As clearly indicated in this photo of my ‘elevated’ clock collection…time really does fly! Otherwise, how the hell did so much time go by between posts? Oh sure, a snippet here, a snapshot there, but basically…crickets!
Bad writer. Baaaaad writer 😦
Soooo much has happened since my last realupdate. But, as I recall (who am I kidding? I recall nothing…I had to re-read my last posts to catch up with myself!) we’d basically gotten out of our house and into Mom’s, only to turn right around and do it again when her house sold the very weekend we moved in. So, the crunch was on to find the new house to accommodate everyone’s wants, needs, and pocketbook…no easy task in the best of circumstances much less with less than 45 days to find (finally), contract (ouch), inspect (ahem, is that supposed to do that?), appraise (oooh look hon, we already made a hundred bucks!), and close (ha…they get 5% for that?).
Then came the moving part…and actually, I have nothing to say about that except it went pretty darn well considering the parties involved (namely….me!)
Of course that’s not to say we didn’t have our adventures. Most certainly we did, but after we moved in, which was a nice change (for about 30 seconds!). And a post for another day perhaps.
But, to this point, we did find a character-laden property out in the boonies of King William County (and we all know what ‘character’ means yes?) quickly realizing we’d just moved into a time warp. And not in a good way! Suffice to say we move more Forward to the Past than Back to the Future 🙄
How you ask? Wellllll…remember dial-up? Listening to the pings and bongs and dings and dongs as we waited patiently (hahaha) for a connection to that new and wonderful and mind blowing experience called ‘the internet’?
Okay. So we’re not there but what we DO have is Dial-Up-Yours Darrell’s asshat cousin ShitForBrains satellite internet!
Oh Rhett…Gone with the Wind are those lazy hours of streaming and binge watching Netflix. Instead of watching Frankie and Grace hippy-fy the high brow, I’m watching the usage meter deplete faster than a three year old can make a Twinkie disappear.
No more swinging a Swiffer like she’s Ginger (oops…like he’s Fred 😳 ) while singing with Pandora where every channel is the best channel ’cause it’s MINE!
Gone is Dancing with the Real Stars on The Weather Channel Live because that’s been replaced with sitting Shiva to my dearly departed High-Speed Hank so I can spend quality time with my new frienemy, Manual Update in the lonely hours between 2 and 8 a.m.
What’s worse I ask…the frustration, the boredom, or the lack of sleep…I just can’t decide.
What I can say is…ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGH
I miss my FIOS
And what’s worse…
I hate that I do
p.s. if you’ve nothing better to do, the links in this post are to some of my aforementioned adventures in moving. just sayin 🙂
4:00 a.m.
The only light is the cold white glare of the computer screen
The only sound is the wishy washy whir of the washing machine behind me
UNTIL…(dun dun dunnnnn)
4:05 a.m.
The only light is the cold, white glare of the computer screen
The only sounds are the wishy washy whir of the washing machine, no longer behind but beneath me, as my (thankfully) wheeled computer chair shoots backwards, hits the machine, becomes the launch pad from which I launch myself on top of the machine, to make my none-so-quiet, highly unnatural, most un-ladylike, slightly animalistic, noises, after some sort of CREATURE landed on my nose, scaring the ever loving CRAP outta me, thereby causing a coffee-flood all over my computer desk, before I high-tailed it out of the laundry slash computer slash Ms. Sadie’s room, but not before turning on the glaring over-head light, so that I may (when brave enough to return) investigate this attacking, murderous, intruder and…DISPOSE of it!
4:30 a.m. (do not judge me…it took me a minute ok?)
The only lights are the cold, white glare of the computer screen and the 100 watt glare of the over-head florescent
The only sounds are the gurgling of the draining washing machine in front of me and the slightly judgmental, ticklishly child-like snickering (or so I imagined) quips coming out of Ms Sadie’s crate, and the squeaky, decidedly un-stealthlike, flap of my flip flops on the linoleum as I re-entered the war zone, having donned said shoes and my armor of well-worn sweater
To find………to find………to find……….what the hell…..to find……OH, there it is….at the bottom of my (spilled) coffee cup
A FUCKING LADY BUG!
