I Can’t See a Damn Thing in This Fog

August 2, 2017August 14, 2017 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 12 Comments

Funnyjunk

Crystal pulled her glasses off for the third time and cleaned them. She tried lens wipes, spray, Windex, and soap and water; which left the worst film ever.

Her husband, Roger, watched impatiently from the comfort of his recliner. “What are you doing? The movie’s about to come on, and you’ve been fooling with those damn glasses for twenty minutes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m cleaning them.”

“Looks to me like you’re rubbing a damn hole in the lens and eww.” His face wrinkled in disgust, “After everything else you’ve tried; you think your spit’s gonna do the trick?”

“I’m telling you, I can’t see! They’re all foggy and blurry. My eyes were just fine this morning.” Her shoulders drooped. “I give up; something’s wrong, Roger, I know it.” Her hands dropped to her lap. “I bet it’s a brain tumor, like moms.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Crystal; you don’t have a brain tumor.”

“I have been having more headaches lately,” she said.

Roger pushed the electric recliners up button. “Hand me the damn things, let me have a look, and stop sniffling. We’ll figure it out together.”

Crystal handed him a lens cloth and her glasses. “I could see fine this morning.”

Roger ignored the whiny, pitiful sound coming from his wife of forty years and studied the glasses. The lens sparkled, then he spotted the numbers on the temple of the glasses. He pulled himself, grunting from his favorite chair and shuffled to the other side of the house, muttering under his breath. A few minutes later, he returned. “Here, that should do it,” he said, extending the glasses to his wife.

Crystal put them on and broke out in a grin. “I can see! You fixed them!” She reached for his hand, but he’d already pushed the down button on his recliner and was moving out of reach.

She settled back on the sofa, ready for the movie, and started giggling. “And I thought it was a brain tumor.”

“More like dementia if you ask me,” Roger said, picking up the remote control.

“Well, how in the world did you fix them?”

“I didn’t; you had my reading glasses.” Roger turned up the volume loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “Now, hush, we’ve already missed the half of the movie.”

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.

Not the Headline I Had in Mind

July 12, 2017August 14, 2017 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 31 Comments

Of all the places I thought I might meet my demise, locked inside a chicken coop, in 90-degree weather, was NOT on my list of ways to meet my maker.

I haven’t seen the inside of a chicken coop since I was a child. It was a regular occurrence for Grandma Mattie to run me out of theirs. Of course, I was a wee child full of mischief. Was and child being the operative words.

My two daughters couldn’t be more different if I’d found them thumbing through a sperm bank catalog, blindfolded. They do have one thing in common – the love animals. My youngest has a cat, Bailey, whom she adores and would sacrifice her mother to save him. My oldest has a small farm and there in lies the beginning of my almost demise.

She and her family are on a much-needed and long overdue vacation to the beach. A few weeks back we had the following conversation:

Her: “Mom, will you run by and check on my animals while we’re gone?”
Me: “All of them?”
Her: “Yeah, it’s easy, and I’ll leave you detailed instructions.”
Me: “How many do you have now?”
Her: “4 Dogs –Bobby George, Pig, Jack, and Carlos; 2 Birds-Renee and Donice; 1 guinea pig – Penny Gig; 8 Cats –Ester, Ash, Little Bear, Squirrel, Fuzzy, Russell, Loud Mouth, and Nimbus; 2 Chickens – Fluff Butt and Clarabelle, and 2 Baby Chicks – Willy Jean and Duck.”
Me: Gulp! “Sure, I’ll be happy to. Y’all deserve a vacation; have fun.” What in the hell? I’ve lost my damn mind.
Her: “There’s a pair of galoshes by the back door to use in the chicken coop.”
Me: “Oh, good.” I NEED galoshes? What the hell kinda chickens do they have?

Dear God, I’ll never remember their names. Hell, I have a difficult time telling my granddaughter, Harper, and my dog, Piper apart. Try saying those two names three times and see for yourself. I spent the whole time yesterday calling, Bobby George – Bobby Joe and Pig – Piglet. The others got, “Hey you” (close enough).

I’m always eager to help out my kids and who can’t feed and water pets? I mean, seriously; I was a single mother for eight years, worked and went to school full-time – just call me Superwoman. I did, however, have a few, itty-bitty concerns – like, forgetting one of the animals, losing one of the animals, or letting the chickens fly the coop – so to speak. Nah, Nana’s got this!

