Momma’s Bar Stool

Not sure if I have ever told you about Momma’s bar stool. If I have, I am gonna tell you about it again. It is an ever evolving story. I will retell it the best my memory will allow. Here goes.

When I was in early elementary school, my mother worked for a Seattle based thrift store. (At least so I think it is Seattle based. I have never seen any outside of Seattle and there were three or four in the city to my knowledge. I was only 6 or 7. What did I know? Ah, but I digress…) It was called St. Vincent De Paul. As the General Manager, she was afforded the opportunity to bring things home from time to time. My childhood was filled with many oddities that came from those stores. Donations straight from America’s attics, back rooms, sheds, and basements. Riddled with yard sale oddities, these stores were the day care centers of my 1st-3rd grade years. You see, Momma would pick me up from school and bring me to work. I would have the run of the place until the store closed and then it was off to the Bingo Hall for the remainder of the evening. But that, my friends, is  a story for another day.

On one of the days I was lucky enough to be able to come home with Daddy; Momma brought home 2 things. The red “bench” chair and an oak bar stool. The red bench chair is still in her kitchen. There is only one place you can actually find one of those chairs and I hope to own one of my own one day, if not THAT one. Seems like a pretty good product if it is still around after nearly 40 years. So is that bar stool. That bar stool has moved all over the country with us. We slowly migrated east with this bar stool (and the rest of our stuff, obviously.) Currently, we are in South Carolina and this bar stool will migrate with me and my family into the far north soon. Boy, the stories it could tell. Yes, after nearly 40 years, it still exists. Albeit not in its original form, but its still hanging on nonetheless. These days it is not much more than an alternately shaped TV tray but still a fixture in the main areas of the house.

Bar stool was made in an era when real furniture was made. Its not made of match stick wood or press board. None of that shit lasts as long as good solid oak. I mean, think about it. How much of the furniture manufactured in the last 20 years is going to be here half a century later. Unless some little old lady owns it, it will likely be destroyed somehow. Even water rings from a sweaty glass can kill a piece of furniture these days. Not old Bar Stool. It’s real. It’s there. It’s here to stay. It shrugs off sweat rings like water off a duck’s back.

About 3 or 4 years ago, I was painting one of the boyz rooms. I needed to paint at the top of the wall, in the corner, behind the door. Of the two boys, the youngest was asleep and the other one was roaming around the house doing things only a 9-10 year old can do. I had the door shut. I was painting the corner above the door and didn’t want to drip sky blue paint on the door. Foolishly, I was standing on the seat of the bar stool. Instead of doing the right thing and going to get the kitchen step bench, I had chosen Bar Stool as my lift to reach the higher parts of the wall. There is still no reason why I choose that as my muse. I just did. It is good to keep in mind that I had successfully painted a quarter of the room before I found myself in this corner. I had meandered on and off the stool from this same standing position for at least the last hour. No problem right? I was about to find out my mistake.

There is another thing you should know about this situation. This happened at the point of my life where I was just over 200 pounds. It was my “fat phase” also known as the era of the Flavor Hog. So, yes, even if I were just 80 pounds soak and wet, at 200 plus, I had no business standing on the top of a bar stool, in a corner, on carpet. Being my first time up on the stool in the corner and confident that I was doing well, I had inadvertently placed the stool a tad too close to the wall. I had painted most of the corner and needed one more round of paint in my cup to finish off what needed to be done. Just as I had done many times before. I had squatted down, in preparation to get my foot on the first slat,  and then it happened.

You have been told before that, when I was overweight, I was quite uncomfortable in my own skin. This made me a little more clumsy. A little more miserable. A lot more misunderstood about the limits of where my boundaries were.  Upon squatting down on the stool, I had bumped the wall behind me with my big fat fanny. The next few seconds happened for me in slow motion but I can still remember them happening like it was just yesterday. I bumped the wall, and the stool began to fall over. Trying not to fall on my face, I tried to stand up and gain my footing on something, anything so that I would not get hurt. We all know I am as graceful as they come. In hindsight, I am not sure if that was the best idea, but it seemed to be the only one at the time. Instead of ending up vertical, I over corrected and fell backwards…right on top of the legs of the Bar Stool. I heard the legs splinter underneath me and laid there on the floor. In full shock of what just happened and wondering if any of that splintering had been something inside my body, my 9 year old son comes banging on the door. Frantically I hear “Mom? MOM! Are you OK? What haaappppeeennnneddd?”  Unable to move and not sure, I hollered back and told him to go get his Daddy. You see, I was on the floor blocking the door and he was unable to get in.