REALLY?
A SCREAMING MEEMEE, CRAZY-ASS, SISSY-WOMAN OVER A LADY BUG?
5:00 a.m.
The only lights are the cold, white glare of the computer screen and the new, strategically placed, table lamp (10 feet away from the computer table)
The only sounds are the gurgles and whirring of the spinning washing machine and the slowly lessening, yet still slightly deafening, beating of my heart, as my flippy flops flap back to the kitchen to make myself a new cup o Joe
Okay. So, I know it’s been a day or two since my last post 😉 and I wasn’t actually planning a post today ‘cuz it’s crazy busy for us right now, but…who the hell could resist?
Not I.
You all know how much I like a good ‘saga’ 😂 😭 😓
Especially about cars. Or moving. Or houses. Or other Shit-N-Stuff.
Right?
So…after all the blood, sweat, and tears, we shed before, during, and after, moving into our current home, we are considering selling.
Yup…2 years, 6 months in, picking up and moving again is actually being considered.
Nutz! 😵 Looney! 😱 Coocoo for Cocoa Puffs! 🐒
Why?
Two reasons really.
The first, to be closer to my recently transplanted Mom, who is, apparently, one of those lucky people I’ve heard about when it comes to adventures in moving. Her pack and move went smoothly. Her house behaved when she moved in and didn’t reach out and break her leg or rain down through her light fixtures from the floor above.
Remember my crying lights?
She has made a beautiful home for herself…and is quite content to remain where she is. But, we are finding that even a mere 20 minute/10 mile distance, is 15 minutes too far!
{Hmmm, note to self…A Drive Too Far…Book? Movie? Copyright infringement? Carry on self…}
The second, as important as the first, is because our beautiful Ms. Sadie needs a place to safely run and play in her own backyard, and we cannot give that to her.
Why?
Because we cannot fence it in 😲
Why?
Bureaucratic Bullshit 🚧
We have a gorgeous back yard…
What…don’t believe that’s mine?
What—everrrrrrrrrrrr 👀
Forget the mountains then.
Oh for Pete’s sake…take out the barn if it bothers ya!
Okay Okay (ya picky bitches), take out the fence, the trees, the other barn, and the rolling field in the background and you’ve got my yard.
Happy?
Anyhoo….because Virginia’s disclosure laws are a j o k e, not one of the half dozen professionals involved in buying real estate, not to mention the previous owner, felt it necessary to inform us that this lot is one of the highest impacted lots in the neighborhood, rendering our little slice of Eden…all but USELESS.
Why?
There is a 60′ (yes, that is SIXTY) gas company easement from the back of the property towards the house and runs the entire width of the tad over a 1/3 acre lot. From our way of thinking, that should have been mentioned by SOMEONE in the 2 month buying/closing process yeah?
Yeah……….No!
Add to that 60′ another 20′ for the build line which runs from the structure towards the back of the yard, making the total depth/width of what we cannot add to, plant on, or change in a way that would impede….a whopping 80′.
EIGHTY #$#$%#$ FEET 😖 😭 😕
Even though the gas company could work with us on a fee based waiver, they won’t.
But Wait! There’s More (oh goody)
There are also easements from the county that cannot be waivered.
One is a 16′ drainage easement, running back to front, the entire length of the property, but it’s on the side property line, so we didn’t give that one much thought. At the time. Not until we had to. And we had to when we wanted to put a storage shed out there. On the side. Away from the gas easement. Ya know, close to the garage and stuff.
