Baby Groucho

When did the word "SUCKER" get tattooed onto my forhead? Why didn't I feel it? Didn't it hurt? Shouldn't I have noticed it was there when I looked in the mirror? And why are my glasses whop-sided? (Ignore those ugly eyebrows!)




I guess the name is appropriate. See the next photo! This little guy fell out of a nest in my neighbor's yard. I couldn't just leave him there. The photo isn't very good, but you can see the eyebrows. I don't know what kind of bird he is, but Groucho Marx is his father!






He has a small injury on one wing, so it may take a little longer for him to learn to fly. He is a very chatty fellow. Tony doesn't know he's here yet, but when I asked Rick to take a close up photo of my face so I could tattoo SUCKER on it, he immediately asked, "What have you done? Is that a chicken I hear?"




No chicken! Just another cute baby that crossed my path!

The Bradley Curse

The first I heard of The Bradley Curse was when my husband took on a boat my dad used to own. I've heard that a boat is a pit in the water in which you throw money. That was more than an accurate description of this boat. And being rather mechanically minded, Tony was completely frustrated when the boat refused to be healed!

Today, I heard my second reference to the Bradley Curse...the female version. My cousin Marcus finally got married. This gave my other cousin, Michelle, and I time to catch up. I think we wound up discussing The Curse by way of "what sports do your kids play?" Somehow, this lead to confessions of not wearing shorts anymore because they tend to hike up between my fat thighs, so weather I'm coming or going, my shorts are doing an inverted V. Capris are good because your knee fat keeps them from hiking up in the crotch!

We are the ultimate Pears! Above the waist, we look normal. Below the waist...Whoa, Mama!! Baby Got Back and I Like Big Butts were written for us! We can track The Bradley Curse through several generations, including our current young ones. Fortunately, when we were younger, we were much smaller pears. But to my nieces and girl-cousins-twice-removed, my ass is your future!

I even confessed...if I could have liposuction on any part of my body, I would have my inner thighs sucked out. Wouldn't it be wonderful to walk in pantyhose without worry of starting a friction fire. Corduroys just aren't an option. Way too loud!

Congrats Marcus and Monica! I hope you have boys!

Animal Husbandry

You might be a redneck if you have to have the "I am not your bitch" talk with your rooster. Let me explain...

When Skippy was hatched, The Girls weren't interested in adding another chick to their brood (I assume they also knew he was going to be another boy!) I found him lying on his back, feet in the air, struggling to stand on the floor of the hen house. I scooped him up, brought him in and turned him into a house chicken. My brother was mortified and Tony called him "a factory reject"!

My first clue that Skippy was a boy was when he wrestled my husband's fleece lined bedroom shoe into submission on the bathroom floor, and had his way with it. He continued to grow, learned to cock-a-doodle-doo and returned to the hen house with the moody Old Ladies. Apparently, they told him to shut the hell up because he immediately ceased making any rooster-ly noises.

The Girls wouldn't look at, play with, snuggle near or eat with Skippy. No way were they going to consider having sex with this awkward young house rooster!

What's a boy to do? Well, that rock is sort of cute! And, it doesn't peck when he approaches. And since it balances on top of another rock, when Skippy climbs on, the motion of the ocean must be just right. Skippy throws all of his feathers forward and rocks the rock's world.

Since The Girls wouldn't play with him, I became Skippy's only playmate. He'd hang out with me in the garden, eating worms, making fertilizer and aerating the lawn. When I planted a lemon verbena in a pink tire planter, Skippy fell in love! Forget those cold, heartless rocks! Every few minutes, Skippy would mount the planter and show his appreciation. So much for using the lemon balm leaves in fruit salad or as an iced tea garnish.

When I would go inside to fix dinner, Skippy would come into the garage, climb up the steps and cock-a-doodle at the door until his playmate returned.

As things go in nature, spring came, the hens got broody, and Skippy was the only fellow in the yard. It made me nauseous to watch his clumsy attempts at mating. A time or two, he tap-danced his way up to one of The Girls only to be facing the wrong direction. When he finally got it right, The Girls could have pulled off Jane Fonda looking at her watch during the throes of passion. No bells or whistles for these Old Girls. He started hiding in the bushes near The Girls to cock-a-doodle. When they didn't peck his head, he came out in the open to crow.

