Sharon Y. Edlin's Blog, page 7

Spasmodic Behavior

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If you are unsure what spasmodic or spaz means let me throw a couple of definitions out at you. It’s been defined an awkward person, someone who is clumsy often falling down, or rapid irregular movement or in my definition . . . a body part or parts that come to life at night and scare the shit outta you.

Let me take you back some . . .

About 100 years ago when I was about 8, I remember my mom got this little dachshund puppy and named her Brandy. She was adorable and such a good dog until the fateful day when an asshole driving entirely too fast down our little brick stone street ran her over and ended her life. Okay, wait, I thought I was over that . . . evidently not.

Anyway, prior to her death, I remember watching her sleep and I’d witness her little paws just twitching away or watch her muscles twitch like crazy. Sometimes she’d even start moving her paws like she was running. It was adorable and yes, spastic.

Jump a few years up and I’m at my first slumber party at 13 years old and it was then that I witnessed or rather felt, the restless leg syndrome my poor friend was plagued with and then I became a victim as I got the shit kicked out of me. I was unable to move because someone had the grand idea to zip all the sleeping bags together, therefore cocooning us all in like a bunch of sardines.

Jump ahead again, and I was a victim at another sleepover in high school next to my spastic restless leg syndrome friend. This time, I just rolled out of her queen sized bed and slept on the floor. Let this restless leg syndrome madness end!

Well, now I am learning to love and live with the spaz within the Professor for he is plagued with every available muscle spasm known to man while he is sleeping.

The Professor is a spastic mess but God love him he just doesn’t get how very disturbing of your sleep it is when someone has a hold of your body part and his hand starts spasming so bad, you feel as if the body part is going to brutally, repeatedly, rapidly be squeezed the hell off. I mean the “girls” have had it with the spastic handling and keep telling me that they are going on strike if a certain someone doesn’t get a cure for his spasms and I have to agree with them as I am incorporating the rapid squeezings into my dreams and these dreams are turning really weird.

One night, the Professor had his hand on my belly and the spaz kicked in and I dreamed that I was having another baby! It freaked me out so bad, I woke up with a start thinking, “Oh hell, I’m too damn old for another baby!”

I was sleeping on my side just the other night and the Professor had his hand resting on my butt cheek when the spaz kicked in and I dreamed a man at the grocery store had my butt cheek in his hand and I turned around and slapped him.

And on another night, the Professor had his hand on my forehead, I was unaware of this one at the time, when the rapid spastic squeezing started and the Professor almost poked my eyes out as his fingers were right near them. He did end up knocking off one of my eyelash strips and I was pissed.

The other thing the Professor does is the restless leg thing but not just in one leg, in both. Yay me! The only good thing is his restless leg thing is very mild and he’s not flailing all over the place like my two crazy friends did when I was younger.

If I am woken up by a spastic rapidly squeezing hand, I take the hand off of my body part and give it back to him and you know what he does . . . . as if he is a magnet and my body is metal, he grunts and returns his hand or hands back where they were prior. I’m not kidding. I cannot get this man’s hands off of me!

Now the other night I had one of the spastic hands on my person right over my left ribcage where I broke three ribs years ago and they will forever be tender I have discovered. Spaz boy turned into Spaz-Scissor Hands as he had apparently not trimmed his nails in a bit and gouged the hell out of my left ribcage made worse by the tender that is always there. That was it, I slapped his hand, then threw it off of me, sat straight up in bed, turned to him, and said, “You get your damn spastic hands off of me or I’m building a wall up between us right here in the bed. You just scratched the shit outta me!” And do you know what the Professor says?

“Keep calm and love my spaz, babie!”

What the hell?

So, I am now wearing armor and it seems to be working quite well and sometimes if the Professor has those long ass nails, he gets a start when he scratches the armor having another spaz attack and it sounds just like the nails on a chalkboard and man if he doesn’t stop immediately. It’s quite something!!

The only reason I have not cut his hands off is because I love him, and that is the only reason people because I need my damn sleep and I need my body parts to stay intact and my skin to not be scratched up like I’ve gotten in a fight with a damn rose bush.

I’m still wrestling with his spastic hands each night but at least those spastic hands are on me, right?

Love y’all . . . love you too, Professor!!♥

 

Southern Belles

The picture I used today is true of this little gem of a place called Hair and Nails by Southern Belles which was recommended to me by a dear friend to get my nails done at and it is the most charming place around y’all, it really is.

I’m not a very foo-foo kind of gal anymore, well, I really never was. I don’t wear much make-up, I don’t dress very fancy,  prefer flip-flops, t-shirts, and tennis skirts or leggings, and I don’t get pedicures anymore. However, there are 3 things that I foo-foo with from time to time. I color my hair at the same place I’m talking about with an awesome colorist, I wear false eyelashes because I would have none otherwise, and I get my nails done by a dear woman at the Southern Belle place who has become my friend and confidant.

You see about 5 years ago when the Professor/Husband asked me to marry him, he presented me with the most beautiful wedding ring you’ve ever done seen and as he slipped it onto my finger, I decided right then and there that my hands were not worthy of such a beautiful thing, so I decided to doll them up some by getting my nails done.

I liken my nail place’s friendly atmosphere to that movie called “Barber Shop” starring Ice Cube as it is not uncommon for folks to stop by just to sit a spell and chat to any and all of the hilarious and wonderful staff members my nail lady has hired, a lot of family, but not everyone.

So, what prompted this blog today was my visit to my cozy, comfortable, and friendly salon to get my nails done and what went about yesterday.

