Puppy Doody

 Yesterday was errand day for me so Butch had Puppy Duty (doody 😆) all day. I wasn't feeling exactly confident about his puppy watching skills but the errands must needs be run and I couldn't take the little pooper with me. 

So, after a list of dire warnings and vehement instructions, which were delivered via pointing finger, complete with colorful and descriptive possible disaster scenarios, including, but not limited to, said ankle biter getting caught under the woodpile (again) and the horrific and painful death that would ensue, I left the house knowing that Butch didn't hear a single word I said. Spouting a half-verbalized parting shot as I walked out the door -- "If ANYTHING happens to that little rug rat ..." , I received in return a wave of the hand, an eye roll worthy of any 15 year old, and a "Just go already. Geez. We've got this." 

I drove away with many misgivings and concerns but I had no choice but to go and leave the little scamp to his fate.

*Hours and hours and hours later* 

I drove up to the house where four big dogs ran out to greet me as usual.

 No white puppy. 

Butch emerged from the house, surreptitiously looking around, almost as if he's lost something. 

Still no white puppy. Hmmm... Alarm bells going off.

I park the car, fend off four big dogs greeting me home and... oh look, here comes Cody the white puppy (who looks just like a tasty little white rabbit to any passing predator), out of the woods and off the hill behind the house. By himself. Looking deliriously happy and covered in mud, and a mouth full of what looks curiously like fresh bear poo.

Cody isn't yet three months old. Did I mention that? 

There are thousands of acres of state land back there. Did I fail to mention that also?

Here came Butch, smiling weakly, sees the puppy, a flash of pure relief crosses his face, which he then tries to hide looking nonchalant as if he knew where the pupper was all the time.

Uh huh.

"Heh. Heh. He disappears fast doesn't he? Heh, heh."

"I TOLD you that before I left. He's an escape artist extraordinaire."

Butch grinning brightly, "He always comes back though!"

Wow. "Always? So this happened more than once?"

Butch laughs (nervously?) and says, "All day! But he always came back! (phew)"

"LUCKY. FOR. YOU." 

I think Butch's puppy sitting days are numbered.  Sheeesh. 🤨

Be Still My Beating Heart

 Butch walked in the door from work the other day and instead of saying, "Hey baby, how was your day?" Or something of that ilk, he spouted, "What the heck is an 'oily stool'?" (Pronounced "O-lee stewl")

 

I smiled, closed my eyes and put my hand on my heart, "You say the SWEETEST things. You're sweeping me off my feet. Be still my beating heart. I may faint from..."

He rudely interrupted my beautiful soliloquy, "Okay, okay, okay. But what does it meeeeean?" 

"Gross. I don't know... Why are you asking me that?"

"Because I hear it everyday on a drug commercial on my way home from work and I decided I needed to know what that means. What is it?"

"And you thought your wife would know this, how?"

"You're smart. You know about all those bodily function things." ("Bawdilee funk-shun thangs")

"You flatterer you." 

"Sigh! Do you know or not?"

"Well, not really. I mean it's, well... it's like when. .. you see there's a... your poo gets... okay, I don't know."

Butch rolls his eyes and says, "Look it up on Google." ("Gewgul")

I barked out a laugh, "OMG. Do you know what will come up if I Google 'Oily stool'? The pictures I'll get? No thanks. You'll just have to bear not knowing. Sorry. Call your mother. I've heard you two gleefully discussing worms, boils and cankers. Maybe she'll know and y'all can have another delightful discussion while I don't listen."

Butch hmphed and said, "Well great, thanks for the no help. So, then answer this, what is a 'foul discharge'?" 

OMG

"Butch, stop it my love! I can't take any more sweet talk!  I'm overcome with emotion. I think I'm gonna faint. Take me in your arms!!" I head towards him with my arms open and my lips puckered, "Muah, muah, muah!"

Butch scurries away grumbling, "Sunny beaches, ask a simple question..."

Ha ha I knew that would work.  ;)

Fleeing the Scene

 Detective: "So, Officer, what happened here?"

Officer: "Well, as far as I can figure, after talking to the witnesses and the wife of the Perp, this was a case of a birthday surprise gone wrong."

Detective: "Ah. One of those again. Tell me what happened so we can wrap this up and let these people get outta here."

Officer: "The wife of the Perp, a Butch Nelson, wanted to surprise her husband for his birthday at work. She called a Texas friend of theirs, who was visiting Missoula, to help her out, thinking, in her words, "He'd get a cake and some sparklers, for crying out loud." But the Texas friend had different plans and being a guy with, and I quote here, "No brains in his head", ordered up one a those girls who jump outta cakes. 

Detective: "Uh oh."

Officer: " Yeah. So, all the guys at the Perp's workplace were called outside and standing around ogling this scantily clad girl when they called the Perp, Butch, out to see his birthday "surprise". When the Perp came out and saw the guys standing there grinning like possums and this pretty girl wearing cowboy boots and big blonde hair smiling brightly at him, he took one look at the spectacle, froze, then threw his coffee mug at the lot of them, ran to his truck and fled the scene. I'm charging him with hit and run with a Yeti, possible endangerment with a caffeinated deadly weapon, and fleeing the scene. His wife is sorely peeved at the Texas friend and said, "Sheesh!" a lot, although she was also laughing hysterically. She may be nuts. So, that's it. The witnesses said they enjoyed themselves immensely and no harm was done. We've put out an APB on the Perp but he's nowhere to be found."

Detective: "Well, good work Officer. I think we're done here. Let these people go back to work. So, uh, where's the girl?"

Officer: "Oh, she had another birthday party to attend."

Detective: "Oh darn. I mean, uh, yep, good police work there Officer. Let me know if you find the Perp."

Officer: "I think he's headed for the hills."

(Sidenote from the peeved wife - Oh how I wish I'd been there to see this!! 🤣🤣🤣)

Happy Birthday Perp! I mean, Butch!  🥳🥳🥳🥳

My New Book is Out!! 😁

 I can't believe it! Finally published! Out on Amazon, in Kindle and paperback! Whoop!!!  🤩

"Caller's Spring - The Sweet Life" 

Me or Thee?

Soo.... those of you who know me and have been reading my stories know that at times I can be, oh how do I put this? Immature? Inappropriate? Jeuvenile? Maybe not always politically correct? And I'm about to do it again, so hold on to your hats. 

Before I get rolling here, please know that I am NOT making fun of people with split or multiple personalities. I'm not. I would never. SPD (Split Personality Disorder - an acronym I just made up) is a very serious and difficult mental illness which many people suffer from and I have total and complete compassion for them, especially since I seem to have it myself. 

I mean, I could have it. I don't know where the line is drawn between having real SPD and simply having a constant battle inside oneself between the Extrovert and the Introvert. I think that line must be pretty darn fine. It is for me anyway. 

May I give you a few examples and you, dear reader, can decide for yourself whether this War of the Personalities is indeed normal for everyone or whether I need to be making reservations for the nearest loony bin (not making fun of loony bins). Oh, that's not an appropriate term either? Well, my shy self says "I apologize," and my outgoing self says, "Bite me." See? She's so obnoxious! 

Anyhoooo... a few examples... 

A lady in Walmart gave me a nice compliment the other day. 

Since my Introvert self is a total compliment-deflector, my Extrovert self, who LOVES compliments, immediately took over and I suddenly morphed into my classic Mae West impression (or I thought I did anyway). 

I struck a pose, hands on hips, looking coy and sexy (NOT), preparing to say her iconic, "Come on up and see me some time," but what actually came out was, "Thank you. Thank you very much," which for some reason ended up just sounding like a really bad Elvis impression. Ugh, where did that come from? 

This complimentary person didn't really know what to do with my schizophrenic impression (also not making fun of schizophrenics). She suddenly looked fairly alarmed, realizing that she had mistakenly talked to an escaped lunatic and asked me if I was all right. Then she scurried away, looking back over her shoulder to make sure that I wasn't following her. And so there I was, standing all alone, in all my glory, in the cereal isle, still striking my Mae West pose... while my Introvert self is rolling her eyes and smacking her head asking, "Wow. Nicely done. You made a comPLETE spectacle of yourself. Surely your proudest moment." To which Extrovert answered, "Oh hush up." 