Ummmm….Not gonna happen 🚫
Then {and I chuckle here} there is that all too common, everybody else must have one…FLOOD DAM FAULT LINE! OR FAULT DAM FLOOD LINE! OR DAM FLOOD FAULT LINE! OR SOME DAMNED LINE GOING DIAGONALLY THROUGH THE ENTIRE BACK YARD!!
You got one, right? And you? And you, and you? And you over there? Everybody? ‘Cause I’m thinking it’s so damned prolific as to be down right common-place. Like we all got grass so why point out the grass? Ain’t that why I’ve never heard of this effin’ thing? Ain’t it?
What the hell is happening????????????? 😱
The only friggin floods that I have ever heard of around here….were inside my damned house and that fault line didn’t help one daggone bit!! (el squat-o)
Did I say this made me chuckle?
I lied 😫
Of course, we wouldn’t do it if we didn’t think we’d get a decent enough return to buy another. The market is good right now, the rates are still low, people may be looking to get into a place before the next school year….all good things right?
So I ask you…
🎶 Should we stay or should we go 🎶
(sorry, I can’t help singing it…lol)
Oh geez…after all that, I forgot to mention why I even began this post. While we muse over the possibility of listing (we’re about 98% there to be honest), we figured we’d do what we always do in this situation…invest more blood, sweat, and tears, not to mention 💰, into getting our imperfect 🏠 perfect so the next 👸 of the newly perfected 🏰 won’t have to lift a friggin’ finger or spend an effn’ dime!
‘Cause that’s how we role…we Hernandezeseses (Hernadezi?)
We buy, we fix, we do……..and we move. So we can then…buy old and broken, fix to new and pretty, sell to others who don’t have to do a damned thing…just so we can buy old and broken, fix to new and pretty….blah de blah de blah!
In that vein… We have had the fireplace that hasn’t worked since the day after we moved in, fixed. We had the Jacuzzi tub’s leaky-ass faucets that we haven’t touched since the first time we went to use it and didn’t because it leaked, repaired. We’re giving our wood floors a facelift so they don’t offend the next matriarch with their little Sadie scratches. We’re resurfacing our pinkish, post-form, laminate countertops that somehow were good enough for me, but certainly will put off today’s savvy buyers looking for the trendier granite because ‘It’s so shiiiiny’.
And I’ve saved the best for last…
and the hardest for me…
the die-hard DIY’er:
Hiring someone to do what I do, and do well is tough. But time, old shoulders, bad, up close & personal, eyesight, added to my increased lack o’ patience, has dictated that this time around…we must bite the proverbial and hire a pro.
You all know me and my history with hiring professionals.
Though you know I pride myself in doing my due diligence, you also know it has gotten my leg broken, my house flooded, my toothbrush packed with the toilet brush, and my car dying at 70 MPH on Interstate 91 in New Haven.
Shall we agree that you know this Wonder Woman of Wacky Workmen?
Okay then…we’re off.
We hired a ‘Pro” to paint the interior of our 4BR, 3BA home, top to bottom, head to toe, and everything in between. The references were stellar. The estimate reasonable. The time frame – 7 days. Perfect.
That should have been my first clue!
When. Will. I. Learn?
Nothing is perfect, nor apparently, what it seems!
I’m getting ahead of myself…let’s see. To be pro-active, we removed all wall décor, switch plates, outlet covers, electronics, all items in/on/around furniture, packed everything in boxes, moved all furniture to middle of rooms to be covered, placed all non-necessary furnishings, boxes, small items, etc., in the garage, took up all rugs, and basically had the house ‘paint-ready’ for the start date. Oh, and we moved into my mother’s to give them free reign to only have to cover stuff once and not worry about finishing one room at a time. The house was theirs. They had to do nothing but cover, patch, sand, and paint.
Two painters began on Monday the 6th. The owner’s son who is taking over the business, and his side kick with 25 years under his belt, cut-in and first coat, guy.
Come Saturday, the 11th, one was left and the other one gone. I fired the side-kick for lack of production and sloppy work. His smoke breaks alone used half his hours and all of his work needed to be re-done.
