Archive for January, 2007

ACT 2 FINAL SCENE OF

FIRST FIGHT BALLET

    The stage was set.  The lines clearly drawn in the shag carpet.  Hub went to work that AM and left me there alone with the liver.   Opening the refrigerator door I gazed upon the cost free culinary delight.  It had begun to thaw ever so slightly and was beginning to ooze red down the sides of the previously white butcher paper and draining into the bottom of the clear Pyrex 4 cup measuring receptacle. 

   This was not a sight that even an ardent liver lover such as myself would appreciate at 2 months pregers. I reached in and shoved this item farther back in to the fridge and decided to prepare other items on my menu.   For a few days any way.  Now under the best of circumstances I’m a rather spacey sort of individual. But being pregnant facilitated this state of being and I pursued other activities, forgetting the organ meat wedged between last weeks leftovers and a stale loaf of bread.

   All but obscured from sight, the blob began to take on a life of its own.  First a slight green fury film began growing along the red stained lines down the length of the butcher paper and into the bottom. Congealed blood mingled with green fur that almost pulsated with life. 

  At this point we both regretted that we would have to waste this food, (at least we agreed and feigned regret).  I kept promising to “do something” with it.   Each time SP reminded me of this need his voice acquired a change of tone that I found quite annoying.  Every day I looked in the back of the fridge and my stomach rolled.  Every day I closed that door just a little harder than I had intended to.  Now I was growing angry at the liver and angry at my lover.  The green furry obligation stared back at me from its semi-arctic repose.  I swear it blinked.

Seven mornings later lover boy delivered an ultimatum. “Get that thing out of the refrigerator or else!”  Knowing I could delay the task no longer I donnned protective gear and approached that white rectangular guardian of food with determination. Opening the door I reached in and grabbed the creature by the Pyrex handle while averting my head to avoid any oders.  Holding it out at arms length I made my way rapidly to the kitchen door.

Stepping out into the winter evening I headed for the dumpster a few yards from our home. I had truely intended only to dump the liver out and bring the container  back in and wash it out after pouring massive quantities of bleach over it.  However halfway to the dumpster an Alaskan evening breeze blew past the outstretched  cup and right into  my nose!  Pregnancy hormones took over and my body threatened to heave the entire days meals out in reverse.  The foul aroma was dancing around me like the Aurora Borealis.  Heaving and coughing I leaped back up the porch while simultaneously tossing everything, cup and all into the trash can on our porch. Slamming the door shut behind me I stood their gasping for fresh air.  I decided to retrieve the cup later.

I had almost forgotten the entire episode and awaited my mans arival at home.  When he hesitated to come in the house, standing far too long out on the porch, I suddenly remembered the Pyrex cup. That expensive container that I had when we got married.  The one he had admired.  Now I had not only wasted food, but I had thrown away something of great value.

Walking carefully into the home in slow motion, cup held out as if in supplication he looked at me and spoke in a tone of voice that was not only entirely new to me but very ominous as well. “Since when can this family affored to just throw away valuable cooking utinsels?” I began to sob, and attempted to explain about the smell and etc but now at the end of his long day and rope, and not having collected money owed from a client he displayed a rare but effective communication style.

“Do you really want to  throw this away?! ” he demanded.  Taken aback by the new volume I said nothing. “Well by golly lets just do it right then! I’ll make sure it gets thrown away for good!”  He flung the offending cup out the door.  Expecting a soul satisfing shater as it hit the road he waited for the noise.  But instead of that sound he heard the distinct ping, ping, ping, of pyrex bouncing across the icey surface.  Deprived of his revenge the focus of his anger now became Pyrex.  He ran outside after the item and snatched it off the ground.  Running up to the dumpster he flung with all his might and hurled it into the metalic abyss.  Ping, Ping, Ping it sang out richocheting around inside.  It didn’t break.  My man stood beside the dumpster, winter breath whirling around his head.  Looking upward he said, “God, are you trying to tell me something?” Hanging his head momentarily, he climbed INTO the dumpster, emptied the contents of the cup and brought it back into the house,  straight to the sink.  Without flinching he washed it out with hot soapy water and disinfected it. Placing it upside down in the drainer he walked by me and kissed me lightly on the forhead.  Sitting down to read the paper he mused, “Any thing that can survive that deserves a permanet place in our home.”   I never fed him liver again.  Ten years later. Count em! Ten I was standing beside our 3 foot tall kitchen counter and bumped this exact container off onto the soft linolium floor.  It shattered into a million shards of Pyrex.  We looked at each other. Close curtain.