I imagine he took off like a flash. Daddy was at the pond behind the house fishing. A few minutes later, Cal pushed his way into the room and stood over me shaking his head. “Are you OK?” he said. My reply was that everything was fine. By this time I had gained my bearings and figuring out exactly what I had done. I explained myself to Cal and know what he said to me? “Only you.”

Remember at the beginning of the story I had told you that Bar Stool was still around? Yes, the story does not end here. I told Cal I wanted to see if he could turn Bar Stool into Step Stool or something and that is exactly what he did. Essentially, he sawed off the splintered legs to about a foot long, screwed them into the seat of the stool and here I sit on it, in the living room, writing to you. Bar Stool is our cat of sorts. A thing with nine lives.

What do YOU think?

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Reshare: Insanitybites.

I am woman. Hear me roar. Know what? Yes. I make my husband a sandwich from time to time. Know what else? He does it for me too! Marriage and relationships are about team work and not who is wearing the pants or who is in control. It is about give and take. “For better and for worse” means that when he is down, I step up and drive this boat. When I am tired from cleaning, working, caring for the kids, and, God forbid…making sandwiches, he steps up to the plate and does the same. My husband can clean house every bit as well as I can. He can run this house and keep everything running if I need to sleep a day a way or I am ever ill. He doesn’t do FOR me and neither I him. We are in this together and we are equal. When the world, especially the damn internet figures that out, there may be something similar to World Peace happening in the domestic arena.

 

 

 

There’s a real spiritual war going on within our culture right now that some may be blissfully unaware of, the battle of the sandwiches. I too was unaware of it until it began to encroach upon my life. The meme about “making sandwiches” is about far more than the superficial, it is an outright attack […]

via Making Sandwiches — See, there’s this thing called biology…

Daddy’s Library

Daddy Reads

In his twilight years, Daddy became an avid reader. Maybe he always was. He just did it a whole lot more when he was older. He always liked to read. Ever since I could remember, Daddy had a book within arm’s reach. He loved his car races, football games, Star Trek, and horror movies just like any other man. He worked on cars and was a hard working man who took care of his wife’s bingo and shopping habits. But one thing he always did, no matter what, was read. When I was a little girl, he always told me that if you loved to read, you were never at a loss for something to do nor would you be poor. Reading provided knowledge and it took you places that you could never afford or even dream of. Daddy was always fond of a good western and later, he liked the horror/mystery books. I can still remember vividly the first time he took me with him to the library. I knew how to read by this point in my life and outside of the libraries at school, I did not know of public libraries where you could check out as many books as your heart desired. That first time, I came home with a stack of books almost as tall as I was. I curled up in the corner and spent the afternoon reading about dragons, the Little Rascals, Mr Frog and Rabbit, and many other stories. I distinctly remember him telling my mother that I had not moved from my spot for hours and spent the afternoon reading.

Thus, the love for reading was passed from father to daughter. In one afternoon, he shared a passion with me that resonated and woke something inside of me that never really sleeps. The love of reading. After he retired and started to become too old and stiff to work on the cars or ride around to auction houses, he started visiting the local libraries. At the time, our county had four branches that were relatively close to where we lived. He always announced to the house when he was going to the library. The older he got, these announcements started to be the only time his voice would sparkle with happiness. Like he was about to embark on a grand adventure and he would be back. It was never a short trip and he would always come home with a grocery bag full of books.

After some time, he discovered the honor books. He became quite fond of them. In this county, the honor book section was quite impressive and it allowed for him to take as many as he wanted and return them whenever he felt like. He would also add into the mix a random paper back that he would find here or there. I remember having a conversation with him once about the honor books. He told me that once he had discovered he had read everything in the honor book section, he would move on to another branch and start reading their honor books. He could accomplish reading an entire honor book section in about a month or two. I like to think this as Daddy travelling his “Honor Book Circuit.” Sometimes, I would ask him. “Yo, Dad, what library in the circuit are you going to today?” He would giggle that Doug giggle and tell me which one then invite me to go. I was always too busy. However, I now wish I would have went every time he asked.

