Reserved Parking Only

I may have mentioned a time or twenty that The Big Daddy and I are from the Chicago area.   As you know, they get some mighty wintry winters.  What you may not know is that if you are a Chicagoan, and you shovel a space for your car, say in front of your house, and say you set up some 2 x 4s propped on some webbed lawn chairs, say in January, it means that you have reserved that area and are the rightful owner.   The law may say that it is public property, but street law says it belongs to the shoveler.  Messing with it and thinking you can park in a space you did not clear could get you one of those 2 x 4s upside the head.

When the kids were little, there was a new store opening in town called HQ.  It was like Home Depot, but more designery.  The Big Daddy offered it up for the team and agreed to take the kids and I there for a fun family outing.  On opening weekend.  With thousands of other people.  We circled the lot forever and finally found someone who was leaving.  The BD turned his blinker on and we patiently waited for them to pull out.  As they did, another driver whipped around the corner and beat us to the spot.  “SON OF A BITCH”, The Big Daddy yelled.  “DID YOU SEE WHAT THAT BASTARD JUST DID?”  Oh my God, he stole his space.  With his blinker on.  He totally ignored Blinker Etiquette.  The Big Daddy was crazy, and I had his back.  This was Parking Space War and we waited patiently for the thief to get out of his car so we could lay down some ef bombs. 

With three young children in the backseat.

After a few minutes and off in the distance, we could hear sirens.  And The Little Boy Child said, “That’s the police.  They’re coming to get that guy and they’re going to poke both his eyes out until they bleed and put him in jail for taking our space.”    I’d like to thank the Academy on behalf of The Big Daddy and I for naming us Parents of the Year.  Again.  

A few years later, again with all the kids in the car, I was meeting a friend at a festive holiday shopping center for lunch.  We were running late, the parking lot was jammed and I was circling and circling until I finally found a space near the door.  I got the kids out and an older couple stopped and said, “Didn’t you see the sign?  It says compact cars only.”  Well, no, I didn’t see the sign and there was my minivan and geez, it wasn’t even a tight fit.  Kids, I said, we’re just gonna leave it there.  The Teacher Girl was in a Mother Theresa phase and said, “No, Mom, you can’t.  We’ll get in trouble for not following the rules.”  Oh, for God’s sake.  I put all the kids back in the car and looked for a regular space.  A minivan space.  Which is how I scraped the entire driver’s side when I pulled in too close to a concrete pole.

We got into the shopping center and I was so rattled and stressed and pissed that I needed a drink or three.  Instead I sat with my friend and six kids with a paper engineer hat on my head waiting for my burger and fries to be delivered by a choo choo train.  That I thought about punching.  I told her about my mishap with the pole and my encounter with the Parking Lot PoPo.  This is the kind of stuff I can’t let go.  Gotta let it fester.  Build up. 

When we were leaving, I happened to spot Deputy Fife and The Mrs. and stopped them for “a moment of their time.”  That’s when I told them that when I moved my car the entire side was hit and maybe they should mind their own beeswax when it comes to people parking their car.  I did leave out the fact that it was me pulling in too close to a pole that caused this crime against my car because I like to blame other people when I mess up.   “Oh my, oh dear,” the Mrs. said,  “Are the children o.k.?”

What are you talking about lady???  What children???  Oh, ya mean those three watching Mom get her crazy on.

As we enter the hap-happiest time of the year, it’s all about parking, parking lots, parking etiquette.  For The Big Daddy and I, it means working hard to suppress that Chicago thing that’s in our DNA.  Oh, but our hearts sure would be glowing with holiday greetings if only we could bring our lawn chairs and 2 x 4s to those gay happy meetings at the mall.

 
 
 

The First Noel

When The Big Daddy and I married, we lived about two hours from our parents.  He was in graduate school, I worked in a bank.  That year, Christmas Eve was on a Saturday.  The bank kept regular Saturday hours, 9 – 12, and I offered to work since we didn’t have much of a drive.

It started snowing early in the a.m.and was a swirling, blizzardy mess as the morning wore on.  There was stories of accidents and bad driving conditions from customers, and one of my coworkers who was going in the same general vicinity as me heard that the interstate was closed.  Puhleez.  There wasn’t all that much snow that could have accumulated in such a short time.

While that may have been true, in central Illinois there is nothing to stop the snow, and with the right wind conditions it certainly can close a highway.  So there we were, The Big Daddy and The Loan Processor spending Christmas alone in the dreary basement apartment.  With the roaches.

Because we had planned on being with the family, we had no tree.  Nor a Christmas dinner or gifts to open because we were broke.  Ho. To. The. Ho.  We dug in the fridge and came up with some cube steaks and a couple of beers.  Nothing celebrates the joy of Jesus’ birth like chewing on some gristle off of t.v. trays while watching MTV.   I was DEEpressed.

Finally, The Big Daddy said, “Enough.  We are getting out and going to the movies.. Your pick.”   That’s how we ended up at “Terms Of Endearment” and I had no idea Debra Winger was going to die.  I boo hooed and it was a miserable 1st married Christmas except for this…………..

