Security Cameras

My little 3-year-old granddaughter noticed us on the security monitors when we walked into a store. “MeeMaw, we’re on television!” she announced. “I know!” I told her. “It’s because we’re STARS.”

“Yes, we ARE stars!” she agreed. “We should have on our sunglasses.” We had to think about whether we truly were stars on the security monitor without having on sunglasses indoors. But then MeeMaw would have to feel around for a shopping cart, and that would not be very star-like behavior. MeeMaw may accidentally grope people or even fall into a shopping cart. Perhaps that would be star-like behavior.  Hmmmmm. Would baby Lila qualify as a star even though she doesn’t have sunglasses? Oh, the weighty questions that MeeMaw must ponder daily.

I only went to the store to get hamburger. Zoe apparently went to the store for everything else. “Can I have this?” she asked, pointing to potato chips. “No!” I answered. “I want THIS and this and this!” she said, pointing to various soft drinks. “NO!” I replied. “No, no, no!”

“Why can’t I have them?” she asked.

“Because I don’t have enough money to buy everything in the store!”

“You have to pay for this stuff, MeeMaw?” she asked.

“That’s right, sweetie. Even very pretty people like you and me have to pay for groceries!”

“Well, that’s not fair!” she declared.

“I know. I’ve been saying that for years, but they still make me pay!” I told her.

“Maybe you should wear your sunglasses!” she told me.

Now why didn’t I ever think of that?

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Why So Quiet?

I am seemingly being uncharacteristically quiet while the government is engaging in lots of skulduggery. Trust me, I am NOT being quiet in person. I just don’t have time to write about it.

The girls (the 3-year-old and 4-month-old granddaughters) have been accompanying me and Mom to her various doctor and surgeon appointments. Everybody in the waiting rooms are always amazed at how patiently and happily the girls wait with us.  We’re waiting on the scheduling of Mom’s next big surgery. This one will include a parotidectomy with possible facial paralysis on one side. Even though Mom’s a retired RN, I’m not sure if she actually heard the surgeon, or whether she blanked it out.  I decided not to inquire or spell it out.  Is that presumptuous of me? She is very fearful of surgery, but she absolutely has no chance of survival without it.  In the meantime, she’s had her burial outfit freshly cleaned and is making her funeral preparations so that we won’t be bothered with it.

In the midst of infant milestones and recurrent cancer, daughter brought home a red doberman pup for the kids because, well, life.

The plates that I have spinning are coming crashing down. I found a sheep that had gotten wedged behind a gate and couldn’t get out that had apparently happened when we were away for a family celebration event over the weekend. Probably died of thirst and/or heat. Absolutely my fault for neglecting to count sheep because I’ve been focused on things like the baby, Mom, the toddler, the pup, daughter’s 18-year-old kitty who is now blind and deaf, the orphaned chicks whose Mommy and siblings were apparently eaten one night, and grandsons, homework, laundry, how to afford groceries for so many (make everything from scratch), etc.  I’m neglecting my 3-year-old granddaughter to the care of inane cartoons far too often. My cleanliness standards have fallen into the slattern category.  Hovel living is the life for me!  What the heck, I can clean next year, right?  Except baby will be crawling around eating the mystery objects on the floor in a couple months. Crap.

Daughter is likewise experiencing crashing plates of her own.  She works eight hours a day, commutes two hours a day, and does two college classes at night with LOTS of homework. If she wasn’t so highly organized, she’d be a total wreck. While she has a  grade of 100% in both classes (yeah, our family tends to be overly competitive), she’s stressed out about bills, homework, and grades. She will not be gladdening the hearts of retailers this Christmas season but, instead, is buying used items for the kids every payday.  She and I both thought she could quickly finish her degree at night while the children were small but, alas, we overestimated my energy and didn’t account for Mom’s cancer recurring. After this term ends, she may not go back. I hate it for her that she’s missing so much time with her youngest, she feels that she needs to finish her degree to increase her earning capacity for her family, but I dunno. I know a lot of folks that have gone back to college to get their degree, or a different degree, in order to boost their earning capacity. All they got was the same old low-paying job that they had before, only now they have to pay back student loans with it along with all their other expenses.

