Louie

May 24, 2007

I see hand sanitizer all over the place now.  People are fanatically clean these days.  Times have changed since I was a kid.  We never really thought about that kind of stuff when I was young. 

Don’t get me wrong, we had to wash our hands before we ate.  We had to take our bath.  Occasionally an aunt or someone (usually Southern) would make a comment about being able to “grow taters in those ears” to one of my male relatives.  But hand sanitizer in travel sized bottles?  *giggle*  Not hardly. 

As a matter of fact, I had an older cousin whose mother kept him so clean when he was young that he got sick.  His doctor finally told his mom that she had to let him go outside and get dirty.  She was not to clean him up!  He was to get dirty and stay that way until evening and only then was she to bathe him!  It was excruciatingly hard on her, but she did it for his sake.  He got better….physically.  Funny thing, he ended up crazy as a bed bug.  But that is neither here nor there.  (Yes, it does run in the family, smart aleck!)

My grandson, Buddha, used to be such a neat freak that when I gave him a sloppy joe for lunch he couldn’t eat it!  He would pick it up, get sauce on his hand, put it down, wipe off his hand, pick it up, get sauce on his hand, put it down, …….you get the idea.  Finally, I took pity on the poor little thing, cut it up and gave him a spoon.  Sheesh! (Now, he could grow taters in those ears *wink*)

When I was coming up, those things never came into consideration.  If they had, we would have never eaten a Louie burger.  At this point it is my duty to warn any of you with a weak stomach not to read further.  Mom, this means you. 

Louie lived and worked next door to the service station that my dad was part owner of.  We would go down to “help” dad at the station and he would send us next door for a burger.  Louie and his wife, I never knew her name, lived and worked at their house.  Louie cooked burgers on the stove in his kitchen.  They were GREAT burgers.  They were locally famous.  Everyone went to Louie’s for a burger on a regular basis.  This was good because at some point Louie apparently had a stroke or something and this is how Louie and his wife made their living.  His wife would take the orders, give them to Louie, who would shuffle back to the kitchen and cook them, and his wife would chat with you up front until he shuffled back with your greasy bag.  Louie couldn’t talk.  His wife knew what he meant when he made his noises, but no one else did.  She would tell you Louie said thank you and come back again.  I used to wonder if Louie was actually saying something that ended in “and the horse you rode in on”, but who could tell? 

The reason I believe that Louie had a stroke is that Louie shuffled when he walked and he had this other little thing that he did that was kinda telling.  He drooled.  Yeah, I know, right?  Louie probably kept the handkerchief people in business because I never one time in my whole life ever saw Louie without one.  He held them up to his chin to catch the drool.  But the handkerchiefs were never wet.  It was Louie that cooked.  Not Mrs. Louie.  Louie cooked.  Hopefully with one hand. 

Weren’t no hand sanitizer going on in Louie’s kitchen, I can tell you that.  And no one ever thought one thing about it.  It makes my mom gag when we talk about it now.  Louie and his wife wouldn’t have a prayer of making a living on their own now.  They’d have to depend on Social Security and Alpo now-days.  But back then, they were independent and self sufficient.  Proud people with a product to sell that people wanted and liked.

Maybe it was the drool that made Louie’s burgers taste so good?

OK, I’ll stop.  My mom says I take this one too far. 

We didn’t have flesh eating virus in those days.  Or Ebola.  And if we did, it was very well contained.  We didn’t have AIDS, or Hanta Virus or HIV, or any of the new stuff that’s come along lately.  There weren’t as many people in the world back then and mother nature wasn’t trying so hard to thin the herd. 

We had stronger immune systems then.  And the generation before us had even stronger ones.  But, I digress.

I probably wouldn’t buy a burger from Louie today.  But not for the reason you might think.  It would just be too creepy to buy a burger from a 160 year old guy who’s too dried out to drool but who keeps on holding that dang old white handkerchief under his chin!  Yuck!

Note to self:  Nice girls don’t blog after they’ve taken their meds!  Think about it!

