Down on the Farm

I spent most of my early childhood in an Ohio suburb where my dad was a police officer. Before that, he was in the military, and we did tours in Georgia and Kansas, but I mostly remember Ohio. During my 8th grade year, my parents (basically Mom) decided we needed a change. We were moving to the country! We would get back to basics, grow our own food, drink well water and unpasteurized milk, and eschew grocery stores in favor of homegrown eggs and livestock. My sister and I would benefit from small-town life in countless ways. It was to be a great adventure.

Mom worked at the city government center, right next door to the police department, and she was a vivacious presence. Her coworkers and the boys in blue surprised her with a big going-away party. The gifts were of the living, breathing, shitting type, in the form of a real live goat, some chickens and a pig. We had to keep them in the suburbs until the move was finalized. Our neighbors were less than thrilled, and I'm sure we broke some city ordinances, but with Daddy being a cop and all, I guess they looked the other way.

I, being eighth-grader in the throes of a junior high romance that was sure to result in marriage and happily-ever-after, was having none of it. I would not leave my boyfriend or my friends. I would not live with a bunch of hicks. I was not going, and that was final.

We moved that summer, to about 30 acres outside a small town in southern Ohio, population just under 6,000. I was shocked to discover that this was considered the big time by local standards. Why, we were the county seat! We had the fair. Land sakes, we had the stockyards right next to the high school, with livestock auctions every Thursday right outside our classrooms. We had a stoplight in the center of town, after all, along with a McDonalds out State Route 62, and even a Dairy Queen out route 124 past Pea Ridge Road. We had 17 churches, y'all. By local standards, we had landed smack dab in the midst of a bustling metropolis.

Mom, having read all the back issues of Mother Earth News, was determined to jump right into farm life. She painted our mailbox with bright colors, proudly proclaiming the presence of Rainbow Ridge Farm. Turns out our definition of "farm" and the local definition were two different things, but we wouldn't realize that for some time. Other meanings of the rainbow emblazoned across that mailbox are still not realized to this day, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Mom's first project was the chickens. We would have our own eggs, raise our own meat, and sell the extra for fun and profit. Mom figured she needed a twist on the usual old chicken & egg operation, something clever to make us stand out. A hook. She ordered exotic chickens. A lot of them. These were chickens with names like Tophat Special, Black Cochin, Blue Andalusian, and Phoenix. They sported glorious flowing feathers, worn as hats or boots, and came in wild assortments of colors. These were some fancypants birds. Mom also got some Bantams, cocky miniature gents, strutting imperiously around the yard. Who wouldn't be proud to add birds like these to their flock?

Almost as an afterthought, Mom invested in some of the more traditional (read: boring) chickens, Leghorns and the like. (Pronounced "Leg'erns", not as in "Fog-horn Leg-horn". They'll know you're not born 'n' raised if you say "Leg-horn". I found that out.) These hens would show themselves to be the steady layers, and also ended up as pets for my sister. Sis spent many an hour communing with her winged yet flightless friends, a pair of Rhode Island Reds named Oh Tame One and Two Tame One, a Buff Orpington hen inexplicably dubbed Mr. Man, and the queen of the flock, a Barred Plymouth Rock called Clara Clucker. Clara was also somewhat of a hussy, judging by the missing feathers on her head, where the rooster often grabbed hold for some obnoxious courting.

Chicken as pet, of course, was not the norm in farm country, but then, we weren't your typical farm family, even down to Mom's method of poultry raising. Well, these were fancy birds! They couldn't be left to fend for themselves in a cold, dark barn. Mom installed one of those plastic, blue baby pools in our dining room, complete with heat lamp, where the chicks began their lives. Turns out there wasn't much call for fancy poultry on most farms, so we ended up with a good sized flock of the oddest looking chickens around. We had plenty of eggs, though.

No matter, a chicken's a chicken, whether plain or fine, and chickens are for eating or laying. Mom donned her coveralls, boiled a giant pot of water, and armed with instructions from one of her farming books, set out to get us a chicken dinner. First there was the question of how to kill the bird. The axe method didn't appeal to Mom, so she decided on the swing method. Grasping the bird around the neck, she swung him round and round and round, the idea of course, being to break the neck. Mom, spent, finally dropped the lifeless bird to the ground. Before she could catch her breath and dunk him in the scalding pot to loosen the feathers for plucking, that bird raised itself up and ran straight away, Mom hot on its trail. At that point, I couldn't watch any more, but much later that night, a scrawny, stringy meal, flanked by potatoes and carrots, appeared on our dinner table. I refused, but Mom didn't put in all that work for nothing; she insisted everyone give it a try. She assured us this free-range bird would be so much tastier than those awful, store-bought, chemical-filled carcasses that we'd never go back to freezer fare. We all took a bite, chewed ... and chewed and chewed. Mom tried to keep a cheery smile pasted on, but she mercifully gave up, leading the charge to scrape the remaining bits into the trash. It was back to plump birds encased in plastic, fresh from the meat aisle after that.

