MY MIND WANDERED — and never came back!

Greetings and Salutations from the Foster Home. If you’ve been visiting my blog lately, I know that you are most likely annoyed by the Valentine’s Day greeting in the last post. What with it being March and twenty-one days past Valentine’s Day and all. So I thought it was time I updated it to something more current (why does the word current look like it’s misspelled? Do you ever do that — look at a word you’ve typed and it just looks wrong? Maybe it’s just me.)

Anyway, since I’m on the subject of words and also because I don’t have anything to write about anyway, I would like to ask a question: Do you have any words that annoy you whenever people misuse them? I think my biggest two pet peeves with the misuse of words is patronize and nauseous.

Whenever I’m watching a show on TV and someone says “don’t patronize me” and they pronounce it to rhyme with “ate” instead of “at” I want to punch them in the head. (unless they mean they don’t want someone to be a patron of their establishment. Then I don’t mind) but otherwise whooooo boy!

The same thing with nauseous. If someone says they are nauseous, chances are they’re right — they ARE making me sick. Otherwise they should say they are nauseated, which is what this post is making me right now so I’m going to stop whining.

Xo xo
Leeuna

PS. If I can get my camera to upload the photos (stupid piece of junk) I will post some of my latest crochet creations. I’ve made several baby sweaters, caps and booties. Also some purses and scarves that I’m very proud of. I have become quite the crocheting fool.

*

According to a People Exclusive written by Alicia Dennis:  “Having 19 kids – and willing to welcome more – isn’t just a Duggar thing any more.”

The article talks about the Bates Family — Gil and Kelly and their 19 kids.

While I admire a woman who can raise that many kids, I’m definitely not one of them.

For years whenever someone asked me why I only had the one kid, I would tell them that I didn’t need to have another one because I got it right the first time.

But now, after all these years I think it’s time I told the truth.

The real reason I decided to not have another kid after my son was born is because raising him caused PTSD, a nervous tick in my eyelid and an anxiety disorder that lingers still to this very day.

He was a colicky baby and he cried from the moment I brought him home from the hospital until he was about three months old. By the time his colic disappeared, he was spoiled rotten, his sleep schedule was non existent and I was a crazy person with a wrinkle above my eyes that made me look like a Shar Pei puppy. The experts (those who had successfully raised a kid) told me to let him cry it out, but what they didn’t realize was that my nerves were so jangled that the sound of his crying was more torturous than listening to someone scrape chalk across a blackboard or being water boarded.

Then he learned to crawl and he spent the next few months searching for something to put into his mouth that would either choke him to death or poison him. The rest of his time was spent trying to find an electrical outlet that he could stick his fingers into or something sharp with which to gouge out his eye.

And then he learned to walk!

It seemed that he was constantly trying to injure himself. When he wasn’t climbing to the top of the cabinets or one of the trees in the back yard, he was running toward the street or plowing up the dirt or sidewalk with his face or some other part of his body. I was constantly chasing after him to save him from one looming disaster or another every time we went outside.

One day when he was two he decided he would run next door to the neighbor’s house where their gigantic Saint Bernard was waiting to gobble up anyone who stepped foot into their yard. I ran after him and ran smack into a clothesline which was the exact same height as my forehead. I’m not kidding when I say that it addled me for a good five minutes. I walked around for days with a huge red welt that was roughly the size of the equator across my forehead. Not to mention I was so embarrassed that I avoided my neighbors for the next six months.

Over the years there were other episodes of chaos like minor car accidents that left both of us without cars on several different occasions, speeding tickets, less than average report cards, embarrassing visits to his school on parent-teacher days, and lots of other little things that we can now look back at and laugh, even though it was far from funny back then.

He finally grew up, graduated high school, attended college, got married and had a son of his own, and he turned out okay despite my poor mothering skills. I’m just glad I didn’t break him.

Despite all the nerve-shattering, mind-breaking, traumatic stress-inducing, hand-wringing years of child rearing, I wouldn’t have taken a million dollars for my kid. However, I wouldn’t have given two cents for another one.

And that is why my son was an only child.

***

I woke up early this morning and decided that today would be the day I would find a solution to the pitiful state of the economy, bring about world peace and discover a cure for male pattern baldness.

But I didn’t have any clean underwear so I had to do the laundry instead.

So yeah, that didn’t happen.

I hope all of you had a wonderful time during the holidays. Ours was nice. Full of love, peace, family and friends and too much good food. (I gained back ten of the thirty pounds I lost during the summer).

I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions this year. I’ve had a whole year to improve my lifestyle and I failed miserably, so I didn’t figure a list was going to motivate me all that much. Besides, I’ve been having some issues. So many in fact that I’m like a lifetime magazine subscription.