Advertisements

Used To

May 18, 2007

I used to sing.  I was pretty good at it.  My ex played guitar with several bands and we were together for 10 years before he ever heard me sing.  I never sang in front of people in those days, so I really did sing like nobody was listening because …..nobody was.  I think it’s fair to say he was pretty much stunned when he heard it the first time. 

It was on a tape player. (Can you say “LONG TIME AGO?????)  I had been messing around with a new song I had heard and I forgot to erase it.  He heard it by accident.  He asked who in the hell that was.  I said it was me.  He didn’t believe me for one second because as far as he knew I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.  Eventually he got me drunk enough to sing in front of him and prove it was me. 

Back in the day we always had music.  Everything was accompanied by music.  People coming over to hang out always brought guitars, amps, harmonicas and whatever other instruments they had and we jammed.  We went to other people’s houses and played.  It was alright.  And, back in the day, we had beer.  I’ll be kind to my momma and leave it at that.  So, we started gettin me all drunked up and I started to sing with them. 

They came to the conclusion that I sounded like a cross between Stevie Nicks and Bonnie Raitt.  With a slight quiver.  That was pure terror.  There was not enough alcohol invented to take that away.  But they gave me songs and booze and I sang.  Then one evening out in someone’s barn a sneaky varmint turned on a hidden tape recorder and taped me singing.  A few weeks later we were at another guys house hanging out and playing.  When I started to sing a song he jumped up and hollered, “You’re the girl on the tape!”  I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. 

You have to remember that: 1. I was drunk. 2. I didn’t know about the tape.

So he played it and sure enough it was me.  Have you ever heard yourself on tape?  I really can’t stand it.  I don’t mind hearing myself through my own ears inside of my head, but I hate hearing it from outside in.  I almost spit up.  But they all seemed to love it.  So they hatch this plot.  The guy who managed the local newspaper at the time was having a Christmas party at his house and had asked the guy who’s house we were at to get together a band and play at it. 

Now I’m really thinking I shouldn’t have had those last couple of beers.  They want me to sing.  In front of people.  A bunch of people.  Maybe I’ll rethink that beer thing and just have a few more.  Cuz those guys are really excited and happy and wanting this to happen.  And deep inside of my alcohol induced haze I’m kinda thinkin this might be kinda cool, too.  If I can keep from spitting up, that is. 

So we practice.  We practice a lot.  We practice and we practice and I sing and I sing.  I’m well on my way to becoming a raging alcoholic.  Because there is no way on God’s green earth that I can sing in front of anyone without it.  I’ve only been singing in front of my ex for about 3 or 4 months at this time.  But it feels good to have people telling me that I can do something well.  And everytime we practice more and more people show up to watch us.  It’s all really new and exciting. 

So, the fateful evening comes.  Let me set the stage for you. 

This was about 25 years ago.  I was young and hot as a two dollar pistol.  Long wavy chestnut brown hair, slender, an ass that looked like two puppies fighting under a blanket when I walked.  They get me there and we’re in the back room.  It’s almost time to go out.  The plan is to keep me in the back of the group until it’s time for me to sing.  That way I can get used to the atmosphere and I won’t be so nervous.  They brought me a bottle of gin.  All the quicker to schnocker you with, my dear.  And I knocked that baby back as fast as I could.

Then we went out to the stage.  It gets a little hazy around here.  There were many people, pretty lights, music, clinking, talking, and then they brought me to the front and set me on a stool and started playing my music.  I think I had my eyes closed because I was ok at first.  I just started to sing and I was having fun for the first few lines.  Then I noticed that it was very quiet in that place.  I opened my eyes.  Everyone was standing there with their drinks in their hands and they were all looking at me!  I immediately stopped singing.  I thought I had messed up really bad.  I turned around and looked at the guys in the band.  They said, “Keep singing, they love it!!”