Another time, I walked into a local bookstore to see if they would sell my book there. My Introvert self was DYING of embarrassment with this hopeful, watery grin on her beet red face while asking the manager if he wanted our (our?) book. When he readily agreed to buy a few copies for six dollars each, my ecstatic Extrovert self took over immediately, laughed maniacally and practically yelled, "HA HA HA! THAT'S GREAT! I DON'T CARE IF YOU PAID ME *NOTHING*  FOR EACH BOOK! I'M JUST GLAD IT'S OUT THERE! HAW HAW HAW!"  

Seriously? My Introvert self began slapping the crap out of my Extrovert self, yelling, "Shut UP! Shut up!! He's offering to give you MONEY for your book. Take it and be QUIET!!" Extrovert self says, "Oh yeah. Heh heh heh. Ahem." 

And yet another time, the opportunity arose for me to sell my book at a local craft fair. Extrovert self said, "Yessss!" Introvert self said, "No way. You can't make me. I won't do it." She won that round. 

It's a CONSTANT battle I tell you. Two different personalities living in the same body, always fighting for control. It's like having a quiet, mousey, book-loving librarian and an obnoxious, comedic clown living in the same body. They actually have fist fights while I just stand there and wait to see who wins (the librarian has quite a nice roundhouse smack). I never know who's gonna be in charge in any given situation. And the clown is super hard to control. And getting worse as she ages and cares less about what people think. 

She is now grounded until further notice. 

So, what say ye? Split Personality Disorder or just normal(ish) human behavior?  I have to figure this out because the librarian me is getting really tired of the clown me. I'm kind of afraid she's gonna blow this joint and all I'll have left is the obnoxious clown (not disparaging clowns in any way either).  We NEED the librarian. She's the calm, stable, wise one. But she's also sorta boring though. So, hmmm... 

Can't we just rub noses and make up and agree to shared time here? 

Clown: "Yes!!" 

Librarian: "Well, I don't know. She's SO embarrassing.  She needs to tone it down a LOT. And then we'll see." 

Clown: "Bite me!" 

Sigh... here we go again... 

😛

Meeting the Fam

Ahhh... I remember fondly the first time Butch's mom and two older sisters visited us in Montana. Butch and I had been married less than a year and I'd met his mom just once before for a few minutes. I'd never met his sisters. 

I of course wanted to make a good impression on these women in Butch's life, and being somewhat insecure and eager to please, I set about cleaning and cooking and preparing like crazy. 

The house we lived in at the time, in Lolo, Montana, was huge, so the work before me was challenging, especially considering Butch's ridiculously high cleaning standards. I mean, he wanted me to actually clean the oven and MOP. Regularly. Who does that? 

Anyway, the big day arrived and I nervously greeted these three true Texas wimmins, me smiling like a hyena, leading them to their bedroom so they could put their stuff down. Butch, right behind me, expressed how stuffy the room was and turned the ceiling fan on. We hadn't used this fan in a long time, and as it started to turn, faster and faster, a veritable snowstorm of dust came flying down all around us, collecting in my gaping mouth of horror, making all three girls laugh out loud and Butch tsk in disappointment at my lack of fan blade cleaning skills even though these particular fan blades were 20 feet up in the air. Well, wow. Such a  great start! Not embarrassing at all. At least they thought it was funny.

Later that day, Butch's mom decided to sit on the floor in order to more easily pet our Pittie/Boxer mix named Daisy, whereby Daisy stood up and affectionately threw up in Butch's mom's lap, thereby welcoming Grandma heartily and odiferously. Daisy had never done that before nor ever after. To say that I was completely horrified is such an understatement, but it's the best word I can come up with. Mortified, aghast, hoping the earth would open up and swallow me whole, etc... Butch's mom and sisters laughed again, handling this glorious moment beautifully, much to my relief. 

I was beginning to really like these ladies. 

That night, after no further vomitous ados, we all went to bed. The girls were sleeping in the bedroom next to ours and we were in a spare room with a blowup mattress on the floor. As Butch and I lay down, me in utter exhaustion from the embarrassing day, our 100 pound male Golden Retreiver, Hugh, decided to join us in bed. I was afraid his nails would poke through our mattress, thereby deflating it, leaving us laying on a hard floor all night. Hence, I began to say, "Get off," and Hugh did not. I began pushing Hugh, saying a little louder, "Get OFF." He was immovable and I, in my tiredness, got irritated and yelled, "NO!! GET OFF, GET OFF, GET OFF! Dammit!" Whereby Hugh finally got off the mattress, whereby I collapsed on the bed, sighing, and then I felt bad for Hugh who was pouting with the hurt feelings and said, "Oh, come here you big, hairy brute. Come here and give yo momma some lovins."

Oh no. I frantically whispered, "Buuuutch! I hope your mom and sisters didn't hear that. They'll think I was talking to YOU! OMG. OMG. Should I go in there and explain??" 

Butch snored in response, leaving me feeling alone in my horror. Could this day get any worse??!!!  

Giggling from the next room, then outright laughing, which made me start laughing... and feeling better.

You know what? These ladies are A-okay. I think I'm gonna like 'em. ;)

Goat Milk Bootlegger

 A few years ago, I discovered the myriad health benefits and utter deliciousness of raw goat milk. I decided I must have this in my life, possible parasitic diseases be darned.

After hunting around Missoula, I found, to my dismay, that selling raw goat milk in Montana is illegal. And as I said, I was dismayed, but undaunted. I would sally forth and find this youthful elixir of hairy Mother's Milk or my name wasn't Alisha Dea the Determined. 

Locating a seller of goat's milk in Washington, where it is legal to sell goat's milk, I did a goat-like leap in the air and gave a loud whoop! I would have my milk, even if I did have to drive 500 miles to get it. 

Butch asked me what I was whooping about and I happily told him, with the air of a victorious conqueror, "I found some goat milk in Washington, where it's not against the law!" 

He mused for a second and then said, "But you'll be bringing it back across state lines, where it's illegal."

I asked, "So?"

"Well... you'll be a goat milk bootlegger."

😲 In seconds I went from horror of breaking the law to absolute delicious delight. Oh, this was good. My eyes lit up and a smile spread across my face at the thought of being dubbed such an illustrious name, and being known as ... the local Goat Milk Bootlegger. I loved it. I needed it. I had immediate visions of a book with this title, dancing in my head. 

I answered, "Well, the name alone would be worth the risk. And you ought to know all about that, with your misspent youth running beer from Oklahoma to Texas all the time, you crinimal."

"Nah, that was different. Our county was dry. I was just providing a service, for other thirsty Texans."

"Uh huh. Yeah, you were bootlegging. You could give me some pointers though. At least I won't be driving a cherry red '57 Chevy like you were. Talk about conspicuous. Geez. How did you get away with that?"

"The cops were thirsty too."

"Ah ha. Convenient. We could do a tag team goat milk running, kind of like Smokey and the Bandit! Come on! It would be fun!" 

He said, "Nah. The law dogs ain't what they used to be. They got no sense a humor anymore. It was different back in them good old days. We all got along and helped each other out, like good neighbors should. Don't come running to me when you get caught with two cases of bootlegged goat milk stashed in your trunk. Yer on yer own. I seriously doubt the cops have a dyin' thirst for raw goat milk."  

"Hmph..."

As MUCH as I wanted, needed, to be labeled a goat milk bootlegger, I decided that I'd keep up my lifelong adherence to not being in jail or having a criminal record. So, I tried another tack. I invested in a goat, who someone else takes care of. I get my DElicious goat milk and I'm not breaking the law. Win-win.

That title though...

