Sheepdoggers

If you have a big brother, literally or figuratively, you probably know what it's like to be sheepdogged.  My brother James (it always made me happy when my mom pronounced it Jammies) was the ultimate sheepdogger.  Growing up I was unfortunately his favorite sheep.  Even though we're both like halfway to dead now, he'd still try to sheepdog me given the chance.  It's devilish irritating to have every real or imagined flaw in your character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance pointed out and corrected by an asineinstein self-appointed godparent.
Is there an inherent urge in a firstborn to herd its younger siblings?  Even within the depths of all the respectful, hardworking, polite, compassionate, intelligent responsibleness of The Precious lies an irrepressible compulsion to sheepdog his brother and sisters.
I was employed under the supervision of a sheepdogger for several years.  I should be awarded the Zen Garden Award for Infinite Patience for that.  He's still alive, and I should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for that.
Hunneypunkin is the nicest man in the world, but even he tried to sheepdog me for a time.  I went all Jeremy Renner on him and he learned.  I'm not a fighter, but I can defend when necessary because I'm practical and logical like that.  Make note of this, ladies: Hunneypunkin learned.  Don't let anybody fool you.  The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys claims men can't be taught, but that is not so.
My annoying proclivity to look for the positive has led to the observation that being sheepdogged can have the effect of sharpening one's character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance.  Of course, being sheepdogged can also have the effect of sharpening one's appreciation for irony.  There's some fun to be had in sheepdogging a sheepdog.

Answer v. Reply

Hunneypunkin is a master of non-feedback.  In twenty years of bledded wiss I have yet to wring a straight answer from him.
"What time do you want to leave tonight?"
"I don't know when I'll get off work."
I voiced the necessary question and he spoke in return so I feel as if we've completed a conversation, till seven hours later when I realize he didn't give me an actual answer so I don't know how to plan.
One year, New Year's Day showed up before we had concluded what we were going to do for New Year's Eve.  I'm not making this up.
There was a long period of time where I never had a single night out with Hunneypunkin because you can't tell a babysitter that you're going to need her from sometime between 4 and 8 pm till sometime between 9 and midnight depending on how things go at work.  After that thirteen years, the offspring were old enough to supervise themselves so Daddy and Mama could dig some change out of the couch to go grab a romantic value burger and stay awake long enough to split it in the car while we tried to think up a conversational topic.
Now understand, this is not entirely a result of the "Do Not Commit" chapter in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys.  It's more a side effect of being a superhero.  You just never know when the neighbor lady will get trapped in her car and the Jaws of Life can't get there in time so you have to miss yet another in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party because it will take you a couple of hours to get her out with your Leatherman tool, again.  And if you've already told the in-laws you'd be at the in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party, they're not going to understand, they're just going to add that to your Failures to Appear list.  And everybody knows that whoever has the longest Failures to Appear list goes straight to the top of the Characters to Assassinate list.  So, it's best to be vague.
Nevertheless, Hunneypunkin and I need to hone our communication skills sooner than later or it's going to be insane trying to coordinate his superhero duties with my Renner/Wilson 2016 U.S. Presidential campaign.

Trauma Response Team

Once upon a time, Pixie required a major surgery involving a week's stay far from home to correct a fast-progressing scoliosis.  I feared I had myself caused the incorrect curvature of her spine when I caught her as she turned from a dewdrop into a tiny baby pixie (an act which stunts the normal sprouting of a pixie's wings).  http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/09/dewdrop-in-september.html  My burning guilt and shame over the possibility of having caused such torment to my very own mythological creature, however, were drowned out by the swift action of our local Trauma Response Team.
Santa Claussen sold a limb to buy fuel for our GasGuzzler to make the trip.
My sister-in-law Lovesme built a hospital wing for the occasion, including an ice cream parlor for patients' family members.
My sister-in-law Hatesme published an op-ed piece detailing my failures as a parent of mythologics.
My uncle sent a lifetime supply of movies for Pixie to watch during convalescence along with a bag of trinkets from Grandad, and two months of weekly sixteen-ounce caramel mochas for me.
Great Grampa and Great Gramma sent Pixie a stuffie Burden Bear with its own little quilt and a poem to keep Pixie company whilst she recovered.  They even mailed her a card by United States Postal Service.  So did Pixie's Gramps.
Hunneypunkin's Dad and Momma gave Pixie books and posters with pigmentous articles with which to color them, watched over Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious while I didn't sleep at the hospital.  They cooked dinner for the family, and delivered us brand new major appliances.
The Besties outfitted Pixie with fuzzy jams and softy socks, balloons and bears, puzzles and toys, Erin Hunter books, Lego loads, and a two-day in-hospital visit from Pixie's Pal.
Our Nice Church Ladies sent us dinner the night we returned home, along with a gift and a card, and Sweet Church Girl made an ornament for Pixie in Pixie's favorite color.
The Neighborlies deposited a hospital bed in our living room for the six-month rehabilitation.
The on-call surgeon helped me by phone at midnight on Christmas when Pixie allergically reacted.
Friends cooked pasta in my kitchen and sat around the hospital bed to play cards with Pixie while I measured prescription medications.  My mom took over as medication measurer when I had to go to work.
Hunneypunkin's Huntingbuddy offered to compare his heart surgery scars with Pixie's back surgery scars.  (Pixie declined.)
Jeremy Renner showed up at the theater in The Bourne Legacy so I'd have something to take my mind off Pixie's plight.
A year later, you couldn't tell at a glance that Pixie has been surgicalled, and I still haven't caught up on the sleeping I didn't during the hospital week and the recovery month and a half.  If you ever find yourself in such a sitch, I hope your local Trauma Response Team rocks like ours.

