culture · Cussing · Kids · Parenting · skating · Swearing

Please Weigh In

That’s my son about to unfold a Christ Air into the sunset. In his dreams.

Going to a skate park is number one on his list whenever he is asked what he would like to do. We are fortunate to have 3 pretty awesome ones around us. The one above, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, sadly is not one of them.

My two boys love their bikes, scooter, and rip-sticks, and are pretty fly on those on a skate park, no pun intended. I feel their excitement mounting after we park as they retrieve their wheels and put on their helmets.

But I’ve found that there’s a darkside to all this, again, no pun intended (the darkside is the bottom side of your skateboard). See, my guys are groms or grommets. In other words, they are ams. (Newbies for those looking at me cock-eyed). They don’t have very fancy moves yet. The goal is to become a sick ripper. This is risky business so you must avoid slams which could have deleterious outcomes such as a swellbow. Incidentally, my boys have broken about three bones apiece and not a one at a skate park. Another important goal is not to be a snake, i.e. a person that cuts other people off.

buck

 

The older kids at the park make me think of swaggering young bucks sprouting horns. They dominate the park with their glorious moves, and worse, with their attitudes and crude language. We learned pretty early in our skate park career that they love to hear themselves talk. It’s very strange to me to hear expletives coming from young mouths. They seem to be trying it on for size and coolness. They overuse  it and try to outdo each other.

It also bothers me at some deep level. A few years ago, I told my boys what the main cuss words in the culture were and what they meant. I also made it abundantly clear that they were not to use them. There was no need for them and there were many, many alternative words to express oneself.

I am curious to hear various adults’ approach to this problem (if you consider it a problem) in public. Please weigh in and share how you do or would handle handle kids swearing in public, particularly in the absence of their parents or responsible adults. I am particularly interested in more creative approaches than glaring at them or banging their heads together.

photos retrieved from:

1. goodfreephotos.com/united-states/california/los-angeles/skate-park-by-the-ocean-in-los-angeles-california/jpg.php on 10/16/2017

2. https://www.dreamstime.com/stock-photo-young-buck-deer-nub-horns-black-eyes-wet-nose-brown-white-fur-image58792408 on 10/17/2017

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/risky/

 

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Uncategorized

I Don’t Need You

Image result for LOVE public domain

“How do you do it?” her new friend gasped incredulously. My kid sister Jackie was at a children’s birthday party and had just shared that she was a single mum.

She got this reaction almost every time.

This time an extraordinary sense of ownership welled inside her. “I do it just fine with the Lord.” She knew this wasn’t a fashionable statement but it slipped right out of her mouth before she could stop it. She felt strangely galvanized inside and her chest puffed out slightly.

Kayla was seven now. She was the hardest yet the best thing that had ever happened to Jackie. Kayla’s dad walked out on them when she was about two. To be honest, Jackie can’t imagine what life would be like with him around. My heart warms every time I observe these two for any length of time and I marvel at what a fool he was to have walked out on this.

I love the amazing and simple life they’ve created for themselves. Jackie works a few days a week as a therapist. She walks Kayla to school in the mornings and they chat about wanting a cat, the naughty boys at school, anxiety about going to the doctor for shots, and everything in between.

Especially earlier on, Jackie’s life was peppered with regrets wishing life had played out differently. She’d known all along he wasn’t great marriage material but had mercurial hopes of some future together. News of Kayla’s very presence in the universe had rocked Jackie’s world and filled her with dread. This was not her plan. She could terminate the pregnancy and continue her life like nothing had ever happened. No one would ever need to know.

I distinctly remember her phone call to me shortly after she found out. I was crestfallen and lost for words to respond to her announcement. We had an unspoken pact that we’d save ourselves for marriage. I couldn’t imagine the angst this was causing her. She was the youngest of  seven siblings and with humility, boldness, and dignity, she called every member of our family to tell them. She called her pastor and told him. She went before her church and told them. She was embraced with the associated grief and swallowed up with love and acceptance. She was overwhelmed with the love of God’s family. I couldn’t have been more proud of her, worlds away. It tore me up that I couldn’t even hug her or hold her beautiful face.