As I walked in, there was a rambunctious conversation going on between my nail lady’s daughter and one of the hair dressers. They were fussing and cutting up something fierce and you can’t help but sit there and laugh when they laugh and smile because these two ladies are so hilarious and call it like they see it. My kinda gals.

I pop a squat in my nail chair as I hear my nail lady tell the lady she is doing a pedicure on that I am an author. She tells any and everyone that, y’all trying to get my books sold and I think that is something special. As I’m sitting there I look over to nod a greeting at a man just sitting off to the side near my nail table just hanging out. I assumed it was one of the customer’s husbands or hell, maybe one of the employee’s husbands. I also observed customers coming in the back door, because that is just how this place rolls, then promptly visit the break room, snagging a donut, and then plopping down in their chair for a manicure.

I also hear a terrible thud followed by a shriek as I peer around the corner and one of the customers has nearly come through the front window with her car while parking and the dude hairdresser that sits on the other side of that window has about had a heart attack. The thud was timed perfectly with the near car in shop incident with that of another customer getting a coke from the coke machine, it really did sound as if she had hit the building but it was just the coke dropping down. As bad lady driver staggers in she says, “Oh, hello, how are y’all,” followed by a slew of “makin’ fun of’s” being thrown at her for her less than desirable driving ability. They ran with that one for a while and there was more of that delightful laughter just floating around the place.

In the meantime, my nail lady has started on me and as I sat there drinking it all in, the most adorable old man Jenkins comes in with those adorable old man overalls on and plops down next to the man I was thinking was someone’s husband. I whisper to my nail lady, “Who are those fellas,” and she proudly says, “That one there is my brother and that one there is my daddy.” I love this! They sit there shootin’ the shit for a while and I can’t help but to just smile from ear to ear at my little piece of family owned heaven. These are good people, y’all, they really are.

I also got the honor, as my nails were drying, to talk to a little almost 3rd grade fella about Pokemon and he was just bursting with pride showing me all of his cards. He was adorable and his mother was just so worried he was bugging me but it was the most enjoyable 15 minutes with this little dude.

I’ve seen my nail lady’s son-in-law emptying garbages, I’ve seen her grand-daughter putting garbage bags in, now I’ve met her brother and her daddy, and yesterday her twin sister was there and you know what I love, when they talk to each other, they call each other ‘Sister.’ My sisters and I do the same thing and it’s just precious to me.

My nail lady has let me advertise at her place, pushes my books for me, lets me display my essential oils, and has let me bend her ear on all the shit that goes on in my life. She even prompted me to make a move I was to chicken to make.

This is one special place, not because you can get your nails done or your hair done or get yourself one helluva massage. No, it the atmosphere, the tone of simple goodness that circulates throughout this lovely little business making you more comfortable than you’d ever expect.

Now, my nail lady, also the owner, is a precious Christian woman and I plan on sending her this link. I can see her face now, it will blush some and she will let that sweet smile light up her face. She is one of the good ones y’all and one of my very favorite people, although she may read this and end up being surprised.

Comfort outside of your own home is sometimes hard to find but her place, why, it’s just something special and I feel honored to have found this place of tranquility, silliness, family, friends, and well, just love really.

Y’all go check her out here in SE Huntsville, you’ll be glad you did.

Love y’all . . . love you too Ms. Betty!!♥

The Curse of Being Too Nice

My modo has always been, “kill them with kindness,” but I am finding that there are an increasingly growing number of individuals that take full (and then some) advantage of people like me and I have had it.

It all started back when I was dating my boyfriend my Junior year of high school. He was the first boy that I ever got serious with and it took me close to a year and a half to realize something . . .

If he and I were out in public say at the mall and people would walk by, my tendency was to look at them for no other reason but to people watch. It was a fascinating hobby of mine as I was wild about psychology and people are the psychology of life. It was such an ingrained habit that I didn’t realize until I dated my slowly becoming uber jealous boyfriend who would blurt out loudly, “Why are you staring at that guy walking by with those other people? Do you want him? Do you think he is cuter than I am?” I’d look at my boyfriend with surprise and say, “Good Lord no, you know I love watching people, I didn’t even notice a guy in that group.” To which he’d say, “You are lying, I saw you staring at him and he was staring at you.”

At first, I thought it was cute that he was so worried about losing me, that he loved me that much but as the months turned into a year into a few months, it got out of hand. I was being accused of things I would have never dreamed of doing like cheating on him, being a part of an orgy (ew), and many many other things. He would follow me to and from work and even got a job at the same place I worked at so he could watch me and make sure I was ‘behaving.’ It was creepy as hell.

So, the night before I would break up with him, actually I hadn’t planned on it until I had the dream. A long dream made short, my boyfriend was not my prince and his accusations and obsessions/possessiveness were out of control and I woke up the next morning determined to end things.

I called him on the phone, yes a real live home phone because this was before cell phones, and told him I needed to see him and he agreed. I was very nervous as I pulled up to his house and I was praying that one or both of his parents would be there in case it got out of hand. Alas, they were not.

I sat him down on the couch and explained that his obsessive behavior and controlling attitude were crushing me and after having the dream I had last night, I know that he is not the one and I need to end things today. Oh hell . . .

If ever a human being was able to split in half with having a come apart, he was the one. He wailed and cried and asked why and I told him that I just told him why and as I tried to leave he grabbed me around my waist and wouldn’t let me go as I tried to drag his 200 pound body with me to the front door because I was freaking the hell out at this point and the saying “if I can’t have her no one can,” was frantically echoing in my head. I finally was able to be free of him and sprinted for my car. The aftermath harassment and begging to get back together lasted another month but I was finally free. So much for being nice and taking it that long.

