"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained."---Mark Twain

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Slippery Slope

Many years ago my Ex and I went to visit his brothers' family in Thomaston, GA.     Someone came up with the idea of going to Sprewell Bluff (pronounced "spurl" by the locals) on the Flint River.     Ex had told me about it and I had always wanted to see it, so off we went.

It's a truly beautiful place and I was having a great time.     There are several trails and a few sharp drop-offs to the river below;  it's really scenic.

Ex decides to explore "off the beaten path".

Now at the time I would have followed him anywhere.      See how we get in trouble, Girls?!      So I started to follow him down toward the river on a very steep trail.

The Devil Is In The Details.     Little things are very often what gets us in the a..........end.      Like slick-soled tennis shoes, pine straw and pea-gravel.      Separately, they are shoes, straw, and rocks.      Put them all together and add roughly (very roughly) 175 lbs. of Clumsy Chick.      Point all of THAT downhill.  

Give it a shove.

By the time I realized I was in trouble things (meaning ME) were already out of control.      Picture skiing downhill, really fast.       Minus the skis.

At least I was upright, and not on my ass.

Someone had placed a pine tree in my path!       How thoughtful!       Looks like I'm gonna stop my decent one way or another.     And it looks like it might hurt.

Crash into a tree, or, fly off of a cliff and splatter on rocks and quite possibly drown????

"I'll take the tree, Monty."

It truly is amazing how FAST the mind works!       I thought: "If I can grab a-hold of the tree, I can stop."

In theory, it should have worked.........

Oh, I grabbed the tree alright but all this did was cause me to whip AROUND the tree.       I'm sure there is some sort of explanation involving physics but I'll be dipped if I know what it is.

I lost my grip---and some skin---on the aforementioned pine and now I'm sliding BACKWARDS.      I'm also bent over trying to dig my fingernails into Terra Firma and wondering if I was going off a ledge into the river.         At this point I'm no longer sure where exactly the damned river is.

And I'm picking up speed.

I suppose Ex heard what he thought was an avalanche and looked up to see my backside barreling toward him.

Bless his heart, he caught me!!      He might be regretting that now, but he had to haul me back up the trail by my waistband.       I couldn't seem to get my feet and legs to work anymore.

Of course his folks saw the whole show.     Damn.      All his brother said was "There are bears in these woods."       What that has to do with his sis-in-law careening down a slippery slope, I have no idea.     So I snapped back that if there was a bear in those woods he didn't have a hair on his a**!      Mountain goats, maybe.       Bears, no.

My hands were skinned up, my heart was pounding, and my dignity was a little bruised.

I'll still go on nature trails but I'm more cautious now.      My dignity won't survive much more! 

Sunday, July 28, 2013

The Life Of Riley

If you ever wondered what they meant by The Life Of Riley, here it is:
My fathers' cats, who will never want for anything.   Ever!

THIS is how you properly enjoy a front porch.    If I had one like that I could make those two cats look like they're runnin' themselves to death.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

The Snipe Hunt

I don't hunt. My ex used to hunt all the time and I bird-dogged for him, because I had nothing else to do. T-Bird used to hunt, but hangs around the house these days.

No desire to dress up like a bush and sit in a tree in the cold, I guess. Go figger.
Decades ago he tried to get me to go huntin' with him.

Snipe Huntin'.

Let me lay the ground-work for you:

When I was 17 years old there were rules that had to be followed at home. One of those rules stated in no uncertain terms that There Were To Be NO Phone Calls From Friends And/Or Boyfriends After 9:00 P.M..

So it is written, so shall it be done. Period.

I was still up when the phone rang around 10:00, and since I was the one closest to the phone, I answered it.

"Whatcha doin'?" It was T-Bird. The fecal matter was fixin' to hit the oscillator, and I knew it. He KNEW not to call me after 9:00, and I was gonna be in deep s**t, because it was up to me to make sure that nobody called for me that late at night.

Damn. The bastard was gonna get me in trouble! So real quick-like, I said that I was getting ready to go to bed. After I faced the music for the late-night call.

"Wanna go with me and some of the guys for a snipe hunt?"

"You're goin' huntin' in the middle of the night? With who?" I didn't know much about hunting of any sort, but that didn't sound right, even to me. I knew all of the other hunters----and so did Daddy----I knew this wasn't gonna fly.

"You have to hunt snipe at night when they're off the nests, and I found a great place for snipe."

There really are snipe----they do exist----but that's where the truth ends with a snipe hunt.

"There is no way that my daddy is gonna let me go out with all of y'all this late at night."

"Ask Ray (my daddy), and tell him what we're gonna do. I know he'll let you go. Let me ask him!"

Like Hell I would!

First of all, my ultra-conservative, Southern Baptist daddy was the father of three daughters, and he had done everything but dig a moat around the house and position guards to keep teenage boys from scaling his walls. Or anything else.

I was so thankful when I was a teenager that JC Penny and Sears didn't sell chastity belts, or I would have had one the day I got my first training bra. Those things were not designed for the sake of fashion or comfort. I'd seen drawings.

Secondly, I doubted seriously that he would allow me out of The Compound to go traipsing around the woods with four testosterone-ridden morons in a pick-up truck in the middle of the night.

I said Daddy KNEW all of them, I didn't say he liked ANY of them. We had already had the Boys-Are-Only-After-One-Thing discussion. We had had that talk more than once.

But T-Bird wasn't gonna give up, and I knew I was already in hot water for the phone call, so what the heck? In for a penny, in for a pound.

