Your chance to help make a Liberal poor. The Children.

I just recieved an email from my friend, Mieke. Apparently, she knows how incredibly awesome my readers are because she asked me to PLEASE send them (you!) to her BALAWWWWWG.

Because Friday was World AIDS Day, for each comment left here on this post, I’ll give a donation of one US dollar to the Layla House for children orphaned by parents who died of AIDS. You need to leave your name (“Anonymous” will do, if you’d prefer) and your location (city –or region — and country), just because I like to see where everyone’s from. I’ll keep comments open until midnight Tuesday night. Remember: name, city & country.

How easy is that? Leave a comment, help The Children. (And also, help make The Liberal pay. THE LIBERALS, THEY MUST PAY!)
In all seriousness, I think it would be really great if you could take a minute and leave her a comment, let’s see if we can’t get it up to 300 dollars comments.

This is kind of like the time he knocked on our door at 6am on the Sunday morning after our wedding “just to bring us donuts” and totally NOT to make sure we were awake and getting ready for church.

Messages from my father.
Last night my parents watched the kids at our house while we went out with some friends. I woke up this morning with a bit of a hangover and found some NOT so subliminal messages from Pastor Dad.
I wonder if it was really a “mistake” that he “accidently” used “permenant” marker instead of the dry erase marker?
I love my dad

OMG! DUCKS!

Inspired by my artistic rendition of a duck, I decided to take Gabby to the park to feed the ducks.

One thing you need to know is  I am the type of person who afraid of breaking rules (because I do not want to rot in jail, nor do I want to burn in hell.) I tell you this because there are signs that kindly ask you NOT to feed the ducks, listing such reasons as “feeding the ducks will make them lazy!”  After seeing that there were Do Not Feed The Ducks! signs, I became a little bit fearful of getting in trouble, so as we were walking to the pond I  hid the baggie which contained 2 pieces of bread on the inside of my shirt. I’m not sure who exactly what or who I was afraid of– they do not have guards watching over the pond. But you just never know. It’s entirely possible that there there are people posing as “private citizens” moseying near the pond, waiting to catch the duck feeding rule breakers!

We arrived at the pond without having been caught with our bag o’bread, and I continued to pretend as if we were only there to observe the pretty ducks and not to feed them. I looked around to make sure there weren’t any men in city uniforms around before I carefully took the bag of bread out from underneath my shirt.

Once I had determined the coast was clear, I reached inside of my shirt, whipped out the bread and starting rolling them into little balls so that Gabby could throw them to the ducks.
She threw her first little bread ball and 2 of the ducks who were close by swam up to eat the bread. Gabby went crazy, she started jumping up and down and squealing. “Duckies eat bread, mama! Duckies eating!” I don’t feed the ducks often, so I forgot that when you feed them, they get all loud and start communicating with the other ducks. The two ducks closest to us were all “quack, quack! The Humans have brought bread, come and get it while it’s fresh!” Within a matter of seconds, two  ducks turned into ten ducks. Then, ten ducks turned into what seemed like hundreds of ducks. They were all quacking in what I  perceived to be a very aggressive manner.

I was trying to remain calm, because, seriously, they’re just ducks! However, I was a little terrified on the inside because I wasn’t supposed to be feeding them and there they were, making it TOTALLY OBVIOUS that we were feeding them. Someone really needs to talk to the ducks about that. If they would like The Humans to continue to feed them illegally, they really need to learn how to keep it on the down low.

Stupid ducks.

At one point, one of the ducks got tired of fighting for the bread and just jumped out of the water, unto the sidewalk and right up to me and Gabby. “WHOA, there, little buddy! Get back into the water please.” (I actually said that. Out loud. And I meant it.) I had never seen a duck do that before and it kinda freaked me out. Do the ducks not fear The Humans? Apparently, they do not. All of a sudden, one by one, the ducks started hoping out of the water and walking right up to me and Gabby. The scary thing was (haha, I said “scary” while speaking of “ducks”) that they were looking right at the bag in my hand as they were walking directly towards me. I swear I heard one of them say “You better have enough for all of us, bitch!”

I jumped up, grabbed my daughter and um, kind of started to run away, but in that way where one is trying to play it off as if they’re not terrified of getting killed by a gang of ducks. You know what I mean? I was trying to be all “Ok! We’re leaving because we are totally done feeding the ducks! No, seriously! We’re not afraid of the ducks at all! How lame would that be? HAHA!” Apparently, I am a bad at pretending not to be scared  because two girls who were close by started laughing  and one of them was all “Look! That girl is afraid of the ducks!”

