Nan Nan said WHAT??

My cousin Ron was having a bad day. In one afternoon he found out one of his best friends had suddenly passed away, his mother in law was admitted to the hospital due to a severe asthma attack and it was an overall crappy day at work. I am sure my cuz didn’t feel like entertaining, but as we (me, my daughter, and mine and Ron’s grandmother)were in town for only a short while, he felt obligated to have us, along with his parents, Gwen and Ronnie over for dinner. After feasting on delish NY-style takeout pizza, we were all hangin out trying to keep up Ron’s spirits. We discussed his 7 month old son and the cuteness of him. We watched some dude gorge himself with spicy foods on television.

Somehow the convo switched to the not-so-lighthearted subject of people with disabilities. We were trading tragic situations of those we know/have heard of when my 80 year old gramma perked up. “They was a boy in my Sundy School class borned with no eyelids.” Nan Nan began in a tired voice, thick with her Lincoln County, WV accent. We all expressed various degrees of surprise and pity.

“Yeah.” She said. “They fixed ‘eem up tho. After he was circumcised, they made eyelids out of the left over skin.” The room was quiet as everyone imagined the poor baby with no eyelids, how the doctors and surgeons would attach the skin without hurting the baby’s actual eyes. “Wow.” Someone said. “Is he okay now? Like, can you tell?”

Nan Nan shrugged a “Nah. He’s fine. …Just a little cockeyed.”

SILENCE.

Then complete uproar. O. M. G. We all DIED!!! I wasn’t the only one Ugly Laughing this time. Not only is my gramma an 80 year old life-long Sunday School teacher, the woman can’t even tell a KNOCK- KNOCK joke without crackin herself up so badly she can’t finish. And then she comes up with “COCK-EYED????!!!”

Of course she begged us not to tell a soul that SHE was the source of that joke. Well, in her defense one of her now-grown-up Sunday School boys told HER the joke. Sorry, Nans. Can’t keep that promise. I’m feelin a bit ‘cock-eyed’ myself today.

I have worked with my mother on several occasions. As her assistant in the Bridal Biz, I found Drema’s withering glares and extreme impatience to be more than I could handle. So I quit. As co-coordinator of fashion shows at the local shopping mall, I realized that my go-with-the-flow, see what happens next attitude did not mesh with Mom’s manic level of organization and micromanaging. So I quit. When I left my mother’s employ I was, on both occasions, happily and gratefully replaced by a pair of strictly organized, hyper-focused college –aged sisters whose give-and-take-charge personalities were much more compatible with my mother’s own Dictator-esque manner of management.

So when Mom asked me earlier this week to help her coordinate an upcoming wedding, I panicked. “Is Lauren out of town that weekend?” I asked, referring to her Bridal Assistant. Drema reminded me that this wedding was on the same day as Lauren’s own bridal shower. “Right. So I guess Jenn (Mom’s fashion show cohort and Lauren’s younger sis) will be with Lauren that day.” SIIGGGHHHHHH. “Sure.” I conceded. “I’ll do it. But I wanna get paid whatever you normally pay them. Even if I do suck more than they do at taking your orders.” Okay, I left that last part off, but I was thinkin it!

Upon accepting the job, I began negotiating my one-day contract. And I mean ONE DAY. I was not going to attend any pre-wedding meetings with The Bride. Mom would not give The Bride my home/work/cell phone numbers. I was not going to wear a head-set/microphone combo of any sort the day of the wedding (not that she had ever used anything technological like that before, but who knows what Lauren has thrown into the mix since I left!!). No name tags (I just hate them as a rule). Drema would not discuss with me any details of the wedding before the day of –except the night before as to the time I was to be there for the wedding. I was not going to attend the rehearsal. Surprisingly, Mom agreed to all of my demands. Then she presented me with the portfolio of the wedding.