Daddy and Momma were in the kitchen, and when I asked for the permission I knew I wasn't going to get, I went ahead and threw in the fact that I would be in the company of more than one male.

Livin' on the edge here!

I braced for it when the last word left my mouth. I even held my breath..........

The Ultra-Conservative Southern Baptist Father Of Three Daughters said:

"A SNIPE HUNT???? Go!!!! You'll love it! You'll have so much fun!!!!! You have to do this!!!!!!!"

He had a big smile on his face that my mother always referred to as a "shit-eatin' grin".

HMMMMMMM....................When you hear the horn blast from a locomotive, and the crossing lights are flashing, and the gates are coming down, you know that a train is coming. You don't stand between the rails.


You could not have thrown me out of that house.

I didn't know what the deal was, but I knew I wouldn't like it. Nope. I wasn't gonna like it, not one bit. Somethin' was not right here, and I didn't believe in Pod People.

I went back to the phone and told T-Bird that Daddy had said no. Yes. I lied. Like a kennel full of dogs. T-Bird sounded disappointed.

Daddy was REALLY disappointed. "Aw, c'mon! You'll LOVE it!"

That confirmed my suspicions right there.

When it was clear to all that I was not going anywhere for any reason, he let me in on the joke. Well, thank you Dear Old Dad! I'll be happy to pick your nursing home!

What I found out later was that TWO of us were going to be left in the middle of no-freakin'-where in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night holding a stupid bag and lookin' stupid. And probably scared out of our minds.

The other victim called me the next day to tell me how he had been had.

"I was in position with the bag and all, and I was doing my best to keep an eye out for those birds, when I heard the truck doors slam. And I heard those bastards laughing when they drove off. They hollered 'see you later dumbass'. They left me out there for over an hour! I don't like being in the woods at night, not by myself, and they scared the Hell out of me."

They drove back to town and sat down for a meal at the Huddle House, had a good laugh, and then went back for him.

The victim became a preacher several years later. Maybe he found Jesus in those woods, since he didn't find those blasted birds. I hope he prays for his old buddies.

But I kinda doubt it. I'm still strugglin' to forgive this thing myself.

Friday, July 26, 2013

County Landin' Beatdown

I didn't recognize Alex at first.    I had to read the name on his shirt pocket for confirmation.

If I found a piece of meat in the fridge that looked like that mug, I'd throw it out.

His face was swollen and bruised, his lip was split in spots, and there was skin missing here and there on his forehead and cheeks.   Deep scratches and what looked like gouges.

I was glad his eyes were partly shut due to swelling, because what I could see of the eyeballs was awful; they were red.......and yellow.......some sort of orange-y color.    But mostly RED.   

I thought it was a motorcycle accident, or maybe an accident at work.   

Alex is an R.R.S.O.B., so it could have been anything.   Or anyone.

What is an R.R.SO.B.?    Glad you asked.

The R.R. stands for round revolving.    Hold a ball with both hands.  A round one, not a football. 
Turn the ball, spin the ball---doesn't matter.   It looks pretty much the same no matter which way you turn it.
No matter which way you turn this man or which side you look at, he is an S.O.B., hence: Round Revolving Son Of A Bitch.

He was my husband's supervisor at work.    He would push his authority as far as he dared on the job.  

On the job he was safe.    Outside the plant gates he was not.    His crew of carknockers had made their feelings in regard to him very clear.

Off the job?     Off the job, he was drunk.    Sober just long enough to get his job done and get home for the day.

The river landing is a gathering place on weekends and holidays and it can be PARTYPARTYPARTY 'til you puke.    Lots of teenagers, fishermen, hunters, and a few ne'er-do-wells.

Our subject has a cabin just down the road from the ramp.     He can walk down to the landing and crawl back home after the party.

On the evening in question there is a large gathering of his friends down at the landing having a great time.    There is also a group of teenaged boys.

For some reason, and Alex probably doesn't even know what that is, he targeted a scrawny-looking kid and set out to make the kids' night a living Hell.Every time he caught sight of the boy he hurled insults and taunts.    He threatened to whip the boys' ass a couple of times.

He verbally tortured the young man all afternoon.   And his friends egged him on and had a good time watchin' it.

Now, I don't know why the teens did not leave.   I would have.    They had to know that they were dealing with grown drunks and things were going to get out of hand.   

The Ignorance Of Youth, maybe?

He got in the kids' face one last time, and he faked a lunge in his direction.

He was jus' a li'l bit toooooo close..............

Alex has miscalculated.    Badly.

He is in his early forties.     This boy is less than half his age.

Alex has spent his adult years in dissipation.     The boy is still in school; he hasn't had time to wreck his health. 

Alex is flat-out drunk.     The kid is clear-headed.

Alex really didn't want to fight.    The kid feels like he has no choice.  

The boy wraps around Alex like a wet sheet.

They hit the dirt.    There are just a few punches, and the boy starts flippin' Alex around on the ground, looking for a hold.

Alex's buds are having a good laugh because they don't realize what is going to happen.    When they figure it out, it is almost too damned late.

Nobody else will step in because they've watched this unfold and want to see Alex get what he has comin' to him.  

Alex is screaming for help.    Upon closer inspection it is discovered that this boy is trying to work his fingers behind Alex's eyeballs for quick---and brutal---removal.   

That explains why Alex's eyes looked like they did, and it explained those gouges.

