer preceded by 3 hours of diaper bag packing.
  
• Cumbersome car seats with safety latches, straps of steal, and tiny little airbags.  Only little booster seats that can be easily moved from car to car.  Better yet, booster seats so cheap that I can afford to own one for every vehicle in the family plus a spare for the kidnappers babysitter.
• Special dietary needs.  Now they can eat macaroni-n-cheese and hot dogs like the rest of the family.
• That big ass, double stroller.  They can walk!  Or run, for that matter.  Which brings me to the next advantage... 
• Expensive, great-for-tiny-growing-feet Stride Rites or Pedipeds.  I'm digging $1 flip flops from Walmart now - woo hoo!

 Yep, I'm excited about them growing up.  Big kids can do a whole lot more than those little ones.  Hell, I can't wait for them to learn to drive.  I'll never have to drive again.  It'll be like Driving Ms. LB.  In surround sound.

10 Favorite Things

Blogging is therapeutic.  It's like a nice massage when I'm feeling stressed.  It's my Valium.  Figuratively speaking, of course.

My only problem is that I lack anonymity.  When I first started, I made the mistake of creating a "feed" not realizing exactly what that meant.  I'm just a weirdo who likes to play around with crap.  Often times I create huge messes, get annoyed, and move on.  Such is the case with my blog feed.  I can't turn the damn thing off!!!

My therapy sessions are posted to facebook every time I blog.  Every single, I've-got-to-get-this-shit-off-my-chest moment I have is poured into my blog.  Which, in turn, is spewed out into facebook land.  At first, I was cool with that.  Most of my blog friends are not official followers - just check out my minuscule fan club.

No, most of my blog friends read my stuff on facebook.  Because I can't turn off that damn feed!  Don't get me wrong; I totally LOVE that my friends read and <3 my stuff.  However, as my list of facebook friends has grown so have my blogging troubles.

Apparently, Mr. OCD's fan base is much larger than mine because he found out about my plot to withhold the goods this summer.  Remember my post about him not attending our daughter's preschool graduation??  Well, he did NOT go to the graduation so...well...  Let's just say, the stand off between Custer and Sitting Bull wasn't nearly as contentious.

Lucky for Mr. OCD, I have severe ADD and have trouble staying focused.  Anger is one of those things that requires a great deal of focus.  I just can't do it.

Consequently, I'm hooking up with Mama Kat at Mama's Losing It and borrowing one of her writing prompts.  (Another side effect of ADD - I ramble on and on before actually making my point.)  This, friends, is for Mr. OCD.  And his cotton-pickin' spies...


Although I love to bitch and moan about him and his inadequacies, Mr. OCD is actually one of my favorite people.  Really, he is!  I damn sure wouldn't have procreated with his ass if I didn't like him.

Lesson #1, girls who think they want a baby:  
NEVER, ever conceive a child with a man who has no job, no house, no car, or a bad credit score.  You're just looking for trouble.  And him when it's time to pay for the care of said offspring.

Oh, where was I??  Right!  My favorite person.  Mr. OCD.  Why is he my favorite person, you ask?

1. He puts up with my crazy ass even when I rant and rave about his inadequacies.
2. He is the best damn dad in the Western Hemisphere.  Really!
3. He takes care of me and my children.  He's chivalrous like that.  Call him Ward Cleaver, but he believes that as the man of the house he is responsible for our well-being.
4. He is a saver.  Thank God!  Both of us can't LOVE to shop.
5. He does not mind doing housework.  In fact, he'd rather do it himself than let anyone else do it.  That includes ME!
6. He is not afraid to tell me he's sorry or admit when he's wrong.
7. He knows EVERYONE.  By name!  And their parents.  And their parents' parents!
8. He is always willing to lend hand.  Need your grass cut??  Just give him a call.  Jim Bob's cousin's nephew's son is stuck in a ditch?  He's on the way!
9. He will eat anything I put on the table.
10. He plays with our kids.  He will have a tea party with our daughter in a heart beat!  He's not afraid.

My admiration for Mr. OCD is really immeasurable.  The list goes on and on.  Maybe I'll dedicate another blog to the rest of it.  I don't know.

I'm glad Mama Kat provided me the opportunity to share, though.  Accolades are not nearly as entertaining, but they are long overdue.

