This Southern Blog

Julia Child's Beef Stew

I’m about to cook for a group of dear friends and family for the first time in about seven years. I chose my victims…er, guests…. carefully because I know that if I give them food poisoning, they will still speak to me.

Years ago, I was the dinner party queen.  I was also the Christmas queen, Halloween queen, baby shower queen…..any kind of event under the sun, I cooked, decorated the entire house and threw a party. Friends had baby showers whether they wanted them or not. Family members were subjected to huge dinners at holiday time and friends were always coming over for fancy-schmancy dinners prepared by this Martha Stewart wannabe.

I spent years preparing for events…..hell, while most teenagers were reading People magazine, I was reading Architectural Digest, Martha Stewart Living, Southern Living, Cottage Living and whatever else I could get my hands on.

I was probably annoying.

Nah, not probably…..I was most definitely annoying.

I could bake pies, cakes and make appetizers when I was in Jr. High.  A project I worked on in one of my college french classes was a Croquembouche taller than I was….spun sugar and all.  I got an A.

After years and years of all of this madness, I got tired.  I suffered from serious burnout because I just got sick of all the work.  When you work so hard, for so long at planning, cooking, decorating and whatnot….people come to expect it, and it isn’t appreciated as much.  During my burnout phase (which lasted about eight years or so) I never bought one single home magazine, I baked maybe one cake (and that was from a mix with pre-packaged icing…not that there’s anything at all wrong with that, but it wasn’t my normal bake-it-from-scratch labor-intensive way of doing it) and I might have made a crock pot meal or two.  I just stopped cooking.  I stopped caring about decorating for holidays, and I didn’t really throw one single party except maybe a smallish birthday party for my son.

Last year, for my daughter’s first birthday party….I got back into everything.  I went all out planning, organizing, decorating, baking, cooking and working my rear end off so that her first birthday would be special.

I started getting interested in my old ways once again after her party, but couldn’t REALLY do much since I didn’t have a dining room table….and we lived in an 800 sq. ft. apartment.  A dining room table is a must-have item if you want to have a, you know…..dinner. And so is a dwelling with enough room for said table.

So, hubby and I saved up and looked all over the place for something we could afford.  Nothing new, because I’m a Southern woman and I like my dining room furniture to be fussy, with double-pedestal legs, preferably mahogany…..and old.  We found a set in the back of an antique store that had been there for a long time.  It was priced right, wasn’t broken or scratched terribly….and we brought it home.

Which brings me back to the dinner party I’m having this week.  We now have a table.  I’ve saved all of my crystal, my china and I still have the only thing I’ve ever purchased from Tiffany’s: a set of crystal candlesticks….and I’d NEVER get rid of them. In fact, they will have to be pried from my cold, dead hands.  Still have the box they came in….yeah, I do.

Anyway, I feel like celebrating…..so I dug out my copy of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by Julia Child.  I am going to make her signature dish of Beouf Bourguinon….which I’ve wanted to try ever since I saw the movie, “Julie and Julia”

But….Boeuf Bourguinon (or Beef Stew with Red Wine in “plain english”) is quite a dish to prepare and cook.  If done the right way, according to Julia, “It is certainly one of the most delicious beef dishes concocted by man.” – I hope so!

Once all the preparations are made, the stew has to cook for about 3 hours.  While the meat is cooking away and absorbing all of the vino and bacon fat and juicy goodness…..you have to prepare the onions and mushrooms and those are two seperate recipes.  The onions are elegantly known as: Oignons Glaces A Brun…… while the mushrooms are called: Champignons Sautes Au Beurre.  Leave it to the French to make sauteed mushrooms and brown-braised onions sound so difficult.

Onions

Mushrooms

Anyway….since I’m going all-out with the French-ness….I found a website that teaches you how to french-fold dinner napkins… you fold and fold and then…SUC LE BLEU! You have a frenchified napkin.

Suc Le Bleu! - a folded napkin.

I got some french cheese from France (possibly….maybe) and I almost got some French wine, but I was afraid my guests would think I was a socialist, so I got Napa Valley wine instead….pretty cool, too…. because I actually toured and got mind-numbingly drunk at the winery from which it originated…..but that’s a totally different blog post.

