Homer Alaska has a fabulous library. While I was there, Bailey checked out a few books on baby names in her quest for a middle name. Brigham has already dubbed her baby 'Stephen' knowing full well such an irritatingly mediocre name would be totally inadequate. He's already purchased a gun for in utero 'Stephen'. Nate made some name suggestions while he moved about the kitchen installing an island he'd created out in his greenhouse/shop. A couple sticks of wood in the stove made it cozy inside. We looked through a ghastly 70's birthing book and home decorating magazines and later I picked up a bestseller to read: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.
When my kids were babies, I went through a phase of disliking dogs. I guess I was a germaphobe or something--I didn't want them anywhere near my babies and I could hardly (if at all) put out my hand to pet one, no matter how nice they or their owners, were. This book would make a dog-hater change their mind. I can't write much about the book--don't want to dwell on sadness at the moment. Nate and Bailey's Daphne Dog helped me overcome my "anti-dogged-ness"; what a cute fluffy little hairball, and then it's temporary playmate, puppy Fergus, whom I call FurrGuy.
Daphne and I played 'sock' several times during my vacation--mainly just shaking a sock silly while it rips and tears and we bound (read: mom is on her hands and knees!) around the room rambunctiously hiding behind furniture and peeking at each other until one of us gets winded. We also went for several walks after Bailey's pots of strong coffee--either on the awesome little wooded trail across from her front window or on the beach. The weather there was a temperate 37; it snowed slightly one morning and misted, sprinkled, was sunny about 10 times a day. I couldn't get used to the sun coming up at 9:30!
I was totally thrilled that I saw my 1st grandchild move--a brief little bump near Bailey's bellybutton as she lay on the table at her doctor's office. Gotta show some pics!

Post Med.

Late this afternoon, waiting in line while 'I’m Not Lisa, My Name Is _____' dug around for her change, I found myself spaced off like a Marty McFly in some fugue-type Space-Time Continuum. GEEZ! I really have been feeling a lot like 'Lithium Ruby', now that I’ve got a couple pain killer prescriptions filled…

I really have to watch myself; a few days ago I could not remember what year it was when filling out a check nor how to turn on the clothes dryer. Someone gave me a bag of pears and it took me three days to recall whom. Brigham asked why one of his sharp knives was opened and for the life of me I don’t know what I used it for. One evening I lost time somehow and was ready to go to bed—when I checked the clock it was only 6:45pm. Must have been a time paradox. Hmmm. But this week is better—I allowed myself to drive further than a few blocks and I don’t fall asleep the minute I sit down.

So, back to the future. The weekend was lovely and warm; shorts and tee weather. Yard work was pleasant until this morning when I heard leaves crunching and found Weird State Highwayman standing in my backyard. (exasperated sigh) Crap. Weird State Highwayman has asked me out intermittently for the past 23 years. Yes, I remember this because I can recall the very yard I was standing in when he appeared up the alley the first time he asked me out; a rental down by the end of mainstreet. I made a ‘no’ excuse at that time.

Every couple years his radar picks up my location and I must endure the uncomfortableness, inner irritation, and guilt as I think up a new reason to say ‘no’. About 5 years ago, he’d appeared on my porch out of the blue with a paint brush—I could not believe that he’d partially overheard my conversation at the grocery store about home painting estimates. He was ready to ‘help out’. I looked at him (incredulously)—“I’m sorry, but my dad is dying at this time. There is no way I am going to paint my house THIS MONTH!” and “No, I can’t even think about going out.” He drove by a few times that week; I saw him while walking. Here’s why it annoys me: Every time he asks me out, he is just on the verge of another divorce!

Anyway, I looked up when I heard the crunching leaves and he stopped short saying, “Uh, I just wondered if I could ask you a question?....”

I must have had a flash of annoyance cross my face. He didn’t come any closer. Or perhaps he didn’t like the big butcher knife I was brandishing high in my hand. (I’d been cutting down my little wren houses.)

“What?” I said bluntly and “Where did you come from?!”

“Um, I saw you when I got gas and decided to drive through your alley. Don’t worry, I’m NOT A STALKER.” ( INTERESTING!) I raise an eyebrow. (My insides snidely curl as I recall Mom’s old goat stalkerman said the very same thing!***plus, I’d noticed that truck go through the alley twice in the last few minutes…) “Don’t you want to go out?”

I am so proud of myself. I make no excuses but stay nicely cordial. “No, I really don’t want to go out. It’s just not my thing I guess!”

“Really? Uh, you never want to……..? Would you take a bribe?”

(Huh?!) “No thanks, it just doesn’t interest me….”