In the movie, Jack Nicholson offers Shirley MacLaine a drink which she declines.  He tells her she should consider it “to kill the bug that crawled up your ass.”  I believe it’s one of the finest movie lines of all time and I have used it over and over.  In my head.  To people who make me nuts.

We went back to our place, killed some Christmas roaches in the bathroom and called it a night.  We eventually made it home to celebrate New Years with our families and we drank plenty.

Just to make sure.

Source: google.com via Sally on Pinterest

Curb Your Enthusiasm

When The Boy Child came home for Thanksgiving break, I ran some errands and brought us home some lunch.  On the way back, I passed a desk on the curb with a free sign, so I slowed down for a look-see.  And was there anything on top of that desk, you ask????   Well, I’ll tell you.  It was this……………

Oh dear God of Vintage Roadkill.  I couldn’t believe it.  And it wasn’t just this one, there was another.  I backed up the car and loaded ’em up along with that stinkin’ cute typewriter table.  Let me tell you, they were FILTHY.  I put them in the back of my car and about ten pounds of dust settled into the crevices.

I came home with lunch and showed The Boy Child my finds.  Cuz he gets excited.  Not like the girls who say, “Why do you bring home this crap and then get mad when we don’t love it?”  Because I am your mother, that’s why.  Which has nothing to do with the conversation, but I like to throw down some discipline once in awhile.

Anyhow, I told him about the desk and asked if he wanted to go back and look at it for his apartment.  And he did, which seriously gets me so excited I can’t even tell you.  We go back to shop and it was kind of rickety and not so cool so we passed on it.  However, up by the garage was the garbage can and a bunch of bags next to it.  Hmmmm……what could be in those bags?  And that is how I ended up digging through some trash on private property with the dog next door barking like a damn, furry fool.  Hey, Lassie, Timmy didn’t fall down the well after all so no need to alert the authorities.

I told The Big Daddy about our Excellent Adventure and he said, “Jeezus, are you trying to get yourself shot?”  Negatory, BD.  Just shopping.  “Well, you can’t go up to people’s houses or they’ll think you’re robbing them.”    Robbing them of potentially lucrative garbage that just may land me on Antiques Roadshow, thus securing our retirement at the mobile home park.  And that’s the part where he’s supposed to say “thank you” but never does.
 
A few days later, Black Friday comes along and it is a crazy nightmare with mobs and trampling and pepper spray in the midnight hour.  Pepper spray?   For an X-box.  I didn’t participate in that madness.  I’ve got my own kind of madness to manage, and taking it into the crowds for a crappy two dollar waffle iron is not for me.  You know, standards and all.

Let’s Label

When I decided to write a blog, the set-up took FOREVA.  Like forty days and forty nights.  The Teacher Girl came over and said, “Watch.”  Then she did about 25 steps while texting with multiple sites getting maximized and minimized and music playing in the background and I had no idea what she did.

Even though it was all ready to go, I decided to change everything which explains the simple look I’ve got going.  Simple because it was all I was capable of.   Simple because I was Amish in another life.

This weekend I was talking to someone who has a different kind of blog and asked him a bunch of questions.  Foremost, how do you get your blog out there and attracting attention?  He gave me some advice that had something to do with something something zero or something something oh.  I can’t remember because I was having fun and drinking and you know how that goes.   And then I wondered how you labeled your posts?   By typing whatever you want in the box that says “label” on the compose page.  Drrrrrrr………….Drrrrrrr…………Double Drrrrrrr………….

I’m going to label everything I write now because I learned a new skill.  All Big Daddy posts will say, Hey, Why Don’t You Put That On The Blog?  That’s cuz whenever I think he’s done something dumb, he says that to me.  In the meantime, the Nook that The BD got me last year for Christmas sits unused because turning the pages made me so nuts I wanted to fling it across the room.   I may have to tap into my skill set and figure out how to turn just one.  At a time.  Instead of thirty.  I would label that A Breakthrough.

This is The Big Daddy yelling at me to “put it on the blog.”  So I did.


The Hofmeister Ham

Many years ago, my brother stopped by my mom’s house, popped the trunk of his car and pleaded with us to take a ham.  Take two, he said, I’ve got to get rid of these things.  He is a salesman and his company gives a Hofmeister ham to its best customers during the Christmas season.  He had a serious overstock issue.

I took one, put it in a cooler and drove it back to Kansas.  We stuck it in the fridge until Easter and IT WAS THE BOMB.  Everybody raved about the Hofmeister.  I entertain a lot of people at Easter.  A free good ham is essential to my dinner being a success.  And to people liking me.  Really, really liking me.

Now I make it my business to get in touch with my brother in early December. Hey, how you doing?  How’s Sharon?  The kids?   Good, good.  Work?  Good.  Yeah, well, since you brought up work, how ’bout securing me one of those hams?

