Dream House

So. One Christmas. Can’t remember how old I was. Some age below puberty. I wanted a Barbie Dream Cottage. The one with the elevator.

My mom had made a dollhouse years ago out of cardboard and leftover scraps. It was amazing! It had furniture and everything. It wasn’t very big, but the time and effort she put into it was much appreciated. We wore it out and tore it up.

But now. A few years later. I wanted a big-girl Barbie Dream Cottage. The real deal. And she got it.

She put it in her closet. In plain sight. The box was so big that you could just walk in their room and see the bright-white box gleaming from the closet shelf. Even if she would have wrapped it, I would have known what I was getting. Subtlety had been
prison-stabbed a long time ago in this family.

So. I saw it. Probably a week or more before Christmas. When I saw it, I immediately started begging my mother to let me open it early.

Please, please, please. *Heavy breathing and groaning*

I just had this deep, deep anxiety, anticipation, worry, eagerness. If I didn’t get the cottage now, I will have wasted all of this Christmas vacation play time.

Kids have several days off before Christmas. Sitting at home. Waiting for Christmas to arrive. Swallowing their excitement over and over like big gulps of air until they hyperventilate on Christmas. It’s completely and totally insane.

While adults are preparing the food, and the tree, and the food, and the presents, the food and the food, and the nog, and the food. Kids are watching TV, filling their gobs with bon-bons, hopefully running in and out of the snow and shaking presents like Polaroid pictures.

What did she expect? From me? Slobberbox McWhiny-Pants?

Please. Please. Pleeeeease.

She relinquished.

I could tell she was upset and very disappointed. Frustrated. Mad. She hated my lack of self-control in that moment. I know she did.

But she left me have it. (LOL, oh boy, did she left me have it) On one condition. No, and I mean no, help in putting it together.

Crap!

I ran to the closet. I tore that box open like a box of Twinkies. Laid out all the parts and started assembling. I looked at the instructions briefly, but intuitively knew what went where. Mostly. I got to a point where something had to be screwed.

Crap!

I knew where the screwdriver was and I ran to get it. I started screwing that Barbie cottage up. Royally.

Something went wrong and I put the wrong screw in the wrong hole or screwed it too far or something. I warped the heavy plastic on the roof and it turned a lighter shade of orange. Some parts had to be taped. Scotch tape. But I put it together.

I was mildly disappointed. But at the same time thrilled and slightly proud of myself for wrestling my mother into a rarely-achieved coup, putting together a complex gift, and to be immediately playing with my new toy before Christmas. I was the only one with a gift! Ha!

That pride and newness quickly waned. When Christmas finally arrived, I had lost any thrill and was jealous of those receiving presents and I had none to open.

Crap!

I learned a hard lesson that day. One that my mother was willing to teach me. Best to wait. Wait for help. Wait for others. Enjoy each moment, with or without a gift. Wait for joy. It’s better when you wait. Or! Joy is not in receiving a gift, joy is found in obedience, patience and self-control. Restraint is its own reward.

But I had that Barbie Dream Cottage until I was 15? I hadn’t played with it for years, but I held on to it. It was the most expensive thing I owned, to that point. Ha. Then I gave it to another little girl.

Merry Christmas.

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Anxious Axioms

Some days.
My molecules feel like flying apart.
Keeping my atoms assembled feels like a full-time affair.
Ions excited to bump around inside my body.
Buzzing like a ramshackle wasp nest hanging by a dangling, vibrating twig.
Sent swinging by the angry, kicking toddler who lives inside my ghost-of-a-heart.
Sub-atomic
Axiomatic
Nuclear bomb
Automatic
Quixotic notions about therapeutic potions
Hopeless solutions for mind pollutions
I won’t make it through this time.

I gotta stop drinking coffee.

Pee! The world’s on fire.

My only brother, 11 years older than me, used to sleep in late. As teens do. After being out late with his friends, he would sleep late. Also, at one point, I think he worked evenings or nights at a local gas station, so he might have been sleeping during the day for that reason.

Well, my father creeps into the hallway with an impish grin. He was in a goofy, manic phase and holds down the smoke detector test button.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Except, our alarm was louder and more terrifying. Enough to make you piss your pants.

At the same time, my dad hollers down the hallway, “Pee! The world’s on fire!” Laughing his country-ass off. (One of his favorite sayings was, “I work my country ass off!” I still say that. So does my husband. LOL My husband does a perfect impersonation of my father, even though they never met, mainly because I say it exactly the way my dad used to. Love it.)

My brother comes running out of his bedroom, his long, usually-perfect, feathered hair tousled from sleep and his eyes barely open. His eyes quickly narrow even further at the sight of my dad and the rest of the family giggling maniacally.

He did not pee. He was pissed though! I think my dad just wanted him up and out!

Good times.

Dogs in Strollers Signal the End of Times

A repost. Because I just watched John Mulaney’s new Netflix special Kid Gorgeous and he talks about his dog stroller. I’ve lost all respect for you, John. Sigh. But you still make my whole family laugh. So. You got that goin’ for ya.


Do you suppose that at the height of any advanced civilization, pets were carted around in small chariots and worshipped? And then the civilization collapsed due to economic and political disaster? Egyptians, Romans, Mayans. America?? The sign of the end is animal worship IMO. LOL

I don’t know if it’s Florida, old people or Wal-mart, but the amount of small dogs in strollers is increasing. I just saw two Shih Tzus being walked in a stroller on our street on the way home this morning. I saw a Yorkie in a stroller at Wal-mart last week. North Korea has missile capability. The end is nigh. (Please remind me to never go to Wal-mart ever again. Even if they have the cheapest aprons for high school ceramic students in town.)

