It Was the Easiest Thing to Do

“And we never failed to fail, it was the easiest thing to do.”

I heard this song in a show last weekend and since then, I’ve been playing it and humming it and singing it all the damn time, which is starting to drive my husband a little bit insane.

I was trying to figure out why I’m obsessing. Obsessives are good at obsessing about why we’re obsessing.

Music is usually a good way to identify relevant moods and emotions and meaningful memories that go with it. I got nothin. I got a lot, but not a pinpoint on why this song, why now.

It’s Crosby, Stills, & Nash, which would have been played at my mother’s house, but not at my father’s house, so I wondered what on earth I was doing in 1982, on those weekends at my mother’s and I thought really, really hard and came up with a lot of nice memories, but it was real life, so like this:

I was into Strawberry Shortcake dolls who lived in a gazebo in Barbie’s back yard. I also had a Strawberry Shortcake birthday cake, but it was artificially colored like whoa, bringing about the first time I threw up alone. And strangely, after that, I threw up by myself until I was 29, until I had morning sickness and my mother-in-law came in to rub my back, and I realized it was weird when people stopped accompanying me to vomit and strange when people began to accompany me while I vomited. Life is like that. It doesn’t matter, cause vomit.

I was into the books of Beverly Cleary. My mother bought them all. I read them all.

I had the Crayola Color Caddy, a lazy susan contraption for containing all of one’s crayons, markers, and colored pencils, intended to facilitate a neat and careful transfer of one color for another, which, as it turns out, stifled my creativity, as I preferred to pull as I went into art chaos, and then to put it all away after. I am still like this. My creativity is in the mess. Can’t be messy before or after, but in the middle, I am painted, covered in flour, wearing string, sitting in the paper, whathaveyou.

I had these adorable corduroy overalls with a pink penguin turtleneck and when things don’t fit you anymore when you’re nine, it’s because after the turtleneck became a midriff, your mother said that was okay because the overalls covered your tummy, but you grew up even more and one day, the overalls sliced your whohah in half and you got the sad. The first of many bodily betrayals, amirite, ladies?

As for the song’s meaning, well, I don’t sail, fraid of sea monsters for one, get the vertigo, too pale to enjoy the sun…trade routes would be a big NOPE for me.
And it’s a ballad! I don’t really DO ballads. Romance is so ooey gooey and sticky and sappy. Crescendo into how romance is human fly paper and can trap a bitch for 20 years. I’m not complaining, just amazed.

Do you know The Mister and I used to sing the NightLight Love Songs of WENS 97.3 in the backseat of his parents’ car when we were teens? Ballads, y’all. Sad bastard music. Which contradicts his aversion to my obsession. You’d think he’d like it.

So I dunno. Let’s listen again though, cause it’s so damn good.

Has this happened to you? Did you figure out why? Any insights here? I have failed, which was the easiest thing to do.

Happy Friday Everyone! (My apologies for the earworm.)

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Busy Countin Blessings

I’m not sayin I’ve been busy, I’m just sayin — Last night I had a dream that my dog was bleedin to death and there was nothin I could do. I was helpless. Only a matter of time. Her death was imminent. And yet — In my dream, as I lay beside her, I was impatiently thinkin I don’t have time to hold my dog while she bleeds out — I got too much shit to do.

Lemme just take a moment to count my blessings.
I am home, bathed, fed, comfortably adorned in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, sittin on my sofa. And there’s this:

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She’s fine.

Y’all been busy? Countin yer blessings?


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Lunch on the Rocks

You know how people say, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead?” Yeah, I’ll retire when I’m dead. And then, after I’ve been given the answers to all my questions and have been shown where the ice cream parlor is, I’m sure I’ll take an afterlife job. I dunno, maybe teaching young eager souls, growing supernatural flowers in a weedless garden, or mediating land disputes between lap giraffes and miniature sheep. It’s really anyone’s best guess, but I guarantee you, I’ll be busy not makin monies.

Anyway, my point is I generally don’t think about retirement. I generally think about how to do all, all, all the things.

Except, recently I thought about retirement. Lemme tell you why.

I met Benson for lunch.

When I arrived at Texas Margaritas, Benson, hep cat that he is, was already seated.


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righteous red converse on his feet


He had not been at work, on the phone with the big corporation and their infernal muzak, running the gamut of the five incompetent people one must explain to before reaching that sixth magical person who is smart enough to understand the discrepancy.

