Letting Go of the Old Piano

My daughter has at her house the piano I took lessons on when I was a child. She also took lessons and we both played quite well. In fact, I was a church pianist for many many years, but I haven't played in about nine years. Now that she is pregnant, my daughter wants to either sell the piano or send it back to stay with me so she can make room in her house for a nursery. Sentimentality is making it hard to let go of that part of my life and move on, but I'm going to tell her to sell it.

(2008)

Take Down That Plastic Christmas Tree!

I took that damn plastic tree down two days before Christmas. Then, I went to Georgia for Christmas to see my family. I feared having another emotional temper tantrum like I did at Thanksgiving, but I was okay. I promise that I will find my sense of humor and write to you in a better mood. At this rate, I won’t have to wait long; my moods change hourly. It reminds me of the color wheel we used to put in front of the aluminum tree when I was a kid. I just sit here and watch myself change colors. Happy, Sad, Numb, Happy, Sad, Numb…

(1997)

I gave My Husband a coffee bean grinder for Christmas. I’ve really enjoyed it. I got the idea from my mom who gives my dad tools as gifts because SHE needs them. Dad doesn’t know what to do with a screwdriver, but mom is getting a rather nice collection of Craftsman for her, I mean dad’s, toolbox. By the time his next birthday rolls around, mom should have the whole ratchet set. Back to the coffee grinder - it makes a loud noise when it operates. The blind dog nearly jumped out of her fur when she first heard it. Now it takes two people to make coffee - one to do the ‘bean getter’ and one to hold the blind dog.

(1997)

Red Shoe Week - Is it PMS Or Menopause?

I told my first husband that whenever I wore red shoes it was a warning that I was having PMS (premenstrual syndrome). He knew to stay away-far away-whenever he saw me wearing them.

I no longer have that husband but I do still have a few days each month when nothing goes right, no one pleases me and I cry for no good reason. My first husband traveled a lot for business and didn't always have the privilege of witnessing my mood swings during red shoe week. It wasn't until he changed positions within his company and started spending more time at home that our marriage fell apart.

I blame the red shoes and not his lack of ability to deal with an irrational woman. It's not his fault. Every grammar school should require that boys take a class in proper PMS protocol before they become men and start trying to "fix" a temporarily fragmented female. They should at least be warned that it is a futile effort so they don't make women even more upset by giving them unsolicited advice. Instead, boys should be given instruction on investing in good camping equipment or 100 ways to sleep on the sofa. My second husband understands this, but I think his first wife trained him. I can't take the credit. He just "knows" when it's time to go play golf or make an appointment with the shrink-for himself, not me. I'm fine. I'm just a woman on the PMS/menopause merry-go-round.

Now that I'm in my forties, I not only have PMS, I also have symptoms of early menopause complete with PTM (personal tropical moments). That's French for "hot flashes" in case anyone of the male gender is reading this and doesn't understand why your female friend was fanning herself with the leather-bound menu at that 5-star restaurant you took her to. You know the one place I'm talking about. You thought taking her there was going to earn you some pussy points, but she drank too much red wine (there was your first clue, the color red) and was asleep by the time you drove her home.

For middle-aged, wiser and more experienced women, having this dual diagnosis, is like having PMS all the time with a bonus week of "red shoe time" each month. It's hard to tell whether my temper tantrums are caused by PMS or by repressed anger issues from being so co-dependently nice to everyone when I was younger. Probably both; I'm thinking of dyeing my feet red. The red toe nail polish, while chipped and attracting attention, just doesn't convey the message.

And, speaking of toes, let's talk about wedding bands. Yes, it's red shoe week and I'm somewhat random in my thought process. I have trouble remembering to wear my wedding band. I'm always taking it off and forgetting where I put it. I think forgetfulness is also part of menopause; I certainly wasn't like this in my thirties. Now that I've gained a few pounds (okay, 30 pounds) since I married the second time, the band is too tight and restrictive-just like marriage in general. There are times when I don't want to put the energy and effort into a daily relationship with a guy I can't stay mad at. My second husband laughs at me when I'm having one of my episodes. Maybe I conveniently forget to wear the ring. After all, it does indicate that I'm not available and quite honestly there are times when I don't want to rule out my other options. If I'm going to wear a ring that says, "Keep Away" I may as well wear a toe ring. I don't mind people avoiding my toes.