Thespian Empress

Lil Chev wasn't new, but I kept it clean on the outside, tidy on the inside, full of gas, and insured.  My good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine, however, was unimpressed.  She never openly dissed my car, but she often complimented it, and me, in her trademark backhanded fashion.  "It's so nice that you're able to save money by driving...that.  But let's drive mmiinne.  Be careful, it's full of automatic gadgets you're probably not used to."  One of Dromiquine's fascinating characteristics is her ability to add syllables to first-person pronouns.
When Hunneypunkin traded Lil Chev in on a car manufactured in the same millennium we lived in, Dromiquine spilled a tear.  "III'm happy for you.  It's so hard to see someone else get a new car when III'm not getting one."  Another of Dromiquine's unique idiosyncrasies is her amazing power to designate herself the focus of any conversation.
Dromiquine was deeply wounded after I'd gone out for sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with a mutual friend.  "Without mmee?!"  When I assured her we simply thought she'd be uninterested after the many times she'd tossed her hair and proclaimed, "III don't drink those things," Dromiquine said it must be our mutual friend who excluded her.  Then she called our mutual friend and told her I'd blamed Mutual Friend for excluding Dromiquine.  Blink blink.  Fortunately, Mutual Friend is familiar with Dromiquine's exquisite talent for fact-morphage.
Fact-morphage might explain how Dromiquine's diversity of life experiences rival those of Nancy Drew.  And you almost believe her lively anecdotes because her thespian capabilities rival those of Jeremy Renner.
As it turns out, Dromiquine gets around.  Everyone I meet seems to be good friends (or whatever) with her.  My sister-in-law Lovesme was excommunicated from Dromiquine's life for the audacity of getting married while Dromiquine was still single.  My sister-in-law Hatesme had a visit from the sheriff when Dromiquine turned her in for animal cruelty because Dromiquine heard her dog bark once.  My BFFs are all stronger people for their association with Dromiquine.  Even Pixie has run into her at the park.  Angel Doll met her at camp.
I imagine you know Dromiquine too, so you're acquainted with her one-of-a-kind perspective and peculiarities.  Variety truly is the spice of life, is it not?  Testify!

Neighborhood Cool Mom

I always foolishly assumed I would grow up, and I planned that when I did, I would be the neighborhood cool mom.  Though I failed to grow up, I still make every effort to be the best Mama ever.
I try to have an immediate solution for any problem.  Lefty: "Have you seen my water bottle?"  Me: "Want me to kiss it and make it better?"  Lefty: "Uh..."
Pixie: "The Precious smacked my left ear."  Me: "I'll smack the right one and they'll be even."  Pixie, "Never mind, I'm good."
It's difficult to gauge my cool mom status from my children's responses, because, as they are teenagers, it isn't always easy to read their ultra-cool random hormonal standoffish-hood.
When I was a teenager back in the late nineteen hundreds, my parents were incessantly griping that my music was too loud.  I couldn't wait to grow up and move out, so I could do whatever I wanted.  Someday I would hatch my own begottens and let them play their music too loud.
Now I do have teenagers of my own, who are incessantly griping that my music is too loud.  I still can't wait to move out so I can do whatever I want.  (No, the children moving out won't be good enough.  Hunneypunkin will still be here, incessantly griping that my music is too loud.  Unless he goes deaf in his other ear too.)
Balancing parental coolness with child safety grows increasingly challenging as the begottens' talents grow increasingly diverse.  "Pixie, if you can see Great Grandma's house, you're too high up the tree.  Easy with the power tools, Angel Doll.  The Precious, be careful parkouring, and wash your shoeprints off the ceiling.  Also Daddy says to fill in that nine-foot deep four-foot diameter hole you dug in the backyard before you really do trap a coyote or a small cougar in there.  Or a neighbor.  Lefty, take that live bat back outside.  No, don't bring any dead ones in either."
I encourage my begottens toward activities that interest them, and I try to get involved with them. I learned oil painting with Pixie last month and knitting this week with Angel Doll.  For The Precious, it's movies, as well as everything and everyone involved in their making.  I now know a lot of fascinating facts about Tom Cruise, Robert Downey, Jr., Chris Hemsworth, and Jeremy Renner.  I have yet to venture into Halo 4 with Lefty.

