A Speckled Trout

This is BD’s new tub.  He thought it would spice things up a bit.  Har. Har. Har.

Actually, we saw it at a garage sale.  I wanted it for the house.  Oh, BD, a cast iron tub for the upstairs bathroom?  Be still my vintage heart.  BD had other plans – a koi pond and keep your mitts off it, Curly.  It sat for months on the side yard and the neighbors were like, “For krissssssakes, Fishers, keep your erectile dysfunction problems in the house.  This ain’t some commercial.”   To hell with them we said and left it out there until spring.

Last weekend the Cialis Tub got moved to its permanent location by the patio and isn’t she pretty?  The fish will be ready for their new home once BD runs the pump awhile to clean it out.  The power for the pump is coming from an outlet in the basement.

Like so……  BD, shouldn’t we do something about that window situation?  When the raccoons discover your pond, they’re going to come in the house thru the basement window to dry off after their surf and swim.  BD said I was crazy.  He said animals don’t come in houses.  He doesn’t watch Hoarders so he doesn’t know about the old lady who had a house full of chickens.  And I mean chickens everywhere.

Once upon a time, BD and the Boy Child came home from a scouting campout with a snake.  BD put it in a little aquarium with a screen on top.  Shouldn’t you put something heavier on top of that so it doesn’t escape?  Oh, Little Woman, he says, you slay me with your heebie jeebies.

Months later, I’m up and down the stairs on a Saturday morning doing laundry and BD is whistling and wandering around with a flashlight.  I ask him what he’s looking for and he says, oh nothing, just looking.  About the third time up the stairs. two neurons in my brain region make a love connection and that’s when I figured the whole thing out, looked at BD and said, “That fucking snake is missing, isn’t it?”  (No italics and an F-bomb cuz I was really pissed.)   It’s not missing he tells me, it’s lost and he goes back to whistling zippety-do-dah like it’s my, oh, my, a wonderful day with a snake on the loose. 

Not to anyone’s surprise, the snake was never found which is why I try not to keep my butt on the toilet seat too long.  BD says that’s why I’m uptight and constipated, but if it has grown to python size, I don’t want to be in a compromised position should it decide to check out our little Garden of Eden……….

………..because when that snake thinks the moment is right, plenty of trouble could be headed my way.

I’ve been a little overwhelmed this week which explains the lame posting.  I’m in charge of the Easter Vigil reception on Saturday nite for about 100-150 people.  On Sunday, we’re having 30 people over for Easter dinner.  Can you say AHHHHHH???  Today after I grocery shopped and made umpteen reminder calls to volunteers, I crafted.  For hours at the dining room table.  It’s how I handle stress.  I check out with scrapbooking paper and scissors.  I feel better and still have no idea how I’m going to fit this many people in my house, but how lucky are BD and I that we have so many friends?

In the meantime, have the loveliest of Easter seasons when all of life gets a do-over.  Thanks for supporting this writer these last few months.  I heart you all.  Big time…………

Love, love, love, love, crazy love

In the past few days, 60 Minutes and Jon Krakauer have called into question Greg Mortenson and his book, Three Cups of Tea.  I read the book several years ago and heard Mr. Mortenson speak just last year.  It was quite an evening.  He was dynamic, articulate and passionate about education in Pakistan and Afghanistan and upon entering the event, envelopes were passed out should you wish to make a donation to the Central Asia Institute to further the cause.  Whether he has experienced or accomplished all that he claims in his books is now under question as is the financial management of his nonprofit.  I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt and think that there are minor discrepancies to clear up, but when interviewed about the allegations he commented that he is not a journalist, did not take a lot of notes and places the blame on his coauthor. 

So now what? 

Somebody somewhere is teaching a kid to read and opening a door to an exciting world.  We’ll never know their name and hundreds of people aren’t likely to go out in the evening to hear their story.  That is grace and should they wobble or fall from it, nobody will even notice.

For several years, I was a volunteer at my church in the religious ed program.  Every Monday from 4:15 to 5:15, public school kids (like mine) would go to the Catholic school to learn about their faith.  For two of those years, I was a 4th grade teacher.   During Lent, each grade would be assigned a day to go to the church for confession.  Most kids are terrified of this and so we spent a lot of time practicing what to do and say until the day came for the 4th graders to confess their sins.

One by one, I watched those nervous, little kids go up on the altar, take a seat, make the sign of the cross and start talking.  When they were done, they’d come back to the pew.  One little girl came back, sat down next to me and whispered, “Mrs. Fisher that wasn’t hard at all.”  I’m happy to hear that.  “Mrs. Fisher, do you want to know why it wasn’t hard for me?”  Why, yes I do.  “Because I never do anything wrong.”

In the year those kids learned the Beattitudes, Ten Commandments and how to be good stewards of all God gave them, I was educated about self-esteem from a nine year old who sat down, looked the Company Rep for the Jesus Corp right in the eye and said, “Bless me Father for I have sinned………..well, actually, I haven’t so I’m gonna go sit with my friends and not waste your time or mine.”