While I was doing that, Benson was ordering some chips and salsa and a margarita.

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blurry and hungry


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deliciously blurry

By the time I was peeking into my shrimp quesadilla, he was ordering his second margarita. I ordered a Mr Pibb. And I loved it. I did. But it was not a margarita, because I am not retired. And given how blurry my pictures are, I really didn’t need the caffeine and I prolly could have benefited from a margarita because I’m spazzy and frenetic enough. When my Pibb was all gone, I drank my water like a good workhorse should.

Cause it was not a weekend. It was not vacation. For me. For Benson, it’s all weekend vacation margarita time, and so I envied him just a teeny tiny bit because margaritas are delicious.

Y’all, I dunno what I’m doin this weekend, but Imma try to wear my Converse and drink margaritas. If you’re able, I highly recommend you do the same.

Happy Friday Everyone!

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SoCS – Foiled

More than a moon ago, Sassy treated me to a pedicure.

She was feeling generous and doting to Mimom, so we got ‘gels’ on our toes.
My goodness, they were so shiny. I marveled at them a month later, so shiny, no chips. That was in the shower. In the harsh sunlight, looked a lil worse for wear, and I thought I should probably add toes to my Sunday Night Beauty Control Ritual.

Sundays passed. I’m a busy woman.

Sassy had an event to go to, and she had this elegant dress with the beading and the cut-outs and the shine of chiffon. Sort of a berry-garnet kinda color. With which she wore silver and rhinestone sandals, all so ladylike and lovely — down to her BRIGHT CRAYOLA YELLOW toenails. Because, gel polish does not swipe off with acetone like other polish.


Some Googling later, I was at my child’s feet with foil and acetone and cotton, per the YouTube tutorial. Fail. Nope. No go. Off she went to dance, gorgeous from her head to her metatarsals.

So last weekend, we got up EARLY on a bleedin Saturday, to get into the salon and fix our toenails. Ugh. We went to a nearby place which will probably be my place now. (We’ve been to many places since we moved ‘home’ and we no likey any til now.)

The salon ladies put us in the motion sickness chairs massage recliners and liberally poured the acetone over our toesies and covered them with enough cotton to dam a creek. Then they drowned the cotton in more acetone, wrapped our feet in foil, and left us there to watch a series of cooking shows where people were not Italian. We shared tongue-clucks and snarled lips. The ladies came back and unwrapped our foils, revealing cracked, melted gels and the ashiest feet you’ve ever seen. Then they blasted us with a Dremel tool and lubricated our skin. NO GEL. At one point, I turned to Sassy to exclaim about the horror of mixing whipped cream cheese with jarred gravy and she was not there and I shouted, “Where’s the baby?!” how I do.
This made the salon ladies laugh, because probably all moms of every language and culture know the blanched panic face and darting eyes expression of “Where’s the baby?!” I’m sure it’s universal.
Fortunately, the baby was already seated at a dryer.


Stream of Consciousness Saturday — SoCS ‘wrap/rap’ is brought to you by LindaGHill

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My Utter Dismay

I’ve been working at my job now for … near seventeen months. My job is splendid. The people I work with are wonderful and the people I work for are good, honest, and best of all, interesting — dare I say amusing? I lurves me job.


You know how you work alongside people for near seventeen months and you feel like you’ve got a good sense of who they are and what they’re all about?

You think you know a person.

You know your boss is a woman of action. You love how she takes charge and commands attention. She regales you with stories and inspires you with her phrasing. She’s forthright. You admire her and are grateful she hired you because every day she increases your knowledge and challenges you.

You think you know a person.

She’s a mom to humans and animals. She likes strong indents. She prefers hot chocolate to coffee. She’s got impeccable taste in shoes. She takes photos of doors in Paris.

See, you like her now, too, don’tcha?

Cause you think you know a person.

And then she tells you she’s a Patriots fan.

I give almost zero fucks about football. Except that.

And so, what can I say?


Happy Friday Everyone!

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Bounce Back

The boy one moved out and into his apartment, with lower rent than he was told, with a fireplace that wasn’t in the unit he toured, and with two outdoor chairs left by the last tenants. Quite nice.

As for us, we’ve put our house back in order. I have always taken pleasure in clear surfaces, but oh my goodness, it’s even better than I remember. We sit at our dining room table with delight. We enjoy open doors and pantslessness. Our dog has stopped stress-chewing her paw. Everyone has an agreeable shower schedule. It’s a grand time for the Motterns in their yellow bungalow. The yellow bungalow is not situated on Easy Street, but it is shaded by pretty trees and filled with love. Right now, it sounds like football and smells like banana bread.