He seemed at peace when he was reading. Even if he was eating a sandwich with his book propped up on the napkin holder, he was at peace and spend many hours sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of 2 or 3 on the table, waiting to be read.

When he went tot he hospital for the last time in 2009, one of the things he asked my mother to bring him was his bag of books that were next to his chair in the kitchen. When I retrieved his things after he had passed, one of the things that was on the table next to his bead was one of those honor books and his reading glasses. I still have the reading glasses and I still have the book. He was never able to finish the story. I kept the book, hoping one day to finish it. It is outside of my normal genre and I never got any further than he did. I did take the rest of the bag of books to the library. The lady at the counter looked at me evilly as I plopped the bag on the counter. “I don’t know where these go. They were my fathers and he got them from the honor section. I am returning them to you as he would have.” Yea, I broke down in tears. I walked away and had never been back to that library since. However, one day I plan on finishing ihe one book I kept. Besides, I have to have something to tell him when we meet in heaven right?

I miss you Daddy…I am still reading.

What do YOU think?

Colored Popsicle’s

Long before I was a work at home professional, and many years ago, I was a manager in a local elementary school cafeteria. I was the new kid on the block as most of the staff had been with the school for many years. I got along well enough and the people who worked in there were what you would expect of the kids lunch staff. One of my duties was to choose and set out a snack for the after school program that often met in the cafeteria at the end of the school day.

This one particular day, we had some Popsicle’s of assorted colors. It was an exceptionally warm afternoon and it was a perfect day to have these out for a snack for the kids. Whenever we had to leave something out that required refrigeration or a freezer, they were often set inside a piece if equipment that housed other things that the kids paid for when they were sent to school with extra lunch money. The school required that we kept a daily running inventory of these items because the money earned from these items was accounted for and used to purchase things like the after school snacks and other things for the kitchen. Our school sold “rainbow pops” of “assorted colors” to the kids during lunch. These were one of the sets of items I had to have inventoried daily.

I would leave a note for the after school teacher directing her where to find the snacks for the day provided to her program each afternoon. This particular day, I had to put some extra thought into the note I was leaving her. I did not want her to confuse the after school snack with the snacks that the children paid to purchase during lunch. I was unable to note that her kid’s snack was “rainbow pops” because that was the literal name of the ones we sold at lunch. I felt that would cause confusion. I certainly did not want to explain to my higher ups why there was a discrepancy. I had to come up with another way to explain on paper what she was to look for. Another term I did not want to use was “assorted colors” because that was also on the label of the for sale Popsicle’s that were not intended for the program.  I was also acutely aware that I did not offend anyone. After much thought, I decided to let her know:

“Today’s snack is the colored popscicles in the freezer. They are right on top. Have a great day!”

I went home and thought that would be the end of it. Early the next morning, the principal came to my office. As a side note, when I interviewed for this position, my husband drove me to the school and waited in the parking lot for me to attend the interview. On the way out, the Principal had walked with me to the car and she met my husband. Both had attended this elementary school and were able to make pleasant conversation. The day ended well and I was offered the job. Ah, but I digress. So the Principal comes to see me and shows me this note that I had left the after school lady. The one about “colored Popsicle’s” Really?

Apparently, the thought I put into this note was a bit much and I was accused of being a racist. Keep in mind, the Principal (and maybe the kitchen clean up guy) were the only ones who knew anything about my family and anything outside of what I was at work. As she was explaining how utterly offended the after school lady was, she noted that we had to have a meeting about it in her office the next day. What struck me as strange was that she was grinning the entire time she was talking to me. Let me put the situation to you in “black and white.” It is not meant to be offensive. If you find offense in this, then you are better off reading other things. There is no other way to set up how this went down. The Principal is white. I am white. The after school lady is black. My husband is black. It is that simple. Because the Principal knew my husband. She asked that he be present at this meeting so that we can squash any conflicts there may be over any misunderstandings.

She asked that DH and I be in her office at 7 AM the next morning. Purposely, she asked that the after school lady show up at 7:15. DH and I were sitting in the Principal’s office discussing our own elementary school adventures when the after school lady came in. Immediately, she noticed someone she had never seen before and stopped at the door. She had a look of confusion on her face. Obviously she did not understand while DH was sitting in this office. The Principal waved her into the cozy office to have a seat. She immediately began by raising the letter into the air and noting that we are here due to a serious accusation of racism. Yes, there is no room in today’s world for such a thing a s racism and we are here to stop this before it becomes something it is not. She went on to allow the after school lady to explain her side of the story.