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FIRST FIGHT

 (OF LIFE AND LIMERICK)

sighed a maiden both tender and true

I’ve done plenty of dreaming of you

for I’m in the habit

of eating welsh rarebit

and there’s no telling what I will do!

author unknown 

       I remember watching an old Andy Griffeth show where he said, “What looks like fighten to some folks is waltzen to others.”   The following is a description of a beautiful ballet performed by a newly married couple.

      We wasted no time starting the work on that  3rd member of our family brood. Our marriage had come complete with two 5 year old girls. One from his side and one from mine.  Ahhhh but now the “bean in the pot” would help to blend the flavours of this newly mixed family stew!

    Two months into the pregnancy I was quite content because I hadn’t yet thrown up  and all appeared to be going well health wise.  We were tight financially, (still) and I accepted all food donations where ever they came from.  Since we lived in Alaska, naturally some one had extra moose liver on hand.  I loved liver! Wouldn’t my frugal and thrifty hubby be proud!

     “I hate liver.”, he said trying not to grimace.  Distraught over the  realization  that I was not going to impress him and suddenly awash in pregnancy hormones, I couldn’t stop the  rush of tears that welled up in my eyes.  My lips trembled. “You.. you hav’nt had liver the (sniff) way I make it!” I said. 

     “Sweetie Pie,” (he always starts any disagreement with this phrase) “my mother has prepared liver as many ways as there are in this universe and it still makes me throw up!”  My lower lip twitched and another tear worthy of an alligator slid down my cheek.  He groaned.  “Honey Bun,” (now I knew there was no convincing him because he had used the second pre argument phrase)  “when my grandmother invited me over for supper with the rest of my family, she served the best tasting liver I’ve ever had in my life and I still had to spit it out into my napkin! It makes me sick!”

I looked at the free package of meat that represented to me, a stretching of my grocery money and turned around slowly.  More slowly than usual because the speed at which one turns when one is pouting is directly proportional to how much sympathy one generates.  It is a carefully orchestrated maneuver.  Just as my body was  at a 3/4 turn from my beloved I let go with a barely audible sob.  This strategy would never have worked 5 years later but he was new to the game as was I and well, this skirmish was mine!

   He agreed to try MY liver! Happily I began preparations for the best liver  meal he had ever eaten in his life. When I had finished cooking this,  not only would he LOVE liver, he would beg me to prepare it this way at least once a week! I was so going to impress my man!

    As we sat down at the table I failed to notice the slight green tinge around his face.  He forced a week smile. No problem though.  All that reluctance would change as soon as he tasted this gourmet fair.  I served him a heaping plate full of steamy liver strauganoff.   I sat and waited.  He stared at his plate with knife in one hand and fork in the other.  Trying to set a good example for him I sliced and stabbed a fork full of the delicacy.  “Mmmmmm”, I murmured and cast hopeful eyes in his direction.

  Five minutes had gone by and he was still slicing his liver. The chunks had begun about the size of good beef stew size meat pieces and now he had reduced each morsel to a sliver. “Sweetie Pie”, I said. (oh no! Now I had used the SP word!)  “Why haven’t you even tasted your meal yet?”   The green tinge had crept a little further up his face.  He ever so slowly lifted that fork of shredded meat to his mouth.  Actually placing it in his mouth he began to chew, and chew and chew.   He finally came up for air and downed his entire glass of milk.  Clearing his throat he said,  “That was absolutely the best liver I have ever eaten and I still don’t like liver! That tasted exactly like my grandmothers! ” 

   If he had looked closely into my eyes at that moment he would have seen one phrase in each eye that read, “web page unavailable right now”.  Regaining my internal composure,  I contemplated his words.   I had invented this recipe!  No one else had it!  What did he mean just like his grandmothers?!  Not wanting to appear to start an argument I sat there festering and feeding a growing resentment while he headed rather rapidly I thought, to the bathroom.  Well I sighed,  no accounting for some peoples tastes and pretended not to care while I cleaned the kitchen. 

   That evening there came an unexpected knock at the door.  Grinning from ear to ear my best friends’  husband dropped off a huge wrapped package of moose liver.  He jumped into his car waving a friendly goodbye.  Hubby sat in  the living room staring at the unwanted but free groceries and leaned his head back on the couch while muttering something under his breath.  I stared at the unmanna like package wrapped in its’ fresh butcher block paper.

    “Well”, I said with nervous laughter, “this is frozen through completely so there’s no need to cook it right now. It’ll take a while to thaw so I’ll just place it in this giant Pyrex measuring cup and let it thaw out in the fridge for a few days.”   “Wonderful”, was the only thing he said.  Half of me was angry but the other half was really worried about his green pallor.  I placed the liver filled Pyrex cup in the refrigerator and decided to sleep on it.  It being my resentment.

