Momma in da house

"If they call it snowbird season, why can't we shoot them?", is the question asked by locals each and every year just after the holidays wrap up and the blue hairs fly south for the winter. Among those blue hairs is the one and only, well my one and only, Momma, in town for 6 weeks. Thus far momma has been on the island for 10 days, and in that time I've began to learn a few things about the snowbirds, have been taking some "field notes" (aka typing stupid, confusing shit momma does/says into the notepad of my phone). Come along with me on this learning journey.

The snowbird, also known as the blue hair, is a particular sect of the human race native to the Midwest. It is primarily a carnivorous species, and thrives on early bird menus or cafeterias at assisted living facilities. When left to prepare its own meals it will instead eat whatever sweets are in its sights, such as cake for dinner. It has few natural predators due to its endearing immobility, and generous offerings of hard candies.

The snowbird varies in size, but is distinct in it's markings. Their exterior is leathery and dark in color and glistens from its ceaseless application of Australian Gold Dark Tanning Oil Accelerator. It seems snowbirds live in seasonal rentals or mooch off their children. They are notoriously habitual and seem to keep a routine consisting of the following: breakfast, cocktail, nap, tan, nap, cocktail, watching their idol and bachelor, and finally passing out. Snowbirds do not like to be awakened from their slumber and will either lash out or talk nonsense when it occurs.

Additionally, they appear to have poor eyesight without something they call "their readers". Their memory too seems to be lacking. I believe for this reason they do not like their surroundings changed. I noted this particular trait as Momma tripped over a newly acquired fire pit twice within a week long period. When the snowbird injures itself from a fall they vocalize through plaintive whines. They also prefer to have trips and falls blamed on their age and arthritis as opposed to their day drinking. General knowledge of first aid also seems to suffer as the snowbird ages, as they appear to not understand that hand sanitizer should not be used to clean an open, bleeding wound. For these and many more reasons it's believed their lifespan in the wild would be shorter than in captivity. We're only 10 days in folks, stay tuned for more momma updates and observations about snowbirds.

Definitely just buying a ticket home next year

Skype is a wonderful invention if you enjoy not drinking by yourself on a Friday night. That is all it is good for.

So, this year I once again skyped with my family on Christmas morning (which to them is 1:40pm). Momma now has learned that she need not put her mouth directly on the microphone to speak to me, but she still has not grasped the concept of using your normal or "inside" voice. This shouldn't surprise me as her normal voice is louder than most, but she borders on yelling with the skype on. Once again I got taken on a walking tour of my childhood home, which I still don't understand as I spent the first 25 years of my life there and my sister once again gave my dad a gift with her face on it. One year it was stamps, this year it was M and M's. What can I say, it was Christmas as 'normal'....which is never quite normal.

I hope you and yours had as wonderful and merry Christmas as I did.

Bleck

My BMF and I were at dinner the other night and we were talking about families on television who were excited to spend the holidays together. I suggested they didn't exist in real life, complete with a reference to a conversation with Momma about her preparing to head off to the big family thanksgiving get-together and how I swear I heard a gun cock in the background. Now in reality that sound was more likely that of a beverage being cracked open, which brings me to the topic at hand. Tis the season....for cocktails.

Cookies and milk get left for Santa, White Russians for Momma. Getting liquored up goes hand in hand with the holidays, because if you can't get that warm fuzzy feeling from spending time with your loved ones, maybe a bit of nog with a splash or ten of rum can do it. Rum...I love rum. You know what I don't love...vodka. I hate vodka. When I drink it, I wake up and literally fell as if my skin is too small for my body. You know that scene in Men in Black where the alien is wearing the Edgar suit, yeah...its like that.

I feel like vodka is what they pour in people's eyes to make them talk. Yet, every shot that tastes good has vodka in it. Explain that to me? The only possible answer is, life isn't fair- A sentiment I heard from my parents on numerous childhood occasions. Vodka is unlike other alcohols. Take jager for example, it tastes like black liquorice. Did you ever notice what's left in the bottom of a jar of jelly beans? The black liquorice ones...cause they taste like shit. So, when you take a shot of jager your body knows it has ingested poison, because your taste buds tell your brain that you have just drank something that tastes like ass. Vodka is evil in that way, it tastes of nothing, thus takes on the characteristics of what it is mixed with. And shot ingredients taste like candy....thus vodka tastes like candy...and all the sudden I wake up feeling like I'm wearing a dry clean only A suit that had been inadvertently tossed into a dryer filled with rocks.