Alarms, bells, sirens, and heart palpitations set in. Damn. I should have added the codicil that if The Bride turned out to be someone wretched, I could be excused from my duties. Holy Blushing Bride, I HATE this girl like Miley Cyrus hates Perez Hilton. She is, by all accounts a very sweet and charming girl. I just don’t like her. Which is my prerogative as a woman? I can hate another female simply because I feel like it.

Luckily, the wedding isn’t until August. Whether a rant about how I will vow to never again (yet again)work for/with my mother or about The Bride herself I am sure I will have an interesting tale to tell about that day!! Siigggghhhhhh…

House in Revolt

My cute lil 50’s era single story 3 BR, 1 BA brick box house is revolting against me. Less than three years ago,I rescued the damn thing from complete abandonment. When I saw the house from the street, I felt nothing special. Set too far back fromt the road, the curbide appeal consisted of a monstrous dead thorn bush and a dirt box front porch. But my mom talked me into a viewing and once inside, I was beyond charmed. Bigger than it looked from the outside, the buttery wam color on the walls and the new, plush carpet won me over. Not to mention the price! Amazed that it was within my budget and in a great neighborhood, I signed the mortgage 2 weeks later.

Within months of claiming ownership, the coat closet-sized bathroom flooded itself numerous times leading to a now-spongy subfloor. The roof was lifted off in sheets during a couple of awesome spring storms along with some siding around the eaves. Then there’s the lamp post in the front yard. It has been taken down by the amazing power of Mother Nature. A GORGEOUS and Buffy-strong "Chlamydia" (clemvidia? clamata?)vine has taken hold of it. We can’t remove the post because it is still hooked up to the electricity of the house. The decrepit fuse box is no help as the decades-old, barely legible hand-penciled writing on it has no ‘lamp post’ assignment. So there it is, a veritable Leaning Tower of White Trash. This week, the A/C went out. Seeing as how the unit is the original piece from the late 1970’s (and it is a BEAR! It takes up the entire kitchen pantry!). When I had a friend in the heating/cooling biz look at our furnace a few years ago, he said that it AND the a/c were built to last 15-20 years. *Siiigggggh* There is probably another Ozone hole above our house from all the chemicals that thing has been spitting out over the years.

I am not sure what I have done to incur the wrath of the spirit of this house. No one was living there when I bought it. You would think the house would be happy to have a family again. Too many beings (Mom, dad, kid, dog, cat, fish) harmoniously (mostly) cohabitating in a once desolate building. We have torn down the thorn bush, replaced it with a thriving pear tree sapling. In the back yard there is a swing set, new blueberry and raspberry bushes. We plant a veggie garden every year. We feed the birds, chipmunks and squirrels.

Maybe that is the problem. Maybe the house is a cranky geriatric who just wants to be left alone. Well, I got a KILLER APR as a new homeowner and I am locked into a 30 year mortgage. I like the neighborhood. I have the space in the front AND backyard to add on. So we are staying put. You hear that, House? You can be cranky all you want. I will still love you and take care of you as best I can. And I appreciate all you can do for us by keeping us safe, sleeping, playing and living under what is left of your roof.

Master of the Half Sandwich

I don't sleep well. Never have. For the past few years I have spent many restless nights squished between a sprawling 6'5," 200(+) pound giant and a tiny,frail pixie who smooshes herself into any and every nook and cranny of my body she can find to snuggle into. Needless to say, early mornings are NOT my best time of day. The neurons in my brian are barley firing before or AFTER coffee. So that must mean I get everything ready the night before for the next day, right? Nope. I feed pets,make coffee, prepare Gilly's lunch and snack, double-check her homework, and pick out her clothes all before 7:15-the deadline for having her dressed, complete with piggy tails and bows-every weekday. The kid is off to school by 7:30 and I have precious few minutes to chug some java, pick out my own work ensemble, maybe take a shower (if I didnt take one the night before), definitely put on my face and hair. There is usually no time for a packed lunch of my own. But today, schools were closed due to snow and I had some time to spare. I decided bit of left over chili and a half sandwich would be perfect!

