Thanksgiving Day. Or, Deer Hunting

28 Nov 2011 1 Comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family, I'm Going Somewhere, Uncategorized Tags:

Did everyone have a nice Thanksgiving holiday?  Is everyone still stuffed?  Is anyone contemplating learning how to sew so that you can move your buttons on your pants slightly further apart so that you no longer cut yourself in two at the waist?  Yeah, me too. 

We always have a lot of food and a lot of family on this holiday. This year we got Daddy-O and JiJi, pumpkin cheesecake, marshmallow salad and other assorted casseroles.  Ooh, and homemade cinnamon rolls.  It was awesome.  My job was to bring Brussels sprouts and the ham.  Because my job was to bring the Brussels sprouts, I got a note from my niece, Pooh.  It read:   

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Dear Aunt Jimmie –  

I hope you have a nice Thanksgiving.

Love, 

Pooh.

P.S.  Please don’t bring the brussel sprouts. 

I love you. 

I also got a text from Martie that said, Our meal is going to be so completely yellow, except for the Brussels sprouts.  I’m so country. 

Oh, the stuff memories are made of . . .

I might have mentioned once that all our winter holidays include not only eating until vital organs burst but also killing large animals like deer and squirrels.  And again, oh the stuff memories are made of . . . . 

Thanksgiving Memory # 1, when Jimmie, Martie, Bear, and Boo were still little

“Kids, Madre and I are going hunting.  We won’t eat until we get back.  Find something to amuse yourselves while we are gone.”  And then we sat around and stared at each other for hours until the parents got home.  Gah, it was boring and the way we amused ourselves back then was to hurt each other.  Ah, good times.   

Thanksgiving Memory # 2, when Bear and Boo were older and more responsible and had guns of their own 

“Girls, Madre and your brothers and I are going hunting. We won’t eat until we get back.  Don’t burn down the house while we are gone.”  Ha ha!  Martie and I had learned a trick from a previous winter holiday!  We stayed in our pajamas and ate giant Hershey’s kisses and listened to Michael Jackson’s Thriller album all day long.  Not boring! 

Thanksgiving Memory # 3, # 4, # 5 and also Christmas Memory # 1, # 2, and # 3 ad infinitum, when Jimmie and Martie were old enough to cook an entire meal unsupervised.

“Girls, we can’t have the Thanksgiving meal until we get back from hunting.  See you this afternoon.  Happy cooking.  Ingredients are in the fridge.”  (Simply exchange “can’t have the Thanksgiving meal” with any phrase you choose pertaining to fun stuff kids want to do like “open any Christmas presents” or “see what Santa brought” and viola – another memory!)   

Deer Hunting Memory, # 1, when Coach got involved with the family.

Says Coach, “I spent all this time getting ready to go hunting.  I was up long before dawn, dressed from head to toe in camouflage, got in the truck and drove over to Poppa’s house, situated myself in the tree stand so as to maximize comfort and alertness, and then waited and waited and waited for hours and hours and hours.  Poppa walked out his back door, strolled to the tree stand, sat down, just got comfortable, and then BLAM!  Five minutes later, he killed a deer.”  I think Coach cried a little when he told this story. 

Deer Hunting Memory # 2, Phranke’s story

Says Phranke, “I remember the day Daddy walked out onto the front porch in his orange towel skirt and pleather slippers and shot a twelve point buck in the front yard.”  I think Coach cried a little when he heard this story. 

Thanksgiving Memory #  . . .  Wait, I’m lost on the numbers.  I have no idea.  BUT!  It is another recurring memory which Martie and I lament every year.

“Kids, on the menu for Thanksgiving this year is dressing, corn casserole, green beans, cranberry sauce, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes and a nice venison roast.”  (Here you simply exchange “nice venison roast” with “nice bear butt roast” or “nice lamb roast” or some other such nonsense to make a new memory.  Do you see how turkey is never on the menu?  Yeah, me too.)  Can’t we just have a turkey like the rest of America, just once?  Martie and I got smart and put our foots down and now we have turkey every year.  Also, a nice leg of lamb.   