Happy Holidays, be sure to mind your P's and Q's

Didn't see a single flea for sale

Ah the interweb...I love it, I really, really do. It seemed for the longest time it was peopleofwalmart.com that commanded my attention. I think it reminded me of 'home', good ol Southern Indiana. Somewhere along the way I forgot about the the toothless wonders that so often brought me tooth-filled smiles and textsfromlastnight.com became the mistress that consumed hours of my time, especially on Mondays when the wonderful little website promised tales of complete strangers hijinks from the weekend. I haven't quite let go of my youth, and the ability to be entertained by life's more immature things, as I still sneak over to tfln now and again but I think my internet viewing might actually be growing with me as not one week ago I found http://pinterest.com. I'm in love, with DIY. This shouldn't come as a shock. Remember the clock and the bookcase, but this website essentially puts the best of the web DIY all in one place. Actually it puts the best of everything all in one place, and its all photos, none of that cumbersome reading stuff to deal with. Now, I find a picture I think is pretty and I'm one click away from the website it came from and hopefully instructions on how to make it myself!

And...it's exclusive. I'm not a fan of exclusive when it comes to clubs, be that unsa-unsa or country, but when it comes to websites I have to admit...I want in. Like facebook when the only way you could have it was if your college was amongst their list; something about that draws me in. Basically you ask for a membership and then a week or so later they let you know if you're in or not and you start "pinning" your favorite things of the interweb up for others to explore. I'm awaiting my invite but in the interim I've been perusing other people's pin boards and after only a couple hours I was in possession of a list of ideas and the necessary supplies to create!

This weekend it was off to the flea market with Momma in tow to find all my supplies to make my projects come to life. I had high hopes for our trip, and was willing to battle temps in the high 80's to make my DIY dreams come true. What I didn't factor in was that the flea markets here really, really cater to old people. If any of my projects had required 10 pairs of socks for a dollar, readers or genuine leather fanny packs I would have been in heaven. Sadly, they did not. Momma was in heaven, came home with two new pairs of readers (for the low low price of $8 I might add) and said if she lived here she would come to the flea market every day it was open.

I don't want to get old.

“Almost” Only Counts in Horseshoes and Hand Grenades…and Broken Hips

I can only hope that when I’m just a few days shy of my 62nd birthday that I will be as hilarious, fun, and willing to try new things as my Momma.

Last week, I had the brilliant idea to pull No-Longer-Easy-E’s rollerblades out of the back of the garage and to strap them onto the feet of my 61 year old mother. I won’t lie; she put up a bit of resistance at first, but quickly realized that a broken hip would secure her a much longer stay in sunny Florida; as she was slated to leave on a jet plane back to the blistery north the following day.

As I climbed past the random assortment of cob web covered sporting goods we have sitting in our garage, I nearly knocked over momma’s beach bicycle which I have been meaning to put training wheels on. My pause to stabilize the bike should have provided enough time to think back to her describing the not one, but two separate wrecks she has had on it….and in turn to realize her lack of stability on a bicycle might just transfer to rollerblades. Nay. I continued my progression to the back of our cluttered garage and within ten minutes I was attempting haphazardly to pull her out of her beach chair and get her up on 8 wheels.

I don't know that she ever actually rollerbladed that day, it was more like a guided tour of my driveway on wheels; pushing and sometimes pulling interrupted by noises like "whoooooo!", intermittent cursing, and flailing arms reminiscent of a someone who doesn't know how to swim getting tossed in the deep end.

In the end there was only one close call. After which I was yelled at for pinching the back of her arm when deep down we both know she should have been thanking me for saving her from a broken hip and fractured skull. But hey, who am I to complain, the next day she was off to the airport with both femurs moving just how they should be in perfectly sound hips.

A's Yearbook

I'm off to cold-lanta tomorrow to visit with My BFF, The Future Mrs. My BFF/Rogue-Hand, and The Gray Lining so I thought I would leave you with a post that is sure to provide days of entertainment until I return from the long MLK holiday weekend. Until Tuesday, happy MLK day and enjoy this post about one of my most favorite people in the world. P.S. My Momma is cooler than your Momma %-)


In an effort to help you get to know the wonderful individuals that are daily players in my life and in this blog, I thought I would introduce you to them ‘yearbook’ style.

Most Hours Slept in Class:
Momma

After retiring from life as an elementary school teacher she contemplated firefighting but decided that would interrupt her intense napping and cocktail schedule.

Momma, as her name suggests, is my mom. I am what I am, good and bad, largely thanks to her (complaints can be sent directly to Momma). She is a regular visitor to FMB and has recently informed me that she will be staying an additional 2 weeks each time she visits. Her last visit lasted one and a half months, so this trip will be two months. By my calculations (you may want to check with Ten Key Ninja or Patty-Cakes for accuracy on this) she will be living here full time in about 4 and half years. Hopefully full incontinence or insanity won’t be an issue for about 15 years.