That was act one.  Next blog is act two of  the First Fight Ballet.

TWO WEEKS TILL CONUBIAL BLISS

Definition :connubial\kuh-NOO-bee-ul; -NYOO-\, adjective:
Of or pertaining to marriage, or the marriage state; conjugal; nuptial.

     I had developed into a hacking, mucous snorting, feverish and infectious bride.  Connubial relations were put on hold.  Not that I minded really.  It is terribly hard to remain romantic when the kiss begins well but the middle ends with a smothered cough trying to erupt down your mates throat.

     My man had to carry me over our threshold due to my illness and not his sense of tradition.  Ahhhh, but the water bed felt so warm and comfortable.  I had purchased this item several years before and it had never given me one moments problem. I should have remembered the omens at the wedding.

    It was a King sized monstrosity.  We thought he could sleep on  one side and I on the other in order to keep all of our germs in their proper places.  I think they must have invented the water filled tubes model the year after making this one.  Probably due to law suits.  Just as we had settled down for a much needed rest the bronchitis  once again took over my body.  A  coughing spasm sent tidal waves washing across the surface, rocking and rolling  my man back and forth  just as he was drifting off to blissful sleep.  Stuffing my pillow into my face only resulted in a muffled cough with more hang ten type waves.  I tried to leave the bed by rocking my body up and over the edge.  By this time he was already on the opposite side and the resulting tsunami sent him washing up and over the side right out of the bed.  “Sorry “, I said between spasms.  I ran to the bathroom and chugged more Robotussin.  Back to the marriage chamber I eased my fatigued body on to  the waters warm surface as best I could.  A few more half hearted coughs and we both began to drift off in to a deep and much needed slumber. 

    At some point during the night I was awakened to hear an indistinct mumbling. I couldn’t quite figure out where it was coming from.  My back was warm, and on some dim level I realized I had all of the covers.  That’s when it occurred to me that my feet were braced against the side rail where I had been lying.  My back had gotten cold, (odd in a heated water bed) and I  had shoved my new groom all the way over against the oposite side rail, having wedged his face  in between the rail and the cushy mattress. Why were we having such a hard time waking up? In my hazy fog I  pressed harder with my feet to get as warm and close as I could to this man who was the only source of heat. My teeth began to chatter and I was shaking violently. It was not due to fever.  We were both suffering from hypothermia! Somehow the heater in the bed had gone out.  I shook my husband out of his stupor and told him what was going on.   We both sat there bleary eyed, and teeth chattering.  Looking at the bed, but too tired and cold to investigate, we dragged all the covers down onto the carpeted floor and snuggled together for dear life,  germs or no germs.  After about 45 minutes of shivering and teeth chattering we began to warm.  Both of us let out little sighs of contentment, and began to drift off.  I coughed.

Join me tomorrow when you learn about:  THE FIRST ARGUMENT!

PLEASE LET THE HONEYMOON BE OVER!

Once the issue was settled the pastor finally walked in and began the ceremony. (Please don’t let me cough I prayed silently.) The rest of the service wore on and I only cleared my throat a few times. Afterward I escaped to the powder room and threw a hacking fit. Hubby taps lightly on the door asking if I am ok.  Staggering into his arms I declare that I think I am coming down with something.  Just the words that a celibate and new husband wants to hear from his bride before their wedding night. 

After the formalities were dispensed with we climbed in to “Old Yellow”.  This was the family hand me down pick up truck that had been through various members of his clan. We hadn’t even had time to wash the truck befor the family decorators had gotten access to it during the wedding. So adorned with dirt, toilet paper, traditional tin cans and frozen shaving cream, we drove to downtown  Anchorage for a fun filled romantic honeymoon night of coughing and hacking.

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a dark, cold and the roads were paved with icephalt night.  That’s the second type of road pavement they have in Alaska. Asphalt in the summer and icephalt in the winter. Those are also the only two seasons they have up  where we lived.  It was a long dreary winter, and a magnificently beautiful summer, all three weeks of it.

We drove to the first motel and grabbed our suitcases out of the truck.  Walking up to the desk, we asked for a room with a jacuzzi.  “I’m sorry”, said the night clerk “but we don’t have any rooms with working jacuzzi’s”. My new husband cast a worried glance in my direction. I was leaning against the wall and hacking away with a cough spasm. He started to sign for the room when I gasped out a laboured, “NO! I’ve got to soak in a jacuzzi!”  I was sweating profusely and my groom was wondering if we shouldn’t be spending our first night in the emergency room instead.