I was later nice to another mistake, although I have two awesome kids so not all was lost I suppose, that I would be abused by for 16 years. Again, I was too nice allowing certain things to happen that I should have never allowed.

During that 16 years of hell, I was nice to a sprinkler system guy just starting out and found myself $1000 gone with a sprinkler system that looked like it was put together by a 2-year-old who had not glue to put the pipes together thus, ending up in court for this one. Nice strikes again.

Another ‘nice’ story was when I was still in my horrible marriage and I was living in our mansion, sorta, on the hill. I was working and raising kids so I took the advice of my friend to use her cleaning lady who was good at her job and honest. So, I did. Well, about a year or 2 in, my cleaning lady pulls me aside one day as she is leaving and says this to me, “I’d appreciate it if you would not have such messy parties anymore because it makes my job a whole helluva lot harder.” Um, come again? Yes, in that sentence, she asked me to not have parties at my house that were messy because she actually had to work (my ex was a neat freak and the house was always immaculate to keep the peace so there was little to no work in this house other than maybe dusting-think of Sleeping With the Enemy clean, no joke). I let this one slide and laughed it off with her but then we had one of my friend’s reception at our house because they had never had a proper reception having gotten married so young and the next day my cleaning lady blessed me the hell out. I looked her dead in the face and said, “Get your cleaning shit, get your purse, and take yourself out of my house NOW! You are fired and no one tells me what I can and can’t do in my own freaking house!” Of course she stammered and apologized blaming her outburst on stress. I shook my head, nope, opened the front door and did little but throw her sorry ass out. The End.

Well, I can go on an on about being nice and where it has gotten me but this past week has been the week from hell for this nice happy-go-lucky girl and I gotta get it out and off my chest, y’all.

I have hired at least 4 lawn services in my lifetime to keep my grass free of weeds and that damn crab grass. This last outfit I hired promised me that I would be the happiest customer ever so I agreed, though I heard a few rumors about the company, I decided to be nice and give them a chance. I now have more weeds in my yard then I have ever had ever and swear to the good Lord above that these idiots are spreading weed seed rather than weed kill. I even got a little stabby and emailed the owner the other day with pictures to boot explaining my extreme unhappiness and demanded explanation of why this was occurring as my yard is surrounded by a fence so not much action blows into it therefore spreading weed seeds. She explained to me in a return email that the parsley type weed I was referring to has no ‘cure’ at this point. I emailed back saying that I was not referring to the parsley type weed but the 100’s of other weeds that I have never seen in my yard before. She emailed back that she would send her guy out to spray and that should do it.

Well . . .

Dude came out and sprayed water on them, I am convinced, because within a couple of hours of spraying these things, in my experience, you should see a degree of wilting followed by obvious dying of the weed. Well, no no, not in my case, they are twice the size now. So, with a happy heart, I fired my lawn service yesterday and will now take the lawn on myself.

In the spirit of being a bitch, because nice is not working, I also fired my property manager after the lease contract is up at the end of June because it has come to my attention that the line that says ‘she works for me and my best interest” in the contract that I signed is not true and the couple of times I have tried to sell it using her has not worked either because it seems she likes renting it out more than she wants to sell it. This was pointed out to me in the fact that there was not one open house, no fliers, and nothing other than being on MLS for advertising. When it was clear it wouldn’t sell again, guess who found her own renter’s, well me of course. Now, she’s not unpleasant to work with but this time I hired a different realtor and she/rent lady is making it obvious that she is pissed but enough is enough. I have consulted with my friend and new realtor’s property manager that she and her husband use on their rented condo and she has informed me that many many things have been done wrong in the 4 years I have been with my rent manager and I am also out quite a bit of money because she failed to raise the rent last year like she was supposed to. I’m done, I’m finished, I’ve had it.

Being nice has its perks but it can often lead to heartache, irritation, and over indulging in spirited beverages because you can’t eat your way to happy when you are on Weight Watchers.

After a lovely evening eating Mexican, drinking Margarita’s, and making merry with my awesome friends we will call “The Rangers,” I am a new woman today and happy as hell that I have taken a stand and praying like hell that my house will sell this year because I am just done, y’all, I really am. I’m also in debt because I have been too nice to my ex to keep my children with as little stress as possible and just taken on paying for all the medical bills, my son’s very expensive baseball program, buying 2 cars, and paying for all of the car insurance. I’m done with this too as I have taken that bull by the horns as another ‘unfun’ was announced to me a few months ago, I’ll stop there.

Now, I’m not saying don’t ever be nice, I can’t help but be nice as that is how I was raised, but I guess I’m saying be ‘cautiously nice’ and recognize quickly when you are being had. If you need someone to be nice to that won’t make you feel had well, I’m your girl. Taking advantage of and manipulation of are not my things and never will be.

Love y’all, even the ones that piss me the hell off!!♥

And . . . peace out Rangers ℜ

 

 

Conversing With Oneself or Other Objects

I have talked to myself either silently or out loud my whole life and since being married to the “Professor/Husband” I find myself talking out loud to myself more than ever . . . or maybe he’s just around enough to catch me doing it, who knows?

My kids are used to me yammering on to myself and just leave me to it but not the Professor. It freaks him out a bit I believe.

Why, just yesterday, while watering my new plants, I was getting acquainted with them explaining that in Alabama it’s damn hot and as the days roll on, I’ll have to start watering them every day. I also let them know that my mom will be taking over for me in a few weeks and not to be afraid of her because it will only be for a week.

As I was chatting on with my new plants about the heat, the Professor had been spying on me through the kitchen window and decided to come out onto the back deck. Out of nowhere, I hear, “Who are you talking to?” I honestly replied, “Oh just chatting on with my new plants about what to expect in the coming months.” My husband looked at me, shook his head, and went back in.