Chickens were not the only farm fowl in those days. We had three geese: Uncle Ed and his harem. I'm not sure what the original purpose of the geese was. I think Mom had the idea to introduce goose eggs to the local palate. (She also thought to introduce goat milk to dairy country, but that's another story.) It is possible that Mom's idea was to have a Christmas goose on the table, but if so, the chicken dinner incident clearly took care of that. Regardless of their intended purpose, the geese soon found their niche. They were guard geese. Seriously people, if you need a guard animal, consider a goose. They will beat out any dog. Our geese would patrol the perimeter of what we considered the "yard", which was basically the part we actually mowed with the mower. If a car turned down our quarter mile gravel lane (that's "driveway" to you city folk) they would come a-honkin' and a-flappin' to accost the intruder. Geese can have a five-foot wingspan, and they're strong. When they're running up to you, pumping their necks and honking and flapping their wings, trust me, you think twice (or twicet) before messing with them.

I loved the geese. Sis was a chicken gal, but something about their sharp pointy faces, beady eyes, and jerking strut kept me from getting too warm and fuzzy with the chickens. The geese though, were round and plump with nice eyes. They, like most of our other "livestock", became pets. I thought them adorable. They would sit in my lap and make quieter versions of their honking sound. I'd pet them and carry them, and they'd follow me and Sis on our rounds. They were loyal and their comical antics made me laugh. They were also the source of that Midwestern phrase that still slips out, unbidden, from time to time, especially on snowy days: "Damn, that's slicker'n goose shit!" Goose shit, of course, being some of the slickest stuff around.



Future installments to follow: the school bus, the great goat debacle, donkeys and peppermint candy, Pig, the Buck Stove, and FFA.

Tales from the Crypt

So the last post got me to thinking about sick and twisted family traditions. Our little family did not develop this particular brand of humor by accident.

My family of origin was rife with twisted humor. My mom, seen here with me and baby sister back in days of yore, was prone to punnery and word play, while my dad leaned more toward dry, sarcastic wit and scatological humor. It was my dad and I who often teamed up for jokes and hijinks. My mom and sister were, by default, often the victims of our depravity.

My parents moved us out to the country my freshman year of high school. That's a photo of my dad from that time. The one perched on his shoulder is Clara Clucker, my sister's Plymouth Rock hen.

We lived on about 25 acres, outside city limits. And by "city", I mean fewer than 6,000 people, townies and country folks combined. Our house was set about a quarter mile off the unpaved road. Country folks don't have driveways; they have lanes. Probably 2/3 of our land was woods, which started at the bottom of the hill behind our house.

Neighbors were widely spaced. The nearest ones may have been within shouting distance, meaning they might have heard an all out, blood-curdling scream if the windows were open, if the wind favored you, and if their TV wasn't turned up too loud. There were no streetlights, so dark meant dark. Satan's asshole dark. A car crunching down the gravel road was a rare enough occurrence to bring us to the front windows.

Daddy brought home a VCR one day, probably my freshman or sophomore year. This was a big deal in the early 80s. The newest technology! He also brought home a ColecoVision video game system, on which I spent many a happy hour with Donkey Kong and Mario. Anyway, with the VCR came the concept of family movie night. My dad and I loved scary movies. Mom and Sis, not so much. In fact, not at all.

Like the night we watched the original Halloween. Remember that scene where the young couple is in bed together, and the boyfriend leaves to go get her some milk or beer or something? (my sister and I were shocked to see the nekked breasts of the girlfriend character revealed, right there in our living room! The VCR was the best invention ever.) Anyway, in the scene, the "boyfriend" comes back covered in a sheet, wearing his glasses on top of the sheet. The girlfriend thinks it's cute, but of course it turns out to be the murderer, and she meets her demise in grisly fashion. It was scary as hell.

After the movie, Mom went to brush her teeth. A terrified scream pierced our tender eardrums, and my mom came flying back down the hall from her bedroom. Daddy had pinned a sheet up on the wall, and, in a stroke of genius, pinned up a pair of those black glasses with the nose and mustache attached as well.

