Hanging at the DMV for my Birthday

Hanging at the DMV for my Birthday

It’s 7:56 am and I’m outside the DMV waiting for Mr. Government worker to unlock the rectangle, ugly blonde brick government building with too few windows. 

It’s my birthday and I have to get my driver’s license renewed.  

Right now, I am one of three people who will inevitably push and shove each other to be the first in line.  I am eyeing the people in car #1 and #3.  I think I can take one of them but not both.  

I kept putting off renewing my license because I was trying to bring my weight down to a manageable number.  If I ever go missing, I do not want them to Amber-blast out an incorrect weight when looking for me. 

I can hear the emergency beep, beep, beep on the TV…A short woman who thinks  she doesn’t have grey roots showing and who “claims” to be 76 pounds and wearing size -1 clothes has gone missing.  They say that she has a mysterious bump on her head.  She was last seen chasing after her dog, Josie, the Amazing, neurotic rescue dog and wearing some sort of “costume”. 

Another reason I’ve put off getting my driver’s license is that I have the shingles… on my face…I take that back, I have a shingle. I named him Sherman. 

A few days ago, I started whining to Lance about having to get up early to get my new license.   He said, “Just haul off and do it.”  That was hard to argue with so I made a plan.  I set all three of my alarms and went to bed by 9:30. 

Next morning, I got up, put make up on only ½ of my face because I was avoiding Sherman.  I’m hoping that when they take my picture, I can quickly turn my head mugshot style to hide him.  It was hard to style my hair around Sherman so it looked like a cross between Einstein and Steve Howe, the lead guitarist with Yes. 

I didn’t check out what time government offices open so I guessed 8 am.  I got to the parking lot at 7:45 am along with two other more-than-likely March birthdays. 

At 8 am, First Girl gets out and shouts back to me that the DMV opens at 8:30.  So like all modern people, I pull out my phone and play Solitaire.  At 8:29, First Girl gets out of her car and walks to the DMV door and stands dumbfounded.  She yells out to me in car #2 and an obvious convict in car #3, that there was an additional handwritten paper on the door that read that on Wednesday, only, the DMV will open at 9:30.

Lance has always had a theory that three mistakes must happen before you can get any government document accomplished.  This is #1.

What to do next….Do I go to the drug store and look through quasi-funny birthday cards with googly eyes, drive home, sit for 5 minutes and drive back, or do I sit in the parking lot and hope that Sherman goes down in size?

In the meantime, I’ve had the chance to watch about 30 people walk up to the door and try to sling it open.  I found out that I can now lip read.  I was able to decipher most of the words uttered when people saw the sign.  There have been more bad words uttered than an HBO movie. 

Most cars sped off, but cars #1 #2 & #3 early morning DMVers are waiting patiently in our cars playing solitaire or crushing candy or playing personality quizzes or Facebook.

FYI—I came out as a disgruntled corgi who is most likely named Sherman.

Meanwhile at 9:10, a line started forming by the door.  What? I said to myself. I cannot let this happen, I was 2^nd in line.  I gathered up my mama bear attitude and clomped up to the line.  I used my best Grrrr voice and pointed--that car over there and I have been here since 8 am.  We WILL be first in line…any questions?  I did not add the convict because it’s easier to crash a line with 2 people easier than with 3.  

Then I added with emphasis…and I’ve got a shingle and I’m not afraid to use it!  

The line parted like I imagined the Red Sea did.  I will never know if it was my ferocious Helen Reddy’s 70s I-am-woman voice or Sherman who got me to the front of the line. 

This was incident #2 on the Life is Bothersome scale. 

The government man was actually a well-groomed polite woman who did not answer her personality quiz on Facebook right and ended up renewing licenses.  She and I may or may not be meeting for lunch on Friday. 

I did get my license picture made.  I had on no makeup, added a few pounds to the lie I wrote ten years ago, and had a bad hair comb over and Sherman!

So do not, and I repeat, do not want to hear how bad you think your driver’s license picture is. 