Once his confidence built with The Girls, he began approaching me with his side stepping, get-ready-here-I-come dance. After a swift sandal to his right wing, I scooped him onto my hip. We sat on the porch and had our talk. I am not your bitch!

Now, I find it hard to bend over and pull weeds from my garden without looking over my shoulder for my frisky rooster. Should he grab me by the back of my neck and mount, we will be having chicken for dinner.

I think Tony said it best...There's a reason why The Girls tried to kill him when he was a baby. Good thing I love him!

Baby Deer Karma

This morning, I left the house with my list of things to do:

1. Take Will to school.
2. Pick up some yogurt and alarm clock from Wally World.
3. Take garbage to the dump.
4. Return books to the library.

I got off to a good start. We caught the light and got Will to school on time. On to the next chore. But, as I zipped down Falls of the Neuse Road, I saw a bag fly out of the back of my truck. One of the trash cans had tipped over. Of course, it was the only bag that hadn't been tied. I turned onto a side road so I could walk back and pick up my trash. (Littering is a huge pet peeve of mine!)

I pulled up to the curb, glanced over at the side walk and saw a baby deer sitting there. She was covered in white spots and had ears larger than her face! Behind her was a tree protection fence that bordered a construction site. No mama deer was in sight.

I got out of the truck and walked over to the baby. She propped up on her front elbows and hoisted her rear up. For fear that she would run into traffic, I scooped her up. She let out a couple of WAAAA sounds, then settled into my arms like she belonged there. Now what do I do?

I dialed 911 and told the operator what had happened. I wasn't sure who else to call. We climbed into the truck to wait and snuggle. What a cute baby! I tried everything I could to justify bringing her home with me. Knowing that Tony would be likely to divorce me was a good motivator to make other arrangements for the baby. We waited and waited and waited.

Forty minutes later...Since I hadn't eaten breakfast before I left home, I was getting a little hungry. I figured the baby was probably a little hungry, too. It dawned on me that Dr. Darch, our veterinarian, was just across Capital Boulevard. He might have food for the baby. We buckled up and took off. I thought she might be a little distressed by the movement of the car, but she stayed snuggled in my lap.

When we arrived at Dr. Darch's office minutes later, he was putting letters in the mailbox. I rolled down my window and asked him to come look at what I had in my lap and tell me what to do with it. He looked at me rather skeptically. Later, I realized he probably thought I was a perve and didn't have any pants on. He mustered up his courage and came over for a look.

I told him how I found the baby and that she didn't seem to have any injuries. He said he knew of a rehabilitation program that would work with her. I asked if she would be euthanized. He assured me she would not. He got a blanket and wrapped her up so she wouldn't panic and took her into his office.

A few minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was the Animal Control Agent. She was a few blocks away looking for me. I told her where the deer was so she could relieve Dr. Darch of the responsibility. She said she couldn't enter Wake Forest city limits. I offered to go back and get the deer and bring it to her. She said that would be fine. She would take the deer from me and put it back where I found it.

"Oh, no! That won't work!" I said. "It was too close to the highway and a busy intersection. She'll get run over."

"We'll take her into the woods so her mother can find her. I'm sure she's looking for her," she said.

"There's a construction site there and I'm not comfortable with that," I said.

"The only other option is to euthanize the baby," she said.

"Nope, not an option. We'll let Dr. Darch take care of the baby!"

I'm so glad I left when I did. I think I would have cried or fought with her if she tried to put the baby back or, God forbid, tried to euthanize her. I told my friend, Lisa, about the experience. She says it was divine intervention. Karma via litter! Shoot! I forgot to go back and pick up my plastic bag!

Bladder Control

Fifteen years ago, I had my first child. After that, I didn’t seem to notice any changes in my bladder. But after my second child thirteen years ago, I think I sprung a leak.

It doesn’t help that I drink gallons of liquid a day. For example, right now, it is 9:14 am. I have had two large glasses of water (to swallow my hand-full of vitamins and tablets), a can of diet coke, a tall cappuccino from Starbuck’s (same as a small cup of coffee), a bottle of water, and two sips of a 20 ounce bottle of diet coke. More will follow as the day goes on.