Last year in exchange for a Hofmeister, I offered him a mint condition, collectible Scottish snowman in golf attire.  What could be more perfect for a guy who loves golf?   He emailed me back.  “Nice job trading crap from your basement.  You sure know how to make a guy feel special…..like-wearing-a-helmet-short-bus-special.”  Always the short bus jokes with the brother even when you’re both old enough to qualify for AARP.   I told him he’s always been my my special boy and to go easy with the tinsel on his helmet this Christmas so things didn’t short out upstairs.  If you know what I mean.

From there, the email got sent to my sister and all of his kids.  It was a hamstorm of activity….like chimps at the zoo flinging crap at one another.  There were accusations of me being cheap, regifting and of him only hearing from me during Ham Season.  I was offended.  I remained mature and generous (me Scotty Snowman was still on the table), but I really wanted a Hamosaurus for Christmas.  No crocodile. 

Sure enough, The Man In Brown shows up one day and I could hear the choir of angels singing as he walked up the drive.  The shepherds watched over their flocks, the people who walked in darkness had seen a great light, and unto us a Child was born.   Oh, and The Mighty Holiday Hofmeister in refrigerated packaging was sitting on my doorstep like the best damn gift ever.

Hit it angels………………

Party City

The Big Daddy and I entertain often.  This requires a lot of work and planning to make sure things go smoothly.  BD?  He’s flown by the seat of his pants from the second his Momma gave birth to him.  He plans nothing.

A few years ago, we had a chili party.   I sent out invitations and made two different kinds of chili ahead of time.  Moved furniture.  Cleaned the house and porch.  Scrubbed the bathroom.  Got wine, beer, napkins and glasses.   Decorated and strategically placed mood candles.   In order to help out, The Big Daddy left work after lunch, came home, changed his clothes and trimmed the trees.   When my neighbor saw him up on a ladder sawing branches she called to make sure we were having a party that night,  Yes, it’s tonight.  Yes, in a couple of hours.  Yes, he’s “helping” me.

Last year, we had a Christmas party with even more people invited.  The BD stayed home in the morning to help out before leaving for a meeting, and cleaned the backyard of dog crap.   A different neighbor called that time to see if I wanted her to tell him to get in the house.   You know, where the party was going to be.  

Pre-Entertaining Man Stupidity runs rampant at this time of year.   There is no known remedy, but symptoms can be managed with a shop vac, leaf blower or chainsaw.  Extreme cases may require a bobcat.

Party on.

Source: google.com via Kelly on Pinterest

Processing The Food

Thanks to this………….

Source: howdesign.com via Meg on Pinterest

……….I’ve been branching out with some recipes, and it seems most of them require a food processor.  I had a small one at one time, but gave it away since it intimidated the hell out of me.  Just reading about pulsing gave me the heebie-jeebies.

The Big Daddy had a bumper crop of tomatoes that came in about hmmm…..October.  Tomatoes had taken over the homestead so I decided to make salsa which required a food processor.  I opted to use the blender instead with less than great results.  I told my tale of woe to my friend who offered me her food processor that she had never used.  Skerd, like me.  I put my big girl panties on, put that Mother on the counter and stared it down.

I have now made two new batches of salsa that The Fam is going crazy for and I AM IN LOVE WITH THE FOOD PROCESSOR!!!!  I returned it to my friend with a breathless description of its life changing power.  She wanted a piece of that action and made a sweet potato dish with the same results as me.  Now we talk about a kitchen appliance that has been around FOREVA, like we just lifted our skirts and got off the carriage from Amish country.

My mom has had a lifelong debilitating fear of yeast.  She’s always referred to it in a low whisper, like gossiping about somebody whose husband is going to the Big House for tax evasion.  Her advice to her kids, “Stay away from it..  Don’t even try it.”

I think somewhere along the way she may have gotten the Just Say No To Drugs campaign confused with Yeast, and crazy is as crazy was raised.

Hunter & Gatherers

When The Big Daddy decided to start farming the backyard, we had a difference of opinion on the aesthetics.  I know it’s shocking.   He was going to leave the railroad ties to border it and I haaaaaaaate those things.  I convinced him that we should extend it, curve it and border it with rock. 

We are firm believers in not forking over money for things like rock, so we hunted the Great Plains in search of flagstone.  We would drive around on Sundays, pull over when things looked promising, open the hatchback and start loading.  Can I tell you how many people stopped because they thought we had car trouble?  No, just pilfering rock.  Move along.  Nothing to see..  We were getting puny amounts until The Big Daddy decided we should go to suburbia to nab our prey.

YABBA DABBA DOO!!!!  We stumbled upon a golf course under construction and it was like Bedrock.  Fred and Wilma loaded and loaded, and that car of ours dragged itself home and back many times.

We also believe that we should not pay for dirt.  Across the street, the city is putting in a walking trail to the park.  Suhweeeeeeet.  Bobcats start bright and early and this is what we’ve looked at for two weeks.  Finally, I said to The BD, “Did you see all that dirt over there?  We should go after dark and load up.”  My thoughts exactly, he said.

Great minds and gardeners think alike, and when we’re done stealing the dirt we just may bring home Johnny On The Spot.  I’ve heard that an extra bathroom always ups the resale value of a home.  Significantly.