The after school lady noted that she was utterly and thoroughly offended by the statement and that it was a racist stab at her because she was black. She went on to say that my behaviors during the day were, in her observation, discriminatory and she did not feel comfortable working around someone who was borderline white supremacist as me. I am sure it does not help the uninformed third party that I am as pale as they come. There is no mistake that I am white. There is no way around it. After the after school lady told her side, I explained my side. I told how I had put careful thought into the letter and that I tried not to offend anyone nor create any confusion due to the labeling of all of the Popscicle’s that were in the deep freezer in the cafeteria. After both sides had told their stories. The principal sat there for a minute or two and there was an uncomfortable silence.

One of the things I admired about after school lady was that she was very vocal about her observations. She broke the silence by asking who was this man sitting here in this office with us and what was his purpose for being here? Principal asked DH to introduce himself. (She did so with a grin.) He thrust out his hand to after school lady and introduced himself as my husband. There is not a way to describe the look on after school lady’s face. She was, for lack of a better description, floored. She had no idea that I was married and married to DH. There was not any words she could form to show that she knew in that moment she was wrong for what she had done. After school lady came into this meeting likely believing that I was going to be reprimanded of fired for purposely writing racist slander. Instead, Principal went on to advise after school lady that she should not judge a book by it’s cover and to not assume that all white people that she did not know were racist.

We got along famously after that and the whole thing brought the kitchen staff a little closer. This story has stuck with me over the years. I had never been in a situation like that or have since. It was interesting and a great learning experience for me.

Two things come from this. 1. Don’t be racist. Even when you don’t try to be and 2. Don’t judge a book by its cover.

What do YOU think?

My Assistants: Working From Home

When you work from home, having someone to be your personal assistant is not a luxury that many are afforded. I am fortunate enough to have a good support system and, on school holidays, the children take turns being my “assistant” for the day. What this means is that I won’t have to get my own coffee, let the dogs in our out, check the mail,  or anything else (besides going pee) that requires me to get up and leave my desk. This does take some careful orchestration. Because I work in a call center, my office must have a quiet, distraction free area and there needs to be zero background noise. Fortunately for me, my company allows for me to have my phone in the office with me so long as it remains silent. This means I can text one of the kiddos in another part of the house and request a reheat of my coffee or for them to bring me a lunch.

I try to give them leeway in somethings. Surprise me with what you are bringing me for lunch. Come and check on me every now and then. What they do is quietly open the door, give me a thumbs up and if I do the same in return, they will go away satisfied. If I don’t, I will wave them in and write down whatever it is I need for them to do. This is something that works for our household and is not easy to accomplish for everyone. It enables me to teach them a value of a good day’s work and it allows me to ensure they are OK while working. Obviously you cannot do this with a child under the age of 8. However, for older kids, it is a great way to teach valuable lessons, while ensuring they are OK throughout the day as well as getting your work done.

Of course the kiddos go back to school. Most days that I work, they are doing their job of earning an education. My job makes us money and their job ensures they are able to get a job better than I what I have and to help them become productive citizens after being on this planet for a couple of decades. It works for us to think of it this way.  When they are out doing their “jobs.” I still have assistants. The dogs. 🙂

On their own, the dogs we have understand that Mommy’s office is a no bark zone. I am not entirely sure if that is anything that I taught them. But, when they are quarantined in the office with me, should someone knock on the door or they hear something, they whisper bark. It is something more of a bark that is mumbled under the breath. They are great at letting me know if they hear something. They are also considerate of the noise they make if I am able to leave my office door open. That doesn’t happen much but I do that to allow them to come and go instead of being locked up in a stifling server room. They also remind me that it is time to take a break and rest my eyes for a few minutes. When you work in an office setting, whether it is work at home, or if it is in a brick and mortar office, breaks and lunches are important. They give you the opportunity to get up, stretch, rest your eyes and decompress for a few minutes. Depending on how long my lunch is, I am afforded the opportunity to play fetch in the yard or even take them for a walk.

Each of my assistant’s have their own style and affect my day positively in different ways. I would not be able to enjoy the lifestyle that is working from home without them.

What do YOU think?

