Tuesday, March 22, 2011

In This Corner . . .

Our littlest grandson is a violent sort.  He's seldom happier than when he is wielding a soyd (sword) or just generally kicking the crap out of his dad or grandpa.

He's always polite about the whole thing, asking nicely if Grandpa wants to beat him up.  If we say no for any reason, he's brokenhearted, but he'll find something else to do.  If Grandpa says yes, it's game on!

They have two arenas.  The first is in Grandpa's chair in the front room, and the second and most usual is in Grandpa's bed while Nana is trying to watch television at night.

Nana or Momma are important ingredients in the mix, because somebody has to save him when Grandpa gets him pinned.  We never put our hearts into any rescue, because before we can resume our original positions, he's back running up the front of his grandpa with a new can of whoop butt.  We finally had to tell him he was on his own.

The first time I told him I was out of the rescue business, he didn't believe it for one second.  We were in the bed arena, and as usual, Grandpa dumped him head first (gently) over the side of the bed.  He jumped up to his feet and looked at me with astonishment and said, "OK, Nana! Wheh wuh you?" He struck a new deal with me that each time I save him I get a hug and a kiss. Who could pass that one up?

Whether on the chair or the bed, Grandpa unfailingly pins the kid then asks if he gives up.  The standard reply is: Nevah!  

This is one pinned kid.  The only thing he can move is  his head.  Grandpa put him here one day last December and he started to get a little angry because he couldn't get lose no way no how.  He told Grandpa, "(Struggle, struggle) I bet when you were a little kid (struggle, struggle) Thanta didn't bwing you any Chwithmath pwethents!"

After he pleads for Nana to save him and she remains on her duff in the chair, he puts on the pitiful puppy dog face. He would normally put his little hands together in supplication, but it's kind of hard when Grandpa has his elbows pinned to his ears.  

He tells us Grandpa and Daddy beat him up best, and Mommy is kind of good at it. Nana isn't any good at it at all. She's only good for loves and kisses.


Thursday, March 3, 2011

Brain Cell Loss

Don't worry, I'll be fine.  I'm a little weak and dizzy, but I have a beer to sustain me. It's been a trying morning, a math morning.  To make it worse, it has been an easy math morning that I couldn't make go from my brain to my fingers, to my spreadsheet, from the bank, etc. and end up with proper results.

It hasn't been that long ago that I did this sort of thing, and much more complicated things, for nine hours a day. . . on my head. . . . barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways. Yeah, those days are gone.  To add insult to injury, just because it is finished to my satisfaction today doesn't mean it won't be indecipherable tomorrow.  To heck with it, let tomorrow fall where it may.

After spending three hours on a 20 minute project, I felt so efficient that I checked on different insurance for the cars and house.  I didn't feel cocky enough to make a decision on that, so I'll wait and see what Hubby has to say.

I actually got him a valentine this year.  It's probably the third card I've given him in 22 years, but it was funny.  On the inside are a little old couple, cheek to cheek, looking sweet. She tells him he still makes her heart race. Also on the inside Little Old Man's hand moves up and down.  All the way open, the man's hand moves to the lady's chest, and she says, "That's not my heart."  On closing the card a little, the hand moves lower. The back of the card says, "That's not my heart either."  It made me snort.

One day I was sitting in my chair enjoying a happy bum and this is what I saw:

Hubby's mom showed up in the heart perfectly.  It was awesome. Check out what the front of the card says.

After expending so much energy on mathematical and computer effort, the rest of the day must be  spent listening to audio books and knitting.  It's only fair.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Let the Sun Shine

I needed a change of scenery yesterday.  Not for any particular reason, but just because it was sunny.  I got the vehicles registered for the year, had my hair cut, rolled in the letter we got from the bank saying the mortgage is paid in full, planned to go to Tremonton to get hankies for Bailey's Mutual thing tonight.  

As I was waiting for my hair appointment time to roll around, I thought, "It's too bad Betty is asleep and Missy is tending her grandbaby. Today would be a fun sister day."  

Just then, my bra rang. (Cell phone pocket)  Missy said, "Hey, I've got a surprise free day! Do you want to -"


We didn't have a whole ton of time, but we used what we had well.  Late February isn't prime photo time in our neighborhood and finding something worth taking pictures of can be tricky.

On the way back in from Tremonton, on the old road of course, I turned up to the Kotter Canyon subdivision.  It's on the very most northeast end of town, and is mostly a failed concern, but the road goes way up on the hill.  We got a few snaps that I played around with and grunged up.

I don't know if I like them or not, but I know I liked taking them.  These make our town look mighty small. The second and third ones are a treat, because we don't often get a clear view of the west mountains. They are usually shrouded in smog that comes from Ogden and Salt Lake. 

 These mountains are on the other side of our valley.  Actually, snicker snicker, we were in no-no land.  I did ask for permission to go on this property at about 1 pm. The fact that I didn't receive said permission until 5:30 shouldn't signify.  

A year-ish ago I was up here taking pictures for work, and took a long distance picture of what looked like some sort of stone kiln or cairn or some such.  Sisters and I imagined all sorts of things that it could have been used for by our pioneer ancestors or their indian landlords.  We had a lot of fun with it.

Some fantasies just don't stand up to close scrutiny. They should be left at just that: fantasies.

 There is a good chance that this is a relic of some old time period.  It is also a stone and concrete irrigation box.  That's a far cry from a pioneer kiln or indian cairn, but we take what we can get.

What we got was a super sister day out. The only thing that could have improved it would have been if Betty had been awake. 

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Cheese with That Whine

I think I'll be 60 now.  It isn't really so far off the mark, and it is a very good number.  The fact that it isn't accurate doesn't signify. Women have lied about their ages for time out of mind, so I'll be neither the first nor the last.  I may be 60 for three or four years before I'm done. My dad and his mom both died in their early 50s, so what if I don't make 60 for reals?  How disappointing! 

I look every one of my 59 years (next month). . . nearly.  Must we speak of the hair thing?  I've been cheated, and that's that.  Carolyn has some gray hair, Betty has quite a bit of gray hair, and MISSY has gray hair.  Really?  Missy is seven years younger than I am!  What's up with that?

My only real ambition in life has been to be an old person.  I outlined that goal when I was five years old and stayed a few days with my Grandma Fronk.  In my five year old mind, I wanted her life.  I'm sure she could have told me it wasn't all that and a bag of chips in reality, but she didn't.  

So, here I am at 58 and 31/32. Sure, I'm statuesque (say fat), have some wrinkles and funky spots, and gray hair.  So why am I complaining about sisters who have gray hair, you ask? Because their gray hair can be seen!  

I was a blondy when I was little, the only one in the family of seven children.  For years I was sure I was adopted because everyone else had dark hair.  As time passed my hair did get darker, but at this late date it has only reached mousy brown.  All my beautiful white hairs blend in with the mousey stuff and disappears. I've been rooked!

Grandma Johnson died in 1945 at the age of 51, and pictures of her show a lovely head of white hair.  Her mother had glorious white hair.  Grandma Fronk had gray hair. Mom didn't.  When Mom was 80, she still had a full head of natural brunette hair.  

Under the circumstances, it might be fun to take advantage of my invisible white hair.  Or not. Everyone will just think that I color my hair.  Who on earth would choose this color?