Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Not remembering is quite often a bad thing. Pay those bills? Ooops, forgot about that. One time I forgot I took my car to work and hailed a taxi to get home. Husband was rather not amused by that one. I thought it was kind of funny.
I'd completely forgotten that I had this blog thingy. Now I've remembered. But I can't think of anything witty or intelligent to post, so you're going to have to suck it up and live with this meager offering. At least the little animal is cute.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I grew up with All Star Wrestling, watching it with my grampa. Grampa always got quite the work out during those 1-hour matches on television. He'd sit in his rocking chair and go through the moves along with his favorites. Much grunting accompanied his feigned grappling holds and illegal punches as he watched his favorites: The Crusher and Verne Gagne. I got as much enjoyment watching grampa as I did watching the actual "wrastlin".
Grama generally made an appearance every 10 minutes or so. She'd come out of the kitchen with her butcher knife (I swear she used it for everything including making jello) and would brandish it at the television screen, shouting obscenities at the bad guys. She always had a few moves to exhibit too, between "Get that Russian bastard!" and "I'll slit his throat!".
Grampa took me to a real live wrestling match one time at Falls Senior High School. There it was, the actual ring, right in the gymnasium. Vince McMahon was just a young guy at the time, but already in full swing as a promoter. The Crusher and the Bruiser (who were maybe the same guy, they had the same build!) were the good guys. Dr. X pulled his usual cheating routine with a tire iron hidden (!) under the ring skirting. Why couldn't the referee hear us shouting about that?? Baron Von Rushke pulled out The Claw and was victorious in his bout.
Of course, Verne Gagne was the hero of the night with his Figure Four Leglock. That was his patented move and it was so good of his opponent to lay quite still while Verne applied it and then cranked up the pressure until submission. Cheers all around. I was hoarse by the time the night was over, and grampa damn near had a stroke.
I've tried to watch wrestling a few times recently, but it's too much glitz now and most of the wrestlers look like pansy-ass rock stars rather than the brawny beasts of my past. Nowadays I have to settle for MMA and toughman competitions, but it's not nearly as thrilling as old time wrasslin.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
BEST PRACTICES. I'm beginning to think that perhaps 10% of the people who use this phrase might have a remote idea of what it actually means. The other 90% are talking about policies (good or bad), or are simply applying the phrase to whatever it is that THEY are doing. Shut up if you don't understand what it means.
ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. You are a secretary. I was a secretary, a pretty good secretary at that. But I was smart enough to know that getting the new title of Administrative Assistant was in lieu of a damn pay increase.
STAYCATION. How sweet. You're too damn broke to leave town.
ACTION ITEMS. This used to be called the to-do list. Nice and simple, shit you have to do. We peons still have to-do lists; corporate has an action list.
PUSH BACK. Christ on a rope. You're just disagreeing! I'd suggest you duck if you start with any actual pushing around me.
WINDSHIELD TIME. What the hell? It's driving in your car. It's the time you spend driving to the stupid summits to hear about onboarding. Shut up.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Back story: earlier in the evening, like right when I got home from work, I saw Three with his head OVER the electric tape, munching on some hay on the other side. Yes indeedy, his neck was right on the tape and obviously no shocking going on there. Husband came home right after and I said "you have to get that electric fixed tonight when you feed or the horses will be out". You all know where this is going. Husband went and fed horses (his turn) and I asked him if he got the electricity going over there and he said everything was "fine".
So at 4:30 a.m. (Ron gets up at 4 a.m. and had been in bed since 10 p.m., as opposed to ME, waiting for really, HIS friend's son to get here and then entertaining the young man with lively chat until 2 freaking o'clock in the morning), Ron is thumping up the stairs to the bedroom "Laurie! Laurie! The horses are out!". Me, groggy from sleep, "Wah?" Him: "ALL the horses are out".
We have the horses in 3 separate pastures/paddocks and so of course I'm imaging all 8 horses wandering. Mind you, husband was already up, but somehow or other I managed to
a) get on sweats and get downstairs
b) toss on the snowmobile suit and boots
c) get outside and call to the 3 (not 8 ) horses who were wandering around in the yard, less than 100 feet from being out on the county freaking highway in the pitch dark
d) get all three to follow me into the barn and put in stalls
e) get the remaining horse from the pasture into the barn (he hadn't left the paddock, the electric tape was on the ground and he wouldn't cross it) and
f) have a very lengthy swearing fit in the barn at the top of my lungs.
