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  ;)