I found myself perplexed to the point of paralyzation as I stared at the bounty of turkey sandwich ingredients before me. How does one MAKE a half sandwich? I didn't want two half pieces of bread left. And the cheese. It's a large square. It wasn't gonna fit on my half-sammy, if I ever figgerd out how to make it. I just kept STARING at the bread, willing it to spill it's secrets. Nothing came to me. Stupid bread, being all coy with it's knowledge.

Brian's 'Summie Sense' must've tingled bc he suddenly appeared beside me. He noisily slurped his hot coffee and said nothing. "I'm tryin to pack my lunch." I explained, still staring at the sandwich ingredients.

My mild-mannered giant nodded and slurrrped again. "How's it goin'?"

"I want to make a half-sandwich. But how? I'll have left over bread." I glanced up at him and saw that he was LOOKing at me.

"Are you serious?" Sllluuuurrrp!

I shrugged "Well, yeah. I mean, restaurants do it all the time but I guess they don't care 'bout the other half-slices. They know they'll use it. But when am I gonna have another half-sandwich?"

"You know this answer." Brian informed me in his usual mellow tone. Also, slluuurrrp!

"Well, I can't make a turkey sandwich fold-over. The stuff won't fit. Also, how am I gonna fit a square of cheese on a half sandwich? It's gonna be too big and I don't want all that cheese anyway. Hmmm." Time was closing in on me. I had a few moments left to figger this one before I had to dash out the door into the elements and on to work.

"Cut the bread, Summer." It sounded like a mantra to me. Like "Cut the bread" was a chant that was gonna help me mellow out and allow the answer come to me. Well, I didn't have time for a mystical answer, dammit, I needed one now! "HOW THE HELL DOES ONE MAKE A HALF SANDWICH?? I'll have two LEFT OVER SLICES, BRIAN! I DONT WANT LEFT OVER SLICES!! And the cheese? How will it FIT!!??"

"Put one slice back in the package. Cut one piece of bread in two. You will have two slices." I swear he sounded like a Kung Fu master explaining the Secret of Life to me. And it was getting on my nerves. I LOOKed at the bread and saw that Brian, Great Master of the Half Sandwich, was correct. If I sliced the one piece of bread down the middle,I would have my two slices. So I hacked up the bread, slopped on my fillings and stufffed my perfect half-sandwich in a baggie. I held it up for Brian to approve and to give me, his "Lil Grasshopper" a pat on the head.

What I got was "Sllllluurp!" and, "I woulda cut it into a triangle." Like I needed to make it more complicated! I kissed The Master goodbye and flew out the door.

A triangle. Sheesh! As for the cheese, I folded it, split it and gave the other half to the dog.

Probelm. Solved.

What IS it with this kid and pirates??

Gillian and I were stopped at a busy intersection on our way home from a long day at Mammy's (my mom). Suddenly, a man exited the red construction company-owned (the name of the biz was plastered on the rear view mirror) truck in front of us and slowly made his way to the 7-11 at the corner. He was a short, scrawny guy, dirty from a full day at a dusty site I am sure. His clothes were old and ripped and his smallish head was ensconced in a blue bandana.

"LOOOK MOMMA! LOOOK!" Gillian yelled and pointed her finger out the open car window. She was pointing at the construction worker. I figured she would ask why he got out of his truck to go to 7-11. Or maybe she was gonna ask him to buy her a slurpee. Who KNOWS what my child is ever gonna say. Before I could remind her that it was rude to point at people she giggled and YELLED: IT'S A PIRATE!! A PIRATE!! MOMMMMAAAAA!!!! THAT GUY IS A PIRATE!!!!

I just burst out laughing. I threw my head back and laughed and laughed. I should have scolded her, but well, the dude DID look like a pirate! He just needed an eyepatch and an earring.