I turned around and looked at all those faces again and they were nodding their heads yes!  Holy Crap!  The band started playing again and so I started singing again.  They sang with me and they clapped and sometimes they just stood there and listened to me.  It was probably the most incredible thing ever.  I sang every song we practiced.  Somewhere along the line I forget the rest of what happened.  It all just sort of melts into one big good ol time. 

We played alot of other places and I got to sing alot of other times.  It was always a big surprise to me.  And it always felt really great.  But that first time will always be my favorite.  I don’t do that anymore.  But, once upon a time, long long ago………

I used to sing.


Tacky Behavior On The Part Of People Who Should Know Better.

May 15, 2007

I have recently been subjected to , and by extension subjected a dear friend to, Tacky Behavior On The Part Of People Who Should Know Better.  Now, I have been around this kind of trashy behavior all my life and I’m tired of putting up with it. 

In my younger more feisty days I would have put the gloves on and gone hunting down the offending trashites, looking for some much deserved justice out of their persons in some shape or manor, preferably involving bruising.  However, as I am older and slightly calmer now, I will wait for a bit, let things settle down , and find the right time for the information to come out.

You see, I myself take part of the blame for this trailer-park tinged behavior.  I accepted an invitation from a secondhand person to an event.  And since my radar isn’t in proper working order anymore, I completely missed the significance of that little faux pas.  However,  knowing the inviter like I do, I had to believe that it was ok to accept, as he has always been one of the most considerate and honorable men I know.  Therefore, when I was asked to invite a friend, I had no qualms about inviting a very, very good friend who is tenderhearted and a LOT of fun to be around.  We would go together, meet the rest of the group, and have a rip roarin good time at a few slightly raunchy places, thereby having stories to tell the grand-kids later that would make them blush and look at us in new and exciting ways!  It would all be good.

NOT!  We were excluded from the beginning.  It was rude to the point of ruthlessness.  It would have been kinder to have just told us after dinner that we wouldn’t be included in the rest of the festivities planned for the evening and so thank you for coming to the dinner and we’ll see you at the wedding.   Instead we were to follow the other two cars to a hotel and join them in a room that had been reserved.  We were out of the car and following them across the parking lot when they hit the door.  As we got to the door maybe ten feet behind them, we found it remarkable that the fifty feet across the lobby was entirely empty of the approximately 10 women who had just entered in front of us.  They were very swift of feet!  We also found that the door required a key card to open and we didn’t have one.  So we proceeded around to the front and inquired at the front desk as to whether they had a room in either of the names we knew.  She informed us that she couldn’t help us.  Not that there were no rooms in that name, but that she couldn’t help us. 

We spent a good fifteen minutes walking through the ground floor hall trying to see if we could hear a bunch of white trash bitches honking off behind any of the doors, but no such luck.  So, now having to admit that we had been deliberately ditched by this marvelous bunch of common hos, we have a few hours to kill.  We are both nearly speechless.  I mean seriously, how many times after you get out of the sixth grade do you honestly have to consider things like this happening to you? 

So we found a couple of ways to spend our time and then went home.  It was kinda sad.  It was even more sad the next day when again I saw two of the girls in the group and watched as they caught sight of me, turned to each other and began to giggle and laugh uproariously with each other. 

It makes me wonder about the kind of people who think that hurting people for sport is a good thing.  I wonder what kind of things they tell themselves to make it ok to hurt someone’s feelings just for fun.  I wonder what they say inside of themselves when they are choosing the next person to cause pain to, is there some certain trait that they are looking for?  Or is it just the next unfortunate person who comes into their sight?  I don’t understand how one goes about telling themselves that they have soooo many people just waiting in line to be their lifelong friend, that they can afford to callously toss good people aside like garbage and laugh about it. 

Like I said at the beginning of this whole thing, I’ve been around this kind of common, trashy, unraised, behavior all my life.  I’ve seen it a million times.  It comes from not being raised right in the beginning, then being too lazy to make sure that you choose to act right when it’s your turn to call the shots.  It’s just easier to roll on back to those less than humane beginnings . 