First of all there was the aging thing. It has taken me a while to come to terms with my last birthday. But hey, I may be 58 but I’ve still got it. I don’t often know what to do with it, or even where I left it most of the time, but I’ve still got it. I would like to take this time to thank all of you for your encouraging comments on my previous post where I whined about my age.

I hate being depressed like that. Thank goodness for mood enhancing drugs. This is the first post I have written in months. I have been spending most of my time watching TV and crocheting. I’ve made seven afghans, three scarves, a cover for the ottoman in my office and several pairs of slippers. And a partridge in a pear tree.

My crocheted slippers keep my toes warm and toasty, even though the bows look more like mouse ears. Oops!

Well, not really that last thing. I can’t crochet a tree OR a partridge. But I did learn to crochet slippers and they are so warm and cozy. I just love them since I never wear shoes inside the house. They keep my  feet warm and toasty and it’s almost like being barefoot only better.

Maybe I should have crocheted some extra underwear.  All these world problems aren’t going to fix themselves, now are they?

__

Apparently I’ve been dead for nearly six months and nobody even told me.

I’m kidding. I’m not dead. Actually I’ve been suffering with a severe bout of depression and a general feeling of “life-is-a-pile-of-crap-syndrome” for the past few months. And also I have developed tendinitis in my shoulder from constantly flipping  pages on the calendar. Who can believe that it’s November already?

When we last spoke, I told y’all about my new little kitty. He is doing fine and has grown into a catten. I think he’s going to be a small cat though, when comparing him with Mister Cat.

Oh, and thanks for all the ideas for names that you all came up with. I liked them all, but actually he named himself. His official name is Bug.

I just had to name him Bug after several days of wearing him around the house clinging to the leg of my jeans. He started climbing me like a tree after I’d had him a couple of days. Every time I put him down to go into another room, he would follow closely behind and grab on to my pants leg and crawl up my side or my back and settle onto my shoulder once again. Hence the name Bug. And Lord help me whenever I wear shorts or just a tee shirt at night. My poor legs look like I’ve been in a blackberry thicket. And the heavier he gets, the deeper the scratches are.

About the only time he isn’t in my lap or crawling on me is when he is eating, playing with his toys or the other cat or using his litter box. Oh and by the way, he is getting along splendidly with Mister Cat. (He seems to like Bug and often acts like his mother. I didn’t know that male cats would groom little kittens.  At first, I was afraid he would hurt him.)

I have a ton of photos of them on my camera but for some reason I can’t get them to download to my computer.

If I can shake myself out of this funk, I may begin posting more frequently. However, I have been questioning myself lately and wondering if I should even keep this blog going.

Did you ever just wake up one morning and feel like you’d seen it all, done it all and written about it all and that you’re so ancient that no one would give a rat’s ass about anything you might have left to say? I have. This morning.

I just had another birthday and I am fifty-frikkin-eight years old.  58!!!  How did I get so old? I don’t remember all those years passing me by. But obviously they did.

I can remember vinyl records, eight track tapes, cassette tapes, CDs which have now gone the way of digital recording. When did all that change come about? I remember the Kennedy assassination, the Vietnam war, American Bandstand, the Beatles’ invasion onto the music scene. (although I sometimes can’t remember where I ate last, I can still remember the useless crap).

I HATE BEING THIS OLD. IT SUCKS GOAT BALLS!

I can’t seem to find my niche anymore. I’m too old to be a mommy blogger, too old even to be an over-forty grandma blogger. Is there a demographic for ancient? I feel like a damn ancestor. Is there a niche for the ancestor blogger? Maybe I should start one. Is there anyone out there who would like to join me in writing a blog for old dowagers? What could we write about that would interest others?

Our rheumatism? Irregularity? Incontinence?

I’m mad at everything today!

Well, everything except you. You’re nice. Have you done something new with your hair? I love that outfit you’re wearing. Have you lost weight?

Wait, what??

Yes, you heard right; We have a new kitten. Another one.

I didn’t mean for it to happen. I swear, it wasn’t my fault. Blame the granddaughter for this one. Well, her and my inability to turn away a little orphan kitty all dirty, flea-ridden, hungry and scared. We could have taken it to the animal shelter but they are overrun with cats and kittens now and the chances of it getting adopted are slim to none. I didn’t have the heart to sentence it to death. (I’d make a horrible judge.)   So naturally I said “We have to keep it.”

Hi. I juss got dopted. Mom say I uggwee. She say it look like I sticked my nose in a bottle of ink. I not that uggwee. Siewyiswee?

Ryan’s Cat (RC) is totally confused. He doesn’t know what to make of the kitty. I think he’s afraid of it. He is angry at us too. He acts like we’ve offended him in some unforgivable manner. He’s taken to his pouting shelf in the bathroom, only coming out long enough to eat, use his litter box, and sigh at us and roll his eyes like a teenager.