I have no idea where husband was as it was after all this (admittedly, I'm quick and it took about 10 minutes) that he showed up in the barn, "Are they all in?"
Now I'm wide awake but kind of shaky from adrenaline and pissed-offed-ness. Apparently by "fine" Ron meant that he had done nothing with that fence and had instead determined that said horses would simply not go through. It was just late this fall that all 4 of these horses were out during the day when we were at work and WERE on the highway and there were so many cops in our yard trying to get them back in that it looked like a meth bust here. That time husband had left the freaking gate open.
Seriously, I apparently have to feed the horses myself morning and night as husband is a dunce. We've had horses for years and years. Now I'll be up peering out the window multiple times each night thinking that I heard hoofbeats on the driveway. And obviously I'll have to get the electric going as husband just hung the tape back up in that area and thinks it's again, "fine".
Don't get me wrong, he's a good guy and all that but jesus on a rope. We've been married 30+ years and I'm telling you, I can't do a thing with him in this regard. Thank you for listening. My heart rate is nearly back to normal now.
(edit for angry typos)
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
We might as well establish something right from the get-go. I'm basically poor white trash. There's no shame in that. It's not like I'm "White Trash".
"White Trash" encompasses that group of people who:
- make their mutt churn out litter after litter of spectacularly messed up mixed-breed pups, and then tries to pass them off as some bizarre designer pooch, worth hundreds and thousands of dollars.
- never even intend to pay their freaking bills, but are always the victim
- have a severe case of chronic work-avoidance syndrome
- are stupid - - not ignorant. Ignorant people, as we all know, can be edumacated. But as the saying goes, "you can't fix stupid".
On the other hand, poor white trash is more a state of mind. We're poor white trash, and damn proud of it. We tend to like animals at least as much if not more than most humans. We are sometimes crude, but not generally intentionally mean and vicious. We really don't care about keeping up appearances. We don't follow trends and fads. There's generally at least a partial picture of a dog or two in most every family photo. We sometimes make ignorant decisions or get in a bind, but get ourselves out of it and can actually learn from mistakes. We don't take hand-outs.
Case in point: how many of you have had something repossessed? C'mon, raise your hands. What? :::squinting, trying to see hands::::
We had a car repossessed. Yep, we got ourselves in a helluva financial situation, one so bad that an attorney said, "Cut your losses, file bankrupcy". But you know, poor white trash has that crazy pride. No bankrupcy, just years of paying for things we no longer owned, right down to the last penny. When the decent car was repo-ed, we bought the Bondo Wagon. I'm not really sure why we called it the Bondo Wagon, as there was no Bondo on it whatsoever. Just acres of rust and some rather neat accessories. We had the no-hands-access to the trunk: just reach right in there through one of the rust-holes and grab what you need. And who the heck needs all those gears? Since Bondo stalled out at anything less than 20 mph, we just learned to throw the car in neutral when slowing down, and hit the gas pedal. The holes in the floorboards eliminated the need for any of that fancy-schmancy air-conditioning. You get the point.
We drove that $50 car for about 18 months while digging out of the financial mess, and drove it with pride. Any poor white trash worth their salt realizes that you have to beat people to the punch: flaunt your "I'm a financial idiot" status before anyone gets a chance to start talking behind your back.
Fast forward about 20 years: we're still somewhat financial idiots, but the money situation is actually pretty good. We have a nice little rural spread, horses, dogs, cats and the kids are grown and out on their own, both with good work ethics (yay kids!). We're the King and Queen of "oh geez, it's good enough". The best is for someone who has too much time on their hands and wants to spend the time, money and effort for that perfection jazz. We laugh inappropriately at the most inopportune times, swear too much, have several bad habits between us which we have no intention of changing, watch reality television, have been known to order pay-per-view for professional wrestling extravaganzas, and put off today that which we could certainly do tomorrow or perhaps avoid altogether.
I just wanted to get that right out there for you, the poor white trash thing.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
She never threatened to slit my throat. But she often said, "You keep up that racket, and down goes your meathouse!". The exact point of her threat would reflect what it was that I was doing that was driving her over the edge, but the dire threat of my meathouse going down was what held me in check.
A couple of years after grama died, I asked my mom what the hell "down goes your meathouse" meant. I think I asked her because of course she used the same phrase. Imagine my chagrin upon discovering that ma had absolutely no idea what it meant. She used the phrase simply because of it's effectiveness.
I've been in a quandry over this since 1988.