Weight a Minute

"Put the mirror on this wall," was not the brightest command I ever decreed.  The arrangement of my cubicular master bathroom is such that the only space big enough for the giant mirror is the wall facing the toilet.  This is also the only logical home for the bathroom scale.
I'm a big fan of multitasking, so as early as I can drag my limbs out of the barracks in the mornings, I like to weigh in, try to recognize myself in the mirror, and check myself for a pulse all at once.  (I haven't figured out yet how to simultaneously use the potty.)  Unfortunately I'm also getting ready for a shower at the same time so without the cover of a giant sweatshirt or a decent pair of jeans, the sum of all this is something like,  "Ooh, look, 164.3 pounds of epic fail.  What happened to my face?  Does this blubber make my butt look big?"
I don't even know why I use a bathroom scale.  It's not like I'm motivated to diet.  I suppose if I weigh myself daily, I can honestly say that I'm watching my weight.  I don't have to add, "steadily incline".
I'm not convinced that the number of a person's body weight is necessarily indicative of one's overall well-being anyway.  I consider myself in pretty good health because I read a lot of internet articles about physical fitness and proper eating habits, plus I own a yoga video, and, I throw down turkey subs and sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with friends as often as I can.  That has to be good for you.
In a few weeks when I become famous and wealthy, I'll buy a renovation from Jeremy Renner with a large enough bathroom that the toilet and the scale will not face the bathroom mirror.  Until that day, when I step on the scale every morning and try to recognize my reflection while verifying the presence of my heartbeat, I'll try to change my inner dialogue to something like, "Ooh, look, 165.2 pounds of epic friend.  There's a half hour of laughing still stuck in the corner of my eye.  Is that a sandwich in my hip?"

Three Strikes Program

Hunneypunkin's dog thinks he's a house pet.  I think he's not.  And since I'm Caesar of this empire, he's not.  But he's a decent dog and I'm a decent emperor, so I agree to let him visit the great indoors on occasion. I do, however, keep him on the three strikes program.
The dog has a corner of his own in the living room, and that's the only spot he's allowed to be.  We have an old blanket that we spread on the floor in his corner to keep his doggie smell from melting into the carpet, and he does a good job of staying on his blankie (except for that one sly paw that he stretches jusssst off the edge.)  He'll sleep there for hours.  Like the children, he seems to have adapted his version of the Jurassic Park scene--"Don't move.  They won't see me if I don't move.  Then they'll let me stay."
Though he generally seems to be sleeping, he definitely notices if everyone leaves the room.  Then he'll go silently lurking through the house sniffing for people.  It's usually me that he finds...with his velvety and slightly damp muzzle against my elbow while I'm at my computer all thinking I'm alone.  Once I've recovered from a mild heart attack and threatened to send him back outside for leaving his blanket, I never fail to accidentally make eye contact with him, at which point I'm susceptible to his telepathic message, "Llllet meeee staaaay, llllet meeee staaaay," and even though Jedi mind tricks don't work on me because I'm practical and logical, I always choose to llllet himmm staaay.
The three strikes program, however, overrides even the big brown puppy-dog eyes.  It doesn't matter how sweetly the dog stretches out on his blankie, or how adoringly he stares into my face, or how telepathically he begs to stay in the house, the third time the air turns green and people start pulling their shirt collars up over their noses because the dog dropped an SBD, he's out.  Now don't go all animal rights on me, I'd even kick out Jeremy Renner if he floated three air biscuits.

Reindeer Games

I'm cheesed at the controversy over the existence of Saint Nick.
I bust my butt year round on projects from live plants to wooden gadgets to fabric creations to kitchen productions.  I make my lists, I check them twice.  No matter how tired I get, I'm still obligated to be lively and quick.
I shop carefully for the best deals, even when the weather is colder than a witch's wit, my cheeks are like roses and my nose like a cherry, running all over the map with a bundle of toys flung on my back.
I slave over whichever burners of my stove work, and my oven if it chooses to function.  (Major appliance manufacturers could consider building their products to last if they want to get off the naughty list.)  I make holiday goodies and test them till I have a little round belly.  It shakes when I laugh.  I hate that.
The cost of reindeer fodder is out of control, but I speak not a word.  I go straight to my work.  I'm up way too late filling stockings every Christmas Eve because I have to wait till all the rodents and other creatures are unconscious.
I value my anonymousness and privacy every bit as much as Jeremy Renner, but doggone it, it yanks my chain when I work so hard year round to make the world a better place and people don't acknowledge I even exist.  I get how God feels.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  On Christmas Day I'm going to put my feet up and take my annual twenty-four hours off, and the next day, even if some people don't believe in me, I'll be back to my work again.