Now for 10 years I will have my Shiny Sherman silhouette glaring at me anytime I whip out my credit card.   But, I’ve decided to embrace the picture because my next picture with be with thinner hair, large age spots and wiggly lip-lined lips. 

Happy Birthday Me to me

                                                  …and Sherman!

 

How Zombies Were Invented

How Zombies Were Invented

I’ve had a headache my whole life…as a kid, as a teen and on and on…. 

At that time, I had a good head on my shoulders until after lunch.  After that, it was headache city. I think my dislike to math is because Arithmetic was after lunch.

My theory is that English was taught at school in the morning sans headache so I did better.

Thereby, I am a writer and not a great mathematician who was a janitor and did stringently hard word problems on the board after hours.   

But now…I can tell what kind of day it’s gonna be when I first wake up.  First, I squint, to see if the sun is shining.  Oops, that means I might have a migraine today. 

Or if I squint and see if it’s raining or overcast, I could also have a migraine that day.

Today, my squint told me that I had major head trauma.  It’s probably because I dreamed about having an aneurism.

When I awoke, my vein was bulging out of my forehead.  I had Lance look at it to confirm if I was dead.  Lance did not concur.  He said it looked like a bug bite.

I knew it wasn’t a bug bite, because it was elongated.  Bugs bite circularly, I stated, trying to get Lance to understand the severity of my having an aneurism in my sleep.

Lance’s basic range of emotion connected with me is, “You are not dying, it’s a bug bite!”

Then I realized that spring was approaching.  That’s when blooms burst forth, color identifies itself, larvae hatch, photosynthesis happens and nature explodes.

That’s also when my head poofs into grey matter.  That’s when my sinuses are so tight that I feel like I’ve had a facelift inside my face. That is when the beauty of creation plays havoc in my head.

I believe this is how zombies and the whole “Walking Dead” series started.  Zombies did not just wake up from the dead.  They were actually migraine suffers. They woke on the first day of spring and they just felt like they were dead. 

No wonder zombies hair is not combed; their heads hurt.  Undead people who suffer post nasal drip, cannot stand the thought of something bristly wafting through their locks.

And the whole ripped shirt with blood stains on it is decipherable too.  I can put on a shirt in my bedraggled state, but when I try to brush my teeth, my head pounds and then I drop toothpaste on my shirt.  Then my nose bleeds and I cannot get the effort to clean it up so it drips on my shirt.

Later, when I see the blood, I try to clean it.  Of course, I don’t want to take the time to change shirts so I dab and stab and pull and yank while spraying a prewash.

My shirt tears a little here and there and my head is pounding so much, I cannot stand it.  That’s when I go outside and roll in the dirt to make the pain subside.

At the end, I usually stab my constant headache with a knife. This brings in the whole “zombie with a knife in head” picture that most people associate with the cult of the dead walkers.

At about 2 pm, my headache subsides for a nano-second and that’s when I declare that it is errand time.

I realize that I’m now out of spray pre-wash.  As I’m headed out the door, I notice that I have on a stained, torn-to-shreds shirt , crazy hair and a knife in my head.  I wonder if I should change into something more appropriate.

Nah, I say to myself, I’m just going to Walmart.  Who will even notice?

Collections

Collections

Collections

Probably every kid collects something.  Matchbox cars. Rocks. Barbie shoes. Stickers. Cat whiskers (no, those were the future psychopaths.)

I could spend all day on Saturday looking at my collection.  I'd organize it, rearrange it, sort it by color or chronologically.  I didn't collect dolls or books or pressed flowers,  I collected birthday napkins. 

 In the early 60s there were no big box stores of aisles dripping with party supplies.  Birthday parties were not a big business sport.

 We didn't have jump houses. We didn't pay big money to hire a business to house our birthday parties.

If we were lucky, someone's uncle would dress up as a clown and juggle.  That is just creepy.  I  don't trust a painted smile.