Well….here I go.  First dinner party in ages.  First attempt at cooking French food in quite a while. First time I’ve had folks over for dinner in a while.

I hope I don’t set my oven on fire, or the tablecloth (I’ve done that, too……another blog post) and I hope everything turns out for the best!

And now I leave you with the only phrase I remember from taking four years of French in high school and college:

Chanson pour les petits enfants, Chanson pour tout le monde……Chanson pour les petits enfants, Chanson pour tout le monde.

Wait….that’s a Jimmy Buffett song….I don’t remember any French.

Because Mother’s Day is this weekend, I thought I’d blog about something I’ve been meaning to blog about for a while.  This disturbing trend caught my attention a few years ago, but it seems to be getting worse so I thought I’d take this opportunity to voice my opinion.

Moms who dress like whores.

While they may not actually be “whores” – these are the moms who show up at their children’s school activities or events dressed like they’re going clubbing, pole dancing or just dressing way too young for their age.  SOME of them have nice bodies, despite being 30 or 40-something and driving a SUV with 4 children…..but most are not attractive in the very least, and various appendages can be seen nearly hanging out of their tube tops and/or short-shorts….with visible cellulite and stretch marks.  Some even attempt to dress like their teenage daughters….as discussed in this article last year on CNN.com:

http://articles.cnn.com/2011-08-11/living/moms.dressing.like.daughters_1_mother-daughter-pairs-teen-daughters-question-many-mothers?_s=PM:LIVING

Now, before you start thinking that I’m a dumpy, frumpy mom who is just complaining because I’m jealous….let me just clear that up right now.  I’m about to turn 35 years old in a few months and I still get carded for alcohol.  I’m not the sweet 125-lb early-twenty-something I used to be, but I’m not a 600-lb woman who wears moomoos and scarfs down McDonalds cheeseburgers, either. I look young for my age, and could easily wear short-shorts with glittery, platform heels….. but I was raised to be a lady….and that means I was raised to dress like a lady, too.   I’m a normal (if you can call me normal-I was raised in the South) person who was raised that a Southern Lady is expected to speak, dress and act a certain way….and I’ve always considered this Southern Lady “code” as more of a LAW than a suggestion. Therefore, I am NOT jealous of these women. For readers outside of the South, I’ll give you a short lesson on the Southern Lady “code”…..

Here are some things Southern Ladies DON’T do:

1. Smoke in public (bars excluded)

2. Wear white to a wedding. (BIG no-no…it’s the Bride’s special day.)

3. Wear black to a wedding (unless it’s at night..and even then, you have to ask)

4. Wear anything with uncovered shoulders in church.

5. Be photographed holding a beer or cigarette…..it’s “tacky”

6.  Wear the wrong color/height of shoes for our body weight/frame. Platform shoes are for strippers.

7. Use curse words in a public place. You can curse at your husband all you want…behind closed doors.

8. Dress like a whore in any place other than in the bedroom.

9. Tattoos are acceptable as long as they are smallish, inconspicuously placed, tasteful and spelled correctly. (This is more of a modern rule….most Southern Ladies older than 40 would probably fall out with the “vapors” at the thought of a tattoo on their person).

10. Monogram everything.

There are a lot of other rules….but those are the ones that I can remember right off the top of my head.  Basically, I’m saying that for some reason….whether it’s the state of the world today, or the constant pressure society puts on a woman to be younger, thinner, tanner, better, etc… many mothers seem to have forgotten how to dress like a lady.  Maybe they know the “code” but don’t want anyone to confuse them with a true lady….but they could at least put some clothes on for the sake of their poor children.

These mothers are not “cute” – like they envision themselves to be.  They are the butt of jokes, and are generally excluded from polite society.  Pre-teen boys might get a kick out of it, but think of the poor little boys or adolescent girls who are humiliated by the way their mother dresses herself.

I’m not saying an attractive woman with children can’t accentuate her best assets…but there is a difference between accentuating and looking like cheap trash.

Everytime I see one of these moms, I am tempted to ask, “How Much?”