Finally, despite the dressing in camouflage from head to toe, driving to a deer stand, setting up shop to maximize comfort and alertness and waiting and waiting and waiting for hours and hours and hours, Coach and Daddy-O made no new memories that involved actually killing a large animal like a deer or squirrel, unfortunately.  However, I made new memories this year.  Phranke and I drove to our home town together, a town that is this ( ) big.  Along the way, we took pictures of things that epitomize the feeling of our town that is this ( ) big.

For your viewing pleasure:

 

Moo?

 

Baa?

 

I have no idea what a guinea says.

 

My makeover, courtesy of Tigger

Happy Birthday, Daddy-O!

08 Nov 2011 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus

Daddy-O’s birthday is today.  You know how I like to share stories about people on their birthdays. Of course I couldn’t let Daddy-O down! 

Once upon a time, Martie and I lived with Daddy-O and JiJi for a little while.  Daddy-O has spent most of his life around girls and all three of his sons turned out to be daughters and it should be noted that the years Martie and I lived with Daddy-O were the years right on the cusp of us becoming women.  Martie and I got hormones, then JiJi got preggo with The Squirt and then JiJi had The Squirt, so you can imagine the daily and volatile mood swings he suffered from.  For two years.  What a man. 

I lived with them in what I like to call my “experimental phase” and by that I mean, I discovered makeup and hair goo.  (Get your mind out of the gutters, pervs. This here post is about my Daddy-O.)  Daddy-O and JiJi let me experiment as much as I pleased which, you know, looking back doesn’t embarrass me at all and no one is allowed to visit them and look through those old photo albums. I would have rainbow eyelids one day and powdery blue shimmer from eyebrow to eyelash on another.  I was a big fan of neon-colored mascara and wearing Daddy’s too-big sweaters.  I loved every color of nail polish and chewed grape bubble gum all day, every day.  It was the year I fell in love with George Michael and learned that plastering my walls with his face made very nice wall paper.  Oh, my poor Daddy.

It was also the year that my formerly waist-length hair was cut into a normal teenager haircut for which I would take a can of hair spray, hold out my hair to the side, squirt it down with a very liberal hand and then dry the hairspray with the hair dryer, effectively giving myself shellacked wings.  I proudly traveled to school each and every day with hair like that.  BUT! Right before that hair happened, I thought I would experiment with a round brush on a Sunday morning and see how far I could roll my waist-length hair onto that brush. 

For those of you not in the know, round hair brushes look like this:

 

And waist-length hair looks like this:

 

Turns out rolling your hair onto the brush from the waist to the forehead is super easy.  Unrolling it even an inch, however, is nearly impossible.  I looked like Sally from Peanuts with a giant wad of hair stuck in a puffball that adorned my forehead.  And my poor, sweet Daddy-O found me hiding behind my bedroom door trying desperately to get that brush out of my hair before we had to leave for church.  If he rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, I do not recall, but I do remember him spending hours getting that brush out of my hair.  His only comment:  “Have you ever had your hair rat-combed before?  Because now you have . . .”

Happy Birthday, Daddy-O!  I love you!

Love, Sally (aka, your favorite oldest daughter)

A Memory Of Madre

23 Oct 2011 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family Tags:

Madre is a special creature.  I can guarantee that Martie and I are the only ones who have one like her.  Today is her birthday and she’s young.  I wanted to send a shout out her way and share a special memory with you about her. 

Once when we were kids, not quite old enough to drive but definitely old enough to want to hang out in a mall, Madre drove us to the nearest shopping plaza.  We did our business, buying giant hoop earrings in every available neon color and the coordinating socks, slouching through the mall like pre-teens do, trying to look cool and hip and whatever.  After much time had passed, Madre was ready to go.  She was past ready actually.  And we were being recalcitrant brats, whining and still shopping and not leaving. 

You know what Madre did?  She went to the candy kiosk in the middle of the mall, bought some gummy worms and stuck one up her nose.  

Oh, holy mercy, we could not get out of there fast enough.  She’s crafty, that one.

Happy Birthday, to the woman who loves me more than anyone else in this world.  I love you, Mom. 

The Logic Of A Six-Year-Old

12 Sep 2011 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family

Tigger, my niece, is six.  Last week she lost her first tooth.  Her adult teeth were coming in already and she’s been telling me for weeks that her baby teeth are loose. Then she would demonstrate by wiggling her finger over her teeth a whole lot, yet the teeth never moved.  She wiggled at it and worried the mess out of it to no avail.  Finally, though, the tooth got loose and she was ecstatic. 