I ate up pictures she sent of herself as her bump progressed. She was gorgeous. And afraid. And sad. And excited. And oh, so remorseful. This was not what she wanted…

The first year was a blur. She had a horrendous birthing experience. Then Kayla had to go to her dad’s house for visits every other weekend. How Jackie dreaded that. She sent her off with instructions to him. And clothes. And food. “Here’s some pain medicine, she’s teething so she needs it every 3 hours. And don’t forget to use the barrier cream. She had a terrible rash last time.”

He was a man of very few words but was he even listening? She paced her house the whole time her baby was gone. She cried herself to sleep and awoke ten times before morning dawned. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? Was he with his drinking buddies again? She was ready to pull her hair.

Jackie would sob with relief when they finally got back. She kissed her chubby cheeks with a million teary kisses and held her close, thinking her heart would burst. She hated that, subconsciously, she would start the dreaded countdown till Kayla would leave again. Within a few months Kayla would actually cry for him when he dropped her off. Jackie didn’t know what to do with that. Fortunately, she was easy to redirect. Still, with consternation, she would open the diaper bag and find that things she’d carefully packed away and given instructions on, were untouched. It made her want to shake him.

And then one day he fell off the face of the earth. No call, no words, no goodbye. She heard that he had left the country and wasn’t coming back. She wanted to dance with glee. Then a new grief hit her: the loss of a dream. That can strangle one as mercilessly as the death of a loved one.

She ploughed through the banal experience of child-raising. It was peppered with constant reminders that she was alone. There were more blatant aspects like buying a piece of property and building a home: every signing appointment, every minute detail regarding the home – from qualifying for a loan to choosing counter tops, roofing, doorknobs, lighting, flooring. It would have been so helpful to have someone to run decisions by.

They talked about him now and again. Kayla asked where he was and when he’d be coming back. She asked if it was anything she had done. She wondered if he thought of them. “Will I be the only girl in the world without a daddy?” She would sob and disconsolately throw herself on her bed. Jackie answered her questions gently, thoughtfully, honestly.

She perpetually found herself having to explain, in one circle or another, that he wasn’t in the picture. Always, an awkward silence ensued along with an attempt on her part or the other person’s to recover some semblance of dignity.

Jackie snapped back to attention as the herd of screaming party goers stampeded into the room to open presents and sing Happy Birthday. She smiled through the whole affair as, almost beholding on a screen, she reviewed how good God had been to her despite immense hardships. He had seen her through. And that beautifully!

He HAD met her every need. He had helped her overcome the poignancy of her wants that He didn’t fulfill. He had housed them, healed them, provided for them. He had protected them, comforted them, delighted them. God had done more than Kayla’s dad could ever have done had he stayed in the picture. Of course she longed for a physical consort, a life partner. Someone to laugh with and encourage her. Someone to help her discipline and train this handful of a child.

But she solidly learned that she had all that and more. All her fountains were in Him, Psalm 87:7. He was a fountain of constant cleansing; a fountain of refreshment that slaked her every thirst; He astounded her when He thundered like the Niagara with power in her life; He delighted her when He filled her and her daughter with levity and delight in life.

She determined that she would raise her daughter to know that she had a Father who loved her more than anything. She had an identity and a family. She was whole and lovable, incredibly made, wanted and chosen before she was delicately knit together in her mother’s womb. She was pursued and desired, cared for, and delighted in just as she is.

Always. Tenaciously. Unconditionally. Loyally.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/loyal/

Crush · horror · Love letters · Puppy love · Relationships

The Love Letter that Would Change My World

Image result for love letters public domain

To look at me that sunny August morning, one would never have guessed that my heart was flailing arrhythmically within me. It flounced, trying its level best to maintain a beat. Internally I floundered like a cow on skates and try as I might, I could not get my brain to engage. When he wasn’t talking any more, I smiled my winsome smile, said, “Okay, have a nice day,” and  sashayed away like a peacock, my head held high in dignified poise.

