Little Pink Houses

I am in love.
Truly, madly, deeply, in love.

Isn't she divine?

Tell me you can see it!
The front porch?
The shutters?
The Lilac bushes?
Cookies in the oven, clothes on the line?

I am coming Darling!

Out-T

With Love to Pittsburgh

There are 6,775,446,338 in the world; I only know a handful of them. Of that handful, only a few like me. Most of those few are related to me, so they are obliged to like me.

They don’t count.

I avoid social networking sites because it is somewhat embarrassing to show the world just how unlikable you are. The majority of the requests I get to follow me on Twitter are from porn stars. Secretly I think that is kind of awesome, but it is not really a glowing endorsement of my superior people skills. My Facebook page is like the Gobi (In this case the Tobi) Desert, barren. The friend request I received from my Rat-Faced Brother yesterday said: “Mom says I have to be your friend.”

Pathetic much?

I am always a little surprised when someone says they like me. “Who me? No, you must have me confused with someone else. Someone nice!” I even had to turn off the comments around here because I could not handle reading such nice things. Not because I don’t love me some nice comments, because I do. Truly, I do. But, because I do not have enough practice at nice to reciprocate. I have Comment Anxiety Disorder.

When I saw this today, from she, who is quite possibly one of the nicest people on the planet, Holy Santa, Oprah, Hare Krishna, I did not know what to say! I still do not know what to say.

Other than --
Thank you,
And buy the shoes L.
You totally need to buy the shoes!

Out-T

Crazy Quilt

I still call her Mamma. She lets me.

Still.

Even though.

In spite of.

Just because, and for my part, I am grateful.
Now.
Not always, but now.
I am grateful.

We.
She and I.
We have spent years, a lifetime, my lifetime, weaving spider web thin threads of time into fabric.
This fabric we patched together is a crazy quilt. A mother’s story. A daughter’s story.
It is our story.
The fibers are us.

Sometimes, the strands we gathered were bright, shiny gold bits, intense, reflective, hot to the touch.
Other times, they were no more than scraps of discarded twine, salvaged from dusty corners, blown clean with collective breath, threaded through bent needles.
Sometimes, the stitches were work, done up close, with hunched shoulders, through squinted eyes.
Other times, it was effortless.

It is our story.

We have created a patchwork of life, together, with the help of other mothers and other daughters.
The ones that came before we were us.
The ones that came after. When we, became all of us.

We.

She and I, continue to leave our mark on this tapestry.
It will go on this crazy quilt.
Long after we become them, and they become us.

There comes a time when you can take the quilt out, shake it in daylight,
admire its beauty, wrap yourself in it, and be grateful.

I am grateful.

Happy Birthday Mamma.
T.

Tacos, Flowers and a Swingy Summer Frock

I was mad at a friend of mine yesterday. Not mad in a “I want to wrestle you in a vat of Jello Pudding and pull your hair” sort of way, more mad in a shouty, unreasonable, carry the hell on sort of way.

So, I was shouty, and he was quiet, mostly.

And somewhere in between "You are a giant wiener face, because you don’t listen to me EVER about ANYTHING, because you are a giant WIENER FACE! and, FINE! I will shut up and stop calling you names."

I think I said something about tacos and flowers, as in, "The only way I am going to shut the hell up is if you bring me tacos or flowers, because you don’t listen to me EVER about ANYTHING!"

He brought me tacos.

Then we were friends again. I was all smirky and self-satisfied because I won the fight.

He brought me tacos!

Then he ate all of the tacos right in front of me.

Not only that, but he told me that it looked like I was wearing a smock. I told him what he meant to say was “frock” I was wearing a swingy summer frock.
Then he said “No, it is a smock, and I am being kind calling it a smock. What it really is, is tragic”

Now I am mad again, and he is all smirky and self-satisfied.

The End

Out-T

Standing At the Intersection of Crazy & Boss Street

Dear Mr. Fussy Pants,

The answer to your question is NO!

I do not know what you thought about yesterday that you needed to do today.
I can only remember the things that I thought about yesterday.

Surprising I know.

If you persist in this sort of torment, I will have no choice but to stab you in the eye with my pen. Either that, or I will hold you down and draw really big numbers on you in red ink.

I am not even kidding.

Very truly yours,
T

The Days of Whine and Noses

Could someone please explain to me how a woman with the largest nose I have ever seen, an unfortunate nose, a nose of enormous proportion, a nose that is so freakishly big that I am almost positive she needs a Sham-Wow to wipe it?

How can this woman not notice that her whiny (with good reason) toddler has a ass load of crap in her diaper, and that said diaper is so foul that it is about to set off smoke alarms?

And while you are at it, please tell me what is so wonderful at the Hobby Lobby that it would cause Mrs. Schnozolla to ignore little Gorgeous Adorable Schnozolla’s pleas for attention for nearly twenty damn minutes, because whatever it is? I want one.

Even if it is not on sale.
Out-T.

Crazy Little Thing Called Shrub

I went a little crazy yesterday. I lost my marbles, flipped out, came unglued…

WAIT! Don’t leave. I‘ll stop!

Now then, what did I do, you wonder? Well, I’ll tell you.

I went to the Home Depot for grout.

Let me guess what you are thinking. Is it something like “Woo-hoo! Livin la Vida Loca at the Home Depot, stocking up on the grout, loser?"

To that, I say--“No, that is not the crazy part (smart-ass).”

The crazy part is that on the way to the flooring department I passed a lovely display of tropical plants.

They were on sale.

Now, I do not want a plant, nor, do I need a plant. Truth be told, I probably should not be allowed to own a plant.

Did I mention that they were on sale?

I intended to put the plant back in its proper place before I left the store. I know my limitations. Actually, I considered ditching the damn thing in the plumbing supply aisle, but I thought that green foliage sprouting from a rack of plungers would be a little obvious. I am not equipped to take on the responsibility of another living thing. I did not want to add plant killer to my list of shortcomings.

Bad mother, Poodle abuser and Parakeetophile are bad enough. Thank you.

I must have been distracted by something shiny on the way back to the garden department, because before I knew it, I was in the check out line with grout, and about forty-two other unwanted items including the damn plant.

Crap!

(Here is where the crazy part comes in).

I TRIED to tell the mean looking cashier who has a working knowledge of power tools that I changed my mind. I WANTED to tell her to forget the plant. I wasn’t taking it. “Never mind” I wanted to chirp, “Sorry for the inconvenience and the potting soil all over your counter, I’ll be on my way now. Toodles! Catch you later! Au revoir! Thanks for the grout and naval jelly! See you soon!”

I COULDN’T.

I TRIED!

Then the plant was mine. The responsibility was mine. The guilt was mine.
And who am I?

I my friends, am Elmyra Duff.

At some point between strapping my potted victim in the car with the seat belt and apologizing to it all the way home, I fell in love with the plant.

"You are my new friend. I will name you Shrub, & I will love you & hug you & squeeze you to death!"
"You have been naughty Shrub. Now I will have to spank you."

Crazy I tell you.

Out-T.