Author: Kathleen Fisher

Last year, Big Daddy and I drove to western Kansas so he could meet up with a group of bikers from our church that were doing a cross-country bike ride to raise money and awareness for poverty.  We drove out on a Wednesday, BD would ride with them for three days and I’d drive home the following day.

We ate dinner with our friends, came back to the motel and swatted flies before trying to go to sleep.  Farm country + heat = flies.  The bikers left at 7:00 a.m. the next day and I left shortly after that.  About 45 minutes into my ride home, the car decelerated and I had to pull over.  I was in the middle of fricking nowhere with no cell phone.  I contemplated my options (none) and started the car up.  I drove about five more miles when the same thing happened but I was close to a truck stop and coasted into the parking lot.   I used their phone to call Roadside Assistance and after an hour wait, got into a tow truck to ride to Marysville.  I asked my new friend working at the truck stop to tell my biking husband what happened to me and that I was headed to town, should he stop by.  While on the way to town, the left rear brake on the tow truck started smoking.

We got to Marysville and once they found out I had a hybrid, they wouldn’t even look at the car.  I called Roadside Assistance again and was told to have the car towed to Manhattan which was 60 miles away.  The tow truck driver had to take my car off that truck since it was having problems and put it on another.  While he was doing that, I look up and see BD riding around looking for me so I wave him down.  He gives me his cell phone, meets the tow truck driver who also loves to bike, and they exchange info on tires, gloves, jerseys and mph.  Keep chatting it up you guys and don’t you worry a bit about my looming nervous breakdown.  My new BF and I get to the next dealership at noon.  I’m scheduled to be at work by 3:00 so I call Mallie Bee to tell her what’s been going on and for her to call the store and tell them that I’d be there as soon as I could.

I sat down in the service department waiting room that was full of customers and a woman in a housecoat is sitting there swatting flies.  I swear to God I’m not making any of this up.  One by one, customers start leaving when their cars are repaired and I’m left alone until some old guy comes in with a Hardee’s bag.  I give him the look.  I don’t care if you eat fast food, just make it at a fast food restaurant instead of subjecting the rest of us to the smell.  He took the look to mean I wanted to chat.

Turns out he was of the tea party persuasion and mistook my boredom for interest in his opinion about everything.  Forty-five minutes into his yapping, I picked up Car and Driver magazine and put it in front of my face and he still keeps going on about socialism.  Betcha can’t even spell it, Mr. Lipton.  Finally, I got up, picked up the fly swatter and started beating the shit out of flies.  I’m smashing ’em like I’m playing Whack-A-Mole at the carnival and I am aware that I am losing it and I don’t care.

The service writer interrupts my swatting to inform me that I need a new water pump and they don’t have it in stock.  What a surprise.  Since the car was under warranty, they would take me to Hertz to pick up a rental car.  I gathered my stuff and Mr. Tea Partier says, “It was a pleasure talking to you.  I believe I was merely a listener in this two-way.  Now you have a nice day.”  A nice day?  I was way past a nice day and harbored no fears of the fires of hell cuz I’d been in them since I got out of the fly bed.

Ten hours after I left that motel and two hours past my start time, I got to work and the owner didn’t speak or look at me for two hours.   My friend came by and said what in the hell happened, I’ve been worried about you all day.  I love my friends.  Then You Know Who pretended to be straightening a rack of clothes close by so she could hear the whole story, because until then, she only cared that I was late.

By that point it was 8:00 p.m. and all I wanted to do was go home, take a hot bath and go to bed.  Well, that’s not completely accurate.  This day of all days could have been much worse had a truck stop employee and tow truck driver not went out of their way to help me out.  They were strangers, my employer was not.  As tired as I was I still had a little of the bat-shit crazy left in me, and if there was a fly swatter in that upscale little boutique of hers, I’d have whacked her moley, little head.

A few days ago, we attended Mallie Bee’s dance recital.  I believe I’ve been to about fifteen of these, first with Teacher Girl and now the Beester.  We love watching the kids, from itty bitty ones to the older girls.  Over the years, it has become apparent that Mal is pretty good at this dance thing, but I am highly prejudiced so that is a biased opinion. The last three years she has danced on the competitive team and though she has always been shy, put her in some jazz, tap or ballet shoes and she explodes on the stage.

This has been an expensive endeavor for us to undertake.  I’d like to say I’ve been a supportive mother through it all, but that would be bullshit.   We’ve never had one of our kids get to this level and the financial commitment has been a continuous drain on our bank account.  Some months, both my paychecks went to dance expenses and I’d make sure she knew it, because you’re not a mother unless you’ve learned how to pass out guilt like treat bags at a birthday party.  Last year, I decided to let that go.  If she was serious about this (and she was) then I needed to suck it up and be happy I had a kid who’d rather hang out at a dance studio than anywhere else.

At this year’s recital, Mal was awarded the studio scholarship.  For the next year, she will be able to take all the classes she wants at no charge.  The award is given in memory of Rebecca Wright, a dance instructor who died at the age of 22 from cystic fibrosis.  She left her mark with many and Mal was lucky to have her as a teacher.  That girl of ours cried and cried when she got it.  To be recognized by your instructors for your passion and commitment is incredible.  To be recognized in the name of someone you adored is overwhelming, and I’ve no doubt that Becca’s spirit will be perched on Mal’s shoulder during this next year.

I wish I could rewind some of my guilt trips and be the kind of mother she deserved all along when it came to this passion of hers.  I got to the party later than I should have, but have learned that whether it’s art, writing or dance, creativity has to be nurtured and the cost of getting there gets paid back in a thousand different ways.

We moved to Kansas City from the Washington D. C. area with a five year old and a two year old.  We rented for awhile before we bought this house so our little Teacher Girl went to kindergarten in one school and then 1st grade in another.  I did not know a soul when we moved here.  Combine that with being a stay-at-home mom and it’s a recipe for loneliness.

One day I got to the school a little bit early and let Boy Child work off some energy on the playground equipment.  I noticed a group of women chatting nearby and recognized them as 1st grade moms.  Oh, if only I had a group of people to talk to.  After a few minutes, one of them walked over to me.  Maybe today I’m going to make a friend.  Instead she said to me, “You need to get him off of that.  It’s for kindergartners only.”  She walked away and I took a wailing two year old off the playground, and if I weren’t being watched so intently I would have wailed with him.

Over the years, I had these kinds of encounters with these kinds of moms all the time.  THEY TALK REAL LOUD SO EVERYONE KNOWS THEY’RE IMPORTANT AND THEY’LL SAY THAT THEY HAVE GOT TO GET THEIR HIGHLIGHTS DONE, THEY’RE GOING TO THE CLUB FOR DINNER, BUFFY MADE THE TENNIS TEAM, JR. IS TAKING PRIVATE VIOLIN LESSONS THREE TIMES A WEEK, OF COURSE WE’RE GOING TO CANCUN FOR SPRING BREAK, DID YOU SEE MY NEW TENNIS BRACELET THE HUSBAND BOUGHT ME TO GO WITH THE NEW SUBURBAN, I KNOW HE’S THE BEST, AND I’M TALKING TO THE PRINCIPAL ABOUT THAT MRS. SO-AND-SO IN 4TH GRADE WHO MAKES BABY SHUT HIS PIEHOLE SO SHE CAN TEACH.  It’s impossible to ignore them even though they’re experts at ignoring you.

It took me longer than I ever expected to make any friends that were of like mind, but I did and I also extended myself to anyone new that came to that school cuz God knows they needed somebody on their team.  The friends I made back then are still my friends because instead of working on maintaining fake, we work on maintaining fun.

Sometimes I see those mean moms in the grocery store and would rather read an ingredient list on a bag of ice than make eye contact with them.  However, if the day ever comes that our carts have a stand-off  in frozen foods, I’m going to look Mrs. Self-Absorbed in the eye, smile and say what I should have said 18 years ago……….

I’m not moving and you can bite me.

Nancy and I had a really good sale.  We saw old friends and neighbors, we sold a bunch of our stuff and we made some new customers.  It was an incredible amount of work but when you get to be creative and make some money at it, it’s good work.  Behold the photos of the day………

Why, oh why did I sell that scale?  Boo hooey 🙁

Nancy made the Mr. & Mrs. pillows.  Aren’t they cute?

Chalkboard sold, cart sold, stool sold, folding chairs sold.

The Adirondack chair was the first thing sold.  The barrel the second.

Nearly all of these pillows sold.

That’s Nancy folding material.  Her son made the flag artwork that Big Daddy and I bought.

Or if you’re not from Chicago, you would say hundred.  Ya think da Cubs can win a hunnerd this year?  It must be a hunnered degrees out dere.  This would be my hunnerdth post.   I bet someone is putting the finishing touches on a party for me right now.  Maybe with a hunnerd balloons.  Or a hunnerd cupcakes.  Or filling an envelope with a hunnered bucks. 

I initially wanted this blog to be called Party of One.  That’s what Big Daddy says to me all the time when I crack myself up.  He’ll say, “Kathy, party of one.  Kathy, party of one.”  That blog name was taken so I decided on A Speckled Trout after my dad,who always called me that.

Over the weekend, several people told me that they love reading this blog.  They read it every day and they’re not my mom or my husband.  Since the point in doing this was to get my writing out there to be read, I don’t know why I’m always surprised to hear that, but I am.  Every single time.  Surprised and so touched that my throat catches and I have to work hard at not crying.  #100 is a shoutout to you for taking the time to stop by here and then taking the time to tell me.  I threw a paycheck away to find out if I was any good at this and on a daily hourly minute-to-minute basis, I question that decision.  Today I will eat a cupcake and simply be thankful. 

In case I haven’t told you a bazillion times, BD and I are from Chicago.  We heart it.  We miss it.  We love going home to it.  We cheer all its teams.  We check the temps there.  We cared more about Rahm Emanuel becoming mayor than the race here in Kansas City.  Oh, so in our blood.  Enjoy these sweethearts and their very good song………………

Ok. I said I wasn’t going to post but goodness needs to be shared.

With the BIG SALE ON SATURDAY, I need to focus my attention on all the details to make this a smashing success.  Nancy’s coming tomorrow and we’ll be sorting and grouping our stuff.  It is the best we’ve ever done so if you’re in the area, stop by and see what we’ve been up to.  If you’re not close by, get on a plane.  Right now.  Hurry.  Don’t even pack anything.  You’ll need an empty suitcase for all the stuff you’re gonna want to buy.  No joke, it’s cute to the max.  Winkety wink.  See ya next week…………

Today’s post was written by my brother, Jim.  He sent me this via email and told me if I was having writer’s block, I was welcome to use it.  I remember the Vietnam draft clearly and my mom clutching a piece of paper with all my brother’s birthdays and their draft number next to it.  A low number would certainly mean they could leave us, and though my mom tried to act like it was no big deal, you could feel the fear.   You should also know that the need to write seems to be a family trait and most importantly, this isn’t the first time a brother has bailed me out.  Gracias Friar Jim…………

Unless you’re a crafter you might not know that injuries frequently happen while working on a project.  I’ve been cut, stuck with pins, burnt hundreds of times by a glue gun, stapled my fingers and nearly passed out from paint fumes.  One time I was shaking a can of spray paint and hit my knee so hard that I fell over in the driveway and laid there making little animal sounds.  By the time Big Daddy came along, all I could say was, “Un gaa, gaa, gaa…..” or something like that while pointing to my knee.

Today I was making pillows.  I needed the iron but decided to skip the ironing board because I was too lazy to put it up. I ironed on the living room floor.  Doesn’t everybody?  While trying to get a fold mark out of the fabric, I cranked up the temperature and hit the steam.  Thing is, I had my legs spread out with the fabric between ’em and dang near steamed my vajayjay.  Another few seconds and I’d have had to call the fire department to put out my crotch.

It was a close call and I could have been injured, injured bad. 

This would be our cat.  Up in a tree.  Hiding from the big, black cat that ruled the hood until Beemer came on the scene and decided he wanted to hang out in his own yard.  Well, he can but he has to do it in a tree.

BD and I had just finished dinner on the patio when there was one hell of a cat fight in the backyard.  BD sprang up to investigate.  I sprang up because I noticed my pot of petunias needed some water and I had an empty glass after finishing off a refreshing gin and tonic.  There I was at the spigot when a big, black cat comes running by.  I flung my glass of water at him which scared the bejeezus out of him and he hid behind the grill so I refilled and did it again.  Oh Lordy, he was FREAKING OUT and took off right back into our yard again when BD gave chase and then noticed something……..

The big black cat was not the neighborhood menace, but our next-door neighbor’s cat.  Dora the Explorer.  Sweet Dora.  Wouldn’t hurt a flea Dora.  No front claws Dora.  Who let the Ginger into the hood and why is that crazy bitch dousing me with water Dora.

Oh, geez, we felt like complete morons.  Dora got the hell out of Dodge and probably had a nervous breakdown behind the wood pile.  We hidey-hoed the neighbors a little while later, commented on the lovely nite and didn’t let on that we waterboarded their cat.  We’re invited over for dinner in a few days.  Steak dinner.  Maybe some sangria.  If Dora gets a look-see at us coming in the front door, it’s gonna get real awkward, real fast.