If your enemy cannot see, you've got him where you want him.   

I don't think that the boys' wrestling coach taught him that.  

Oh yeah, he was one of the top champion wrestlers at the high school.    SURPRISE!

The kid is so freaked, and so intent on permanently disabling his enemy, that he has achieved Tunnel Vision.   They cannot get him off of Alex.   They had to peel his hands off of Alexs' face finger by finger, and get Alex out of the wrestling hold that had been expertly applied.

They drug the silly shit back to his cabin, and patched him up as best they could.

The Sheriff will not be called because Dumbass has "attacked" a minor and there are witnesses.    Witnesses who will be proud to testify.

After some sober reflection, ice, and Tylenol, Alex went back to the landing.   He found the boy and apologized, and congratulated him on one Hell of a fight.   Even told him he was justified in stompin' his ass.

Alex has Seen The Light.  It was blurry for a day or three, but he's finally seen it.

Monday, July 22, 2013


Today was Office cleaning Day.     Yay me.

I knocked off a few chores, then retired to the back steps for a smoke.

If you get to the office early enough you can catch sight of Fur Neighbors.    So far I've logged rabbits, foxes, and a decrepit looking coyote.    Supposedly, there is a panther in the woods nearby, but I don't hold any hope of seeing it.

While I'm sitting there, something ran out of the cotton field behind the office.

I couldn't tell what it was, but it was moving almighty fast and headed straight for ME.

I was charged by a huge possum once and it ain't a good feelin'----you don't forget it.  

 From my angle, coupled with bad eyesight, I  couldn't see what was about to end up in my lap.

Hoping to pull it up short---whatever IT was---I yelled at it.  

The front end came to a stop but the rear swung around...........it was a cat!

Just a gray-striped cat.    It went back into the cotton just as fast as it had emerged.

My ex-father-in-law was sitting on the ground leaned back against a fallen tree.    He was in the woods doin' some still huntin' for squirrels.

He heard something running through the woods and it was making a lot of noise, but he couldn't see it.     The thing sounded like it was pretty big and it was tearing up the world.

It kept coming closer and closer, and when he realized the critter was almost on top of him he grabbed for his rifle. 

A house cat busted through the brush, saw my father-in-law, and applied the brakes.     He slid across the ground in a cloud of leaves and pine straw all the way to my now unnerved FIL and his nose almost hit the end of the gun barrel.

That ended that trip.   He never did care much for cats.

Two years ago, in the wee hours of the morning, my oldest daughter went to the bathroom.   

She's a big girl now, and can go potty without a light on.  

I'm glad---she's thirty years old.

It's pitch black in her house.    Nobody is awake but her.   Hubby is snoring, her daughters are asleep; all is well.   She is still on the commode in a drowsy sort of stupor.

The cat that was perched on the toilet tank hadn't let it's presence be known throughout the entire process.

Until it sneezed on the back of her neck.

The sound of the sneeze right behind her head and the cool misting of the bare neck with cat snot catapulted my daughter off of the toilet.

NOBODY is sleeping now!   You can't sleep with all that screamin' and swearin' goin' on!

My daughter says that she was just happy to be sitting where she was sitting when the cat sneezed.

I just wish I had been sitting on a toilet when she told me about it.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

A Screeching Halt

If you're old enough to remember the Mickey Mouse Club theme song-----you don't have to admit it out loud-----please sing along with me:


See them all run!


Why? Because they're chicken-shits!

Because of a


One morning at the office I was talking to Bosslady's assistant about some supplies that we were having trouble with.
Our X-ray developer is in our stock room, and we spotted some insulation on the developer.

And a mouse turd.

The insulation could have only come from the ceiling.
The mouse dropping could only be from a mouse.

We were looking up at a ventilation unit that is directly over the developer.
On the far side of the vent unit, there was about an inch and a half of mouse tail stickin' out of the vent.

The assistant, who is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet, and a real, true-blue Christian who would take on The Flames Of Hell with a water pistol, did not see the tail from where she was standing.

So, like a true dumbass, I pointed it out to her.

In hind-sight that was a very, VERY, BAD idea. VERY bad!

She was beginning to get a little nervous when our receptionist walked in. We pointed out the tail overhead.

The receptionist flipped the vent switch on.

(THAT particular bad idea was not MY fault.)

The whirring fan startled the mouse,

which jumped around in the vent,

causing the tail of the mouse to wiggle,

and the assistant to haul ass in terror.

Likewise the receptionist.

Now the little field mouse has achieved wharf rat status.

Picture in your mind the rat that was menacing the baby in Lady And The Tramp. Two-inch fangs and red glowing eyes! Evil Incarnate! Spawn Of Satan!

It's just a small field mouse.The office is situated just outside of the city, and we are surrounded by cotton fields on three sides.    Once in a Blue Moon we find a mouse and we stay on top of pest control.

When the hygienist arrived, the mouse was still in the vent. Our frady-cat assistant was showing it to her. By now we all know that she and the receptionist are afraid of the thing.

The hygienist said that she didn't think it was a mouse, just a wad of dust or insulation sticking out of the vent fan.

They flipped the vent switch,

which scared the mouse,

who's tail went to thrashing,

frightening Miss Hygiene away.

She seems to have a thing about rodents, too. She ran OVER the assistant.

How can you live in a rural setting all of your life and be afraid of everything?

Then she stated that she would take X-rays, but it would be a cold day in Hell before she would go back in that room to develop them.