My sense of structure was dramatically displaced. It’s humbling to be reminded our behavior is so incredibly predictable. It’s how we accidentally train our dogs, or you know, how our dogs train us. I forget how long it takes to form a new habit, and I sure don’t know how long it takes to return to old ones, but I’m trying, so it might be the same timeline.

I have gobs of stories to tell you. My go-with-the-flow may be runnin low but I’ve still got my bounce!

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Labor Day Blip

Every time I think I will post about Labor Day 2001, I think I will do it over Labor Day (duh) and yet, here it is, late on Labor Day…

No time like the present.

On the Friday preceding Labor Day of 2001, The Mister and I found ourselves childless for the weekend. We threw stuff in the trunk of our car and drove northeast. We left with important things, like a cell phone, a map, some food, and a tent, but without a plan. The idea being we would find a place to camp, what with road signs to campgrounds and all that.

Spontaneity — before smartphones, it was a bit of a risk.

After dark, we pulled into a campground somewhere. The campground’s proprietor said they were full and it was illegal for him to let us camp without a designated spot, but if we were open to roughing it, he’d find us a spot. We were open. We set up camp. The Mister roasted weenies and I toasted marshmallows and we enjoyed the evening staring at fire. Goodness, we do love to stare at fire. We crawled into our tent and slept the good sleep.

We awoke early and as I wandered about while brushing my teeth — who can just stand there?! — I roamed over a bit to a drop-off, to see what was there, and HOLY CRAP! IT WAS LAKE ERIE! 

We had no idea we camped next to the lake. And in case you’re not knowing, I should tell you Lake Erie is a Great Lake. It’s big. Lake Erie is one of the smaller Great Lakes and it’s still frickin huge.


Maybe maps aren’t the best way. I mean, when you look at a map like this, you may think Indiana and Wisconsin are pretty close together, why don’t Joey and Mary meet for lunch in Chicago?

Anyway, we woke up next to Lake Erie and that was amazing luck. What a view!
We went to Niagara Falls, spent the day walking and hiking, taking in the falls and the gardens. Then we checked into a hotel and drove back the following day.

We had a right good time.

We’ve accumulated heaps of travel and Labor Day memories over our twenty years together, but few surprises have been better than waking up on the shores of Lake Erie.

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Well, He Ain’t Eight

I lived through Bubba bein eight. If you have had an eight year old, you may recall. YMMV. If you know parents whose children are eight, you should probably do a kindness for them. They need it. Eight is a terrible age. Eight is the age children realize they know everything and regardless of their age, adults don’t know anything. They actually,  literally say “Literally” “Actually” and “Whatever” all the time or whatever.

All summer long, patrons of the pool told Sassy “Never have children.” The first time it happened, she told me, “This woman yelled at her kid and then looked at me, and said, ‘Never have children’ and I oop!”
“Was he eight?” I asked.
“Yeah, probably.”
At eight, Bubba engaged me in psychological warfare every damn day. Daily deliberate defiance, constant debate, unrelenting attempts to negotiate. I prayed and I prayed. I’d wake up in the morning, all tra-la-la, today is a new day, tra-la-la and then by 8am, I’d wave to him as he boarded the school bus and I’d mumble, “Good riddance.” God Bless his second grade teacher, Mrs. Roth. God Bless all the second grade teachers.
And living through Bubba being eight is how I know I can live through two more weeks of him living on my couch, cause this is better.
I love him dearly, but he’s on my couch. Now. Later. All. The. Time.


Lemme be clear, it’s not like he’s doin anything wrong, he’s just THERE.

At this point, I’m not sure who could be on my couch this long without disruption. I mean, after eight weeks, even Winnie-the-Pooh would annoy me.

“The couch smells like bear. Pots of honey fuckin everywhere. Sticky, icky, eww! Honey pots all over the coffee table and the dining table and on my kitchen counter, takin up the refrigerator, spillin out on every surface of the bathroom! I can’t hear myself Think! Think! Think! because you’re always over there exclaiming, Oh Bother! All we do is talk about Heffalumps and Woozles and I cannot possibly endure another game of Poohsticks and for the love of thistle, put some pants on! Do you hear Tigger calling for you? I think I hear Tigger calling for you!”