The kitty wants to play with him but he’s having none of it.

Whoa! Das a giant kitteh up dere!

I love watching the two of them check each other out.

Hellooooo up dere, Giant Kitteh.

I wonder if the two of them will eventually become friends.

Ummm...ya wanna come down and pway wiff me, Giant Kitteh?

I haven’t picked a name for the kitten yet. Of course we never did actually name Ryan’s Cat. We call him “Cat” most of the time. We can’t call both of them “Cat”, so I thought about naming the kitten Freckles. Frex for short. (I’m not sure at this point but I think it’s a girl. Maybe. (But if you all remember, I thought “Cat” was a girl until he grew those huge male thing-a-ma-jiggs.)

I’m not very good at naming cats. I need some ideas. Anyone have a suggestion?

Ooooo maybe I'll be that hewge someday? Maybe I go eat more fuud now..

***

**back by popular demand — a post from the past. If you’ve read this before, feel free to skip over it. I’ll never know. I do wish all the dads a Happy Father’s Day. **

My father called me Leona. I called him collect a couple of times after I got older but he refused to accept the charges.

The way the story goes, he left the house one morning several months before I was born. He told my mother that he was going to the store for a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t come back for eight years. (I’m aware that this is a long-running joke that’s been used by a lot of women whose husbands have suddenly left, but this time it’s no joke, it’s true).

The day he finally returned, I answered the door and there stood a strange man with familiar eyes and hair the color of mine. He asked if my mother was home. She came to the door and introduced us.

Mother:  “This is Leeuna, your daughter. Leeuna, this is your father.”

Father:    “Hi Leona”

Me:        “Wait. Wha…??”

Mother:  “Did you finally get your cigarettes?”

Father:  “Yeah, but I smoked ‘em already. Can I come home?”

Mother:  “Let me check. Um…oops…sorry. No! You don’t live here anymore.”

Me:       “??! Did he just call me Le-o-na!”

Not long after that my sisters and I learned to spell the word divorce when our mother decided it was time she got one, and our lives continued as usual. Four females in a house with pink bedspreads and ruffles.

So I was basically raised with no male influence in my life whatsoever. I grew up with the attitude that like shoes in the shower, men were totally unnecessary, except in certain circumstances like for example if you need to remove the lid from a jar of relish or if you need to move a piano.

That kind of upbringing might account a little bit for my being married four times. Then again it could simply be that my ex-husbands were all total douchebags. Whatever.

I saw my father a few times after I got older. Sometimes at the grocery store, once in the hospital after he had been beaten severely by one of his drinking buddies and once at the funeral home when my grandmother (his mother) died. I felt like I had stumbled into the wrong family gathering: he shook my hand, called me “Leona” and thanked me for coming. I later received a thank-you card in the mail from his family.

Then there was that time he died and I didn’t go to his funeral. I was busy. I had to stay home that day and remove the lint from the clothes dryer. Or maybe I had an appointment that day to have the dog’s teeth bleached. I really don’t remember. I just know something more important came up.

Whoever said that blood is thicker than water obviously didn’t come from the same gene pool as my father. He thought of blood only as something that stained one’s shirt and sometimes caused one to require stitches. DNA meant “Do Not Ask…me what my youngest daughter’s name is because I do not know.”

Not that I’m bitter.

I realize that the name Leeuna is a hard name to pronounce, especially for those who aren’t familiar with foreign languages and gibberish and for fathers who have been chronically absent.  Actually it’s just two simple little names linked together: Lee and Una, pronounced Lee-you-na.

Someone once commented that it sounded Hawaiian.  Actually I think it is Native American, probably Cherokee. Loosely translated it means “Baby-Ugly-Like-Possum”. Had my father been present for the event he would never have called me Leona which is probably French for “whats-her-name”.

Any male with a healthy sperm count can be a father. It takes little to no effort and in some cases only a few seconds to father a child. However, it takes a real man to be a dad.

So for all you Real Men out there who are Dads and who know your children so well you can even pronounce their names correctly, I salute you and I wish you all a Happy Father’s Dad’s Day this Sunday.

For all you dead-beat sperm-donor type fathers out there, might I suggest a voyage across shark infested waters in a boat with no bottom.

Not that I’m bitter.

So, since my foot has brought us closer together and we’re now bosom buddies and all, I thought I’d give you the complete package. No, not that package!

This one:

We're the Blurries. This is how we look in real life -- all blurry and out of focus. Bah!

Oh? And most of y’all probably already know that Wayne owns a contracting business? Well, on Thursday, he came home and he was kinda holding his left arm and I noticed there was a little blood on his shirt, and he said, “I fell off a roof today and it feels like I may have broken my arm,” and all the while he was telling me this, he was laughing.