So last week she was ready for it to come out. She was insistent.  Rumor has it one of her friends got ten bucks for her tooth so I imagine this had a lot to do with it.  (BTW, Tooth Fairy – screw you.  I remember getting quarters for my teeth.)  She insisted so much that Martie grabbed a tissue and gave that tooth a twist and sure enough, it popped right out. 

I called Tigger the next day to see how much the Tooth Fairy left her.

Jimmie:  Hey, baby, did the Tooth Fairy come? 

Tigger:  Yes!  She left me a five dollar bee-yul!

Jimmie:  Wow, five dollars, huh?  That’s nice. 

Tigger:  Uh-huh.  It smells life barf.  It’s magic.

Jimmie:  I’m sorry, what smells like barf? 

Tigger:  The five dollar bee-yul.  Like barf.  That means it must be magic.  I bet I can buy ten dollars worth of stuff with it.

I wish I had that kind of optimism.  I don’t know about you, but stuff that smells like barf has never been magic in my book. 

Well, That Was Awkward

31 Aug 2011 6 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Pets, This Will Probably Get Me In Trouble Tags:

My Potential Roomate has now become Roomate, at least for the month of September.  I thought you’d like to know.  Mini has adjusted well to living with me and my felines.  She has doggie toys in every room of the house and feels secure in coming to my room for a middle of the night snuggle.  The felines have adjusted well to two added beings.  Murphy ignores that quivery dog while he stretches out like a mini sultan on my bed and Seamus still just looks at her with disinterested interest.  Both kitties hit Roomate up for food when he comes home, all meowing and fluttering their eyelashes.  We are going to have the fattest animals on the planet what with their begging and Mini snatching every single crumb that falls onto the floor.  Last night she darted under my feet to catch a hunk of shallot in midair.  Only after she chomped on it one good time did she realize that shallots are kind of gross for dogs and abandon it in a slobbery mess for me to discard.

Me, I like Roomate because now I can hand out “Boy Jobs” and keep the “Girl Jobs”.  He takes out the trash and listens to my hot water heater when it makes funky noises.  I dictate how the pantry is to be organized, lie around on the couch reading books, and hang my undies in the laundry room.  In short, we get along fabulously. 

Last week, Roomate asked me if I could help with a favor.  He prefaced it by saying it was an odd request which of course made me immediately say yes.  I’m a big fan of saying yes before I even know what I’m agreeing to which has more often than not gotten me into trouble.  But Roomate so faithfully takes out the trash without being asked so I trust him.  Trust is always based on faithful garbage carrying.

“Will you measure me for a mountain bike?” he asks.  “Sure”, I say, figuring I’ll just whip out a yardstick when I get home, mark his height with a pencil against the wall, and be done with it.  Not odd at all. 

Then he sends a link to a video on how to properly measure one for a mountain bike.  Y’all, this is a process, a lengthy one.  Still, it’s fine.  I was rocking along looking at pictures and diagrams of how to measure when I run across this one. 

Oh my.  It appears that I have found the odd.   

Before you get your panties all in a twist, thinking that I’m going to be all up in a stranger’s business with a measuring tape, you should know that Roomate is my cousin.  However, now that I have typed that in black and white, I’m not sure if that makes the measuring better or worse. 

Anyway, last Wednesday night Roomate trotted around the house in his bike shorts (really? who invented those?) and I measured (nearly) every measurable part of his body.  I figure he’s already seen my underwear that lives in the laundry room and we share a washer and dryer so it can’t get any worse than that. It is obvious that he trusts me to bandy about a measuring stick while he holds a level in his nether parts.  We spent a lot of time with that measuring tape and the level, making notes in a notebook and figuring numbers.  Turns out one of his arms is longer than the other and that I am quite the expert with a measuring tape.   It also turns out that you can only awkwardly giggle for so long before you just get tired of being awkward and stop with the giggling already and just get the job done.   

His mountain bike arrived yesterday.  We’ll see how well I did.

For those of you who want to ask if I am for hire with the measuring, the answer is no. As if . . . I reserve that sort of thing for men who are related to me and who take out the trash.  A girl has to have standards. 

