WWPT?

Horrors!

What will people think?!

I grew up in a household which overused this phrase.

It was an admonishment; a criticism, an attempt to produce guilt or shame. I learned that pretty fast and steadfastly turned mule-faced and silent. As a child, if I would have been allowed to, I'd of responded with “Who gives a rat's a$$ what people think?!”, but my mouth would have been washed out with soap!

I can look back wryly and laugh about some of these seemingly important perceived ideas, but there are so many instances to recreate. Some random examples:

My pre-kindergarten tiny white (or black) shiny patent leather church shoe has scuff marks on the inside heel...we are hurriedly (and me stubbornly of course) on our way to Sunday service...Dear God in Heaven! A mark!... roughly grab the ankle...rub rub rub “What will people think?!”

Same scenario... a wisp of hair is hanging in the wrong direction....spit spit spit, wipe, wipe...“What will people think?!”

That coat is buttoned wrong... “What will people think?”

Is that a spot of syrup on your toddler brother's chin? spit spit, wipe, wipe... “What will people think?!”

Don't you dare move, wiggle, or whisper (I want to go home!) in church or you will get your thigh pinched. Hard. “What would people think?”

A few years later we moved from Minnesota to Kansas unfortunately living right across the street from a small Catholic church. Skip a Sunday? Are you out of your mind? Everyone would KNOW! “What will people think?” I remember my surly attitude...grumble: Why doesn't DAD have to go?

There was an excuse that he needed rest due to working the night shift, but I was jealous that George of the Jungle was on TV at that time...also Rocky, Bullwinkle and the fascinating Natasha of cartoon fame. (Can't we just say we're sick? And watch George smack the tree? Heck no. Someone would find out and God forbid... “What will people think?”)

This phrase emanated through every public faction of our lives...

Going to the store?! In those play clothes? Go change! “What will people think?” (Uh...that we're kids? That we've been playing?)

Is that a leaf in your hair? And look at those tangles....“What will people think?” (Uh...that I'm a kid? And I've been PLAYING.)

The grass must be clipped perfectly around all tree trunks and yard adornments... or.....“What will people think?!”

Dishes must be done immediately after lunch...(and the floor scrubbed nightly). What if someone stopped by? What if someone dropped in? “What will people think?!” (Uh...that we EAT?)

Come down out of that tree right now! It's time for church...I guess we'll go without you...and you're in BIG TROUBLE.....“What will people think?!” [smile to self at this creative avoidance of my childhood pet-peeve: church]

We better not catch you talking to that kid downtown. She's nothing but a street-walker...“What will people think?” (Uh...she's in my class...I should at least be polite and say hi!?)

That swimming-suit top looks a little too low...“What will people think?” (That my new teen-age boobs might attract some boy-attention? Hot damn!)

What do you mean you broke your arm in a truck accident tonight? Look who you were with! “What will people think?” ( OK, I'll give you that one!)

The perfectly-decorated cake has a teeny crumble on this edge....“What will people think?!” {Turn that side to the back...geez....or... I don't know...people will drop dead in droves when they notice the imperfection which throws their brain out of the space/time continuum and the world implodes into a fiery-blue frozen hell-ball? That's what I THINK!}

What do YOU think?

Hammer Time

Today was "1980's Day" (ick), but it proved to be pretty popular with many youth sporting side ponytails, high hairsprayed bangs, leg-warmers, and Don Johnson jackets. I participated too--shoulder pads and the parachute pants with the cuffed-pleated ankles, thanks to the remembrances from Dan's pics.
It's Spirit Week: yesterday was Cowboy Day, so I made a huge tacky cow-skull belt buckle with gold and silver glitter, the kerchief, hat, plaid western shirt. Yee-haw! (Boots came off after 5 minutes--who can take that pain?!)

Monday was best of all! Super-Hero Day! Jack Sparrow is my personal 'super hero' (it's a pretty loose definition), but I knew I'd roast with that wig and layers, so I decided to be...

CHUCK NORRIS!

It was so comfortable wearing Brig's white Judo gee (just like pajamas!)....I printed off some appropriate, clean Chuck Norris sayings and his dorky face and applied that to the back of the gee with another portrait on the front lapel. He he! I really dislike Chuck Norris, Texas Ranger. Just leave off the 'Tex'.

I love you Johnny! Hey....is that a side ponytail?!

Sybil Time.

Friday night around 11:00, my son came home from the football game in a somewhat crabby mood. By midmorning Saturday, full-blown Ferociousness stormed down the stairs, slamming doors and growling like a pit bull from hell.

"Good God in Heaven!" I thought.... “what in the world is wrong?!” I couldn't open my mouth to say anything without getting my head bitten off; even the slightest (positive) remark resulted in the emergence of 'the snarl'. Finally Paula whispered the problem to me....

“Oh. Now I see.”

It was strange, but about 6:30am, one of the gas station grandpa farmers was telling me that his giggly, sweet, chipper little granddaughter “turned into another person on Friday nights”. (He got to witness this phenomenon since he and his wife were watching the youngsters this week again.) I was puzzled until he said, “Their dad was coming to pick them up for the weekend...” Ahhh. That statement explains everything without saying anything more at all...

