Good Ol’ Rocky Top Part II

So, last Christmas at Mamaw’s, in between cleaning and sneezing, we enjoyed some fun quirks that Mamaw possesses.

One night at dinner, we were all discussing home movies and she brought up how she had a bunch of 8mm film put to video. She said it’s mostly movies of my mom and aunt growing up and that they were really convenient to have in video format now. She kept going on and on about how neat it was and how she watches it all the time. And, how she knows exactly where the tapes are if I wanted to watch them.

Now, I must interject some backstory here. Anyone who knows Mamaw, knows she’s a hoarder and has OCD and has a really hard time finding things because they are all buried under newspapers. You never, EVER ask her to find something for you. She will obsess and spend hours, if not days, looking for it. Then, when the item doesn’t turn up, she apologizes profusely for hours and days, etc. And then, she brings it up the next three times you visit. Even if it is a fork. As you can see, we learned over time to not ask, just look for ourselves and/or squelch the curiosity. Frankly, we just resign ourselves to probably putting our hands on it when we are purging her house after she has gone to the other side. Hate to say it, but that’s the truth.

So, she just kept going on and on about the easily accessible video. So, I STUPIDLY said I would love to see it. I WAS BORED. I WAS NOT IN MY RIGHT MIND. Everyone at the table froze while Mamaw got super-excited to get on the video task. This was approximately at 7:30 pm. At midnight, after she had turned every nightstand and kitchen drawer upside down looking for the now-missing video, I was following her around and begging her to stop looking. Saying it was no big deal, saying it was late – let’s look tomorrow, anything to stop the runaway train that had already left the station. I wandered into the bedroom where hubby just shook his head and said, “Leave her alone, she’ll tire eventually.”

About an hour later, hubby and I woke to a banging sound. He got up to go to the bathroom and at the same time, to nonchalantly check into the banging. Sure enough, there was Mamaw in the kitchen, scissors in the fully open and totally dangerous “K” position, banging away on a giant plastic frog. Yep, a plastic frog.

He asked, “Whatchya doin’ there?”

She said, “I think the batteries are dead and I can’t get the compartment open to change them.”

Hubby took one look and gasped. The battery compartment was at the opposite end of the area at which she was vigorously stabbing. He nicely grabbed it and said, “Here, let me see if I can help.” Also, at the same time, sanely NOT asking her where some fresh batteries might be. He located some quickly and replaced them in the time span of about 17 seconds.

Then he asked, “What does the frog do with batteries?”

She said, “Oh, It’s the cutest thing. You put it on the floor and it has a sensor in it’s mouth so when you walk by it ‘ribbits’ at you.”

After several attempts, the frog would not sense the motion and ribbit. After a few minutes of that, she just sort of shrugged and said, “The darn thing never did work right.”

The next morning, my dad walked into the kitchen and blew about three quadruple bypass staples after seeing a giant plastic frog on the floor where there wasn’t one before. After he recovered, he took a look at it from the electronics degree side of his brain and deemed it dead. Beyond repair and cheap, to boot. Mamaw just sighed and instead of putting it right in the trash, she set it on top of the clothes dryer next to the potato chips, genealogy magazines and Christmas bows.

The force is SO not with me.

Actual conversation between me and hubby today:

Hubby: Hey, guess what? I emailed Peter Mayhew today.

Me: I’m sorry, what?

H: You know, Chewbacca.

M: Why?

H: He had a link on his website. I was going to email the guy who played Darth Vader, but on his website, he seemed a little full of himself. Chewbacca was much more approachable.

M: Yes, I see. Hey, did you have time to stop off and get a new printer cartridge today?

H: No, I ran out of time.

M: Oh. Too busy emailing Chewbacca?

H: Yeah, and I gotta get going. I’m meeting my Dad at 6:00 so we can race his new slot cars.

Attention: Whatever nine-year-old from 1975 that has taken possession of my 37-year-old husband’s body, please return him safely at your earliest convenience.

Honk if You’re Stupid!

Let’s talk cars. I don’t mean cars really, but the way people adorn their cars with their personal “flair.” Bumper stickers and what not.

I am a highly judgmental individual and I find bumper stickers really annoying because I really don’t want to be forced to pigeon-hole someone based on whatever message is flapping around on their car-ass.

Here are my judgments and observations:

  1. The classic Calvin & Hobbes transparency thing where he’s pissing and looking over his shoulder. 90% are on pickup trucks, 10% are still at the Flying J waiting to be purchased by the truck-driving dickhead. What does that say? I like to piss on things when I’m not supposed to? Well, guess what? You’re never supposed to piss on anything. Only INTO a toilet (or down the shower drain – don’t gasp, you know you do it, it’s reasonable. Unless you’re into that whole golden-shower thing – you’re on your own there.) Why is it always a pickup truck? And why is it that when I pull up next to it, the person driving seems to think I’d be way into him if he flicks his tongue in and out of his “v”-shaped fingers?
  2. Same as #1 for the Tazmanian Devil. Yosemite Sam, however, is another story. Still driving a pickup, more likely one with a camper shell. And, probably a good 15-20 years older with a graying beard and a Cream Greatest Hits tape in the cassette deck.
  3. Yosemite Sam leads me to the SUVs adorned with deer heads and flying geese/ducks. And sometimes those fake bullet holes. Hunters. Lots of bright orange gear. COVERED IN THE BLOOD OF INNOCENT ANIMALS. No further explanation necessary.
  4. Hunters leads me to the W. Dubya. George W. You know. Yep, the people sporting those stickers are the ones who got him where he is today and see nothing wrong with it. I’d take that sticker off your car, quickly, if I were you. You might just get butt-raped at the gas station. Oh wait, you already did.
  5. Speaking of W, how about the Jesus Fish? Big ones, little ones, some with the weird letters inside. I am so sorry for your ignorance. Have a blessed day.
  6. The Jesus Fish leads me to the “It’s a child, not a choice” stickers. OK, let’s just put our bonnets back on and let men tell us what to do with our bodies. I know that’s a really rudimentary statement, but back off, bitches. Get back to your Creative Memories scrapbooking project and quilting and making shiny jangly Christmas sweatshirts.
  7. And, last but not least. DMB. The first time I saw it, I thought, “DUMB?” Really. Does Dave not realize that? Dude, if you held your guitar a little lower (ie: cooler) MAYBE I might consider the idea of listening to your music. And, tell whomever to let go of your balls so you can sing like a real man. As for your fans, don’t forget that Abercrombie is having a sale this week so you can stock up on khakis, flip flops, vintage t-shirts, and puka-shell hemp necklaces.

(Some of you may be thinking, how can this person hate hunters for killing innocent animals while she enjoys and promotes the killing of innocent babies? THAT’S NOT THE POINT. Two different ball games, kids. Don’t get me started.)

And what’s with the crap people hang from their rearview mirrors? Is that garter from your 1987 prom really that special?

  1. Feathers – you listen to a lot of Heart and you have a secret love for pot, rainbows and unicorns.
  2. Mardi Gras beads – you like to show your tits. You also claim you like long walks on the beach, are shy and would like to take things slow.
  3. The multi-faceted crystal ball – you want to get in an accident and spend seventeen hours in surgery having millions of shards of cheap glass removed from your corneas.
  4. The cross. Oh, the cross. Good thing Jesus is looking out for you on the road when you are on your cell phone screaming at your live-in boyfriend for porking your best friend, and you’re smoking, drinking a big gulp, and jamming the new DMB cd. Or, better yet, you are 43, still living with your mom and plotting how you are going to kill her right after you get home and crack open that new Jenna Jameson DVD.

Happy travels!