CAMPAIGN RHETORIC

Sound bites and applause do not a president make. Here are some profound statements I’ve heard during this Republican Primary, or words to this effect:

“I will balance the budget.” How?

“I’ll cut a trillion dollars from the budget.” How?

“I will reduce big government.” How?

“Obama has failed.” And you are going to do what?

“I believe in the principles America was founded on.” Well, duh.

“Unemployment has soared.” Hmmm. Did you know that?

Help!

NOT A BALLERINA!

The irony is that, when this happened yesterday, I was thinking about what to write about for my blog. I got a topic, unfortunately!

I was mopping the kitchen floor, not paying too much attention to what I was doing, when suddenly my legs started sliding apart. I had stepped onto the wet part of the floor for some (now forgotten) reason. My shoes started sliding. It wasn’t fast. I tightened my leg muscles in an effort to stop the impending disaster. Holding on to the mop handle desperately, I fought gravity, but it was a losing battle. I thought, “If I can just fall forwards or backwards, that won’t hurt as bad.” But that didn’t work. My feet kept sliding. As my body got lower and lower and my feet went farther and farther apart, I knew I was headed for a sideways split. I’ve never experienced that before.

I was hollering something or other, as if I thought my husband could get to the kitchen in time to help. What did I think he could do anyway? I would need to yell, “Push me over!” to which he would probably yell, “You’re crazy!”

Before hitting bottom, I managed to fall forward. I got up, to my surprise. My legs still worked. It was a miracle! But the real miracle was that they didn’t hurt when I got up this morning. God is good!

I think I’ll begin ballet lessons next week.

PASS INTERFERENCE

Somebody tell me what “pass interference” is. George won’t tell me. I thought the purpose of the game was to interfere with passes, kicks, and everything. Runs, too, but I’m not sure if they’re called “runs” because I’ve heard of “line drives” so I guess they’re called “drives” when they run the ball down the field.

When I was in high school my aunt went to a ballgame with us and almost fell off the bleachers laughing at me. Later she mailed me Andy Griffith’s record (we had 45s back then), “What It Was Was Football.”

George thinks it’s useless to even try to help me out. He says, “It’s real simple. I just can’t explain it to you.” But I have learned a few things about football on my own. I understand words like “offence” and “defense.” I know what a quarterback does but that’s the only position I understand. (“Understand” is a word that doesn’t belong in this story.)

Even though I don’t understand football, I do love Super Bowl commercials. In fact, we hosted a Super Bowl party one year. I looked online to see who was playing and what the team colors were so I could buy the right color paper plates. Hey, I’ve got my priorities.

(PS I told George I wrote a blog about my understanding of football. He said, “It was pretty short, wasn’t it?”)

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Rye Grass Seed

I worked hard to make our view of the back yard pretty – bushes, gardens, and a gracefully curved border. I called the landscaper who cuts our grass, and who had obviously been observing my progress, to ask if he could create a sharp, clean edge in the grass along my beautiful border. He said (rather sarcastically, I thought), “Your garden is the least of your problems. You have no grass.” He was right. You could turn your ankle on the brown, bumpy yard.

After a few weeks of trying to fix it myself, I called Adam (the very frank landscaper) and asked him to come till up the back yard and plant some grass. He said his method was to aerate it, not till it. I said I didn’t want it aerated because that wouldn’t chop it up enough. He said he’d rent a tiller.

I called to see if he had rented the tiller yet. Not yet. I called again. Not yet. I called again and he said he was going to aerate it, not till it. He waited for me to say something like, “Oh, that will be just wonderful.” Then he informed me that he had planted hundreds of yards successfully. He even guaranteed that I would have a thick mass of grass in about three weeks. Uh huh.

The big day arrived. Adam saw pink painted lines all over the place. “What’s this?” he gasped. My husband rolled his eyes. I explained my plan. I was moving the borders of my natural area since grass won’t grow in the shade. He said this grass would grow in the shade. Uh huh.

Adam aerated the heck out of that yard. He answered my questions about planting bushes. He even dug holes for five bushes for me. My husband George watched all of this. Pretty soon he grinned at Adam and said, “You’re a good man.”

Our lawn is now the thickest and greenest I’ve ever seen. Adam was right. Pass the crow, please.

HOT FLASH

I’ll bet you didn’t know that mice have hot flashes.