I don’t know….it’s just sad and I feel very sorry for their children.

Every one of these women envision themselves to be the “cool moms” – and they may get the sly, Southern compliments while they are constantly adjusting their tube tops while cheering for little Billy at his soccer game, (ex: Don’t you look precious? or Where did you get that top?)  but the fact is…..they aren’t looked upon highly.

There are ways to still be a youthful and fashionable mom without resorting to glitter, tight clothing and revealing tops.

So to the moms who are currently wearing items an 18 year-old probably wouldn’t be caught dead in….I have this to say:

You aren’t a MILF and you don’t look “cute” – Throw out the trash and try on some class…..you will get more respect from your kids, your friends, total strangers and maybe, just maybe….. you will find a little more respect for yourself.

As my little family and I have been making preperations for Holy Week and Easter celebrations, the one thing missing for us when Sunday rolls around is church. This is our problem every Sunday. I think about the missing piece of our lives every single Sunday on the calendar.
We’ve attended church services in the past….often floating from church to church trying to find the perfect one that meets our spiritual needs….and most importantly, the church that can help minister and manage my son’s needs.
We still haven’t found one.
This is what happens: We visit a church. I meet and speak with the pastor about their children’s ministry…and I’m usually fed a bunch of info about how great their children’s programs are, how the staff is experienced with children with special needs, how so-and-so even has a degree in early childhood education…blah, blah, blah. Sounds great! And we begin to attend services. I take my son to where the other children are gathered, speak to the Sunday School teachers and I reluctantly leave him to experience children’s church….and hope everything works out okay. However, after services begin…and I sneak away to peek in…my son is usually playing or sitting alone while everyone else colors, dances, sings and learns about Jesus. Ironic, isn’t it? That all the typical people are so
focused on learning about Jesus, that they are leaving the quiet, sweet, autistic kid to fend for himself….completely ignored.
I usually pull my son out after it’s all over…and the teacher usually tells me how good my son was. Of course he was good! But really, how would you even know if you ignored him the whole time? Autism doesn’t always mean head banging and screaming at the top of the lungs. Sometimes it manifests itself quietly, shyly.
And we leave, striking yet another church off the list of possible places of worship.
The last church we attended was a great contemporary non-denominational church, but it was too loud….and he sat covering his ears most of the time during the praise portion….Christmas Eve service was great for us, but my son sat huddled in my lap with his
hands over his ears.
This was just not going to work out.
I cannot sit in church and be fed spiritually while my son is either being ignored or
struggling with sensory issues.
I’m tired of meeting new people. I’m tired of the same old get-to-know-you song and dance when you first start attending a new church. I’m tired of being told of great children’s ministries that are wonderful for typical children, but have no clue what to do with autistic children. For a place that’s supposed to be all-inclusive….and welcome sinners and struggling people with open arms….church can be the most judgemental, clueless place on earth.
I don’t think Jesus is happy about that.
I wish I had the resources to start a church for other families like ours….a place where ALL are welcome. A place where ALL children with any disability and their families could fellowship, gain strength from each other and a place where we knew our children could safely and effectively learn more about the Creator, who made them perfectly.
I know other parents who are sitting at home every Sunday, just like me….doing the best they can in teaching their children about God on their own.
As autism numbers grow, and more and more families have this same problem….I wonder what it will take to make the church stand up and realize that sending missionaries to Uganda is great….but they have a bigger problem right here on their doorstep. There are children and families right here in your own communities that need you right now. How long are you going to ignore them?

My last telephone conversation went like this:

Me: So, yeah. I have to tell you something….

Fellow Autism Parent: Sure

Me: My daughter is doing the eye thing.  The spinning eye thing.

Fellow Autism Parent: Oh, no…..

That very same evening, before this phone call ever took place….I had an emotional breakdown.  It’s been building for weeks, but it finally reached its zenith….and I ended up on my bathroom floor sobbing, with sweat, tears and snot pouring out of my face.