We all know how mice lay in wait in ceilings for the opportunity to jump on human heads.

The assistant looks like she wants to cry.

I missed the next part because I was up front trying to convince our first patient that the mouse was NOT going to run across the building to a light fixture, chew through the plastic, take aim, and leap onto her while she was in the chair.

This woman is also afraid of mice.

Please note: It is not good to tell patients in a medical office that the office is overrun with rodents. Our receptionist had blabbed about it when the patient came in. Why? Because she's an idiot.   

It really didn't matter after the assistant let out a very loud, shrill screech that could crack glass.

She had abandoned the X-ray/stock room to set up for the patient that I was trying to calm down. She's still shaking. While she was busy, the hygienist snuck up behind her, bent over, and pinched her on the leg!

(That woman has a mean streak that I could come to admire!)

Now the boss's assistant is trying desperately not to cry, trying desperately to breathe, shaking even harder, and the hygienist is rolling on the floor about to wet her pants.

I don't know about you, but shaky hands holding suctions and sharp instruments in my mouth isn't something I want.

When Bosslady got there, everyone snapped to attention, buckled down, and the day went on like it is supposed to.

The receptionist developed X-rays. They couldn't convince the hygienist that she was not in mortal danger.

Bosslady's husband will be on a mouse hunt this weekend. Armed with glue traps that I will have to dispose of when I clean the office.

The assistant will be in prayer for the rest of us in the office, and trying to recover.

The patient got her crown prep, without anymore trauma.

Pssst:   This is why they don't know about the snake in the supply barn!   Shhhhhhhhhh................

Friday, July 19, 2013

Mullein Post #2

I found this pic of the same plant---after I posted the others.     This is a better shot of the blooms:
Easy to see why the bees like 'em!

My Mullein

My Common Mullein has bloomed!   Not the most impressive plant I've had (I had one that topped out at 7 feet), but it'll do.
I was about to give up on getting blooms this year and that would be a shame.

I love 'em.

Bees love 'em.

Bluebirds love 'em.

T-Bird hates 'em.

He's outnumbered so tough noogies.

We discovered one growing in a field, we both liked it, and we scooped it up and brought it home.

Mullein is drought resistant, so that's good in South Georgia.   

If it seeds, you'll have a hundred of 'em pop up, and that's bad in T.'s yard.    If it sprouts up outside of a designated flower bed, it's history.

This plant is originally from Europe and Asia, but landed in Virginia in the mid 1700's.   As some sort of fish poison.

Supposedly, the leaves are good for treating minor ailments (unless you're a fish).   

That's what a young man told me as he gathered the bottom leaves.    I asked him what he was gonna do with the leaves and he told me he   intended to smoke 'em for his asthma.

Not really sure that smoking ANYTHING is good for asthma.    I read that some people try smoking it for a buzz with disappointing results.

Okay Sport, whatever you say!

I feel no animosity against fish so I don't need poison.

I don't fool around with strange plants for medication or recreation.   One bad trip on shrooms was all it took to convince me that mushrooms are for PIZZA. 
I have heard of people who wandered into the woods with nothin' but a Zippo and a pack of rollin' papers.    They would twist up any sort of dead, dry plant material, spark it up, and come out of the woods days later with no memory of what they smoked, or what happened afterwards.

I'm gonna have to take a pass here.   

"So you scraped that icky brown moss off of a dead stump, rolled it, and you intend to smoke it?     With no idea of what it'll do to you?"

This is where I hand over my lighter and step back.     I'll just watch with my cell phone ready in case you stop breathin' or start talkin' to people I can't see.

The bluebirds and I win out with the mullein.  

 I'll have a plant in the flower bed that I really like, and when the seed head dries, it will be a treat for the bluebirds.

Unless some idjit with a pack of papers, a Zippo, and a jones strolls by.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Toothpaste And Toilet Paper

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I contracted some sort of virus.        At first I was afraid that we would die.        By lunch, I was afraid that we wouldn't.


It reminded me about another time when The Plague hit.        Fortunately, I had posted about it on The Stream (moment of silence, please) because if you combine toothpaste with disease, it makes for one Hell of a day.

When I woke up that memorable morning, like most people, I had to run for the bathroom.          The human bladder will only hold so much for so long.

Rounding the corner to the potty, I found my husband, on his knees, locked in a lover's embrace with the commode.         And he was NOT whispering "sweet nothings" to it.
        I didn't have the time to inquire about this, and he didn't seem to be up for a game 20 Questions, so I ran to my daughters bathroom, figuring that she was still in bed.      I grabbed the doorknob......and got a handful of toothpaste.         From the doorknob.          A handful!

By now, I am in full distress, so I don't give a rip in Hades about WHY I have a hand full of toothpaste.       I'll sort it out later----I just need to pee!

Princess is on her throne.       I apologize while I dance from foot to foot, and in a weak voice she begs for toilet paper.        She has run out during the night.       She's not going anywhere either.

Back down to the other end of the trailer I go, and this piece of porcelain still has a man wrapped around it, so I can give that one up; he was gonna be there a while.

It's amazing how long a house-trailer actually is when you are in a hurry to get to the toilet!       Who knew I had that much space in a single-wide mobile home????

I grabbed a new roll--I had re-upped on t.p., thank goodness-- and now I'm hauling tail (and a full bladder) back to my daughter.

I will confess that I threw the roll at her, not in any sort of anger, just urgency.      And I told her to PLEEEAAASE alert me when she is finished.