We left to drive around Anchorage looking for the needed therapy of a jucuzi.  To obtian such a room we would have to tap into the rent money that we had gotten as gift from the money tree.  Robbing Peter to pay Paul we found our next likely retreat.  Hubby left me in the truck with the heater running as I was now seized with cold shivers.  He tried to come running back out to me with a huge grin on his face indicating he had located the right place. However said grin disappeared rapidly as he slipped on a piece of icephalt and glided effortlessly straight into Old Yellow.  I opened the door as he was trying to extricate himself from under neath the truck and smacked him  right back underneath.

Gallantly he pulled himself up into a standing position and slid around behind the vehicle to once again pull the luggage out.   We were given a room on the second floor and my sweetie pie turned the water on to warm up while I undressed to climb into the tub. Sweetie was bringing the luggage into the room just as I prepared to sink my hacking, coughing self into the steaming hot water.  Reaching over to turn the dial for the theraputic bubbles I craved,  aggravation mingled with feelings of fatigue due to the fact that nothing was happening.  I began to sob, and cough, then started laughing hysterically. Hubby was getting really worried now.

 Telling me to stay in the hot water till he returned, he not so gallantly went back to the office desk to register our complaint.  This time he went to the room first and checked to make certain the unit worked.  Wrapped in a huge bath towel and supported by my man, I made my way to the next room.  He left me there to get the luggage.  I dropped my towel on the floor and stepped one leg into the tub.  Unfortunately a wet rag had fallen and dropped into the water where my foot slipped on it causing me to fall and drop on one knee into the water. My other foot hit the metal track on the tub creating a nice gash on my little toe just as sweetie walked in to check on me. 

 I couldn’t read the look on his face as we had only been married a very short time but it was really interesting. I settled into the wonderful, steamy hot bubbles anyway.  “You are bleeding”,  he said as a small edie of blood whirled in the bubbles. “Yep”, I replied.  “Don’t you want me to bandage that?” he asked.  I looked at him very seriously and after wheezing a bit said, “I AM NOT MOVING”.   He backed out of the bathroom and busied himself putting away the luggage.  

It was 9:00 pm by this time so after 3 hours of alternately letting cold water out and refilling the tub with hot water I was ready to emerge.  After drying and putting foofoo and sweet smelly stuff, (between blowing my nose and hacking) I put my frilliest, sexiest nightie on  and sached, with a slight limp, over to the bed where my lover was watching late night news.  He glanced up at his mate, wet hair, sultry smile, and hacking cough.  He got up and turned the covers down on the other bed. 

“What are you doing?”, I managed to wheeze because now I was losing my voice.  “I have to go back to work in two days and I can’t afford to get sick. You are sleeping here until you are better!” he calmly stated.   I don’t know if I ‘ll ever have the nerve to risk a second honey moon.

LIVE LONGER WITH LESS STRESS PART 2

Now where was I? Oh yes! The wedding story.  This is not a piece of fiction.  There we were, pink dress, silver heels, and butterscotch corduroy suit. 

The day prior to the wedding my future sister in-law took me on a marathon shopping tour all over Anchorage Alaska.  That morning I  had a fever and slight cough.  I had also missed two nights sleep due to anticipation. As she dragged me all over town, to get this and that for the cheap…I mean financially downsized wedding, I could feel myself beginning to succumb to illness. NO! Not the day before my wedding! I bought cough drops, vitamin C,  herbs, and a medicine man rattle just for good measure.  I pressed on through the misery, confident in the knowledge that I was about to make a fine catch.  I mean acquire an excellent partner for life.  

Glowing with that well known bride to be radiance, or too much robotussin I ‘m  not certain which, I walked as cautiously as a woman who had  worn Army boots would be able to in high heels. Grace is not my middle name.  Nearly spraining an ankle I waited at the alter with my beloved and prayed not to cough during the ceremony.  The tickle was welling up in my throat like a volcano ready to erupt. This was bringing tears to my eyes which most of the folks there delighted to see, smiling as they knew for certain they  were tears of joy!  My future husband kept looking at me in a puzzled manner.  I smiled and pretended to clear my throat trying to scratch that horrible itch with out actually coughing. I prayed I wouldn’t open my mouth to say those magical words, “I do” and just prior to saying them erupt with one of those horrible coughing spasms that had been seizing hold of me the night before.

The pastor was late and I was beginning to sweat from fever. Again those in the room smiled thinking I was just a nervous bride. The other future sister in-law let out some words under her breath that were not normally heard at weddings. Looking over, she was banging on her camera and looking rather panicked. Not a good omen.  My then 5 year old daughter, was busy arguing with her slightly older and soon to be cousin over weather they actually had to hold hands walking down the isle. He said no because she was the flower girl and he was the ring bearer. She said yes because they were both all dressed up. He said he could fix that and a mild scuffle ensued.