The other day, while getting ready for work, I was jabbering on to myself in the mirror about what I was going to do with each OT kid coming to see me today. I went on and on and then eventually moved onto having a meeting with myself about my new Hippotherapy adventure at the clinic. If on cue, the Professor walks in and says, “Who are you talking to?” To which I replied, “Me.” Cue the shaking of the head and the exiting the area for fear, I assume, that the weird that is me would rub off on him.

Well, recently, I have found myself at home alone, which is a piece of heaven y’all, and it is not uncommon for me to sing opera, sing like Kermit the Frog in opera (I’m actually making fun of a country singer who I swear sounds like Kermit the frog), and this new country song I can’t get out of my head called Hometown by Kane Brown, I think it is.

Well . . .

When I set my weirdness meter on high, assuming I’m alone, it can get a little crazy so at the peak of my Kermit Opera performance, I hear someone walking around upstairs and nearly peed my pants when I looked up to see my stepson standing there looking at me.

“Um, oh, hello there, I didn’t think anyone was home?”

“That’s obvious,” he replied with a chuckle.

Good Lord, where did that kid come from? He’s supposed to be at school!

My talking to thyself has taken on an all time high and it may be because I have a lot going on in my noggin and it needs an escape route or perhaps, I just enjoy amusing my family and quite possibly freaking the Professor out.

Why just last week I was in my clinic talking to LuLu my  4-foot tall stuffed giraffe. She and I were talking about her baby, Baby YoYo, and how he might be doing as one of the OT kids borrowed him for the week. I do this in the clinic as an adventure for Baby YoYo and my only caveat is that they have to get their picture taken with him on one of their adventures. I hang it on the adventure board and the other kids love seeing where Baby YoYo has been. It’s really cool!

LuLu and I were in deep conversation when the Professor came out into the clinic and caught me yet again talking to, in his perception no one, but in fact, I was having a perfectly lovely conversation with LuLu when I hear, “Who are you talking to?” You would have loved to have seen his face when I answered, “Why LuLu of course, we are talking about Baby YoYo and his adventures.” That was it for the Professor, y’all, he blurts out, “Have you lost your friggin’ mind?” Well, I never. I looked at LuLu and politely said, “Excuse me, love, for I have to deal with the Professor at the moment, but not to worry, I’ll be back to finish our conversation.”

With that, the Professor went back into the house without another word . . .

I talk to plants, stuffed animals, the grass, the trees, Mr. Pickles (see a few blogs ago), my food, the refrigerator, the television, myself, no one, my dogs, my alarm clock, my computer, my car, and many many other things.

I have found that conversing with myself is very gratifying as I have all the right answers, I am a great conversationalist, and my subjects of conversation are highly entertaining. I’d call myself a complete package . . . insert a big fat laughing face here.

Well, talking to yourself has had its challenges here lately as the Professor has decided to mess with me. So, the other day, as he was washing his hands at the sink, I asked him if he wanted pork tenderloin or tilapia for dinner, to which he replied, “Are you talking to me or yourself because I just can’t tell anymore.” Oh, the drama . . .

Love y’all!!♥

 

Dude, zip your pants up and move along!

Why do some men think that it is okay to sit near your home, while staring at your door, unzip their pants, and make happy with their dinga lings? Why? Was there a quiet voice in your head that morning saying, “Go, go to a cul-de-sac, find a house, park your nasty ass right near it, and get to work on your body part, man.” Well, sir, I’m here to tell you that this neighborhood

Well, sir, I’m here to tell you that this neighborhood don’t want you or your body parts that you decided to be busy with anywhere around here. No sir! You zip up your britches and move away from all neighborhoods ya sick twist!

About 100 years ago when I was living in Birmingham I had the incredible hell of having to deal with 2 stalkers and it was just awful, y’all. One was an older gentleman who would hang around the jewelry store that I worked at and the other was actually one of the employees I worked with.

It was not uncommon for me to look out the window of my second story apartment and see the dude that I worked with in his car busy with himself while looking up at my window. I had to call the cops on him 3 times and he had to get fired from the jewelry before he stopped. The old dude that would hang out in the parking lot waiting for me to either follow home or harass me in the lot, well, let’s just say some friends took care of him for me and he stopped bothering me too. The End . . . and no he’s not dead or missing.

When I was 8 years old, I got the opportunity to go to a public pool with one of my friends one summer and discovered that wankers come in many sizes. There was this older dude that sat hovered over the water spout on the bottom of the pool out in the middle and liked to let his weenie hang out and surf the spray of the jet. I also discovered that same summer, when I was invited a second time to the public pool, that black men do indeed have big ole wankers that often hang out of their speedo’s and they don’t seem to care.

What is with y’all anyway? Old man Jenkins on the spout and young Mr. Speedo dude not giving a damn that their hickory sticks are hangin’ out, really?!

I’ll digress, y’all, I can tell my mom is going to get me for this blog.

Now, moving ahead a few years . . . I was 17 and had made a little bit of money at my first job so I decided to go to what was then Belk Hudson and buy a new shirt or something, I don’t remember. As I’m heading out to my car after my purchase, I see that someone is parked next to me and they are inside so I averted my eyes because in a hot second my butt was going to be in their face as I unlocked the door to my car and that made me a little freaked out because of the way they had parked.

As I’m unlocking my car, no key fobs yet y’all, I hear moaning and heavy breathing coming out of the car that my butt is facing. I turn around thinking the dude is hurt but no, no actually, he is not, he is quite happy with his attached man toy in his hand. Well, this was a first for me and I thought maybe he was retarded or something so this is what I say, I swear to you, “Hey, fella, yeah you. I don’t think a parking lot is the best place for getting happy with yourself. I think it’s best if you trot on home and handle that little situation ya got going on down there in a better place,” and then I started laughing my ass off at him.