Of course, I got another handful of toothpaste from the doorknob.

If you position yourself half-way between two bathrooms, you can run like a rabbit for the first one that flushes.        My teeth were floating by now!       And I had a lot of toothpaste on my nightgown.

 Youngest got finished first, and when I made for that bathroom, I grabbed the doorknob again.     Yep, toothpaste.         How many times do you have to grab a doorknob to get the toothpaste off of it???       Who the heck knows?         At least three times, by my count, although results may vary.

I made it without an accident.       When I left the bathroom I took hold of the other side of the doorknob to open the bathroom door.....

I didn't even have to tell you by now, you've probably guessed...........MORE !@#$*&^ TOOTHPASTE!

A stomach virus explained my husband's and daughter's problems.      So I can handle that.      But the toothpaste?

That would be my oldest daughter, who I call Middlest because she is the "middle" child.

When Youngest went for a day trip to another town 30 minutes away, she and her boyfriend ran afoul of a parade.       While trying to get around the parade route and find a particular store, they got lost.       Totally lost.         Hopelessly lost.

Rather than call me and T-Bird or his folks for directions, or stop to ask anyone else, they called Middlest on her cell phone.       They didn't want me to know that they were lost, but they didn't know that Middlest was at my house, so I found out anyway.

Middlest tried to help them via cell phone, but they can't find their butts with both hands and a flashlight.       And a sister looking at MapQuest on the computer and telling them where to turn ain't helping either.       It would have been okay, but the Moron Twins got the silly-giggles, and I guess their brains shut down.        So I kept my granddaughters while my daughter and her husband went to find them and guide them back home.

Youngest and her boyfriend went to his parent's house when they made it back, and Middlest and son-in-law came here to pick up the babies.

This is where the toothpaste comes in.       To "get even" with Youngest for giggling at her while she is trying to get them home, and causing her to drive over heck-and-half-of-Georgia late at night to retrieve her and her boyfriend, this daughter squirted toothpaste on her sisters' doorknobs.

On Youngest's end of this trailer she has a bedroom and a bathroom.       The bathroom has two doors; one opens to her bedroom, the other opens into the hall.      Six doorknobs in all, and Middlest is a very thorough-type person---she got all six knobs.

 Youngest can be grateful that I was out of Vaseline, and that her sister didn't think to smear the toilet seat with the stuff.

I've gotta have a talk with these kids.

Sunday, July 14, 2013


If you know me and T-Bird you know that Saturday Night is Scanner And Snuggle Night.      We had been under assault for two days hand-runnin' (kids and grands, all with colds), and we had run out of gas.        More scanner than snuggle.

The following is courtesy of the Sheriff's Department and our 911:

Deputy: "911, do we know anyone out this way who might be missing a donkey?"

911: "Stand by; let me make a couple of calls for ya."

About three minutes later 911 radios the deputy:

911: "About how far away from the donkey are you?"

Deputy: "About a hundred yards."

911: "Okay, call 'Applejack' and see what happens."

Slight pause.

Deputy: "You wouldn't be funnin' with me, would you?"

911: "Nope. Call 'Applejack' and see if he responds.       I mean, I hope he doesn't 'respond', ( at this point, 911 is snickering--it's coming over the scanner) but see if he makes any move or pricks his ears toward you."

Silence again.

Deputy: "I don't know who looks more confused here.      The donkey who is standing in the yard, or the Deputy standing out here in the dark yelling 'Applejack'."

Silence again; I guess Dispatch is rolling on the floor.

Deputy: "Hey! This might be Applejack, he's coming towards the car!        I hope he comes peaceful, my cuffs won't fit."

Dispatch comes back with instructions from the owner of Applejack:

911: "Next time, just go to the gate down the road, and open it.      Blow the horn a couple of times, and everybody will go back home."

I love this place!

If It Has Tires...........................

"If It Has Tits Or Tires It Will Give You Trouble."

We've all seen that t-shirt/bumper sticker/helmet sticker, right?

Well, no offense to the fellas, and just speaking of the only remaining "pair" in my house:

"If It Has Testicles Or Tires It Will Give ME Trouble."

When the front driver's side window on my car decided to retire, with an awful rumbling sound as I was trying to get it to go down, I flashed on heavy seas ahead.      I was lucky to get it back up in case of rain, and there just hadn't been a good time to tell T-Bird.       Especially since he had had a devil of a time with the same window on HIS truck.

I was waiting for a better time.................

Then a brake light started coming on.      Not when I would hit the brakes, mind you, but when I made a turn, or changed radio stations, or just whenever it took a notion.

I reported it to my Resident Mechanic.

"Does the car stop?"

"Well, yeah, but....."

"Don't worry about it, and drive the thing."

The silly car started making a strange sound on the way home for lunch.      There is no way to duplicate that sound with a keyboard, but it sounded like it was suckin' or blowin' air.......somewhere.........who knows!??

I reported it to The Resident Mechanic Who Is Now Way Behind With His Mechanic-ing.      Complete with sound effects.

"Are you havin' trouble gettin' it to run?"

"No, it runs, but.............."

"Then don't worry about it, it's fine."

Five blocks from the house, The Grannymobile showed me that it was in no way "fine".

The power steering went out, and I had to turn around and strong-arm that ragged piece of junk back to the house.        I was That Crazy White Woman Who Was Kickin' And Cussin' At Her Ride At Lunch.        I put on a small show in my driveway.        I couldn't help it, and didn't care.

