Thursday, March 23, 2017

It's Mom's Birthday...She Gets A New Post This Year


It's Mom's birthday!

The year 1956 was a big year for Lora Keiber. She graduated and was the prom queen at Jefferson Township High School in Blue Creek, Ohio. She had 19 in her class which was about the same amount that lived in the city of Blue Creek. And most of whom were in her family. Granny had 11 children.

The picture is Mom's engagement photo and I saw it for the first time just a few days ago. It's my new favorite.

We'll probably celebrate like we do most things in my family and that's by going out to eat. Even better because Sister is flying in to help celebrate Mom's big day. Mom, just like Dad, likes a good steak. But sometimes, we'll change things up and go to Olive Garden or Red Lobster--just depends on what coupon we have.

Happy Birthday Mom! I know I speak for the rest of those that know you: "You're the best and we love you very much!"

Enjoy your day!

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

I have no idea. I just thought it was a good title.

But in this case, the chicken crossed the road or was placed by someone in my neighbor's fenced yard for no other reason to drive me crazy on a Sunday afternoon.

I have no idea where the rooster came from. I have the windows open because it's too hot, too soon and I'm too cheap to turn on the air conditioner this early in the year. It's still winter, for heaven's sake.

The rooster crowed for over an hour before I realized it wasn't coming from the television. I've stopped watching a lot of network television--however, I am hooked on Homeland on Showtime--I only have about three weeks of the free stuff left on my new customer special with Dish so I am binge-watching it to get caught up.

Imagine my surprise, after the umpteenth cock-a-doodle-do that I realized the television wasn't on. I live in the country but none of my neighbors have any chickens.

I heard the rooster sound off again and decided this was cause for an investigation so I put on my slippers and ventured outside. Mom called right when I saw the chicken for the first time.




Mom: "What are you doing?"

 Me: "Spying on a chicken."

 Mom: "Is it fried?"

 Me: "Nope, it's still running around the yard. Don't know where it came from?"

 Mom: "Okay, but you're not keeping it."

 Me: "Why not?"


 Mom: "Cause I already ate..."

I wasn't the only one interested in the chicken. Wally and Ralphie spent the whole afternoon searching for the bird making all that racket.



Later in the afternoon, after a Sunday meal of fried chicken (I know) Mom called and wanted an update on the situation.


Me: "Guess what?"

 Mom: "You caught the chicken?"

 Me: "Nope. Friend tried to get a pic of it."

 Mom: "Did she get it?"

 Me: "Nope. She stepped on a snake..."

 Mom: "Oh. I thought I heard yelling..."


 Me: "There was LOTS of yelling and cursing and I beat her inside the house...."


Now, I know why the chicken crossed the road. To get the hell away from that snake.



Wednesday, March 8, 2017

My Ralphie Boy



As dawn broke over the mountain and lit the way just enough for me to make my way to the coffee pot I spied something shiny in its reflection. At the same time a rooster crowed across the Chattahooche River, I heard the same noise that had tried to penetrate my dreams the night before and my bare foot slid when it touched down upon something foreign to it. 

Belech! Belech!

I'm not sure which cat it is from but from past experience I knew it would be my big boy, Ralphie. He's a thrower-upper, a puker, a master of the upchuck and it's always in the most obvious place waiting for my foot to join with it. It could be worse, I guess, it could be on the computer or in the center of my bed. That's the one thing about my boy: he's considerate of his Momma G.

We are not at home right now but it might turn out to be our new home in the next few months. We like it here: There's a screened porch for sitting; a swing for swinging and best of all, rivers for floating and fly fishing. The screened porch offers both of us the chance to be outside to watch the birds, the bees, the deer, and the occasional bear to wander by. It's isolated and private and Ralphie really likes it here.

Belech! Belech!

I follow the sound with my freshly poured cup of coffee in hand and spy my Ralphie sitting under a chair on the screened porch. My other foot lands in a slimy puddle and now I, at least, have a matching pair. Where did I put those slippers?