Meanwhile, a relative that has a SIL that flies in and out of some strange places called to let us know his observations about Ebola gleaned from first-hand observation and with talking with other people whose work take them in and out of there as well.  His conclusions are that (a) our government is lying to us (b) their governments are lying to everybody (c) a lot more people are dead and dying than the “official” count, and (d) they (federal government) have to know the truth and are deliberately trying to kill people because nobody can be that damn incompetent.  His advice to family members? Stockpile food, clean water, etc. because in the event that this thing becomes widespread in any particular area, well, you know things could get ugly as towns set up their own quarantine zones.

Another relative that is a RN at a hospital in another state says that they haven’t really had much in the way of training and just the usual for protective gear, no matter what the CDC says about readiness. They aren’t ready now and will never be ready for Ebola. They don’t have the staff, gear, or isolation facilities.  Only a complete idiot or Obama appointee (but I repeat myself) would think otherwise. Even the larger hospitals have cut their budgets in anticipation of Obamacare. The wards are understaffed. If you want a family member cared for in the hospital, you stay with them, and I fear it will only continue to worsen.

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Why Is It That…..

Why is it that, when babies learn to roll over, it seems to be in the wee hours?   It seems to really aggravate Lila to be suddenly on the other surface from where she started such that she must immediately have a hissy fit demanding SOMEBODY to come fix this situation RIGHT NOW. And while you’re fixing it, bring food.

There are actually women busily freezing their eggs instead of incubating them because they want to get ahead in their careers before they reproduce, and plan to extend their childbearing years into their 50s, 60s, and beyond. Bitch, please.

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Hospital Day with Lila and Zoe

Today was Biopsy Day for Mom up in Georgia, so Zoe, Lila and I were shoehorned into the front cab of my ol’ red F150 truck. Old red Ford trucks were not built with car seats for children and infants in mind. We were driving along in the quiet predawn when Zoe suddenly started screaming loudly. It was the sort of screech that I would let out if a giant tarantula started tap dancing on my nose, or a snake decided to take up habitation in my pants leg. I nearly hit the roof of the truck. I jumped, started looking around wildly for cobras or zombies, and yelled “What? WHAT IS IT?”

Zoe sobbed “There’s a FWY in the TRUCK!”

What?  Breathebreathebreathe. Count to 10. Count to 25.  Count down from 100 using serial sevens. Reflect that this is a test used to detect mental impairment and what does it say about my marbles or lack of them that I can’t do serial sevens while driving down the road in the dark while a preschooler is screaming and scaring the baby? (Ha ha, I lied. I can’t do them in the daylight when there’s no noise outside, either. Or maybe I just won’t.) Wonder if this is a reflective question like I learned about in psychology years ago. Remember that I really don’t remember crap about most of my college classes and that they were, for the most part, a waste of money and time that I will never get back again. Get depressed all over again. Ask about the fly.

“Uh, I don’t see any fly! Where is it?”

It’s right THERE, MeeMaw! It’s on the window, and it’s going to get me or baby Lila!”

A small mosquito was buzzing haplessly against the windshield.

“Uh, this is the fly?” I asked, pointing at it.

“YES!” she sobbed.

“Okay, MeeMaw will kill him for you!” I told her, and squished the mosquito on the INSIDE of my windshield. Yeah, that left a mark, but she stopped being totally freaked out about it. On the other hand, if the Supreme Being is in Mosquito form, I’m in deep shit.

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Suckered Again!

Little Lila was chewing her fists, screaming and crying. She had fallen asleep on her own about an hour earlier after ingesting 8 ounces of milk, so I was skeptical about any hunger she might be experiencing.  “No way, kid. If I give you more food, you’re going to urp all over me.”

