So sorry for the long delay between posts....I have been so busy. Anyway...got something funny to share!
Recently, I agreed to foster a four week old kitten rescued from Highway 82.
As the president of the humane society, I was obligated to take him. With my three dogs, it is impossible for me to take another dog, but a cat -- now, that is the lazy man's pet. Figuring I would find a home for him soon, I christened him Itty Bitty Kitty -- far from the string of literary names I have saddled my poor pets with in the past.
At first, he was shy -- hiding behind the refrigerator or on the shelf of the baker's rack. That lasted about a week.
I saw gradual changes. Attacking me at the door waiting to be fed. Sleeping in the dog bed perched up against Don Juan the Chihuahua. Learning to climb onto the kitchen counter to tear into a ziploc bag and help himself to a blueberry muffin. That last episode got him a trip out in the yard.
He quickly learned to terrorize my dogs. I caught him standing on the coffee table, watching for Skipper to walk past. When Skipper reached a reasonable distance, Itty Bitty Kitty launched himself onto Skipper's back like a cowboy at a rodeo.
Skipper was demented after the event.
Okay, I know I go on and on about my menagerie of pets, but I just had to share his newest scheme to get my attention.
Hanging from my back door screen -- just like one of those suction cup car animals.
Yes, I know. I have no life but to observe my herd, but they do make me smile.
Recently went home to see the family and I came across this:
They served food out of a trailer that read "Chihuahua" on the side. From an advertising standpoint, probably not the best marketing campaign -- unless you're from one of those third world countries and dogs are a delicacy.
Don Juan is currently in a support group, but he tries to put on a brave face.
The Don:
In other news, I worked on my completely neurotic fear of heights recently as I rode to the top of this "Ewok" tower in Hot Springs, Ark.
I am completely petrified of heights. Seriously, I can't even stand on a chair. I even get scared when other people aren't on the ground.
So, my sweetie and I go to this mountain tower, and of course, sweetie wants to go up to the top. Even the girl behind the register is trying to "sell" me on going up there. By the way, her pitch -- "There is an entire history of Bill Clinton on the top level."
Seriously. Bill Clinton is going to get me up that dang tower? One moment while I chuckle. Ha. He. He. He. Ha.
Anyway, sweetie convinces me, and we walk to the elevator. It opens, and the entire back is glass. I mean, it was obviously my day for a nervous breakdown.
After some more coaxing, I get into that glass death chamber and squash my face into the corner next to the buttons. I felt I would be okay getting on and off if I could just stare into that corner and not think about being in a freaking mountain tower.
But, NO! That damn elevator "talked" the entire trip -- "The Hot Springs Mountain tower is 3,452 feet above the city of Hot Springs. See the sweeping views of the valley down below...."
I was obviously being punished for something I had done in the past.
Finally at the top, it was as if I were in a high rise building. I didn't freak out and embarrass sweetie in front of the other tourists. It really wasn't so bad -- except all the Bill Clinton crap.
Until, we had to come down again in Willie Wonka's talking elevator.
Recently, I was diagnosed with sleep apnea -- you know where you literally stop breathing on an off throughout the night.
Well, it turns out I stop breathing about 24 times and hour, and when I do stop, I must wake up in order to start breathing again. Since I am not dead, that means I wake up a lot. A whole lot.
To sum it all up, I haven't had a good night sleep in 10 years. Seriously.
Well, that will soon change. I have been fitted this this contraption:
My significant other calls it my "snorkel." I kind of like that better than C-pap -- which is just way to close to "pap smear."
The problem is: I can't get it to stay on my head during the night. Last night, I ended up with it tangled up around my neck.
I will try again tonight, but I might have to maneuver some sort of chin strap or something of that nature.
Tips are much appreciated.
On a happier note, I have joined the Winona Adult Tennis League. Yep, I sure did.
Actually, I really said yes because I was so excited that someone wanted me on their team! I mean all of my insecurities that stemmed from all those years of gym class was instantly squashed as soon as I was asked.
I guess I was so thrilled, I completely forgot that I had no idea how to play tennis, and I hate exercise.
After my first couple of practices, I discovered a couple things.