She’s doing the eye thing.  The spinning eye thing.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about…..you probably aren’t an autism parent.  The spinning eye thing is when a child tilts their head to one side and looks out of the corner of their eyes as they spin around and around.  It’s very common in ASD kids….and it is a form of “stimming” or self-stimulatory behavior.  Specifically, it is a visual stim….ASD children sometimes seek tactile, visual or auditory stimulation when they get overwhelmed…..and it can get downright obsessive…that’s the “simple” definition of stimming.

My son, who is very much autistic….did it all the time.  He hasn’t done it since he was three…..but when he was my daughter’s age, he did the spinning eye thing all the time.

Weeks ago, my daughter started this behavior (along with some other stuff…like not turning her head when we call her name, funny facial tics, making odd noises and grinding her teeth) and it has been popping up every now and again…especially if she’s tired.  But now….it seems to be happening a lot.

Like every single day.

She has great eye contact, she’s very interactive with others, she’s affectionate, she’s talking a little…..I think we’ve counted about 30 or so words.  But there is no pointing…..no gesturing……very little waving…..and then the “eye thing”

I don’t think I even have to tell you that I’m beyond scared.

She will be 18 months old in a few days…..and that’s typically when the Jabberwock likes to swoop in and steal your children.  When I say Jabberwock…..I mean autism.

Horrible fucking autism.

We were just at her new pediatrician’s office a few weeks ago, and she checked out fine health-wise.  Children develop at different rates, and developmentally….she seems to be doing just fine. Sure, she’s had some quirks….but nothing totally alarming.

That was until I noticed the “eye thing” and spinning.

When I first noticed it, my stomach somehow ended up in my throat.

No.  Please, God….not again.

I’ve done everything I was supposed to do.  I did everything so very differently.  I’m still trying to recover my son, so please don’t take my baby girl too…

They say to “watch and wait”

I say, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wait for what? Wait for this to take over and for her to become autistic?

No!

I’m not sitting this one out.  I got help for my son after it already had it’s jaws buried deep, because it was my first time battling an unseen beast.  I watched the Jabberwock take him from me at 12 months of age……and I will be damned if that horrible monster is going to steal my daughter, too.

She isn’t autistic yet.  She’s showing some behaviors that she shouldn’t be showing.  But she isn’t gone yet….and I’m not going to let her go. Her daddy isn’t going to let her go.

She’s asleep right now…..but tomorrow is the first day of the rest of her life.

Mama’s on it, baby girl.  Hang tight.  I still have my vorpal blade and my bag of tricks.  It could be nothing, but then again…..it could be something.  There’s no time to find out whether or not it’s the Jabberwock.

Don’t worry…..because if it is……

This Jabberwock is toast.

—————–

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

 The frumious Bandersnatch!’

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

 Long time the manxome foe he sought —

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One two! One two!

And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’

He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

When you have a child with autism, you can not and must not compare your life to others. I learned that the hard and painful way a long time ago. My son is eight years old, and by the typical world standards, he should be playing sports, be overwhelmed with birthday party invites, having campouts and sleep overs, going to Boy Scout this and that….and whatever else other typical boys his age are doing in their young lives.
He is not.
We rarely get invites to birthday parties, and even if we did….we probably wouldn’t go.

He would be overwhelmed in Boy Scouts, and sleepovers at other friends homes are forbidden. I don’t trust anyone enough to be able to understand his needs and I definitely don’t trust parents of typical children on how to handle a meltdown. They are just not equipped to be able to sense and avoid the meltdown before it happens….and they damn sure aren’t able to
handle him if a meltdown does occur.

I’m learning the ways of parents of typical children, but they seem as if they are foreigners from another land. I watch them interact with their children and I’m baffled. They probably think the same about me when they see the way I interact with my own children.

To quote Temple Grandin, it’s “Different, but not Less.”

Yes, life with autism is different. You can’t compare lives, you can’t anticipate or plan for “normalcy” and you definitely can’t dwell in the past….milestones missed, opportunities missed, etc.

I especially don’t dwell in the past. The past is a somewhat painful place for me, and I don’t visit it often. Unless I just need to cry and get it all out before I explode.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a wonderful life. I have awesome memories from my younger days, and sweet memories of my son throughout his young life and our journey through this crazy world of autism. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But it’s been an emotional journey, and I tend to keep it locked away so that it doesn’t affect me and my need to keep plugging along on life’s highway.

