Fools Rush In

I've decided to participate in Nicky and Mikes (We Work For Cheese)  brilliant idea of writing a post every day for 30 days beginning on June 1, 2012. There are NO RULES so that means I have no directions to follow.  For me, that's the major thing as I am hopeless at following directions.

Nicky and Mike and are providing "prompts".  (Surprisingly, the first prompt is "Cheese".)  I don't know why I thought this would be a fun thing to do.  The only reason I'm playing is because I love Nicky and want her to come and live with me and be my sister wife.  This way she has to pay attention to me.

I have almost convinced Nicky to come to visit me with her baby in the near future.  I'm hoping my efforts here help to solidify her decision.  Once she gets here and we start buying shoes, she'll never want to go back home.

The other participants are:  CheesyMike, Cheryl, If I Were God, Katherine, Bryan, Laughing Mom,  Malisa, MikeWJ,  NoNameDufus, Jayne,  and Sandra. Every one of these writers is very good and will do a better job of this than I will.

I may even quit after the first post.  For that matter, I may quit before the first post.

What the hell can one really write about "Cheese"?

Bedroom Tales

I had a friend named Sarah Cohen when I was in high school.

Sometimes Sarah and I had sleepovers at each others houses.  Since Sarah was an only child, I preferred going to her house, and not being saddled with my three younger siblings.

Sarah and her parents lived in a lovely home in a much more upscale area then my humble abode.  Our sleepovers frequently occurred on Saturday night.  Sarah's mom, Rachel, was a nice lady with blond bouffant hair.  Rachel's  sister, Norma, lived with them and the sisters looked enough alike to be twins, but they weren't.

On Sunday mornings,Sarah and I would go into her parents bedroom to say good morning.  Mr. Cohen, Mrs. Cohen and Norma would all be lying in the same bed, propped up on pillows, reading the NY Times.  All three of them wore reading glasses, but the blond ladies looked really funny side by side in their high necked nightgowns.

I'm guessing this was a bit strange, but it seemed sort of normal after you see it a few times.

When my grandchildren, Cyrus and Arianna, were young they would frequently spend the night with us.  We would put Cy and Ari in between us, and still have room for Mitch (our dog) and Smokey (our cat).  Smokey was the only one who didn't snore.

I spent the night between two sailors years ago when my husband was deployed someplace.  My only television was in our bedroom, and the only comfortable place to watch it was on the bed.  We fell asleep.  One of the men was my husband's best friend and a good friend of mine too.  These sailors understood sleeping with Alex's wife was really not that big a deal.

We had dinner the other night with Traci and Flavia.  Flavia is looking for a job before the start of her Masters Program ,but if she doesn't get one, they may have to come and live with us.  Flavia laughed delightfully as we talked about it and told us that they would bring their king size bed so we can all sleep together with all the pets.  That would be something to see.  Traci and Flavia have 3 dogs, and 2 cats.  Alex and I have two dogs.  That would make 5 dogs and two cats and four people. 

It sort of made me think about the movie "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory".  Charlie's whole family slept in one bed I think and there were a bunch of them.

"Wife Money"

Now not all of you may know this.

I didn't know it myself until a couple of years ago.  As a married woman, when your husband goes to use an ATM machine, and you are with him, he is supposed to give you "Wife Money".

This needs to happen at least every two weeks.  It's only fair.  "Wife Money" is not your household expense money.  That goes on the American Express charge card that is paid in full every month.  "Wife Money" is different.  It is your money for being a wife.

You can spend it on whatever you wish.  You can go have lunches and massages with it.  You can bank it in a secret account so that if your husband decides to run off with a Pilates instructor, you have a little nest egg to tide you over.  :You can play the horses with it.  You can donate it to the charity of your choice.  You can spend it on gin.  You can stick it in your mattress.  You do not have to account for your "Wife Money".

I wish somebody had sat me down and told me about "Wife Money" when I was a young bride of 19, (and every other time I was a bride as well).  I never really thought about it very much until about two years ago.  It's a standing joke in Alex's family to say "Where's my Indian money?".  Since the Navajo Nation now has casinos, they are entitled to proceeds from the gaming.  Alex does not really want to take "Indian money" because a lot of Navajos need it a lot worse than he does.  Still, every time I'm around Alex's family, everybody jokes about their "Indian money".

I was waiting in the car when Alex went to the ATM to get some cash.  When he came back to the car, I held my hand out and said "Where's my "Wife Money"?  He laughed and started the car and I reached over and turned off the key.  He said "What?" and I responded that I wanted my "Wife Money".  Alex pulled out his wallet and pulled out a $20 and handed it to me.  "Oh hell no!"  That was not going to work!  I took the wallet and saw that he had pulled out $300.  I took a total of $140 out and put it in my purse.  Alex laughed and asked me what brought this on.

I told Alex that I had been listening to him and his family talking about "Indian Money" and I thought to myself, "Self!  Why are they entitled to "Indian Money"?  Oh, because they are Indians!  I see.  That makes perfect sense.  If you take that one step further, that means I am entitled to "Wife Money" because I am a wife! 