Coming soon to a bookstore near you - 

 "The Goat Milk Bootlegger" ;)

The Argument

 Actual argument my adult self had with my child self yesterday (I think I need to get out of the house 🤔)

Adult me: You REALLY need to clean this house.

Child me: Meh.

Adult me: Seriously. It's getting shameful.

Child me: Nah.

Adult me: You are approaching the 7th circle of Dirty House Hell. This level is called "You Ought To Be Ashamed Of Yourself". 

Child me: What's the next level? 

Adult me: "Call the Health Department". Seriously. Stop being so lazy. I know you don't like doing it but it needs to be done. And you know how you like a clean house. You can have pizza for dinner! 

Child me: Sigh... And chocolate? 

Adult me: Yes!

Child me: Grumble. Okayyyyy. 😒

2 hours later ....

Child me - Look! House is clean(ish)! 

Adult me: Oh I'm so proud. Now be a good girl and go ride your bike for an hour and then get another load of wood put up! 

Child me: Waaaa!!! 😩

I think I'm ready for my Child self to get to be in charge for a WHOLE DAY. 🤨

**Picture depicting big, fat, furry Adult me and cute, little, furry Child me. Ha ha ;)

Drama Queen Much?

SUCH a Drama Queen man that I have, I swear. 

Oh, you think not do you? You think I'm being snarky and exaggerative? 

Okay then, you can decide for yourself. Here's what happened: 

Recently I cleaned out a closet and decided to take two boxes of books to a our public library the next day. Being knee deep in paring down mode, I thought, "Hey! While I'm cleaning things out, I might as well get rid of a bunch of our dumb DVD's too!" 

I picked out a bunch of DVD's that we never watched or were too boring, stupid, violent or awful to ever watch again (the new 'Dune' comes to mind). I felt great about getting rid of them even if I was foisting them onto an unsuspecting public. Hey, I couldn't just throw them away, now could I? That would be wasteful. 

I put them all in a bag on the counter to take with me to town, very satisfied with my housecleaning project. Boy it felt so good to purge! 

Later,  I saw that bag innocently sitting there and thought, "Wait a minute. If the resident pack rat, also known as Butch, sees those DVD's, he'll snatch them right up and make me put them back. I better hide them in the truck so he won't see them." 

Well, when he got home later that night, I looked out the window and saw him head straight for the truck and OPEN THE TRUCK DOOR. Oh NO. The bag o' movies! He's gonna see it. Maybe he won't see it. 

He saw it. 

Absolute BELLOW from outside, "WTHECK! WHERE are these movies GOING?!!!" 

OH SHIP. 

I jogged outside and reaching for the bag, said, "Uh, they were just the stupid ones. You don't care about any of those. Just a bunch of Chick Flicks." (I was SURE that would make him drop the bag immediately.) 

But no. He snatches the bag back from me and proceeds to go through the whole entire thing, gasping and shrieking at each one, "DUNE? You got rid of Dune?!? Aliens and Cowboys? You're giving AWAY Aliens and Cowboys?? EXPENDABLES 13?? NO! these are CLASSICS! How COULD you?"  And on and on and on. FOR. EACH. MOVIE. Twenty of them.

I watched this testosterone-filled, manly man instantly transform into a Drama Queen having a royal hissy fit, complete with unroyal bad language. Which I will relate here with less of a potty mouth. 

"What in tarnation?! Put these doggone movies right back! You jackleg rumpot! Hiding them from me in the truck. Golly Christmas! I can't believe you did that. What else of mine have you gotten rid of??!! Hockeypuck and sunny beaches! Ooohhhh, is that what you've been doing all this time? Blaming my not being able to find a movie on my being old and having a bad memory while you've been giving them all away! Ohhh that's honking evil!! Treason! Heresy! It'll take me a whole week to get over that. Mother hummer! Aaahhhh!" 

And all I was doing this whole time was laughing my fool head off. I couldn't help it! He actually grew a crown on his head and sprouted a pink skirt, I kid you not. 

And for maximum effect I added, "Hey, you're lucky that your favorite movie Terror in Tiny Town wasn't in there." Snicker. 

His eyeballs popped right out of his head. "OMG! UNbelievable! I'm gonna have a anermism!" 

OMG that was funny. Poor baby. I did indeed put the movies back with a strict, high-pitched warning from Butchamina the D.Q. to NEVER EVER do that again!  And then he flounced right down to watch Dune. Bah. 

I hid the movies again the next day. 

(Endnote: In the pursuit of literary integrity and honesty, I admit that I enjoy these flamboyant, dramatic displays of his so much that I might, just might, be guilty of engineering them. Maybe.  😏)

Open and Closed

 "Open!"

"Closed!"

"Open!" 

"Closed!"

This is the sound which resonates through our home, pretty much on a daily basis.

I want the windows and doors open (all year long). He wants them closed ("You're letting all the heat out and the bugs in! Were ya born in a barn or sumfin?!").

I want the wood stove door cracked open (to get the fire going HOT, Pyro that I am). He wants it closed (something about smoke? Idk.).

I want the bedroom door to stay open during the day (so we get the light from that room). He wants it closed (so the dogs won't use our bed as their own personal trampoline and hairy nest all day long.) It's their home TOO, ya know! Tsk!

I want to leave our checking account open, in a user-friendly manner. He does not.  Hmph.

And it's not like I always want things open across the board. I can compromise.. There are things that I'd like closed that he wants open. For instance:

He wants his mouth open. I want it closed. Har har! No, really. He talks constantly. I guess it's better than a man who never talks at all. Hmmm.... nah.

He wants the toothpaste left open. Out on the counter. I do not.

He wants to leave the refrigerator door open while he's cooking. I'd like it to stay closed, thank you.

He wants to leave the chip bag open on the table ALL NIGHT LONG. I'd like it to be closed while he is still chewing. Who likes stale chips I ask you?

He wants a total Open Door policy for visitors. Ugj.

It's become a bit of a battle lately. I open, he shuts. I open, he shuts. All day. He complains. I explain. Or I'm closing things he's left open all day. I complain. He ignores me.

I swear if we had Pandora's box here, one of us would want it open and the other one would want it shut. (We'd have to open it first though to see what was in it to determine whether it stayed closed or not. Obviously.)

It's all getting a little tiresome though. What to do? What to do?

I know! I could suggest that we do things my way for a while then that would show him that my way is much better. Yeah, that's it! That will work. Because...

MY way has fresh air, lovely woodsmoke smell permeating the house, happy dogs, lots of light, peace and quiet, crisp chips and a joyful wife 'managing' our money. 

His way has stuffy air, soggy chips, sad dogs, total darkness, crusty toothpaste, cold dead fires and money sitting all alone and forlorn in our bank account feeling useless and forgotten.

What is wrong with him? Who wants to live that way?

I mean ... I guess it *could* be all in the way you look at it. I guess, from his perspective, he might think I want a smoky, freezing cold, bug-filled house, the animals totally running the place, dog hair everywhere, no visitors, and being constricted by totally uptight, unnecessary rules about closed chip bags and toothpaste caps, and having no actual cash in the bank.

I guess he could see it that way but ... then that would mean his mind was CLOSED so he just needs to OPEN that sucker right up and let all that cool, fresh air right in!! 😁

Open, open, open, open. ;)

The Blarney Stone - Adventures in Foreign Tongues

 Bonjour! Je m'appelle Alisha. Ca va? Ou est le toilet? Adios! Taco burrito enchilada! Sierra la boca! Croissant! 

Impressive, non? Oui, I am bilingual. Didn't know that did you? Yep! I am reasonably fluent in three languages - English, French and Spanish. Okay, almost fluent. Fluent-ish. I took French in school, grew up in Texas where Spanish is a second language and even though I went to Houston public schools, I came out with a pretty firm grasp on the English language, more or less. 

Four years of French in high school and college ("Non, non, non! En Francais!") enabled me to stumble my way through a vacation in stunning, gorgeous France. Thank God most of the French people spoke English, but still... I did it and I was SO proud of myself. I made darn sure I knew how to say the two most important things of all, "How much is it?" And, "Where is the bathroom?" I was all set. 