My hubby and I are the same way in our marriage. We’ve both been married before, and we both have experiences, happy times, sad times and first times that we didn’t experience with each other. We don’t ever talk about the past…ever. Not because we are insecure, or because we don’t want to offend. We just don’t care to. The past is the past…and the future is ours alone. Oddly enough, when something from either one of our pasts comes up….neither one of us can usually remember anything anyway. It’s particularly hard when our daughter does something that reminds a friend or family member of one of our older children. We seriously don’t remember. Don’t you remember when he did _______ while we were staying at ______?
Nope, sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell. Are you referring to my child?
I feel senile sometimes because of it….and I know my hubby does too….but I guess it’s all part of aging, and since we don’t ever walk down our individual memory lanes, things just tend to evaporate. I mean no disrespect to our former spouses, as they are both great people…and we all get along very well. It’s not that the former happy times mean nothing to us….it’s just that for whatever reason, whether it’s the fast approaching middle age, or the years beginning to run together, certain things are completely lost in the folds of time.

It is strange, though, when you have a 17 month old non-autistic child….and you are trying like hell to remember if what she is doing reminds you of ANYTHING your autistic son did at that age. Every single thing scares the Bejeebus out of you, and you seriously can’t remember if the action or reaction is normal or abnormal. It’s exhausting.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that once autism is in your life…the things that once mattered so much don’t really matter at all. When you are holding your newborn baby in your arms, you dream about the fun things like sleepovers, playdates, vacations and fun family times. You still get to experience those fun family times, but they are not exactly the same as the ones you once dreamed of.

They are “Different, but not Less.”

And once you learn to stop comparing your family life, and your child’s life to others….it gets a whole lot easier. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember a lot from my past. It’s human nature to compare….but I taught myself how to stop doing that when my son was diagnosed. Yes, there are times when I get angry because I don’t understand why typical parents go on and on about how little Bobby and Sue are doing so great at baseball camp…blah, blah, blah…while my son sits in my lap, obsessed with anything having to do with the letter “O”. But it’s mainly because I wish they could lift the veil over their eyes and realize that it’s the little things that really matter. It’s the smile on your child’s face when they see a ladybug for the first time. It’s the look on their faces when they take their shoes off and walk in the soft grass in the Summertime. It’s the sound of their soft breathing when you go in to check on them at night. And it’s the sunshine on their faces as they twirl around until they are dizzy and fall down laughing.

So, if you are the parent of a child with autism, or any other disability….you know exactly what I’m talking about. The little things are what keep us going….a random smile, a surprise hug, a word, a look, or any other small thing that parents of typucal children tend to take for granted.

THOSE are the things we remember.

And my brain is so full of those wonderful little things, it’s no wonder everything else has run out of room.

When I was a little girl scout, our troop learned the old classic girl scout songs….one of them went something like this:

Make new friends,
But keep the old.
One is silver,
And the other, gold.

I don’t find this to be particularly true as I’ve aged.

I’ve had to end two twenty-plus year friendships in the last two years. The reason is that
people change. I’ve changed. They’ve changed. We aren’t going in the same direction. I’m not
being morally superior by saying that my life is better than my newly-former friends….not
at all. It’s just different. I have a wonderful marriage, a comfortable home, and three beautiful children….one of whom takes a lot of my time because he has special needs. Both of my former friends don’t face the challenges I face, they don’t have children, they don’t have the same morals I do, and their focus is on themselves….mine is on my children and husband.

Over the course of our respective friendships, I’ve been there for them in their times of need. I was always there to help them pick up the pieces when life went horribly wrong for them. I always tried to cheer them up, offer words of love and encouragement and let them know I was there….

Did they return the same for me? Not a chance.

They were not there for my pregnancies, my financial difficulties, or my journey through autism. They were not there. Even when I would wash my dirty laundry on Facebook (which I’m known to do) they never even so much as asked if I was okay….or if they could do anything to help. I looked past these snubbs, and tried to make excuses for them….and did my best to make it through my trying times without my two oldest, dearest friends.

