Hopelessly stupid

For the life of me, I cannot comprehend WHY we do some of the stupid things we do.

Having lived more than 5 minutes, we have accumulated a virtual ton of stuff that we simply wad around from place to place over the 27 years of our married life as if it is important.

Some of it IS important in the sense that during our mortal life, it will come in handy to enjoy the life part of living. Some of it is necessary to prove that we are real people and not just part of the "Chicago political machine" who just vote early and often.

But a vast majority of it is stuff... okay, FINE, have it YOUR way... JUNK.

Junque. Treasures of trash. Tokens of passage. Reminders of a life well lived.

I'm beginning to think it's been lived a bit TOO well.

Take for example the discussion we had not two nights ago regarding the massive amounts of bed pillows we own. Or rather, which own us. It can no longer be described otherwise.

We have about 4 pillows to every man, woman, child, and dog residing in this house. Do we USE these pillows?

Unless we count my recent foot elevating unpleasantness, NO, we don't.

And the reason we don't employ them for our nocturnal positioning needs....?

Yeah, they are uncomfortable as hell because they are as old as our married life, plus or minus a couple of years and pillows here or there.

Yet we KEEP them as if they are a sacred treasure never to be parted from in this lifetime.

Vanna, can I please by some sanity???

If the pillows were the only example of this kind of asinine behavior, it could be excused as a mere trifling eccentricity... like leaving your Christmas lights hung out all year long.

But no.

We are creatures of junk. In the vast and immortal fear that grips our heart, paralyzes our mind and compels us to fill closets with crapola that we are not likely to need, want or use in this lifetime... we have become packrats to the higher good.

What good that is I have yet to discover.

We live in mortal fear that the very item we toss aside will be the very item "THAT CAN SAVE OUR LIVES!" during a crisis.

Trust me when I tell you that the pillows we have so carefully saved cannot be used as floatation devices in case this house makes a water landing. And since we've already established that they are NOT comfortable, we don't even offer them to GUESTS... but we keep them. Guilty shoved into the top of an already overstuffed closet, we keep the damn pillows as if there will never be any more pillows made for all of time and eternity.

Where has my mind fled? I miss it so very much...

Once in a great while, when I am not overcome by the physical reality of the task I'm about to undertake, I wheel our large green curbside dumpster inside to receive the treasured trash that not even the poor want to take. Honestly, I'd feel completely ashamed to put this crap in a yard sale. Almost like I should pay them to cart it away!

Since that is about as likely to happen as me discovering a vague genealogical connection to the Rockefeller's wallets, I think I'm gonna have to suck it up and start tossing things overboard just in case that water landing is in my future.

I think I'm safe in tossing my wedding dress. I have NO daughters and as lovely as it was lo these many years ago, it's hung in the back of closets and storage rooms for the 27 previously mentioned years. Dry rot has set in by now and the dress is unusable. Plus, it has SHRUNK in storage and no longer fits.

Since I'm tossing it, the matching shoes and crinoline slip can also go away.

I have a shopping bag that needs to come out of the closet and sit in my van for holding purchases. The only thing that has kept that from happening is that it is wadded into a corner underneath a few assorted paintings I did in high school. Yeah. I still have that shlock. They will be departing this week. Andy Warhol I am not and the Antiques Roadshow will make me pay them to have them throw them away.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder just how much we have that we could let go and truly never miss?

I do know one thing for sure. The pillows are going away. Far away. To the dump. And I will not miss any of them.

If that means we need to buy a few new bed pillows to fill the void, it will be money well spent. I intend to also buy the little washable covers as well. Then guests are free to use the pillows without worrying who drooled on it last.

Why are we so hopelessly stupid as to be held captive by our junk? Maybe the pioneer companies were right in limiting what they would allow the folks to pack and take toward the western skies.

A friend of mine said everyone ought to be compelled to move every couple of years just so they would learn what they could truly live without.

Like settling for ONE can opener, instead of the six that lurk in my kitchen even though only ONE of them truly works.

Someone needs to save me before they have to call those people on TV to my home to tell me 'What Kind of Fool Am I?".

Y'all have a nice night. I'm going to bed now... and sleep on a pillow that doesn't know that it's about to go to a far, far better place than it has ever known before...

Public Restroom Etiquette

Public restrooms are a necessity of life. We can find them virtually everywhere. But the way people treat a public bathroom is a disgrace because they have fallen into the mentality of "someone will clean it up".

I'm also not a fan of the way most public restrooms are set up. It's a well known fact that women have more of a challenge using public facilities than men do. Yet, they don't build near enough stalls to accommodate women at a large public facility... it's like they think we are more adept at "holding it" than men are... which might be true simply because we have grown up knowing that our strip tease to take care of business simply takes WAY more time than a man's trip to the restroom will take.