I never pass by a restroom, public or not, that I don’t evaluate my bladder. If there is the slightest bit of pressure, I will stop in for a visit.
The problem comes when I am in the car, sipping away. Once I turn onto the road where our house is, the pressure starts. When I pull into our driveway and debate whether or not to get the mail, it ramps up and I pass the mailbox. In the garage, I have to talk to my bladder before I open the car door. “We’re almost there. Less than 50 yards and we’ll be in the bathroom,” I tell the cramping organ. I pause at the steps to squeeze my knees together. The door to the house is opened while simultaneously unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping. I do the knock-kneed speed-walk to the bathroom. Just turning on the light is akin to a baby crying to a breast-feeding mother. The let-down begins, but my pants aren’t down yet! Deep breathing, pants being shoved down while maintaining the knock-kneed press and quick flop on the potty! Finally, relief! Once the panic is gone, I evaluate my clothes to see if a whole new outfit is needed or just undies.

There is something about my chicken house that brings on an immediate need for a bathroom. While my chickens dawdle around the yard on their way to their safe place, my bladder goes from zero to sixty in thirty seconds or less. I confess that, more than once, I have hidden behind the shed, dropped my pants and peed in the woods. So, if you are riding by my house in the winter time just before dark, there’s a good chance you will see a moon rising between the leafless trees.

In my next house, I will have a toilet in the garage and the henhouse!

One Proud Motha!

Tonight, we attended the "Bandquet" (get it?) at Wakefield High School. My oldest baby is a freshman and marched with the Marching Woverines to The Raven. Will plays the trombone. He also plays in the concert band.

After dinner, we all settled in for the award section of the evening. The seniors were honored. The colorguard got pins. Will earned his letter, a marching band pin and a concert medal. We were so proud of him for getting all of this in his first year. Then the highlight of the evening...A plaque for Most Outstanding Rookie in the marching band went to (da, da, da, daaaa) Will Martin!

YEAAAAH! Woohoo!! Loud finger whistles! Mama, sit down!

I went back to the program to see how Will was chosen for this award. All of the band members voted for the rookie who performed at the highest level. I had to restrain myself from running to Will's table (where he was sitting with all of his friends), wrapping my arms around him and jumping up and down! I wanted to call my mama and tell her. We still had two more hours of awards before I could even congratulate my boy, and for you other motha's out there, we aren't allowed affection displays in public. When I finally got to him, I got a quick shoulder bump hug as he scanned the room to see who was watching.

Boy, I am so proud of you! If I embarrassed you, too bad!

What was I Thinking?

A couple of days ago, I was sitting at my make-up mirror examining my face. Obviously, I don’t do this very often or often enough because my eyebrows looked like woolly worms. I rounded up my tweezers and a small mirror to hold close to my face and began plucking the obvious offenders…the ones that had crept below the crease in my eyelid, the ones near my hairline, the ones reaching for ear-hairs. Once the big ones were out, I went for the ones that were just starting to come in, you know, those little ones that require you to take a chunk of skin in order to remove them.

Rick came in to brush his teeth and we talked some, brushed some and plucked some. Those long eyebrow hairs that I can’t see on myself but the tweezers pull them several inches from my face before they bring tears to my eyes and let go of my skin.

Will came in to do his daily toilette. More brushing, chatting, and plucking. Feeling as though I had plucked enough, I put my supplies away and looked into my large make-up mirror. What was left of my eyebrows shot up under my bangs. What the hell have I done?

Above each eye stood a puff of hair equivalent to a Hitler mustache. Should I thin these out? Should I call the Eyebrow Store (yes, there is one at the mall!)? Maybe I should just leave them alone. I grabbed my eyeliner pencil and tried to draw in some of the hairs I had just removed. One sloped towards my ear while the other aimed at my widow’s peak. I looked like I should be in a Special Ed Class.

I wiped it all off, put my regular make-up on and went to Wally World to sooth myself with some retail therapy. I could tell when someone had real eye contact with me because their eyes would grow large, then, their eyebrows would disappear under their bangs.

When was the last time I plucked my eyebrows? Will they be back by Christmas? Maybe I’ll ask for eyebrow Rogaine for my birthday! No photographs, please!

PS Don't believe there is an eyebrow store? Its called BrowZnAround Eyebrow Studio and is located in the Triangle Town Center. Park near Belks. Their phone number is (919) 449-2447. I'll be throwing away my tweezers and programming their number in my cell phone!