An old man sat down next to me on a park bench one day and started chattering away in French. I was able to say, "Je ne parle pas Francais. Je suis American." ("I don't speak French. I'm American.") He took one look at my pretty young self, decided he didn't care and kept chattering away. I nodded and laughed like I understood. We got along tres bien. 

Also while in France, in trying to impress my new-ish husband with my amazing linguistic abilities, I decided to tell our attractive young waitress how pretty she was. I knew the words for this simple compliment but for some reason I ended up telling her, "I take you are stupid pretty." I knew immediately I'd screwed up by the confused (and annoyed) look on her face so I decided to just ferme ma bouche, stop trying to be all continental and conversational and just eat my bete croissant. 

Another day there was a loud ruckus outside our hotel room that involved a dog and a cat. So, in trying to be helpful and obviously unaware of my overconfidence in my language ability, I ran out there and yelled, "Qu'est que c'est pas chat?  Pardon! Oui! Chien! Mais non! Pourquoi?!" (What is it not cat? Excuse me! Yes! Dog! But no! Why?") It was all I could think of in that moment of stress. Surprisingly, I was no help at all. Merde. 

Maybe fluent isn't the word. Maybe semi-fluent? I can still pick up a word or two here and there in a song or in a movie though, which always surprises me. I hadn't realized how much French vocab I'd retained. 40 years later, I can still count to 20 en Francais. Whyyyy? Hey brain! Are we hanging onto that information for a reason? Can't we free up some space up there? I don't think we're ever going back to France and won't need it and ... aww! Don't cry! Okay! Hang on to ALL the French! I'm sure we'll make it back there at some point before we die. Je suis desolee!! Sheesh. Sacre Bleu. 🙄 

And you'd think I'd know a LOT more Spanish having grown up in Houston, Texas AND having spent many a summer vacation on warm, lovely Mexican beaches. But alas, I'm not very eloquent there either. I always made sure I had my handy dandy, most important life-saving phrases with me though, "How much?" And, "Where's the bathroom?" But other than that, "Adios" and yummy food items, I was lost. 

A linguist I'm not. 

I guess the Blarney Stone course that I ordered didn't do a very good job. Oh well, I've got the accents down and I know some bad words, so it's not a total loss. 

I, in my sage wisdom, did know to pass down this rich linguistic heritage to my two boys so I made them watch Speedy Gonzales, handed them a book of Spanish vocabulary and lovingly said, "Here. Learn this. You'll need it for your first job, which you're about to have to get. Andale! Andale! Arriba! Arriba!" I so deserved the Mother of the Year Award that year, I swear. 

But. I did make sure they were fluent in one way in particular... I taught them to say, "I love you" in all three languages, and in every way possible. And really, that's all that matters anyway, right? 🥰 

C'est la vie! Bon chance! Je t'aime! Au revoir mes amies! Ooh la la!  👩‍🎨🗼

Shoulda Checked His Teeth

 You know, all these 16 years of being married to The Man, I have shown such forbearance and patience, I can't even tell you. I have put up with so much, accepted his peculiar weaknesses and forgiven a multitude of sins. Some days I wonder how in the world I could have married a man who had these particular shortcomings. 

 But yesterday I was sore challenged. 

First though, I will show you JUST how patient I have been. 

I gasped when he asked, "Who is Ella Fitzgerald?"

I was stunned when he said he had never heard the Journey songs "Lights" or "Don't Stop Believing".

I was struck dumb when he didn't recognize the Michael Jackson song "Thriller".

He doesn't know ALL the songs from "The Sound of Music" by heart!!!!!!!! 😲

He couldn't sing along with the Oompa Loompa Doopity Do song or "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" or even the song "Oklahoma"! 

And, and he asked me if Louis Armstrong was a boxer!!!!! 😫

Do you see what I've had to put up with?? 

But yesterday. Yesterday!! I read my Dozer Envy story to him, chuckling all the way through it at my own cleverness at how I worked Elvis songs into the story. At one point I noticed that he wasn't chuckling along with me, or at all really. I wondered, "What the heck?" 

I asked, "You don't think that's funny and oh so clever?"

He asked, "Whut?" 

I said, "Cleverly working Elvis songs into the story."

He asked, "What Elvis songs?"

I gaped. "Um, "I'm ALL shook up", "Don't be Cruel", "Ain't Nothing But a Dozer (Houndog)", "Heartbreak hotel"???  You missed all of those? You weren't listening at all were you?"

*Blank stare from Butch*

I again with the gaping mouth asked, "You DO know those songs, right? Don't even tell me you don't know Elvis songs. I'm not sure our relationship can take that. It's too much!"

Butch answered, "No I don't know those songs. *I* wasn't goofing off playing around when I was young. I had to work!"

I said, "Butch! THEY WERE ON THE RADIO, MAN! They were everywhere! How do you grow up in America and not know Elvis songs??!!"

And then. Then he said something that I'm not sure I'll ever forgive him for, "Who cares about Elvis?" 😲

Oooookay, that's IT. I'm calling my lawyer. Cruel and unusual punishment! Irreconcilable differences! From two completely different planets! 

But then he gave me that sexy Elvis grin of his that always gets me and I thought,  "Oh, what the heck. So he's musically challenged. I guess I can live with that.  At least he can sing the 'Happy Birthday' song."

 Except he doesn't know when my birthday is. 

Or our anniversary for that matter. Or Mother's Day. Or  .... 

And seriously?  "Who cares about Elvis?"???

 Man, I shoulda checked his teeth.  🤨

Aint Nothin' But a Dozer, But I Want It All the Time!

You just wouldn't believe HOW VERY MUCH moving from safe, comfy suburbia to scary, HARD, off-grid-on-a-Montana-mountaintop changes you! Night and day difference. It's unbelievable even to me and I've experienced it. 

Case in point: One winter a few years ago we had a monster snowstorm and got snowed in here. I mean absolutely buried. We couldn't get our car or truck down the road if our lives depended on it and our tractor was struggling badly, trying to deal with the several FEET of snow we'd gotten. To say that I was nervous (and Butch frustrated) is an understatement of epic proportions. 

Unbeknownst to us, word somehow worked its way down the good ole mountain grapevine ("Always On, Always Dependable") to one of our awesome neighbors. We'll call him Bob again. Why not? 

I was busy grumbling and shoveling snow off the porches and Butch was on our trusty tractor making no headway whatsoever. I was starting to fret, wondering how in the world we were ever going to get ourselves dug out when to my wondering eye and utter amazement, back-lit by the morning sun, comes this thing of abject beauty around the corner  - Neighbor Bob on his huge, green, stunning dozer, moving through that deep snow as easily as a ship plowing through water. 

My mouth was wide open in shock. I couldn't have been more surprised if this had been Elvis himself riding an elephant into my yard. 

I'd never seen anything so beautiful in my life. We were saved! Oh happy day! But even more surprising to me was how I felt about that big, gorgeous piece of farm machinery. 

I WANTED it. 

This life-long city girl who cared only about malls, shopping, doing her nails, pretty clothes, creature comforts like electricity, running water and decent restaurants, who had never even stepped foot into a Home Depot, suddenly had a gripping attack of ... 

DOZER ENVY. 

I couldn't help falling in love. It was always on my mind and all that I wanted in life now. I would give up all comforts, all I owned, my firstborn son, shoot, BOTH of my sons, all I ever cared about or hoped for. I might have even given up one of my Golden Retreivers for one (... nah). It was all that mattered to me now. I was resolutely focused. HOW do I get my hands on that big handsome hunka hunka burning' metal? 

I asked Butch this question later who then looked at me as if I were insane. "Do you know how much those things cost? Even used??" 

I answered, "I don't care. I must have one. We can sell all we own. We NEED it. Please! Don't be cruel!" On my knees, tears forming in my eyes, my hands clasped together in a prayer-like, begging position. I was emotionally in my own hellish version of heartbreak hotel with the steamroller/dozer blues! 