There are, of course, other issues that I find objectionable when visiting a public restroom.

Nothing worse than going to wash your hands after you have completed your appointed task only to discover that there is no soap, water all over the counter and no paper towels and the hand dryer is broken.

Time to cowboy up and do the redneck paper towel routine of drying your hands on the back of your jeans or being forced to do the old 'fling and dry' routine when you are in a dress. I must confess I HAVE had to dry my hands on a dress before. No choices...

By far my biggest pet peeve is the 'buddy system' that apparently exists when choosing a stall. It's like there is a magnetic attraction to the stall that is next to one that's already in use. I am not a public bathroom friend anyway, and the idea that there are a people all around me tends to make my 'shy' in getting the job done.

I was in the locker room this morning after completing my workout. There are about 5 stalls in this room. I went into the facilities and slipped into a stall. The lady who came into the locker room right behind me took the stall right next to mine even though there were three other empty stalls besides the one she chose. Uh... this might not be so good...

I'm not one to cast aspersions on how you manage your trips to the bathroom, but the sudden carrying on in that stall next to me had me wondering if the shaking wall was about to collapse atop me. There was banging and beating upon the wall, roll upon roll of toilet paper being extracted from the little wall dispenser for heaven's knows what purpose (PLEASE don't tell me!) and, oddly enough, there was only one foot visible on the floor with the toes pointing toward the stall door. I'm not sure if she was bracing the door with the other foot (the locks here are NOT broken) or using it for some sort of leverage point for a particularly "difficult" job... the sharp banging and slamming sounds continued.

Then the other noises began. There was sniffling that I swear could have come from your average wooly mammoth, graveyard moaning and some type of shuffling or rustling paper sound that made me wonder if she was running a gift wrapping counter in her stall.

Holy Moses! What in the Sam Hill is going on in that stall???

I have to say at this point, it reminded me of too many unpleasant bathrooming adventures in my travels. Lord knows all God's chilluns gotta go pee, but is there some kind of secret code that says when people are in the stall next to mine they are compelled to make me feel so uncomfortable that I lose the urge to "go" myself? Please, people, when in a public facility unless the line is a quarter mile long, can you PLEASE not go into the stall next to me and proceed to die or to assemble a bicycle which you had carefully tucked into your gym bag? Y'all are scaring the pee right back up the spout!!

Truly not willing to wait around to see if she came out with her Christmas shopping purchases wrapped and ready to slip beneath her tree, I hastily yanked on my clothing and fled to the sinks to wash my hands --- without soap or paper towels. I hate that last minute, hands already soggy feeling when you come to realize that you are left to dry your hands on your shorts because there were no towels within miles or a hand dryer on the wall option.


I'm about ready to declare shrubbery a viable option.

Yeah, I know you are concerned about public decency and the trauma that you might endure if you walk up on me taking care of business. But I'd rather be able to DO my business than spend the next few minutes trying to find someplace to "go" before I wet myself.

Y'all need to learn some bathroom manners!

Please do so before my next trip to the ladies room, would ya?

Love hate relationship with Cooking shows

Cooking shows are my favorite programs to watch during the weekday if I even have the TV on. Most of the time I listen to the radio or nothing at all but the sound of my own wheezing. On the weekend, they sometimes show them again as filler and to prevent the expense of buying all new programming for the hours of broadcast time that have to be filled with something other than watching paint dry and grass grow.


So, I'm sitting here tonight watching this one cooking program where this dude is making Argentinian barbecue. He rapid fire delivers the ingredients list and the sequence all while dumping the little tiny glass bowls of them into the big bowl. 

He is smiling his smarmy little smile into the camera. 

I find that I lack BOTH the specific type of meat and the secret ingredients to make my dinner while I watch. I'd like to make the Argentinian barbecue, I really would because it sounds tasty, but he's talking too dang fast, dumping the stuff from the bowl he just mixed up with his fingers into a food processor (which I lack) and showing way too many teeth. 

Plus, NOWHERE is there an ingredients list on the screen.


Here's the kicker. I go to his website. His STUPID website. There IS NO RECIPE for today since apparently today's show on our local station was a rebroadcast and I lack the show number to find out which one had the food I wanted to cook.


Grrrrr. He and his barbecue can all go to the devil. In tiny glass bowls.


Why doesn't he have a list of the food names in Alpha order so I can look it up based on the name of whatever he was cooking instead of by show number? I hope he burns his own dinner tonight. I really do.


Then there is the Italian cooking show that I watch from time to time. She uses lots of Italian words when she cooks. I catch some of them because being a Romance language based on Latin, I can understand some things. But then she launches off into the specific Italian names of stuff and she loses me in the translation. 