He blamed the paint. I blamed the painter. I win.
Boom! You’re outta here!
I was told he would be replaced with a more professional side kick, but as of today, the 17th, there is still but one.
Mr Painter Man
Who I call IMA
IMA fix it – IMA gonna do it – IMA be here late tomorra – IMA sorry – IMA IMA IMA
By end of business today, there will have been a total of 11 painting days.
Know what’s done? Hah…stop that laughing. Wanna know?
Upstairs.
This is still my downstairs…11 days later
My living room pile
my kitchen eat in area
my dining room pile
my 2-story foyer ceiling
Know what else?
There are 3 walls upstairs that need to be redone. But I told IMA to save that for dessert cause I needed his ass downstairs in the kitchen! I’ve got a counter top being redone on MONDAY!!
I even returned the remaining 6 gallons of my accent color, a beautiful Crushed Oregano green, for IMA because he keeps blaming the paint…I changed my design for him!
Does this color scare you? It’s on my front door, which I painted, without trouble What the hell is wrong with me??? IMA STUPID!
Know what I’m doing right now?
😭 😭 😭 😭 😭 😭 😭 etc etc etc
Why bother going through all of this some might ask. Especially when my house always looks good whether trendy or not. Always up to date, clean, and comfy. Homey!
Because Lord knows, today’s modern and discerning buyer would no doubt, walk into a home with red in the kitchen and yellow in the living room; green in the bathroom and a cloud painted blue sky ceiling in the bonus room, would run screaming into the street for the horror!
None of which I put on the walls but was perfectly fine with it until the day I decided to change it.
Boy oh Boy…we can’t expect someone else to think that way now can we?
Or so the real estate professionals tell me. After all, this is only the 6th house we will have sold, so how would I know anything about what sells and what doesn’t?
So…next week, it’ll be Mr. Painter-man who best have my kitchen done by tomorrow (or else ) and the counter-top crew. That, should be an interesting day 😂
Like riding a bike…once you learn how…you don’t forget.
Choose not to, sure. But you don’t forget.
When I was a girl I used to walk everywhere. I would stomp with purpose in my Wonder Bread bag covered shoes to school in the winters, hoping to get the bags off and stowed before the LL Bean boot-wearing kids could see them.
I’d march, like a good little soldier, the kiddie version of a 50 yard mile to church on Sunday, fiddling with the all too popular, bang-holding, enormous, white, clip-on bow my mother insisted I wear. One that made my hair sit pregnant and waiting to pop its clip from atop my head, and in doing so, birthing my bangs back onto my forehead where they belonged! The post clip-on years saw my 9 to 14 year old self, stomp the yard the longest 1/4 mile known to adolescents…especially on Catechism Saturdays, where God’s own wicked witch of the north ruled with an iron fist!
The better walking days were when I was old enough to sashay and glide; take my time meandering and strolling, to the place where all good things happen. Overstreet. Which, for those who don’t know, is our far north yank-speak for Downtown. I could spend my fifty cent allowance buying nickle candy at the Economy Store, making sure to save the quarter I needed for the Sat’dy matinee a couple doors down at the Savoy. And often times, I’d even have enough to stop at The Candy Kitchen for a creamie on the way home, if that’s what the gang wanted to do.
In the pre-bicycle summers, walking to the pool was the equivalent my now-self walking 5 miles on the huff and puff scale. I’ve actually checked since then and know now it was just a hair shy of a mile…but it was the last half that was a killer. Or so it seemed at the time. And looking back…having a bike didn’t improve that hill any…not one lick! I don’t think I managed to stay ON the bike the whole way up but once, and only then because I rode that hill like it was a Donkey Kong trail, without the ladders! Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It was easier to push it (or leave it home). Besides, kids pushing bicycles up that hill was just the way of it…until the 10-speed arrived. YeeHaw…what an invention. Not that I ever had one, but boy could those kids ride that hill like it was nothing!