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Yvonne_Perry

Holiday Humor to Alleviate Seasonal Depression

Well it’s that time of year when turkeys are on display in public places – it’s a precursor for the fat guy in the red suit that appears in December each year. I hope things will go better this year than last. 

Mom called and asked the standard question, “Are you ready for Christmas?” I’m never ready for Christmas, and it seems to me that there is some competition involved in asking such a question. Is this a barometer by which women measure their progress? A report card with As for the ones who are ahead of the pack and Ds for those who are barely making the race for the December 24 finish line? Hell, most men don’t even start their shopping until then!

I tried to boycott the season last year but mom came to town, pulled the tree down from the attic, and left it standing cock-eyed in the living room. My Daughter and My Husband decorated it with the only three strings of lights that survived from the previous year, and used paper clips to hang the bedraggled balls and ornaments. By the way, where do those wire ornament hooks go during the summer? Do they melt in the attic, or do they find the hole in the dryer where the socks go? So the family won. They had a tree, but what about gifts? 

My Husband coaxed me into going to the stores with him by promising to let me sit in the food court and drink coffee while he stood in line to pay. Three days before the annual migration southward to visit the extended dysfunctional family and other turkeys, I took the tree down. There wasn’t a trace of tinsel turmoil when we left. I was depressed, I’m telling you. I was the last one to pack my suitcase, and the last one into the car, but at least I stood my ground. That’s about the best a co-dependent could do in her first year of recovery.  

Why are we so consumed with Mall Mania and Holiday Hoopla anyway? Is it to test our endurance level and see how much stress we can take without cracking up? No one remembers what you got them last year, but it was probably the same thing they got you the year before that. We could save time and money by wrapping a note that reads, “1997: Ditto.” We could put up lights in May when it’s warm outside. I’m doing the best I can to enjoy the season. Perhaps I’ll celebrate in April when fools admit to their foolishness.

(1997)

Holiday Mayhem

Our Christmas holidays this year were a memorable event. My stepson, Steve decided not to go with us to visit my family in Georgia, so we took Java, our 6-month-old chocolate Labrador puppy instead. I made sure Frankie did everything he needed to and he made sure I loaded everything I needed to. 

Since we were so adept at minding one another’s business, it didn’t occur to either of us that we might be forgetting something. We had a few errands to do and our first stop was Blockbusters to drop off some videos we had rented. All was going well until we stopped to get a bite to eat.

While in the drive through at Burger King, the dog started making “that” sound. You know the one that means, “Grab a bucket, quick!” We weren’t quick enough, and Java came unfed on the backseat of my car. I got her out of the car while Frankie flung the pile of puke into the landscaping behind the speaker box of the drive up window. That’s when I noticed we didn’t have a leash with us. I dragged the dog by the collar around the BK parking lot trying to lead her to a grassy area to finish her commotion. Frankie was pretty upset as he drove to the next window to pick up our food. Java and I ran to catch up to the departing vehicle. We were only a couple of miles from our house but Java threw up in the car again before we got home.

After cleaning the second mess, we were undeterred and confident that Java’s tummy was empty. We started again with fresh linens on the backseat. Approximately three miles down the road the all too familiar retching began. Before we could pull over, the expected delivery arrived. We pulled over and quickly evacuated. I was nearly doubled over with laughter while handing our stock of Burger King napkins to my exasperated husband, who was scraping yet another pile of puke. Reloaded, or should I say unloaded, we were on the road again after we stopped at a service station to sponge off the seat. Wouldn’t you know? The dog made a direct hit on the only part of the seat that was not covered.

About 30 miles down the highway, the dog was calmly sleeping while Frankie and I were singing Christmas carols with Bruce Springsteen. In the middle of "Santa Clause is Coming to Town," Frankie hushed abruptly and had a strange look on his face. I thought HE was going to throw up.

“What?”

“Aw, NO!,” he said.

“What?…..WHAT?!” I asked.

“The gifts! You forgot to get the presents from under the tree.”

“Who forgot?! You were supposed to get them while I fed the dog.”

“You weren’t SUPPOSED to feed the dog. Dogs puke in the car when you feed them before they ride.”

“We have to go back home. Turn around at the next exit. And if the dog pukes, YOU’RE cleaning it up”

“Oh, that would be different!” We both burst out laughing.

Steve was building a fire in the fireplace when we arrived home. He looked shocked to see us. We told him our story and sometime during the commotion he asked if glass bottles would melt if heated. Neither of us was paying much attention to him because we were busy pulling presents from under the tree. Since we had tended to one another’s business enough for one day, I didn’t look to make sure Frankie got all the gifts on the side of the tree he was checking.