"Hey, buddy, you got an upset stomach?" I ask him. He responds in one of his more lyrical voices. It's hard to describe Ralphie's vocal sounds. They range from a howl, to a full-throated serenade and when he's really in great voice to a "Shut UP, RALPH!" (I'm not kidding!) Yes, sometimes he has to be scolded. I don't call him Ralph Malph for nothing.

He comes out from under the chair and jumps up on my lap as I sit down to enjoy the morning air. The porch is soon colored in morning sunlight and I can see several more piles of vomit on the floor. "Looks like we're going to have to go back to the vet," I tell him. No response from him other than a quick turn of the head as a bird lands on the railing outside the screen and sings a morning greeting.

"Oh, God," I hear from from inside. "Who's been throwing up? Is it Ralphie?"

"Yes, I think so,"  I reply. "He's gotta go back to the vet."

"Crap."

Crap indeed. For the vet is 75-miles away and the only way to get there is on mountain and curvy winding roads. Did I mention that Ralphie isn't a very good traveler? He's a puker, a thrower-upper and a multiple user of the litter box on any journey near or far.

Belech! Belech!

Three hours and many upchucks later, we have settled back in at home and Ralphie has been to the vet. He has an over-active thyroid and will have his medication increased. He also received a shot to settle his stomach.

A few hours later, Ralphie no longer looks green and is back in his favorite resting place: the clothes hamper. I'm suddenly not feeling so well and feel the dry mouth and pangs in my stomach at the same time.

Belech! Belech!

I make it to the bathroom just in time to lose my lunch (bad Chinese?) and hear a voice from the other room. "Oh crap, not you too?"

Crap indeed. It is me but I'm too unwell to answer back. I hear a noise and then feel the soft brush of my Ralphie Boy as he rubs against me. In a matter of a few hours our roles have changed. "Meow," he says in a half purring tone.

"Thanks, buddy," I said. "Let's go take a nap. I'm wore out."

"Meow," is his reply.

Even though he communicates in a different way, at that moment, we understood each other. He's my Ralphie Boy and I'm his Momma G. We belong to each other.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Mishaps At The Salon


***I had a request to list the whole story in one post. So, here ya go!***



Recently, I went back to my new hairdresser, P, to get a touch up on my newly fabulous hairdo that I've been sporting.  I learned my lesson about going on Wednesday, thus avoiding the fumes that arose from the all-you-can-eat   extrema burrito fiesta.

I believe it was on a Tuesday afternoon and the salon was hopping. It turned out that P had started teaching a class at the local community college and on that particular day he was teaching the new students in his salon. When he saw me at the front counter, he threw up a hand in greeting and squealed, "GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG, Hola`, chica. My goodness, what has happened to your coif? P did such a fabulous job on you last time."

"Hola`, right back at ya'll. That's why I'm here; the gray is coming back fast."

"Oh, chica, what is ya'll? It is just me, P. Anyway, you have come on good day. I am showing these P wannabes how to become a stud in the world of beauty and salon. Come sit here."

And with that I was led to the first chair and then immediately surrounded by a gaggle of cackling old bitties, three young wide-eyed teenagers and one young ex-Marine with a "I love doing hair" tattoo on his left bicep that greeted me with a wide grin and a strong nod. "Howdy, ma'am!" he said.

Over the next few minutes or so I listened somewhat stoically as my favorite hairdresser launched into the story of our first meeting and of our mutual agreement that my hair was a complete disaster. I was a perfect example of what not to do if you wanted to do your own hair or were too cheap (or broke) to go to a professional salon. "Come closer," he said to the class as he whipped out an iPhone from his fanny pack. "This is chica before and this is chica after P has finished with her. See the difference of what a professional can do?" he said.

"Hey, I didn't know you had taken my picture," I said.

"Oh, bambino, you were too worried about my burritos and my snake. You wanna see it again?"

"Wait a minute," one old bitty said. "I don't wanna see ya 'all's snake. What kind of place you runnin' here? Honey, have you seen his snake before?" she said as she edged closer to the chair and nudged me slightly.

"Uh?"

"Whaddya' sayin?" she said and nudged me again.

I wasn't sure what I was nudged with the first time, but I became acutely aware of what it was the second: her boob. They were big and large and were laying straight out, almost in an upward direction. At least she had on a good bra I thought to myself...


...Yeah, she must have a really good bra on to keep those things up like that, I thought to myself. I was thinking about asking her where she did her undergarment shopping when I got nudged again. Stop touching me!

Now, I'm really a patient person and fairly easy-going but there is one thing that drives me absolutely bananas and that is being touched by someone's body part when it is not supposed to be there, if you know what I mean. For that matter, I really don't like being touched at all unless I know its coming.

I've been that way my whole life. I can remember battles with Sister over control over the best end of the couch and rides in the backseat of the family car, stuck in the middle between Brother and Sister riding on the hump, hoping that neither would reach over and pinch, touch or even acknowledge that I was there. "Mom, Sister touched me," I would moan or "Mom, Brother keeps calling me Froggy," which would then result in either a headlock and a noogie or a flick of my ear.

I'm not sure which hurt worse.

Pedro gathered all of his students around him as he prepared the coloring mixture for my hair. "You must be very careful when mixing chemicals. You don't want to turn your client's hair green or blow somebody up. Hee Hee. All measurements must be exact and precise."

The group watched in fascination as P measured this and mixed up that, and finally finished with a flourish. "Bueno! It is finished. Come. Now, let us turn, chica, into a beauty once more."

The crowd gathered around me in anticipation, with Miss Triple Ds in the back row trying to see around the ex-Marine and a tall blond with even taller hair. "Mr. P, I can't see nothing from back here. Can I move up front?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Make way for Dolly up front," he said.

"My name's not Dolly," she said.

"Oh, I am sorry, chica. You are all so new and P has not had time to learn your names, but it is because you look like Dolly, that I call you Dolly," he explained.

As she moved from the front to the back, nudging me in the process, she took her place behind the teacher and waited for him to begin. P turned around with chemical in hand and ran smack into the large, upturned chest that had been repositioned behind him. "Mos Dios! Aye, yigh, yigh!" he exclaimed as the mixture sailed out of his hand and onto the plastic cape that was draped over me. "Oh, chica, P is terribly sorry. Dolly, where did those boobies come from?" he asked.

"Oh, my goodness. What a hot mess this is. I am so sorry, bebe, but I have the super duty heavy plastic cape and it shouldn't leak through it. Even if it does, that shirt you have on does not suit you anyway."

I was too surprised to say or do anything except look in the direction of where the mixture had been tossed from. Somehow, I wasn't too surprised when I felt a now all too familiar nudge as the large-breasted lady busied herself with trying to clean up the hot mess that was splashed across my chest.

Nudge. Stop it!

I continued to sit in silence as Dolly and P now took turns dabbing at the spill on my chest. Dolly had grabbed the towel that was wrapped around my neck under the plastic cape and P had whipped out a few moist towelettes from his fanny pack. Meanwhile, Sgt. Hair had worked his way through the crowd of stunned onlookers and now stood off to my right side, almost out of my vision. "Mister P," he said in a heavy southern accent. "I've got some more towels here, if you need 'em? All ya'll look like you done a fine job of cleaning her up, if you ask me."

Pedro looked at the ex-soldier and smiled broadly. "Thank you, Sarge, but I think we have it all cleaned up now."

My hairdresser removed the soiled cape from me and began searching for a new getup to replace it. "Does anyone have a clean towel for chica's pretty neck?" he said with an extra ounce of sauciness.

"I do," said Sgt. Hair.

"Oh, good! Come and I will let you be the first student to place the cape and towel."

I smiled up at the ex-Marine with the cool tattoo and strong jawline and caught his smile as he leaned over my body to place the towel around my neck. Nudge. Holy Crap! Here we go again.