So here ya go, Mr. OCD.  You happy now? 

Oh, wait...  He's not reading this.  He thinks yahoo IS the internet.  He has no idea how to find my blog or facebook or google or porn.  Hopefully, his friggin' fan club members will at least convey my message.  It's doubtful, though.  I live in a small town.  Not only does Misery love company, she loves the company of other people's company.

Proof That I've Begun my Descent

Forty-five.  That's the answer.


For those of you who wonder at what age a woman reaches that minuscule location on the proverbial hill where she starts her descent, it's forty-five.  Research no further.  "Over the Hill" starts then.  To be more precise, 45 years, 3 days, 7 hours.  I'd go into a lengthy explanation using differential calculus to define the slope of the hill, but who the hell cares???  You have the answer.


The evidential variables used to derive my very scientific findings???

1. I've been unable to attend my daily aerobics classes because of my back.  I've been on pain medication and steroids, and given strict orders to stay away from the gym for two weeks.  I can't even drive by the place without feeling anxious.
2. I've had this uncontrollable desire to cut my hair to a more sensible length.  Until recent years, I'd NEVER had short hair.  NEVER!  Have I told you how much I hate Demi Moore???  That evil heifer made me believe that all 40+ women can have rock-hard abs, a beautifully flowing mane, and a 25 year old husband!
3. I've been sweating like a whore in church at night.  I wake up each morning completely drenched.  My hair is nappy, and I smell like I ran the Boston Marathon.  Seeing as I can barely stand upright, I know that cannot be a possibility.  

There you have it.  Proof.  This sequence of events all started when I turned 45 years, 3 days, and 7 hours old.


You're welcome. 

The Old Mare

Getting old sucks!  I know I talk about it ad nauseam, but, for crying out loud...it DOES!  Furthermore, I'm sick of women like Demi Moore doing the rest of us old hags a disservice by looking like a 20 year old.  Courtney Cox, too, dammit.  Those tricks have money and airbrushed photos on their side.

What do I have???  A damn aching back!

Because I buy into all the 40-is-the-new-20 hype, I am literally killing myself at the gym.  High impact Zumba three days a week, Hip Hop Abs once a week, and some cardio kickboxing when I can fit it into my schedule.  Hell, I didn't work out this much when I was 23 years old.  Which, by the way, was when I looked my best.  I was fit, tan, and half-nekked most of the time.  God, I miss those days.


Back to reality, heifer!

Oh, yea...  Well, now I've got this 40ish (just not ready to embrace the new odd number which is my current age) body stuck in a 20-something time warp.  I keep thinking if I work hard enough I can have my old body back.  I've yo-yo'ed all my life gaining weight and then losing weight and then gaining and losing it again.  No biggie; drink a few Slim-Fast shakes for a week and watch the pounds disappear!

That's what my under-developed brain thinks.  The overly mature body knows otherwise, though.

On Tuesday, I came home from Zumba feeling rejuvenated.

Uh-huh.  Look at you, LB!  Won't be long now, girl, and you'll be looking gooo-oood!  Sure am glad you saved those bikinis from 1998.  You're going to need them this summer.  Sex-ee, little Mah-muh!  Get in that shower, Hot Stuff. 

*insert record scratch here*

I bent down to pick up my wash cloth and was quickly jerked back to reality.  All the sudden, I felt this horrendous pain in my lower back.  The pain ran from all the way down my left leg.  I wanted to cry.  I did cry.  I was able to stand upright only after hobbling over to the sink and pushing myself up with my arms.  Once up, I could not go back down.  I couldn't sit; I couldn't bend.  I was stiff as a board!  (ADD moment #593 - Do you remember playing "Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board" when you were a kid???  I loved that game.  We'd play that and have seances.  We were creepy little girls, now that I think about it.)

What the crap is that all about???  When I told my OB about it, he said "Oh, quit all that jumping around.  Just buy yourself some comfortable shoes and walk."

Translation - "You're old as dirt, LB.  Get yourself some black orthopedic shoes, some high-waist, elastic pants, and walk the mall every day like the rest of the geriatric community does."

Thanks.  Shoot me now, and send me off to the glue factory, please.  I'm done.