Our’s was a small town; a good, walking town for a kid when you come right down to it. Nestled in a little valley surrounded by the Green Mountains; a college town without acting like a college town because we didn’t really sport the kinds of places college kids like to hang. And those we did have, the cadets managed to get thrown out of more often than not, so it was really just us town folk most of the time.
I loved walking that town, and I know it’s from walking that town that I feel so drawn to the beauty in everyday things that I often take pictures of. Imagine walking down the street where you live, and everywhere you look, there’s a mountain, or a brook, or a river. Walk to the end of that street and you can chose to go straight over the footbridge, crossing the river towards downtown and what adventures lie there. Or left over the tracks towards one of your schools or a shortcut to your friend’s house, the side street tree lined and leaf covered. Or better yet, turn right and walk to where the pavement ends and the dirt begins. Fields full of wild flowers and cows; promises of swimming holes and tire swings, and mountains as far as the eye can see.
All the time looking up. All the time thinking…I want to live in those mountains. I want to hear the brooks run and the smell the spring mud; feel the snow tickle as it falls on my face, and crunch under my feet for as long as I live.
I no longer live in that town.
But that town lives in me. I take it with me everywhere, as I take all those things I fell in love with there too.
It’s the peace I reach for when I can find none where I am.
No matter where I hang my hat, my heart remains there…in my little town. Where walking the streets is not a profession…it’s a path to connection. To God, to community, to nature, but most importantly, to oneself.
When I need it, I put on my boots and hit the road and remember. I remember to keep my ears open, my eyes wide, and my mind quiet. I remember to be thankful for some of the absolute best memories of my life…and more so, to be thankful for giving me the mountains my mind ran away to; where I’d sit under a glorious burnt orange tree while it bathed in the red-gold light of a late fall sun…for the absolute worst of my life.
The little town where I learned to walk; to never take for granted the beauty in the simple things; to accept with gratitude, the gifts it gave me every day; and learned too, the true understanding of what it is…the power…to have a place to call home.
My town, where I learned to walk
(photo by Carol of Carol’s View of New England on blogspot)
I’ll go out on a limb here and say for most of us, being a parent is, quite literally, the hardest job we’ve ever had or ever will. And, at the same time, it’s the richest, most fulfilling, most rewarding contribution to our own lives and always will be.
One of the most surprising aspects of parenthood’s lifelong journey is finding out that one split second is all it takes for you to come to know the best and worst of being a parent…the span of that second is the distance between loving another being so much it hurts, to wishing you’d gotten a dog instead! True dat 🙂
But in looking at this most difficult / most rewarding dichotomy, it’s not so hard to understand when you consider first, our tendency to place the highest value on that which was hardest won, and second, our amazing capacity for forgiveness (as parents at least).
But what is it that takes parents to the depths of the difficult to the heights of reward when it comes to loving our children? How do we survive the splintering of our brains in a thousand directions trying to figure them out, yet tarnishes the love in our hearts never?
I don’t question the reward; I think it’s obvious. I do, however, ponder the difficult. Is it because we love too much? Is it that even possible?
I don’t believe so…
However, could it be that we love too much for too long? Is that it? Does parental love need to be doled out in stages or degrees? Or fit into categories in order to not overload these little overlords once they come into their own?
So what (you ask) are these stages/degrees/categories you ask?
I’m a little cuss who can’t (and don’t want to) function without you so love me, love me more, love me most!
I’m a teenager so love me lots, and with patience, but for God’s sake, don’t let my friends see it!
I’m a young adult now so love me from a distance, but not too far ’cause I may need the car!
I’ve met someone and we’re going to get married. Can ya help, can ya pay, can we have it there? (ps Mom and Dad…you’re gonna love him/her!)
I’m going to have a baby so love me, love me most, and love me now ’cause we’re going to need babysitters! (ps Mom and Dad…you’re gonna love it!)