Then he unscrewed the light bulb in their room. Genius.

The moon was out, so there was just enough light for her to come face to face with a ghostly sheet, complete with glasses. When the light didn't work and the realization kicked in that my dad, the prime suspect, was still out in the living room, and therefore, not under the sheet ... well, that was all she wrote. Mom had a major freak out.

Mom was not amused, but my sister and I sure were. I'm pretty sure part of Sis's laughter was relief at not being the intended victim this time, but still. My dad was well pleased with himself.

At some point during those years, Salem's Lot, a Stephen King thriller involving vampires, was made into a mini-series to be shown on TV. Daddy and I couldn't wait. Mom and Sis reluctantly agreed to watch.

That's me and my sister, over there to the left, long before any depravity had started. Well, actually, maybe some depravity had taken root; this photo was taken not long after I'd decided to cut my sister's hair. My mom was not happy, as she'd already scheduled the photo session. I thought Sis looked great, and was quite pleased with myself, as you can see in the pic.

Don't we look sweet as sugar, with our little nautical theme going on there? By the time high school rolled around, a lot of the sugar had worn off. Along with the nautical themes.


Anyway, Salem's Lot was showing! A mini-series was a big deal before Tivo, Netflix and 500 cable channels. Hell, before DVDs. Everyone in town was going to watch it. The fact that there really wasn't that much to do in our town made it an even bigger deal.

Salem's Lot was seriously scary. It had these horribly heinous vampires who would show up even in my nightmares, so you can imagine my sister's. In fact, looking at the fangs and yellow eyes of this guy to the right, I'm gaining a clearer understanding of why that beastly devil-rat from the last post currently making the rounds in my house freaks me out so much. There's an uncanny resemblance.

The Salem's Lot vampire may be lodged more deeply in my subconscious than I realized.

I don't remember a whole lot about the plot in Salem's Lot, but I do remember there was this floating little boy vampire who terrified my sister. He would appear at the window of the sleeping movie-child, and scratch ... scratch ... scratch against the screen, enticing the child to invite him in. The little boy vampire scared the crap out of my sister. He pretty much scared the crap out of me as well, but my mind was already formulating a plan.

That night after everyone was asleep, I carefully removed the screen from my window and picked up a long stick I'd placed there before bedtime. The stick was long enough that I could lean out and scratch ... scratch ... scratch against the screen of my sister's window, her room being just down the hall from mine.

I guess she wasn't sleeping too well that night, because it didn't take long for the scream to come, a scream like the undead loosed from the confines of hell. Timing was critical. I waited until she ran out into the hall, an extra beat for good measure, then ran out of my room, asking, "What happened?! What's the matter?"

My sister stopped cold. If I, the chief suspect, was in the house, in the hallway ... then who was outside scratching on her window?!? Sis continued to protest when mom told her it must've been a bad dream.  No! She really did hear something outside, she did! She wasn't crazy!

The folks checked Sis's room, but thankfully did not check outside, where the incriminating stick still lay. Daddy didn't say a word. The raised eyebrows and barely visible smile said enough.

Years later, I told Sis and Mom the real story -- Daddy and I were practically howling. Mom and Sis ... not so much.

Wherever You Go, There You Are.

I started this essay at the time of year when people were buying neckties and fishing poles for their dads. I got my dad a gift certificate. He's not much into ties or fishing poles, and the t-shirt thing has been done to death.

Daddy is notoriously thrifty. That's the polite way to put it. He puts it like this; I'm tighter than a crab's ass. And that's waterproof.  He never fails to amuse himself. I got an email from him this morning that I assume was a thank you for the gift card. It said,

Things your parents failed to tell you #47: A $2.00 card is cheaper than a $30 gift certificate.

I am and shall remain,
Yu Ben Phartine

He sometimes signs off as Ben Dover or adds "Esquire" to his name. For years I believed he'd belonged to a fraternity called I Phelta Thi.

My dad is a typical dad in a lot of ways. He is the king of scatological humor. I mean, this goes way beyond Pull My Finger or firing a pretend fart gun. My dad's fart gun had a pretend holster. He'd load it with a couple of rounds, click off the safety, take careful aim over the opposite forearm, and fire the appropriate number of bursts. According to how many rounds he had loaded. Police Academy training, right there. If my dad said, I think I feel a song coming on, you'd better duck and cover.