Saturday Night Lifelike

I'm going to have to take a nap today.  Jeremy Renner is hosting SNL which is way past my bedtime, and I feel the need to be awake, alive, and alert for that.  Might have to listen to Skillet's "Awake and Alive" CD to stave off my imminent temporary 9pm nightly zombification.

Hitting a Stud

I told Hunneypunkin I needed a shelf built.  After whipping around a tape measure and pondering the proposed construction site he said, "You'll have to hit a stud."  So I smacked him.  I thought something miracley would happen, like when Moses brought forth water from the rock for the thirsting deserted nomadic Israelis...but he just looked at me weird.  And that's not miracley at all, that's just plain normal.
God must have moved the moon into some rare kind of configuration with Saturn, the Pluto formerly known as a planet, and Uranus--that's funny because I just spelled anus--because only that kind of gravitational pull can suck Hunneypunkin into agreement with one of my evil schemes of home improvement at the same time as we possess the reserves of both cash AND time to complete it in fewer than eighteen months.
Makita, Craftsman, Black & Decker showed up to assist while Pixie, Angel Doll, Lefty and The Precious re-enacted their version of the Jurassic Park scene: "Don't move!  They can't see us if we don't move.  Then we won't have to help."
By some twist of fate I managed to locate some leftover paint so I could make my new shelf match the rest of the room, and someone actually knew where the paint tray and roller were.
Within a couple of hours my lovely project was not only complete, but cleaned up after as well.  It was unbelievably honeyful and perfect as if Jeremy Renner had starred alongside a sweet labrador retriever in a delightful Hallmark made-for-TV holiday movie about the redemption of a long-lost individual with a romantic subplot and a fireplace, wearing a comfy yet stylish wool sweater.
So perhaps hitting a stud can cause a miracle after all.
No animals were harmed in the building of this shelf.

My Stand on Politics

Though I have strong political opinions, I rarely discuss them.  You're not going to change my mind, I doubt I'm going to change yours, and that makes verbal exchange pointless in my estimation.  I must say, however, that this morning's election results were incredibly disappointing to me.
I wrote in "Jeremy Renner/Suzanne Wilson" for United States President/Vice President on my ballot, which I mailed promptly WITH postage, and here I sit this morning, NOT in office.
Epic fail on Phase Two of my Personal World Takeover Plan.
I admit I attempted to drown my sorrows in a sixteen ounce caramel mocha at The Grainery this morning https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Grainery/270676199452?ref=ts&fref=ts and after that miraculous little potion I do feel much better.  In fact I'm inspired to carry on.
Renner/Wilson 2016!

Wicked Sweats and Ninjas

I wanted to be Tough and Cool for Halloween but I got stuck being An Invalid instead.  I had tiny ninja warriors tossing their throwing stars around in my abdomen.  I used to think ninja warriors were neat.  Now I just hate them.
I threw up at 6 am on an empty stomach.  That is some special kind of serious painage right there.  Then at noon I had to cough.  More ninjas.
I took a shower thinking the warm steamy water would relieve the body aches but I just found myself curled up in the shower in a fetal position, clutching my tummy and crying for my mommy and trying not to drown.
I slobbed around all day in my sweats.  Literally.  The sweats alternated with chills.  This was not the kind of cool I had in mind.
After the shower I slept on my wet hair.  Later when I willpowered myself into the bathroom in case I had to "go" (and I couldn't really tell whether I needed to because I couldn't feel anything but generalized acute bodywide discomfort) and accidentally glimpsed the mirror I was fascinated by how many directions my -do can go all at once.  Def not the look I'd pose in for a photo op with Jeremy Renner.
I managed to swallow nine entire cracker crumbs plus a sip of orange juice and keep it all south so I was feeling pretty good about myself.  Then Angel Doll offered me a Reese's peanut butter cup saying, "Cures what ails ya," because she learns these home remedies from me, but I couldn't eat it.  I have never before in my life been unable to snarf a Reese's.  I also had to cancel my sixteen-ounce caramel mocha appointment with my uncle this morning.  Am I dying?
So Pixie went to the costume party in my black nail polish and my black lipstick and my spike collar collecting my candy while I was spilt on the couch at home with my wicked sweats and ninjas.  My kidneys are so sore right now.  I can actually feel my adrenal glands sitting atop the kidneys and sobbing their little hormones out.  I can feel my pulse in my arm hair.  Every time I move the ninjas dance.
This is the stupidest Halloween ever.  I despise Halloween anyway, I'm only in it for Reese's wares.  I don't know who Reese is, but I adore his work, and I'll be "borrowing" a bite now and then from Pixie's stash as soon as I banish the ninjas.

