Cats just know shit

I realize that I should have listened to my friends when they shared their concerns about a man I decided I loved. ‘He’s just using you,’ they said or, ‘So you don’t think there’s anything weird about someone going for coffee and not coming back for 3 weeks?’…that kind of thing. I just shook my head and told them that I knew in my heart that this one was a keeper–he just had some rough edges.

Sure, he came up with some interesting stories about the ‘top secret’ nature of his work and all of the reasons he ‘had to’ spend so much time away from me (so many important projects and family crises). He had a boatload of intricately crafted reasons for why I never saw his home or actually met any of his family or friends…but I was convinced that he had good intentions. It just felt so right in so many ways, I told my friends (and myself), and I had invested so much time and energy in him that I needed to give it every opportunity to work out.

What I should have paid more attention to was the way my cats acted when Mr. BS came into the house. Every time he showed up they got slinky and scarce in that OH MAN SOMETHING’S UP kind of way that critters have. They looked at me like either an earthquake was starting or a random Great Dane had just come through the back door, and they never got used to him or trusted him at all.

In retrospect, Pickle might as well of had his paw on top of the dictionary, flipping through the ‘S’ pages…

Pickle knows shit

We don’t have a real dictionary any more, so he’d have to use the puter…

I now know the truth about Mr. BS and the double (triple, quadruple?) life he was living. I guess I really knew all along that things weren’t what they seemed, but some part of me needed to believe in it. That’s really the hardest part of all, trying to figure out why it meant so much to me…why I would let someone treat me that way?

Pickle just looks at me with those big old eyes full of kitty cat love and snuggles into my side. I know that if he could, he would tell me to just get over it…oh, and to get him a kitty treat. That Pickle is pretty smart.

Did ya miss me?

I just realized that it’s been almost a solid month since I’ve posted anything, and that’s just WRONG. I’ve certainly thought about it plenty of times, but too much work and too little sleep just don’t contribute a whole lot to the creative process.

Not much new and exciting to report…it’s fall again, so my yard once again smells like a Welch’s grape jelly factory — it’s a beautiful thing but I do seem to be buying a lot more peanut butter than I normally would.

Big banking news…I used my debit card online so much that the bank thought terrorists had it and shut that sucker OFF. I didn’t really buy that much actual stuff, but (note to self) it’s probably not wise to have five Amazon repeat orders, two eBay finds and a pet supplies order in the same week. cat thingy

The good news: the cats have a new scratching post tower climby thingy that was on the last credit card charge before the plug on the BofA connection got pulled. The bad news: I must have picked a dud, because those damn ungrateful cats don’t seem the least bit interested.

I’ll try very hard to have some better adventures before my next post.

 

 

My demons are drinking age

I tried today to write about something that’s been gnawing at me for a long while. I thought I was ready to explore (and maybe even share) the true story of my exodus from South Carolina to Oregon, some 22 years ago. I felt that I was ready to recount the tale of how #1 decided that the life we had built together was too badly damaged to salvage. I wanted to explain how we ran, leaving behind our store, home, friends and families…how we escaped without a destination, deserting all that we’d acquired, known and done.

It’s an exciting story of adventuring across this country but, as I started pulling together the words, I could feel the emotions starting to swirl in my gut. My face felt hot and I sensed tears beginning to well up, just as they did so long ago on the day we first drove away from everything I’d ever known and loved. I was transported to the day when all of my life’s history became just a shrinking rear view mirror’s width, and I thought I’d lost everything in the world that was precious to me.

What I know and understand now is that we decided back then that we didn’t have a choice. We decided not to allow ourselves to deserve the life we’d created. Our desperate escape from (what we decided was) the certain hot breath of failure and doom on our necks was a turning point in my life. I wanted to be ready to share my realizations…to free myself from the demons who hang on to painful hidden parts of your heart like a dog with a new toy.

Writing about the ending of such a huge chapter of my life should be cathartic…right? Hell, it’s been over twenty years, and I’m happily settled in a life that I love, in a place that I adore. I thought I was ready to face down those demons of that past life and tell ‘em who was boss…who wears the pants in this relationship!

As it turns out, the damn demons have all the britches. They are, in fact, the boss of me. For now.