1. I should probably invest in one of those portable defibrillator machines -- just in case.
2. There are some seriously cute tennis accessories out there.
3. I have little to no hand-eye coordination.
4. You really can throw your back out by missing the ball.
5. I probably won't be asked to join the team after they see how utterly sad I am on the court.
6. Those can't-you-get-a-better-job-for-yourselves-? net boys are completely underrated. After chasing tennis balls around for hours, I was pooped. Okay, honestly, I wanted to fall out in the middle of the parking lot. I mean, it hurt to break on the way home.
I will keep you informed of my progress, but don't expect miracles. I am not expecting to win much of anything on the court.
Every year on Christmas Eve, my family gathers at my Aunt Jean’s house for a Christmas feast, scripture reading, and gift exchange. The more than 50 members of my extended family cram into the house for the Sexton family’s most cherished tradition.
Before my grandparents passed away, the dinner was held at their house. Daddy lined tables up in the den and kitchen for the adults, and we kids were banished to the laundry room. The formal living room held the Christmas tree and a mountain of presents that took nearly 20 minutes to pass out.
My grandmother hated Christmas. It made her nervous to have that many people for dinner, but she fixed a smile on her face and acted gracious to her guests. Most didn’t even realize she was counting the minutes for them to leave.
My sisters and I knew. Every year, we were in charge of decorating her Christmas tree, and without fail, it was a struggle. Her arguments were the same.
“You are getting those needles all over my floor.”
“Look at the dust on that thing. It’s going to mess up my clean house.”
“I can’t believe, y’all want to drag all of that old junk out of the attic.”
However, when we finished and the mess was cleaned up, she and Granddaddy sat for hours on the sofa in the dark watching the lights.
“I think this is the prettiest one we have ever had,” she said. Of course, every year’s tree was the prettiest tree.
Mother, as everyone called my grandmother, was very stuck in her ways. Loveable and endearing, she was also bossy and the ultimate Type-A. She was where the phrase “If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy” originated.
During the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Momma sent Rotel dip over to my grandparents for those setting up something to snack on. This began the real Christmas drama. “You people are going to ruin your appetites and not want to eat any dinner. I have been cooking for a week, and you won’t eat a thing.”
She even called Momma to bless her out for sending over unapproved food.
The real breakdown happened after dinner when Granddaddy and all the grandchildren set off fireworks in the front yard. Bottle rockets, Roman candles, firecrackers, flowers, and other stuff that went boom – my grandfather always stocked up for Christmas Eve.
Of course, my kamikaze cousins used the explosives as weapons – throwing bottle rockets at each other and setting off entire packs of firecrackers at one time. One year, Momma stepped out on the porch just as my cousin, Lesa, threw a pack of fireworks at her. She tried to swat them away, but they detonated just as they reached her hand. Her thumbnail was blown right off the bed.
Another year, someone put a firecracker in Granddaddy’s back pocket. The old man did a jig across the front yard and walked around all night with a burned place on the back of his pants.
Mother hated the fireworks, and so did I. I hid in the corner of the porch away from the line of fire, but Mother got right out there in the middle of them – hollering and pointing for them to clean the mess up.
After the scripture reading, gifts were handed out, and Mother and Granddaddy retired to their bedroom. Hundreds of gifts were brought to them and laid on their bed. They just sat in chairs by the window and waited for the ceremony to end. Daddy and my aunts made sure Mother’s house was returned to its original state before they left for the evening, but I will guarantee you Mother spent a week scrubbing and fussing and tidying up. As for the mess in her front yard, my sisters and I were instructed to clean up the firework remains Christmas Day.
For me, Christmas is about tradition. Meals of turkey and dressing. Pecan pies and lime Jello molds. Breakfast with my family on Christmas Day.
However, Christmas Eve will never be the same without Mother’s temper tantrums and Granddaddy’s instigation. The older I get, the more I realize that Mother stressed over the meal and the house and even the Christmas tree because she wanted everything to be perfect for her family.
It’s kind of like that “prettiest tree.” It’s a pain getting it up, and it usually makes a huge mess. But there is nothing like sitting in the dark watching the lights to know it was worth every minute of it.
During the Depression, my great aunt, Tura, taught at a country school in Eudora.Poverty was a way of life in rural Mississippi, and with the Depression lingering for many years, her students never experienced Christmas morning with a mountain of presents under a festive tree.In a time of bread lines to feed those who were hungry, even a traditional holiday meal was rare.