Then, I realized….I’ve given enough chances. I’ve helped clean up their messes too many times…I’ve been there for them enough when times were bad….and I’ve had enough of my love and care not being returned….especially in my times of great need.

People grow up…and people change. Perhaps I’m the one who has done most of the changing and growing.

I’m not an easy person to get to know. I have a wall that most people can’t break through. I can count on half of one hand the people that truly know me. It’s because once my trust and love is given…it rarely gets taken away. When I form a friendship, I have to fully connect with a person before I can fully trust. I have plenty of friends and aquaintances….but I have very few close friends who know everything about me. Now that two of those friends are gone, that leaves my husband and mother.

I doubt I will ever make long-lasting friendships that even come close to comparing to the two I’ve recently lost. And that makes me sad.

But, that’s okay. I guess I’d rather have a lot of not-so-close friends that care about me and my family, than two closer-than-close friends who couldn’t give a shit whether I live or die.

People change…people grow…people wake up and realize what’s truly important in life.

I’m awake, now.

And stronger for finally being able to tell the difference between real friends and selfish frenimies.

To my unfriended unfriends who may read this: What’s done is done. Please don’t bother commenting or sending messages. My decision is made. It’s taken me twenty years and countless arguments to come to my final decision. I wish you well in life and hope that you will someday find what you’re looking for.

I’ve removed this blog post for the time being due to the events that occured in Ohio this morning. May God bless the families of the victims of this terrible tragedy. If you were sent here by a shared link and would like to read the last post, I will repost it a bit later.
Thank you.

I hate buying groceries.  As I sat down to think about why I hate the grocery store…..it dawned on me….I don’t really hate the grocery store, I  mostly hate the other customers! Here are the 10 most annoying things I hate about the grocery store:

1. Cropdusters.  These are the fellow shoppers who fart and walk past you. The fart wafts up and gags you.  Happens to me all the time. It’s disgusting. Beano can be found on aisle 6….get some!

2. The Fruit Feelers. This annoying type of shopper will feel every single piece of fruit in the whole store hoping for the perfect one.  Newsflash: The fruit is never going to live up to your standards. It’s shipped in from Guatemala. Most of it is badly bruised and covered in pesticide.  Nothing in this person’s life is going to live up to their standards.  Never, ever ask one of these people out on a date…..or marry them.

3. The Label Readers.  Most of the products in the grocery store have been there since the beginning of grocerystoredom.  Do you REALLY need to stand there and read a can of baked beans for a half-hour?  I’ll tell you what’s in the can: Baked Beans and some other shit to flavor it. Now, put it in your buggy and get out of the way!

4. Extreme Couponers. I used to coupon, but it never took me 3 days to check out.  These people are borderline insane.  When there are only two check-out lanes open on a Saturday, you can bet your sweet bippy there is going to be some violence and choice words spoken to these inconsiderate shoppers.

5. The Cell Phone Talkers. LOUD cell phone talkers.  Everyone has a cell phone….and no one is impressed that you have one.  Shut the hell up and get what you have to get….and get out.  If you have to stand in the middle of the aisle asking your wife one million questions about the size, shape, color and texture of the tampons you’re supposed to buy for her…then, maybe you need marriage counseling.

6. People Who Block The Aisle. This irritates me the most.  The grocery store is not the place to socialize. Do NOT block the aisle while you talk to your preacher about Aunt Vera’s irritable bowel syndrome. Nobody cares.  And DON’T let your kids block the aisle either….although you’ve been talking and blocking the aisle for so long, they’ve built a fort out of all the boxes of Frosted Flakes and they’re throwing marshmallows at each other.  But you wouldn’t notice them or other shoppers either because you are the rudest, most self-absorbed narcissist that ever set foot in Walmart. Well, besides the fruit feeler back in the produce section.