Mom? Dad? I’ve never felt this way before…I love this kid so much my heart hurts!
(ps honey…we know!)
And so on…..
The short answer to the too much / too long question is…yes, okay, maybe, a little bit. But we parents come to this conclusion naturally I think. We instinctively know (or learn soon enough if our instincts are not as honed as they will be), which stage or category we’re dealing with or which degree of parental love to douse them with, simply by living it. Organic knowledge. We just have to choose to go with it.
Does that stop us from loving the same soul-deep way we did when they were newborn?
No. Perhaps it does in theirs though. For a time.
I know that they love us the same way we do them…in the beginning. Outside of themselves, we are their world. Their universe. Their moon and their stars, and they are ours.
Parents and kids grow up together. That’s a given. No matter if you’re 18 or 45 when you have your children, you have to grow up with them to be able to give and receive all that these little selves need, and later, need to share.
We may grow up more with our first. Then again, it may just be that we grow up differently with the next one or two or three.
But…if we’ve played our hands well, we are love. All of it. Every stage, every degree, every category is of the love, by the love, for the love. And they are right there with us.
Completely (in the beginning)
Mostly (in the middle)
Until (still in the middle but getting further towards the…the…well shit…not the end, but you know what I mean right?)
Until…they find out there are more people to love and to be loved by; more stars to shine the light of love on their heads and in their hearts; more room in their world for other loves.
As it has always been. As it was with our own parents to be sure. Just another way of experiencing the circle of life.
Consider…
Our children are loved as only a child can be loved and they in turn, love as only a child can love. The universe is secure.
As time goes on, they thrive and grow in that forever, universe-spanning, parental love and love them right back. But as they continue to grow, they s l o w l y recognize that their world is expanding to include the many, many different kinds of love; each addition a glimmering star to their universe thus far.
But their recognition is as single-minded as their love for us was in the beginning. When they venture out from underneath the love-cloaked expanse of their parental universe, they don’t at once realize that their hearts are big enough to add new loves without setting aside old ones.
Our time will come again (usually around the time the grand-kids show up!), but as parents, it’s only natural that we do feel the initial loss of that connection when our love is no longer the moon and the stars in our child’s heart.
BUT…
Facing this fact head-on is hard, but absolutely necessary.
For our own well-being as well as theirs.
If we don’t, we run the risk of pushing them further out into the expanse by clinging too close, depending too much on their always being there, pining away for their childhood days when they aren’t there, regretting what we didn’t do, or forgetting what we did. Even romanticizing the harder times and not counting our blessings.
We all can probably think of a parent in our experience who has done, or does, this. Think back to the last time you witnessed a parent who cannot let go and re-live what you felt. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling.
I’m certainly not completely innocent of it still. I sometimes catch myself feeling guilty for not being ‘that mother’. The one who always can, always will, never says no, never says can’t. Who wouldn’t want to be considered ‘the perfect mom’? But that’s not perfection. It’s limiting to both your life and those of your children.
However, even knowing I am not (and never could be) that mother…(nor is their Dad ‘that guy’) it nevertheless hurts (and in the dark of night, makes me wonder if they’ll still love me enough to ask again- I know, just silly ) to know that we are the ones disappointing our children.
But we get over it because we know we are good parents who have raised good people. We all deal with disappointments in our relationships. We have difficult conversations followed by deafening silences. But we’ve loved each other long enough and well enough to know what’s really important.
So there is hope. Once we’ve matured enough in our parenthood to realize this fact of life, we can recapture that sense of oneness, specialness, absolute love not felt anywhere but in your parents’ heart of hearts. It is, after all, our hearts that need to make preparations for the day when our children learn there is a love flow-chart. This will fluctuate during their life spans, but it will always show a solid heart-red line for us. Mom and Dad. Steady as she goes. What more could we hope for?