"Nice job!" said P. "Now for the cape. Make sure you do it with a flourish. It is all part of the experience, you see."

P handed over the new plastic cape to Sgt. Hair who now had moved in around behind me. I felt another nudge and then a whoosh as the cape sailed up and over and settled perfectly upon me. "Terrific!" said Pedro. "Class, don't you think Sarge did an excellent job?"

The crowd murmured in agreement with "Yes, great job" and "Awesome" and "I wanna try". Sarge remained standing behind me soaking up all the attention, while edging closer and even still closer to the back of my chair. Nudge.

Nudge. "Great job!" said Dolly.

"Will ya'll stop touching me?" I said in exasperation.

"What is wrong, chica? Who is touching you?"

"Well, Dolly there has been beating the hell out of me with her boobs, nudging me every time she comes within three feet. And Sarge here has proven that he's carrying more than a loaded weapon and might just be happy to see me."

"Thanks, ma'am," said Sarge with a flip of his hair and a tug of his groin. "I am enjoying being amongst ya'll and I do apologize if 'Lil Sarge offended you in any way."

I was trying to recover from the 'Lil Sarge comment when I heard sniffling beside me. "Oh my, I am so sorry, being large-breasted has hurt me my whole life," said Dolly. "I thought I could do hair without 'em being in the way, but I was wrong," she said with a sad sigh.

"Oh, Dolly, it is okay," said my hairdresser. "We have just gotten starting in our training. I was so excited when I saw G walk in today that I forgot a first basic step in hairdressing, and that is where to place your junk. In my case, it is where to place my snake without offending the customer; that is why I wear a fanny pack. See, watch? I can nudge chica all I want and it will not bother her," said P as he nudged my chair with his fanny pack.

"But what about me? I don't have a snake and I think I would need a burlap sack to cover up my girls," said Dolly.

"Hmm, yes, you are a challenge but I think I have the answer. Your girls are very pretty and are standing upright, but I think we must get back to nature. You must free them and let them hang the way God wanted them to be."

With that, my hairdresser walked into the back part of the salon and came out with an armload of new smocks for the girls and a leather fanny pack for Sarge. "Here you go everyone. Please put on your new accessories and let's practice not touching our client. You don't mind, do you, chica? I give you half price."

"Go right ahead. For half price, you can touch me all you want," I said. Soon, I settled into a half-sleep state as I tuned out the activity around me. I received a few nudges, one more visit from 'Lil Sarge and then there was nothing. I sensed the activity around me and felt the hands in my hair but I was no longer being knocked around by the various out of control body parts that had tortured me earlier.

"Very good, Dolly!" I heard P say as I became more alert. "You have done a fabulous job."

Dolly handed me the mirror nervously and I glanced at my reflection. My hair looked fabulous. "It looks great, Dolly!" I said. "And I didn't feel a nudge or anything. I think you found your calling."

Dolly had done a good job and other than the sight of seeing her braless chest as she removed her smock, I was quite pleased with the way everything had turned out. I finished settling my bill and exchanging pleasantries with P when I noticed Sarge giving Dolly the eye. "I love the way you did her hair, Dolly," he said as he continued looking at her chest. "You wanna go get a latte?"

Her answer was a wide smile and a nod of her head and I heard P giggling behind me. "Oh, chica, I think I let Dolly's girls go and they have captured Sarge's heart. Such is life at the hair salon. You be good and I will see you in six weeks!"

Monday, February 27, 2017

Learning To Say Yes



Have you ever wondered how many times we say, "No, thanks" on a daily basis? Well, I surprised myself recently by saying "yes" to things that I normally say "no" to.

It all started a few weeks ago when Mom's car was in the shop and I was volunteered to give her a ride for the next days. She was starting a new dog sitting assignment and I was going to drive her out to her client's house. Well, midway through the trek it became apparent that this house was a bit off the beaten path. The road went from nicely paved, up hill and down, to thickly graveled, to lightly traveled and into dirt; we crossed one creek and on into deeply rutted and no-chance-in-hell is my Mustang coming back out here land.