This Weekend, I Went Drag

19 Jul 2011 3 Comments

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Outings Tags: ,

Remember when I told you that I missed my family?  And how I said I would nag the mess out of them until we all got together?  Well, mission accomplished!   

On Saturday a whole pile of us got together to hang out, eat, ride in canoes, eat, drink beers and wine, eat, shoot firecrackers, eat, listen to Martie sing, eat, and visit at Madre’s house.  A good time was had by all. 

On Saturday night, some of us wanted to continue the fun by going out on the town.  You should remember that I grew up in a small town with other small towns around it.  I told you about it.  It’s where people hunt on every major winter holiday.  It’s where my brothers tried to teach me how to gig frogs.  It’s where I raised chickens when I was in the fourth grade.  Obviously, I needed to look my best. 

I was all dolled up in my swirly-skirted sundress, my gold wedge sandals with the giant flower at the toe, gold glittery eyeliner and some smell pretty.  I was glamorous and girlie and my hair did something I wanted it to do despite the humidity and the heat.  Then Madre and I hauled ourselves up into my cousin Axle’s truck because he offered to drive.  This was a massive truck and even Madre, at 6’2”, had difficulty getting in it.  I should have known that the good times, they were a’comin. 

Axle, his wife Daisy, Madre and I rumbled off in Axle’s man-truck through our small town, through Amish country where we saw the young men getting ready to go out on dates with their hats and pipes and buggies, through the county until we got to the next small town.  We turned left by the tee pee and left in front of the Amish bread store, paid ten dollars each, met other assorted family members and prepared to see the show of our lives. 

I pranced in wearing my big old shoes and all my glitter, had a seat and listened to the opening prayer.  I do not exaggerate here. 

Heavenly Father, we’d like to thank You for Drag Racing. 

We’d like to thank You for the sport of Drag Racing.

We’d like to thank You for Sportsmanship.  

We thank You for the Brotherhood of Street Racers.

Thank You for saving us from our sins. 

Amen.   

We watched this show for hours.  We breathed smoke and nitrous oxide.  Brother Bear and his family loved every minute of it.  Axle and Daisy enjoyed it immensely.  If it weren’t for Axle, most of us would have been clueless about the majority of the cars we saw.  That boy knows every car ever made, and can tell you the make, model and year if he just gets a glimpse of the headlight.  Coach and Pooh and Tigger had been to this show before and knew what to expect. Tigger wore giant earmuffs, Pooh had ear plugs, and Coach bought snacks.  And Martie . . . .  Wow. Martie LIVED for this show.  Every car that reared up off the ground at take off had her in raptures.  Every blast of nitrous that shot out from the car gave her goose bumps.  Every rumble of every engine made her sigh.  And every car there was her dream car.  Coach has his work cut out for him if he’s planning on buying her the Best. Anniversary. Present. Ever.   

We finally left, far dirtier than when we arrived.  My hair was limp and scraggly.  My skirt no longer swirled.  My pedicure was covered in dust and possibly a little grease.  We rumbled off towards home in Axle’s man-truck.  We turned right by the Amish bread store and right by the tee pee and hit the ruts left from the Amish buggies in the road.  We all arrived home safely.

Later, I prayed my own prayer.   

Heavenly Father, thank You for my family. 

Thank You for the safe passages in all of our travels. 

Thank You for the sharp razor that I can use to shave off this beard I grew from the testosterone overload I got at the Drag Races.

Thank You for the Old Spice I found in Poppa’s bathroom.  For some reason, I really felt like smelling like Man today. 

Thank You for saving me from my sins.

Amen. 

(Special thanks to Coach for the title of this here post.) 

 

Fatherly Advice, From the Best Fathers I Know

18 Jun 2011 1 Comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Imparting Wisdom Tags:

The best advice I got from my Daddy-O:  Go to bed.  Your house will not burn down. 

I’d only been married for a few short months when I had to call my Daddy-O for some advice.  It was a middle of the night, freak-out panicked call, full of hysteria and rapid heart beats and excessive crying.  I’m certain I woke him out of a dead sleep but I didn’t care.  And as the best Daddy-O ever, neither did he.