And an added benefit to this stage of parental maturity is…we can (and hopefully do) look back at our own parents with a new appreciation for all they’ve done, all they’ve been through, and all we’ve learned from them without even knowing it. Score!
Cheers and happy parenting (and I mean that!)
Dearest Mommy
Dedicated to my Mother and Father and to my Sons
I’m proud to be one of your stars
Yes, I confess.
By the time I was 3, I was hooked on the ol’ brew.
(And, apparently, I passed that on to my eldest. Though, I preferred a bottle)
Observez Vous…
Gee, thanks Mom!
Actually, I was more hooked on Dad…I was his toddlin’ sidekick in mighty whitey tights! Anything he did, I wanted to do. Anywhere he was, I wanted to be. Not so unusual for little girls to consider their Dads their first love and first superhero.
Always ready to catch me
There again too…I guess boys are of the same mind. Like father like sons?
You betcha!
This is how the story goes…
Once upon a time, in a little town far, far away, there was a little girl who lived with her father, mother, and 3 brothers. That’s her below…the twinklin’ toddler in her mighty whities…
Her father was a hard-working man; working 2, sometimes 3 jobs to make ends meet. And her Mother was not your ‘typical for the times’ housewife either.
Isn’t she pretty?
Because, busy as she was, having had 4 kids in 5 years, she still held a full-time job outside the home.
But, this was also a time when families lived close together, daycare centers were non-existent, and family was relied upon to pitch in where they could. (Glad it was you, Gram)
Now, seeing as these were hard-working folk, what little free time there was, was catch-up time, family time, friends time. Picnic parties, horseshoes, reunions, celebrations…but all the time, busy!
But…let’s not forget the biggie…working on cars in the yard.
That all-american male’s favorite pastime. Grease-monkeyin’ in the driveway.
Am I right?
So anyway, this is how a toddlin’ sidekick to her Daddy’s Superman, gets her tights in a twist…
A typical weekend afternoon, circa 1963…
The boys tinkerin’ in the driveway with the women folk fixin’ victuals and watchin’ babies inside. A regular tune ‘er up, tink’er up, smoke’em up, drink’em up, Sa’day afternoon. Rev her up..sounds good! Close her up…hit the dirt for a test run. No need for cleanin’up, we’re comin’ right back.
Ya with me? Good.
To continue…
The boys are gone. The women are inside with (8 of the usual 9) the kids. One smarty pants little toddler decided she missed her Daddy and went outside looking for him. She calls for him. No answer. She can’t see him. But wait…there…in the driveway. “What’s that?” she wonders in her terrible-three tiny little brain. “Can it be?” she asks herself “Why, I think it’s a Daddy bottle and ooooooh, he left it for me!” silently gigglin in delight she was “I love a good Daddy bottle. It’s so much more yummy than my ucky ol’ boring one.” she hmmphs at the thought. She looks around. No one. She listens keenly for any sound that would suggest Mommy was coming to take her Daddy bottle away. Nothing. “Yay” she thinks as she’s already on the move, toddlin’ toward that dark brown delight she knows is filled with liquid gold. She stretches those short and chubbies just far enough to grab the neck of that father-forgotten treasure, tips it to her lips like the bottle pro she is…and chug-a-lugs.
That was the last thing I remember prior to waking up in the hospital God knows how much time later.
You see, the brew I knew and thought of as Dad’s liquid gold, was what I now call, liquid fire.
As was the custom then…and I’ve seen it again and again in the years since…these man-boys would use beer bottles as containers for gasoline when working on their carburetors. They were always plentiful, usually empty, so why buy a gas can when a beer bottle will do?
Exactly! Logic boys….logic!
The madness that followed can quite easily be imagined…and remember, this was an itsy bitsy town.
I don’t remember much of the ensuing chaos…but have heard the details often.