It left me nauseous, my mind reeling for days afterwards. In the coming month, I can’t tell you how many people snapped their  fingers in my face and said, “Hallo, earth to Hannah!!”

I was a teenager hopelessly in love with Gage. I’d known him since I was a child and he’d gone off to attend a fancy boarding school hours away. I only saw him on the first Sunday of the month at church. He was ravishing, airing his finery like a supermodel. I swooned whenever I saw him. He was hands-down the most handsome creature I had ever beheld. To make things worse he was humble and fun and made a point to say hi and chit-chat whenever he was around. Did he know he was killing me?

The Monday after I saw him that July thirty years ago, I determined to write him a letter telling him how I felt about him. It was pages and pages long. The verse and prose poured out of me like sublime strands of silk from a spider’s spinneret, scintillating, captivating. I know not the source of the breath-taking lines I used. The balladry astounded even me. I said things like, “You are the raw ingredients for the perfect making of a man.”  Page, after page, after page. Then I mailed it.

How I prayed that the post office would lose that envelope. That July was the longest month in history yet August came all too soon. I vacillated between relief at having sent the letter and shuddering with dread that I had been so stupid. But it was too late. Everyday I wondered if he had received it yet. How many such letters did he get each month? The horror was unbearable.

And now I sat in the car stunned, wanting to die. He was home from school and had bee-lined for me. I’d smiled casually and said hi.

“I got your letter,’ he began with that grin.

My sympathetic nervous system kicked into full-throttle. By the time I got a grip on myself, he was done talking. Friends, I have no idea what he said. I couldn’t very well ask him to repeat everything he’d just said. So I wished him a nice day, turned around elegantly and walked away, a fraud. A very swank fraud.

(My ten year old thought I needed to end this with this line: And some how we are still friends to this day.)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fraud/

Anxiety · Authority · Christian · Cows · Daughters · Death · Faith · Farming · Fear · Health · horror · Humor · Maturity · Mishaps · mothers · Spiritual

If You Believe

black cow

If you know anything me, it’s my feelings about cows. You can find contributing factors here: https://thukumainen.wordpress.com/2016/10/11/wild-about-cows/. And to think I am married to a man who calls himself a rancher. Very sad. I posted that blog a year ago and my feelings haven’t changed much.

Shortly after that, Emma who’d grown up on a dairy farm shared how she was washing dishes in the sink one sunny day while her kids played outside. She was watching them dreamily in the sand pit through the open kitchen window. She’d just picked up the last glass from the warm sudsy water when she heard a sickening bellow. She looked up to behold her 3 year old daughter sitting on the bottom rung of a gate to the field while one of their massive cows came running across the field. “Oh God,” she moaned gripping the side of the sink. There was no way she could even set that glass down before the cow got to her baby, let alone get out there to rescue her.

In slow motion, it seemed, little Layla hopped off the gate she was sitting on and authoritatively stuck a stubby little hand straight out in front of her and yelled, “You stop!”

The colossal brown cow skidded to a screeching halt not ten feet from Layla. The cow lowered her immense head and pounded the dry ground. She seemed to be reconsidering her actions and she mooed, projecting slime all over the place. “No! Bad cow!” commanded the little girl, hands akimbo and stomping her miniature pink cowboy boot in defiance. That cow sniffed at the dirt and slowly turned her head before walking away.

Emma barely heard the glass shatter, muffled by the soapy water, as she tore through the door.  She ran pell-mell to her baby in the field, tripping over broken branches while her apron fluttered like a flag in the wind. She grabbed her like she would never let go, sobbing fitfully.

“Mama sad?” asked Layla quizzically placing dirty little hands on her mother’s tear-stained face.

“No, baby. Mama’s very happy.”

__________________________________________

This week I have encountered many people who are going through various degrees of apprehension for one reason or another. It has astounded me, I don’t remember it being this unbridled, almost epidemic. Many posts I’ve visited have entailed details from anxiety ridden writers expressing hopelessness about the world’s plight and our leaders’ wanton disregard for us. Sitting in prayer groups, I’ve prayed for people dealing with fears of flying, fears they can’t put their fingers on, and fear of the future.

It seems we are being pummeled by angst and asphyxiated under its weight.

Are we paying too much attention to current events? More importantly are we basing all our trust and hope on the shifting sands of circumstances? Are we listening too closely to the primal internal voices that are gifts for our survival, but which we have amplified with the megaphone of attention?

The resulting degree of stress is ravaging our health, our wellness, and our souls. It exudes from our every pore so that we contaminate people around us. It’s affecting our children and grandchildren and shortchanging any chance for joy and a vibrant life. It grows like a cancer and stifles our very lives.

Can we, like little Layla stand up to these demons and gain control of ourselves and our reactions to our stressors. We can drop and allow them to trample us mercilessly and fling us up in the air. We can turn and run like lightning with the massive cows in hot pursuit. Or we can stick our little hands out in their face and scream “STOP!” This lion must find a heart.

See that day, Emma learned and then taught me about authority that is vested within us. It is the authority of a thirty pounder against a thousand pounder. Within me is mastery and dominion over my reactions to circumstances. But I must learn to wield it. It is a spiritual weapon that I can brandish to quell the enemies of my soul.

Jesus died that I might have life, and life abundantly. Peace and His presence are two things He has assured me He will never withdraw from me. Hope and joy are mine to enjoy despite the worst possible circumstances in life. Otherwise what is our faith for? I’ve tried many others and they are all sinking sands. He alone has seen me, and countless others over the ages, through thick and thin VALIANTLY. His are promises that we will not be shaken if we stand upon the Rock that He is.

If you don’t know Jesus, He is a simple invitation away. All you have to do is believe He is the son of God who died to save you and who came back to life so YOU might have life. His presence in your life is the authority to speak over your perspective on life’s circumstances and command your fears to be still.

Here’s a great truth: You can’t think two thoughts at the same time. And tough times call for soul talk.  In 1752, Katharina A. von Schlegel penned “Be still my soul, the Lord is on your side.” What a great mantra. It has amazing words. Enjoy Kari Jobe’s rendition of it.

Ages before, King David said, “Why so downcast oh my soul? Put your hope in God for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God,” Psalm 42:11. Sometimes I say, a thousand times, “I trust you Lord, I trust you Lord.” I’ll sing a song or meditate on and recount a piece of scripture. Scream it if you need to or just think it, though your knees are knocking.

And should the circumstances do you in, you have a blessed promised eternity awaiting you. One of complete rest and bliss in His presence. Death will be your final enemy and you WILL overcome it victoriously. You can’t lose!!

So put your hands on your little hips and stomp those sparkly cowgirl boots. Silence that bellowing cow and speak your truth.

Image retrieved from https://i.pinimg.com/564x/09/3f/5b/093f5b9a471196711493b2115f47cd8c.jpg

on 10/9/17 7pm.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/believe/

Aging · Maturity · Poetry

Holding it Together

Related imageI remember my youth,

Fast and uptight,

Resilient and taut,

Easy to excite.

 

Then I was a dish,

but now turning

Into a well-seasoned casserole;

As my physical knack to

hold it together slacks,

Goes lax.

 

I’m more flexible though.

Resting and relaxing,

Stretching and accommodating,

Binding and creating.

For the afternoon knows

What the morning never suspected.*

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/elastic/

* “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected” is a quote by Robert Frost.

Uncategorized

Giving My Money to the Rich

piggybank

I don’t like to give my money to the rich.

Sitting at a mall, I watch people with their pretty shopping bags and hundreds of dollars worth of purchases and I cringe. I am certain that ultimately, those dollars are going to people that live in very big houses and drive pretty fancy cars on extravagant vacations. It’s akin to taking my wallet out of my back pocket, taking money out, flagging down one of those wealthy people, and saying, “Here, please take this!”

And I have a problem with that. That’s why I haven’t been to a mall in years.

I understand the mechanics of capitalism, kinda, so save me the lecture. I just don’t take it upon myself to single-handedly stimulate or grow the economy, which is what our consumer culture seems to be challenging us to do. I understand that those wealthy people are ultimately creating employment for the common citizen from production to sales.

What I like is to walk into Aimee’s or Tory’s shop and support their businesses. Or to shop at my local Bi-Mart and know that that means that Robin, and Sean, and Stacy, and Jennifer and the rest of the crew are getting a decent paycheck to pay off their home or their vehicles. I’ll pay extra, within reason, if I know that my money is staying in my community. Furthermore, I love that they remember my name when I walk into the store. They remember and inquire after what’s going on in my life. They’ve watched my boys grow up.

It means that I LOVE going junking and scoring on fabulous buys without the smell and burden of plastic packaging. I love giving gently loved things a second lease on life. I have a million dollar closet at the fraction of the price. The price to pay is sitting across friends at party and one of them saying, “Hey, I had a pair of pants just like those and I just donated them to the thrift store!” I sport embarrassment for a split second and then ask, “And why on earth didn’t you hand them down to me instead of me having to pay $5.99 for them?!”

It means I love Vivi’s Vietnamese food cart where I can text Finn my order in and have him text me back that it’ll be ready in ten minutes. I can’t drive fast enough for that banh mi addiction!

So I’m teaching my boys that we shouldn’t buy things that we can make ourselves – within reason. We certainly don’t have to buy everything we want or see (hear the “No Gimmies” lecture in the van before we enter a store.)  And that $8.00 that you’re about to spend on a fidget spinner to play with for a month (if that), I bet you can make it. I’m even willing to pay more for materials for you to make it.

So let’s go crazy creating, crafting, re-purposing, gardening, cooking, inventing, saving money. Let’s think about what we’re putting into and on our bodies and how we can simplify our lives. Let’s help out the billions of hurting people in the world. It sure is gratifying to give to someone less fortunate than I am. A lot more so than supporting the affluent.

That is food for thought…

(image from publicdomainpictures.com retrieved 10/6/17 5.40pm)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/genius/

 

Aging · Caregiving · culture · Death · Family · Humor · language · Money · Relationships · sad · Thanksgiving · Work

Burying the Cat II

JD darted from the church and into his car in record time. Drenched in sweat, he felt like he would pass out. After he’d got a grip on himself, he reached into his front pocket of his stiff new Bi-Mart jeans for the infamous phone.

He stilled his shaky hands and flipped the little gadget open, muttering at it the whole time. 6 missed calls in 2 minutes. It was his elderly client Lynn. He pushed call.

She answered immediately. “Halo JD.”

He could tell something was very wrong. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“It’s not good.” She said. He could tell she’d been crying. “Can you come?”

“I’ll be right there.” He started his car. He raced the familiar 25 miles there and let himself into the house, scared stiff. “Lynn!” he called gently.

She sat on a chair facing away from him and he hurried to her. When he got to her, he stepped back in utter dismay. She was cradling a very dead cat!

She started bawling when she saw him. “He was very sick this morning when I woke up. By the time I showered and called the vet, he was dead.” She sobbed helplessly.

He was aghast. He was tempted to say, “Is this why you called me?” but she couldn’t hear anything over the sobs anyhow. She reached out an arm for a hug. He leaned in and tried very hard not to touch the cat. “It’s okay, Lynn. I’m so sorry.”

She held him for a long time. So long his back started to cramp. Then his stomach started growling again. And that cat, he was certain he could feel it squirming, or winking at him. Or something.

Two hours later, he helped her out to a spot where they had decided Gumby would be buried. He set a chair up by the old magnolia and  scraped a perimeter for the hole. Once she approved it he got to work digging  a hole, 2 feet by 2 feet. He gritted his teeth at having to dig with his weekend clothes on, but he couldn’t very well go back home  to change at this point. The rhythmic strike of the shovel followed by the thud of the moist dirt landing was punctuated by Lynn’s soft sobs. Strike, thud, sob. Strike, thud, sob, sniffle.

He pulled his bandana from his pocket, wiped the sweat off his brow, threw the shovel off to the side and jumped out of the three foot deep hole. Lynn had wrapped Gumby in one of her towels and JD slowly reached out to receive it. He was met with a visceral wail and she clutched tightly at her stiff but beloved pet.

JD stood by trying not to the think of the tamales at his house that his friends were probably devouring without him. He didn’t want to deny her this precious moment with Gumby but he had spent all day yesterday preparing them and his cousin cooked them while he was at church.

He cleared his throat and placed his hand on her shoulder after she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her pink polyester robe. “Honey,” she started, “I don’t that’s deep enough. I don’t want coyotes and racoons digging him up. Let’s make it a little deeper.”

He jumped back in and dug first one foot, then two feet deeper. Unfortunately this also meant he had to make it wider than two foot square. He put his foot down when he was chest deep and she mistook his tear for sympathy. “Gumby always loved you so very much,” she said wanly, rocking him back and forth.

_______________________________________________________________

“Donde estas?” yelled his cousin, Pablo trying to make himself heard over the loud music in the background.

“I’m coming from buying tulips and heading to Lynn’s house,” JD replied. “Hide me a bunch of tamales.”

“Tulips? What about the tamales? Estas loco? ” Pablo scratched his head, sure he’d heard wrong.

“Hide me 6 tamales. I’ll be home soon. I think,” and he hung up, exasperated. There was nothing like missing a tamale fiesta at your own house.

She’d decided she needed tulips on the grave so that she had something pretty to enjoy when she sat by the chair she’d had him cement under the magnolia tree. That had taken another hour and a half but she just had to have those tulips. They were Gumby’s favorites, she said. She had him lay them out, first one way then another before settling on  a third configuration. He buried them then set up some rockery that the tulips would adorn.

He pulled into his driveway at 6 p.m. to find folding chairs, dirty dishes, and beer bottles strewn across his front yard and no one in sight. He was the epitomy of mixed emotions as he stood there his eyes going from this mess to the wad of cash Lynn had stuck into his breast pocket “Please take this,” she said as she hugged him goodbye.  “You’re a better son to me than my own. He’d have told me and my cat to go to hell hours ago.”

JD counted it 5 times. Nine hundred and Forty dollars.

tulip2

https://wordpress.com/prompts/deny/

Christian · culture · Faith · Humor · language · Mishaps · We've All Done It

Burying the Cat I

JD is sitting on my porch at dusk and my husband and I are howling with laughter. I only catch half of what he is saying. I miss the second half of what he is saying because of his exaggerated Mexican accent, and the other half because he won’t pause for his audience to recover from laughing. Wait how many halves was that?

Anyway, he sets his Modelo down, which is his signature gesture for another good story; all before we even catch a breath and recover from the last one.

He’s been in the States for many years but loves nothing more than telling tales about growing up in Mexico or his experiences in the States. He’s an amazing landscapist with many clients who love him and have used his services for as long as he can remember.

About 5 years ago he was sitting in church trying to keep his stomach from growling. He folds over, bear-hugging his abdomen and trying to be inconspicuous. See, it’s a tenuous task finding the position that settles a sonorous gut. The louder it is, the longer it takes the priest to wrap things up. Just when you think you have it under control, you move a millimeter too far to the right which makes the entire intestinal tract trumpet like a dying elephant.

People beside you shift uncomfortably and clear their throats as though that’s any help. The teenagers in the pew behind him started snickering and couldn’t stop. The young mum in front of him turned around dramatically and, glared at him while smacking her gum. As though THAT was any help. “So sorry,” he mumbled, making the sign of the cross and trying to look anywhere but at her. Of course he was sitting in the middle of the pew and would have had to disrupt 30 people to get up. He closed his eyes tightly and prayed that the Living God would slay him. Or slay all these gringos around him. Something. Anything.

Presently the system settled down and he leaned back with tentative relief, grateful that no one was going to have to be slayed. He leaned back on the blue metal chair on my porch and took a swig of his Modelo. He set it back down on the concrete and lunged forward to continue his story.

“Then, I’m sitting there when the rosary starts and my phone begins to vibrate. Holy chit!” He muttered under his breath and instinctively grabbed his stomach then realized that was the wrong number. He went for his left front pocket, shooting his leg out like a viper, and swatted at his phone as if to kill it. The whole pew was vibrating and he noticed several people also going for their pockets. But his zipper was vibrating too so he knew he was the culprit. He finally smacked the right button and it stopped.

He stared forward, now cross-eyed, his heart racing. He could see a blurred priest gesturing, “In the name of the Padre, and the Madre,..” and the phone started to vibrate again. “Hijo de…” he started to mumble, his chest heaving and his hands now so shaky they couldn’t find his pocket.

Bubble Yum in front of him whirled around and said, “Oh my gosh!”

“So sorry.” He repeatedly automatically, beads of sweat and blood falling from his face as he stopped the phone. He grasped his rosary trying to keep up with everyone else. “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.” Just before he said Amen, his stomach AND his phone went off at the same time and he didn’t know which one to go for first.

He would have launched his phone through the opened stained glass windows onto on-coming traffic if he could reach it for all his fumbling. Or at this irritating woman in front of him who was still glaring icily at him.

By the time he finishes this story he is writhing on the little blue chair that’s threatening to fold on him.  His right knee is on the floor and his left leg is jutted in front of him as he reenacts his desperate attempt to reach  his  phone. The husband and I are wiping tears from our eyes and trying to catch our breath as he reaches under the chair for his Modelo and drains its contents.

“That’s why I don’t go to church anymore, man.” He concludes as he pulls himself back onto the folding chair and grabs another beer.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/launch/

Customer Service

DISH TV & High Blood Pressure

That combination is no coincidence.

“2 of the TVs in my house have lost their signal.” I said woefully.

“Well ma’am, I can help you with that,” said Heather, the helpful customer service representative. Her voice had a nasal ring to it that grated slightly against my senses.

She asked a myriad of identification confirmation questions. Then she got to the page on diagnostic questions. “Are there any obstructions on your satellite dish? Leaves, branches, snow?” She asked.

I walked out and looked. “No obstructions.” I answered dutifully.

She asked several more questions.

“Well ma’am, I’ll have to look at the weather system in your area.” She said, almost despondent. “Yup it looks like there’s a storm coming in and that’s causing interference with your signal.”

“A storm?” I countered, “It’s supposed to clear up here and be close to 80 degrees for the next 2 days!”

“Is it cloudy?” She asked.

“Yes it’s cloudy.”

“That’s what’s blocking the signal. You won’t get reception till the clouds clear,” she informed regretfully.

“This is September in Oregon. The clouds won’t clear till June!” I said, incredulous.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” her pitch in voice was getting higher. “I can’t roll a truck to you. Even if I do, they’ll just cancel it because we have to go through several steps before a truck is sent out. Call back in the next day or so if it hasn’t changed.”

“I don’t even know what to do with that information right now. I am dumbfounded.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” She asked impatiently.

I hung up thinking that that implied she had so helped me with the first matter that she couldn’t wait to help me with another.

I pushed buttons on the remote for a few minutes my patience getting more frayed by the minute. I called back again. This time I got a dear Indian agent named Sam. We interacted for 45 minutes, the earlier ten of which I was certain I would get results. I could tell she was following the instruction manual very carefully. Between each section she said a determined “okay.” I could visualize her leaning into the manual resolutely.

Presently, she instructed, “unscrew the cable from the wall. Okay. Now unplug the cord from the box. Okay. Vait a couple of minutes. Okay. Now screw the cable back into the vall. Vhat signal is it giwing you?”

“Acquiring signal 535,” I said. “It says this may take up to 5 minutes. It’s been saying that since last night.”

“Okay, let’s give it 15 minutes.”

“15 minutes?” I balked, unbelieving. My first thought was, ‘are you going to call me back in 15 minutes or are we going to sit here for 15 minutes?’

“Or we can do 10 or 5 minutes.”

I choked.

“Okay. Let’s do the same thing on the other TV. Unscrew the cable from… Okay. Push the home button on the remote 2 times.”

She might as well have said now stand on your head and do the hokey pokey. It had been 45 minutes and we were still doing the same horse and pony nonsense. What’s that line about repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting different results? I was going to lose my mind.

“Sam, it’s not working.” I said flatly.

“Alright, I can send a technician out to you but that will be $95.” I could visualize her cowering as she said that.

“Wait, you are going to charge me $95 to send a technician out to fix your system that I’m paying for and getting nothing?”

“Yes. Because you don’t have insurance.”

“I have home insurance and health insurance. I’m supposed to have TV insurance too? Am I on camera?”

“No ma’am. I can sign you up for $6.99 a month but you have to keep it for at least 6 months.”

This, my friends, is why people commit acts of terror. So help me God.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/coincidence/

Aging · Caregiving · Death · Health · Relationships · sad · Teasing

Knock Your Ass to the Floor

I’m scraping my left overs into the kitchen-scrap bin for my chickens. I smile sadly as I think of Coach. I wish it was his left-overs I was scraping …

As far as I can tell he has always commanded authority, even though he is the biggest kid on the planet.

I would watch his stooped form hobble into the front room, an iron-grip on his aluminum front wheeled walker. The caregiver has him firmly by the belt. She has finally learned to do it properly. When the caregivers first start, they inevitably pull his belt up as high as they can. Pretty soon his every step is higher and higher, driven by the abominable wedgy, until he is barely walking on tip-toe, then his legs are flailing about, trying to make up with the floor; and the caregiver, blood vessels pulsating on her temples, is about to strain bulging arm muscles from carrying a grown man by the waistline.

“Hi Trouble,” I tease.

He glances at me furtively,  and chuckles. Just a few months ago he would have said, “I’m going to knock your ass to the floor.” I love it! Walking has become arduous now. He keeps shuffling along, as though fearing that he won’t start again if he stops.  With every other step, the left Hush Puppies shoe rhythmically hits against the right one and his left knee buckles slightly.  I watch with bated breath, willing him on.

Sadly, his speech is also failing him lately. I can tell by the gleam in his eye he is trying to tease me back and can’t. My heart breaks. I’m certain it would have been a good one. When he finally sits, exhausted, I bend over to wipe a little rivulet of drool from his dignified chin and plant a playful kiss on his forehead.

“Wow! THIS is the BEST comb-over in the world!” I exclaim and  realign a stray hair. “I don’t care what anybody says.” He looks at me  through brilliant blue eyes and smiles again. He tries hard to say something and then abandons it. Instead, he shakes his head in mock dismay. So I raise my eyebrows and shake my head slowly as I say it for him. “… knock my ass to the floor.”  He smiles, trying to glare at me and settles for a fist.

We used to erupt in laughter at “the fist.” It was the formidable mechanism of knocking asses to the floor. One was liable to get it several times a day for one reason or another. A tear comes to my eye as I realize we are getting the fist less and less any more.

‘I’ll miss that someday,’ I think to myself as I clear his plate after breakfast. He did’t eat much, again. Nothing tastes good any more. I breathe deeply and stare absently out the kitchen window as I scrape the plate’s contents into the kitchen-scrap bin. Bacon, eggs, and rye toast. His favorite.

Today, I’m scraping my left overs… I wipe away another tear. I wish it was his left-overs I was scraping …

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/planet/