  Basically, our moms went to Ben Franklin or T,G & Y and got a party pack of 8 napkins.

  There were not many to choose from...usually it was Raggedy Ann for girls  and a cowboy theme for boys.

And moms were frugal.  They invited 8 kids and only had 8 napkins.  Do you see my stress here?  That meant that there were no extra napkins.

 I couldn't make a mistake!  I couldn't drop any cake!  I couldn't wipe my mouth! The angst still haunts me today.


We played Pin the Tail on the Donkey.  (They always had creases on the donkey where it had been folded in the box.). We played swing the statue and freeze tag.

This was before box cake mix, before elaborate party favors, before dads had to attend the party.

 I loved parties; I loved the cute colors and design. I loved perky.  But, nevertheless, I'd stress on party day.

 Being a closet party girl,  I would strategize over how to have a pristine birthday napkin to add to my collection.

 It was a no-brainer when the mom made a white or yellow cake.  Ahh, I could hide any stains.

  But then there was always a mom who had just ripped a recipe out of her Better Homes and Gardens of the newest chocolate cake. Those moms were just show-offs!

 Chocolate was trickier to keep clean.

 Maybe I could wipe my mouth on my arm or on the inside of my dress or if I was really brave I'd ask the chatty mom if I could get an alternate napkin.

I'm pretty sure if a kid did that today, he'd be in the sequel to "About a Boy" or "Martian Child".  That's just weird.  But sometimes kids don't know that their likes can creep out other people.

I wish I still had that box of all of the birthday napkins throughout my childhood.

So on this blog,  you will probably see my food displayed on fun napkins because it's ok and kinda trendy to be weird or nerdy now.

Oh, and what's the deal on the title?  I always have some kind of chocolate every evening even if it's a few chocolate chips.

 And the dog thing?  Sometimes, I eat cereal so when dinner isn't newsworthy, that's when I'll talk about the funny things my dog does.

 Oh and I love thunderstorms so I might throw in a good lightening story.

Being in the Kitchen is a Genetic Thing!

 I can finally cook again! (It's been since Feb. 1).   I love to cook, my mama loves to cook, my sisters love to cook.  My daughter and daughter-in law love to cook.

When I 'm in the kitchen, I'm a piddler, a dawdler, a lolly-gagger!  I love to make up recipes with whatever I have on hand.  Sometimes, I use actual recipes but I rarely measure.  I cook by feel, not by measurements.  I can have one garlic clove left and I will waste a whole day investigating what I want to cook with it.

I have too many cookbooks (old school) and too many recipes printed out (in any drawer) and too many recipes filed.  I'll never get to all of them.

When I thought back, I realized I grew up in and around the kitchen.  I was in charge of whatever my mom told me to do.  Alot of times, it was "Grate the cheese or make the salad or make the tea."

Younger sister, Liz, now, personal chef, was in charge of "making a creative table decoration."  My other sister Susie, an artist,  was in charge of washing the dishes.

My dad got home late from his rounds at the hospital so we usually ate late.  We all sat down together at the table Monday-Friday.  Saturday nights, my parents usually went out so we ate Swanson's Frozen Chicken Pot Pies.  Sunday morning was a Sarah Lee coffee cake.

I loved the invention of fast food.  Don't get me wrong.  My mom is a great cook and made great food, but to get to eat something pre-made in a foil container was special in our house.

Funny, how things change.  Because my generation ate things in foil containers, cans, and drive-thrus, we Baby Boomers are having to go back to the way our grandmothers cooked.  We are obsessed by "getting the junk" out off of our tables.

It's harder for people around my age because I was around when Toll House Cookies came on the scene!  Cool Whip. Spray Cheese. Frosty's. Dr. Pepper. Chips Ahoy. Campbell's soups. Cake Mixes.  Brownies.  TV dinners. Chicken Nuggets. French Frys.

Food associated with love is age old.

 

I try to take the basic recipes and make them healthier.  Or come up with some concoctions that turn out to be family favorites.

