To WordPress?

Just told a good friend about WordPress. Realized I miss posting here. No one comments, usually, but that’s OK. It’s the putting-something-out-there that counts, at first.

So maybe I’l be back?

“Leash me alone, you little moppets!”

OK, this is a very specific complaint. And I’m yelling it now, the way I yelled it (in my car) right after the whole thing happened.

If you’re going to bring eight children, who are all young enough to be under four feet tall, to a SMALL produce market, and let them run free to knock over plants and bite into apples, and shriek, and hit me in the back and hip (yes: HIT — not bump) as they run by, then be prepared to hear me yell. They scared me. They came up behind me and scared me. One of them smacked me in the back, and the other hit my hip. No, it didn’t hurt. They’re little enough to be fairly harmless, smacking-wise. But it scared me. They came up behind me. I HEARD them, but never thought they’d hit me!

And when I turned around, startled, and yelled, YOU, the parents/caregivers/whatevers, told me to go to hell.

Don’t do that.

I mean it. Your rugrats asked for it.

Your little anklebiters are lucky they hit me and not someone who hits back.

Next time, how about trying leashes?

Workplace No-No’s

Going to settle “the particulars” today, but as of now, things look like this: I’ll be working part-time, from tomorrow until the end of May.

I USED to work for a big company, in a pretty snazzy job (well, not when I started there, but later). I had my own suite of conference rooms and offices, etc. In my office, when the door was closed, I could do lots of things that aren’t socially acceptable behavior. You know? But when I walked out of my office or if the door was open, I had to behave myself, so I never quite relaxed my “standards.”  However, when I lost my job, I discovered the joys of “living free.”  And, over the course of eleven years, I’ve become accustomed to behaving that way.

Last night I realized that I need to stop doing a few things:

No more blowing my nose so hard that my teeth rattle.
No more joyfully burping and then giggling afterwards.
No more walking around in scuzzy, ripped clothing.
No more screaming at the TV news people.
No more ignoring the $&*#ing phone when it rings.
No more flinging great flying buttresses of colorful &#*@ing swear words and epithets into the air. And then congratulating myself on the originality they exhibit.
No more stopping whatever I’m doing, to hug my cat or to go outside and watch turkey buzzards wheel around the sky.
No more complaining to the Gods of Gas about the amount of time it takes to digest various kinds of fiber.
No more talking to my lunch.
No more talking to myself.

These losses will be balanced by good things, I know. But some of them are habits that will be hard to break. Don’t you feel sorry for the other people in that office? Yikes.

And a hearty lol. See you later!

Parking Meter Tears

Went to the County Seat today to be sworn in as Executrix of my Mom’s estate. Haven’t been to the Court House for a while and didn’t know that it costs 10 cents for 8 minutes, to park. 5 cents will buy 2 minutes. I had very little change and in the cold wind I put it all into the meter. The minutes added up to a little over 20. I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the read-out. There was a Sheriff’s Office car nearby, and I stared at the guy in it, hoping he’d come over and ask if he could help. Naturally, he didn’t. Why would he? Silly women who arrive in town with “insufficient coinage” are beyond his jurisdiction. So I just stood there by my car, crying, until the Court House opened. As soon as I got away from the parking meter, the tears stopped. Odd.

I speak with my Mother’s voice.

For anyone who doesn’t know, my Mom died toward the end of December of last year. She was sick for a long, long time. For many years, we shared the house that I grew up in.  I’m here now, working to make my way through the days, to rebuild a life that was “on hold.”

Anyway, I spent a lot of my childhood alone and got used to talking to myself. It’s a normal thing, to chatter away; there’s comfort there, I think. Now that my days are so quiet, I hear my voice loudly.

The thing is, it’s my Mother’s voice. We sounded alike. Not just a little alike but almost scary-alike. Even my aunts and uncles couldn’t tell, on the phone, who was who. So these days, when I drop something and say, “S%&#!!!” I hear Mom. And when I say, “Have a good nap, Sweetie,” I hear Mom. And when I tell me I’d better get the dishes done, I hear Mom saying it.

It’s not a bad thing. Just jarring. You know? Yesterday I began to realize that it’s a wonderful gift, to hear her voice. And I’m treasuring it.

TOP CHEF: It’s back! And tongues are wagging on the homefront. Gah.

TOP CHEF returned last night. I just started watching it, just having my breakfast, just enjoying the show. The trash guys arrived, so I stopped eating and watching to bring down the empty trash cans, and saw a couple of my neighbors yakking at the end of one of their driveways. They’re both nice enough women — 40’s, mothers, active in their jobs, and at home; the usual — and one of them yelled over to me if I saw Top Chef. I said I just started watching it.

“Did you see they came out?” (her, with a nasty edge to her voice)
“No. Who?” (me)
“Lesbians. It’s got lesbians now. Don’t bother watching it.” (her, with a dismissive wave)
“What?” (me)
“Lesbians. Gays. Two of the contestants are a couple. I don’t care what they do in private, but I don’t want them rubbing it in my face!” (her, screwing up her nose to avoid what she’s obviously thinking)
“Oh.” (me, stunned into unaccustomed wordlessness)

I came back in the house and watched more of the show. Yep. There’s a couple. Women. Chefs.
I have newfound disrespect for that neighbor lady.

OK, now I’m going back to eating my breakfast and watching the show. Have a good day, everyone — and try not to rub anything in anyone’s face, hunh?

Do I have a sign on my back?

Do I really look like someone who wants to talk to you? I couldn’t possibly appear that friendly! Don’t bother me in the store — I’m busy shopping, trying not to go broke. Trying not to be robbed. Trying not to waste too much time. I want to focus on what I’m doing and I don’t want to talk!

And I don’t like to talk — to people — anywhere! I’m not a chit-chatty person. EVER!!!

You look like nice enough — why can’t you talk to that other lady, over there? Why is it that everyone selects me to talk to?

I was in  TARGET yesterday, trying to find a few items that were supposed to be on sale. I was not planning to mosey and dawdle. I wanted to find the things and go home.

There were plenty of other people in the store. WHY did three of you talk to me? Are you two women and one man who have nothing else to do or are so lonely that you’ll talk to anyone at all, even someone who won’t talk back? Why ME?? There were other people you could have snagged for your confab.

I was frowning viciously, so it couldn’t have been my kind and welcoming face.

There must be  a sign on my back that says “Talk to me!”

Bah!

Snowball versus Gun: Who wins? NO ONE!

Everybody’s got guns. Everybody ELSE has a gun, anyway. They must, since so many people are being shot. Here’s the latest: NONSENSE that will ruin a boy’s life and scar his family forever.