Well, that pissed him the hell off as you can imagine. As I turned to open my door, dude sped off making his tires squeal which made me laugh even harder. Once home, I told my mom what had happened and she hit the roof and asked if I had even realized what he was doing next to my car? I said, “Well, clearly he was beating off mom, he chose the wrong place to do it, bless him.” My mom looked at me as if I had grown 48 1/2 heads, threw her arms up in the air, and walked away. Now, a little later on, I realized that this was not what most women would have done at all, they would have freaked out but why freak out when laughing seems so much more effective?

Moving on . . .

So I have been exposed to wankers for a long time now and without permission granted to do so, fellas. You may be fascinated with your little wonder boy down there but we are not, ESPECIALLY if you force a show on us, y’all. Gross!

My blog is fueled today by a fella that decided to park his ass 15 feet from my house, sit on one of those green wire boxes in our yards for power or whatever, unzip his pants, pull out his little friend, and get him going while staring at my house unbeknownst to me. Now, you may wonder, how does she know this and here’s how . . .

You see weenie man, I have eyes all over the place, eyes that care about me, my family, and my neighbors. In fact, it was the mom of one of my friends who was visiting her daughter and decided to go on a walk in my cul-de-sac and as she passed you after getting off of the sidewalk and walked into the street because as she neared you, you sick twist, she realized what you were doing, she ran back home, got her daughter, and they drove back to get a look at you but you must be a quick finisher because you were gone ya nasty ass man. They were so concerned because you think this is okay, that they sent me a text very worried about the situation you have created with your unwanted presence in my neighborhood.

Sir, as I told the weenie dude when I was 17, there is a time and a place for things like this and it’s not on a green wire box in my neighbor’s front yard in the middle of the morning. What you did was not okay and if I ever see you over there again, here’s what you need to expect so think long and hard before you even come back . . .

I will trot right over towards you with my camera ready.
I will walk right up to you and first take a picture of your face first and then I will take a picture of your weenie with your hand attached.
Then I will taser you so when I walk away, I can call the police and that will give them a bit of time to get there while you are recovering. Depending on my mood, you might get tazzed in your chest AND your weenie, so try not to piss me off too bad, buddy.

Men with weenies in hand out in public, your time is up. Zip your damn pants up and move the hell on!

Love y’all!!♥

 

 

 

Mr. Pickles, Mr. Popkins, and Mr. Probably Brain Damaged

Yes, I am a big fat weirdo who thinks of the weirdest stuff but can’t help herself so bear with me.

I could have called this blog “A Day in The Life of My Mind and Surroundings,” but that sounded boring so the mister’s sounded better.

Here we go . . .

If you don’t know, I’ll be brief, the reason I started blogging is because I was the ‘victim,’ kidding, of a blended family nearly 4 years ago. Because of this blending, I found myself with a house I couldn’t sell, now renting, and I now live with my two kids and 3 step kids in my husband’s house. His house has a huge field behind it that a hay farmer uses for those rolled up hay spirals, which sit all over the field some days. So, when you take a picture of your children on the back deck, it looks as if he and I live in the country. It’s awesome, though that is about to change since the sweet lady that lived on the property has flown to heaven and the land has been sold for houses to be built. Oh well.

Okay, now, because we have forest and a ton of land behind us, there is quite a lot of wildlife. My husband likes to call it his animal kingdom. He’s a goober, y’all, he really is. We have seen coyote, deer galore, fox, Sasquatch, oh no wait that was my ex, sorry . . . snakes, tons of birds including Mr. Pickles.

Mr. Pickles is a red-tailed gorgeous as hell hawk that lives back there in what I call the ‘back 40,’ a childhood term for land that was actually behind my house as a kid, kinda ironic. There is also a Mrs. Pickles and now Pickles Jr. but I don’t see them much. I spied him this morning while letting my dogs out before my walk.

Mr. Pickles sits majestically on the power wires or on our fence and surveys the land for prey, although here lately, Mr. Pickles has been watching me probably because every time I see him, which is really often all of a sudden, I yell out, “Oh look, it’s Mr. Pickles!” My stepson, who is often in the backyard shooting his bow and arrow, looks at me as if I am insane. He knows who Mr. Pickles is and has said to me a few times, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t appreciate being called Mr. Pickles.”

I believe Mr. Pickles is waiting for the perfect opportunity to peck my eyes out as the name Mr. Pickles for such a majestic bird is probably ticking him off. Moreover, you are probably asking yourself why Mr. Pickles. My answer would be, I have no idea. It just came to me one day when I was walking back to our back garage and he was sitting on the fence and I suddenly yelled out, “Oh look, it’s Mr. Pickles!” I got the evil eye I think, but the name has stuck around and so has Mr. Pickles.

Moving on . . .

When I was in high school 100 years ago, I had a best friend whose dad I was very fond of. Her dad was retired military, a big ole teddy bear, and as nice as a person can be without getting walked all over. There was never a time when I would go over her house that Mr. Popkins didn’t say hi to me with his sweet smile and perhaps have a light conversation with me.

Well, as time has gone on, I have not seen my old best friend since high school, actually, we grew apart if I recall, and also in that time, Mr. Popkins lost his wife to cancer. With all of his kids grown and out of the house and his wife in heaven, he moved into a smaller house and as I found out yesterday on my walk, is fancying a widow that he has known for 25 years, as they all went to church together, and is popping up in my neighborhood here lately to the point that I thought he was living in my neighborhood. As I am coming into his/his ‘girlfriend’s’ cul-de-sac yesterday, he was just backing out, saw me, and waved me down. I was so happy, y’all. I had hoped that one day I’d run into him!