 Once the issue was settled the pastor finally walked in and began the ceremony. (Please don’t let me cough I prayed silently.) The rest of the service wore on and I only cleared my throat a few times. Afterward I escaped to the powder room and threw a hacking fit. Hubby taps lightly on the door asking if I am ok.  Staggering into his arms I declare that I think I am coming down with something. 

 Just the words that a celibate and new husband wants to hear from his bride before their wedding night.  I bet you can’t wait to find out what happened. Tune in tomorrow.

LIVE LONGER WITH LESS STRESS

                          TRUMP YEARS VS REAL PEOPLE YEARS

         Mr. and Mrs. Trump have now made it one whole year! Yayyyy!

Ratah taa tatah taaa taaaa taaaa ta taaaah tah! So what you say?

Big hairy deal! One whole year. Now wait, wait, wait! You’ve

got to understand the time lines involved here.

        It’s just like dog years versus human years. Wealthy celebrity

types pay a heavy metabolic price, (this is real science here) for

having to cope with all that fame money and notoriety. They

are actually living the equivalent of 7 years for every one of ours.

We in our sheltered little, unknown lives, have no idea of the

terrible cost these people must endure due to their high society

ways. Just look at all the pomp and circumstance, the glory,

money and adulation! It stresses me out to just think about it.

What a awful burden dealing with all of that!

         Compare their wedding and first year of life to mine and my

husbands. None of the stress involved with dealings of high

finance. We started our marriage on a shoe string. Actually it

was more like a piece of dental floss. Used. All we

had to worry about was how to invest the $300 that had been

given to us on the money tree at our wedding. The rent due

on our first home was $375. Problem solved! And the wedding

itself was a masterpiece of low finance!

           First came the dress. My best friend helped me by actually

purchasing my little pink beauty on sale at Montgomery Wards.

What to do about shoes and being broke? I had a pair of silver high

heels that would go nicely. One problem, my fiancee was 5’4″ and I

was 5’5″. Four inch heels made us look rather like Napoleon and Josephine.

We decided he would just have to stick his hand inside his coat..

His suit was taken out of moth balls. It was a corduroy affair, butter

scotch in color. He knew that purchasing rather than renting

his High School prom suit 18 years prior, would end up

being a wise economical choice. After all, a handsome debonair man

who can still fit into his high school prom suit so many years later was

bound to be a wise choice for a mate. A thrifty and frugal provider as it were.

           When financial choices are limited, as are frugal mates, there

is soooo much less stress. And with less stress you live longer!

See how much less rapidly you age! I so don’t envy the

Trumps! Tune in tomorrow to find out how this Cinderella Type

tale ends.

TALKING AIN’T ALL ITS CRACKED UP TO BE

HILLARY WANTS TO CHAT WITH ME?

Hillary wants to run for president and says that she

wants to chat with us. To talk our way out of this war

I guess. I think I’ll send her in to negotiate with the

terrorists and maybe she can make some headway. But

she’ll probably end up just losing her head.

Well I think I’ll decline that conversation. I never have

trusted her and I certainly wouldn’t want to talk to her

about anything going on in my life. The last time

I was required to talk to anybody I ended up getting

married and having 7 kids. I was living

in Anchorage Alaska at the time. I needed to maintain 12

credit hours to keep my funding going. I looked through

the schedule and the only class available was an American

Sign Language Class. In that class our instructor assigned

us the task of introducing ourselves to the very next deaf

person we saw in the community. I boarded the local public

transit system and looked for any deaf person. Scanning

the crowd I saw a man sitting alone and apparently signing

to himself. “Oh GREAT”, I thought. The first person I

meet is talking to himself. Ahh but the assignment came

first and I walked over as best I could in the swaying bus

and introduced myself. But I couldn’t understand him.

His signs didn’t look right. After about 20 minutes of

communication attempts I grew suspicious. Using my

voice I asked, “Are you deaf?!” Smiling broadly he

replied, “Nope, just practicing.” He had been using a

form of signed English, while I was using ASL.

Kind of like a New Yorker trying to talk with a deep woods

woman from Georgia. Definitely a communication barrier.

And that was how we met. I ended up marrying this amusing

fellow 23 years ago and fortunately this required communique

ended up on a positive note. But I don’t think terrorists

will be so friendly and I don’t think I’d trust them if I

was Hillary. They have never been happy with us and

I’m certain they’d all be willing to talk right up till those

blades were done being sharpened.