Daily Word Prompt: Elastic

In an effort to work on my blogging skills and try to write outside of my comfort zone, I am trying writing prompts. Today’s word…. Elastic. Brought to you by: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/27030/posts/1618878317

Elastic

Elastic is a term used loosely in life. No pun intended. Life is all about push and pull. While one may feel they have found themselves in a rut, there is still some stretching that is done in life. No matter how deep the rut is. Things happen and life gets in the way. You may be in that grey area and follow the same exact routine daily, but there is always something that provides something elastic to the whole process. For those with anxiety, the change can make for some great self doubt and nervousness. From having the 9 a.m. Monday meeting cancelled to taking lunch 20 minutes late; if you have found comfort in your rut, even the smallest changes can be difficult.

Think about the young child with a blanket attachment. I remember when our son’s blanket was left at the daycare and we did not know where it was. It was quite a difficult night and despite all the cuddles and snuggles readily provided to him, he did not sleep well and that entire 24 hour period was wrought with stress and tears. Something as simple as his blanket being missing for the day made life difficult at best. While it was hard for me, I cannot imagine how it must of been for him. As parents, we tend to discount the paramount importance something as little as a blanket can be to our tiny humans. The reason I mention this tidbit is this: The way we can tackle catastrophes such as this lay the foundation for how our future selves handle the slightest change or elastic situation in our lives. The happy ending to the blanket story is that the next day we found that I had put the diaper bag and blanked on the car and drove away. The next parent found it all and took it inside. We did get the blanket back and he was happy as a lark. Surprisingly, he found out himself (a big revelation for a 2 year old) that he can go to the store or live for a few hours without dragging his blanket with him. He is 14 now. He still has the blanket. It spends most days folded neatly in the top of his closet. However, during particularly elastic days, I will find it laying on his bed. I guess he finds comfort in having an old friend around during a trying day.

Moving from a steadfast constant, to an elastic comfort, the blanket is his safety net. It helps him through days where his routine is thrown out of wack.

Amazing how things transform as we grow.

What do YOU think?

This Morning, I Squirreled

As we all know, I have my “writing days.” This means general laziness and lack of the elixir of life (caffeine.) To begin with, I worked late last night. This, of course, horribly threw off my weekend sleeping schedule. As a result, I ended up oversleeping. I know what you are thinking. How can you over sleep on a sleep-in day?  Sadly, I had to work for a couple hours this morning.

Bottom line? I was tired, I overslept, and I had no choice but to have a couple cups of Java. No, I have not been squirreled yet, I have just begun my day! Groggily, I meander into the office and get my couple hours out of the way and then brush my teeth. Yes, normally I am ready and the brushing of the hair, brushing of the teeth, beating of the boogey man are all done before work. Like I said, I overslept. Anywhoo…I went to brush my teeth and made the mistake of looking up. Toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, I notice a couple of dots on the wall above the lights that are above the medicine cabinet. I know, why in the sam hill would I look up there? I don’t know. Maybe it was my body finding something to do with an extra dose of caffeine for the week cuz BOY WAS I AWAKE! Instead of proceeding to put the toothpaste on my brush and go about my day, my brain said that I absolutely had to see what those two dots were.

OOOOKAY! I was too lazy to go get the utility bench and stand on it so I just went for it. I climbed up on the counter and stood up. So here I stand, on the counter, without my glasses on, and my face is about 8 inches from the wall so I could determine what these little dots were. Here is what my brain is saying: I don’t know why I never seen these things up here before. But dang….its dusty up here and I need to get a wet rag and wipe the top of the cabinet and the light fixture down because; oh…ick. What are those two dots?  Squint. Squint. Think. Squint. Damn, its dusty, let me grab the hand towel and put some water on it because the dusting wipes are in the kitchen. *Looks down* Let me grab my phone by my foot and take a picture and send to Cal because WHY THE FLUCK AM I STANDING ON THE COUNTER? It would be hilarious if he were to walk in the house at this moment from picking up breakfast. Hehe *Click…Send*  Where is that towel, there it is. Lower yourself to get water carefully Micaa, that floor is concrete and you might break something if you fall. How would you explain THAT?!”

Let me step back from this thought process.