There was nothing I could do at that point, except to turn around and admit my fear to the women who were so openly mocking me. “Did you see that? I got so scared, all of those ducks coming at me, I was afraid they were going to bite my daughter.”

(Think of The Children! THE CHILLLLDREEENNNN.)

I was pretty shook up as we walked away from the pond. I realize how stupid that must sound, since I am talking about DUCKS. Not alligators. Not Tigers. DUCKS!! But, I had no idea ducks were so aggressive and unafraid of humans. I so did not expect them to hop out of the water and get all up in my grill like that.

Effing ducks, man.

16

Sixteen years ago, on this very day, I was getting ready for the biggest day in my life. It was the day in which I would place The Biggest Veil Ever Known to Mankind upon my head and marry the man whom I loved.
(To boink.)
(But mostly just loved.)
(To boink.)

16 years ago on this very day was “My Wedding Day”. Also knows as “The Day of Big“.
Big Veil, Big Cake, Big Glasses , Big Bows, Big Puffy Sleeves, Big Bangs.
(Also? Big Hickies in the Big Limo on the way to the Big, Boring Reception that had NO liquor nor any dancing but! It sure did have a Big Punch Bowl with lots of alcohol free fruit punch!)
Here’s what I wrote on our 13th anniversary.

I will never forget that day, 13 years ago. I was a hot, 19 year Germican beauty with a tight body. Tony was a thin, 25 year old mexican with a head full of hair.
And we were both madly in love.
I remember it was a beautiful day.
I remember Tony’s grandmothers lobsided boobs. I remember my dad’s 3 hour sermon and rolling my eyes every 3 minutes because I wanted him to STOP ALREADY. I remember when we sang to each other, I remember the screaming baby in the background. I remember yelling at the photographer to stop taking pictures already because we needed to get to the reception and telling everyone “DON’T LISTEN TO HIM ANYMORE, JUST LEAVE, WE NEED TO LEAVE!” I remember making out to the Righteous Brothers in the back of the limo that my long lost Godfather rented for us out of guilt for not being there for me as I was growing up. I remember showing up to the reception with hickies all over my neck. I remember our boring ass reception because we weren’t allowed to have a dance, because it was against my fathers religion and I was still too scared to stand up to him. I remember the ride home, people honking at us, while I leaned out the window screaming “WOO HOO, we’re married!!!!!”, I remember getting home and NOT having sex because I was on my period and you were sick as a dog.
I also remember making up for not having sex that night by having sex 4 times a day, everyday for the next 3 months. I remember you not being able to put on your pants for work because of “rawness” to a certain area on your body.
Tony, I remember it all.

I still remember it all. Just as if it happened yesterday. And it still makes me smile. (Well, except the part about not having a dance at our reception because of my dad. That still makes me a little mad. But I’ll get over it someday.)
I recently found a box of our invitations. I do remember when I picked them out that I truly believed they were the most romantic wedding invitations to have ever been printed, but looking at them 16 years later, I have to say, they weren’t romantic at all, they were just very “Christian Bookstore”.
“Companions in laughter, friends in tears, today we shall marry and share our love forever.”
That was the saying (puke) that I had printed (puke) on the inside (puke) of our invitations (puke.) If I could have seen into our future when I had picked out our invitations, the saying would have went a little something like this:
I pee with the door open, your farts smell just like my grandpa’s farts, and yet, we love each other enough to do actually go through with this. I hope we still want to have sex with each other 16 years from now.
The good news is that we still do want to have sex with each other because we still do love each other very much, even if I do want to punch him in the neck for trying to use “big words” when we argue and even if he does have to refrain from tripping me on purpose because of the continous eye rolling.
(The romance, it’s just oozing from my fingers to the keyboard, is it NOT? One should never try writing an “anniversary post” while “pre-raggin’ it.” God.)
We don’t have any plans for “our big day” as he’s working late and I have cramps, but maybe tomorrow, we’ll finally go see “Borat” and maybe, if I’m lucky, we’ll have dinner somewhere fancy.
(Mmmmmmm buffalo chicken salad.)
I’m saving the lovey dovey stuff for the card that I shall give him later on tonight, but I did want to say “Happy Anniversary, My Sweet PigHunter. Thank you for falling in love with my underage ass, because were it not for you, I’d not have 3 of the most beautiful children to have ever walked the face of this earth. I love you.”