Butch grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, "Get ahold of yourself, crying all the time! It's over $100,000!  Which we don't have! Snap out of it!" And he commenced smacking me back and forth across the face (okay, not really). 

I suddenly woke up and saw my pathetic state. Oh how fast and hard the lowly have fallen! What had happened to me?? I went from respectable city girl to dozer addicted beggar in such a short time! Woe is me! 

I calmly stood up, brushed myself off, patted my hair and said, "Oh. Thank you. I don't know what happened to me. I'm okay now. Really I am." 

I totally lied. I'm still not okay. I'm still crushing on that dozer VERY badly. I mean, I'm ALL shook up. But I keep my newfound desires to myself and keep hoping. I even love Home Depot now! Hee hee! 

Elvis would have understood. 

Oh yes, this life changes you, completely and utterly.  And I wouldn't have missed it for the world. 

🎶🎶 "Can't help falling in love, with, youuuuu."  🎶🎶

Winners and LOSERS!

A few years ago I stumbled across a chicken video on Facebook, which was my first exposure to and awareness of the Brahma type of chicken. I watched as the unbelievably massive rooster strutted, nay lumbered, out of his coop and my mouth fell open. I'd never seen a chicken this big. I didn't know they existed! It looked to be larger than a turkey! On its way to emu size even!

I was sorely impressed. 

And I instantly wanted one. 

I wanted several in fact. The more I read about this calm, hearty, cold-loving bird, the more determined I was to have a flock of them up here on our mountain. They were good for eggs and meat and as an added benefit, their scary, awesome size would protect us from all unwanted intruders!  Perfect! 

That night as Butch stumbled into the house, I shoved my phone in his face and said, "Watch this! We gotta have some of these! Right now!" He put his things down, dutifully watched the lumbering, be-feathered giant, and ... agreed with me. "Yeah those are some huge suns of beaches. Everybody on the mountain will be afraid to come up here! I'm gonna call Bob."

Now for those of you not in the know, we have some off grid neighbors on our mountain named Bob and Sharon (not really their names but close enough).  They are true Preppers. They are ready for anything - war, nuclear winter, Armageddon, you name it. They are READY.

We, on the other hand, are not Preppers. We are simply people who wanted land and the only land we could afford was on top of a mountain with no electricity or any city services whatsoever, miles from town, land that no one else wanted. And we are not ready for anything at all really. We're just, you know, here. 

So anyway, Butch calls Bob who puts Butch on speaker phone so his wife Sharon can hear too. Butch excitedly tells Bob ALL about these chickens and how huge and awesome they are and what big eggs they lay and how hearty and cold-loving they are and that we'll be the first to get them up here on the mountain to try them out for everyone else and see how they do and they're so cool, so hence, WE'LL be cool having them, and ...

"I just ordered some" says Bob. 

Butch asks, "Whut??"

Bob smugly answers, "Sharon looked them up while you were talking and already ordered 20 of them. So, yeah, WE'LL be the first to have them. Heh heh heh."

Butch sits there stunned for a minute. He looks up at me and tells me that Bob already ordered some and I gasp and say, "No way! That butthead! You shouldn't have told him about them! Well, TWO can play that game!" 

Butch tells Bob that I called him a butthead and both Bob and Sharon laugh UPROARIOUSLY while I'm looking the mammoth chickens up online to see how to order them. I can't believe he beat us to it! Arg!!  WE were going to be the cool ones with the prehistoric chickens! Not them!! 

This has apparently devolved into some sort of competition I don't understand, but I don't have to understand. The game is ON! They don't know who they are messing with. Preppers. Snort! I'll show you Preppers! 

*Two years later*

I have no Brahma chickens. I never got any Brahma chickens. Butch wouldn't build a new chicken house for me, complete with wood burning stove, sink and lounge area so I refused to get them. Bob and Sharon truly beat us that time. 

But it's okay. You know why? Bob and Sharon get so many chicken eggs each week that they BEG us to take them off their hands.

 Hmmm... free eggs, no spending tons of money on feed, or dealing with chicken poop or lice or pecking problems... 

Hmmm ... methinks we won that one after all.  

Heh, heh, heh  ;)

Confessions of a Flower Stealer

I have a confession I need to make. It's been weighing heavily on me for many years. They say confession is good for the soul so here goes: I stole something one time. Gasp! I know! So terrible! I'm a thief! There! I said it. But I couldn't help myself! I HAD to have it. You probably would have done the same thing. Allow me to explain...

I was blessed enough to get to go to France one time and I was BEYOND happy about it. I am a true Francophile. I love everything French. I was in absolute bliss from the moment we landed until the moment we left. To make my delirious happiness even bigger, we went to see Monet's house. My entire life, his paintings have been my all-time favorite. To stand on the bridge over the water lillies, a scene from his paintings and to stand IN his house where he painted, was, for me, beyond belief.  I actually cried. Sheesh.

While strolling joyfully through Monet's luxurious garden, I noticed a bunch of pretty yellow-flowered plants, some of which had dead flowers on them. And those of us who garden know exactly what that means! SEEDS!!

 Well now.

I casually looked around and whistling, bent down slowly and deadheaded that little plant. I surreptitiously stuck it in my pocket and then waited for alarms to go off or for French-looking gendarmes to rush me in a tackle. 

Huh. Didn't happen! Did I truly just steal something? I didn't. I did!  Did I get away with it? I did! Phew! Bad girl! But I HAVE SEEDS FROM MONET'S GARDEN IN MY POCKET!! OMGOSH!!! The children's book I read to my boys when they were little, called "What If Everybody Did?" popped into my mind and I swatted it away.

While going home through the airport I was SURE I was going to get stopped and thrown in prison for breaking how many agricultural laws? 

 Attempting to look innocent with a blushing red, sweating face, I was horrified to see the drug-sniffing dog walk by and STOP right by me! He then shoved his head all the way down into my bag and I almost fainted. I couldn't breathe. 

The police guy unloaded my bag and pulled out the bunch of lavender I had in there and seemed to be satisfied that was what his dog was sniffing. Phewwwww. I was so relieved and I tried to smile at him but it just looked like I had a bad case of diarrhea. You see, I've never stolen anything before. I've never broken the law! I honestly don't know how they do it. That was utterly exhausting. Gee whiz. That was definitely the end of my criminal career. 

I carried that beautiful little bunch of seeds home, planted them in my garden and voila! A yellow flower popped up after a while. I had an actual plant that came from Monet's garden in MY garden! Amazing! Made me SO happy! 

Even though I could never handle being a Career Criminal, that one time was so worth it. I'd totally do it again. ;)

Awkward Conversation #13,847

 Awkward Conversation of the week: 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

Missoula-based Delta employee (who is around my age and also big and handsome to boot) - "I think I've found your bag! Is it brown?"

Me - "Sigh. No, it's black."

Delta person - "Really? Does it have a white ribbon and a piece of gray tape on the side?"

Me - "Yes but it's not brown. It's black. Sigh!"

Delta guy rolls suitcase out of back room with hopeful yet confused look on his face. Yep, that's my bag. And um yeah, it's brown. It's brown?? I thought it was black! 

Me - "Uh. Ha ha!! That IS my bag! Duh! I guess it IS brown! Ha ha HA!"  (Dear Lord.  🙄 How did I not know the color of my own suitcase???) (In my defense, it is a very, very DARK brown, almost black. To me anyway.) 

Me, sheepish from having senior moment in front of this man and trying to make pleasant conversation showing him I'm not in fact nuts - "I'm really glad to get my suitcase back! It doesn't have anything expensive in it but it does have something I can't live without, a little battery-operated doohickey I NEED (because for some reason I didn't want to say the obviously embarrassing words 'Water Pic' out loud, dental implements being as shush shush as they are).

Handsome Delta employee - *blank stare*, then chuckles like, "Wow. Okay. Thanks for the info."