T-Bird had taken his motorcycle back to work, so I took HIS truck.

Sometimes you have to be creative to get things done.

When the sink developed a drip that threatened my sanity, I wrote HONDA on a piece of paper and taped it to the sink.       In plain sight.       Bear in mind that he had worked on every single motorcycle in this county but I couldn't get him NEAR the kitchen sink with tools.

"What the Hell is this?" he asks.

"I figured if it said Honda on it somewhere I could get that drip fixed."

Yeah, I'm a bitch, but it worked!       And the sink was repaired.

So that fateful afternoon when he got home I was waiting in the yard.    Armed and ready.

"Whooo-weeee! That truck is one fast sumbitch!       I stomped it and it took off like Moody's Goose!"

He looks at me and says "If you kick it, it WILL get sideways with you."

He's lookin' at me with THAT look.       The look that says he is in fear for his truck, which is what I was shootin' for in the first place.    It wouldn't be the first vehicle of his that I have wrecked.    I have a Spousal Record.

"That's how I wound up in the ditch, but I just stomped it again and she came right out!   I got all the weeds pulled out from under it, and it's fine."

He's trying to look for damage without being too obvious, and it's obvious to me that the plot has been successful.

Forty-five minutes and $12.00 later, my car is fixed.

If I have any real trouble out of the brakes, I'll take out the mailbox.

A Whole 'Nother Mother

My husband has a buddy that is a few years older than we are.     He and his wife are two of the sweetest folks you'll ever meet.    They were not blessed with children of their own, and their later years have not been too kind.

They had to move to another house out in the country due to financial troubles, which is a side-effect of failing health.    But they found a nice little place with a pond.

Our friend decided that the pond was in bad need of ducks.     And he found nine little baby mallards at a bird sale or somethin'.     My ex used to go to these things for chickens and other feathered critters.      I have had two bad experiences with ducks, and they don't rate too highly with me.      Forget geese.     They are just bigger ducks with bigger 'tudes.

He brought his new "children" home and fixed 'em up a nice little pen. Probably to keep them from being late-night snacks for foxes and coyotes.

He spent time with them every day and he'd let them out of the pen so that they could do whatever little mallards do.     Whenever he let them out they would line up and follow "mama" everywhere he went.

The neighbors across the road are watching, and they started inviting folks over to watch.    Kinda embarrassing to be the neighborhood freak show.    Been there, done that.

 He couldn't go inside the house without putting them back in the pen or they would follow him inside.     If he put out the feed and was fast enough, he could make it back inside without the ducks.     Maybe.

 Watchin' from the window, he saw that after a minute or two, one would start lookin' around for "mama".        If they couldn't see him, they would start quacking.       He could holler out the door,  that re-assured the "kids", and they would go back to feeding.     After a few minutes, they'd miss him again and raise a fuss, he'd yell loud enough for them to hear him, and all would be well again.

He found a snake in the yard, and when he shot it the noise upset the babies.    It took thirty minutes of talkin' to the ducks to calm them back down.       I guess that makes him The Duck Whisperer.

He realized that they would NOT go into the pond.       Like mallards should do.

Since the ducklings had imprinted on HIM---and that indeed made him their mother---and they saw that "she" didn't go into the pond, they weren't gonna go in either.      They do what she does.      And "she" don't swim.

Now he is The Old Man With The Crazy Ducks.        And this ain't right!

So he takes them down to the pond and, nope, they will not go into the water on their own.

So he scooped 'em up and THREW them into the water.     The desperate act of a desperate man.

Before you get upset with him, let me assure you that baby ducks can indeed swim.         They just have to be shown that they can.       That's easy to do if you are, in fact, a mother duck.    If you are a Human on Disability...........not so much.

They swam alright!       Back to the bank!      Like feathered torpedoes!       Quackin' like crazy!     They clustered around his feet and shook off the water, and followed him back to the house when he just gave up.

Mallards also fly. I wonder how he's gonna teach that.      Let's hope nature kicks in before it's time to migrate Up North.       Mama Duck is gonna have a Hell of a time with that one.

Monday, July 8, 2013

The Ambien Arms Hotel

One night about a year ago, my husband left me and checked into the Ambien Arms Hotel for the night.

T-Bird had taken Ambien for almost a year, without incident.      If you don't count the night he accidentally took TWO.    

One Ambien knocks him on his can.    Two Ambien left him in a fog for days.     That's great if you're on a beach somewhere with nothing to do but exist.     Sucks when people, like bosses and family, expect you to function at Maximum Capacity.

That never happened again.    It really spooked him.

Every great once-in-a-while he would say that he saw two of me after taking one, and follow that up with snoring.

On the night in question, he said he saw two of me, and started walking the floor.

Uh-oh.    This is new.    He usually can't walk to the bathroom when the Ambien kicks in, but he's movin' pretty good now.

He was pacing back and forth from the bathroom mirror to the bedroom door, and every time he passed by me, he told me he saw two of me.

"That's nice, Baby.  Your pill has kicked your ass, so lay down and go to sleep."

More pacing, and I'm really getting concerned now.

When he crashed into the foot of the bed and fell over on it, I thought he was hurt, but he was up in a minute and back to pacing.

"Are you hurt?"    No response, just a dirty look like the fall was my fault.

"Honey, lay down.    You're kinda screwed up in the head."    I am talking to the air.   

I don't know this man, and I don't like him worth a damn.    This is NOT my husband.    This ain't him AT ALL.    I have seen him at his absolute worst, but what to do with THIS?