7. Mislabeled Products. I know for a fact that those bananas aren’t 64 dollars.  The stock boy must have a hangover.

8. The Self-Check Out . Grrrrr. I HATE the self check out.  It is to be used for 10 items or so…..not 6,000. And if the appointed self check out “overseer” has to come over and assist you more than 5 times, you need psychiatric help…..and so do I because it drives me INSANE!  I also hate when old people try to use the self check out….it’s technology….the elderly and technology usually don’t mix.

9. The Door Nazi. I know that shoplifting is a problem in most stores, but do you really have to take 10 minutes checking my receipt? I promise you, I did not steal the 300 pound bag of Ol’ Roy.

10. The Parking Lot.  Parking lot = certain death.  That’s all I have to say about that.  I’ve almost been run over a dozen times in the Walmart parking lot….and I’ve nearly run over a million people who don’t look, don’t care to look….and would probably win a big lawsuit if they did get hit.

BONUS:

11. Check writers.  I have to say this to check writers (mostly aged 55 and older): Dearest Check writer, You know you are standing at the checkout counter at Winn-Dixie.  You know that you have to sign the check, date it, put all of your information on it and you HAVE to show I.D.  WHY CAN’T YOU FILL OUT EVERYTHING EXCEPT THE TOTAL BEFOREHAND? WHY DO YOU GET ANGRY WHEN ASKED FOR I.D.? AND WHY DO YOU PUT YOUR I.D. IN THE ONE PLACE IN YOUR WALLET YOU CAN’T GET TO IN 3 SECONDS?  I’ll tell you why….because old people just want something to bitch about.  Checks are outdated. Get your grandson to show you how to use the debit swipe. PLEASE!

I always try to live by the Golden Rule:

Do Unto Others As You’d Have Others Do Unto You. 

Sadly, I don’t often see many people living by this rule nowadays.

It’s a greedy world, full of greedy people with “The world owes me a living” kind of attitude….and it’s not likely to get any better any time soon.

I found a bank envelope with $600 on the stairs of my apartment building when I was in college.  No one else (except my best friend) was around….and I could have easily pocketed the money with a “finders keepers” attitude.

But I didn’t.

I took the envelope to the bank branch printed on the outside of the envelope, with the hopes that they would be able to track down the person who lost it.

That $600 was someone’s rent money, tuition or food money….it wasn’t mine and I had no right to take it….  No matter how much I may have needed it at the time.  And I definitely could have used it.

I’m proud of myself for doing the right thing all those years ago….and I would do the same thing today if it happened again.  I’m not bragging…it’s just that I’m an honest and fair person.  Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you the same.  Sure, I procrastinate like hell and I’m forgetful as all get-out.  But I’m honest.  I can be trusted with secrets…..unless the person who told me the secret double-crosses me and then I bide my time.  In fact, I HAVE been double-crossed in the last year by someone who told me a very dirty secret….but I’m holding on to the secret until the time is right….if that time ever comes.  That doesn’t make me vindictive…..it makes me smart.  I will not be made a fool of, that’s all.  But most of the time, I will keep silent…especially when the secret could be very hurtful and damaging to someone else.

Anyway…..I’m fair…blah, blah, blah.  Which is why it’s hard for me to understand when other people aren’t.  How hard is it to tell a cashier that they’ve given you too much change?  How hard is it to stop the person who dropped a $20 bill in line at the grocery store…and say, “You just dropped your money…..I picked it up for you.” And FUCKING hand it BACK to them??  Especially if the person has two hungry-looking kids in raggy clothes and the mother looks a little ragged herself.

These are all scenarios…..but the point I’m trying to make is that if you do the right thing, good things will come back to you.  If you do the wrong thing, bad things will come back to you tenfold.

Those who profit unfairly and knowingly upon others in unfortunate situations…..without remorse or regret will receive their punishment either in this life or the next.

That is an absolute certainty.

Do Unto Others……

….Or others might do to you what you just did to them.

It’s called being fair.

Honestly.

We either need to call Billy the Exterminator or Ghost Hunters because there is something in our house.  So far, that something has not been discovered yet.  I haven’t gotten too worried about it….but it makes for an interesting story, so I thought I’d share.