My daughter McKenna is light years ahead of me on the health journey.  You can check her website at Thrive to Live.com


But, everyone has to start somewhere and this is my start....

Memorial Day Feast

 

First thing for the Memorial Day Feast is to find a veteran and hug them, tell them thanks, and take time to listen to their story.

Now for the Food--

Caffeinated Chicken or Beef

Standing Up Vidalia Onion Soup

Joo Joo's Salad Standard

Mediterranean Herbed Asparagus 

Tomato Pie

Something with Chocolate Chips

A Sleepy Woman's Guide to Being an Eccentric Old Lady

A Sleepy Woman’s Guide to Being an Eccentric Old Lady

After being inspired last night by the Beloved Writers’ Group, I was eager to jump up this morning to start on my assignment.  

But I never jump up and do anything.  I mosey up; I saunter up; I meander up; I slither up.  

I’ve never been an early morning person.  Never. Not ever. Ever. Not even close. 

 Growing up, my older sister and I were upstairs and my younger sister and parents were downstairs.  So while my mom was making breakfast, she’d turn the radio on our intercom. 

I felt like she was blaring music at me like prisoners of war talk about.   But she told me that the instrumental version of “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head”, does not institute torture.  

Somewhere around first grade, I remember just lying at the bottom of my closet looking up at my clothes.  I knew I needed to pick something, put it on and go down to breakfast before school.   I stared up at my perfectly coordinated outfits and thinking, “I just cannot do this every day of my life.”

The pattern continues until this day.  

In high school, we could choose to go to school from 8-3 or 9-4.  I barely made it by nine am.

In college I started my classes at 11 am and while others were finished for the day, I was just getting up.  

After I was married and working at my first job, I would just lie down in front of my closet and repeat the line that I couldn’t do this the rest of my life. 

Then came kids and they needed to get up and go to school.  This was not optional and could be punished by law if they didn’t go.  So at an early age, I told them that I needed to learn independence.

I bought them an alarm clock, taught them to set it and they would have to get themselves up. 

 Once they were dressed, they could wake me up so I could put cereal in a baggie and take them to school.  

I invented “breakfast to go”, but I’m not a good marketer so I didn’t do anything with my invention. 

Just to be clear, I’m not an alcoholic or anything like that.  I like to stay up late and sleep late.  

I used to be embarrassed about it, but now, at almost 58, I’m so close to being an eccentric old woman that I don’t even care. 

 This is me and this is what I do.  

One would think that I could never hold down a job with my waking late cycle.  I have 3 part-time jobs, and if you count playing with grandkids and writing, I have five.  All of them start after I wake up.  

I have panic attacks when I have an 8 am doctor’s appointment.  I set three alarms on my phone to wake me up.  They ring in 10 minute increments. 

 After I slap the Kleenex box, my face cream and the jar of Tums by my bed, I finally hit the snooze button while inadvertently deleting all Facebook messages.   Then Lance, my husband, comes in and tells me that I have exactly twenty minutes to get to my doctor’s appointment. 

Perfect, I think.  I can throw on some yoga pants, a tunic, a pair of dangly earrings, run my fingers through my hair, and brush on a hint of mascara and lipstick.  I get to the doctor’s parking lot, run in, sign in with whatever time I was supposed to be there and make it perfectly fine. 

Eccentric old lady…I embrace it...but not until 11 am.  

  

MORE LANDON STORIES--AS REQUESTED

Landon was my first child.

He is still my first child.




God entrusted me, a very inexperienced, barely a woman at 25, to raise a high spirited, verbose, overly honest, world-in-black-and-white son.

I will skip over many of my mistakes on parenting and enhance the things Landon did, frankly, because looking back, we were probably one of God's sit-com reality shows. *




Landon talked in full sentences (with good grammar), from the moment he was born!

 I think I remember his exact sentence to be, "The doctor slapped my behind, but I'm not gonna cry because what he did is just wrong!"




And there it started with Landon.