At some point in all of that noise, it occurs to me that the dots on the wall were ants from an infestation we had originating from the open bathroom window about 4 or 5 years ago. We sprayed ant spray all over the bathroom and there was a line of ants going from the bathroom window to the light fixture above the medicine cabinet. These two guys must not have been wiped off the wall during any subsequent cleaning adventures. Oh, they were crunchy. I imagine there was nothing biological left of those guys except the fact that they were just there. Mummified so to speak. Ultimately, I wiped the entire wall above the medicine cabinet, dusted the top of it off, cleaned the light fixture, and started laundry.

Yea, I started laundry. Then I brushed my teeth. Whew! That took about an hour. All I was going to do was brush my teeth. I have come to a conclusion about this situation. I am either suffering from busy mom syndrome or I truly have ADHD. That was tiring.

What do YOU think?

 

The Opposite of Writer’s Block?

All weekend I have had a feeling that I absolutely must write. The only problem is that I did not know what it was. I did get a couple of good posts out of it but the satisfaction one gets after forking out a blurb did not last. I almost felt like it was a drug and it had ceased to work its magic for me. It reminded me of that little “Nugget” cartoon that is going around social media that shows what drugs will do to someone. (Here it is in case you need a memory jog…  see below. ) Mind you, I am normally satisfied to do 2 posts a week and then  wait until the next weekend. However, with this posting on a Monday, you must know that the need for that satisfied feeling has yet to come. I have also felt the need to read something and everything I pick up, with the exception of one book was simply not good enough. I don’t know what it is. I have never felt this way before and like most things that interfere with my rut, it sucks. It sucks a big old fat one and I don’t know what to do.

I have tried all my outlets. From my idea and personal journals, to my book, to my next non-fiction work to my blogs. NOTHING seems right! What is a girl to do? I even thought that if I did this small post that it would satisfy that. Oh no. Like so many other things in my life recently, that was a good idea as it bounced around in my brain but not very fruitful once it came out. Ah, but I digress.

Such it is that we are….

What do YOU think?

 

 

 

Fiction: Losing the Extra Button

Mollie stood there admiring her work. This has been a custom of hers as of late. Every time she completes a difficult job well, she feels compelled to stand there for a moment and take her success in. another habit she has begun is rather odd but she doesn’t find it so. When she finally gets beyond the planning phase of any “work” task, she purchases a new button up shirt. Modern times have shown that most any new button up shirt needs that extra button that no one ever needs or uses. You know what I am talking about. It is normally fastened inside the shirt somewhere. Normally along the seam, at the bottom of the button row, or attached to that annoying tag inside the back of the shirt. All safe and snug in its own little plastic, transparent envelope (of sorts.) Ironic is it that nothing messy can get into that plastic slip unless you tear it open to retrieve the button. Mollie has never had reason to tear open the plastic. She only hopes to keep it that way. You see, the buttons do have some importance. At least for Mollie they do.

Mollie suddenly remembers the button on this blue plaid number. She was short on funds this time around. When it came time for a new button shirt, she had to surf the clearance rack. No biggie. Even cheap shirts are blessed with that button. Remember we came to find Mollie admiring a job well done. After taking a deep, satisfactory breath, she begins to search the shirt for the button. A constant comfort, those buttons. Always there for her. Without fail. Of course it helps that she ensures they are there before purchasing the shirts. But that is a story for another day. She finds the button and then bites the plastic tie with her teeth to snap it off. Firmly grasping the packaged button in her sweaty palm, Mollie heads for the office where she will put it with countless others. The cigar box she keeps them in has enough to cover the bottom and to begin some depth. She smiles serenely as she thinks of it as a small pool….of button water!

Now the real work has to begin. Mollie goes to the closet in her office. So opens this closet so rarely that when she does pull open the accordion doors, dust floats down into her  hair and makes her sneeze. She grabs some chemicals she obtained while working nights in the hospital. They have this great stuff that gets rid of bodily fluids quite well. Doesn’t even leave a trace. Not even something those nosey forensic professionals can find. This stuff is so great that it doesn’t even leave a trace of itself. A degree in forensic science helped ensure that she was fully informed of all aspects of the task at hand. She returns to the kitchen. Looking at the clock, she knows she has approximately four hours before the love of her life returns from his business trip. Being married to a wealthy executive has its advantages.

Let’s take a step back from the mind of Mollie for just a moment.