The food looks yummy most of the time. And there are times I wish we had "smell-o-vision" that you could click a little button and sniff the food to see if you might like it. 


I'd also like to be able to have the ability to reach into the TV and grab the completed meals from time to time. Can you imagine the look on their face when they turn back around to add the flat leaf Mexican parsley to garnish the top of the magnificent main course they have prepared only to realize I have just stolen it for MY supper???  Muuahahahahahahahahahahaha!

That would be AWESOME! Talk about must see TV!! 


I love to learn about how to make new things. I hate the expense that you'd have to go to in order to keep the exotic ingredients on hand to make the new food that my hubby may not even try or like.


Julia Child's program was one of my favorites growing up. Momma would allow us to watch it and I guess from that humble beginning, I fell in love with the idea of cooking food to not only feed the family but once in a while to feed the soul.


I truly admire women who have culinary skills beyond whipping out the can opener. 


There is something akin to a spiritual moment to sink your taste buds into a meal that was not only prepared with food and love but with actual skill in the craft and art of cooking.


Since I was young, I've wanted a true chef's kitchen, but I'd also like the luxury of the TV programs . . . you don't really think all those TV chefs clean up after themselves, did you??


They have a 'self-cleaning kitchen' that doesn't require THEIR self to clean it at all...


Some poor TV intern who is wondering why on earth they went to college for all this just to do the dishes is washing up after the show is over for minimum wage. They can't pay off their college loans for television journalism and they probably don't get to taste the food, either.


I love cooking shows. They fill me with enthusiasm for the entire process of preparing a meal for the people I love.


And I hate them.


They remind me that I have devolved into the kind of cook who is more about expedience than elegance and more about budget than beauty.


The ghost of Julia Child is not amused.

Rules to Date My Son

I read a hilarious blog post about a father's concern for his daughter, who is now dating age. The general consensus was that his girls shouldn't date until they are 35.

That might be a bit extreme. But since I don't have any girls, I'll defer to his wisdom.

However, his post about the rules to date his daughter set me to thinking. If we have rules about how the young men are to comport themselves when they plan to date someone's princess, shouldn't there ALSO be a few regarding the behavior of the young women hoping to date our handsome princes whom we are sending out into the world to slay the dragon, protect the castle, defend the honor of the princess whom they hope to someday receive as the queen of their castle?

So to that end, I have made my OWN list of suggestions and ideas regarding rules, regulations and stipulations to date my son. Here is the application. "Momma's Rules for Dating" follows.

APPLICATION TO DATE MY SON

NOTE:  This application will be considered incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, lineage, and current medical report from your doctor.

I.  BASIC INFORMATION

(REQUIRED FOR PROCESSING CRIMINAL BACKGROUND CHECK & CREDIT CHECK)

NAME:

DATE OF BIRTH:

HEIGHT: 

WEIGHT:

IQ:

SOCIAL SECURITY #:

DRIVER LICENSE #:

NUMBER OF TICKETS/WARNINGS FOR MOVING VIOLATIONS/ACCIDENTS:

YOUNG WOMEN’S PERSONAL PROGRESS: Completed? Yes or No. If no, please explain.

YOUNG WOMANHOOD RECOGNITION MEDALLION: Yes or No. If no, please explain.

HONOR BEE: Yes or No. If no, please explain.

HOME ADDRESS, CITY/STATE/ZIP:

HONOR STUDENT? Yes or No.

CAN YOU COOK MORE THAN MICROWAVE SOUP? Yes or No. If no, please explain.

DO YOU HAVE PARENTS?  Yes or No. If no, please indicate which wolf pack raised you.

IS ONE MALE AND THE OTHER FEMALE?  Yes or No. (If no, DO NOT CONTINUE APPLICATION!)

NUMBER OF YEARS THEY HAVE BEEN MARRIED:

IF LESS THAN YOUR AGE, PLEASE EXPLAIN:

WHICH TEMPLE WERE THEY SEALED IN:

II. ACCESSORIES SECTION:

A.     Do you own or have access to a van?  Yes or No.

B.     A camper?  Yes or No.

C.     A waterbed?  Yes or No.

D.    A hatchback with fold down seats?  Yes or No.

E.     A tattoo?  Yes or No.

F.     Do you have multiple earrings, a nose ring, pierced tongue, pierced cheek, pierced eyebrow, pierced boob or a belly button ring?  Yes or No.

G.    Have you ever ‘sexted’ anyone? Yes or No.

(NOTE: IF YOU ANSWERED 'YES' TO ANY OF THE ABOVE, DISCONTINUE APPLICATION AND LEAVE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY.  I SUGGEST RUNNING --- FASTER THAN I CAN UNHOLSTER MY PISTOL.)