When our Teacher Girl moved home for a year, she watched Wheel of Fortune every night.  I quickly got hooked since there’s nothing a wordie likes more than to solve word puzzles.  Between us, we were a one-two punch and if the contestants didn’t know the answer we’d shout at the t.v. until they paid attention to us. 

A few weeks ago, I was watching it and when the guy who solved the first puzzle had to introduce himself, he was nearly overcome with emotion.  He said that he’d been watching Pat and Vanna for 20 years and his lifelong goal was to make it onto the show.  Well, whaddya know?  He did that and made some money to boot.

By the end of the show he’d made it to The Final Spin and couldn’t believe his good fortune.  Sure enough, he solved the last puzzle and left with SEVENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS (insert dramatic voice over).  Oh, he had himself a good, ol’ cry then and all alone with my glass of wine, I dabbed my teary eyes for this man who kept spinning a wheel until he made his dream come true.

This has been an uneventful writing week for me.  Not much kicking around, not sure what to do about that and not sure if I’m even a writer soooo………when Fancy Nancy gave me this ticket the other day and said let’s go out, I did the happy dance.

This is the second time I’ve seen Anne Lamott and whether she’s talking about birthday cake or writing discipline, she’s a deep sigh of satisfaction.  I wanted to write down everything she said, but she’s such a great speaker that to do that while she’s talking would be counterproductive.  I did make note of this, however, “The amount you know any day is sufficient.”  How brilliant is that?

This book has been next to my bed for 10 years.  I’ll pick it up and start reading and it’s never failed to make me laugh and think and push me over hurdles.  When she signed it, I said something generic and dumb instead of saying, “Thank you you for writing this because every time I’ve picked it up, I got a shot of confidence and it’s as if you knew my heart better than me.”  If I said all that, though, I’d have started crying and then they’d have to call security cuz that starts getting creepy and stalkerish.

Guardian angels come in all sizes.  Mine’s a white chick with dreadlocks who knows a whole lot about substance abuse, has a wicked sense of humor and is so spiritual and honest when she writes that she makes me want to step it up a notch.

This week’s news reported a story that Mitt Romney has formed an exploratory committee to determine if he should run for president.  Previously, Newt Gingrich (I love America so damn much it causes me to keep cheating on my wives) made the same announcement.  Tim Pawlenty is traveling a lot and talking like he’s running for president, but I guess his committee hasn’t tied up the loose ends yet.

Big Daddy and I want a summer cottage.  Something small and rustic and close to a pond so he can fish and practice his speech for when he wins the Nobel Prize.  While he’s doing that, I’ll be putting the finishing touches on my book,  The Story Of A Marriage – How To Go To Hell And Back Without White Lights To Guide You that will likely win me a Pulitzer.  This plan has been in an exploratory committee for nearly thirty years and the conclusion is always the same.  No denero senor and senorita…maybe next year.  After all this time, you’d think somebody would be interested in this compelling story of ours, but no microphone or camera crew has showed up here at the plantation to get the scoop.   I guess BD and I aren’t all that newsworthy.

Pssssst, here’s a little secret…..neither are they.  Pass it on.

Day by day, spring makes its presence known and as if somebody flipped a switch, the ants wake up and start invading the house.  Kitchen counters, cabinets, the sink…they’re all coming by for a look see at the improvements we’ve made to the crib in the last year.   None, so get your hyper, little fannies out of my kitchen.  

I have trouble figuring out how to end their life.  I bought some ant traps and put them in various spots where they congregate, but no luck.  Deep in the walls of the house, there must have been a big longevity seminar this winter sponsored by the Ant Life Insurance Agents of America.  #1 tip was likely to avoid the ant traps so I sweep them into the dishwasher or wipe them up with a sponge or use the sprayer and send ’em for a ride down the sink (wheeeeeee).  If I’ve really had it with their invading behavior, I start smashing them with my hand.  The other day, I consulted Mallie Bee on how I should kill this newest batch and she was appalled.  “Mom!!!  They’re just little ants.” (This is on the down low but I think she might be on her way to becoming one of those PETA types).

When I was a little girl and staying at my grandma’s house, I saw a mouse run across the kitchen floor and Gram said to me, “Honey, fetch me the broom and show me where it went.”  I did as told and when it came out she whacked that thing but good and killed it on the first try.  She didn’t mess around or wait for my grandpa to get home to take care of rodents.

When my mom saw ant colonies outside, she’d put the kettle on and let it come to a boil as if she were going to have a nice cup of hot tea in the middle of the day.  Instead, she’d march outside and pour that boiling water right down the little hole they were crawling in and out of.  Best summer show in town.

Some girls grow up learning skills like sewing or quilting that have been taught from one generation to another.  My people pass down extermination techniques.  My daughter may be tenderhearted now, but wait until she’s got a place of her own and them varmints decide to inhabit.  In the meantime, watch and learn, baby, watch and learn.