Unbeknownst to her husband, Mollie is the daughter of a famous serial killer. She was taught everything from the moment he slaughtered her mother in front of her at the tender age of four. After all, he included her in the clean up process. At that time in her life, she did everything she could to spend time with her Daddy who was away a lot. Instead of being afraid or sad, she was quite happy to help Daddy clean up his mess. That night, he told her she was good at her part of helping Daddy and asked if she wanted to help her do more cleaning. She jumped at the chance and never looked back. The difference between Mollie and Daddy is that Daddy got lazy. Not only did he get lazy. He tried to run when he knew it was time to quit. Not a good idea. In this life, you have to give up when life tells you to give up. Until then, take it and run with it. After the first time, Mollie understood the happiness killing brought Daddy. Same concept. Only, for Mollie, it was to protect her own feelings. Revenge killing is what you and I would call it. Erasing remnants of bad feelings is what it was for Mollie.

This body laying on the table in the breakfast nook of the kitchen was number 19 for Mollie. As she went about cleaning up the mess, she was singing along with her play list she had on her iPod for just this situation. See, the massacre that occurred in this kitchen just hours before was planned. Mollie has known for years that her husband has been unfaithful. Unbeknownst to hubby, it was convenient for Mollie that all of his flings were local. Made the entire process easier. Less of a disaster if something were to go awry. Mr. Mollie’s business trips were just that. Business. Mollie knew this as she followed him out of town and watched his every move. Several times. She even believed it was for him to get a rest from his current fling and his wife at the same time. “Poor guy” Mollie would think. Poor guy.

You see, whenever Mollie found out who Mr. was seeing, she would seek them out. She would find out all she could about them and then immerse herself quietly into their lives. Mr. was fond of socialites so it was quite easy for her to befriend them and stay below the radar. Mollie always struck when Mr. was away on business. Less questions and drama. By the time Mollie would strike, she would have become a close friend to the woman. Right down to knowing what kind of panties she preferred to wear. Close but not close enough to become a topic of conversation with Mr. She would invite them over to the house. It was quite convenient that these women did not know of this house. After all, Mr. had a separate home that Mollie was not supposed to know about. The secrets men will keep. She would invite the women over and, over coffee, she would tell them who she really was and provide proof. After all, there were pictures all over the house of her an Mr. in their happy days. There are none in the kitchen, however. No one hangs family photos in the kitchen. Prior to the woman’s arrival, Mollie would pluck one off the wall and lay it face down on the table. More for bait less for proof.

No two murders are the same. Ever. The clean up is the same. Thank goodness the fishing sink is just outside on the patio. Makes feeding the pigs so much easier. The pen was at the far end of the porch. They little bacon mongers absolutely loved it when Mollie used the fish sink. She would bring out pieces of her fresh kill, prep them by chopping them up and mixing in some fresh fruit. Over the years, strawberries and raspberries became the fruit of choice. Fortunately, Mr. has a thing for short women and this would not take long. After she fed her beloved pets and cleaned up the kitchen, she would make a grand dinner of steak and eggs, baked potatoes and, broccoli. A candlelit dinner for the Mr. at the breakfast nook table. Flawlessly perfect. In every way. Mollie always included the scraps of her new shirt in the pig slop. The button, a commemorative token of keeping someone away from what rightfully belonged to her. Mr. was always going to be hers. Anyone who thought different would become pig slop. A fitting death for a slut sleeping with a married man. Further, she would be there for him in the days that followed. He always became inexplicably sad after his business trips. This always made Mollie happy. This would always be the confirmation that she needed. The silver lining is that things would get better in her marriage. At least until the next short bitch came along….

This just means Mollie has to go find a new shirt. And a new button….

What do YOU think?

A Little Bird Told Me

One of the things that makes DH furious about people is that they tend to walk around with blinders on and tune out everything that goes on around them. I admire my better half for his skill in tuning into the details even when they are irrelevant. Apparently, I was walking around like a people (hereafter called sheeple) today and failed to remember that the world was supposed to end today. I got up, went to the cleaning store to buy cleaning supplies and even took the boys grocery shopping. All the while there was supposed to be mass chaos and doomsday going on all around me. BUT….It was just an ordinary day.

Until I came out of the cleaning store….

I hopped on my bike with my thoughtfully balanced bags and mop pointed out in front of me and proceeded to roll down the sidewalk. About halfway to the end of the strip mall, I noted something in the middle of the sidewalk. I always avoid anything I happen to see in the path of my tires because we all know I am the one to hit it and one of two things will happen. I will either pop the tire AND the tube or, the tire will shoot out from under me and I will find a way to become seriously injured and I fall gracefully to the ground. Bottom line? I just avoid things like that. It was a good thing I did this time too. Why?