Needless to say, Santa Claus was an image never conjured in the mind of Aunt Tura’s students, and she hoped to change that during the annual Christmas pageant at the school.
With Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and three wise men, the pageant illustrated the first Christmas, complete with singing spiritual carols.Aunt Tura planned to surprise the children after the play with a special appearance from Santa Claus, and boy, did she.
As the audience applauded the young actors for their performance, Santa Claus burst into the school house and shouted, “Ho, ho, ho.”
With his red felt suit and curly white beard, Santa lumbered through the door with his bag full of goodies.The kids went berserk, and not in the I-just-won-a-date-with-Elvis kind of way.
Screaming from fear, they launched themselves out the windows – the manger overturning and a plastic baby
Jesus falling to the floor.Like pirates bailing out of a sinking ship, all of Bethlehem flew out the building and hit the ground at a sprint – running through neighboring cotton fields to safety.
Still inside the school, parents sat open-mouthed in shock at the chaos around them, and poor Santa was left in the middle of the room with no children to deliver his goods.
I can’t imagine never knowing Santa Claus.On Christmas Eve, we would have dinner at my grandparents, complete with a gift exchange and scripture readings (and not in that order much to the disgust of the Sexton children).With our bellies full and a new toy, my sisters and I would return home, wash our faces, and climb into bed for the longest night of the year.
At approximately 4 a.m. we would wake and perch ourselves on the top step of the stairs – forbidden from going down until a “reasonable” hour.That was usually 6 a.m. when my parents wobbled down the hallway with bed hair and red eyes from “waiting up to greet Santa” the night before.
Again, we were forced to wait on the stairs for Momma to make coffee and Daddy to get the camera.With a simple “okay” called up the stairs, my sisters and I thundered down the stairs, swinging around the banister, and trying to gain traction on wood floors in footy pajamas.
Bulging stockings hanging from the mantel were the first to catch our eye.Inside were plastic candy canes filled with chocolate, decks of cards, silly putty, and Lifesaver Storybooks.
Then as if the heavens opened up, the gift display left from Santa shone in the early morning light.I always wondered why Santa never left toys inside the boxes, and there was never any assembly required.Every gift had the necessary batteries, and bicycles were always ready to ride.Santa was so thoughtful!
Santa was always tested at the Sexton house because most times he was required to buy three of everything – matching dresses, different colored pastel bikes, and three Barbies in different outfits.
White yarn, these shawls had a single button at the neck and two slits at the pocket to stick your hands through.Fringe dangled from the hem.They were the most unattractive garments we had ever seen.
Every Sunday after, Daddy would insist for us to “go get your shawls,” and we would stomp back upstairs in protest.Apparently even in the warm weather, a shawl was needed.There was something about the “night air” that was harmful. (Now thirty-something, I still haven’t figured out what.)
Oh, but I was the lucky one.As the youngest, I got hand-me-downed Stephanie’s shawl and Deana’s shawl.I was still getting my shawl in junior high.
But not all of my gifts were unwanted.In fact, many of the same things Santa left for me, he will be leaving for children this year.Hello Kitty, Care Bears, Cabbage Patch Kids, Barbie, Smurfs, and others are still being longed for today by children across the United States.
We even had video games, but we did not ask for a Nintendo or Xbox.We asked for Atari.A family gift from Santa, my sisters and I ripped open the package and found our new Atari – shiny black plastic adorned with wood-grained stickers.It came with three games, Frogger, Miss PacMan, and Donkey Kong.
There were three games, but only two joysticks.Many fights ensured over which one would be left out, and again as the youngest, it was usually me.
Momma also enjoyed the Atari – maybe a little much.She would stay up all night playing Frogger, her game of choice.She was truly addicted to it at one time and had nearly beaten the machine before the intervention.
Christmas is definitely the holiday for children.Now that I am grown and asking for bath towels from Santa, the thrill is gone.I even secretly wish I could sleep in on Christmas morning, and I am sure Momma and Daddy wished for that as well.
Bu t I miss the excitement.I miss the anticipation.I miss the frenzy.I miss a time when a Lifesaver Storybook could make everything in the world seem good again.