I can't tell you how many times over the years people in my job field get to see the 'different person' appear on Mondays or Fridays—no explanation by these kids' regular parent is necessary. All said parent has to say is: 'it's visitation weekend.' Ahhh indeed.

Thinking of this, upon hearing Paula's explanation, I recalled the mask of resigned doom frozen on my son's face all morning—a look I hadn't seen in almost a year and for good reason...it's been almost that long, since he's had to go. He was supposed to, at Christmas, and he left our family's fun game of Pitch to drive over, but they weren't even home. (A normal occurrence I'll call 'bait and switch' at kid's expense. Hey, I made a rhyme! But it's not funny....just mean, sad, and immature. For heaven's sake, I don't understand how anyone can break a promise to a kid...or at least have the courtesy to give them an explanation...Hmm. Never mind.)

I learned long ago not to be bothered by, or take to heart, the growly moods that permeated his return and I was glad that these visits were very random (and some years almost non-existent). If I am the brunt of his hurt, and that's the only way he can express it right now, so be it!
And that goes for any of my kids, cause I love 'em!

Mouths of Hiroshima

One of our friends, UPS Gary, introduced my son to a nightmare food on a hunting trip last year. A group of them stood around eying my son as he threw a Porubsky pickle in his mouth-- just to see his reaction as the top of his head blew off!

UPS Gary brought a couple tubs to Bailey's wedding this summer, and yesterday I jumped in Brig's truck and noticed some too. I had just tossed one in my mouth as the the smell from the open container hit my nostrils simultaneously-- and I knew I was in for trouble.

Holy Mother of GOD!

Thank heavens I hadn't started the engine yet; if someone had driven by they'd of thought I was having a stroke! I was shaking my hands, coughing, gagging, gasping, ½ screaming, tears and snot streaming down my face and I very nearly panicked cause I thought I might choke from the fumes or go blind.

Wow. Almost all the effects of mustard gas without the raised skin blisters!

Onward with the torture!

An hour later Brigham forced Paula to succumb to the pickle, pleading that she HAD to eat one—for his birthday.

And while weeding and rototilling at Grandma's today, I mentioned my sinuses were acting up—Brig had brought his mad green weaponry along to St Marys and pulled them from the fridge. Funny as heck: grandma never cusses, but she put a small pickle hunk in her mouth, sat quietly a few seconds, jumped up from the picnic table and grabbed the garage wall for support, with the beginnings of 'oh God, oh God!', bent over waving her hands, fell to her knees and crawled around fearfully gasping, giggling, choking, holding her mouth...'oh God...oh God... SHIT!' We were laughing so hard that we finally forced each other to take turns suffering incendiary sinus explosions—sorry everyone; perhaps the heat and the numerous Bud Lights and Smirnoff Green Tea's added to the humor.

After several rounds (dares) of this, we meandered down to the garden where Brigham was bidden to dig a horseradish root to sample its explosive fiery quality. He cried from that (ha ha) and we moved on to the un-ripe persimmon tree whereupon he cut one open and made everyone lick its surface. UGH. We were all rubbing our tongues with our t-shirts to wipe off the pucker wool-felt quality.

So it was a fun day destroying our tastebuds, but I do think that Porubsky must have pulled a fresh batch of pickles out of the barrel this week...I have never had anything produce a brain fireball on that level before. If you ever get to Topeka KS, try them!

A Foray Into the Life of a Babysitter

When I was a 6^th grader, about the only way to earn any spending money was to babysit because we didn't earn an 'allowance'. Having a younger sister and 2 younger brothers, I knew how to change a diaper—growing up in the country probably meant I knew how to work a little too—not a 'street walkin' city girl here! That's what parents tended to call the 'fast' girls that talked to boys on main street-- I probably didn't hear the word sl*t or wh*re until I was an 8^th grader --and it was one of those 'street walkers' that told the rest of us what that meant!

My 6^th grade summer, I watched 2 kids daily while the dad slept upstairs until 1:00pm, whereupon he growled downstairs, snarfed up Hamburger Helper or some type of leftover I was instructed to rewarm, and took off for work. No big talker there; don't even remember him acknowledging his children! It was terribly boring-- out in the middle of nowhere and no books in the house. Just magazines filled with smut stories. I didn't tell my mom this, but I think I learned or interpreted or imagined a lot that was entirely dissimilar to the birds/bees talk I was given!

That fall, I either babysat in town for 3 darling little boys whose beds were filled with pee stains, food, and roaches—the crawling kind; or for a toddler boy and his baby sister whose bottles lay strewn about the house filled with clabbered milk that almost made me vomit. Whichever family called first reserved me for a Friday or Saturday night—something going on at the Tavern most likely.

I tried to do the dishes at both places and always boiled dozens of bottles—poor kids. Roach Motel left 8-Track tapes all over so I listened to the Beatles, while Clabber House dad tried to lure me into his bedroom to look at a dirty magazine, pulling at my arm until I became frightened and he let go and left.