Somebody Make Some Dinner

Hunneypunkin blows through the back door dripping with rainwater after towing his stranded buddy's bellied-up truck home from a neighboring state and dumps his soggy coat, sweaty hat, and greasy gloves on top of the mail I'm looking through.  "Man, I'm tired, and it's cold out there.  But he bought me a Big Mac and gave me twenty bucks for gas!  What's for dinner?"
Out loud I say, "Glad you're back.  I don't have a plan for dinner," instead of, "I'm just home from bustin my tuchus on a forty-nine hour workweek and you blew my entire paycheck to drag your pal home from Timbuktu and all I got for lunch was a p.b. and j. with a migraine at a desk while you ate a nice hot e-coli burger with Special Sauce with a friend and now I'll be up half the night helping children with homework which your unemployed butt was supposed to be doing while I managed crabby customers but instead you were out on superhero duty again, how many times have we talked about this, and now you're asking ME what's for dinner when you were supposed to have it READY when I got HOME, and all your homeboy could spot you was a JACKSON?" because I'm self-controlled like that.
So I take a deep breath and fake a cheap smile and wade through the pets to the kitchen, determined to be all domestical.  Hunneypunkin catches a hint when the kitchen cabinets start closing with gusto and I'm shoving dirty plates around, muttering about how Jesus might feed six with two jars of homemade jam and five stale tortilla chips, because he says, "If you wanna wash some dishes, I'll figure out something for dinner."
Smart boy.  Dawn and I start cutting grease while Hunneypunkin makes up his own lyrics to popular music.  He must have some sort of Wishsong of Shannara talents because as he sings I start breathing dinnery aromas.  Next thing I know we're shoveling down a hot sup and I can't figure out how he built all this steaming savoriness when all I could find was a dented can of pears.  Hunneypunkin possesses all the resourcefulness of Jeremy Renner.  Lucky for him, because later when I'm working algebra at 10:29 pm and he's sawing logs on the couch, I won't knock him at the head with a textbook in a hypoglycemic fit.

Sentimenty

Something about picking grapes in Grandpa and Grandma's vineyard today made me uncharacteristically emotionable.  What brought this about?  I am not a sentimental individual.  I'm practical.  Logical.  Perhaps it was the ghosts of earlier years that darted among the vines like hummingbirds.  I could hear my parents, aunts, and uncles calling to each other through the trellises; there were glimpses of my brothers and my cousins ducking among the hanging clusters, though there was no one there with me besides Pixie, Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious.
The raindrop that landed on my lip while I pulled clusters from their stems tasted sweeter than any other rains I could recall.  I felt strength soak into my tired arms and pain dissipate from my joints as the purple orbs fell into my fingers.  Is it coincidence that in order to reach some of the best clusters, one must kneel?
Did Grandpa imagine decades ago when he cultivated these plants, that they would nourish the bodies and souls of his grandchildren, and our children as well?  Did he know God would whisper to us there?
I remembered my aunties' stories of training the vines every year, beginning at one end of the vineyard and working day after day until they reached the other end.  The night they finished the entire vineyard, they would all go out to the movies to celebrate a job well done...and the next morning they would start all over at the beginning of the vineyard again.
I worked in the vineyard with my cousin the summer of my senior year, so recently, so long ago.  Oh, the plans we made up and the stories we shared.  Oh, the secrets the vineyard knows.  The grape fields of Italy and the wine farms of France have no glory like the vineyards of Grandpa and Grandma's.
Jeremy Renner would envy us.
Heaven smells like grapes.

Family Night

I'm a firm believer in families having dinner together at the kitchen table every evening.  It hasn't happened here for months, but I still believe in it.  You know, firmly.  I decided to make it happen tonight, so I took the following steps to ensure my victory in the fight to preserve family time.
Disconnect the doorbell.
Board the windows.
Hide Hunnepunkin's superhero tights.
Disassemble all cellphones and hide components.
Cut the telephone line.  (I wore a ski mask for this because that's how I've always seen it done on TV.)
Bake a dessert.
Excavate the kitchen table.
Find some plates.
Nap.
After all that, it occurred to me that if we were going to have a family dinner tonight, there should be some dinner to eat, so I whipped up some fancy gruel.
I even picked up The Avengers and The Hurt Locker from Rob's Video, as bait.  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robs-Video/154452684597987?ref=ts&fref=ts
As it turns out, Hunneypunkin is out with his bass because it's band night, The Sons are across town on an X-box adventure, The Daughters are down the road with their homies plotting world peace, and I'm home alone with Jeremy Renner.  It's all good.