  He learned anything I taught him with ease.

 I taught him all kinds of facts, but my favorite was to teach him Bible facts.




 Before he was two, he could answer 200 hundred Bible facts,  (this is not an exaggeration!).

We could have been in the circus with this act!

I'd say, "Landon, do you want to play the Bible game?.

 If he wanted to, I ask him things like,

"Who was Samson's girlfriend?"----Dee LIE La, he's say.

"What are the first four books of the Bible?--Gen SIS, EX Dus, Love IT e cus, NUM bas.

Who was in the fiery furnace? ME shack, shad RACK, & a  BEND I go.

And on it went. 




Once, at nine months,  Lance took him outside while doing yardwork.

  Lance has a propensity to balance my "hover-mother" with his laid-back parenting style.

 Lance was busy doing "yard-y" things when he looked over to Landon and saw him chewing on a bark chip. 

When he got closer, he realized it was a dead, flat mouse!

Ever the calm LJ, finally told me the story a week later.

I gasped and screeched and uttered all other kinds of onomatopoeia s,  

 "Well, he didn't die!" said Lance proudly. 





When I was having kids, there was no Supernanny on TV to teach me how to parent.

 Dr. Dobson had barely published his first book on rearing children. 

Before that, it was Dr. Spock who, I think, was the Father of "children should be seen and not heard" era. 

So I was flying pretty blind here with a toddler.




When I scolded Landon for a 3yr. old crime, he would try to convince me to change the punishment to anything other than what it was.




  After his verbal barrage, I would give out and usually lock MYSELF in the bathroom.

  Landon would bang on the door and say, "There's three more points I want to make about my punishment before I go to my room."

At which I'd yell, "You'd better be a lawyer or you are going to have to pay me back pay for listening to you argue."  

 And then I would stick my fingers in my ears and sing the Star Spangled Banner.

Once I outed myself  from solitary confinement, he was usually in his bunk bed with poster board and marker making "Life is Unfair" posters.





 From this time to the time he went to kindergartener, Landon ran with scissors, talked with his mouth full, and challenged me hourly.




I taught him to read early, because I was a tired mother.

 Once he knew how to read, I let him "practice" reading his bedtime story to me while I "just rested my eyes so I could concentrate while listening to him."




His birthday was the middle of August and the kindergarten cut off was Sept. 1st.



  When I went to register him, the assigned teacher told me that I should consider waiting a year since he has just turned five a few days before.

I looked at her and said, "I don't care if he goes to kindergarten for twelve years; if you don't let him in, I'm gonna have to kill him. " (That's back when parents could joke about things like this and not have to write blogs from jail).

  She did not have a sense of humor and told me that he'd more than likely have to repeat kindergarten. 

Since I was ok with that scenario, I took him to school a few days later.

 At our teacher parent conference in Oct that year., I asked the teacher if he would have to repeat. 

She uttered a barely audible, "no". 

"What?  I said?  Can you please say that louder?" I mocked.  

"He's top in the class., she mumbled and he already knows how to read."

"Yes," I blurted, "have him read, 'Hiram's Red Shirt' to the class and you can have some downtime. "





More time passed with broken windows, scraped knees, and big wheel accidents.





  All his birthdays were outside because I could hose off everything quickly when it was over.




Landon's scrapbook has his dinosaur birthday picture at 5 with a garden rake in the background.

Landon at 6 was with an uncoiled hose around his pirate ship.

Landon's cowboy party at 7 was with two trowels and in his holster. 



And so it went until today, Aug. 14th, Landon's birthday.



 He is 32.  I'm pretty sure his birthday picture will have a lawn mower in the background.



I have passed the torch. 

Landon now  can have all of his kid's birthdays outside and lock himself in the bathroom when his kids argue.




And I'm pretty sure that when I'm in the nursing home, he'll publish a book titled, "My Mom Embellished Too Much. "





Until...my next musing!

JLou

*many of the memories have been embellished because that's what I do.