My dad would do a bad version of Steve Martin's Wild and Crazy Guy routine, trying to get a laugh out of Mom. If he was feeling especially romantic, he'd dance up behind her while she was doing dishes, singing I'm in the nude, for loooove ... simply because you're near me… He looked like he was trying to waltz and do The Robot simultaneously.

Daddy would play checkers or crazy eights with us when we were kids. For money. We didn't really get allowance, so our money was pretty much amassed from the washer and under the couch cushions. I have never beat my dad at checkers. He'd collect his winnings with Mom admonishing him, "Michael, don't you dare take their money! They're kids, you don't need their money! For Pete's sake!"

Daddy would shrug, That's why it's called "gambling". Is there a second chance in the real world? He’d turn to us, Did I force you to bet your money? Your mother thinks I'm taking your money unfairly. Did you make a bet fair and square?  We had, of course. If they're gonna gamble, they'd better be sure they can live with the consequences, he'd finish, scraping up our paltry collection of coins.

We didn't realize he was teaching us anything at the time.

My dad is known in our family for dispensing Pearls of Wisdom. Some of his oft-used sentiments are well-known gems, like you know what Assume does, don't you? Makes and ASS out of U and ME.  Others are his own special brand. He doesn't sugar coat anything. After all, if you roll a turd in sugar, it's still a piece of shit. You never knew when Pearls of Wisdom were going to fall from Daddy's mouth. It was pretty much a daily thing.

My dad was not impressed by excuses. There was a Pearl for that. Whenever we got in trouble, we'd offer up our excuses like currency, and invariably the words, "But I thought ..." would come out of our mouths. You thought? Doesn't look like you thought. You know what Thought did, don't you? Thought he had to fart and shit his pants.

Well. There you have it.

We were also encouraged to keep your nose clean. And we knew good and well that when your mother's happy, everybody's happy. We also knew that everybody deserves a fair shake, and that wherever you go, there you are. We were glad we listened when he advised, don't eat any yellow snow.  Above all, we learned not be slackers and that if you do a half-assed job, you'll do it over until you get it right.  We learned it was better to just do it right the first time.

My dad was not one for kisses or I love yous when we were kids. He believed in showing love, not saying it. He still believes that. He has been showing us since the day he met my mom. I can't say he's taken care of us since before I was born, because he didn't know any of us existed at that time. My dad was in high school when I was born. He would not meet my mom for another four years.

Daddy was 21 when he and Mom got married. I actually have vague memories of it. Mom was so beautiful and happy in the pictures, and Daddy looked like a handsome, boyish, college kid. Which he was. I can barely remember the small apartment my mom, little sister and I lived in before that. Mom worked in a dentist's office during the day, and put in hours as a bar waitress some evenings. My uncle sent her $50 a month from his Navy pay.

I do remember the first Christmas after Mom and Daddy met. I'd never seen so many toys. My sister and I believed in Santa that year.

When Daddy asked Mom to marry him, she said no. Said he was too young to take on the responsibilities of a wife and two kids before his own life had even started. I'd imagine Mom was very cautious, having already been through divorce by the time she was 23.

But mom was quite the catch, in her red and white 60s-style sheath dress and knee-high, white go-go boots. He wasn't about to let her go that easily. (Years later, when Mom would tell the story, Daddy would throw a lascivious glance her way, growling, Your mother looked like just like a Christmas candy cane! He’d add the wiggling eyebrows and the Steve Martin dance, to our delight.)

My dad tacked a vinyl record up on her front door, with a note. Here's part of the song:

You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breakin' my heart in two
Because I never wanna see you a sad girl
Don't be a bad girl

But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware
Beware

Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

from Wild World, Cat Stevens

I don't know what the note said, but Mom married him.

My dad was a history major in college; he's the biggest history buff I know. He used to randomly quiz us on historical facts. I couldn't stand not knowing one of his facts, and would secretly go look it up if I missed one. He'd planned on becoming a history teacher, but the Army offered an officer's salary, medical coverage, and family housing. He signed up during Vietnam. We went to Fort Benning and Fort Riley, and the war ended right before his number was due to head across the pond to 'Nam. He would've gone though. Daddy's a firm believer in you signs on the line, you does your time.

My dad signed on the line for us as well. He adopted me and my sister. And that was that. He's still doing his time with us.

As a kid, I knew I was half-adopted but it didn't seem that way. Friends would say, "Oh, so you mean he's your step-dad," and I'd say, no, he was my real dad. I couldn't figure out why they thought that. For years I thought my biological father was my step-dad. I remember in high school, I asked a friend what it was like, being adopted. She gave me a weird look and said, "I don't know, didn't your dad adopt you?" Light bulb moment. I realized that I had never considered myself "adopted", even though I knew the whole story. I also realized what a dumb question that was.