I used to be VERY interested in ghost hunting and the paranormal about 5 years ago…until I dabbled too far and had a bad experience. The Bible tells us not to mess with stuff like that as Christians….so I took God’s word for it,  gave my ghost hunting equipment away and ditched the hobby.  I also quit watching Ghost Hunting stuff….but I still have a passion for bad “B” horror flicks, so Killer Klowns from Outer Space is still a movie in my regular viewing repertoire…..but I’ve given up films like The Exorcist entirely.  Besides, I’ve seen it so many times it’s like a comedy to me now.

Anyway, I’m just setting the stage…I haven’t been watching anything particularly scary recently, so my imagination isn’t running wild. The sound of footsteps coming from upstairs with no one but myself and a napping baby in residence is not the result of viewing too many horror flicks.

Here’s what happened…..

On a beautiful and sunny mid-week day while the baby was taking her nap, I decided to curl up by the fire and do some knitting.  I didn’t have a t.v. or radio on…..it was wonderfully quiet. I was knitting the same project I’ve been steadily working on for 3 months…my Tunesian Crochet “redundant blanket” – I call it that because by the time I finish the damned thing in August, it won’t be needed or wanted.  It gives me something quiet to do while the baby sleeps, because I’m not a sit still and do nothing kind of person.

Anyway, I’m calmly knitting away when I hear distinct footsteps upstairs right above where I’m sitting in the living room.  Now, directly upstairs from the living room is my stepdaughter’s room and since I know that she isn’t home, and the only other person that’s in the house is a sleeping baby……I’m a bit alarmed.  My first idea is to run to the closet and grab the .45 and blast the anonymous intruder to kingdom come….but then I realize that I would have heard someone shimmy up the outside railing and open one of the doors. Using this mode of deductive reasoning, I only halfway expected someone to be up there. In my haste, I grabbed the closest available object…. which happened to be the knitting needle in my hand.  I crept up the stairs…..and made my way down the hall to check on my baby daughter first…..she’s sound asleep with no intruder in sight.  Then, I take a deep breath….throw open the door to my stepdaughter’s room and begin slashing at the air with my knitting needle. 

Nothing is there.

The stomping stopped.

I’m certain that whatever it was, it was absolutely terrified of a crazy white woman with a knitting needle. 

I check each room upstairs to make sure there aren’t any burglars lurking around in toilets or closets….and I go back downstairs and continue my knitting.  I figured it must be the house settling, or maybe a raccoon in the attic.  It’s easy to be a skeptic when you’re in denial.

I totally forgot about the incident eventually….and a couple of nights later (after the baby had gone to sleep) I decided to lay in bed and do some online reading.  I was totally engrossed in my favorite blog, “People I Want to Punch In the Throat” when I heard what can only be described as “scurrying” outside on the balcony.

Our house is a sort of New Orleans-style house with a wrought iron balcony and three french doors leading out from three of the bedrooms upstairs.  All three doors have ADT alarms that beep when any of the doors are opened. 

The scurrying type sound continued, so I eased out of bed slowly because: 1. I didn’t really want to see what could be making that scurrying sound and 2. I have a broken tail bone from falling down the stairs a couple of weekends ago, and I can’t move very fast.

I peeked outside and saw absolutely nothing.

The scurrying stopped.

This same scurrying and stomping has happened three times so far, and every time I check to see what it could possibly be….it stops. 

We do live in an older house….and I know old houses creak and settle, but this is not a creak and settle type noise….so we either need to investigate the attic (not me!) to see what might be living up there….or we need to call a priest.  I blessed the house with olive oil and prayer when we first moved in (standard moving-into-a- new-house proceedure) and we have a good preacher friend and his wife coming for dinner soon to bless the house in a more professional kind of way….but until then, I’m a tiny bit concerned that “casper” or whatever creature it is will take a liking to doing whatever it takes to make me notice it.  I’m not scared of it….I’m just pissed off that the thing makes me have to get up and walk around with a knitting needle while bitching about my broken tail bone.

Until we figure out what it is….just know that I have a .45 and a knitting needle….and I have Jesus….so don’t try and sneak up on me…. or one of the three weapons in my arsenal could kill you, knit you to death or save your soul. 

You’ve been warned.