I have accepted my part in the hurt caused to my friend.  I have apologized to her several times.  If my brain was in proper working order my red flags would have been dancing the macarena at me over that invitation and I would have known better than to accept.  I was trying to help celebrate a new beginning for friends.   My friend was only there because I asked her to come with me.  It was my disability that caused her pain and for my part in that I am deeply sorry and ashamed.

Now let’s add to the entertainment by adding that the main person at the previous event managed to top off the event the following evening by hurting the feelings of an eight year old girl by popping off at the mouth to her at the end of a very long evening when said eight year old girl went to tell her that she was leaving. 

I am no longer surprised by the stupidity of people or the incredibly stupid things they do to hurt people for no good reason.  I see it and I feel it all the time.  It just makes me terribly, terribly sad.  I hope that they accomplished whatever it was they were planning to do by excluding us, and I hope it was worth the cost. 

Because (to quote myself) I’ve managed to live my entire life without them in it, and I’ll manage quite well to live the rest of it without them in it as well, and never really notice the difference at all. 

My friend is owed a huge apology.  A heartfelt apology.  I hope she gets one.

As for me, I am neither owed an apology, nor will I accept one.  I am done.


Where’s My Rubber Chicken?

May 8, 2007

It’s Buddha’s birthday today.  He is twelve.  Criminy, how did he get this age so fast?  Have we changed kids to dog years now?  He put us on a “money diet” about a month ago so we could prepare for this momentous day.  Told us we had to “slim down our budget” so that he could get more presents.  He’s a lil corker, that one.  This has nothing to do with the title of this blog, I just had to toss that one in.

One of my kids will invariably come to me at least once a week (there are three of them, I think they draw straws and take turns at this) and say, “Ma, it hurts when I do this:” and then proceed to make some kind of unholy, improbable gyration.  My response is always, “Where is my rubber chicken?  Then don’t DO that!”  And I make like I’m hitting them on the head with the invisible rubber chicken.  Well…….(insert maniacal laugh here) I bought a ……wait for it…….RUBBER CHICKEN at Eckerd’s Drug Store on Sunday!  That’s right, folks.  I am now the proud owner of a brand new rubber chicken!  Oh the joy I felt in my heart at the sight of that little ol box just chock full of rubber chickens!  The heavens opened up, a beam of pure heavenly light fell upon it, and the choir of angels began to sing!  A real live rubber chicken!  In all my days I never thought to really own one of my own!  I snatched that bad boy up before anyone could stop me and nearly ran to the checkout counter to pay for it.  Then, I took it to My Dearest Husband’s cousin, Turtle Neck’s, birthday party.  Heh. 

Oh My God!  If I had not been there myself, I would never have believed that it was possible to come up with three solid hours of cock jokes.  But we did.  Luckily we all have very low humor thresholds.  Doesn’t matter what it is, we can find a way to laugh at it.  (If you have a sensitive bone in your body it won’t be good for you to attend a family funeral with us.)

Every person there, adults and children alike, played with my cock.  Technically it’s not a cock, but like I said, we have a low humor threshold.  We choked the chicken.  The kids tossed my cock around the yard.  My Dearest Husband hit Possum’s friend Bubbles in the face with my cock. 

Birdie, my only natural child and the mother of Buddha and Bella, was half mad at me and half jealous when I told her I had it.  She said that her boyfriend is really afraid of looking forward to meeting me, because he wants to know where she gets her crazy unique way of looking at things.  First thing she said when I told her I had it was this:  Where’s my rubber chicken?  Then don’t DO that!!!   HAHAHA 

It was almost as good as the time the Pillsbury Dough-boy died.  Well, the voice of him did.  We did jokes all damn day.  We speculated all day about whether he committed suicide by sticking his head in the oven, or if he died of a yeast infection.  We thought we should send flour to his family.  We thought maybe we could bring about a miracle by putting him in a warm draft free place, placing a dishtowel over him, and seeing if maybe he would rise. 

*sigh*  Good times, Good times.


%d bloggers like this: