Haiku

If my butt could glow
Like that of a fire-fly,
I would not wear pants.

Syd and the Good-Times-Happy-Childhood-Jubilee

My cousin, Syd, is an only child and therefore, by default, he was an extremely odd child having spent endless hours in quiet solitude, forced to entertain himself. I, being ridiculously strange myself, having been raised by a father who harbored a very public love for Monty Python movies, (he once printed me copy of the script to Holy Grail with the "Spank the Virgin" scene omitted) immediately recognized a kindred spirit in Syd and resolved to become friends with him. In fourth grade, I knew we were cousins but I didn't know quite how to start a conversation with him. My moment of opportunity finally came when our teacher put us in pairs, desks facing each other, to work on a class project. I drew back my leg and kicked the absolute shit out of him. He looked confused, so I smiled letting him know that my intentions were friendly. He smiled sincerely back at me in understanding and promptly returned the shit-kick. We've been friends ever since.




Me, my brother (Cletus), and Syd

 
 The first time I really remember going to his house for the primary reason of playing with him, I found him in his back yard, nailing the bodies of red-painted Barbie dolls to a tree. His grandmother had found them at a yard sale and decided, for some reason, to bring them home. I was just glad that he had found a use for them. Peas and carrots, y'all.

Our favorite past time was to record "radio shows" with the use of an old beat-up tape recorder. "How Loud Can You Fart" was our game show. And "A Walk in the Forest with Mr. Rodgers" consisted of a friendly male host who ventured into the woods to admire the joys of nature . . . and then horribly maul the gentle forest creatures who reside there. We had invented our own characters, one of whom was named "Crazy Ed," voiced by my brother. Crazy continues to be a point of interest to me only because my 10-year old brother had put so much back-story into the character. He was the mentally feeble (and slightly deranged) cooking show host, who in an "interview" revealed to us the source of his mental instability. He was born when he was six. Looking back, I think we were more creative then than we are now and I would give my good eye to still have a copy of those tapes. Alas, they've been missing for over a decade.

Syd had a pet in the form of a rubber snake, with a grotesquely askew lower jaw, named Frederick. And for a good year (or more) Syd carted that thing around with him everywhere that he went. Oh, the times we had. Frederick couldn't talk. He could only hiss, and only Syd understood him. And when you tried to insist that you could, in fact, understand Frederick, and that Frederick did, in fact, disagree with Syd, Syd would become slightly pissed off. Did I mention that he and I were twelve when all this went down?

We were on the verge of adolescence then. Delightfully strange and innocent, but also straddling the transition between childhood and adolescence. Eventually, the interest in creating radio shows waned and we began listening to Nirvana and Pink Floyd in my grandparents' car whenever they drug us to bluegrass conventions. Discussions became deeper as they turned to matters of life, the enigma and fear of death, and of the crushes that we had developed on each other's friends. Impending teenage angst weighed heavily on us. Somehow, though, we managed to survive it and still remain close friends. I'll be thirty this year and I'm amazed at how similar we still are, and how no matter what goes on in our lives, we can call each other and still manage to morph into those goofy kids that we once were . . . and perhaps always will be.

Public Farting

I pride myself on not being such a "girl" about everything, but I would still die if I farted in public. I'm not even brave enough to attempt a "silent" one in a public area. I still, however, find it hilarious when other people fart unless it's obnoxious or repeatedly purposeful. My younger brother, who can fart at will, still doesn't understand this concept and continues to savor his farts like they're some kind of aged cheese. I swear I've caught him inhaling. And they're awful. They smell like wet cat shit. I admit it's been a humorous path. When he was in elementary school he tried to teach another kid this amazing and unique talent but the poor kid just ended up crapping himself. Some just aren't equipped to carry the gift.
Accidental farts are the best. My favorite kind occurs when someone attempts to hide one with another sound . . . like a cough . These are fantastic simply because it can't be done. You can't hide a fart noise with a cough! And of the two times that I've seen this, both guys got their timing wrong so that the fart occurred just before the loud and labored cough. If anything you've just drawn more attention to yourself. Also, if you're going to try this one, you can not get mad when the people around you piss themselves laughing. Just own it. It's great. It's comedic timing at its finest.



Another good one is when someone gets brave enough to actually try an SBD and then fails. These people hold back until the last moment, cheeks clinched as though their lower intestines depended on it, until they get so desperate they decide to "sneak one out." Sometimes, you'll get away with this one until someone smells it. And if you're a pretty girl, you can always blame it on the nearest male and I'm sure that no one will question it. But on one rare and delightful occasion, it may come out sounding surprisingly like a question mark.

But the absolute best of all are the "blaming it on an innocent party" farts. I feel I should defend myself. When I was about six, I was a pretty shy little kid and I was also extremely sensitive. While visiting relatives in Memphis, I sat on a chair with a vinyl covering and it erupted with the most assured fart blast I have ever heard. And of course I couldn't replicate it. I just continued bouncing up and down in my seat, trying to make it happen again, to prove I wasn't guilty. But it was all in vain. "You farted," said my super-empathetic father. "It was the chair," I moaned. I knew this would happen. If anything embarrassing happened in front of dear old dad he only added to my malady.

"It was you."

"Nooooooo!"

He smirked. "Yeah."

He finally broke me and I blubbered dramatically, "NOOOOOOO! IT WAS THE CHAAAAAIIIIIIRRRRR!!!!" Then I sobbed and raged and flailed and eventually almost knocked myself unconscious when I smacked my head on the kitchen table.

My mom, unabashed by the entire display on either side, and in true Southern woman/mama fashion, said, "Both of y'all just quit."

Thanksgiving Defeat

The year I turned nine a pissed-off gypsy lady put a curse on me, declaring I shall never again partake in the feeding frenzy referred to as "Thanksgiving" for the rest of my life. I think I must have mocked the Halloween chalk/candy she gave me. Ever since then I have been on the verge of death for the accursed holiday every..single..year. Last year, I was bound and damned determined to enjoy it, so I popped vitamin C like Tic-Tacs and instructed the kids at the daycare where I work to stand a minimum distance of three feet away whenever they addressed me, as children are known virus carriers. This would be the year that I made Thanksgiving my bitch.
But on the night before what would have been a glorious day of victory, the black plague crept in over night and rendered both my husband and me completely immobile. Neither of us could move with out vengeful death spewing from all orifices. And George and I had eaten spicy nachos the night before, which by the way is just absolutely awesome to vomit up. Short Stack, apparently unaffected because of his mutant immune system, finally awoke and his two-year old eyes became a-light with pure joy for reasons I still can't explain. He climbed up onto the bed and began jumping up and down and giggling like this was the best holiday ever.

I had to reach for the phone and beg my mother to come and get him and take him with her to my grandparents' house, where he would no doubt discover that he'd already achieved the highlight of his day. George and I continued battling for the bathroom for several more hours. And by very late afternoon, we were feeling well enough to drink some repulsive blue Gatorade and eat a cracker. That was the extent of our holiday merriment.
I have given up hope for a healthy Thanksgiving. Wish me luck tomorrow. And Happy Thanksgiving.

Goats are A-holes and So are Cows

Throughout my childhood, I spent a moment here and there despising cows and goats and any other animal that reminded me that God had chosen for me to be born in Alabama. I think that's what I'd do if I hated someone....and if I had the power.....and if reincarnation exists. Mean to me in 3rd grade? BLAM! Alabama. Dated someone you knew that I liked? POW! Now you're a goat in Alabama. In your face. The dumbest state except for maybe Kentucky and Connecticut. Now I really like Alabama, but I was a dumb kid back then.
Once I stopped at a gas station after I visiting my cousin, Syd. It's located on Butter & Egg Rd. in a little area known as "Lick Skillet." I did not make that up. Anyway, as I'm going into the store I hear a loud bleat and I look over to see a goat with its head stuck in a chicken wire fence. Behind him is another goat performing what appeared to be a feeble attempt to free its friend with its teeth. I considered for a moment helping the goat out, but I learned along time ago, having grown up in the country, that goats are assholes who would rather die than accept help. So, I thought, "Shit on that goat," and continued walking into the store.
When I came back out both goats now had their heads lodged in the fence and a third was approaching. I just shook my head and ambled back inside to tell the guy behind the register, "I just wanted to let someone know that there are a couple of dumbass goats stuck in the fence next door and it looks like there's about to be a third."
"OK," he said.
OK. Conscience cleared. Now that may seem harsh, but ask anyone who raises goats. When my uncle started raising them, he at first chuckled at their idiocy and cried over the body of every little dead baby goat (apparently they die easily). But after dealing with their assholey ways for a few years his sentiment eventually became the same as mine: Shit on goats. Plus they have those weird octopus eyes. To quote Cake, "Goats go to hell." I have so many goat stories it's unreal and goats play the role of major assholes in them all.

Cows are equally stupid jerks. So, shit on them, too. My great-grandmother used to take me to visit her neighbor's cows. I guess she just thought I'd enjoy it and it got me outside for a little while. I loved it until the day I was petting a baby cow and it began to lick me. Cow tongues are long and weird and before long that little calf was trying to suck my whole arm down into its mouth. I was probably four and therefore terrified that my short sweet life was about to be ended by a carnivorous cow. I don't really remember how it ended, but I know that I've never much cared for cows since then. And I live out in the sticks, so there's cows everywhere. It seems as though they know that I don't particularly care for them. I guess they sense it and I think they may be psychic because they know when I'm approaching. I can be driving blissfully down a scenic country road and I happen to turn my head. And there's a cow. Pissing. A horrible, strong stream of cow piss. If you've never seen this consider yourself fortunate. Because its disturbing to say the least. Nothing like a steady stream of cow piss to ruin your day.

Fat, Ugly, And Loveable

I enjoy verbally abusing cats. I figure they can either take or they are too stupid to realize that they're being insulted. A few years ago I picked out a kitten from a litter of romping, tumbling, happy kittens. She stood alone in the middle staring at me with he big muddy-yellow eyes. Her distorted large head hung over her skinny body like a balloon. She was an ugly, gross, calico kitten with skeazy fur. I didn't even know that ugly kittens existed until that moment. But our eyes locked and it was kismet. My husband was so disgusted by her that he refused to touch her for the first couple of months that she lived with us. He nicknamed her "Scab."

It soon became apparent that there was something uniquely special about her. She bordered on insane and mentally retarded and I never saw her blink. She just stared intensely, usually from the piano or bookshelf, glaring down at us like a vulture. She liked to screw with me by positioning herself into pounce mode just so she could hear me threaten her life if she jumped on me.

I remember the day that I discovered she was a music lover. I was going through the house, washing laundry and cleaning stuff, and I was singing some loud obnoxious show tune like I always do when I'm alone, probably something really gay like from Cabaret, when all of a sudden I was assaulted by the fat menace. She let out a long, low caterwaul and leaped onto my back, embedding her claws into my flesh as she did. I arched my back in the hopes that she would drop off and screamed like I'd been stabbed. Then I tried to reach her to pull her off, but she only dug in deeper, making happy little chirping sounds and scooting up higher with her back feet. In a moment of sheer insanity, without any other option, I ran screaming and sprinting through the house, convinced that in my madness she would give up and release me from her clutches. This probably all took less than a minute, but my searing hot skin made it difficult to understand concepts such as time. In a last ditch effort, I began to maneuver myself backwards into a wall, so she jumped off, squatted in the floor to lick her own butt, and then squinted at me with her evil eyes like I was the one with mental issues. After that I made sure to watch my back while singing in the house, but I guess the incident must have had some kind of psychological effect on her as well, because after that she was content to just try and force her whole face into the offender's mouth whenever they tried to sing to her, purring all the while. 

I loved when she would sit in front of a mirror looking so high and mighty and proud of her own reflection. Whenever I caught her doing this, I would say, "You're fat. You're ugly. And nobody loves you." Then she would promptly display her angry eyes. Scab could take the verbal abuse and come back unscathed, continuing to adore the cat in the mirror.

I mistakenly discovered that she could play fetch. I had thrown a sparkly craft pom-pom across the room into a basket and she took off after it. A few seconds later she was trotting happily back with it in her mouth and dropping it on my foot. I blinked at her and she stared, unblinkingly, at me. I threw it again with the same results. When my husband came home I had been sitting in the floor for over an hour, laughing like an idiot and utterly amazed at my stupid weird cat. He was unimpressed.

Then there came the introduction of Small Dog, who she despised immediately, and then grew to love in her own way. They became friends, and though Scab played rough, Small Dog seemed to enjoy it. Small Dog would back her butt up into Scab. Scab would hiss and smack at her, then tackle her, then bite her, then lovingly give her a bath. This process repeated itself several times a day.

I had her for six years when I became pregnant with Short Stack. I wanted desperately to keep her, but she was still unpredictable at times and horribly strange. And though she seemed to have a patience for children, we had never had one living with us before. So, I asked my friends to take her so that I would know she was OK and also so that I could see her whenever I wanted. My friend, Silo, decided that he would leave Scab with his mother as she was living alone on a quiet mountainside. Scab could have freedom of going in and out as she pleased and his mother would have a new and interesting companion. I missed her terribly after she left, but I knew it was for the best. I think Small Dog missed her, too.

Scab had an adventurous life on the mountain. There was once an instance with some feral cats who kept trying to climb the porch to eat her food. I guess this didn't sit well with her and her decided course of action was to heap a giant steaming dump on the top step of the porch. But it worked and the cats wouldn't cross it after that. I can't say that I blame them.
She was fat and happy and eventually made friends with some kids down the road who loved playing with her and feeding her treats. And then she disappeared. I like to think that she decided to go live with that family and that she continues to be fat and happy and weird.

I still miss her dearly. She has ruined me for other cats. The other night I had a dream that she woke me from my bed with a sudden wild leap, and then she was gone, her black tail curling around my bedroom door as she exited. I followed her into the living room, calling her name and there she sat, staring at me. I picked her up and stroked her fur as she growled at me (which was a normal Scab way of showing affection). When I woke, I had this deep feeling that she had died. I don't know if our connection is that deep or not. But if so, I hope that she had plenty of joy and love in her life. I know I appreciate how much she brought into mine.

Spoon Sharing

 Maybe I'm selfish, but I don't always want to share my delicious food with a two-year old, even if he is my own. That's why I give him his own bowl and his own spoon. But for some reason my portion remains the most desirable of the two. He looks up at me with his big moist eyes and says, "Pleeeease, Mommy? I love you." Already a master at the art of manipulation. Of course, I relent. I always give him a bite or two no matter how badly I know he will have contaminated it afterward. As I draw my spoon back I envision thousands of little green hairy amoebas skating around on it, waving and mocking me with their hairy greenness. And though I can't see the spit, if I try to talk myself into using the same spoon I can taste it before it even reaches my mouth. So, I usually try to cram as much of it as I originally wanted anyway into my mouth before handing him the rest. He knows what he's doing and he thinks it's funny. His self-satisfied smile says it all.
 On a deeper lever, I think the only reason that I do this is to spite my mother, who used to eat ice cream in front of us. When we would ask for some, she would bring it to her chest, draw in her legs, and protect her precious ice cream like she was some gross, hairless hobbit. She'd break and give us some, yet it was always apparent that this was a true sacrifice of motherhood for her. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. I'm going to end up with whatever germs he harbors regardless. There's no point in making him feel guilty about it.