Me (face turning beet red, horrified at the implications of what I just said because most people, NOT me, have their minds in the gutter, sputters out) - "OMG!! WATER PIC! It's my water pic for my teeth!!" baring my pearly whites and pointing to them in a frantic manner. 

Delta Guy - looks at me like, "Uh huh." then walks away, still chuckling. 

Me on floor, unzipping suitcase  - "No! Come back! I'll show you! Look!" waving just found Water Pic in the air. 

Me to myself - "Alisha, STOP. TALKING. Put AWAY your Water Pic.. people are staring. Turn and leave NOW."

Talk about a walk of shame. 

I'm beginning to think I should never leave the house unsupervised ever again. 😂😂😂😂

High School Turkeys

Backstory to help explain my PTSD - Post Turkey Stress Disorder:

  When I was a senior, my high school was all the way across Houston from where I lived. The morning drive in rush hour traffic was lonnng. It was also dangerous, considering that everyone drove at least 80 mph and if you didn't keep up, you were roadkill. Two of my friends and I carpooled, taking our turns pretending our best to be young, female Mario Andretti's. 

One of my friends, Lisa, often drove her dad's BMW, proving that this was one brave man indeed ... or that he had really good insurance. 

The time of year was Thanksgiving and our crazy friend Lisa decided she wanted to give her on-again, off-again boyfriend a live turkey (where she obtained a real live turkey I have no idea.)  She decided to present this feathered gift to him at our school where, being filled with high schoolers, it would gain the greatest amount of hilarity and/or embarrassment possible.

There were two of us going in that morning with Lisa (besides the turkey). After laughing our 17 year old heads off at Lisa's excellent prank, Lisa put the, and I cannot stress this enough, HUGE turkey in the backseat of the gorgeous BMW. (Who knew that turkeys were so BIG??) 

Lisa climbed behind the wheel and our other friend hopped into the front seat leaving, you guessed it, Moi to keep the big turkey company in the back seat. I wasn't too thrilled about this arrangement. I mean, didn't turkeys peck or something? (Certified city girl here.) 

Please, envision this with me if you will ... you are in Houston traffic trying not to get killed and here is a black BMW flying down the highway going by you with three young girls and ... is that a TURKEY? I sat up straight and proud, not looking around, pretending there was not an actual turkey sitting right next to me. 

At first I was really afraid of this bird and I sat as far away from him as I could, smushed up against the window you might say. I was just waiting for him to peck me, at which point I planned to scramble over the seat into my friend's lap. But after we had been driving for a while, going around turn after turn, the turkey had slowly slidden over the nice leather seats and was leaning on me for support, which I thought was sweet, in a scary sort of way. It was as if he knew instinctively I was an animal lover and could be trusted. We were friends. 

But then, it was as if he suddenly felt comfortable enough to look around and since he was leaning against me and his head was the same heighth as mine, he slowly turned his ugly little head and inches from my face, looked me straight in the eye with an accusing look as if to blame ME for his humiliating vehicular predicament! I quickly pointed at Lisa identifying the real culprit but he apparently decided we were all culpable and he was going to start with the closest perp and he PECKED my shoulder! (No it didn't hurt, but still....)

As I was about to hurdle over the front seat, it occurred to me I'd be presenting a very big (and tender) target on my person for him to peck so I decided to stay put and defend myself from where I was. I screamed of course, and then bravely put my folder up between our two faces, at which he pecked (each peck accompanied by a scream)(from me not the bird) the rest of the way to school. Seriously, you'd have thought I was being attacked by a Tyrannosaurus Rex the way I was carrying on.  All the while my two 'friends' in the front seat were laughing their fool heads off. 

I can only imagine what this looked like to passing motorists. I find it hard to believe we didn't cause a pileup. I'm sure there were quite a few laughs at my expense. Tsk.

We made it to school without incident, where I leaped from the car, shaken but not hurt, where the turkey was gifted in front of a very appreciative audience, high schoolers being what they are. 

I later asked Lisa why she didn't tell me BEFOREHAND that we were escorting a live turkey to school. She shrugged and said, "You didn't ask." 

Turkey. 

;)

It's Not Cheating If You Win

This story has nothing whatsoever to do with our life on the Montana mountaintop but I thought it might give a little insight as to why I turned out the way I did... past crazy adventures (and trauma) and all that..

Scene set up: Me in my late twenties, already have two kids. Going with a group of people from Sugarcreek Baptist Church (near Houston) on a 'mission trip' (read: totally fun vacation) to a small church in Edmonton, Canada. We were showing them how to 'do' Awanas and some other kid's programs that we had at our church.

While we were showing them all about Awanas, we also entertained these wonderful people and had so much fun I can't even tell you.

 One day, for reasons that have been completely lost to me, we decided to put on a race for the enjoyment of our new Canadian friends. Also, for some reason, we decided to run this race in costumes - horse, camel, giraffe and zebra. I cannot remember for the life of me what this had to do with Awanas or Christianity in general but anyway, it was over 30 years ago so...

I was part of the camel duo, and as luck would have it, the back end. Meaning, I had to run bent over at the waist, with my hands on the hips of my girl partner who got to be the camel's front end. It is worth mentioning here that these costumes were OLD and ratty and smelly so this could be considered a sacrifice of sorts earning me points in heaven.

 We four animals (8 humans) lined up at the starting point, and then we were off! Well, the other three were off and running. Me and my dromedary partner got our legs intertwined and collapsed in a heap. Getting back up without taking off our costume was difficult to say the least but we wanted to maintain the illusion of being a camel so we made the beast of it. Our falling down and trying to stand back up was apparently, HILARIOUS to the people watching. Hump! I mean humph!

Once we were up, we looked ahead at the other three running fake animals (I could see out through some side panels in the costume), and they were so far ahead of us that we might as well quit. But no! We valiantly started running, tried to anyway, and then my partner, MUCH to my shock and surprise, takes a detour, veering smoothly off the track, cutting right through the middle of that field, straight towards the finish line. What could I do but follow? 

I looked out my little side panel and could see when the other floppy-headed beasts realized what we were doing. You could almost see the surprise and anger on their fuzzy faces! They all did a double take, and then doubled down and started running faster, because we were definitely going to win.

The roar of the crowd erupting into laughter when our camel self veered off the track to cut across was deafening. Please imagine if you will, this tattered, be-humped camel with the head flailing around, deciding to take care of matters by..... cheating! How this inspired confidence in our Christian brothers and sisters who invited us to come help them, I'll never know.

But it did make them laugh.

     And we won.

Which is all that really matters, right?  ;)

Parts Per Million!

 "Parts Per Million!" I swear, if I have to hear that one more time. Gah. 

This is Butch's pat answer whenever I complain about certain common things that happen up here on the ole mountaintop like a dead mole or two floating in our spring where we get our drinking water. "Eh, it won't hurt you. Parts per million!" 

Or when he cleans out our plastic water tank with bleach then doesn't rinse it out before filling it with more water, which we drink. "Meh, you won't taste it. Parts per million!" 

Or when there was a bloated fly floating in my tea ... 

Or dog pee in the snow we were melting for household use .... 

Or dog slobber on my huckleberries... 

Or weevils in the flour ... 

Or when he tracks in mud on my floor... 

Or leaves black fingerprints everywhere ... 

Or leaves a mess on my table .... 

Or ... heyyyy, wait a minute. Wait just one cotton-picking minute. He's using that excuse for everything!  What the heck?! How did I miss that? 

Well two can play that game! Yessiree Bob. The next time he finds a dog hair in his food and freaks out or I accidentally break the tractor, or the house is a mess I'm going to gleefully yell, "Parts per million!" and see what he does. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, right? 

I felt the need to test his little motto a bit further by putting a couple of scared, odiferous stink bugs in his milk to see how "parts per million!" worked in that situation. I wanted to see where his particular line was drawn. He picked the bugs out and drank the milk down, no problem. Huh.

