Button, Button, Who's Got The Button?

Why do we have to have buttons? And why is it that the people closest to us are the ones who know just which buttons to push and how to push them?

I haven't been on here in the last couple of weeks, because I've been wrestling with myself about whether I should even  be writing at all.  It seems that if I do, I'm going to step on somebody's toes, and I don't want to hurt anyone. But if I don't, I'm giving up a part of myself that is very important and satisfying to me. So who do I try to please? The button pushers or myself?

It was brought to my attention lately that one family member has decided not to speak to me anymore because of the entry I wrote about our grandmother. (Please see "To Grandmother's House We Go") He feels that I was being 'mean'. Perhaps. But the thing he doesn't seem to understand is, he was Golden. He was a child of Mama C's daughter, which in Mama's opinion made him much more closely related to her than my siblings and I were. Because we were birthed by someone that SHE did not give life to, we were the Devil's spawn. We had totally different memories of her because of that. That's not nice, but that's how she was. And to this family member I have to say...if you have beautiful memories of her, more power to you. Write about them. Keep them in your heart. Heck, build her a freakin' shrine. I don't care. These are my memories and getting all pissy about it won't change them.

The other button that was pushed for me lately has been pushed by yet another family member. A closer one. This one hurts.

About three weeks ago I was on the phone with said family member, (hereafter to be referred to as FM) and we were discussing weather and high school chums and reunions. As I was about to point out that I've discovered that all my old pals have gotten either old, fat, bald, or all of the above, and that even though I am "fluffier" that I've ever been, I wouldn't hesitate to go to a reunion...my FM, out of the goodness of his heart, I have no doubt, decided to cross over into an area that is not open for debate. I know he is concerned about my weight, and I appreciate that, but since said FM and I have not shared half a dozen meals together since puberty, FM has no idea what my eating habits are. He has no idea that I don't sit around shoving bonbons into my face and that I have a medical condition, one result of which is obesity. (See my entry on PCOS).

Since this is a subject that I am very sensitive about, I got angry and asked him not to 'go there'. He went there. I got madder, and the madder I got, the more I cussed. I must have dropped 2 dozen F bombs in as many seconds. I am not proud of this. He took offense to my language and hung up on me. Understandable.

What is NOT understandable is the fact that I have issued THREE sincere apologies for the language I used and I have offered to explain more about my condition so that maybe he can see that not every obese person has a character flaw that keeps them from 'putting the fork down'.

My beloved sister even stepped in and offered advice, which I not only appreciated, but took, that should have led to peace. It did, on my end, but since I have had no response from FM, I have to assume at this point that he is not interested in making peace. This is a huge loss in my life and if it is not resolved, my heart will hurt over it for the rest of my days.

So what happens now? Well, one thing I can guarantee you is this....FM is going to  be even more furious that I've written about this at all, even though the names have been changed to protect the innocent. I think my beloved sister will understand that I'm not the baby anymore and I have to be true to myself. I've apologized over and over. I'm at the point I feel like I'm being punished. I'm 55 years old...I'm too old to be punished like a school girl. I can only hope that this will blow over sooner, rather than later. We don't have enough years left to hold any grudges.

Soooo.... I've decided that I have to please myself. In the end, we are all we have. Lovers leave, children grow up, family dies. So I will continue to use this blog as my therapist. It's cheap and it doesn't blame my mother for everything.

Oh My Garsh...We Got INKED!!!

I got my first tattoo on Sunday!!


How the heck did THAT happen?!?!?

Well, as my loyal readers know, our grandbabies live in another state and we don't get to see them very often. That kinda leaves this big ol' grandkid sized hole in our hearts.

Lucky for us, we've been blessed with our good friends, Danny and Michele, who are the parents of 5 terrific kids, whom they loan to us, to fill that hole up now and then. They range in age from 23, down to the baby, Julian, who just had his 1 year birthday last week.

Julian, or Juju as he's called, is funny and handsome and gives really terrific hugs and has stolen our hearts and he has Down's Syndrome.

The national symbol for DS is a little footprint, with a gap between the big toe and the rest of the toes, because this is a characteristic of most Down's babies. I don't remember how it started, but I think Michele was the first to say she wanted the footprint tattoo. Dave had been talking about getting his first tattoo but didn't know what he wanted, and when this came up...that was it. That's what he wanted. We both want something with our own grandbabies names, but we haven't figured out what it's going to be yet. But this one was nailed down, so when the opportunity arose, we went for it.

Here's how our day went, last Sunday when Michele's niece, the artist, arrived from Las Vegas:

Dave getting his stencil applied

Ink going on

ALL DONE!!

 

 

Dave did so good....he didn't whine or wince or make a face or cuss even once!!

Now here's mine:

OMG!!...What is she doing this with...WASPS?!?!?....I'm on FIRE!!!!.....HELP!!!!

 

 

Why are you so calm?!?!?...I'm dying here!!!!

Will this agony  never end?!?!?!?

All done....finally!!

Here we are, the super patient Vanessa and her victims...I mean happy clients.

They say you get addicted to tattooing and want more and more. Dave wants two more...one for Jacob and Adam and another with the Raincross symbol he likes.

Me??...I really want something for my grandbabies, but I'm hoping that tattooing is a little like giving birth. By the time you're ready for your second one, you've forgotten how much the first one hurt.

If not, there's always tequila.

I Left My Heart.....

...In San Francisco.....

I don't know what it is about that beautiful city by the Bay that draws me. It always has, even when I was a little girl. I always dreamed of seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, the hills, the fog rolling in...all the things that Tony Bennett sang about....OH! Isn't it romantic?!?!