Seriously though, why stroll a dog? Isn’t the purpose of walking a dog that the dog actually gets exercise? God have mercy on our confused nation. I mean, I love dogs, but a baby stroller?? Please euthanize your dog if they are unable to walk any more. For God’s sake. If you are offended by this advice, you might be a dog-strolling Wal-mart shopper. Or from Florida.

For years I have openly laughed at neighbors standing in small, sad patches of grass behind their dog, watching said dog poop, relaxed with total apathy except for their anxious blue-gloved hand in permanent claw pose, waiting to scoop said poop. The dog always has a smirk or a smile, “I got this human to pick up my shit for free just because I lick his face when he walks in the door.” Or the dog looks totally strained or confused. “Why do I have to poop in front of everyone??”

Who’s in charge? Someone once famously said, “If aliens came to our planet, they would think dogs were in charge because we are picking up their poop!” Aliens would definitely think dogs are in charge if they saw us carting them around in a baby buggy. Gah!

Flooding in Texas. Increased earthquakes. Global climate change. Start prepping now. Actually it’s probably too late. Watch Red Dawn and buy a bottle of Tequila.

Smoke a Turd in Purgatory

My friend always says, as a punishment for d-bag behavior, “That guy will have to smoke a turd in purgatory.” LOL

I just love those words together. It’s poetic in sound and justice.


a great reminder for me to be patient, from 2016:

i DMV’d it.

there was a guy who i should have tackled and hog-tied for cutting in line, but i restrained myself and prayed to the baby Jesus. he was the d-baggiest. but i believe in Karma. he’s going to the front of the line…in hell. mwahaha! JK

actually, if he’s in that big of a hurry, he can have it. i’m supposed to be where i’m supposed to be whenever i’m supposed to be there for whomever i’m supposed to be there for. i have purpose and i’m in no hurry.

i accept waiting. i embrace opportunities to be patient. and i just try to quiet my mind when i feel overwhelmed. (i did this yesterday and it helped!)

ur welcome, DMV-er. i didn’t call you out when i had every right to. u shall spend purgatory waiting in line behind an old lady with a change purse the size of ur ego. may God have mercy on ur soul. and may the turd you smoke while waiting in Satan’s nether regions be full-flavored.


Happy Easter! LOL

Alt Grapes of Wrath

I’m playing Ma Joad in our local community theatre right now. Loving it.


My husband gave me an idea. I was telling him how Ma Joad kills everyone and he said, “What if you’re a serial killer?” LOL

She left the gate open, let the pig get out and it ate the “baby”. The baby human? Our pig ate the neighbor’s baby?? Or the pig ate an animal baby? Either way. Yikes.

Then, she gives Granpa soothin’ sirrup. He promptly dies.

Noah says he’s leaving the family and is never seen again.

Granma has a fever and I won’t let the family stop. Granma dies.

Connie, that good-for-nothing son-in-law of mine, disappears suddenly.

The preacher dies in the dark and then Ma is found on the bench, in the dark, immediately after. Hm.

I tell Tom to go away and I’m the last person who sees him.

I’m with Rosasharon when her baby dies.

OH. MY. GOD! I’m a serial killer.

What if I poisoned Uncle John’s wife?? I’m the cook. Gah!

This would make a good story, no? LOL

Rabbit Habit

The street we live on, Flamingo Drive, should be renamed Rabbit Run. There are a gajillon bunnies on our short little avenue. Every morning when we ride to school, little bunnies pop out of every bush and hole. Adorable. Just like this fella. SQUEE!

bunny under the stairs
If we see two bunnies, we call that a Double Bun. Three? Triple Bun Fun. Four? Quad goals.

Except. These rabbits have a habit. Of almost dying! They are a touch suicidal. They run in front of my car. They hear the car and run towards it. Confused.

I, of course, brake when I see any movement. I only go around 15-20 miles an hour because there are some dumb bunnies. I grew up in the country, so I know what it’s like driving around squirrels, rabbits and deer. Once I brake, their spell is broken and they run in the other direction.

Run, bunny! Run!

I watch for bunnies and the Ghosts of Venice (I call them). Old people who drift in and out of the fog. I don’t want any innocent, yet careless, creature’s life in my hands. With the bunnies, I would fear retribution from the multitudes.

Thankfully, I am a cautious driver, always on the alert. 10 and 2, always focused, and keeping an eye on those bunny bushes.

NOT ON MY WATCH, Bun!

F*ing Emo

I scream to you “I’m different!”
But how can you really tell?
Because this heart is deeper?
Beeline to the bottom of this well.

Is it that I feel so strong
Everything that I feel?
Does that make all my emotions
Any truer or much more real?

I flail around and make a mess
Invite you to the show
That’s what makes me different
And totally f*ing emo.


No, not Elmo. lol

Hello! My name is Lowered Expectations!!

I first saw Princess Bride when it was released in 1987. I was in 9th grade. I fell in love with the movie, the words, Inigo Montoya.

That hair. That voice. That backstory though. Tragically romantic and he was available. LOL

Okay, so he had a drinking problem and was blinded by revenge. But I can change him! LOL

I just wanted to scoop him up and nurse him back to health. Just like Fezzik did. Inigo was heroic, noble and flawed. Loved it!

He’s still my favorite character.

Although, I had a tendency to fall for the side character in any story. It seemed much more plausible to actually have a relationship, not with the main (perfect) character, but their trusted sidekick. The one desperate for the lead’s cast-offs. Why would I aim for less than the best? Not sure. I mean it’s all a fantasy, right? Even in my dreams, I’m rationalizing. LOL

My daughter may suffer from the same plight. In Shape of Water, she fell for Dimitri. The lovable Russian spy/American doctor who ended up helping the aquatic couple. It’s genetic. We’re suckers for a foreign accent and flawed nobility. God help her.

guy
My co-star! 😀 Finally found my lead in 1998.