Momma and The Kissy Faced Booty Shaker....Momma might actually be asleep here...its hard to tell.

You’ve already had a small intro to momma so I’ll keep this brief. This woman is sassy, classy, and still kickin' assy after 61 years. Momma is known not only for her wildly outrageous clothing and foul mouth but also for the ability to sleep walk, talk, drink and smoke. That’s correct, I said sleep smoke. For that, Momma I award you “Most Hours Slept in Class”. Congrats!

Momma is taking the interweb by storm...

I believe we can all thank Patty Cakes for this after his suggestion to Momma that she join facebook. She has already been seen facebook chatting the Kissy Faced Booty Shaker, No-Longer-Easy-E and the Ten Key Ninja. Moreover, Momma has 140 friends, most of which she "did not friend request" because "I guess I'm just popular and people want to be friends with me". (these are direct quotes)

Honestly, I only have 98 friends on facebook. I don't know how many you have but if you happen to interact via the interweb with Momma you can bet she will rub it in that she has more friends than you do. Maybe she has more friends because she keeps updating her status to tell the world what her bra color is that day.

Anyway, watch out world for you may get a friend request from this woman to your inbox....or maybe you might want to friend request her.

I like her hair…I wonder if the carpet matches her pubes

I am peter pan, I never want to grow up but lately the battle is getting harder. If there was some type of potion that I could drink and stay 25 forever I would chug that shit like I was thirteen and someone handled me a bottle of boones farm. That being said, I have been noticing that with age comes a lot of new things…

Let’s talk about the hair. Unlike the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, I do not derive my power from real or fictional dinosaurs, nor do I wear a color-coded battle suit made of spandex and a helmet (though a helmet would have proved useful on many occasions when intoxicated)… I derive my power from my hair. My hair doesn’t provide superhuman strength, or ability in hand-to-hand combat; but I often call on Power of Awesome Hair! in social situations.

You see, about a year and a half ago I cut off nearly 15 inches of blond hair. The result of that cut was the glory that is bestowed upon the eyes of those who interact with me each day. Since the cut, and going back to my natural darker hair color I have noticed quite a few gray hairs coming in. They are patchy at best and I keep them around because they make me look distinguished (and I secretly believe the old wives tale that if you pull one out that two will come back in its place). I’m sure genetics play a factor in the graying of my hair and I do look exactly like my Momma but I can’t seem to get a definitive answer from her on when she actually went gray. I believe two factors contribute to her inability to be able to answer this simple question. 1) She made the decision to start coloring her hair blond at the age of 19 and continued to dye it until about 6 years ago. So, what actual color was under that dye at age 30, 40, or 50 is a question that no one can answer. 2) Momma drinks.

I’m figuring I have about 5 to 7 years to still be able to call on Power of Awesome Hair! before I have to say goodbye to a piece of me that makes me more confident than I’ve ever been. But hey, at least I won’t get caught checking myself out in any and every reflective surface I pass by anymore. There’s always a silver lining ;)

Let’s just hope the silver lining isn’t around my head too soon.

Photo from Halloween preparation...this year I'm going as a really old version of myself (aka: Momma)

Momma and the misuse of quotations marks

Momma:
An accomplished dancer, teacher, smartass, and jaguar (a.k.a.old ass cougar) who is known for her “eccentric” attire, joy for life (as well as cocktails and parties), and saying exactly---and I do mean exactly--- what is on her mind. She is a recently retired 5th grade teacher (after 30 years), a sleepwalker, and many a gay has described her quite simply as “fabulous”.

Quotation Marks:
The primary function of quotation marks is to set off and represent exact language (either spoken or written) that has come from somebody else.


Momma and Quotation Marks:
As a 5th grade teacher, one who spend 30 years molding the minds of our youth during a significantly important developmental stage in their life, you would think she would have a good grasp of the proper use of quotation marks. Nay.

The following is an excerpt from a card I received from Momma.

In this card she thanks me for being a wonderful “big sister” to The Gray Lining. She then later tells me I am a amazing daughter and that she is “proud” of me.

Had this note been written to a friend of The Gray Lining’s who was older but they were very close saying “big sister” would have been a proper use of quotation marks, however….I am in fact The Gray Lining’s older sister. So can I assume that she is actually proud of me and not “proud” of me?

In the end, momma defended her improper use of “” by saying they give a sentence flair.

“Nice” save Momma.