He made a grab for me and pulled me down on the bed and I pushed him off.    He laughed at me, and he started pacing again.   

If he makes a move to the door, or, God Forbid, tries to leave the house I am royally screwed.    He is too big to handle, and I'm just about to call the paramedics.

I keep a very rusty, long tined BBQ fork by the bed.    It's 26 inches long, and with my reach I can leave a neat row of holes from four feet away with that thing.    I decided to stick him if he came at me.   I love the bastard, but I'm kinda fond of ME, too.

I tell him he's scaring me, and he ignores it.

He finally stops at the foot of the bed and says:

"You've got two heads."

I take it as progress if now there is just one me with two heads, instead of the two twin Slicks he's been seeing up to now.  

I try a new tactic:

"Yes, I have two heads and BOTH of them are telling you to LAY DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO TO SLEEP!"    I'm screaming now.

I got a quick glimpse of him at the age of five with his lip poked out.

He flopped down on the bed and rolled over like he was mad at the world---or maybe he's mad at the two-headed Medusa that just yelled and cussed at him.

One deep sigh, and Thank You Lord he is snoring.

Can I sleep now?    No.    I was afraid he'd get up, get in the truck and then we'd REALLY have trouble.   
     I'd be forced to call the Sheriff's Department to round up my Midnight Rider, and that means he wakes up in a cell or hospital bed.    Not on my watch if I can help it.

He gets up the next morning refreshed, a new man, and I can barely function from sleep deprivation.    I have had enough time to become very, VERY, angry by then.     I mean,  I had all night.

He had no idea about ANYTHING that happened the night before.    He remembered taking the pill, but that was all.

I gave him the run down from the night before and he freaked.    He completely freaked.    He wasn't happy to discover that I would poke him full of holes, either.

After looking on-line and reading accounts far worse than what I had seen, we concluded that we were just fortunate that it wasn't worse.

Bye-bye Ambien.    It was real, it was fun, but it wasn't REAL fun.

Haven't Seen One Since

So, as usual, the words "haven't seen a hummingbird since" have just left my fingertips and have been posted, and T-Bird spots one at the feeder:
Not bad shots considering the POS camera I use and the dirty window.

Before the afternoon was out, we counted three different kinds.

In that vein, may I say that:

"Haven't seen a good job since."

"Haven't seen a new truck since."

"Haven't seen a million dollars since."

Yeah...............that'll work.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Hell Hill Hummer

I sat on Mama's porch for hours waiting to catch a decent shot of a hummingbird.

It's a proper sittin' porch complete with roof, rails, and rockers.    If I could've added reefer it would have been perfect.   Of course I couldn't; it would have been roof, rails, rockers, reefer, and rantin' and railin' from Mama.   So I refrained.

With two feeders hung on opposite sides of the porch, several hummingbirds were zippin' across the porch.     One would stake a claim, and sit in one of the trees close to the chosen feeder.    If another hummer got close, it was attacked immediately.     Fierce little boogers. 

It wasn't safe to cross from the steps to the front door with hummers dueling for exclusive rights to a feeder.

Should be easy enough.   Just sit in a rocker, aim, and *CLICK*........right?


After several close-but-no-banana shots, I caught this one:

My ex was sitting on his porch when a hummingbird appeared right in front of his face.    The bird was hovering about a foot from his nose.    It startled him for a moment and the bird flew off.

A couple of minutes later, it came back.    They were eyeball-to-eyeball again for several seconds.

Since this is odd behavior for a hummingbird, he checked the feeder.


The actions described above are hummin'bird for:   "FILL THE FEEDER, YOU STUPID HUMAN".

Stupid Human refilled the feeder and all was well again.

Two days ago T-Bird spotted a hummingbird hovering over a discarded tomato in the backyard.

I hung up a feeder that day.

Haven't seen a hummingbird since.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Happy Birthday, America!

                                              Happy Fourth of July from Nowhere, Georgia!   
                                                              Y'all stay safe and be Blessed!

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Smokin' Breaks With Garter Snakes

Two years ago, Bosslady made the pronouncement that all smoking would be done outdoors.

I ain't the only one kicked to the back steps; her husband joins me frequently.

Last year, this was my companion on most days:

I named him Frank.    Frank didn't talk much.   He was perfect company.    Toads are good listeners, and for a spell, Frank was the only soul who listened to me.

There is a large stump hole with three deep holes where roots used to be, and he moved in for a spell.

If I didn't spook him, he would sit in the entrance of the "den" and.............well, he would just sit there.    I mean, he's a toad, so...........  Once in a while, he would move ever so slightly.

If I was lucky, he'd blink.

There is a set of brick steps right next to the stump hole, and if it's wicked-hot I sit there for the shade.   I am about three feet from the hole.
    Any sudden moves and Frank became The Flash.    When a second toad moved in, I named her Francis.    Francis was faster than Frank.

I didn't see ol' Frank this Spring, nor did I ever see Francis, and I made it a point to look for my buds.   They were gone.

This is why:

I found Chuck in the weeds by the stump hole and it was a shock to the both of us.    I froze and Chuck hauled tail to the woodpile.

I saw his head long enough to see that this snake isn't poisonous----it's a garter snake.   About three feet long, and beautifully colored.

Chuck got used to me rather fast, and hangs out on the woodpile in the sunshine.   My comings and goings don't seem to bother him a bit.    I talk to Chuck just like I did to Frank, and get the same results.   Much better than what I get out of my co-workers.