My dad is of the Rugged Individualist school of thought. He's politically conservative. He pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, by God, and so can anyone else. He doesn't get people who complain about "not liking their jobs". A job is what you do to put food on the table. You want fun? Get a hobby. Nobody ever gave me a handout, now did they? Nobody ever asked me if I liked my job, did they?

It's maddening, sometimes. Try discussing institutionalized racism, or how education and health care for all would advance society as a whole, or how other countries that are doing those things are already overtaking us, or questioning why such a small percentage of fat cats hold such a large percentage of the country's wealth. What are you, some kind of Socialist? You think people should get a free handout from the government? Guess that's what living out on the Left Coast does for you – har har har!

My dad firmly believes in the whole Land of Opportunity deal. He asserts that with hard work and determination, any able-bodied person, regardless of gender, religion, race, or orientation can do the same damn thing. If you can't, you're not trying hard enough. Either that, or you're spending your hard-earned money on wine, women, and song. Despite his history buffery, he’ll summarily dismiss history’s effect on today’s disparities. Try discussing why, over the course of that history, some folks were a lot farther back from the starting line, or how the founding fathers consciously constructed our institutions for the benefit of white Christian males only, and you won't get far. The idea that while past generations of some families were busy building up a future, past generations of other families were on a plantation, building someone else's future, doesn't hold much sway with him.

Just catch up.

We joke a lot about Daddy's thriftiness, or as we call it, his crab’s ass tendencies. He pays cash for everything. He and mom are both on a strict "allowance". It's something like $25 a week. If Mom wants books or sewing supplies or a new skirt, she has to save up. She has taken "loans" from their bank accounts, but swears each time she'll never do it again. "I swear, honey, he's going to start charging me interest! He IS tighter than a crab's ass!" (Me: "And that's waterproof!") He lives by the same rules with his own allowance, though.

He and Mom paid off a 30-year mortgage in eight years on a cop's salary and, for part of that time, Mom's nurse's salary. Mom was diagnosed with MS not long after they had the house built, and was unable to continue working. That was a huge blow to her. I don't remember the timing, but Daddy had to take a medical retirement from the police department after that. (A fire truck ran into his cruiser as he was reaching to answer the radio, and buggered up his back.)

We realized, during that time, how wise his tightwad approach to finances really was. The mortgage is paid. They've got money in the bank. They've got health care. They've got Daddy's police pension, Mom's "disability" checks (until she hits 65, anyway), and he went to work part time at Toys R Us in order to put in time toward Social Security, so they'd have that as well. Plus, he couldn't deal with not working. He promised Mom he'd quit as soon as he had enough quarters worked for Social Security. That was two years ago, I think. I asked him how he could stand working part time with a bunch of teenagers and self-important "managers" after being on the police force for so many years. Well, you do what you gotta do, don't you? Plus, I get a discount.

During his years on the police department, Daddy was all about some Justice for All. He wrote tickets to judges, priests, the mayor, he didn't care who you were. The only person he ever let out of a ticket was a woman who had to go to the bathroom so badly she was nearly in tears. When you gotta go, you gotta go, he quipped, shaking his head and grinning.

We, however were in the same boat with the judges and priests. Don't try to use my name to get out of a ticket. He told me when I started driving. Wives get a free pass on tickets. Snot-nosed kids don't. Try to use my name, I'll say I don't know you. Don't speed.

My parents have not always been happy with my decisions in life. Some of those decisions, like getting married so young, caused huge rifts that I wasn't sure would ever be repaired. If I'd listened to my parents around those decisions, I'd be in a hell of a different place than I am now, that's for goddamn sure. I wish my kids could get that shit NOW, instead of decades from now. But that's not the way it works, is it? My parents wished the same thing, but I thought I knew better. I didn't.

I have earned my dad's grudging respect, which means a lot to me. He and I had a long conversation a few months ago -- not a common occurrence. He's a man of few words. (Another running joke) But that day, for some reason, after discussing jobs, baseball cards, the offspring, and whether professional "wrastlin" qualifies as a sport, the conversation took a serious turn. He's not one for mushy sentiments or empty praise, but that day he practically waxed poetic. He told me,

Well, one thing I gotta say about you -- you do what you gotta do for your kids. You've done the best you can with your life, and you're doing okay. You could do better with remembering to send your mother a card on her birthday, but I get my ass reamed for mentioning that, so you didn't hear it from me.