Later his wife called to reserve me for the next evening and I burst into tears: 'NO!' They got a return phone call after I told my mom what happened, but I guess back then nobody would of thought of turning the bastard in.

Then there was the beautiful Southern mansion home with the lovely white fluted columns, the gorgeous dark-eyed, dark-haired wife, the 2 sweet little girls, the dad who kept putting his hand up my thigh when he drove my home. For heaven's sake! Does stuff like this happen all the time?

Or the dad that left me have his car to take his kids to the swimming pool all summer—I would of been a freshman then—maybe he did that so he could 'see' his high school gal while we were splashing around and his wife worked her buns off all day long. Hmmm.

Or the couple that littered every room of their squalid rental with hard-core porn within full reach of their 3 youngsters. Glad they didn't have any prying questions when I moved it out of their reach!

But back then a candy bar cost a 15cents or a quarter, so earning $7 or $10 bucks was worth it. I guess.

Kind of opens your eyes to a darker aspect of life...

“Hit Me, Whip Me, Beat Me Like I'm Jesus!”

Imagine working in your flowerbed, peacefully digging the soil, knees pressed in the earth, to look up across the lawn and see a man ripping off his belt, flailing it wildly through the air, & spouting the above phrase!

Wouldn't this make you a bit surprised? A bit unnerved? A bit FRIGHTENED?

I tell ya, some people are just freakin' crazy! This was just one of the scenarios my mom had to endure when a would-be 'suitor' didn't understand the concept of “NO”. Last Thursday was the sentencing trial for my mom's stalker—don't know how many times this man has been to court now, but it seems to be dragging on forever.

Thinking back, I was pretty lucky with my whacko—scary yes, but I only had to drive up to the courthouse twice. This old guy though—wow! Numerous incidents with the police/sheriff's dept.; the meaning of a “restraining order” obviously didn't register in his brain. (Mine at least quit during the year of the restraining order, but resumed once his year was up. Now, what kind of person bides his time, waiting, waiting, for that year to pass by? Possibly the same type of person that ties SLOTH to the bed for a year like John Doe did in Se7en—but instead of pinetree air fresheners there's Natural Light beer cans piled up 3 feet deep!? How can you ever tell which verbal threats are real and which aren't? But this isn't about me........)

After months of harassment by phone, mail, car, bothering relatives and friends, this 70+ year old coot had managed to somehow get charges reduced to 4 felony stalking convictions—this was a slight fine, mandatory mental evaluation, and supervised probation for 6 months. I wonder how that equals out—2 years of hell for her/6 mos for him. ?

I keep trying to figure out which is more potentially 'dangerous'; hers or mine—mine had the Jekyll & Hyde thing going on—get shit-faced drunk and let the harassment begin, while mom's doesn't drink and believes himself to be a 'detective' and 'curious'-- my definition for him is 'downright nosy old bastard' and 'conniving liar' and 'psychopathic serial bully'! Let's not forget to throw in plain old 'asshole'.

People have told her that she will 'never get rid of him' and this I find very irritating if not downright frightening after reading about it...follow that link! And did I mention the he is a church minister?! [rolling my eyes here]

I'll try to write up some more details at a later date...right now we hear he is back in court for bothering another woman and her family...oh brother. What a guy!

Fresh Bread and Killer Whales

I found out this week that my son has been baking bread up in his bedroom. He had a loaf of plastic-wapped bread one day and I'd just assumed his girlfriend's mom had given it to him—but no, he'd bought supplies and a breadmaker that he'd found on sale. I had no idea—the smell must dissipate by the time I get home from work.

I was trying to find some bread recipes since I'd seen his—my cinnamon rolls are fabulously kick-butt and delicious, but I wanted something non-sweet and 'artisan'. Crusty. Hot. Mmm. (Never mind the fact that I'd put back on the 10 lbs I lost for my daughter's wedding in one tiny month—what a loser I am.)

There are tons of “No Knead Bread” recipes online which looked wonderful, but it was this awesome site with this doll-face, kick-ass, bad-ass baker that drew me in!

Damn! I was already yanking the flour from the kitchen cabinet before I finished reading the blog! If he can do it, so can I, by golly gee. I mixed up a batch but since I don't sport a tattoo, I guess I was jinxed from the start.

I could of cheated with a fine-line Sharpie like I've done in the past (it's a good way to get the idea of 'tattooing' out of a young kid's head-- “Let's DRAW one on ya for a couple days, so you can see if you'd like one or not...” You, know, get it out of their system. I've even drawn the 'twisted barb-wire tattoo' around my thigh one day out of boredom and it looked real!)

Anyway, I was bound to fail...since I've always held a vendetta against white bread (bad, bad, bad white flour!), naturally I tried to substitute way too much wheat flour. And my bread really did look decent on the outside and fairly decent on the inside, it was just a little too chewy-- think gummyworm candy—well, not quite that bad, but not that soft, melt in your mouth consistency.

So, bad-ass baker, cook on! I'll try again some other time and though I hate to admit it, I might even try 'pure white'.