Bosslady is happy to have Chuck on the job for pest control, and when the yard crew came they were told to leave the garter snake alone.    I admit I kept an eye on 'em when they were weed whackin' around the wood rack.

They did dispatch a water moccasin in the backyard by the pool pump, and Bossling says that a weed-whacker makes a real mess out of a water moccasin.    Good.

I'm not afraid of snakes as a rule, but a poisonous snake has to go.    Period.

Me an' Chuck only had one minor run-in when I was runnin' for the truck one day after work.

I swear, I didn't see Chuck coiled up in the dead leaves by the grill, and I don't know if I actually stepped on his tail or not.
     Whatever, he "blew" at me and took off.    I was afraid I had run him off for good but there he was the next day, layin' on the woodpile. 
    Chuck has made his den in one of the holes, and I gave up my shady spot to keep this snake where it is.    I sit on the other set of steps and that keeps me about five feet away from it.

Did you notice there are TWO garter snakes in the photo?   

Yep.   I think Chuck is actually a "Charlene".

I can see them clearly from the kitchen window, and I watched the smaller garter snake in action.

He'd come up on her real slow and rub his head on her.    And she'd flick him away with her tail.   

I've seen the same thing in bars.    Two legs or no legs:    he puts on his best display of male prowess, and she just looks bored as Hell.

"Go away kid, you bother me."

It looks like a #2 pencil trying to make out with a garden hose, but I give him credit for trying.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Neighborman And The Game Warden

I knew the next door neighbor was, well, odd.   Hubby describes him as "crazy as Hell".

The house he lived in was falling apart and rotting in spots.    There are three huge pecan trees on the property, and that's a squirrels' dream come true.
    The house is a bonus for the squirrels because they have taken over the attic.    From time to time, they run through the house.    Squirrels are tree-dwelling rats.    Inside a house, they are just as destructive, chewing on everything and leaving behind a smelly mess.

He swears they are eating his house in front of him and laughin' about it.

He finally reached his limit.

He's propped up on his truck with his rifle when the police arrive.

"You can't shoot that rifle in the city limits!"     The officer starts with the obvious.

"You just watch me!"    Neighbor-man doesn't care, and sights in another marauder.

"What the Hell's wrong with you, boy???"

"The damned squirrels are eatin' my house and they gotta go!!!!"

"Ol' lady So-N-So down the street is about to have a baby, what with you firin' that damned rifle!"      

"Well wheel her into delivery, boys, and in the meantime, you're fuckin' with my huntin'!" 

*BLAM*    And another one bites the dust.

The police leave him to his hunt, and drive away.

I think T-Bird is right---the man IS crazy as Hell.

His favorite target, other than house-gnawin' squirrels, has got to be The Game Warden, against whom he holds a grudge.

If you break game and fish rules, and get caught, the blame is YOURS.   You rolled the dice, you lost, he did his job, end of story.

My neighbor had been caught by a game warden for some infraction and wanted a little payback.

He ran his mouth all over town about huntin' deer illegally and made sure he talked his trash to the right people.    You know, the tattletales.

The day dawns and he is sitting in his deer stand, overlooking a pile of corn.  

Hunting over corn is a big No-No.    You can cover the woods with the stuff to get them to come to a certain spot.    Until the first day of deer season.    Then, you'd better Hoover up every last kernel.

The game warden steps out of the bushes and yells:    "I gotcha now!   C'mon down!"

"You ain't got shit!"  

"Yeah, I got ya, come down!"

Neighborman climbs down from his stand, and after a thorough search it is discovered that he doesn't have so much as a sharp toothpick.

So far, there is no law against a man sitting in a tree on a piece of land he has rented.   If he has no weapon, he is not hunting.

On another hunt, Neighborman was actually huntin' deer.    He took one of those folding yard recliners to his spot, and was kicked back with his rifle when he heard the truck.
    He rolled out of the lounge, crawled to the tree line, and took off with the warden hot on his heels.
    He out-distanced the game warden with no problem.   Slippin' in and out of cover, he stayed one big step ahead.  
    When the officer got too far behind, he'd wait for the man to catch up, then take off runnin' again after he let the officer see him.
    The Game Warden caught glimpses of his perp from time to time, but that was all.

When he'd had enough, he slipped back to his truck and went home, leaving Fish And Game high and dry.

Two women were sitting at the edge of a pond, fishin'.      Layin' on the ground between them is a croaker sack (burlap bag).
    The fish were biting, and they were chatting away when the Game Warden pulled up.   That'll kill a conversation dead in it's tracks.

He checks their licenses, checks the catch to make sure it's legal, and all the time he's eyein' the sack on the ground.

"What's in the bag?"  he asks.

"That's a 10 lb. jack."  one lady replies.

The Game Warden is thrilled;   you don't see a 10 lb. jack very often in these parts.

A jack is like a pike, but they seldom grow to an impressive size here, and ten pounds would be impressive.

He's just gotta see this thing........

"Can I look at it?"

"You sure can!" she says, and gestured toward it.

He squats down and opens the bag.

Inside the bag is indeed, a 10 lb. jack.    Put out by Sears.   It was a car jack that she had toted around in the bag in the trunk of her car since he wrote her up for fishing without a license the year before.

I got that one from the Game Warden himself.

She knew what she was fishing for.   She prepared, and baited him up.    Then she set the hook and reeled him in.

You go Girl!    He weighed in at at least 225 lbs..