So I filed the draft away as something that needs more work…more time…more healing. But be warned, demons–the band-aid has been pulled off.

writing-quote-4

 

I don’t need no stinkin’ penicillin…

When I was little, I had what was known as a delicate stomach (that’s Southern for: It didn’t take much to make me throw up). You could count on it every year after (and sometimes during) the county fair, and any time I got overly excited about something. There were times when it was my own fault, but there were plenty of times when I just got sick for no apparent reason. The only known antidote in our house was warm ginger ale, spoon-fed by Mama (Canada Dry ONLY…and no diet!) There was the one time that my grandmother tried to make me eat some horrible concoction called milk toast (exactly like it sounds), but I may have actually required extra ginger ale after that experiment.

Once I started feeling a little better and was able to keep the ginger ale down, I got to have some sherbet (or sherBERT as I was raised calling it). It’s strange to me that more people don’t realize or acknowledge the medicinal (almost magical) properties of the stuff…especially the rainbow variety. Oh, and don’t worry about buying the expensive (no high fructose corn syrup, foo-foo) variety…for this purpose, the cheap 7-Eleven no-name brand is best. To this day, if I’m sick enough to stay home, I need sherbert. (Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to maintain that same relationship with ginger ale. Tasting it now has a rather Pavlovian effect on me, and I can’t drink it without being reminded of my childhood…um…issues.)

Other than the occasional tummy troubles, I guess I was a pretty healthy kid. I still have my tonsils, I managed to never break anything, and beyond measles and an occasional earache, I was usually okay. If I did have a random ache or pain, Mama told me to just get over it, because it was obviously gas. According to her, gas was the cause of pretty much everything that could afflict a child. If I had a regular old stomach ache…gas. Leg cramp…gas. A headache? Definitely gas.

I never could quite figure out where all that gas was coming from though. Hey…I wonder if there’s a correlation between sherbert and gas? That would explain SO MUCH!

Sherbert STAT

Get this child some rainbow sherbert… STAT!!!

 

Sissified

There are some definite advantages to living 3000 miles away from your family, but I’ll be damned if I can remember any of them today. I’m having one of those Sundays that would be pretty much perfect if I could just get a big hug from my mama and spend an hour or two laughing with my sister about the silly stuff we did when we were kids.

I’ve written a little about my sister before, but there are so many Lynnie stories left. The little girl who cut apart the necklace to drop a pearl into the Prell shampoo, refused to brush her hair (or teeth), and made (stinky) perfume out of wisteria blossoms…well, she grew up to be a beautiful woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a love for makeup to rival my own. She knows more about movies than anyone I’ve ever met, loves John Wayne more than any modern movie star, will argue politics with the best of ‘em, and has a knack for remembering dates for things that I don’t even remember happening!

She also knows me better than anyone else does and can tell by the tone in my voice exactly what’s going on in my life (it’s kind of creepy, actually).

Ring…..ring…click…”Hey!”she’ll answer.

“Hey,” I’ll start, “I just wanted to check on ya’ll…”

“Mmm hmmm…so, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I just wanted to say hi,” I’ll lie.

“Listen,” she’ll say, “you know I know you, and something’s going on. You and Mr. X broke up again?”

Then I’ll tell her about my latest breakup, or a disappointment at work, or whatever it is that’s troubling me. Just the telling of it is like a compress on my soul, and the sting of whatever nastiness life has thrown at me somehow just eases up. It’s pretty damn amazing stuff, that sister love.

Now, the yin to that sissy-love yang is the sissy-aggravation that sometimes goes along with it. I’m not one to argue political points (or any other points if I have a say-so), and that makes my sister nuts from time to time. She just loves to debate, but I rarely indulge her. I’m not good at games and don’t mind losing at Monopoly or cards, while she plays to the death (“What do you MEAN you don’t care if you lose!?”)

Then there’s the bossy gene that we both have in spades…and what better way is there to aggravate a bossy Southern woman than to try to tell her what to do? Given that my own bossiness is accompanied by an overly healthy opinion of my own way of doing things…well, I’m sure you can imagine the head butting that can ensue.

Imagine this…the childless aunt (that would be me) comes to visit and decides to tell her sister how to raise her own kids…BAM! (That was a head-butt.) Or said aunt throws in a little feedback on how her sister’s house should be run…BAM-BAM! I won’t even go into the fun that follows when the aunt offers her two cents worth on how her sister’s hair should be done…oh yeah, it can get pretty intense from time to time. (BAM!)