Next, purely out of intellectual curiosity mind you, I decided to go for the extreme, to a place I was SURE "parts per million" wouldn't fly, so I asked him about the famous chocolate poo pie from the movie "The Help", if "parts per million!" worked there. He grimaced and said, "Hmmm... I don't think so." 

(He doesn't think so?) 

"Those Southern women could COOK! May have been worth a try."

"Sooo, you'd have easily survived the Biblical plagues then." 

"Oh yeahhh. Frogs, grasshoppers, flies, locusts, lice, dead fish. That's good eatin' right there. Pure protein!" 

Okay, so now it's clear - we have found THE man, 

Mr. Parts Per Million, who will survive a nuclear winter, hands down, no question. 

Good to know! ;)

Writer's Hearts

 I've written before, "You know you have a Writer's heart when you're going through something awful/terrible/terrifying and all you can think is, 'If I live through this, it's gonna be a great story.'" But you also know you have a Writer's heart when your own husband is going through something awful/terrible/terrifying and all he can think is, "This is gonna make a great story. I wonder how she'll write about it?" 

Case in point: 

Butch threw his back out Monday night. He was feeling better enough on Wednesday that I was able to go to town to run errands. I was concerned about him being by himself all day but he said he was fine and that I should go on. When I got back home, hours later, he was chuckling and regaled me with his "I-had-a-back-spasm-and-got-stuck-on-the-potty-for-30 minutes!" story (no, he didn't say "potty"). Plus there was no toilet paper so there were unfortunate wiping challenges, more painful back spasms, a mess of sorts and wondering how in the hecky darn he was going to actually get off the potty and out of the bathroom! Haw haw, it was sooo funny!  It was a horrible fight and a half! Chuckle, chuckle! 

And through all of that, he said all he could think about was how funny this was and wondering how I'd write about it. 

Butch -"So you're gonna write about it, right?" 

Me -"Oh gosh no. I wouldn't want to embarrass you." (Liar!) 

Butch - "No, it's okay. Go ahead. It's funny!" 

Me - "Um welll, it's a little TMI." 

Butch - "Huh?" 

Me - "Too much information. It's kinda gross." 

Butch - "But it's funny!" 

Me -"I agree but it may be a bit too much for our audience." 

Butch - "Hmph. What about your Poo Debacle story? That was, what you call it, TSP." 

Me - "TMI. That was different. That wasn't gross." 

Butch (full on pout with crossed arms) - "You really should write about it. IT'S. FUNNY." 

I hated to disappoint him because CLEARLY the thought of my writing this HILARIOUS poo story got him through that painful episode but ... as juvenile as my humor sometimes is ... even *I* have standards (as low as they are.) I encouraged him to write it himself and we could post it on HIS Facebook page because everyone already knows he has a 'potty' mouth. ;) 

(P. S. Okay,  I may actually write this funny story and save it somewhere for future poo-sterity. Posterity? Get it? And on a day when my inner child is in control, I may even share it. Stay tuned! ☺)

Hushpuppy Dilemma

 I made hushpuppies a while ago and proceeded to happily enjoy them with ketchup like always, just like I would do with French Fries. I caught Butch looking at me, his mouth agape, looking seriously confused, annoyed even.

 I asked, "What??" 

He said, "Whut are yew DEWING?? Why are you eating catchup on those?? You're supposed to eat them with butter!"

I stopped chewing and looked down at my ketchup-covered puppies and thought, "Butter? Really? Nah." I asked him, "Why butter? They're like fries."

He yelled with passion (who knew this was so VERY important??) "NO! They are fried CORNBREAD. You eat butter on cornbread right? You don't eat it with CATCHUP! Sheesh!" 

I answered, "Huh. Never thought about it like that." And continued to dip the puppies in ketchup and munch away, defiantly, while Butch looked on in utter horror. 

Later, after his complete meltdown over the whole ketchup-on-hushpuppies fiasco, I decided to reach out to my family for vindication. I wrote several of them and asked, "Hey! What do you eat on hushpuppies?" The answers I got from this simple question had me snort laughing.  Allow me to share:

One son answered, "I don't know, what?" (He thought I was telling him a joke. 😅)

The other son, who is obviously a Foodie like me, answered, "Oh, aioli or a japanese spicy mayo or chipotle, or a nice dip." 😋

One sister answered, "I feel like I'm walking into a trap." (😂) and then said, "Great. Now I'm hungry for hushpuppies!" 

And my mom answered, "Etoufe." (🤔  What???) 

I swear, they crack me up. 😂

They did all agree though that ketchup was perfectly normal to have with your puppies so I did indeed feel vindicated. It was all worth Butch's head exploding just for the laughs. Happy sigh.... I love my family, buncha characters. 😍

A Hidden Romantic

Hubby Butch doesn't like Chick Flicks so I don't ever try to make him watch one with me. I happily watch them by myself so I can fully enjoy them without having my own personal version of a male Chatty Cathy talking all the way through the movie. 🙄

I was watching Pride and Prejuduce lately and Butch, who had been working outside, came in and sat down. I warned him of the horrible Chick Flick being portrayed but he said, "I'm just resting for a minute. I won't be here long."  

Twenty minutes later he was grumbling and complaining about how SLOW the movie was and asking WHERE all the shootins, killins and 'splosions were!

I responded, "Butch. CHICK. FLICK. I can change the movie for Pete's Sake."

Butch said, "Nah, I'm fixin' to get back to work. Grumble, grumble."

Thirty minutes later he's still there and he's engrossed. Then he suddenly yells at the t.v., "KISS HER ALREADY!" which made me jump in my seat. 

When I looked over at him, with the usual raised eyebrows, he sheepishly said," Well! He should have! And why are we watching this dumb movie anyway?" Then proceeded to watch the rest of the 'dumb movie' with me, grinning like a goose at the end when the boy and girl got married and lived happily ever after.

Don't tell me there's no romantic hiding under that rough exterior. I've seen him. But I won't tell anybody. His secret is safe with me.  ;)

The Writer's Miranda Rights

These Miranda Rights are for all family, friends and acquaintances of a Writer. Read them carefully. Know your Rights.

-- You have the right to remain silent (but we Writers won't be friends with you anymore, or ... we'll just make stuff up about you anyway). 

-- Anything (and I mean ANYTHING) you say, can and will be written about you in a book of ours (and even things you didn't say). 

--You have the right to opt out of being written about (but we'll need that in writing and a hefty cash payment). 

-- If you cannot afford to pay us off, I mean, opt out, well that's too bad (although we may be able to come to some other agreement. Cow poo and leotards may be involved). 

Further: 

-- Writer's Miranda Rights do not go into effect until after a friendship is formed.  Anything you say or do before that is fair game. 

-- If the suspect, ha! I mean, the subject is placed under friendship of any kind, including Virtual Facebook Friendship, and is not read their Writer's Miranda Rights or given a gold-embossed card printed with their very own Writer's Miranda Rights, spontaneous or voluntary statements or actions may still be used in the Writer's story and who, if called out, will proclaim Writer's Amnesia and will not be held accountable. 

--The Writer is free to ask questions before a friendship is made but must inform the perp (sorry), "subject" that the questioning is voluntary (psh!) and that he or she is free to leave at any time (whereby said Writer will just follow them around and write stuff about them anyway). 

--The Writer must carry these written Rights on their person at all times as business cards, handing them out immediately if they notice any interesting or amusing behaviors by their fellow humans. Not complying with this rule will be swiftly and surely punished by .... no one! Ha ha ha ha haaaa!  😂

You have been warned. To be friends with a Writer can be dangerous. Safety first!

Well Look Who's Turning Into a Softie Now!

Hubby Butch kills wasp, who moments before divebombed him while in the bathroom in a vulnerable position (Butch not the wasp), showing the wasp who's Boss and taking old-style Western vengeance by cutting the be-stingered flying interloper in thirds with his pocket knife, yelling, "Take that you Lilly-livered polecat!" 

*Hour later*

Wife enters room to see sad-faced hubby, who says, "He won't die."