Then Gillian said LOUDLY and EXCITEDLY, "And that PIRATE doesn't have a SHIP he has a PIRATE TRUCK!!" And she pointed to the truck. She was right. The name on the back window said "Pirate Construction and Excavating" with a pirate for a logo. So thaaaaat's why she thought the construction worker was a pirate. Probably some good ol' Barboursville Pirate boys runnin' that business. But you don't really think of Pirates as BUILDING antyhing. Don't they usually pillage and burn?
The guy looked over his shoulder at us and gave Gilly a half-hearted smile and a little wave. She smiled and waved back.

"Awwwww" she said"He's a NICE pirate. You think he's gonna get a slurpee?"

"DO NOT ask that man to buy you a slurpee!" I said laughing, hitting the gas as the light finally and mercifully turned green.

"I wasn't gonna!! But I bet he would. What a nice little PI-rate."

Honey, Honey

We call my backdoor neighboor "The Farmer." All year long, The Farmer has a full garden in our adjoining backyards. My family and I often partake in this cornucopial bounty, as The Farmer is very generous with his crops. Corn, green beans, snap peas and-my fave-fresh homegrown asparagus. Oh man, the asparagus. Homegrown asparagus tastes so much better than the half-dead grocery store stuff. Straight from the ground, aparagus is sweeter, crisper, and it's color is a much more vivid jade green even after cooking.

It was recently revealed to us that The Farmer also has bee hives "out in the country." A few days ago, he graced our family with a jar of honey, just culled early that morning from his hives. I was so excited, I requested Brian make a fresh batch of iced green tea (he makes it so much better than I do). Gillian bounced into the kitchen as we were drizzling the glorious golden goodness into the tea maker.

"What is that?" she asked, her brown eyes full of curiosity.

"Honey." Brian and I said simulatneously.

"What is that?" She repeated.

"Honey." I said as I played with the spoon in the jar, making pretty patterns w/ the syrupy strings as I added more to the tea maker.

"Momma. What. Is. THAT." Gillian pointed to the jar.

"Hon-ey." I said slowly and directly.

She sighed and tossed her back in frustration.

"Momma. What is in THAT jar?"

I stopped and tought about my answer. Seeing no alternative I once again stated simply and slowly,"Hoonnneeeeyyyy."

Gillian stared at the jar in consternation. Then she turned those huge, soulful eyes to mine (which are hazel and not brown, I would like to point out). "Honey, what is in that jar?" she finally asked.

Brian and I just burst out laughing, which made her laugh, too, although she didn't know why.
I guess she thought that Brian and I were correcting her (as we sometimes do), making her address us as "Honey," before we would answer her. Much like we ask her to remember her pleases and thank yous!

I abandoned the spoon in the jar and scooped up my silly, funny almost-six-year old little girl. When I stopped laughing, I explained to her that in the jar was HONEY from a bee hive and that the farmer had given the jar to us a few mintues ago. Gilly knows that bees live in hives and make honey (probably thanks to 'A Bee Movie'). She had just never seen it in a jar before!!

Traveling with a five year old, no matter the distance is always dramatic. Traveling with a five year old plus a 60 year old grandmother with severe rheumatoid arthritis AND an ornery, cantankerous-yet extraorinarily healthy 80 year old GREAT grandmother is always traumatic.

This past spring Gillian, my mother and grandmother and I were trekking up and over to Columbus, OH for my aunt's birthday. My family has been making regular visits to The Buckeye State for almost as long as I could remember. At a mere 150 miles away, Columbus should be a quick 3 hour trip. But before PaPaw, my grandfather, had gotten sick and passed away, he and Nan Nan (my grandmother) could stretch out the drive to make it more like a 5-6 hour half-day excursion. Unfortunately, there is no direct interstate highway connection to Columbus from Huntington, WV and for much of the trip old state routes and backroads are taken. These roads are riddled with my grandparents own personal Meccas: THRIFT STORES.