I never in a million years thought I would ever see it with my own eyes. I was a Texas girl....there were too many miles and not enough dollars standing in my way.

And then Dave came into my life. I won't repeat how we got together, you can read all about it in my entry called My Renaissance Man. And he lived a mere 40 miles from my dream.

I'll never forget the first of many trips we made there. It was during my first visit to meet Dave face to face.

When I first landed in San Jose, it was a beautiful day. Dave met me at the airport with flowers, then we took a tour of his city. He took me to his office and introduced me to his co-workers. They were all like old friends, I'd talked to them all on the phone so many times. Later on, we met Dave's brother John, and his wife Sue, for dinner at a Korean BBQ place. I'd never had that before, but it was fun to have your own little grill at your table and cook your own meat there.

When night fell, I was really tired. After all, it was 3 hours later by my body's clock. To our surprise, John treated us to a night at a beautiful hotel. I forget the name of it now...sorry. The next morning, we had room service bring eggs benedict...another first for me. Then we set off, to make my dream come true.

The drive to San Fransisco was short and traffic wasn't too bad, since we missed rush hour. We were headed to Pier 39, where we would walk through all the shops, see the submarines and ships docked there, and tour Alcatraz.

I remember pulling into a parking lot near Pier 39. Dave was pointing to some tanker ships out in the ocean and telling me to keep my eye on them...I didn't know why...they weren't doing anything.

And then...while I had my eyes glued on the tankers that were doing nothing....it happened....Dave whipped the car around and my view changed....my life changed....my eyes took a second to stop spinning and there it was....the stuff my dreams were made of...MY bridge.

It was the first time I laid eyes on it and it was magnificent. I was speechless. Dave knew he had made a major dream come true and his brownie points soared!!

We made several trips back to San Francisco before we moved to Southern California. I've seen my bridge from every angle, from in a car crossing over it, to
going underneath it, headed out to sea on a fishing trip. No matter which way you look at it, whether it's shrouded in fog or lit up by night, it's incredible. And it's mine.

Whodathunkit??

58 days ago I started my little blog, mainly to have a place to put my poems, and stories about things that I grew up with, or to talk about things that mean something to me. For my own amusement, actually.

Today, less than two months later, page views hit and passed 1000. Wow. I'm astounded!!

Thanks to my faithful followers. Thanks to those who randomly stop in. Thanks to those who stumble in due to a misplaced click of the mouse during drunken posting...(you know who you are!)

Keep reading...share this blog with your friends...and I'll keep finding something to write about that I hope is worth your time.

THANKS!!!

A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course

I've never really been a horsey kind of person...they are beautiful, but they are big and have really heavy feet, so I'm a little scared of them. Heck, I never even played with My Little Pony. But my sister loves them, so I had several around me as I grew up. This entry is for you, Pammy.

My mother always told the story of when she knew my sister was going to wind up with hoof dressing in her veins. She took Pam to see the Budweiser Clydesdales when she was about 2 years old. She said Pam walked right up to them, unafraid of those huge feathery feet, and stood looking up, her face reflecting her newly found lifelong passion., mouth open, eyes wide. Yep, she was a goner.

From that moment on, there was always a horse, or 5, in her life. She rode her friend Teresa's horses before she ever had any of her own. Teresa rode Red, and Pam rode Sonny. (As I recall, it was Sonny who headed to the barn one day with me hanging on to Pam for dear life...I never heard Pam say DUCK! when we came to the clothes line...and off I went, thus ending any desire I might have had to ride again).

When my sister and brother and I played together at home, we played horses. We spent hours setting up little plastic fences and tin  barns...small plastic horses were the 'families'. When we didn't do that, WE were the horses. Well, THEY were the horses...I always seemed to be the pack mule, bribed with a sugar bit bridle.

Then, when Pam was about 16, along came Brandy. Even I had to admit, he was magnificent. A sorrel gelding with a white star in the middle of his forehead. She was head over heels in love with him. I remember Daddy tossing her the keys to the car that first Christmas. I think she knew the car wasn't the gift...it was the  beautifully tooled saddle in the trunk of the car that made her squeal like a 5 year old.

Brandy took up every spare moment she had. Pam was an excellent student, all A's, Honor Society, all that. But as soon as her school work was done, off we'd go to our grandmother's place to take care of Brandy. (Y'all remember Mama C, don't you?) Pam hauled hay, cleaned stalls, picked hooves, washed and brushed and curried that big red horse, loving every minute of it.

When Brandy came down with ringbone in his front leg, she worked like a fool trying to cure it. She would rub linament in to 'blister' it, until her own hands were as red as fire. When he got it in the other leg, it was clear that nothing more could be done, but ease his suffering. I thought she would die from a broken heart.

By the time Molly Pepper came along, Pam and Daddy had built a barn in the back of our house, just around the corner from the high school. It was really cool to walk home from school and see her out in the lot, kicking up her  heels. Molly, that is, not Pam. Molly was gorgeous too...red with a black mane and tail.

I can barely remember when Pam didn't have horses. There was a time in my life when I resented the fact that I wanted to talk with her about my babies, and she wanted to talk about her horses...I thought...NO COMPARISON!!!...but then I realized that her horses WERE her babies, so we were really sharing our parenting experiences, I just didn't know it at the time. (I'm sorry if I ever got pissy with you about that, Pam)

I don't think she'd want me to tell you how long it's been since she first laid eyes on that Clydesdale, but I can tell you that Pam's love of  horses still continues. The other pictures I posted weren't the real horses, only because I didn't have a picture of Brandy and Molly....but here is a real picture of Pam doing her thing with her boy, Tadpole. Don't they look good?