My First Time

Okay, so a friend of a friend in Bloggy Land is hosting a little virtual round table discussion called the "Monday Minute."  Check it, and him, out at The Daily Dose of Reality.


This is my first time, so be gentle.  K?

Here we go!  Drum roll, please...

1 - Where aside from a toilet have you taken a dump?  Explain.
OMG!  Is this question really necessary?  Let's just say that emergencies have occurred requiring me to take desperate measures.  I'm human, and I poop.  Occasionally, at the most inconvenient times.  'Nuff said.  

2 - At this point do you really think that Magic Johnson has HIV/AIDS?
Hell no.  It just ain't possible.  I think that there's some dude, either dead or living, named Ervin (instead of Earvin) Johnson, Jr. who tested positive for HIV.  A lab technician made a typo, and, voila!, Magic Johnson got a phone call.  Ladies, if you've ever had relations with a guy named Ervin, be afraid.  Be very afraid! 

3 - Would you wrestle a member of the same sex, nude, in pudding for 10 minutes for one million dollars?
Holy Mother of God!  You bet your sweet ass I would.  Ten million dollars???  Hell, I'd strip nekked and sing on the steps of Buckingham Palace for that kind of money.  Hot damn, why?  You know someone to hook a Sista up?

(Only after reading 400 other submissions did I realize that my answer was completely INCORRECT!  Uuugggghh...  My impulses and vivid imagination kicked in before I had the opportunity to consider the question.  The answer is still the same, though.  Heck, I already do pretty much anything for a free t-shirt.  There's practically nothing I wouldn't do for a million dollars.  As long as it's legal.  I'm a nut-job, not a felon.  The penitentiary is not a very friendly place.  Have you ever seen Locked Up Abroad???  No way; I will not be your prison be-otch!)

4 - Squash just doesn’t sound very tasty.  What say you?
I <3 squash!  Boiled, fried...even raw!  My favorite is squash casserole.  YUU-UUM!  Makes you want to slap your mama it's so damn good.  Leave it to Southerners to take a naturally healthy food, slap some butter and cheese on it, and turn it into Heart Attack in a Dish.
 
and finally...


5 - Is it worth the effort?
I'm lazy by nature so "NO!"  Unless, of course, you're talking about the nekked pudding wrestling thingy for $10 million, then "Hell to the YES!"

David Downer

I have an on-again-off-again relationship with Facebook.  At times, I am completely engrossed; while at others, I could give a rat's behind.  No lie.  I've actually gone 2-3 days in a row without actually logging in.

Pick your chin up off the floor.  It happens.

Lately, we've been getting it on.  Lately, I can't seem to break away.  Kind of like talking on the telephone with my first love.  You hang up first.  No you.  I want to stop looking, but I'm scared I might miss something.

Until...David Downer shows up.  And pees in the pool.

Everyone is all "Memphis in May rocked!" or "I saw Jake Gyllenhaal at Jazz Fest!" or "My kids won their soccer tournament." while David is all "What is everyone so damn happy about??  Obama is ruining our country, and your kids are fat."

Seriously??  It annoys the crap out of me how Jon Stewart-ish he tries to be.  Don't get me wrong, I am a smart-ass.  Sarcasm is how I roll.  Furthermore, I can appreciate a fellow know-it-all.   His comments, though, are often pretentious and, well, just...damn...snobbish.

I guess that's what bothers me the most.  His comments just exude elitism.  Like he's sitting at his computer thinking "Ha, ha, ha!  I am so fabulous.  My wife and kids are beautiful and adore me.  I have a gazillion dollars in the bank.  And you are NOTHING!"

I'm not sure why I don't delete him, though.  I kind of enjoy disliking him.  I think my need to get pissed off by his comments is what keeps bringing me back to FB.  What the hell is he going to say next?

Or maybe I just feel sorry for him.  Because his life really sucks.  His wife is sleeping with her trainer.  His kids are hellions that he can't stand to be around.  He's 52 gazillion dollars in debt and one payment away from foreclosure.

As with everything, I'm sure my obsession with Facebook and David Downer will wane.  My ADD doesn't allow me to stick with anything for too long.  For the time being, though, I wonder if he's pissed that Bin Laden's body isn't hanging from a flag pole in front of the White House???