Right after I got married, my husband and I bought a Spanish-style house that was built in the 1930s and as such, all of the vents and electric sockets were built into the floor.   We got a couple of cats to add to the family. Because my husband was a sucker for cats in general, we also provided foster care to some other cats who were in between owners.  Sometimes foster kitties have difficulty adjusting to new environments with other established kitties, and not surprisingly, we had one of those challenged foster kitties.  Once he came out of hiding from behind the shower curtain, he peed everywhere, a lot.    

A particularly memorable urination is the focus of this story.  Challenged Kitty was mad about something and stalked into our bedroom, poised right over one of the electric sockets on the floor and let a stream go.  In retaliation, the socket shot out a spark the size of a roman candle and zapped that kitty on the butt.  Oh, the howling!  Oh, the hysteria! Served him right.  But I was left with the smell of burned cat butt, scorched electric socket and panic.  My husband worked third shift and I was alone in a house I was certain would burn to the ground because of faulty electric wiring due to cat pee.  I called the husband, he came home and checked it out, reassured me, and went back to work.

The only problem?  I wanted my Daddy-O.  I wanted him to tell me it was fine.  No other man would do.  So I called him in the middle of the night in a panic to babble incoherently about omigodcatpeedbigsparkburnedi’mgonnalosemyhouse – waaaaaaiiiilllllllll! And Daddy-O was very calm.  He said, “Go to bed.  Your house will not burn down. I love you.”  With that, I was appeased and slept just fine.   

That’s what daddies do. They calm their daughters no matter how old they are.  And just because Daddy-O says it is so, Jimmie knows that everything will be okay.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy-O.  I love you.

  

The best advice I got from Poppa:  It is your born Christian duty to lie to nosy people.

I don’t think that advice needs any explanation, do you?  

One of my favorite things about Poppa is the way he talks to us.  He calls us “love” and that endearment is usually followed by a gentle hand to the cheek.  It is one of the sweetest gestures in the world and I’m happy to report that he taught his sons the same endearment.  His boys, my brothers, treat their wives and children the same way that Poppa treats us – with so much love and respect.  I cannot imagine my life without that man.    

Happy Father’s Day, Poppa. I love you.   

 

The best advice I got from Coach:  I’m here for you too.  Please call me if you need me.   

I’m going to tell you that for the most part, I am a pretty level-headed person.  I’m calm in the face of panic and usually handle big catastrophes pretty well.  One exception would be when cats pee into electric sockets.   

Another exception is a bad break up.  I had one and it was horrible.  I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.  I called Martie daily to cry and to yell.  She was perfect; she knew exactly what to say every time.  The surprise was Coach, though.  I never really thought about his reaction but I guess I expected him to react like a lot of men do:  eye-rolling, big sighing, rolling hands to get you to hurry up to the end of the story.  Coach never did any of that.  Not once.  Instead, he waited a couple of weeks to let the emotions level off and then called me to say, “I know this is hard.  I’m sorry.  I’m here for you too.  Please call me if you need me.” 

It was so comforting, so nice.  I’m certain it made me cry but in that case, it was the good kind.  I know that Pooh and Tigger are in good hands.  They have a daddy that will not do the eye roll and the big sighing but will hug them and tell them he is there and that it will all be okay.   

Happy Father’s Day, Coach. I love you. 

Knowing that I will forget some, I want to say Happy Father’s Day to all of the other daddies I know:  Vaughan, Boo, Adam, Will T., Keith, Marris, Brad, Damon, Stefan, Will B., Stan, Zeb, Casey, Aaron, Brian.  I send big puffy hearts to you all and wish you complete control of the remote for the day. 

Y’all, I Thought I’d Never Get This One Posted!

14 Jun 2011 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Friends, Outings Tags:

“Happy Birthday” serenade from our Chairman of the Board as Donald Duck

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“Happy Birthday” serenade from Martie as Edith Bunker 

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“Happy Birthday” serenade from the teenage Pizza Delivery Guy as the teenage Pizza Delivery Guy, just because I asked

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“You Say it’s Your Birthday” serenade from Coach as The Beatles

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♥ ♥ ♥

(before birthday party and because pedicures tickle)

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 (at birthday party, because we are all 12-year old boys)

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(and again, 12-year old boys . . . )

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 Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa!