Wife, alarmed, asks, "Who won't die?"

Hubby answers, "The wasp." 

 Wife asks for explanation, which she gets, with husband adding, "Every time I go in there his little head is looking up at me with his tentacles waving, like he's asking for help and his body is still trying to walk and fly. It's enough to make you feel bad." *pouty face*

Wife wonders where real husband has gone off to and who THIS softie is and how he got into her house. 

Wife responds, "Huh. Well first of all they're not tentacles, they're antennas ..."

Hubby answered, "Now see? This is why no one likes you."

Wife ignores outrageous lies coming from Hubby and goes to check out wasp carnage, who (which?) is in fact waving and struggling and looking pitiful. Wife gently picks up parts of dying wasp, lovingly lays him (her?) in a kleenex shroud, rolling him up gently, then hurls him into the woodstove whereby he bursts into glorious flames, thereby ending his misery, when Hubby asks incredulously, "You're gonna BURN him??!!" 

Wife answered, "I'm doing what YOU should have done an hour ago. He's dead now and suffering no more. Why didn't you just smush him with your shoe?"

Hubby snorts and says, "He was on the window! How was I supposed to get my foot up that high? Sheesh!"

And there ends another episode of Life at Crazy Mountain Manor, a place of suffering and death to all flying, stinging varmints but an Official Safe Zone to Stink Bugs and home to a Big Ole Softie. ;)

Presenting: Four Sisters

 (Maybe the ending needs some work?? 🤣 )

I present to you four sisters.  All around the same age, all in their fifties. I, being the oldest, am unfortunately not the wisest but I am the tallest. So there's that. 

These four sisters are as different as different can be. They did not grow up together, raised by different families, in different villages, learning different ways. 

These four sisters are all heading into the lovely Land of Menopause, fraught as it is with the rocky terrain of Aging, the potholes of Fog Brain, the volcanic Hot Flashes, the Lake of Blubber and the Forest of Bloat. This is a scary and daunting place, at least it is for some of the sisters. 

A couple of the sisters are tiptoeing through this Land, cowering, whining, getting fat and crying a lot (okay, that's me). 

One of the sisters is walking through it peacefully with an angelic smile on her sweet face, completely unaffected, as if she has her own Fairy Godmother who sprinkled her with magic fairy dust that makes her wholly immune to all of this horrid Land's effects. One of her sisters believes strongly that this fairy godmother is showing favoritism and should spread this fairy dust around to ALL the sisters and not be so selfish with it (me again).  

One of the sisters is using gross and raunchy humor to get through this period in her life (NOT me) and decided to write a blog with the catchy title of "Man I Pause" and fill it with Shakesperian sonnets entitled, "Oh the disgusting effects of Menopause, let me count the ways." Proceeding to explain in minute detail the changes going on in her body that NO ONE wants to hear (not even me). She is the Queen of TMI and surprisingly, no other sister wants to join her in her blog adventure. But! As she goes through this uncharted Land, she brings her grandson along with her, showing him the ropes and kicking butt together, which is keeping her young and valiant. 

The last sister is our Warrior Princess. She carries a sharp, shiny sword, and attacks this perilous Land with gusto, hacking and slashing away, screaming, "You're not going to get ME! I will END you!" while she jogs and skis and hikes as well as any 20 year old. She is NOT going down. 

Three of the sisters look years younger than they are. One of them looks and feels her age, and older (yes, me). Only one of them is getting fat (me). And only one of them seems to be slowing down (guess who?). 

The oldest, tallest, fattest, not wisest sister is leading the way, hacking out a path ahead, occasionally looking behind her as she goes, so proud of her younger sisters who are getting through this Land very well indeed. 

Better than she is in fact. Hmmm... 

She would like to think that because she is the one Breaking the Trail, that it's harder for her, and that's why she's wearing out quicker, but no. The younger sisters are making their own way through, and someday ...

they'll get fat and wrinkled too, just like she has, and then the four sisters will all have a good old, fat, wrinkly laugh together and be happy. 

The End  ;)

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

We have lived on top of our mountain for 12 years now. I have changed a LOT during that time. Not by choice mind you, but living this off grid life on a mountain in Montana tends to have an effect, which epitomizes the saying, "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger". 

I am indeed stronger. I am calmer and at peace. I'm less afraid of everything (except our scary road). I have more faith. I'm freer and know better how to be content. All good changes for which I'm grateful to God. 

Some things haven't changed - Butch is still funny, we still have a ton of dogs, and I still hate our scary road in the winter. 

Another thing that hasn't changed is my attitude toward drop-in visitors. I thought for sure my bad attitude towards unexpected visitors would change over the years. But alas, no. That's stayed exactly the same. 

When we first started building up here in the Montana wilderness, even though there were only a couple other people living here back then, we had drop-in visitors constantly. Butch welcomed them all with open arms, a big smile and tons of hilarious stories. I welcomed them with smiles too because I'm polite but I was surprised at how annoyed I felt. They couldn't have called to see if we were busy?  Or let me know they were coming so I could put a bra on?? What if I hadn't had any makeup on? Or what if my house was a mess? Gasp!! I just wanted to look my best and be ready to receive visitors. Is that too much to ask? 

After talking this over with Butch, whose attitude was the polar opposite of mine, I realized I was "too city, too uptight, too fussy, too controlling, too worried about superficial things and that I needed to relax and change into a normal, friendly person with a 24-hour-a-day Open House policy. We lived in the country for Pete's sake!"

Oh. Well pardon me.

So I tried. I tried not to worry about how my house looked, how I looked, whether we were busy or not, whether I had proper undergarments on or whether I had tea and cake ready to serve. I tried. I truly did. I really wanted to be an honest to goodness, real live, good ole country woman who invited all and sundry in for coffee no matter who they were or how busy she was, just like in the good old days.  

And I did make some headway.  I began to wear a bra every day. I learned to keep my house somewhat picked up. I tried to convince myself that SPAM on Wheat Thins was an appropriate refreshment. I  relaxed a bit on being interrupted when I was working. I tried to shake off the inbred Southern, ironclad city rules of never ever ever dropping by someone's house uninvited, nor calling and asking to come over. These were taboo. They just weren't done. But I tried to free myself from these constraining rules, just let go and enjoy people popping up, whenever. 

To my utter frustration, I didn't do that well, which was so weird. I loved people! I love having fun! I had parties all the time. I invited people over for dinner and to stay with us all summer, every summer. I went to other people's homes all the time (when invited). I was the one who hosted all the dinners and parties for every major life event and holiday for most of my adult life. I've had hundreds, nay thousands of dinners and parties in my lifetime. 

So what was my problem?? It wasn't people obviously. It had to be the unannounced dropping by. I don't like it. Even calling me beforehand and asking to drop by. I don't like it. It makes me nervous. It always makes me nervous. I'm fine once they're here, laughing and talking, but it takes me a while to adjust. I'm all right if I'm the one doing the inviting, which I do all the time. But if a wrench is thrown into my schedule, it totally throws me off.  

And after 12 years of country living I am still the same. Living in the country has not changed that part of me like I hoped it would.   

But you know what? It's okay. I realize now that I'm an introvert, plain and simple. I never thought I was because I've always been such a clown and I like making people laugh. But I like my alone time. I like my schedule.  I don't like being interrupted. I don't do spontaneous and last minute. I don't like surprises. I'm not a fan of change. I like predictability.  I like a plan and order.  And I fit people in when and where I can because I like them too. But they have to be part of the plan. 

After all these years of beating myself up about this personality trait of mine and trying so hard to change, I realize that I don't need to change. This is who I am and there's nothing wrong with that. I accept myself and stop demanding that she change so I can like her better. I can be a friend to myself, love her, leave her alone and let her be... She's okay just the way she is. In fact, she's more than okay, she's awesome and amazing and tough and sweet and funny. 

Even if she is a little chunky. Hey, more of me to love. 

So there. Nyah.  ;)