III. ESSAY SECTION:

In 50 words or less, what does 'LATE' mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does 'DON'T TOUCH MY SON' mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does 'ABSTINENCE' mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘SELF CONTROL’ mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘INAPPROPRIATE PHONE CALL’ mean to you?

IV: REFERENCES SECTION:

Church you attend:                                     

Meeting Time and place:

How often you attend: 

Valid reasons for missing:

When would be the best time to interview YOU?

Your Father?

Your Mother?

Your Bishop?

V. SHORT ANSWER QUESTION:

Answer by filling in the blank.  Please answer freely, all answers are confidential.

A. If I were shot, the last place I would want to be shot would be:

B.  If I were beaten, the last bone I would want broken is my:

C.  A Man’s responsibilities are:

D.  The one thing I hope this application doesn't ask me about is:

E.  What do you want to do IF you grow up?

F.  When I meet a guy, the thing I always notice about him first is:

G.  What is the current going rate of a hotel room?

I SWEAR OR AFFIRM THAT ALL THE INFORMATION ABOVE IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH OR DISMEMBERMENT.

Applicant's signature:  (that means sign your name, sugarplum).

Father's signature:

Mother's signature:

Bishop’s signature:

Thank you for your interest in dating my wonderful son.  Please allow four to six years for processing as your application will be added to the stack of potential dates for my son in the order in which it was received.

To prepare yourself, start studying “Momma's Rules for Dating” which is available online in WORD and PDF formats for your convenience. There will be an examination.

Momma’s Rules for Dating

Rule One:  

If you have asked HIM for the date and pull into my driveway honking your horn, you'd better be delivering him a package of cookies, because you're sure not picking anything up around here. Decent people come to the door for introductions and pleasantries.

Rule Two:

You do not touch my son in front of me.  You may glance at him, briefly, so long as you do not peer at anything below his belt. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off my son's body, I will remove them with a wooden spoon.

Rule Three:

I am aware that it is considered fashionable for girls of your age to wear their blouses so loosely that they appear to be falling off their shoulders or so tightly as to restrict blood flow.  Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots.  Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise:  You may come to the door with either your bra strap showing or your blouse 2 sizes too small, and I will not object.  

However, in order to ensure that your blouse does not, in fact burst open or fall off during the course of your date with my son, I will take my glue gun and fasten a granny shawl securely in place to your shoulders and collarbones.

Rule Four:

I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a 'Barrier method' of some kind can kill you.  Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you. Chastity is a virtue for guys and gals both.

Rule Five:

It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about homemaking, crafts, and other Relief Society topics.  Please do not do this. I am not interested.  The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to be dropped off back to your home or apartment, and the only word I need from you on this subject is: 'early, because I need to read my scriptures and do more homework before I go to sleep.'

Rule Six:

I have no doubt you are a popular gal, with many opportunities to date other guys.  This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my son.  Otherwise, once you have gone out with MY young man, you will continue to date no one but him until he is finished with you.  If you make him cry, I will make you cry. And yes, guys DO cry when their hearts are broken and trampled just like girls do.

Rule Seven:

As he stands in your front hallway, waiting for you to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not think you are being cute. You are being stupid and discourteous. If you plan to be late everywhere he’d like to take you, then you should not be dating my son.  “Putting on your makeup”, a process can take longer than painting the Golden Gate bridge, is not a reasonable excuse for making my son wonder if you are just stringing him along.  Instead of having him just stand there cooling his heels, why don't you do something useful? Spackle on a little less makeup and try letting him see the ‘real you’ who can actually tell time!

Rule Eight:

The following places are not appropriate for a date with my son:

1.      Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool.  

2.      Places where there is darkness.

3.      Places where there is dancing without lighting, holding hands, or happiness.  

4.      Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce you to wear shorts, or t-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka-zipped up to your throat.

5.      Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided. Movies that feature chain saws are okay as long as they aren’t R rated. Disney movies are okay. Hockey games are okay. But, old folks homes are even better.

Rule Nine:

Do not lie to me.  I may appear to be a heavyset, wrinkled, lined, flabby, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been.  But, on issues relating to my son, I am the all-knowing, merciless goddess of your universe.  

If I ask where you are going and with whom, and what time you expect to return, you have ONE chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  I have a pistol, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me because I don’t miss when I shoot.

Rule Ten:

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Should you decide to pay for the date, remember that it takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car revving in my driveway for a group of Emo chicks coming over for a rave (see Rule #1). 

When my hot flashes start acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to turn on the pressure hose while I watch you sit in your car impatiently and also when I wait for you to bring my son home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit the car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my son home safely and early, then return to your car.  There is no need for you to stand on the porch for an hour playing tonsil hockey. Otherwise, I have a pressure hose with your name written all over it.

The stressed, tired looking face at the window is mine.