 

 ♥ ♥ ♥

(Wolverine-fascination)

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New co-worker who is just so dang pretty, especially because he cut in some Wolverine-esque sideburns just for me, for my birthday, because of Wolverine-fascination

(I will include the picture I took of him in an update if he allows me too, but he’s out of town and I never include that stuff without asking permission first.  UPDATE: Got it!)

(and there’s a small story about him below)

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Happiest girl in the world

(probably because of hormone overload)

 

♥ ♥ ♥

 

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(Ugh. But, Yum!) 

Yes, all of those cakes were made for me.  Don’t forget I had pineapple cupcakes too. 

Yes, I went to the gym yesterday morning.  At 5:00.  Yes, I did Body Pump which included something called Frogs which made me want to DIE.  Yes, I did Spin after that for 45 minutes.  Yes, we did climbs and sprints which made me want to DIE.  Yes, my butt hurts.  Also, yes, I ran three miles today (on the treadmill, which I hate).  And yes, thank you, I do feel amazing. And also, yes thanks, I know that my clothes are almost too tight because all of that birthday cake and wine and celebration.  

Thank you for noticing.   It was worth every bit of it. 

Yes, I did take all of that cake to work.  I know one of them looks a bit off but it fell over on the drive to work.  It still tasted great.  I sent out an email letting co-workers know that I had three kinds of cake on my desk and to please come help themselves. 

It sounded like a herd of water buffalo had invaded the office what with all of the thundering down the hall.  I’m willing to bet I really was everyone’s favorite yesterday.  Except for this guy . . . the pretty co-worker sent this in reply to my email:   Soooo dirty. You know that I am out of town. Now I just have to sit here and wonder how tasty your cakes are and I picture each delicious slice disappearing like the count down to Armageddon, I am now left with the feeling of hopelessness. Thank you, I’ll remember that.  I have a feeling that like Quan, he belongs to us.  We should take him to the Mongolian BBQ place to find out for sure.

Cake = gone. 

Which means:

Clothes = still fit (but barely).

Whew. 

  

Aging: A Timeline

09 Jun 2011 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Friends, In Which I Throw Myself Under The Bus Tags:

Birth:  I was a girl.  My parents were thrilled.  Because they were big fans of horse stuff, my birth announcement read:  “It’s a Filly!” and all of my vitals were listed in horse speak. 

Age 20 months:  Martie was born and the entire scale of my world changed.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.  I was now Big Sister.  She was now Little Sister.  And the friendship began. 

Age 5:  Madre began explaining to Martie and me about the birds and the bees.  She did this with diagrams.  We were grossed out.

Age 8:  Madre had explained about the birds and the bees so much that it was old news.  Still grossed out.

Age 10:  Madre got remarried and I got two brothers.  Ew.

Age 13:  The Squirt was born and the entire scale of my world changed, again.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.

Age 15:  I got my first car, a 1969 Karmann Ghia convertible.  It had no radio, a top that had been slashed, a dashboard that was crumbling, and the original paint job which had faded from red to an odd pink color.  I loved that car.

Age 16:  My first kiss.  I was pounced upon by a boy that I had a crush on FOREVER.  And it was . . . . kind of gross.  I remember thinking to myself, “I waited all that time for this?”  As teenagers, Phranke and I dissected the entire event to pieces and I still think it was kind of gross. 

Age 16, also:  I failed my driving test.  The driving part.  Ridiculing ensued.

Age 17:  I passed my driving test.  With flying colors.

Age 17, also:  Martie and I had our most memorable fight, ever.  We were arguing in front of our friends when I thought it would be a grand idea to spit my gum in her face.  In retaliation, she grabbed my purse, stuck it under the tire of her VW Bug and ran over it a couple of times, thus solidifying our best friend status.  We have no idea what we were fighting about. 

Age 18:  I headed off to college. 

Age 19:  I went to Europe.  I fell in love with Michelangelo’s David. 

Age 20:  My 20th birthday happened in Chamonix.  I cried because I was no longer a teenager.  I also made out with an Italian guy named Luigi.  It was not gross.    

Age 21:  I graduated from college.  I said good-bye to some of the best friends I have ever known.  We promised to stay in touch.  We have.

Age 22:  I got a tattoo.