I left out the confession in which I confess to having not yet showered today.

I am quite sure that there are a great number of people who roll their eyes when I talk about Aerobic Dance Class. “We get it, woman, you like to dance aerobically, ENOUGH ALREADY!” I know. I KNOW, and yet, I can’t stop myself from writing about it.
I don’t write about every single class, because that would be annoying, but every once in a while, something brilliant will happen (DANCE OFF!) or I’ll have a “light bulb” moment whilst doing a “Funky Chicken” type move and I must write about it.

Last week, my AD instructor busted out with The White People Dances, specifically, The Irish Dance.
As soon as Anna said “Irish Dance” I mourned for my calves and how they would feel in the morning. Have you people seen the River Dance? All of those cute little jumping movements that they do whilst holding their hands sweetly at their sides?
Crap. My calves! They ache!
Confession: I almost cried during The Irish Dance. (FUCK YOU IRISH MUSIC!) I couldn’t explain it if I tried. One minute, I’m doing this crazy ass “white people” move in which I’m jumping up and down at a very high rate of speed and the next there are tears welling up in my eyes because of the sound of those asshole bagpipes. (Fuck you, bag pipes!) I do not know what came over me, but I was THIS CLOSE to “losing it” and I have no idea why. (Although, I’m pretty sure it was the damn bagpipes.)
Confession #2: I took a short break after writing confession #1 so that I could go unload the dishwasher and you know how my shitty cabinets do not close all of the way? Well, I was coming up from putting something in the bottom cabinet and I whacked the front side of my hide head on with the corner of the cabinet and I thought I split it open and while I didn’t get all “OMG! I AM PARALYZED!” like I did when I fell off of the plastic chair, I DID run to the mirror to see if there was blood. There was NOT blood, but there was, however, a “mark” and um, I feel a little dizzy now and um, it’s freaking me out because OMG! I COULD HAVE A BRAIN BLEED AND NOT KNOW IT!
Confession #3: I’m not doing so well with “The Weight Loss” and have put on a significant amount of weight. 15 pounds, but it looks like a lot more than that, because all of the toning that happened with the weight training has turned to fat and ack, it’s not good. I took a picture that I planned on posting, but, I feel embarrassed to post it right now. Maybe tomorrow. Why did I gain weight back? I’ll tell you why. I got sick of going to the gym every night (but I did not get tired of Aerobic Dance and continue to go to that, but, 2 nights a week of AD does NOTHING for weight loss. Especially when one is eating assloads of bread.) I got sick of counting points. I got sick of worrying about every single thing that I put in my mouth. I got sick of talking about weight loss, of thinking about it every waking minute of every single day. I got tired of ALL OF IT and I gave up and gave in to my desires to eat whatever I wanted and to be lazy. I just said “screw it all.”
Of course, I regret it now. All of that hard work, down the drain. Ok, not all of it, I’m no where NEAR as fat as I was when I started this journey, but still. I should be at my goal by now and I’m not. That pisses me off.
I plan on getting back “with the program” because I felt so much better when I was eating healthy and working out. And, as pissed off as I am, I refuse to let this stop me from reaching my goal. I’ve had a major setback, but it’s not the end of the world. (It is, however, the end of wearing the really cute skirts I had bought from Old Navy for at LEAST a month. Damn it.)
Confession #4: I am in love with Arbor Mist Sangria.
Confession #5: I have no idea how to end this post, so I’m just going to go ahead and end it here.