Why it took me so long to figure this out I can't begin to tell you.  All I can say is I don't know how I ever managed without my "Wife Money!"

Now, if I could just get my grown kids to kick down with some "Mom Money", I'd be rolling in dough!

Requiem for El Gato Loco

I'm not a cat person.

Cats are too aloof for me.  They are secretive and not particularly affectionate.  Dogs are panting, tail wagging bastions of love.  Take out the garbage and come back in.  Dogs greet you with fiercely wagging tails, yips of joy, and adoration.  Cats don't care if you are around or not.

Alex started lobbying for a cat about 20 years ago, but I held fast on my decree of "No Cats!".  My husband loves all creatures great and small.  He thought a cat would round out our little family just perfectly.  I had my doubts.  First, I don't like cleaning litter boxes.  I don't like the smell of litter boxes in a house.  The whole concept of a litter box sort of turns me off.  Why can't a cat just go outside and do his or her business in somebody's garden? In fact, I'd prefer that the cat just go to someone else's garden.  Not mine.  Then there's the matter of house training cats.  They jump up on kitchen counters every time they turn around.  They lick their butts and then like the stick of butter on the counter.  They also shred furniture and draperies and carpet with their claws.  Great.

After a couple of years of constant pleading, I finally relented and told Alex to go get a damned cat if he really wanted one.  Alex acted like he had won the lottery!

I was at work when Alex called and said "I got our kitty."  I envisioned a little white furry kitty that we would probably name "Snowflake" or something equally sugary.  That was not the case.  Alex brought home a cat he named "Smokey Joe".  The cat was about 5 months old, a black tabby, with a torn ear and a bad attitude.  There was nothing "kittenish" about Smokey.  He hissed and popped.  He clawed and bit.  In other words, I fell madly in love with him.

Smokey terrorized people.  He got his claws into my Mom's hair sprayed "do" and made her scream.  If a visitor used the bathroom, he stuck his long black front leg in under the door to tap them on the foot while they sat on the pot causing the visitor to scream.  He jumped in the bedroom window about 3 AM every night and landed on our heads reminding me of Cato in the Pink Panther movies.

Smokey would also hide on the rise of the stairs so if one wasn't watching their steps coming down, he would trip the person.  Good times!

Oh Smokey wasn't all bad.  He liked to play soccer and catch.  He would sit atop his tall cat "tree" and let us toss balls to him that he caught and tossed back to us.  He also sang Chinese Opera.  Alex did not train him to stay off the kitchen counters, but I did.  I found that if I screamed like a banshee and ran toward him at the same time, it would scare him enough to finally stop the counter walks.  I'm sure my neighbors wondered at the shrieks, but nobody ever called the police.

Years passed and Smokey mellowed a bit.  Old male cats get sort of loving.  He would spend evenings sitting on the arm of my chair while I petted him and he nuzzled me.  He also liked to sit on my lap when I was at the computer.

Smokey was 17.  I never really saw the transition from young cat to old man cat.  The combination of age and a pretty drastic cancer diagnosis from the vet made it necessary to put Smokey to sleep last Wednesday.

I'm still not a cat person, but I loved him and I miss him very much.  I doubt I'll get another cat.

There was only one Smokey Joe.

Adding Some Atmosphere

Alex was in Kenya about 25 years ago when he was in the Navy.  My son also got to Kenya as a port of call during his Navy days.

Both Alex and my son, John, told me that  before they got off their respective aircraft carriers and into port, they had to watch a movie and get a very intense lecture about the rate of both AIDS and other nasty STD's in the population, and particularly in the prostitute population.  It scared both Alex and my son enough to resist the temptations of the quite beautiful women who met them at the port to solicit a "date"..  (My son's best friend at the time, Crazy Pete, exercised no such restraint, and grabbed 3 prostitutes as soon as he got on shore.  Poor Pete spent the next four months talking to the Chaplain about eternal salvation, and on his knees praying that his blood tests would come back negative.  I guess all the prayers worked because Pete is still alive, and happily married now.)

 As you can see from the photo above, it's not just the women who are good looking.  (I'm just saying...)

While Alex was there he had the chance to take a "Photo Safari".  The safari included a couple of nights camping in the bush but with tents and accommodating people to set up camp, cook, and serve the guests.  The days were filled with driving through the beautiful country and seeing all manner of wildlife in its natural habitat.  Alex saw and took photos of a lot of the sights. 

 In the evening, everybody sat around campfires drinking beer and socializing before going to sleep in the luxurious tents that were provided.  As dusk approached, about 10 native men approached in full costume, including spears and sheilds and Alex was delighted!  He thought the men were the "entertainment" for the evening and looked forward to the tribal dance or whatever these guys were going to do.

Alex approached one of the safari organizers and told her how cool it was to have these guys in costume adding some atmosphere!  He also asked when they were going to perform.