Age 22 and a half:  I regretted that tattoo.

Age 23:  I moved to Alabama.  Why?! Why!

Age 24:  I became a Christian. (Maybe that was why . . . .)

Age 27:  I got married.

Age 29:  I bawled my eyes out because I was “old”.  In the midst of my bawling, I hit the Dillard’s counter wailing about my “wrinkles” and “decrepit skin”.  They saw me coming a mile away and took me for every cent I had.  A few hundred dollars later I owned a large chunk of their skincare collection which did nothing to erase my “wrinkles” and “decrepit skin”. 

Age 30:  Pooh was born.  I loved that baby like you could not believe. 

Age 33:  I got divorced.  

Age 34:  Tigger was born.  I loved that baby like you could not believe.

Age 34, also:  I moved to Nashville. 

Age 37:  I had my only hangover ever.  It was Not Pretty. 

Age 37, also:  I broke my first bone.  It was my pinkie toe and it made me curse copious amounts. 

Age 38:  I fretted a lot because my eyes were “old”.   Martie gave me some eye cream and an explanation that it smelled like “rotten asshole.”  I felt certain that something that smelled like “rotten asshole” would definitely work because everyone knows that beauty treatments are not always pleasant.  I used it faithfully and every time the hot air from my hair dryer would hit my face, the heated smell of “rotten asshole” almost made me varmint. My eyes still look exactly the same. 

Age 39:  Gosh, I don’t know yet.  I plan on spending lots of years here, at 39.  So far, one day into it, it’s been amazing. 

I have received a ton of phone calls and emails and text messages from assorted friends and family members.  I got pineapple cupcakes.  And some cards.  And a really sweet magnet that says:  Better Buy Me Another Drink.  You’re Still Ugly.   

Phranke sent me this message:  Happy Birthday.  Welcome to 39.  It’s a very good year.

And Quan sent me this message:  HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIMMIE!  I got you something but let’s be honest….it will never make it to you.  I’m about to tear into it now.   (PS – it did have a malt ball on top but I already ate it.)

Finally, tonight Billie and I are watching this:

Meow!

Birthdays are wonderful.  I love them.  Thank you to all of the best friends I’ve met along the way (I’m talking to you Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee and Alabama!).  I luff you all.  And thank you to all of the best family I’ve been lucky enough to get.  I luff you all, too.  Special thanks to Madre for enduring several hours of labor and yelling and swearing and cursing to get me here.  I know I’m your favorite. You don’t have to tell Martie.  ♥

Oh, while I’m at it, being all older and wiser and stuff, I should “Impart Wisdom” to you again.  When using power tools, I’ve learned it’s best to wear closed-toed shoes.  This is what happens when you drop an electric hand sander that is currently in the “on” position on your naked toe.  Ow.  Time for a pedicure! 

 

Giddyup! Now with more photos!

02 Jun 2011 Leave a comment

by Love, Jimmie in Family, Outings, Pets Tags: , ,

Saturday morning I went horseback riding with Madre.  (Yes, this will be that post, the one I teased you with earlier.)  Now Madre has ridden horses her entire life.  I know she rode until she was eight months pregnant with me and likely only took that break because the doctor made her.  I, on the other hand, have not regularly ridden a horse since I was a toddler.  I’ve had interludes here and there but nothing with any sort of consistency.  Plus I was thrown once.  It was a small fall but it was enough to put a stop to my riding for a while.  I say it again, I have no great skills but I can bounce along merrily on occasion. 

Before I get further into the story, I should introduce you to the cast of characters. 

Meet Monty, my valiant steed.  Isn’t he handsome?  Apparently he’s a sports car.

 

Meet Precious, Madre’s majestic beast.  Gorgeous, ain’t she?  She’s also classified as a sports car. 

Meet Girlfriend. She didn’t get to go but I had to include her because she’s just so pretty and she was slightly miffed at being left out.  She’s the limousine of the bunch.

Madre and I saddled up and with the help of some cinder blocks, I wriggled my way onto Monty’s back.  Those are some tall animals and I’m not nearly as flexible as I like to think I am.  I snuck an apple to him in an effort to butter him up, you know, so that he wouldn’t do anything wild and crazy with me atop his back.  I also gave him a few horse cookies on the sly.  As we took off, Madre explained that our mounts for the day were her sports cars (see above) and I had a momentary freak out where I imagined all of the racing around the fields they were going to do with us clinging on for dear life.  This was not what I had signed up for.  I wanted a stroll really, not some sort of NASCAR preview in Mr. Sisk’s hayfield.  Gah!