We made it to Atlanta about two hours later than expected. We enjoyed our overnight trip, the opening of gifts, and dinner with my family, but beneath the fun, I dreaded the ride home. I didn’t let Frankie feed the dog before we left mom’s house and amazingly she did not get sick. Instead, she slept all the way home while I drove. I think it was Frankie’s driving that made her puke.

When we arrived home, the house smelled smokey but I thought Steve had burned something in the microwave again. When I asked him about it, he replied that there was a downdraft in the chimney that blew smoke into the room and mysteriously put out the fire he had built. Seventeen-year-old males are very unpredictable and curious, and they can give the most logical reasons for why strange things are really normal. Step-moms have a gullible way of believing the most bazaar stories and being surprised when finding they aren’t true. 

The next day we were cleaning house in preparation for our Christmas Eve dinner, when Frankie noticed an unusual amount of soot on the furniture as he dusted. When I mopped the tile in front of the fireplace black streaks appeared as if I was painting with the mop. I knew something was amiss when I saw pieces of glass on the floor. When I opened the doors to the fireplace, I found two somewhat melted, very exploded beer bottles scattered among the ashes. Who did the kid think he was fooling? Why didn’t he at least remove the evidence? Frankie and I drew straws to see who was going to spank the lad first.

Later that day, we had to make a trip to the Food Lion to pick up some last minute items for the meal. We decided that perhaps all Java needed was more practice riding in the car in order to be healed of her motion sickness. Food Lion is less than two blocks from our house and we thought that would be a good trial run. The pup puked as soon as the tires of my car hit the bump at the end of our driveway. That dog just can’t hold her groceries.

The day after Christmas I mailed my mom’s gift that had been left underneath Frankie’s side of the tree. Next year, when we make our holiday trip, we plan to make a list, check it twice, and then borrow a car from someone who’s been naughty.

(2001)

Mama's Visit

Well, mama came as she promised. She drove all the way from Georgia on Tuesday night, and by morning she had everything dragged out of the attic and had that sick-looking seven-foot plastic tree standing in the corner. No decorations, mind you. She had to be back for choir practice on Wednesday night. So, she strewed the fa-la-la-la shit all over the living room and left.

I know she thought she was being helpful, but she has to learn to respect my need to sulk and feel sorry for myself. The Xmas stuff laid here for four days until My Daughter finally got tired of tripping over boxes. She randomly threw three strings of lights and two-dozen ornaments on the tree. If mom doesn’t come back after Christmas and put this mess back into the attic, the tree will still be in the living room come Easter. It probably won’t be standing though. It has fallen over three times already, once on top of My Daughter. My Husband is doing the holiday shopping, cause like I said before; I’m on strike from holiday hoopla.

My Son’s car has a new hood ornament in keeping with the holiday spirit. He un-expectantly went reindeer hunting on Noblesville Road last week. He hit a deer and went off the road into a ditch. A man in a pickup truck following behind him saw what happened and pulled the Camaro out with a rope. The front grill of the Camaro has reindeer antlers. I suggested that he take some of this crappy tinsel from the living room and decorate his car.

I’m experiencing a loss of concentration. I’ve made so many mistakes at work over the last few weeks; it’s not even funny. I almost sent the Mayor to a luncheon today that wasn’t until next Wednesday. That would have been horrible especially since he crashed the wrong party last week on his own. There he was shaking hands and introducing himself, and eating these peoples’ food when he realized he was at the wrong house.

Mom says she thinks I’m still depressed. That’s funny. How could I be depressed? I don’t have any problems. Life has been a bowlful of "cheeries" or cherries – with pits!

I know how to cure depression. I went to the mall. I ended up at Victoria’s No-Secret. I figure if I’m going to die from sorrow, I may as well look sexy and smell good. Dillard’s was having a clearance sale, so while I was in the mall, I decided to help them clear their inventory. I dread seeing the Visa bill in January.

My Daughter tried to cheer me up. She gave me some of her teenager clothes, and I didn’t have any better sense than to wear them. Speaking of bills, the phone statement seems to indicate that My Son and his girlfriend in Ohio are still an item. I have a new girlfriend named Jean. She is having an affair with Jesus. We’ll see how long our relationship lasts.

I’ve gotta go for now. I feel like crying the holiday blues.