I carried her around for awhile. She fussed and tried to latch onto my neck under the mistaken impression that there must be nipple around here SOMEWHERE. I detached vampire baby before she could leave a hickey. Not that I was worried about SwampMan getting the wrong idea about how I was spending my day. SwampMan knows that if the Most Attractive Man in the World came by the house and told me that their dream was to satisfy my every desire, I’d say “GREAT! Bounce the baby. The diapers and wipies are over there, the 3-year-old wants apple cider frequently and it’s in the garage refrigerator, and the boys will be home from school in one hour and they’ll want freshly-baked cookies and help with their homework. Take the laundry off the line, fold it, and put it away, then do another load in your spare time. Oh, and the recipe for the pizza dough is on the computer, and that probably should be done before the cookies. I’m going to take a 2-hour nap.” Yeah, baby. That’s my extreme fantasy. Yes, yes, YES!  *sigh*

I started worrying, though, that perhaps I was not correctly remembering when her last feeding was. Maybe it just SEEMED like I’d just fed her. Maybe it was longer. Maybe I should make another bottle just in case.

So, my favorite shirt is now in the laundry covered with baby urp. Never, ever play poker with a baby. Their bluff is very convincing.

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The Local Liquor Store Needs to Deliver

Chocolate cupcake crumbs and white icing as well as pink and yellow Play-Doh (or is that Play-D’OH!) are now crushed happily into the carpet. (Yes, you CAN eat off my carpet. Please do so. Immediately.)

I need to stop in at the local liquor store and explain why they really need to deliver.  Perhaps I’ll bring pictures to bolster my plea. Meanwhile, I’ll explain patiently that tea parties for imaginary friends are best held in the kitchen. Oh, my bad. Apparently the tea party was held in the kitchen, and a certain someone or something unknown tracked the party crumbs into other areas of the house.  Curse you, messy bad people!  Or maybe it was Minnie Mouse.

Now, back to denying that my name is “MeeMaw”, and claiming to be a personage named “Fred”.

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An Exercise Ball Instead of an Office Chair

My computer desk used to have an ordinary office chair. Not a fancy leather-covered office chair with arms (although I have one of those somewhere in an outbuilding) but a regular inexpensive cloth-covered typist chair with back support and hydraulic height adjustment and no arms. I had the leather executive-type chair for awhile, but it was uncomfortable to do a lot of typing in. I suppose at heart I’m just one of those humble little worker bees and not the queen.  *thinking it over* Well. I’m a humble little worker bee unless you forget your proper place, drone. *sting*  THEN I’m the queen.

But I digress.

When my inexpensive chair breathed its last in the middle of the night (nothing ever breaks when replacements are readily available), instead of going out and dusting spiderwebs off my executive-type chair and serving eviction notices to whatever venomous eight leggers dwelled therein and thereon, I just rolled an exercise ball in to take its place. It isn’t like it was getting used for exercise!  And it was temporary, after all, until I replaced it with a new typist chair.

Except I didn’t replace it.  I decided I liked bouncing in place as I read the news. Granted, rolling around the room without actually getting up is a little more challenging than when in the chair, but I can manage somewhat in my uncoordinated fashion. I have new problems with my chair now. My “chair” ball disappears as soon as I get up to get a drink from the fridge, or to stir a pot. “All RIGHT, you little heathens!” I yell at the grandkids. “The ball belongs at the computer. THE COMPUTER! That ball is MY TOY!”

“But MeeeMaw! It’s OUR TURN! You need to share!”

“Let me let you in on a little secret of the universe, kiddies….Sharing is for chumps!  Um, don’t tell Mommy I said that.”   But I have one or more grandchildren draped across the ball as soon as I vacate it, illustrating another secret of the universe. Superior numbers and determination can eventually wear down superior strength.

Daughter, of course, thought I’d completely lost whatever marbles I’d ever possessed. “Seriously, you actually sit on that thing at the computer?” she asked. “Yep! And it’s the best thing ever for bouncing fussy babies!” She was skeptical, but after trying it for a week, she was won over.

“I really missed that ball when I took the kids home this weekend. I was trying to bounce the baby in the rocking chair. It didn’t work.”

So, now I’m posting from my exercise ball. My little #3 granddaughter is gnawing happily on her toys from her boppy chair next to me. I can offer new chewy toys with one hand while typing with the other.  Maybe I need to rig up a cane pole, a piece of elastic, and a carabiner to jiggle toys overhead. Hmmm.

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