As usual, he had a huge smile for me and even said that he and his girlfriend had just been talking about me just the other day. Me? You see, sweet Mr. Popkins let me know subtly that he has never stopped keeping up with me even if it was behind the scenes for the last 30 years and that touched my heart like crazy. What a wonderful thing to know that someone still cares about you after all those years.

After we parted, I had to smile and said a little prayer of thanks that me and Mr. Popkins talked. I also prayed for him and his girlfriend that they would be happy for years to come.

Moving on . . .

As I rounded the corner coming back from my walk, I stretched, chugged some water, and then walked into the house and Mr. Probably Has Brain Damage was at it again. No, not my son, LOL!

You see there is this very confused brain damaged, I’m sure, woodpecker that has mistaken our brick and aluminum chimney for a tree. When this crazy head goes to work, it sounds like a damn machine gun coming down the chimney as he goes at it on the aluminum and it can go on and on. It scares the hell outta the dogs and they go fleeing for our bedroom and hide under the bed convinced we are under attack. I remember the first time it happened I was sitting at the kitchen table and my stepson was sitting on the couch near the chimney and the look on his face was priceless. It took us both a minute to realize what it was but once we figured it out, we both cracked the heck up.

Each day I wake up, I’m thankful for 5 things: I’m alive, my beautiful husband sleeping next to me, all of my kids, my practice, and appreciating all the weird and wonderful things that happen around me each day.

Each day is an adventure and I am so lucky and blessed to be a part of this interesting world. God had a hand in having me run into Mr. Popkins and for that, I’m so thankful. Mr. Pickles wants to peck my eyes out but I swear he is on that wire or on our fence more now since I have been talking to him, not kidding. And well, Mr. Probably Brain Damaged gives me and my stepson something to laugh about and I love that.

Find good in each day and that is your purpose on this Earth. No need to question it further.

Love y’all!!♥

“Can I touch you?”

And yes, I absolutely love the look on this dude’s face and use his picture often. I used it today because my guess is that this might be your face at reading the title of today’s blog. Am I right?

Let me back up . . .

When one owns a very small business such as mine, marketing is enormously important in order for folks to know about you and what you have to offer. Starting out 100 years ago, I went office to office marketing my Pediatric OT practice to the pediatric doctors and psychologists and man I am not good at shmoozing. Bleh! But, I did what I had to do. It also helped that I had worked in the school system for a number of years so many of the teachers and principals knew me and I thankfully got referrals this way as well.

But, because I am a one woman show and if I don’t work I don’t get paid, I couldn’t be away from the clinic to market so . . . I had to rely on a couple of other ways. No, not prostitution, that’s not what the title implies y’all, I’ll get there, you know I will . . . eventually.

Now, I was very against Facebook at first because I thought it was damn weird to take a picture of what you were eating and letting everyone know. That’s so incredibly odd to me unless you are a food critic and you are on assignment. I also thought it unwise to post pictures of you at the beach aka out of town, not at your house, which was perfect for robbing, although I accidently have done this without thinking so I need to digress on this last one. In addition, politics seem to get out of hand on Facebook and can be just awful and I didn’t want to even see or read any of it.

However . . .

When you have to be in clinic treating, you have to use Facebook for advertising. I have to hand it to Facebook, they have helped me with referrals through my advertising on there. You have to advertise where the folks are and there are a whole helluva lotta folks on Facebook! Facebook CEO, you did it man! You brought people together, even if they do want to post a picture of their food, and you are one rich son of a gun! Congrats to you!

I’ve also advertised in my kid’s yearbooks, in sports programs of who the kids are that are playing, and various other places.

And then I met Bob . . .

No, Bob didn’t ask if he could touch me, I’ll get there y’all, I promise!

Bob and I hit it off instantly and I have such a lovely connection with him, it’s as if I have known him forever. Bob is a publisher of a precious local magazine called South Huntsville Neighbors. This magazine is filled with articles from our town leaders, health article, business articles, events, and yes, advertising.

Each month you will find my little logo on one of those pages of this magazine and I’m right proud, y’all. I really am.

There were a couple of reasons I decided to advertise with Bob. One, he lets me write articles for him in his health section on occasion and since I love writing, that was awesome. I was also impressed with the fact that he offered a spotlight article with me and my company on the front if I wanted. I was both honored and a little nervous when he mentioned a ‘photo shoot.’

Now, I am a bit of a shy person when it comes to pictures or being the center of attention. I get all funny feeling inside. I’ve always hated pictures because I’m one of those people that over-analyze the photo and think, “Oh my Lord, my husband looks at this every day?!” I’m just not a fan of photos.

So, about 3 weeks ago, I get an email from a dude named Steve asking me when a good time was to set up my ‘photo shoot’ and I think I wet my pants a little and then was suddenly nauseous. Oh good Lord, I knew this day would come. We made arrangements and that was that. I was to be the center of attention of Steve and Sandra his sidekick, wife, and the art of set-up as well as my bestie, Bob, who would be interviewing me after the ‘shoot.’

Gulp . . .

Well, that day was yesterday and I survived the camera taking apocalypse and lived to blog about it. I was also oddly relieved that the camera didn’t suck out my soul because I don’t have time for that.

So, when Steve says, “I want a shot of you on your swing,” the gutter part of my brain goes hog wild because here we are, 3 grown people in ‘Toy Oz’ complete with a swing and a grown man just asked me to sit on the swing. “Um, what position do you want me in, Steve?” Oh good Lord.