I wasn’t!! I was thisclose to going all to pieces and I was all “Ohmigod! I knew this was going to happen sooner or later, hurry, get in the car and I’ll drive you to the hospital, can you move your fingers, omigod, you’ve gashed your elbow….”

And he’s all, “Honey! Calm down. I fell off the roof first thing this morning. I’ve worked all day and I got the job finished up. I’ll just take a couple aspirin and a shower and it’ll be okay by tomorrow.”

And while he has had some pain, I’m happy to say that his arm is feeling better. He never did go for an ex-ray and his upper bicep is purple and green, and his elbow is still swollen, but he’s doing well. He mowed the lawn today and took Ryan (youngest grandson) camping tonight.

However, I can’t say the same for myself. I’m still trying to get ahold of myself and calm down.

Here is a photo of my morning coffee ritual with my favorite coffee mug. And the expression on BOTH mugs look exactly alike.

This is my expression every morning until I've had about three of these full of coffee. If someone tries to talk to me, I just show them the cup.

***

I’ve been thinking about my blog lately and I’ve decided to make some changes. The reason for these changes is because I’ve been reading a lot of  ”mommy blogs” lately and I’ve noticed that the ones I keep going back to are the ones where the blogger gets intimate with her readers. (and no not that kind of intimate. tsk, tsk!)

It’s just that they are open and sharing with their lives and they post lots of photos of themselves and of their kids and other family members on their blog and when you read them you feel more like your reading a real person. (and also they don’t write these run-on sentences that are a mile long, the way I do)  However there is one small problem.  These women are all young and attractive.  I’m neither of these things.

But I’ve decided to stop hiding behind this computer screen and come on out of the closet. (no not that closet. tsk, tsk! Although I don’t see anything wrong with that closet either, if that’s your thing.)

So without further ado, here is a photo for your enjoyment.

Yes, that’s my foot. Actually, its my favorite pair of sandals.  Yeah, they’re old, but they’re comfy and cool and I like them.

Here’s a side view that shows the sole of the sandal:

Now that you’re more familiar with my foot, I hope this will bring us all closer together.

xo

PS: I really need to scrub those baseboards and that door.  WTH! Where did all that dirt come from and why did I just now notice it.  I think I need to clean my glasses.

**

Spring has finally returned to our neck of the woods.

I love spring time. I look forward to it more with each passing year. I usually start counting down the days right after Christmas; winter doesn’t seem that long if you do it that way.

Yesterday the temperatures were in the mid-seventies, so I decided to shed my jeans, put on my bathing suit and start to work on my tan.

That’s when I discovered that a horrible crime had been committed sometime during the long winter.

When I looked at my reflection in the mirror I screamed like a panther.

Somebody had stolen my legs!

They had been replaced by a pair of legs that, I swear, belonged to a chicken at one time. The thighs were covered in cottage cheese and there were tiny blue and purple lines running every which way. It reminded me of a page out of a road Atlas.

I ran screaming to Wayne and he immediately began to map out our vacation on my left calf.

“These aren’t my legs” I sobbed. “I’m calling the Sheriff. Somebody broke in the house and took mine while I was asleep.”

“Now, calm down,” Wayne advised. “they’ll look fine once they’re tanned.”

(The man never gets excited! I could tell him the house is burning to the ground and he would say, “Okay, let me get my shoes on and I’ll go have a look…”)

“But honey, I can’t walk around all summer with these lumpy, blue veined, chicken legs. There’s no way that I am going outside until winter!”

I pulled on my ragged sweat pants and slunk away to the kitchen, feeling like a scolded dog.

My daughter would be back from the beach in the morning. I couldn’t wait to tell her what had happened. I knew she would be sympathetic! She knows all about legs and how important they are. The next morning I was waiting on the porch when she drove up.

I noticed it the moment she got out of the car!

I should have known!

She was wearing a pair of Daisy Duke shorts and MY LEGS! I recognized them right away cause they were tanned and shapely and there was nary a vein in sight! And not one cottage-cheesey lump could be seen anywhere.

Kids! Why do they think they can just take anything they see lying around, without even asking?

I was all set to give her a good shaking and demand that she return them immediately, but then I noticed how happy she looked. So I just sighed and decided not to let on that I knew she’d taken them.

And, after all, the children WILL inherit everything we own, after Wayne and I are gone.

Oh well! I might just as well let her enjoy her inheritance while she’s young.

And I’ll have to admit…they do look great on her!

Like Wayne says, these legs might not be all that bad. Once they get some sun.

Incidentally, I’m once again hangin’ with dufus this week. Yes! I won the weekly caption contest at his blog again. I’m just awesome that way. Bahhha! If you haven’t already been there — go now.