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!  👩‍🎨🗼