Now, Steve is a huge cut up but also a professional and tells me to position myself with one knee on the swing and my other foot standing, though after looking at the pictures, Sandra and I agreed that I looked like an amputee so we nixed that.

So, Steve says, “How about you sit playfully and relaxed on the swing.” Oh y’all, I couldn’t help it. I swung one leg over the rectangle swing like I’d just mounted a stallion and Steve, Bob, and Sandra fell out. It was hilarious . . . no, I didn’t get a photo of that, though I should have just for kicks and giggles. Put that on your cover, Bob! Oh, just kidding.

At one point, Sandra and I noticed that in a couple of shots I was slouching so she told me to stick my chest out and I had to say this, “Sandra, I work with kids, I can’t thrust my jugs out too far or it’ll look funny and I’ll lose business.” She fell out again and Bob, with a grin, rolled his eyes so high, I thought they’d fall right out of his head and onto the floor and then Sandra and Steve would step on them trying to maneuver a good shot and then we’d all be in trouble. Especially eyeless Bob.

And then it happened, during one shot Steve sashayed up to me and said, “Can I touch you?” Oh, so much to say to that but I refrained and finally said, “Um, how exactly are you planning on ‘touching’ me?” Again, laughter, but Steve remained professional as he turned my hips at the angle he wanted for the next several shots. Bless him.

All and all, everything regarding the ‘photo shoot’ went great and Steve and Sandra at S & S Photography are both a hoot and very good at what they do. I was shocked at how great they made me look in my pictures and I wanted to congratulate them on accomplishing a miracle.

My interview with Bob was lovely too. I love that dude!

Well, I will be gracing the cover in the May issue and I’m nervous I’ll look like an alien who works in a little Toy Oz workshop who has a swing of her own, but we shall see. I’m interested in reading the write-up that Bob will do, but he’s great so it should be pretty good.

My ‘little workshop,’ as it has been called by one of my son’s friends, is my happy place and I’m blessed and honored every day to feel the pure joy of doing what I love.

Love y’all!!♥

 

 

Death By Max

I believe that this little cartoon rings true when it come to a little piece of equipment called the Bowflex Max from hell, y’all! The Grim Reaper was alive and well at my house around 8 am this morning and he meant business.

I have fallen slack a little bit on my goal weight and my ultimate goal is becoming a lifetime member at Weight Watchers. I’ve also been approached by the staff at WW asking that once I hit lifetime, they’d like me to come and be a leader. I was flabbergasted and said, “What, me, why me?” What an honor but I’m not sure I can fit this into my life but I am still very honored to have been asked.

Well, I decided this week, since I have exactly 12 weeks ’til I find my butt on the beach and I am crazy excited to be in a body that will support a tankini more comfortably, I gotta get back excited about getting the last of this weight off and reach goal. As y’all know, as we get older, time moves a helluva lot faster and those 12 weeks will be here before I know it.

So, in my pursuit of goal, I’ve decided that I’m working out on the Death by Max machine at least 2-3 days a week, riding my bike at least 1-2, walking at least 2 days a week, doing yoga for 15 minutes 2 days a week, and using my ab machine 3 days a week. Whew! I’m also doing this to try and light a fire under the Professor’s/husband’s butt who has not worked out since we got married. He’s still fine as heck but I know he will say things about himself and feel uncomfortable on the beach and I don’t want him to feel that way because it can take away from a good time.

Today started that quest and I could feel death upon me as I reached the 8th minute, yes 8th, this machine is literally a killer, and thought I was a goner. As I made it to my 10th minute, my lungs, thighs, butt, and brain were on fire and I thought, “Well, this is the end.” So, I added 30 more seconds once I hit 10 minutes because I wanted to add insult to death or something or I had really lost my mind. As I fell off Max after he tried to kill me, a whimper escaped my person, but damn it if I didn’t do it and I lived to blog about it.

I’ll do abs tonight and pray for a good night sleep as I will be waking up early tomorrow to do yoga. I love my yoga, y’all and I do it through Gaia and they have great programs. I do a 15-18 minute one and it wakes me up and gets me going. I also diffuse Plant Therapy’s spearmint, pink grapefruit, lime, and lemon while I’m yoga-ing and that wakes me up too.

Here I am 45 years old and I truly feel as if I have reinvented myself. I finally feel good in my own skin, I’m married to a man that loves and cherishes me, I have two awesome kids and three awesome step-kids, though one of them isn’t happy with me right now, which makes me sad, and a business that I adore. I am so thankful for second chances and the wonderful people in my life. But Max, you aren’t one of those bits of happiness, I hate you,  and I’m tired of you trying to murder me. Stop it right now!

Y’all hang in there trying to reinvent yourselves whether it’s weight loss, getting more exercise, having a better attitude, or being a better Christian . . . you have the power, don’t forget that, YOU HAVE THE POWER TO CHANGE YOUR WORLD, YOU JUST HAVE TO REALIZE THAT POWER AND USE IT!

Love y’all!!♥

 

 

DA DUI’S!

In this day and age of Uber, there is no reason you should drive around damn drunk. Amen! But no, you losers continue to drink, load your sorry ass up into your automobile, and risk killing yourself, maybe a passenger if you have a dumb ass friend in there with you, oh and perhaps an innocent family coming back from dinner. Or . . . in the case last night, t-boning your neighbor’s parked car.

So, here’s the scene last night . . .

Like any Saturday night, I was seated at my place on the couch waiting for my husband to come back in from letting the dogs out with our movie on pause when all of a sudden, I hear screeching and then that dull thud you hear when a car hits another car. As I leaped up to go see what the hell just happened, my husband comes scrambling inside saying, “Someone just hit something out front!”