There are probably thrity or forty Goodwills, Salvation Army stores and good ol' fashioned "Second-handed Stores" along the way. Nan Nan and Pappers used to stop AT EVERY ONE. Being an antiques freak AND a cheapskate by nature (what can I say? It's in my genes) I was quite happy to shop along with them back in my younger, care-and child-free days. But my grandfather has since passed away. My arthritic mom is physically incapable of dragging out the trip any longer than necessary. And while Gillian is a seasoned traveller, she does get antsy in the car. That means, much to Nan Nan's dismay, that we make ONE stop, half-way there for a super-quick potty/coffee break at a McDonalds (my grandparents shared an unholy fear of Rest Stops and my Nanners still avoids them at all costs).

At this particular stop, we decided to grab lunch on the go. While I was gnoshing on my Cheeseburger Happy Meal and creeping thru one of the many 35mph speed traps, I grabbed my bucket of sweet tea for a quick, cool sip. It was stiflingly hot in the car because Nanners cannot tolerate air conditioning as it gives her a headache and makes her cough. Well, the tea cooled me off all right. The cheap styrofoam cup collapsed and cracked all the way apart. Instantly, my crotch, legs and thighs were drenched with the entire contents of my $1 large sweet tea, ice cubes and all. My immediate reaction was to look down and scream!! I lifted my sizezble posterior off of the car seat in reaction, but this proved to be an ill-fated move as the ice and liquid made their way between my legs, thru my undies and onto the seat I had to sit in for ANOTHER hour and a healf.

Because it was a quick 2.5 day trip and I was trying to pack light, I had planned to wear my jeans all weekend and did not pack an extra pair of pants. Besides, where would I go to change? It looked as if I had peed A GALLON on myself!!! I couldn't walk into a place of business looking like that! I spotted a closed-for-the-season Christmas Emporium and stopped in the parking lot. Lucky for me, the lot was also home to a string of storage units. I pulled up as close as I could to the units, positioning the car so that once open, the car door and storage building would make a nice shelter for my semi-nakedness. Mom hobbled out of the car and ransacked my overnight bag for some pajama bottoms as they were the only alternative. She was gonna get some fresh undies but I didn't want to be full frontally exposed on the side of the road, even for a spit second.
I was effectively blocked from any roadside specators as I crouched behind the open car door. Looking skyward as I shimmied out of my wet britches, I happened to notice a security camera perched directly over my head on the roof of the units. Of course. It was probably capturing every minute of this escapade. I thought for a brief second that it was a fake to deterr any would-be robbers, but it moved and made a noise, soooo I guess it was real. So much for modesty! I made a note to search You Tube later for a video feed of my panties-and-cellutlite clad self. Then came the dilemma of what to do about the very wet driver's seat. We spied a Dollar General Store across the street where we could buy a towel or two, and in the meantime, the seat was covered in trashbags ( my dad always keeps spare trash bags in the trunk-I don't wanna know why).

Thirty minutes later, Mom and Nan Nan emerged with bags full of not only towels but candy, chips and drinks. YAY!! Snacks! My burger was also a casualty of the ice tea fiasco. I only got one bite before I dropped it and screamed at my ice-cold crotch. But I wasn't about to open another drink in the car during the trip. Well, I wasn't allowed to. My mom may be sick, but when she aims those claws at you, you cringe! She snatched a pop bottle outta my hands and pointedly put it bag in the yellow and black shopping bag. *Sigh*

We were off again, me with dry pants and, thanks to surprisingly absorbent cheap towels, a dry seat. A few minutes later, Nan Nan sighed and muttered at the window, "I don't know why we cain't stop at one-o-them stores (thrift store). It ain't like we're in a hurry 'er nuthin."
Well, maybe SHE wasn't in a hurry but I was eager to get to Aunt Gwen's so I could wash my jeans, and look for my roadside fanny on the internet!