When we finally arrived at the cabin, it was sitting on the side of the mountain and had four cars crammed into three parking spots.  I was less than pleased, I had just put new brakes on the car and the brake pedal was going to the floor. How it the world did they get turned around? Mom must have heard me talking to myself because she asked the same thing: "I wonder how they turn around?"

At that point, an older gentleman came out of the house and greeted Mom with a big hello. "Nice looking car you got there. Want me to turn her around for you?"

Now, I've only let three people drive my car, but something about this situation: the location, the brake pedal and the fact that my nerves were already shot from the drive up the hill and the genuine offer of help from this old guy made me slowly nod my head with acceptance. "Watch the brake pedal," I said. "I just got new brakes and it's going to the floor."

I guess his years of driving experience were a big payoff because within a few minutes he had turned my car around. "That was fun!" he said. "I'm glad you said 'yes' because the last two folks didn't and  backed off the side of the mountain. We had to call in the wreckers and everything. It was a hot mess!"

I'm learning to say "yes" to lots of things:

Wanna help me out with my groceries? Sure!

Can I hold the door for you? Yes, thank you!

Did you want a to-go cup? Definitely!

Would you like to try this sample? Okay!

Would you like to try our 30-day free trial.....? (No, thanks) I still can't say "yes" to telemarketers.

Monday, February 20, 2017

Just Singing Along



I had the radio blasting the other day and was just singing along to one great song after another. Some days the radio people get it right and they seem to play all of my favorite songs.

I really don't like the sound of my own voice. I can carry a tune in a bucket, mind you, but I like to impersonate the voices that I hear. Whether I can sing high or not usually depends on the weather. If it is low humidity and no rain I can scream with the best of 'em. (i.e. Axl Rose, Aretha, Janis and Garth Brooks to name a few)

All of this got me thinking one day as I was midway through Kenny Roger's The Gambler: Do artists sing along to their own songs or do they turn the station? Do they critique themselves? Do they like the sound of their own voice?

I don't really know any famous singers personally, but there might be one reading the blog. Maybe one of the readers knows somebody. Either way, if you'd like to leave us a comment and let us know if you sing along, that would be awesome!

Until then, "It seems like we'll be cruising just as fast as we can now..."

(Sorry, gotta go. The Beach Boys just came on.)

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Craving Cupcakes

I feel like Homer Simpson. Let me explain...

I'm on a low carb diet. Is there anything worse for a meat and potatoes girl like me? For my whole life, it's been about the white stuff.

Flour.

Potatoes.

Pasta.

Sugar.

Bread.

Did I mention potatoes? Mashed potatoes are my favorite food and I usually eat some form of potato every day. (Must be the Irish in me.) After nearly two months on this plan I've yet to find a suitable substitute for my Mr. Potato Head fetish.


One new food that I have discovered is flax seed, mainly flax seed flour. Yep, I said flour. It has a different kind of taste and texture to it. I've made flax seed bread that looks like Focaccia flat bread. I've made banana and raisin bread and apple flax seed muffins. I substituted Splenda for the sugar, and of course, flax seed flour for the regular white flour. The banana and raisin bread is really good.

I've already cut most of the sugar out of my diet, I'm pretty sweet without it anyway, at least that's what I've been told. But every once in a while, I get a serious craving for a cupcake. I was watching one of those cooking shows on PBS and they made homemade chocolate cupcakes complete with the white squiggly icing on top.



Talk about drooling...


They look good, don't they?

It might just be easier to go buy a single cupcake at a bakery somewhere instead of making a batch from scratch. The idea of flax seed chocolate cupcakes doesn't really sound appealing to me at all.

Sigh.

If only that picture of the cupcakes was scratch-n-sniff...my cravings might just go away!

LinkWithin

Blog Widget by LinkWithin