Generations


1972, in my Grandpa’s arms

2006, my daughter, neslted safely in the arms of my Grandpa
Isn’t life beautiful? It is so beautiful.
Grandpa’s doing better. So much better, they sent him home. I just called Grandma and she said he “ok” but she’s pretty sure that “he’s on his way out.” She thinks he’ll “stick around for Christmas” but won’t be around long after that.
Have I ever told you that my Grandma is the strongest, most blunt and MOST HILARIOUS Grandma to have ever lived? She doesn’t mince words, which can be VERY EMBARASSING when out in the general public with her, but my God, she’s funny.
I’ll never forget the story she told me of when she went back to Germany to visit her family. She attended a very large church while visiting and decided to get up and speak to the congregation. She told the people of how hard life was when she was young, how hard they had to work for every little bit they had and then, she proceeded to GO OFF on “those young, unappreciative brats.”
“When I was a young girl, WE WOULD SCOOP WATER OUT OF THE GUTTERS WHEN WE WERE THIRSTY and you young’ins walk around with your fancy, expensive water bottles, thinking your life is so hard. YOU PEOPLE DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO SUFFER.”
God, I wish I had been there.
The best stories EVER are from when her and Grandpa worked at “The Camp” with “The Koreans.” Oh, how Grandma loved the Koreans.
As funny as it is to me to hear the stories, I can promise you that it was NOT fun for the people who worked there because from what I can gather, my Grandma was slightly verbally abusive. Especially to “the young’ins” because “the young’ins” did NOT KNOW HOW TO STIR THE SOUP, MAN.
Grandma is very religious, very Nazerene. (Is The Nazerine still a religion? Or is my Grandma the Last Naz Standing? I do not know much about The Nazerine faith, but I do remember that dancing is (was?) FORBIDDEN.) She loves to watch Catholic TV, but only to laugh at how misguided those poor Catholics are. (She does not, however, like to watch basketball, because “those basketball players are tatted out, overpaid thugs who sexually assault women and smoke Marijuana.”)
I called her right now to ask her if she needs help with Grandpa. “No, I can manage him just fine, I don’t need any help.”
That’s how she is. She’ll NEVER admit to needing help. She’s strong, probably the toughest woman I’ve ever known, but I can’t help but think at almost 90 years old, she may truly need help but is unable to accept it.
Sigh.
The good news is that Gramps is getting better. Thanks for the well wishes and prayers for him. Now, maybe you can say a little prayer for Grandma Wilma. She’s going to need them, taking care of that grumpy old man.

The one in which I can’t stop crying.

When I was in Kindergarten, my Grandpa would pick me up from school every Wednesday to take me somewhere fun. Usually, we’d go miniature golfing, or to the trampolines. Sometimes, he’d take me to the donut shop next door to where he worked, or sometimes, to the bar where all of his buddies hung out.
I remember driving in his station wagon, standing in the backseat, my arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “I love you, Grandpa.” I’d say. “I love you too.” He’d say back.
My Grandpa used to drink a lot and from what I’ve heard, he was a mean drunk. My Grandpa hasn’t had a drink in over 30 years because of his love for me. He says that he stopped drinking because I didn’t like the smell of beer. I once asked him if he loved Jesus and if so, why did he drink beer? He stopped drinking beer that day and hasn’t had a drink of any kind since.
My Grandpa always used to tell me that I was his favorite grandchild, because I was his first grandchild. I’ve always known that I had a special place in his heart. I can’t tell you how much that’s meant to me over the years, knowing that my Grandpa thinks so highly of me.
grandparents.jpgOne year, for Christmas, I asked my Grandparents not to buy me any presents, but instead, to fill out a “memory” book that I had bought for each of them. They agreed and on Christmas morning, I could barely stand the excitement. I wanted to read what they had to say, how they felt about me, how they met and fell in love, what their favorite childhood memories were.
To this day, those books are the best present I’ve ever received. I sobbed like a baby as I read through both of them. One thing in particular that my Grandpa wrote still makes me cry every time I read it. Even more so today, as he lay in a hospital bed with a blood infection, IV’s pumping medication through his tired, old body.

“The first time I held you in my arms… I felt like life was finally worth living”

.
There I go with the crying again.
My Grandma called me to tell me he’s not doing well and that he keeps asking for me. I was going to go see him this morning, but Tony and the boys want to go, so I’m going to wait until they get home from school/work. I don’t want to see him hooked up to IV’s and in pain, but I know I HAVE to see him.
The year I got engaged, the doctors didn’t think he’d live longer than a year. I was sick with worry that he wouldn’t see me get married.
Not only did he live to see me get married, he’s lived to see all three of my children and oh, how he loves them. My God, he loves them. He especially loves Gabby. Perhaps because she reminds him of the little girl who loved nothing more than cruising with him in his station wagon, singing songs about Jesus while wrapping her arms tightly around his neck because she loved him more than anything in the whole wide world.
I still do and I always will. I just pray to God that he gets better, because I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet. Selfish? Of course it is. But he’s the only Grandpa that I’ve ever really known and I can’t even begin to imagine my life without him in it.