He mumbles something about being beautiful (ha!) and how he’ll still be asking when he is 70 years old as he backs out of the yard…. And I didn’t bother to ask him if he was still married like all the previous times.

This whole encounter puts me on edge—I don’t know why I always feel guilty about my choice to say no—don’t want to hurt feelings I guess. I went around towards the front of the house and Thank God mom and Motorcycle Gary pulled up just then—they actually saved me from conversing with Country Bumpkin Man, who’d just appeared in my neighbor’s FRONT yard. AAAAGGGKKK! If I come unraveled it’ll destroy the entire universe!!!

Country Bumpkin is a whole nuther blog…

Give me another pain killer please.

***Question: Why would a man say, “Don’t worry—I’m not a stalker.” Had there been a previous accusation? A judgment of personality? A suspicion? There’s something prepenseful , a little foreboding about that statement. Have any studies been done? What percent of stalkers have actually swayed their victim; reassured them, ensnared them in their trap with those very words? I’d like to know.

Frozen Food/Homeless

2 Saturday’s ago proved bad timing for a birthday hotdog roast held by Brig and Nick out at his girlfriend’s farm. The icy wind even coughed up some random flurries but not to fear—the guys cleaned out the tree house and provided a well-stocked bar and music.

Since nobody showed for quite a while (wine-bottling/’nuther birthday party for Nick’s grandpa), we roasted some hotdogs anyway—we were ravenous. I even ate the white bread (ick) surrounding mine; well most of it… As we shivered and shook and held our knees and ankles pressed tightly together in a frigid mermaid stance, I decided I was too cold to walk 6 steps to the paper plates. It was much easier to pile a big spoon of potato salad directly on top of my last clump of bread that was crushed in a semi-folded napkin—thus Jesse once again yells: “Your mom’s a freak! Is that a potato salad snowcone?!” I licked up 2 clumps of potato salad snowcone’ (no spoons) and then we went back indoors to hover by the space heater in the tree house.

Us old fogies left early so the youngsters could party, but he looked at a few mom-gifts….Since Brig works for UPS, an appropriate present was—well, a cardboard box. That’s what he got—he can have sweet dreams wrapped up in BROWN!

Are You KIDDING ME??!

failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest

I copy/paste this phrase in regards to Irritating, 'Ol Codger Stalker Man, or "Mom Stalker" as you've read about in the past...

4 separate court dates had been set for the first part of October; luckily we didn't have to drive to any of them, as the perpetrator pled no contest to stalking; thus saving us our gas, time, and emotional duress!
However, the ink has hardly dried on the page--it hasn't been a week and he's broken the law already.
Ridiculous serial bully/deceitful sorry old goat.

Predictor Philosopher Prophet of Doom

It's way early in the morning. Caffeine and the crossword puzzle keep a few of us calmly occupied until the gas station really opens for business at 6:00am. Most the time we talk lightly amongst ourselves in our own booth—utmost concentration as we dwell on a frustrating word, but we do banter with certain familiar customers until the cobwebs have lifted from our heads…

Gumbyman appears these last few mornings. AArgh...you’ve read about him before! I really try to clear out before the onslaught of retardation begins, but sometimes he strikes after one java--He’s just itching to begin some version of what-could-have-been-a-decent-topic-had-someone-else-opened-their-mouth instead…

I write this blog because I can’t get this vision out of my mind (eye-rolling here) and for some reason that boppy little Marilyn Manson tune of ‘Own Personal Jesus’ has run through my mind all day, with an occasional roar: ‘REACH OUT AND TOUCH FAITH’.

Gumbyman has begun the throat-clearing and the hem-hawing. You can tell he’s revving up. He’s probably watched something on PBS (Profuse Brain Stupidity) or on TLC-- (Trivially Learned Crap) last night. I like these channels and it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d just mumble out…”I watched this show on___….” But no, Gumbyman deluges us with his seeming ‘expertness’ in all fields but comes across like a 6 year old that retained only fragments of some silly fairy tale…or mixed together 2 or 3 tales with the nightly news and a bad politician.

“Ahem…grunt, groan. Throat rasps. Hem/haw. Slight cough. Um. Ahem…” Many people take their cues and jump up to get another cup of coffee or check their phones or lottery tickets then sneak out the door. I was in the process of grabbing some sugar packets and stopped dead in my tracks when my ears were assaulted with this:

“Ahem.. Um. Ugh. Yeah. Um. Ya know, the world didn’t end in 2000.”

I am speechless and I widen my eyes to the size of dinner plates as I looked over at County Worker Man, the poor remaining soul trapped in Gumbyman’s snare—too polite to get up and walk out, but he cannot hide or wipe the smile off his face no matter now hard he tries.