You're not stupid with your money, you don't seem to take a lot of bullshit, and your kids are good citizens. Hell, they might even be rich, they play their cards right.

You've shown some smarts and some responsibility, and done it without a whole lot of help. You got rid of your husband when he turned into an asshole playboy, even though you should've taken him for more money.

You seem to be good at your job and you're not a whiner. I'd lend you money, and that's not because you're family. Family don't mean shit when it comes to lending money. And next time, remember: You can marry rich as easy as you can marry poor.

And wherever you go, there you are.

My dad my not have been the most mushy guy growing up, but he took me and Sis and the neighborhood kids over to the old Fraternal Order of Police lodge and played baseball with us. That was fun. A lot of fun. He laughed a lot, and made us all laugh too. He passed on a sense of responsibility and honor to us, along with a scathing dry humor. He may not be politically correct, and some of his views and comments may grate my core, but you know where he stands. He says what he means and means what he says.

I remember asking my mom about the whole dad thing when I was still little; must've been shortly after they got married. I still didn't get the terminology. Mom told me, "Anybody can be a father, honey, but it takes someone really special to be a Daddy." She pretty much nailed it with that one.

I Like It Spicy, Baby. Now, Anyway.

Holy smokes. My mouth is on fire.

I brought Indian food for lunch today. Okay, it was in a package from Trader Joe's, but still. To be fair, it did boast a spicy aromatic sauce. But come on -- grocery store spicy is usually along the lines of mild taco sauce.  Grocery store packaged delights don't pack much heat, regardless of that thermometer graphic on the box. Unless you're in the ethnic section*. Then you might find something spicy.

Trader Joe's does not have an ethnic section. TJ's mixes it up all over the damn place and surprises your ass. Or your tongue. Well, actually, who knows if my ass will be surprised later. 

It sure as hell was aromatic. The break room at work smelled gooood. That probably pissed some people off, but I live in the Pacific Northwest, so no one actually says anything if your lunch singes their nose hairs.

Anyway, lunch was tasty, but brutal.

My spice tolerance has actually come a long way. I can now go up to Level 3 (of six) at our favorite Indian restaurant. I can go to Level 4 when Normal Chef is on duty, but it's a crap shoot since you never know whether it's Normal Chef or Fire Chef back in the kitchen.  Fire Chef doesn't play. 

I used to be a complete spice wimp. We just did not eat spicy food in my family. I think it gave my dad gas. Then again, pancakes gave my dad gas. Anyway, when my ex and I were young newlyweds, he caught me scraping pepper off of an omelet. Regular, dinner-table black pepper was too spicy for me. (Trust that my ex got a lot of mileage out of that.) Tabasco? Cajun? Are you kidding?

Mild taco sauce was my tongue living on the edge, in those days.

My sister was even more of a spice wimp than I was. Until she moved to North Carolina in her late 20s. The kids and I visited from overseas. We stopped at Taco Hell for lunch one day. It was either that or Big Bubba's Beef Barn. Her youngest was probably two at the time. Sis grabbed huge handfuls of the "Fire Sauce". As opposed to mild, medium, or hot.

Me: What are you doing?

Sis: This is the best part. You can't eat this stuff without the sauce.

Me: Yeah, but that's fire sauce. The mild is over there.

Sis: You're in the South now, honey. Better buck up. Here you go, kids!

(My kids shake their heads, her kids grab for the sauce packets.)

Sis: Here, baby -- good stuff! (squirting hot sauce on her toddler's taco)

Me: What are you doing? He's practically still a baby! He's going to think food HURTS! That's so not funny!

Sis: (still squirting away) Boy's gotta learn sometime. Eat up, little man!

He loved it. My sister had overcome our childhood spice limitations.

I was passing our wimpiness on to my offspring. My kids watched their cousins with no small amount of awe. I realized my kids were destined to scrape pepper off their eggs if I didn't buck up. I did not buck up at that particular time, but my son did. He ate the sauce. He loved it. Or at least he made his cousins believe he did.

Anyway, I've since bucked up. My sister would be proud. Two of my kids have surpassed me, and can hang with Fire Chef at Level 4. My middle daughter carries on the spice wimp gene proudly. Her reaction to any hint of spice -- My mouth is on fire! -- has become a standing joke around the house. (Thus my opening sentence. Just a little tribute to her.)