For the life of me
I can’t see
Why these heat waves
Have to be!
I’m tired of them
At night it’s
Cover on
Cover off
Cover on…..

Now and then
One blasts me by surprise
In a nanosecond!
I jump straight up in bed.
Someone please
Close that incinerator door!

Some start warm
And crescendo
Like a gentle groundswell.
They’re the “Is it hot
Or is it me?” ones.

I think
There’s an ember burning
Somewhere.
Hey! Who’s building that campfire
Inside my torso?
Call Smokey the Bear!
Oh, a bonfire is it?
Like where everybody
Warms up nicely
Then stays too long
And cooks their flesh?
My body parts want to
Fly apart and run.
But they’re sewn together
And a suffocating heat
Is taking over
My arteries -
Even in my feet, for Pete’s sake!

Sometimes
It starts
When I’m cuddled
In a blanket
On the couch
Too comfortable to move.
Kick the blanket.
Maybe it’ll stop.
That’s a fantasy.
I explode in flames.

I don’t own
Pretty, fluffy, thick
Sweaters.
I squirm in and out
Of lightweight layers
Over and over and over
Every single day.

Don’t forget to
Remove the coat
Before driving.
Even in zero weather
With windows down
The coat must go.
Strapped in a seat belt
Sweating
Praying for a red light
Wiggling as fast
As a thick coat allows.
Getting one arm
Half-way out…
Elbow’s stuck
Light turning green
Damn!

GROUPER IN A BAG

We went to a new restaurant and, being the curious mouse that I am, I tried something I had never tried before – “Grouper in a Bag.” Tried? Heck I've never even seen the words together in a sentence before! The waiter set the plate in front of me. It sure was different. They say presentation is everything, and this won the prize. It literally looked like a little paper bag with the end rolled up, and beside it was a generous helping of beans and rice. Everyone at our table looked at it, then proceeded to eat their own stuff.

I stuck my fork into the little bag, tore a hole in it, and tasted the luscious grouper and vegetables inside. Then, assuming the bag itself was phyllo dough or something, I picked off a piece and ate it. It was paper!

Well, what did I expect when the menu clearly stated that it was “Grouper in a Bag.”

CATNIP

We couldn’t find Mojo yesterday, and we were afraid he had gotten out of the house. We called and searched, and he didn’t show up. So I got the catnip off the shelf and called, “Mojo! Mommie’s got drugs!” He was at my feet in an instant.

I sprinkled catnip on him. He rolled on the carpet wildly for an hour. Then we left the house. When we got back he had deteriorated to languishing lazily on the floor, withered.

I think he has a hangover today. He has been listless - except for the cat fight. A big cat came onto the porch, and a cat fight commenced. The glass door between the two cats didn’t stop them. Bones started hitting the door. It sounded like someone falling down the stairs!

We don’t give catnip to Mojo often. His body couldn’t take it.

CAT HAIR

Where does cat hair reside besides on the cat? Everywhere.

I own an ironing board just so I can brush cat hair off clothes.

I have made cat pads for my family room chairs and sofa. When surprise guests come in, I run around picking them up because the house looks like a clothes line.

I have pulled down the pillows from the back of the living room sofa and propped them up against each other in a construction that a cat couldn’t possibly interpret as a comfortable little bed. It’s an engineering marvel. And very attractive.

I’ve tried to protect one chair by laying a sofa pillow flat on the chair seat. The pillow is round and impossible to sleep on. I propped it up the other day and Mojo curled up on the half-seat that was exposed and leaned his hairy back on the pillow, killing two birds with one stone.

To shield the guest room bed from cat hair, I covered it with a blanket that can be removed when needed. Mojo learned how to pull that blanket back so he could lay his hairy body on the bedspread. I replaced the blanket a few times, and he pulled it back each time. After a few rounds, I won.

I bought burgundy curtains. I took them out of the bag and laid them on the bed, then remembered that the cat hair blanket was still on the bed. I still haven’t gotten all the hair off of them.

The other day I set the dining room table an hour in advance. Mojo showed up to scout out the situation. “Don’t even think it!” I yelled, as I covered the table with another table cloth.

If you come for a visit, please wear gray clothes to match Mojo’s hair.

COLD SHOULDER

Mojo’s mad at me and I don’t know why. His food bowl is full and his crapper is empty. But there he sits (the little skallywag) six feet in front of my chair with his back to me. Now and then he turns his head to the side, presumably checking to see if I’ve noticed him and am getting the lesson.