The woman smiled at Alex.  Then she gently explained to him that these men were Maasai warriors and they were there to protect the guests from being eaten by wild animals.  Alex swears he heard a lion roar at that moment. 

But we all know how he exaggerates.

The Daughter, The Dude, The Diner

It's not really my fault.

My gorgeous daughter Sheila came over to meet me at Jack London Square for lunch.  We decided to eat at "Kincaid's", a place that sits right on the water of the San Francisco Bay.

I tried to seat Sheila in the most desirable seating, and she was facing the water.  She could watch the sailboat lessons in progress while we enjoyed a leisurely luncheon.

Sheila told me she looked very "lesbian" today.  I didn't really agree.  But then, she does not usually wear her hair in a pony tail, and maybe that made her feel gay, as in happy and she gets confused with feeling happy and feeling like she's looking "lesbian".  Because I have a quite a few lesbian friends, I can assure you that one cannot tell a woman's or a man's sexual preference from appearance alone.

It was not my fault when a tall, good looking bus driver sat down at the table slightly behind us.  I watched with interest as he ordered a lovely salad for his lunch.  My daughter and I ordered a salad and a pastrami sandwich to share.  Neither of us can finish a really big sandwich so this seemed reasonable.  I also ordered iced tea, but the waitress with the startling gold eyeshadow suggested something called "organic green tea with pomegranate juice" so I said "Sure!"  She brought me my iced tea and watched as I took a sip. " Oh my god, that's horrid!  That stuff is repulsive!  It tastes like cough syrup and not the good kind with codiene!"  It was putrid at best.  She quickly took it away and my daughter asked me why I would take a suggestion from a woman who thought iridescent gold was the color to paint all around her eyes.

My daughter pulled out her smart phone and said she needed to photograph me because I looked so cute today.  I pulled out my smart phone and told her the same thing.  We both said "Oh I don't look that cute!" but we didn't really mean it.    Then Sheila started laughing and realized I was taking her photo but at the same time I was getting the cute bus driver's photo too.  In the picture, she's giving me that "I know exactly what you doing" look.  I get that from her a lot.

I might add that when the bus driver finished his lovely salad and paid his bill, he peeked around the corner at me 3 or 4 times before he left.  Dude had game.

I just called my daughter to ask her how to spell "pomegranate" and she told me she had fun.  I did too.

My daughter can be such a delightful bitch!

Birdsongs

His wife telephoned me late in the afternoon.

My ex-husband had been in a coma for about a week.  John was dying of a brain tumor and his wife, Alma, was distraught because he had been hiccuping continually for over 24 hours.

Alma was crying and saying that she knew he was hurting from the brutal hiccups that were shaking his emaciated body.  I felt like crying too.  It had been a long hard road to this point.  John had been under Hospice care with round the clock nurses for a couple of months.

Alex's mom lived in Phoenix with her husband, (the Snake), a Mojave Medicine Man and a "Bird Singer".  The Bird Singer is summoned to help prepare a dying person for their journey.  An idea came into my mind.  Perhaps the Snake could help.

I asked Alma if she would be all right with us trying to bring the Snake up to do a ceremony for John and she replied that she would love it.  I asked Alex to call his mom and see if they could come up that evening.  Alex told me that the Snake didn't fly, but he would try to convince him to come.  (Traditionally, the Snake could not refuse such a request if it were made face to face.  Because of this custom, Alex needed to have his mother ask the Snake in person.  A telephone call was not enough.)  Alex's mother called us back in moments and said they would come.  We called the airlines and had their tickets waiting for them.

We picked them up at the San Francisco airport a couple of hours later, and we drove through the darkness to San Rafael.  The Snake had his gourds and his ceremonial ribboned shirt with him.  When we arrived at John and Alma's  home about 11 PM, all the lights were blazing.  John and Alma's young son, Bryan,  was wide eyed and very excited about what was happening.

The Snake took a few minutes to change his shirt and to meditate and bless his gourds.  We all waited quietly exchanging whispers around the hospital bed in the front bedroom.  John continued to be jolted with brutal hiccups, and he seemed to be sleeping fitfully.  The Snake came into the bedroom and we all quieted.  Slowly and quietly, the Snake explained to us and to John that he was going to sing some songs to honor John and to prepare him for this last journey.  He said he would sing for many hours and that we should go out of the room if we needed to converse.

With that prelude, the gourds began making their loud rumble and the Snake's clear strong voice filled the room.  Within ten minutes, the hiccups had stopped.  John's posture relaxed visibly.  Alma and I started crying.  The Snake sang on and on.  Alma left the room to take the baby to bed, but we stayed there.  After several hours, the Snake said "He will sleep now.  He is not going away just yet.  He will go away early in the morning in a few more days. John will just fly away."

John died at 5:00 AM four days later.  His hiccups did not return.

As you know, I am not religious.  John's hiccups may have stopped because the loud gourd and voice scared them out of him.  I like to think he would have been amused that his women loved him enough to do this last thing for him.