Sometimes the smallest things grow up to be really big and tall and live on your couch.

In case you’re curious, at eight, in addition to literally actually whatevering all the time, all my girls fully embraced their inner bitches and got smart with me. I, like my own mother, had grown into my breeches and had the good fortune of being an older, smarter bitch and that shit did not play.

But the boy one? So hard. So hard for Joeys. I know as parents we don’t always know what we’re doing, but I’m tellin you…

Happy Friday Everyone! 

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#ThursdayDoors — Indiana State Fair


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Yes, it’s that time again! I went to the fair some weeks ago. Time is blurry. I was a bit poorly. Even I was too poorly to eat ice cream at the fair!!! Still, I walked five hot and sweaty miles because I love the Indiana State Fair! Do not fear, I have since gotten better and had plenty of ice cream.


As I do annually, I shall show you my primary motive for visiting the state fair:

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pork tent

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cheese curds

And how could I not show you this year’s dairy sculpture?

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I should tell you it was just Moo and me at the fair this year. Don’t tell the others, but Moo is THE best fair companion, because Moo and I like all the same things and not other things. We like art and photography and quilts and animals and the making of things. Moo told me when she grows up, she will come home and go to the fair with me. You don’t know Moo, but that was really such a tender, sweet thing for Moo to say.

Further, because Moo likes horses, I spent substantial time staring at horses, and although horses terrify me with their majestic vitesse and puissance, I think I experienced a breakthrough in my equinophobia because I think one of the horses kinda liked me and I kinda liked her. Fenced. I liked her fenced. I’m not saying I wanted to touch her, or that I could be near her were she free, but I think she maybe liked me a little bit.

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not my horse, also photo credit moo

Cows, I pet. I pet cows. Without cows, there would be no ice cream! Look at his beautiful face! (He is not an ice cream cow, but dang, he’s cute!)


And quilts for my parents and Judy. I mean, y’all can look at em, but when I snapped em, I thought of my parents and Judy.


And doors for all the door peoples.

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gate love

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hawt hardware


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my fave – a door by a door with a door in the background


less fancy, but still nifty

And the steam engine, because my, what a pleasing sound!

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I hope you enjoyed this year’s trip to the fair!
I’ll try to blog again before the next one.

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#ThursdayDoors is part of an inspired post series run by Norm FramptonTo view other interesting doors, click the link and see what others are posting today.

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The Weekend Whooshed By

Do you guys know I still blog just about daily? I do. I just don’t post them. Some of them don’t feel like they’re ready to be released into the wild yet, some should maybe be deleted, and others, well, DO I EVEN HAVE TIME TO ADD PHOTOS? and also, I often sleep too late to link up.

School started last week. Is the officer out there to control the intersection lights in the morning? No. They send out emails, “Make sure your kids cross here.” What a joke. Cars can’t even cross the street, so much chaos. I can’t wait until all these people tire of driving their kids to school. When they lose their motivation, the situation improves greatly. Like how annoying the gym is in January.

Annnd, when in your life have you ever needed a 2″ or 3″ binder for school? Did you need two of them? They’re huge. We could fold Moo in half and slide her in one. I’m a much happier mama now that I don’t get a long list, but I still shake my head a lot and ask, “Are you SURE?” The Mister’s entire military career fits into a 3″ binder with room to spare.

Also? I remember absolutely nothing about chemistry. It’s like the chemistry went into my head and then fell out. It was 1992 and I had Dr Jay Wile, who was jacked-up on Diet Coke and paced the entire time. He blew things up every Friday and pop-quizzed us on it every Monday. I loved his class. I got a high grade, no retention required. Apparently.

The boy’s still on the couch. He took his father apartment hunting Saturday. I couldn’t go.
I had to have a date with Sassy, who took me out for a pedicure and sushi because she wanted to do something nice for me. I DO feel special.

Moo went to a birthday party, for Moos are social creatures.

The Mister and I went grocery shopping Saturday night. Alone. We had not bought groceries alone in many months. It was rather sexy. Yes, I’m serious. I do so enjoy his company, my goodness we do have fun together…

Sunday we cleaned and he laundered and I baked and prepped and he grilled and he ran errands. (Rumor has it he filled my car up.)

All of that went too terribly fast. I would like another weekend, but instead I will take the girls to school, where the officer will not work the light, and then I will do the workee work. I may well live to see another weekend.

In the meantime, here’s hoping this week is kind to us all.

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