We moseyed down the hill from the barn and I was preparing for battle with the reins, just knowing that Monty was ready to take off at a canter as soon as we hit flat ground.  Madre even warned me, “Monty will be full of piss and vinegar for a bit but then he will get it out of his system and you’ll be fine.”  Heh, heh, shaky grin.  I was slightly nervous but I was not going to let it show!  I was brave!  And here we went, plod, plod, plod, five minutes pass, plod, plod, plod.  And then! Trot, trot, trot!  Ten paces at trot, trot, trot, then back to plod, plod, plod.  No canter in sight.  Apparently that was it.  That was the piss and vinegar.  Madre then had to explain that “sports car” only meant “smaller horse” and “limousine” meant “larger horse”.  Oh.  I can’t say I wasn’t slightly disappointed.

To make up for it, though, I got these pictures of our lovely horses.  Once you stop your guffawing at the Amish head gear, Madre will explain with only the smallest of sniffs that the proper term for these garments are “fly bonnets” and they protect the horse’s ears from the flies.  Again, oh.  My bad. 

We ran into a bunch of neighbors and one sneaky little cat named Jezebel.  I really wanted to get a picture of her but as I said, sneaky . . . .

I took a picture of my dream house. 

I gave my most winning smile to the couple that owns it when I asked if they would leave it to me in their will.  In reply, they told us about their new puppy. I suppose charm and winning smiles only go so far. 

We saw this swimming hole, complete with perfect little cabin which you can almost see in the background.  If I weren’t certain that the water was just infested with giant poisonous snakes in every make and model, I’d go swimming there.  But I’m a big old chicken.

We crossed two creeks.  Monty was ready for both of them and I was not.  Trot, trot, trot right into a big old ravine and there was no stopping him.  I just knew I was going down and I was mentally preparing for it.  He stopped suddenly, my toes touching the water, his belly skimming it, and started flailing around in the water.  I was a goner.  We both were I was certain. Surprisingly, I didn’t panic.  I was ready for The End.  After a moment of the horrors, I realized that Monty was only playing in the water, splashing both of us in his excitement.  Oh.  It was the most rowdy I had seen him.  I was soaked, of course, and so was he which was most likely the point.  Heh, heh, shaky grin.

We rode through a whole pile of cicadas.  Apparently I smell like the best of potential cicada girlfriends.  A charming young cicada attached himself to my hair and made sweet, sweet love to it for a while before I could figure out how to kindly extricate myself from the tryst and not hurt his feelings. Denied.  He was pissed off and let everyone know it by flying off in a noisy huff.  I’m such a heart breaker.  He just could not accept that it was nothing personal – he’s just not my type.

By the time we ran into Phranke’s mom (her house is on the way to Madre’s), my butt was starting to go numb and my legs were tired.  Holding yourself upright on a horse isn’t as easy as it looks.  You have to use INNER THIGH muscles, people.  And SMALL BACK muscles.  Neither of which I was aware I possessed.  Let it be known that I have both and they are making themselves known to me, even still.  Ow. 

We plod, plod, plodded our way home after hours of riding around glorious scenery and the minute Monty realized that food and bath were imminent, it was canter, canter, canter all the way up the hill.  Heh, heh, shaky grin.  I sort of slithered my way off his back when we stopped and gasped a bit, my head smushed into his neck.  Here I should say that I love the smell of horses and the feel of those long slabs of muscles.  They are such powerful animals.  Anyway, when my legs came back to life, I waddled him into the barn to be de-robed and then back out to be hosed off.  I was overjoyed to have made it home in one piece with only a minimal sunburn and no injuries to speak of.  Madre was flitting around like a bird, jumping around and such.  Oh the humiliating irony of that . . . .

Other than my really sweet farmer’s tan and a plethora of mosquito bites, I think the entire trip was a success.  Of course if I find a tick on me I will lose my mind and rewrite the whole weekend as a tragedy.  So far so good. 

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