Here’s what we see at 7:45 pm last night . . . in our cul-de-sac we see a white truck sitting in front facing the house across the street from us, mind you our cul-de-sac is huge, so they were kinda far off, it was raining, and what in the hell? My neighbor’s truck was moved from its perpendicular position to the curb and the whole passenger side was smashed the hell up.

My husband goes running out into the cul-de-sac in the rain, as some big ass man staggers out of the driver’s seat and then I see a small man sprinting from the passenger seat for the house that the truck is parked in front of and let himself in the front door. In the meantime, my husband is talking down the gigantic drunk stranger who is staggering around with his insurance card in hand slurring, “I have insurance,” and attempting to go door to door to let all the neighbors know that his drunk ass has insurance. My husband yells to be to call 911, which I do because large drunk guy starts getting stabby. I have to call the cops twice because it is taking forever for them to get there and drunk dude has tried to get into his truck and drive again.

By this time, the whole cul-de-sac crew has come out of their houses to see what in the hell was going on. Cue the next character . . .

I see the front door of the house that the little drunk guy ran into and one of the most glory-assed women comes waddling up to my husband and starts yelling at him telling him not to bother her brother and why is she harassing him and was he in the truck with them and all kinds of hysterical nonsense. Finally, the cops show up but I’ve noticed that they don’t come alone anymore. No, a fleet of cop cars fills up our cul-de-sac along with a little girl ride along ranger who was about 17 maybe, on the job to learn. It looked like a damn cop block party complete with disco lights and a large drunk man and his glory-assed hysterical sister.

Now, what really pisses me the hell off is the circumstance of my neighbor whose truck was hit. Ya see they weren’t home because the husband is very ill and in the hospital ICU. He also just paid that damn truck off on Wednesday and now it’s damn Saturday and some drunk dumb ass has destroyed the passenger side of it. I had to call the wife and tell her what happened and it pained me it really did but she was thankful I told her.

Evidently, because the cops didn’t see the drunk guy behind the wheel, he didn’t get arrested last night but probably will today.

Here’s the kicker, I was standing out in my front yard earlier today observing my neighbor’s beat up truck and I’ll be damned if skinny drunk last night guy and big ass drunk ass guy are in some other car pulling out of the driveway of the house that skinny boy fled to, they both look over at the smashed up truck as they pass it, and I’m not kidding, they start laughing. If I had a rock in my hand, it would have gone through their damn windshield. What the hell kind of morons are we living across from?

Now, the moral of the story is don’t drink and drive period! Call Uber, get their app, it’s really easy. If you don’t know what Uber is, Google it, if you are stupid or a dumb ass like the man last night, then you maybe you shouldn’t have a license or a truck for that matter.

Dumb Ass Driving Under the Influence . . . that’s all you are is a big fat dumb ass!

Y’all pray for my neighbor, he needs them and while you’re at it, pray for dumb asses, Lord knows they need our prayers too.

Love y’all!!♥

Holy Gas, Batman!

Now, we all call flatulation something different. I’ve heard the following:

Farting
Gassing off
Cutting the cheese
Ripping one
My butt just burped
Passing gas
Fluffing
I just did an oopsy

Whatever you call it, it’s just darn funny when it happens but some folks bring it to a whole other level, my husband and son, for example, and sometimes the humor drains right out of the situation.

My husband finds it entertaining to lean to the opposite side while sitting next to me on the couch and blast it at me. Dude can’t stop laughing at this as I am gagging for clean oxygenated air. Sometimes, if the mood strikes him, he’ll rip one and then wave his cupped hand at me so the smell gets to me faster. “Oh thanks, honey, I’m so flattered by your generosity, really.”

He also has this Heisman trophy pose type move when he is standing to rip one and I have to admit that this particular move is quite funny, although the aftermath of the move is not.

Now, my son likes to do what I like to call drive-by farting. When he gets the urge, he will run by me timing the enormous farts he seems to be able to produce so that they spray all over my person as he runs the hell off. That kid must eat a shit ton of beans y’all and I’m not the one feeding them to him!

He also likes to fart in your face if he happens to catch you asleep. My daughter has been the victim of this move and I’m here to tell you I thought she would murder her brother. Again, where’d he get them beans?

My sweet OT kids crack me up while they are working in the clinic and they pass gas because they think I can’t hear it but they soon discover that yes, I did hear it and it’s darn funny!

Well, today, I have been blessed with some fun gas, I’m not sure why as I have not changed my eating in any way. As I’m working with one of my OT kids, it is everything I can do not to let one rip, actually several rip, it was bad, y’all. And you know how your insides start feeling when you hold back, well, I thought, “If I have to hold anymore back, I’m gonna launch myself up into the damn air,” but I held fast.

After my OT kid’s departure, I filled up the whole clinic and thought, “Good God, I’m going to kill a kid with what’s floating around in here.” As I staggered sideways to go into the house to get some Lysol, my next OT kid showed up 10 minutes early and as he walked in, he looked right at me and said, “Eeeew, what happened in here,” as I observed a huge waft of it float out the clinic door. Because I am pure and free of gas or smelly number 2’s, I said, “Oh, the last OT kid had some serious gas!” I’m going to hell for sure.

And I don’t care who the hell you are when an old person passes gas in church and it can be heard all the way up there in heaven, you’ll just have to remove me because I can’t help myself but be totally cracked the hell up and I can’t stop! And you know the sweet old lady knows you are laughing at her but she just sings and farts on, y’all!

What a thing to blog about huh? Well, I just couldn’t help it.

Keep on fartin’ on y’all!

Love y’all!!♥