I reviewed the instructions my daughter left and got down to business, starting with the easiest – the guinea pig and the birds. Renee and Donice’s water looked as if they taken a crap in it – no biggy; I refilled their cup with fresh, cool water and moved on to Penny Gig who seemed fat and comfy in her cage, without a care in the world. The herd of cats – were A-Okay – can cats be in a herd? So far, so good; nothing to it. I moved outside, slipped my feet into the waiting galoshes and opened the door to the backyard.

The dogs came running around the corner to me and Piper (my little Bichon, a white fluffy thing) as if a circus had come to town. I thought a little exposure to other animals would be a positive experience for Piper (not entirely). Bobby George, Jack, Pig, and Carlos surrounded her, barking, sniffing, doing the usual meet and greet (sort of) which paralyzed Piper in place for 10 minutes or so. I could see it on her face –What the hell mom? It’s 90 degrees and who are these mutts?

No offense intended the mutts are all precious rescue animals. I’m not responsible for Piper’s opinions. She thinks she’s human and tiptoes along the brick edging of the patio because she doesn’t like to get her feet wet from the morning dew, need I say more?

Now, back to my near demise. I checked the dog’s food and water and made the necessary adjustments. Carlos looked a little overheated, so I shoved him through the doggie door to cool off and headed to the chicken coop.

I slid the latch and eased inside, careful not to let Piper or the other dogs sneak in behind me. The chickens ignored me, and the baby chicks were fine and dandy. All was going as planned. There was, of course, a bit of tension in the back yard but nothing more than the occasional scolding couldn’t handle.

“Okay you guys, stop it, no fighting. Bobby George, behave yourself. Piper, I’ll be done in a minute. Piper?”Oh, shit! Where’d she go?

Finally, mission accomplished. Proud and sweating, I turned to leave. The door wouldn’t open; the latch had slipped into place! Are you kidding me? I reached for my phone – oh yeah, left it on the counter, IN THE HOUSE!

Where’s Grandma Mattie when you need her? Or, anybody else for that matter. I scanned the neighborhood, the best I could from my vantage point. Not a car or person in sight. Would anyone hear me if I started screaming? “HELP! HELP! I’m in the chicken coop and can’t get out!” Now, that’s a commercial! I felt like the tree in the forest. If no one’s around when it falls …

I jiggled the door, stuck my arthritic fingers through the wire, and tried to reach the thingamajig, but NO-O-O. I picked up a small rake-looking thing and tried it – NOPE, too stiff.

Sweat was pouring off me like I was in the middle of a hot yoga class and I was running out of options. Piper who’s not used to 90-degree weather was on her way to a heat stroke, whining, panting and pawing at the door – Come on MOM! I wasn’t sure who would croak first her or me.

The coop had cover; so, I could get out of the sun. The thought crossed my mind until I remembered why I was wearing galoshes – ah, no, scratch that idea.Then, there was Piper.

I couldn’t bust out; 1– chicken wire is stronger than it looks, and 2– Bobby George might think Nana had brought in a gourmet dinner. The idea of me chasing chickens all over the yard with four dogs in hot pursuit (no pun intended) was a non-starter.

I had one more shot before I started screaming – a 6-inch long twig with enough bend that it might just work. Of course, this is a woman who can’t manage to hold a juice glass. It was a long shot, and if I dropped the damn thing, Piper and I would be toast – literally.

It worked! I grabbed Piper and hightailed it inside to thank God, the comfort of air-conditioning. Bless that baby; she’s still recuperating. I don’t know what would’ve been worse, me screaming HELP at the top of my lungs, having to call 911 (had that been possible) or, finding me curled up in a pile of shavings and chicken shit! I shudder to imagine.

Tomorrow is another day and another visit. I’m leaving Piper at home, attaching my phone to my hip, taking Velcro, string, and anything else I think will get me in and out of the damn chicken coop and home safely.

The last thing my daughter wrote on her note was, “Thanks, I love you and don’t let my animals die!” I guess it didn’t dawn on her; the animals were not the ones she needed to worry about.

I’m trying to prepare for the day I make that final trip, but I’m not too fond of these headlines:

Grandmother Found Dead Inside Her Daughter’s Chicken Coop.

Not exactly the headline I wanted ushering me out of this world into the next.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.

A Tribute to Mothers

May 14, 2017August 14, 2017 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 16 Comments

Happy Mother’s Day!

It seems like only yesterday I was up every two hours feeding, diapering, and trying to coax by babies to sleep. Aww, those were the days! Who needed sleep?