The Leprechaun Moved to the Fridge

We don't live naked in a mud hut so I won't complain, but I must admit sometimes my major appliances cause me frustration.  I was uncharacteristically alone in the house one quiet afternoon when this sudden noisy knocking from inside the refrigerator sent me into cardiac arrest.  After I unhooked Hunneypunkin's jumper cables from restarting my heart, I opened the fridge to investigate.  All I found were inanimate condiments.
I told Hunneypunkin the fridge was sick, but there's a rule in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys that girls possess an innate disability to legitimately discover a mechanical problem so I was on my own to solve it.
I wondered if there were containers bumping around when the fridge motor kicked on, so I would slink into the kitchen like a ninja in order to sneak up on the fridge and open the door quickly during the knocking.  Again, inanimate condiments.  I decided there must be a mechanical problem in the motor.
It was uncharacteristically quiet in the the house one tired evening when this sudden noisy knocking from inside the refrigerator brought Hunneypunkin out of a post-seventeen-hour-workday nap. After checking the front door, the back door, and the imaginary trapdoor to the imaginary dungeon and finding nothing, Hunneypunkin checked inside the fridge door.  Of course he found only inanimate condiments.
He wondered if there were containers bumping around when the fridge motor kicked on, so he would slink into the kitchen like a ninja in order to sneak up on the fridge and open the door quickly during the knocking.  Condiments.  Inanimate.  He decided there must be a mechanical problem in the motor.  I agreed wholeheartedly with Hunneypunkin's assessment because he truly is the magical fixer of all things mechanical.
Pixie maintains that the leprechaun who lived in the dryer abandoned his flute there and got lost in the fridge where he's knocking to find his way out.  http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-leprechaun-lived-in-dryer.html  Lefty stands at the fridge and knocks back.  The refrigerator's knocking has gone on for months and nobody cares enough to fix it so long as the inanimate condiments stay almost as cool as Jeremy Renner.

Real Thing

I heard artificial raspberry flavor is made from the anal glands of monkeys so I researched that to see if it's true.  Relax, it's not.  Raspberry flavor actually comes from the castor sacs of beavers.  Oh, yeah, that's way better.  What psychwad licked a beaver's behiney and said, "Tastes like raspberry!"
I despise artificialness.  If you want raspberry flavor why not use, oh I don't know, RASPBERRY?  What could possibly taste more like raspberry than raspberry?
Since beavers are all natural, though, raspberry flavor from their backends doesn't have to be labeled artificial.  Like that makes it all better.  So beware of natural flavorings.
Folks are saying if you want real, healthy food, buy organic or grow your own.  I'd rather find someone else who grows their own, and eat at their house.  Way easier.
You've heard that saying, "You are what you eat."  Maybe all this artificial crud we eat makes us fake.  Is that why we dine like sumo wrestlers but hope to look like Olympic gymnasts?
Some folks aren't concerned about the absurd concoctions we're stuffing in place of real food because it's FDA approved.  (I don't have the energy to go there, so feel free to fight amongst yourselves.)  But given the choice between sharing a bowl of castor sac of beaver with a life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cut-out, and snacking on a dish of actual raspberries with Jeremy Renner himself, wouldn't you take the real thing?

Chewables Thinks He's a Spaniard

Chewables imagines himself a real Don Juan, and he totally doesn't get that that's exactly what the ladies don' wan'.  We should have foreseen this when he was a kitten and Pixie named him Chewy because when you pet him he bites you.  He grew up and continued to express his affections by biting, particularly his fellow felines on the backs of their necks.
His name morphed into "Chewables" simply because it's funny, but he prefers the pronunciation "She-WAH-blez" because he thinks he's some kind of a Spaniard.  Honestly, he'd have conversations on the patio with my uncle who was learning to speak Spanish while ignoring the rest of us because we were using regular English.  It really ticked me off that Chewables would act so cavalier, because he was born right here just like the rest of us.
Chewables' penchant for chomping his peers grew problematic.  The other cats started complaining.  Loudly.  At 2 AM.  Every.  Single.  Night.
I would find Chewables crouching on the roof in the morning.  He would look down at me and sigh, in his best Spanish accent, "The ladies, they are always chasing me."

Pixie spent an entire day last summer looking for Chewables.  "I can hear him," she said, "but I can't find him anywhere."  Lefty found him.  After dark.  In the chimney.  Hunneypunkin pulled him out of the fireplace, coated in soot since he'd been there all day, and all Chewables had to say was, "The Lady of the House, she was calling to me."  The Lady of the House narrowed her eyes, laid back her ears, switched her tail, and growled at him from her usual berth on Lefty's arm.
Something had to be done.  I even discussed with Hunneypunkin how we might have Chewables relocated, but Angel Doll loves him and her heart would be broken.  Ultimately Chewables was sent to the vet.  You know, to be tutored.  But he didn't learn a thing.  He still strolls down the sidewalk in pursuit of the kitty contessas, winks at me through his Zorroesque mask, and says, rolling his r's, "I am the Jeremy Renner of the kitty kingdom, am I not?"

