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.  ;)

Tennis and Other ... Lessons

When Butch and I were in our first year of marriage I was somehow able to get him out of the house for fun occasionally. One of the things I convinced him to do was to play tennis with me. Being a hard-working, real live country boy, he had never played it before. I, being a true city girl, had played tennis most of my life. I wasn't bad. And I loved it. So when he agreed to learn how to play, I was surprised and delighted. 

At the time, we lived in a small town in Texas, northeast of Dallas, where it is always hot as Hades. And humid. And HOT. So, one dresses accordingly, meaning: as little clothing as possible, just this side of  getting arrested for indecent exposure.  

Here I was, in my 40's - tan, fit, in shorts and tank top, looking mighty cute with my bouncy ponytail. And then here comes my manly man Butch, dressed for ... what in the hey? Picture this if you will, across the court from me on this fine, warm, sunny, June morning: my tennis partner dressed in Wrangler jeans, boots, wife-beater t-shirt and cowboy hat, complete with cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I rose up out of my tennis-ready crouch and stared open-mouthed at this dazzling wonder before me. "Seriously? He's going to play tennis in jeans and boots? He'll die from this heat but if I can stop belly-laughing, he'll be easier to beat, so ... game on!" 

I did not take into account this man's physical fitness from years of very hard work, hauling hay and building houses in Texas summers. I did not yet know about his innate athletic prowess. All I knew at the time was that he looked hilarious and I was about to sweep the court with him. 

Even though he did manage to hit the cigarette in his mouth with his own tennis racket, sending said cigarette flying, he did pretty well that first day. I was handicapped by the fact that I couldn't stop laughing at what he looked like and, I discovered, he was a quick learner. 

Fast forward one month. It is now July and even hotter. We have played tennis about twice a week and he has improved greatly, alarmingly even. He has also progressed in his tennis attire to actual shorts and tennis shoes, neither of which he owned and had to be sought out and purchased, with much grumbling and covertness. He reluctantly left the cowboy hat at home but kept the ever-present dangling cigarette. 

Again, behold the spectacle before me. The top half of this man tanned and muscle-y from years of working in the sun; bottom half stark white and skinny, with two perfect chicken legs sticking out of the shorts and above the dorky old man socks. Again, me laughing my butt off and again, underestimating this man. 

He whipped my butt that day as if in an effort to make up for the less than usual manly appearance. 

Fast forward another month. It is now August, so hot the tar is melting on the streets. Butch is across from me on the tennis court, legs tan, looking not so chicken-like, comfortable in his shorts, no cigarette, crouching with racket in hand, seriously ready to flay me. Which he did. Every time we played. 

I'm not laughing anymore. 

In two short months this man went from never holding a tennis racket to giving me, a life-long tennis player, a sound beating on the court, every weekend. How? How could this be?? I know the whole point of our playing tennis together is (supposedly) to have fun and get some exercise, but I don't like losing. And I shouldn't be losing to this chicken-legged country boy who's never played tennis before. He's not nearly as cute as I am. And he's smug about it. And laughing!  At me! 

Well now. 

Just as I was coming up with some nefarious plan to knock his smug self down a few notches, lo and behold, who is driving by but his two beloved 20-something nephews who adore their cowboy/carpenter uncle and have never once had the thought that Butch might lower himself by playing tennis or EVER wearing shorts or tennis shoes! Egads! We could hear the guffaws two blocks away. Butch tried to run and hide but it was too late! He'd been seen! Oh no! His image destroyed!  Sacre Bleu! 

He sticks a manly cigarette in his mouth, saunters casually over to his nephews' car and sheepishly says, as if he's let hoards of manly men down, "Heh, heh, heh. Hey boys." 

The smugness is gone. 

I am again laughing.

 I feel much better now.

Order has been restored.  ;)

Oh Those Wonderful Butch-isms!

My husband Butch is from East Texas, the land of colorful and funny people with enough delightful expressions to fill a big ole cracker barrel. He always has a pocketful of these hilarious old sayings, ready to whip them out at a moment's notice, making mundane, everyday things infinitely more interesting and flavorful, much like a chef sprinkling salt on everything, everywhere. After sixteen years together, his expressions still make me laugh out loud. 

I mean, most of us might just say we were scared of heights, plain and simple, but no, not Butch. He says, after being up on a high ladder, "I was quivering like a cat poopin' peach seeds!" Descriptive! Or when us boring, normal people might simply mention how dark it was outside, he can't just say it's dark. He has to say, "It's dark as the inside of a cow out there!" And if something is shiny, Butch (for some reason that still escapes me) quips, "Shinier than a diamond in a goat's butt." See? Colorful! And such nice mental images too! 

And to add even more flavor to life, he has this endearing quirk of suddenly popping out golden morsels of 'truth' at the most unexpected moments (most of which I have no idea what to do with). 

Last night we were innocently discussing pine nuts. Butch then pops out, with the complete assurance of a kid telling a story, "Euell Gibbobs died from choking to death on a pine nut."  I paused to take in this tidbit of Butch trivia. (Okay, Euell Gibbons the Grape Nuts cereal spokesman? Hmm... Really?) I respond, "Really? Huh. I don't remember that." Go to handy Google and see that, in reality, Euell Gibbons in fact died of an aneurysm, which I informed Butch of. He says, "Nooo, I don't think so." Oh, well okay then! Choking to death it is!  

Recently we were having a run o' the mill discussion about yams. Why? I have no idea but then Butch comes out with, "Daniel Boone died from eating too many yams." as if it were the God's honest truth. I again respond with suspicion at yet another bit of Butch trivia and go straight to my phone. Nope, Daniel died of natural causes. I then inform Butch of this *actual* truth, which will make absolutely no impression on him. Google is lying. We will have this discussion 5000 more times. 

But I think my favorite of his interesting beliefs is that people who go on vacation and get hurt got EXACTLY what they deserved. If we hear a story of something terrible happening while people are doing anything other than working or sleeping, such as the 40 year old woman who fell to her death after skydiving with a faulty parachute, Butch proclaims, finger in air, "That's what happens when you're having fun! They should have stayed home and at work where they belonged!" Hence the very understandable reason that we never go anywhere, do anything or have any fun whatsoever because it's apparently DANGEROUS and frivolous and you'll get your just reward for doing it. So now whenever we hear of someone getting hurt or killed on vacation, we say, in unison, (mine with a hint of sarcasm), "That's what they get for having fun!" 

And for some reason, it never fails to make me laugh. All of it. It definitely keeps life interesting and flavorful. I think I'll start calling him the Verbal Chef. He won't get it but I bet he'll have something funny to say about it!  "Whut? I'm no Verbull Sheff. I just speak the truth like a black hog in a waller talking to a blue frog on a log, as full as a tick on a hound dog's belly who would stretch a mile if he didn't have to walk back. Verbull Sheff. Psh."