There was a tiny little bird just sitting there. He was in the middle of the sidewalk and did not budge when I rushed past him on my bike. I happened to look down as I went by and seen him regard me with a calm regard that made me stop and come back. If he curled in his tail feathers, he would be no larger than a golf ball. He continued to sit there and look up at me as if he was trying to tell me something. I parked my bike and lightly stepped over to him and he was watching me just as I was him. There was zero fear in his tiny eyes. I felt compelled to stand there. Not knowing what to do, I took out my phone and snapped a picture. I always share my “adventures” with my family. Thanks to technology, proof is in the peanuts when telling someone something that could be considered a fish story.

After I returned my phone to my pocket, I was unable to leave him there. It was almost as if my feet were glued to that spot in the sidewalk until I was able to make a coherent decision. As I stood there, I looked around to find something I could use to try and pick him up and move him to safety. It has been my experience that when a bird is un-moving when you are towering over them, they are likely injured. Also, if he was diseased in some way, I didn’t want to become a statistic. I had my DH and the kids depending on me. For the first time in what seems like a millennia, I had nothing in my cleaning supplies I could open or use to pick him up as I had all cleaning chemicals. The mop was a cotton mop but it was a tiny one and not nearly long enough to use to wrap around this little guy. Besides, it might have freaked him out. I took inventory of my surroundings and still found nothing. What was I going to do? If I were to leave him here on the sidewalk, he would surely be killed, eaten by a stray or stepped on. I felt helpless. Further, even if I was able to get him to the safety of the bushes in the parking lot, I felt he would die of the heat. Here, on the sidewalk, it was under the roof of the building and it was cooler in the shade. With it being 8 am and 87 degrees already, it was set up to be a hot day.

While I was trying to think of something to do, and still under the spell of having to stay in this spot, I pulled out my phone and started a video. I didn’t expect anything YouTube worthy but it gave some perspective at just how little this guy was. He listened to me talk to him and just watched me. There was obvious trust in his gaze upon me and he did not flinch when I reached out to him. There were busy city sounds going on all around us and every time he startled, it was due to that and nothing I was doing. He trusted me 100% and, for a fleeting moment, I felt like Snow White. Only, I wasn’t singing to the bird. I was talking to it. Here is my proof:

(Kind of ironic that I said it wasn’t YouTube worthy, and here it is….Ah, but I digress.)

After I recorded that video, again, I returned my phone to my pocket and just stood there talking at the bird. I don’t know if I expected it to chirp, talk back to me, or what but I still felt the need to stay right there. Some lady walked by and looked at it like…oh, well…and kept right on going. Sheeple….I swear. I decided that the best course of action, due to lack of other options, was to push him up to the wall of the building gently with my foot. This way, if he angrily pecked at me, it would be my shoe and not a finger. Slowly, carefully, and easily, he let me gently push him to the building wall where it met the sidewalk. He didn’t freak out or anything. He just let it happen. Satisfied, I turned around to my bike and was preparing to leave. Lo and behold, the little guy started hopping in one spot and fluttering his wings a bit. Quickly, I pulled out my phone and this happened:

I was in the middle of wishing the little guy well when, out of the blue, he flew away. You can tell from my expression in the second video, I was shocked. In that moment, I felt a wave of “everything is gonna be alright” come over me. It was almost joy that I felt as I stood there and watched him fly over the building at the other end of the strip mall. I am not sure why that happened or for what reason. However, when it comes to things like that, I do feel there are forces at work that cause people to go through things like this. Most people shrug it off and move on. However, for me, this was out of the ordinary in my ordinary life. It was special. There were forces at work that I could not comprehend and I won’t stress myself out worrying about them. It was a magical moment one in the same. Treat the world right and the rewards will be bountiful. THAT right there is something I believe.

So, the next time you hear me fuss at DH or one of the kiddos about respecting the planet and loving Mother Nature, you will understand. Even in the middle of the city, Mother Nature finds a way. That bird was there for me. No doubt about it. I may not even understand why. Eventually, I will come to understand. For now, I will revel in the magic that it was and appreciate that something happened out of the ordinary to show me that my life is more than just ordinary. It is special.

What do YOU think?

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