How I Saved My Cheetos

My good friend Dani--because she is a good friend, as I'm positive all Jeremy Renner fans are--worries for the safety of my Cheetos, should my household members read my blog.
http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-thing-about-cheetos.html
I wish to assure her and other concerned citizens that as a precautionary measure my Cheetos drawer has been booby trapped so no one will want to open it.  I have attached a picture so you'll know how to do it too, if you need to booby trap your Cheetos stash.

Stupid Reasons I Can't Throw Random Crap Away

These piles of outdated polyester fabric and scraps of fake fur that nobody uses anymore belonged to Hunneypunkin's late grandmother so even though they're useless they're sort of like heirlooms.
I might still figure out what this black rectangular piece of hard plastic with ridges around the sides that's been sitting on the counter looking ugly for thirty-eight months belongs to.
What's-her-name said she wanted these Disney videos but she never came to get them which probably means she doesn't actually want them and was only taking them to be nice so if I take them to her she'll be cheesed and if I mention it to her a twelfth time she'll be cheesed but if I get rid of them and she really did want them she'll be cheesed so they're destined to sit on my table in limbo to infinity.  Possibly even beyond.
This was my favorite stuffy when I was five.
They're still good clothes.
The Precious drew this when he was two.
I truly intend to read these tomes.
There's one chance in a hundred that I could fit into these pants again.
There's one chance in a brazillion that Hunneypunkin really is going to repair that coffee table.
I'm going to salvage the good denim from those worn-out Levi's and make them into...something.
This magazine has a picture of Jeremy Renner.
I'd rather blog.

Identity Crisis

Sometimes I'm afraid that I'm a fierce brash terrifying murderous 11th century Amazon ninja Viking pirate brute with biceps like Jeremy Renner trapped in a modern boring regular normal average person's body.

I Do What I Can

It's lame, but it's my motto.  Anything I haven't done is because I couldn't, and since I despise being limited, I focus on what I can do.  I'm unable to work out half hour a day, but I can stretch a muscle fiber or two every morning.  It's not in my budget to feed my family all raw organic farm fresh every meal each day year round, but I can grow a few veggies in the summer.  I don't have the money to deck my halls like a magazine photo but I do make my peeps stuff their treasures out of the walkways.
I formerly believed I could be an inspiration.  "If what's-her-name can be so pathetic yet still positive and productive, I could buy Australia."  Somehow though my resourcefulness results instead in my being obligated to be resourceful on everyone else's behalf.  "Your children are so nice.   Make my brats behave."  What??  "Oh, you sew?  Here, finish this quilt for me that my grandma started in 1982."  No, thanks.
This is where my motto saves my life.  If I'm going to pull my own weight, I can't pull yours.  Now I am a firm believer in Jesus' golden rule, but be honest.  Would you truly want some schmuck to serve you, hand and foot, while you morphed into Jabba the Hutt?
I forget my own motto from time to time and start crying to Hunneypunkin, "My personal world takeover plan is deteriorating, what am I going to do?"  Hunneypunkin gives my shoulder a couple of pats and reminds me, "You'll do what you can."
Don't be an over-achiever, a burn-out, a bum, or a guilt-ridden martyr.  Adopt my motto.  I do what I can.  I can't follow Jeremy Renner around in person, but I can stalk him online.  And I do my best at it, every day.

A Leprechaun Lived in the Dryer

A tiny leprechaun with a flute used to live in the dryer. When I would do laundry, the mystical little dude would wake up and play his teensy reed flute.  He seemed to only know one note, and he would play it over...and over...and over...until the clothes were dry.

The dryer started taking longer and longer to dry our laundry, which meant the little leprechaun got to play his flute more often and for longer periods of time.  He apparently never got tired.  I often wished I had some of his endurance.

I worried a little sometimes that he would get too hot in there.  (Not the same kind of hot as Jeremy Renner.  That's a very different kind of hot.)  I was also a little concerned that if he for any reason got mad at me he'd set the place on fire.  I'd heard of people having dryer fires, and assumed those were acts of their dryer-leprechauns.

One day the dryer gave up.  We pushed the start button and nothing happened.  The usual solutions--wiggling all wires, kicking the appliance, applying duct tape--didn't wake the leprechaun.  Even Hunneypunkin the magical fixer of all things mechanical with his expansive arsenal of tools wasn't able to make the dryer go.

Ultimately the dead dryer was buried in the shed, as all broken contraptions are lest we have space to store items that are actually useful, where it stills sits beside the washing machine that matches it and also doesn't work.

Hunneypunkin's Dad and Momma gave us a brand new sparkly washer and dryer, that play little start-up and end-of-cycle tunes of their own.  More than one note, even.  But I wonder sometimes what became of the leprechaun and his flute.  Is he still sleeping in that old dryer?  Were the dryer to be repaired, would he wake and play again?