Yes, folks, I $hit you not. “YOU KNOW, THE WORLD DIDN’T END IN 2000.” WHAT THE FREAK DO YOU MEAN???!!! Frankly, I am highly amused yet flabbergasted by the stupidity of this statement; Gumbyman’s opening line to his 15 minute oration in which he soils himself with verbal diarrhea.

THE WORLD DIDN’T END IN 2000. I guess I did not know this. I should fall to my knees! Je$u$! Praise God! Our planet is NOT filled with uncomatose zombies that have managed NOT to lose their skin these last 9 years. Halleluiah! I should cry out like a Holy Roller Baptist! Praise be! We’re ALIVE!

This is about where crazy Marilyn Manson kicks in... I give miserable County Worker Man a huge grin and a slow beauty-pageant wave as I back out the door--his eyes are glazing over already...

Disapointment. Odd Men.

I'd been looking forward to Aerosmith since last spring; now that their concert is canceled I guess us gals must resort to some other radical endeavor--ahh...I'll miss the mad giggling, man-watching, and head-pounding music that would of ensued... sigh. I'd even made a cool heavy-metal 'trash' bag purse to take along, which I'll post later. Every time I take it somewhere I have bunches of people approach to look.

Now that I'm back online and missing the night of giggling man-watching, I was thinking a bit about some of the men around here. Recall the whackos I've written about many times over... let's see...what other rumors might I disgorge? (I'll use 'disgorge' rather than 'divulge'--it rings more aequately to the sound of throwing-up, which tends to fit with my topic. Bluck.)

Hmmm. There was that man that decided dressing up in camouflage and striping his face green/black was the perfect way to stalk/windowpeek/harass/terrify his ex-wife. Oh, can't forget the weapon and his ultimate embarrassment at getting caught.

Then there is that man that always seems to be just over your shoulder wherever you go; funny that spiders crawl up and down your back in forewarning. Why do some men take pictures of their wives (now ex) while they slept? Weird. Just what in God's name were they/he going to do with the photos of her? What?!! (She shoulda sitcom-hit him with a cast iron frying pan and drug his a$$ out the door...that's what I woulda done. THUNK. And then stomped the camera.) Speaking of cameras....zoom lenses....this becomes a real joke when you wonder what some of these guys are REALLY taking pics of. Or looking at. The big honkin lens around the neck is certainlyNOT female attractant. It makes one want to run far, far away...

Oooh. There's Tall Hat Camper Man, a heavy-metaler (meddler?) that looks more 'Cowboy Country' with a ridiculously huge hat perched on the tip-top of his head. Too tiny in circumference and too high. (He's another one of those over-the-shouldlers!--reminds me of the 'sidler' on Seinfeld!) Plus that suspiciously sturdy locking back door on the crappershell, I mean campershell has 'serial killer wanna-be' written all over it. Invisible ink of course. But we all know.

Oh. Getting tired now. You have another glimpse of slim pickins in Wamego.
Hey. The 2 plants below? Extremely, dangerously poisonous. Guess who has them now growing around her yard?! : )
Appropriate to topic? I say.... yes.

The Three Graces

Bear with me… Here I am, feeling that naughty snide personality surfacing again—but hey, I have come to the realization that I have not blogged much about the WOMEN in this area. Now, to use the term ‘woman’, well—I’m just not sure it’s appropriate—in fact I sometimes even think of them as a ‘paradox’ of womanhood, a misnomer—or some type of ‘oxymoron’ of womanhood—MINUS THE ‘Y’!

Here I am, bored, standing around talking to Hippy Bill, Cowboy B-not D, and Vinny-my-new-boyfriend. (I call him ‘my boyfriend’—that’s another blog; he reminds me so much of an old friend called ‘The Blaze’ from Long Island [not really a boyfriend either] that I almost think they are the same person!) We have been snorting with irreverent laughter, chuckling/eye-watering, non-stop giggling and Vinny has just finished licking my forearm (sorry, you HAD to be thereto understand the humor of arm-licking by a near-total, boy-friend stranger, but what the hell!)

It is hard to maintain a straight face with our joking around, but now we all just observed (shame on us) “RUBY” once again:

LITHIUM RUBY. 67 yrs. Ruby truly believes that she has boyfriends, but they do not believe this themselves. Ruby is a day late and a dollar short. Ruby has defunct time-span socialization. She may be ‘on drugs’. A space-cadet. Ruby perceives men-that-she-likes have relationships with her (even though some are married—she even invites them AND their wives over), and if she finds you sitting with them drinking coffee, her walk into the gas station slugs down like a slow-motion film. Snailpace, then Standstill. It takes many seconds of staring to see.that. Brenda. Is. Sitting. By. Gerry. Ron.is.sitting. across. From.brenda. del.is. sitting.by.ron. … Ruby likes Ron. Ruby likes Del. Finally—comprehension! Ruby now shoots dagger-eyes at Brenda and Gerry, because we obviously must be putting the moves on her imaginary boyfriends and there is no place for her to sit. Ruby now takes more shuffling steps toward the Pepsi machine. It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.a.cup. It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.a.lid. It.takes.severa.seconds.to.find.a.straw.It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.the.pop.machine.features.and it.takes.several.minutes.to.decide.which.kind.