SadSpressy

(1997)

Anything that comes in sixes is good!

That retarded husband of mine gave me his Christmas Wish List today. I thought I’d share it with you.

MY CRITMUS WIST LISP

I THINK I MIGHT WANT ONE A DEM PARTRIDGES IN A PAIR A TREES; AN A COUPLE OF DEM TURDLE DUBS SITTIN IN A TREED B NICE.

I’D TAKE THEM THREE LAYIN’ HENS, SO'S I HAVE FRESH EGGS, AND DEM FOUR CALLIN BIRDS SO'S TA KEEP MA TELEPHONE BILL DOWN.

NOW I DONT'S REALLY BE NEEDIN 5 GOLDEN RINGS CAUSE I GOT ONE, AND FOUR MORE WOULD JUST BUSY UP MY HAND. I AIN’T MUCH ON DE JEWRIE ANYHOW.

NOW ANYTHIN’ DAT COMES IN SIX'S IS GOOD, LIKE BEER. MATTER A FACT SINCE I BE GETTIN’ THEM CALLIN’ BIRDS, YOU KIN LEAVE OFF THE TWO TUDDLE DUBS, TAKE DAT TWO AN ADD ‘EM TO DA FOUR RINGS I DINT WANT AND YA GOT SIX LEFT. ANYTHING DAT COME IN SIXES IS GOOD, LIKE BEER.

I MIGHT COULD USE SEVEN SWANS IFN I STILL HAD A POND BUT DA OTHER FOLK GOT DA POND IN DAT DEE-VORSE.

I DONT BE DRANKN MUCH MILK SO I DON’T NEED NO EIGHT MAIDS MILKIN’; DA WIFE WOULDN'T LIKE DEM EIGHT UDDER WOMEN HANGING ROUND NO WAY. LIKEWISE BETTER NOT GET NO NINE LADIES DANCING, DAT REALLY UPSET DA WIFE. SO, ADD DAT 9 WITH DA 7 AN 8, AN DAT MAKE TWENTY-FOW, WHY DATS FOW SIXES, AND ANYTHING COMES IN SIXES IS GOOD, LIKE BEER.

I SURE DON’T NEED NO TEN LEAPIN LORDS AROUND MY HOUSE. NEXT THING YA KNOW DEY BE FALLIN DOWN AN BREAKIN' SUMTHIN, OR MESSIN’ WIT MY WIFE.

NOW I DO LIKE MY MUSIC, SO LEBEN PIPERS PIPIN MIGHT BE GOOD FOR AWHILE; IFN I GET TIRED OF ‘EM I JUST PLUG UP DAR PIPES.

O.K. YOU KNOW, TWELVE IS A GOOD NUMBER, DATS 2 SIXES, LIKE BEER. NOW IFN YA ADD DAT TEN WID DA LEBEN, DAT MAKE 21. SO I FIGURE IF I GONNA GET DEM 3 HENS, I REALLY DON'T NEED DAT PARTRIDGE IN DA PAIR A TREES, SO DAT MAKES, YEP, YOU RIGHT 24; AN DATS 4 SIXES, WHICH MAKES MY CASE CLEAR. 

WELL, DAT’S MY CRITMUS WIST LISP, HOPE IT'S WORKABLE. JUST REMEMBER WHEN YA DO YA SHOPPIN, ANYTHING DAT COMES IN SIXES IS REAL GOOD. LIKE BEER.

(2002)

Christmas Boycott 1998

This is to inform you that I’m not sending Christmas cards this year. I’m too busy trying not to have a nervous breakdown. My life has become a little too crazy. We moved here just over a year ago, my daughter was having trouble adjusting to the move. She was hospitalized with mono, and then she had surgery a month afterward to remove her tonsils. She hates her new school and her grades reflect it. My son graduated high school, brought home a python, and a bearded dragon. He took on an alcoholic, suicidal roommate with an alligator and a crocodile. We’ve had a runaway dog rescue mission, and I murdered my son’s dragon. I started working a new job. We redecorated the house, but I still do not like the floor plan.

Anyway, that’s why I’m not having Christmas this year. I’m not putting up a tree. I’m not decorating the house or buying gifts. I’ve given all I can give. I’m on strike.

^^^^^^^^^^^^
Dear Daughter,

I got your message and it sounds like you need help. I’m packing my bags now, and I’ll be there in a few hours. Don’t you worry; mama dearest is on her way.