The boys returned to find my Mother holding me in a panic. No other vehicle. No hospital nor ambulance within 8 miles and 13 minutes (rural roads ya know). And a non-breathing child turning colors no human should be. Parents and me in the car. Dad driving hell-bent for leather, Mom holding me. My head out the window like a dog. I do remember being told NOT to throw up. I do remember having zero conscious thoughts at this time. Arrive at the hospital alive, though I was told I didn’t take a single breath, as well as my Mother being told that it’s a miracle I didn’t vomit, for that would have been the end of my life as I knew it. I do remember too, waking in a crib-bed with a top (?), like a cage, feeling trapped. But, when I could, I remember looking out the window and seeing my Memere’s house and it made me feel better.
Now, all of us that are parents, know this irrefutable fact:
You CANNOT turn you back on a toddler EVER. Even for a second. Because one second is one second TOO LONG!
Damien declared the war of Two Ought One and Four was not over.
He was now spearheading the charge.
El Jefe sent his mangy minion “Mini Masher Mickey” to mangle my Mini
Mini Masher Mickey
Mad as Hell Wonder Woman (that’s me…just ask my SideKick Mimi)
WW ready to kick some ‘service’ ass and take some names…
I know she’s not a minion, but I could NOT resist! Could you?
Alright…that brings us to right here and right now…
So
How DOES a mad as hell Wonder F-Ugly end up Whistlin’ Dixie?
(She puts her lips together and blows, silly)
No, seriously…
After she hangs up the phone from the conversation with the Mini Service Manager, as follows:
Manager: I have some news.
Me: Oh yeah?
Manager: The warranty inspector was here today.
Me: Yeah, so I was expecting.
Manager: He looked at the engine.
Me: Right. That’s what he was there for.
Manager: He said it was a broken Tensioner.
Me: Yeah, you told me that already. Were you unsure?
Manager: No, he just confirmed it.
Me: Good. Now what?
Manager: He agreed the engine needed to be replaced.
Me: I thought you had NEWS? (Not OLDS!) You already told me that.
Manager: I also told you in my experience, they would not pay for it.
Me: Yeah, I didn’t forget that part.
Manager: Well…
Me: Well…..what?
Manager: They agreed to cover it.
Me: Really?
Manager: Yes. They were going to cover a ‘used’ one but we ran the numbers an
it was within a couple hundred for a new one, so you’re getting a new one.
Me: I’d have gotten a new one anyway, but go on.
Manager: They are paying me directly, so all you have to cover is the new battery
and turbo oil line, which are not covered.
Me: How much?
Manager: $692
Me: You do know both the battery and that oil line were replaced last year?
Manager: Yes, but since you’re getting a new engine, we don’t want to screw around with old parts.
Me: Ok. How much are the two replacements?
Manager: $350 for the battery, $200 for the line, plus tax and labor.
Me: $350 for a battery? Jesus, what the hell is it made of?
Manager: It’s specific to Minis.
Me: Really? No other car can use it?
Manager: Well, not exactly, but this one’s housing and stuff are made specifically
for Mini.
Me: Ah, I see. (You guys figure since I’m getting a new engine paid for I may as well just suck up a 300 percent mark up on a battery.)
Well, that’s good news anyway.
Manager: I need to order the engine, and once it’s in, we’ll need a few days. You
may be able to get the car by Wednesday.
Me: Actually, I’ll be able to get the car when I can get a ride to Hartford and not before.
Manager: I’ll call you when it’s ready.
Me: I’ll wait for that call.
THAT’S how a Mad As Hell Wonder Woman ends up Whistlin’ Dixie
thanks for the cartoon bobtheartist.com
And pay attention Girlies (and Nerdies too)…
It pays to let people (especially people ‘helping’ you) that you’ve done your homework.
It’s good to let them know that you know that they know that they are hiding/lying to you and you know it.
![IMG_20160616_101407_640[1]](https://helpmerhondadotcom1.files.wordpress.com/2016/06/img_20160616_101407_6401.jpg?w=563&h=1000)
50 Shades of Gray Hair 
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