When Ruby pulled up to the outside window, I whispered to Bill that her bra was hanging out all over the place; like her tank top was on SIDEWAYS—“Don’t look!” He says that she always drools on the countertop, but I have never seen that facial phenomenon—only the vacuous, then glaring suspicious eyes—“DROOL? No WAY!”

Bill resists the urge to tell Ruby to rearrange her tank top for better coverage (“I don’t want to see THAT!”); normally he is open to open cleavage views. She looks completely disheveled, like she’d put the moves on one of her ‘men’ in a back alley or something. Ruby finally finds enough money to pay for her pop and leaves—she looks at each coin for 5 seconds apiece, I swear!

Back to us bored Wamegoans: The awesome new chiro-doctor has told me this morning to “do nothing below the belly-button”. I am sure you can imagine the conversation that ensued… more uncontrollable giggling. Perverts.

ANGEL of The Three-Ringed Circus: I’d been thinking of “The Bearded Lady” earlier today, so I must add this now. Teg and Bail will know who I mean! Angel is a fairly young gal—around my kid’s age, but twice their size. When she walks in the door, men of all ages automatically (and subconsciously) grasp their chins or lower jaws. I have seen this experience more than once and believe me; it’s extremely hard to wipe the grin off the corners of one’s mouth while observing the blue-collar class in distress.

They are male. They are mesmerized. They are speechless. They are…………….scared.

Downright frightened.

Angel has a beard thicker than theirs. They have even whispered this in awe as they stroke their own whiskers. “My God! Is that a girl?” Yes. Yes it is. And her facial hair is at least an inch long today.

Angel has 2 special brothers and a VERY SCARY MOM. When I picked my kids up from The Kindergarten Wall many years ago, I was terrified enough to cross the street to wait. Oh, what a Blessing to our community, this family! After the daily ear-splitting scream/cuss/slap show, we all breathlessly hugged our own tiny sane children and hustled them home to safety. Shudder.

IM NOT LISA; MY NAME IS _____, or, Truly _____: Unfortunately, I must bring up my ‘oxymoron minus the y word’ once again. I’M NOT LISA has just pulled up to the pump, causing Hippy Bill to perform eye roll groans. Oh God. I was a nonbeliever until I’ve observed this with my own 2 eyes, but I’M NOT LISA is the epitome of clumsiness. A true Bull-in-the-China-Shop. PLUS Lithium! I kid you not! We have 2, 2, 2 females that so obviously take some kind of mind/time altering/time-warp-funk prescription candy they should probably be on a sci-fi movie.

I’M NOT LISA sometimes stuffs all sorts of candy bars into her purse, oblivious that everyone is watching and when confronted, her confusion is an act worthy of an Oscar. She really doesn’t know what she’s doing. She spills. She drips. She stumbles. She speaks in tongues. She argues with unknown entities. Again, she spills. Is she drunk?? Today she has opened her car door and all of her change has rolled underneath. Sadly, it is a real site to see her picking up enough to get $5.00 worth for gas.

Once inside, she has filled her giant cup with ice. It crashed to the floor. She always drops EVERYTHING! At least there was no pop in the cup today and kind soul that I am, I could NOT bring myself to help her chase her ice cubes all over the tile. Why not? Because she doesn’t wear UNDERWEAR, that’s WHY NOT! IM NOT LISA is a big lady. Quite large. She manages to find the thinnest of spaghetti straps and the shortest of terry-cloth shorts MINUS appropriate underclothing, and, frankly, I did NOT want views of her woo-hoo nor her taa-taa’s hanging out all over the place if I ingratiated myself to help. But I finally did. I felt badly.

IM NOT LISA has so kindly moved to Oztown to ‘help’ with her young relatives—Alas, she is NO help. Sadly and embarrassingly, THEY help her. Sadly and embarrassingly, I decide to help IM NOT LISA pick up part of her ice cubes, post the “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” sign, and wipe the slick spots with a towel. Why?

It seems somewhat ominous to denigrate women when I am ONE MYSELF.

Ah well.

I will burn in hell for writing this blog.

And I’ve only just begun….