He’s probably mad because I kicked him off the bed last night. Three times. I didn’t kick hard. I kept my feet under the cover, where his teeth couldn’t go, and sort of nudged him vertically.

I wouldn’t mind having a foot warmer on my bed, but you just never know when he’ll turn into a wildcat, with all those sharp body parts.

Yesterday he was mad at George. You can tell who the offender is by the position of his back.

Mojo is training us to respect, fear, and serve him. It would help if we could understand cat language. Or maybe not. Cats undoubtedly have swearwords no human has ever heard.

CLEAN CLOSET

I thought I’d stepped into the Twilight Zone when I woke up this morning. I had forgotten I had cleaned my closet. Let’s see – we moved here in 2004. Around 2006 I noticed that dust was gathering on the suitcases on the top shelves. Around 2008 I started noticing dust on the suit coat shoulders. Sometime in 2010, I resolved to set aside a cold winter’s day to clean it.

Yesterday (January 10, 2012) I walked into the closet and started throwing things out. The bed grew a clothing tower. The floor filled up. It looked like the closet had upchucked. At one point the cat, who had been running from corner to corner of the bedroom and under the bed and in and out the door and around the house, settled down on a black coat to watch.

I climbed the ladder and pulled suitcases off the top shelves. When I dropped one, my husband didn’t yell his usual, “Are you all right?” That’s when I knew I was on my own if I fell off the ladder – which wasn’t unlikely. I needed a break so we went for chicken wings and a Manhattan.

After I finished re-loading the closet around 10:30 p.m., I resolved to do it once a year. And if you can believe that I have some property for you.

SPLIT A SUB?

I ask my husband, “Want to split a sub?” This is a simple question. We’re at the counter. The guy asks, “The usual?” The girl waiting on us is new. She neatly cuts the sub in half and lays the halves side by side. Then the chaos starts.

George’s voice is quiet because of the Parkinson’s, so I order for him. “Mayo on that one. No, not that one, the other one.”

“No, I don’t want mayo.”

“You did last time.”

“Don’t give me any lettuce.”

“I know that much.”

(To the girl) “Put just a smidgen of mustard on that one. No, that one.”

(George to me) “I just want the usual Italian sub with everything that goes on it except lettuce.”

“You have to tell them what to put on it, not what to take off.”

“Just tell them to leave off the lettuce.”

(Me, exasperated) “Do you want mustard?”

The girl behind the counter is getting distressed. George and I are, too, but somehow we end up with a close proximity to what we want.

I’m thinking - this is a snapshot of our marriage. We’re alike on the basics and like night and day on the garnishes, but it usually turns out OK. Or a close proximity to OK.

Rubbing the Pen

Mojo claims his territory when I’m reading or writing. He walks on, turns around on, and settles on the papers in my lap, indiscriminately crumpling whatever they are.

This territorial claim seems most important when I’m writing. He rubs his face on the tip of my pen. I humor him because he’s so cute, in a passive-aggressive sort of way. I hold the pen steady as he starts with his nose and pushes his mouth onto the tip so that it parts his cat lips, exposing teeth and gums. Then he pushes the side of his face forward, rotating his head to include his ears in the massage. His sinuses (I guess cats have sinuses, don’t they?) start tickling and he yawns, his head opening like a snake. Not pretty.

Eventually I speak to him and he leaves. I’ve violated his terms: no talking, no reading, no watching TV, definitely no sneezing, and no changing position.

POOR BOY

“Don’t you marry no poor boy. You hear me?” These were words of wisdom spoken to me forty-some-odd years ago by the woman who practically raised me – the dearest woman in the world to me. Annie had been poor all her life. I was in college, young, innocent – no, not just innocent. Naïve. I laughed and told her I was going to marry for love, not money.

Now I have a daughter of my own. She has dated many a “poor boy” and has not found the right one yet. I keep telling her that she needs someone who will support her, not the other way around.

It’s not that wealth can buy happiness. And it’s not that loving a poor boy can’t make you happy. (Loving a rich boy can, too.) How do I explain it? It’s the drive, the ambition, the goals, the character one builds striving to achieve those goals. It’s that wholesome grabbing of life by the horns (or whatever) and running with it. It’s sort of like Olive Oil singing, “I want a clean-shaven man.”

After thinking through this, I decided the best advice I can give my daughter is this: “Don’t you marry no poor boy. You hear me?”