Of course, this could have something to do with losing a bet to her uncle during the aforementioned visit, in which the loser had to eat a whole habanero chile pepper. Apparently, watching a 12-year-old child's throat lock up is all in good fun in North Carolina. I'm pretty sure that could actually damage a person's esophagus.

Bro-in-law is lucky I didn't find out about this until later. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have liked my version of Fun With Habaneros.

*Ethnic Section: The half-aisle in a grocery store reserved for foods which are not seen as 'Murkan foods, particularly foods with roots in Mexico or China. Foods in the ethnic section are usually expensive and may sport flags, chopsticks, or sombreros on the packaging. Our local Albertson's actually has a sign that says "Oriental" instead of "Asian" food. 

Just Mail the Damn Card.

By now, hordes of my readers have probably been wondering, "What the fuck is up with Cowbell? Hasn't she worked out that clone business yet, so she'll have time to entertain me with her witty and interesting blog entries?"  Hey, my blog, my fantasy. In reality, probably neither of my readers has noticed, having lives and all.

The eldest of the offspring came home from college last night. Mothers' Day. Perfect timing. Nobody ever said the girl can't suck up with the best of them. High School Daughter made me pancakes and strawberries before she had to go sling fish at her place of employment. Male Offspring cleaned up for me.

The dogs didn't do anything of note.

I spent some time on Amazon.com, buying a gift certificate for my mom, because I can never, ever, get the card out on time. I love and appreciate the hell out of my mom, but I just can never get that goddamn card in the mail. Shit. Maybe not a big deal for some of you, but my mom is the queen of cards, all kinds of cards. My mom sends cards for Easter and Thanksgiving. Valentine's Day, too. I have even received a St. Patrick's Day card from my mom. We are not Irish. I'm surprised I haven't received a card for Hanukkah. Or Boxing Day.

My mom sees The Card as a way to express your innermost appreciative and loving thoughts. She does not "understand" when the card doesn't arrive on time. Of course, she does not actually show her disappointment, as she is highly skilled in Playing the Martyr. Actually, in her defense, I think she tries not to care about The Card; she knows how busy things get for us, and tries to tell herself it's just a piece of paper with a stamp and a sappy saying. But, she does care, and why the hell can't I just get the goddamn thing into the mailbox on time? It's such a little thing. Such a big deal.

Mom sent me a beautiful card. She made it with this fancy software program she has. Card software. Yeah. I'm pretty sure she thought of the words herself, or at least put some thought into editing a sappy thought into a really nice personal thought. She used nice paper and these cool scissors that crafters use. She even used a purple ribbon to connect the different papers. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It also made me feel guilty as hell. She's good.

Well played, Mom.

Probably I'll never get a card from my kids once they leave home. Probably they'll live in other states or countries too, and I'll never see them or any progeny that may issue from their loins. Karma will probably take a royal chunk out of my ass on this one.

Last night I hit the airport and then IKEA. We picked up a snazzy chair/bed deal for the eldest daughter. This thing rocks -- has a decent mattress, European-style bed slats for good support, and folds in and out with one hand. We do not have room for an actual sleeper sofa in our house. The girl doesn't even have a bedroom in this house. We moved about the time she left for college. (Yes, we did give her the new address.)

My old landlord had wanted to bend me over like a porn star with a hefty rent increase. I plunged into the world of home ownership. The Seattle market was booming, y'all, I'm talking double-digit appreciation. Every damn year. Everyone told me I was a fool for renting in this market. This was our ticket to Profit Town. Buy it, stretch to make those payments until Male Offspring graduates, pocket a shitload of cash. Move to Arizona. Breathe easier about college costs. The seller didn't even own the house two full years, and he made over $100K. Hell, yeah! So I signed my life away. Borrowed from the folks for a down payment. (Those who know me know that was a very, very big deal. I do not ask the folks for money. Ever.)

Market crashed the very next month. Well, okay, Seattle didn't exactly crash. More like went stagnant. I should've let the landlord have her way with me.

So, here we are in our oh-so-tiny house. Eldest Daughter's new chair/bed thingy will go in the corner of the dining area, which is open to the kitchen. All the better to reach the fridge faster, my dear. During her other breaks this year, she slept with me. Nothing like sleeping with Mom to keep a college gal happy. She never complained, but still.

Anyway, happy Mothers' Day to all you moms out there. And that includes dog and cat moms. Lizard moms, parrot moms, whatever. If you've ever cleaned up shit behind someone smaller than yourself, you're probably a mom. Happy Mother's Day.

My Mom Thinks I'm a Spinster.