Tough and Cool

Don't judge, you know you do it too.  Everybody tries to project an image.  Is that so wrong?  Think about it, if we went around all vulnerable all the time we'd get blasted to pieces in twelve seconds flat.  Yes, everybody wears a mask.  My mask is "Tough and Cool".
Hunneypunkin, empty-handed, drops the door in my face while I'm carrying a backpack, two-point-seven children, a leaky water bottle, nine bags of groceries, ten library books, half a dozen jackets, and a dog?  No indignation.  I don't need a spouse, I can do it all myself because I'm tough and cool.
Overhearing the ladies discussing what my attitude problem is all about?  I didn't realize my migraine was showing.  Migraine headaches and brattitudes result in a similar facial expression.  No, my feeling isn't hurt.  (I only have one feeling, and it's tough.  And cool.)
Split the butt out of my Levi's in public?  No big deal.  Drop my jacket like a ninja and tie it around my waist to cover my hiney, and nobody's the wiser, because I keep looking tough and cool.
Haters dissin my cubs?  No rage.  I mean, there's no point in denying that split second daydream of choking the spit out of the haters when the mother-bear comes out in you, but we don't have to dwell on that.  Hug my cubs, square their shoulders, remind them to forgive, and we all look tough and cool.
People are like dogs, if they smell insecurity on you they'll try to bite it off, but if you're awesome they'll fetch for you.  So tomorrow, like every day, when I drag my pathetic self out of bed in the morning aching and hobbling like an old guy, I'll suck it up, practice my best Jeremy Renner face in the mirror (except that I'm a girl), and whether I feel like it or not, I'm going to look tough and cool.

Point of View

My sisters-in-law are both lovely and talented women but with opposite outlooks on life.
My sister-in-law Hatesme invited our family for dinner but Hunneypunkin declined because I wasn't feeling well.  Hatesme was offended, told everyone she knew that we'd snubbed her, got us permanently excluded from the annual clan chili feed and fashion show, and in twelve years has never extended another invitation.
My sister-in-law Lovesme invited our family for dinner too but Hunneypunkin declined again because I wasn't feeling well still.  Lovesme sent me a giant get-well card, a dozen balloons, a whole herd of flowers, a case of 7-Up, a box of Bugs Bunny Band-aids, a zebra-print body pillow, a quart of Vick's Vapo-rub, a cauldron of Campbell's condensed chicken noodle soup, a year's supply of vitamin C, a thermometer, a ten-pound box of Saltines, a hot water bottle, a private nurse, a life-size cardboard cutout of Jeremy Renner, and a raincheck for dinner when I felt better.
The difference in point of view intrigues me.  Both sisters-in-law were raised, as I was, in properly dysfunctional, perfectly lower-middle-class families so neither should be more predisposed to being positive than the other.  Their political stances, religious views, and family lifestyles are similar enough that one would expect their perspectives to be similar.
Because of being chronically fatigued and therefore often unable to get off my butt, I've had a lot of time to reflect on people's behavior.  I haven't reached a practical, logical conclusion as to the reasons for the differences in people's attitudes, but I've decided that it is a choice, and I've chosen my own point of view.  Perhaps if I sent Hatesme that life-size cardboard cutout, her outlook on life could be different.

Sugarless

The doc says these recurrent sinus troubles I've been suffering for a brazillion years now may be fungal rather than allergic.  Things that make you go, eeew!  I have a mental image of moss, mold, and mushrooms growing in my face.  (Mosses aren't fungi, but we're talking imagination here, not biology class.)
The doc recommended using a neti-pot.  I don't want to!  If I pour liquid into myself, it should be in my mouth, and it should be tasty.  My mom suggested a neti-pot some time ago.  I told my mom I was hesitant to try any home remedy from someone who grew up in the sixties, particularly a remedy using the word "pot".  My mom slapped my caboose with a kitchen utensil.
Fungus, naturally, feeds on sugar.  So guess what I'm not supposed to ingest?  SO unfair.  I'll discuss my indignation at this outrage with my uncle tomorrow morning during our weekly sixteen-ounce sweetened caffeines.  He will understand, and we will drink lattes in protest.
Meanwhile, I need to decide what to do about Pixie and Angel Doll.  They incessantly produce sugaries.  Pies.  Cookies.  Brownies.  Cakes.  Bars.  No-bakes.  They make up their own recipes, for heaven's sake.  As Mama, I am obligated to be supportive of my daughters' endeavors, and taste-test said sugaries.  There are sugar substitutes out there, but none of them like me and that hurts my feeling.  (I only have one.)
Should I compromise my conviction that nothing should ever be poured up my nose?  Will I lay off the sugar and starve out the fungus?  Must I spurn my children's talents in the kitchen?  Might I die from dessert deprivation?  Am I willing to put Nesquik, Hershey's, and Reese's into decline?  What Would Jeremy Renner Do?