But my little sister just keeps on loving me and knowing me and always wanting only the best for me…what’s up with that?

Hey Lynnie…pssst…I love you. You’re smart, funny and so much stronger than you realize. You’re a great mom, have a beautiful home, and you know exactly how to run your own life. I’m lucky to have you and have learned more from you than you will ever know.

And no…I still won’t argue about politics.

Maybe as matching tramp-stamps?

Maybe as matching tramp-stamps?

 

 

Too much livin’ I tell ya!

Well, to say that I’m disappointed in how little writing I’ve been doing wouldn’t be nearly whiny enough, so I’m just going to vow to do better. Here’s what I currently have going on, in case you think I’ve just been slacking off…

  • Two jobs
  • Yard work (since I’ve finally acknowledged…after 13 years in this house…that it won’t do itself)
  • A vegetable and herb garden (now that I’ve decided that eating things that grow in the yard isn’t a sin…and hell, if I’m out there anyway…)
  • Two crazed kitties with a new-found addiction to being outside (with their mama, while she slaves over the crops)
  • Worrying about if I still have any followers when I do write
  • A (more than) crazy, on-again-off-again boyfriend
  • A serious addiction to HBO
  • Periodic bouts of totally necessary retail therapy
  • Listening to my neighbor children grow up (to the South we have a budding Ethel Merman in the making who belts out that song from Frozen over, and over, and over …on the North we have a toddler named Wyatt who, if my ears don’t deceive me, may just be the most perfect child ever, cause all his mama ever says is, “Good BOY, WYATT!” She yells it a lot. A whole lot.)
  • Returning a lot of beer cans and…um, never mind that one

See? And I didn’t even mention all the time it takes me to put my makeup on and do my HAIR…I don’t wake up looking like this, you know!

The other issue is regarding what comes out when I finally DO write. Let’s just say that my last post was, well, maybe a teensy bit self-indulgent. Don’t get me wrong, everything I wrote was true, but I didn’t really need to dump all that on ya’ll. This is supposed to be a happy, feel-good break in your day…a time to check in and see what old wacky Tammy has going on. I can just hear you thinking to yourself, “NOW what has that girl gone and done?” or, more likely, “Damn, that girl better get funnier FAST, or I’m outta here,” or, “Hmmm…isn’t America’s Got Talent on right now?”

Well, keep your britches on…I’m still here and, like I said at the beginning of this post, I’m vowing to get back into writing more regularly. I’m also learning to type while drinking and watering the garden, so the odds are in our favor!

 

 

Don’t make me write you into the corn field…

There’s an old saying that gets thrown around a lot, but it really is true…something about the ones who know us best also being the best at pushing our buttons.

Well, my buttons just got pushed, and I’m PISSED.

I’m finally figuring out that the people I gravitate toward and want most in my life are usually the interesting ones…the ones who stand out in a crowd and demand to be noticed. They’re funny, and charming, and being around them seems like the best thing since I learned to tie my own shoes. Being with them just feels GOOD…for a while.

And then I realize that (more often than not) their charm is really just some sort of ramped-up crazy…the kind that wants to burrow down into your soul, where it tries to crazify everything it touches. That wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have a peculiar disorder that requires me to invite that proselytizing, born-again crazy right into my life. Not only invite it in (like the clueless victim in the vampire story…”Well come on IN Mr. Dracula!”) but I then have the need to make a comfy little spot for that crazy, complete with a La-Z-Boy and a plate of fresh-baked cookies. I apparently want that crazy to stick around and make itself at home!

cornfield

Which leads us to today’s button-pushing episode. The worst part of it was that I have, over time, showed Mr. Crazy where the buttons were, and have instructed him on exactly how to use them…more than once. (This is the part where I take responsibility for my own crazy…I think it was Einstein who talked about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result…yeah, that’s me…I get it.)

Note to self: Tammy, a month from now when said button-pusher shows up looking all sweet, innocent and only mildly crazed, remind yourself about that stomped-on area adjacent to the La-Z-Boy…the spot where all those stale cookie crumbs are. Keep that area VACANT, and invite that crazy right into the corn field, where it belongs.

Thank you…my tirade is now complete.