And she aims to fix that.

I got this dancing hamster for the Spring Equinox, aka my birthday. I'm not sure why a dancing hamster dressed in a frog costume made my parents think of me, but it arrived with a note attached. In case you can't make it out in the photo, it reads:

Here's hoping that a kiss from you upon this frog will land you a HUSBAND!

Notice the emphasis on the word HUSBAND.

My mom is bound and determined that I be married. This is very important to her. Normal women, evidently, want to be married. I am just being stubborn. Her motive is not the usual "when will I have grandchildren" deal.  Been there, done that, got the divorce.

I'm fine being single. It's a choice, not a sentence, Mom. I remember when my mom found out, in an unfortunate casual conversation, that I'd actually passed up opportunities to be married again.  I thought she was going to burst a vein. Either that or take the wooden spoon to my ass, a la childhood.

Mom never misses an opportunity to oh-so-casually point out that not every marriage ends in divorce -- just look at her and my dad! Still happy! Still married! Mom is convinced that this whole issue is caused by residual bitterness over my own marriage ending. If I could just get over this silly "fear of marriage", everything would be fine.

I don't feel bitter about being single. I'm thankful as hell that particular unholy matrimony is null and void. Seriously, when I think about who I am now, compared to who I was then, no contest. When I think of who I would likely be now, had I remained in a wifely way... holy hell, a million thank-yous to my ex for his liberal interpretation of those marriage vows.

Didn't see it that way then, but Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch.

Put it this way: the ex is getting remarried next month. In Las Vegas. No, they don't live there. They're flying from 12 time zones away to be married in Las Vegas. Their "wedding package" (yes, I said wedding package) includes Internet streaming so friends and family can join in the fun. All inclusive, y'all! They may see Britney Spears there. So yeah, there are definitely worse things than being single.

Being single has contributed immeasurably to untold personal growth and self-awareness, not to mention no longer looking like a housewife from What Not to Wear. I also had a hell of a lot of fun in the decade following said divorce.

Mom thinks life would be more fun, or at least more secure, if there were a full-time penis complete with legal papers and a ring around the house. And she ain't talking about the kind with batteries.  By "secure", she means entangled finances, like having a mortgage together and all.

That doesn't sound secure. I win the lottery, I'll feel secure.

Daddy just says, "Well, kid, people marry the first time for love. You see how that worked out. Marry for money. You can love rich as easy as you can love poor."

My dad also says, "Wherever you go, there you are," and "Pull my finger."

Mom knows of a guy who "would be perfect for me". I think his name is John. We are apparently both smart, witty, and like big dogs. In fact, John raises puppies to be service dogs. Pretty cool. John lives in the Midwest, near my parents. He also is a regular at Mom's church. Finally, during a visit home, I told her it would never work. Besides the fact that I live in Seattle, the whole religion thing is a definite no-go. I suspect this plan of Mom's was a Two-Fer. Get me married and get me back in the church. Oh, and back in Ohio. That too.

So, my mom is basically Yente to my Tzeitel. Thus the dancing hamster in a frog costume. I kissed it. Nothing happened.

Whew.

Crafty in a Good Way

Today we had the annual Holiday Craft Fair here at the college. I don't get crafters. My mom and sister can craft the hell out of anything. My sister quilts. By hand. My mom has a whole room devoted to crafts and sewing.  

A room.

My mom once made a series of these dolls -- nuns, actually -- that were friggin' hilarious. Sister Mary Garcia is the one I remember.  She had a tie-dyed habit and a peace symbol for a crucifix. The other nuns were suitably scandalous.  People bought those dolls. Paid money.

Then there's my Aunt Nelly. She used to crochet vests, scarves, and toilet paper covers that looked like dolls. (the TP goes under the skirt.)  When I was a kid, I was stylin' in my crocheted vests over my turtlenecks.

The craft gene completely skipped me.

My younger daughter got the craft gene. She got the cooking gene as well, courtesy of my mom and sister. Even better, the gene has mutated in her -- she turns out these crazy twisted things. Like the time she made Christmas cookie cut-out dolls complete with cookie underwear, among other accoutrements.  

I don't know why all this domesticity skipped me. Not that I want to be a crafter. But it would be cool to cook up a gourmet meal. For fun.

We're doing our holiday potluck at work this Friday. I am already stressing -- ohmygod, I have to cook! Crap. I'll probably just get something from Trader Joe's and call it a day.

I may not be a crafter, but I am pretty crafty. In a good way, not a craft way.