Becoming a mother helped me discover talents I never knew existed. Here are a few of which, I’m sure, you can relate (feel free to add to the list):

Learning to enjoy group bathroom time! They’ll find you every time!
Acquiring supersonic hearing – “I heard that!”
Discovering my hips had more function than sashaying- “That child’s attached to your hip.”
I didn’t need the gym – I could bench press a toddler, diaper bag, umbrella stroller, blankie, stuffed toy, purse, and a bag of groceries at once.
Gained new language skills both in interpretation and expression – “No, Mommy did not say that word!
Could out multitask any CEO! Cook dinner, wash a load of clothes, pick up toys, and play peek-a-boo while reading War and Peace – a piece of cake!
Discovered new uses for baby powder – who knew you could go a week without showering or washing your hair! Hello, Johnson & Johnson!
Learned more about poop than I ever cared to know – including, that s&%t stinks, it won’t singe your skin, it floats, and is damn hard to get off the walls.
Forgetting to answer to my real name – who the hell are you talking to? My name’s mommy!
Secretly admiring the passion and tenacity with which those little bundles of joy pulled the strings – especially our heart-strings.

I’m exhausted just remembering. Mother’s are the hardest working humans on the planet. My hat is off to each one of you and to my girls, all grown up – you are my greatest treasure and every moment was worth it.

And, to all, you mother’s looking for a bit of reprieve or just a stroll down memory lane here’s a little tribute.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Platitudes on Aging and Other Annoying Things

April 9, 2017August 14, 2017 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 26 Comments

I hate platitudes. You know those annoying statements people say to make you feel better about a situation. I come from a line of women who live long lives, into their eighties and nineties. Based on that kind of lineage, I anticipate a long life too. I’d prefer to be one of those women who age gracefully (whatever the heck that means).

My mother, a proud woman, wore her crown of white hair and the wrinkles on her face with pride. Coloring her hair would have been an insult. “I earned every one of these gray hairs raising six kids, ” she said, more times than I can count. Never at a loss for words, Mother had quite a few trite statements and tiresome clichés in her repertoire of advice. None of which prepared me for the grim reality of aging. I would’ve preferred the truth.

In honor of all aging women, I want to share a few of my mother’s favorite platitudes, sprinkled with a bit of honesty. So, grab a bottle of wine or two and brace yourself, ladies. You’re in for a bumpy ride.

Those aren’t wrinkles; they’re lines of wisdom.

No, they’re wrinkles. Your face is just the beginning. Those suckers spread faster than lines on a Google map and it ain’t pretty. You’ll wake one morning to find perky boobs that once pushed lace-trimmed bras out in nose snuggling cleavage deflated like helium filled balloon gone bad. Sexy bras get shoved to the back of the drawer and replaced with thick strapped, hard-wired versions. Once upon a time, I could slip into a sexy little lace number as quickly as it came off. Now, it’s like gymnastics — shaking, pulling, and tucking those girls into their rightful place and praying to God, they’ll stay.

Those aren’t hot flashes, they’re power surges.

Yeah right; slap CEO on my nametag and call-it-a-day. Panting, turning red in the face, and wiggling out of one’s clothes at an alarming rate, is not offering sexual favors or a lap dance. It’s a damn hot flash, and on those occasions, rest assured, I can kick ass and take names.

Your best days are in front of you. (What a crock.)

My best days were when I had the energy to work ten-hour days, enjoy happy hour with friends, make dinner, help the kids with homework, and have wild sex on the dining room table (or other impulsive places). Wild sex these days is watching the movie version and reminiscing. My body doesn’t bend that way anymore and this ain’t Hollywood. Those grunting and moaning sounds ricocheting off the walls have more to do with the pain in my hips and knees than pleasure.

Age is just a number.

No, it’s a flagrant reminder you’ve been usurped. Younger, thinner, more beautiful women are the ones turning the heads. The only heads I seem to turn these days are old men at Target. And trust me nothing brings the truth home more than an old man at Target, making a move on you.

The trick to aging gracefully is to enjoy it.

Seriously? I don’t think so. Aging is taking me kicking and screaming. I’m a proud woman (got that from mom) and vain. I never leave the house without makeup, earrings, or perfume. Penciling in the lines takes longer, but I refuse to be one of those women with lipstick half way to her nostrils. Did I mention you’ll need a magnifying mirror in your bathroom and reading glasses in every room of the house?

Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.

Freedom to roam around in circles, parking lots, highways, and room-to-room because you’ve forgotten where you are or what you’re doing. Some call this sightseeing, strolling, being disorganized, missing a turn. I call it, “Where the hell is my car? What did I come into this room for and where am I going?”

You haven’t changed at all.

Yes, I have. My face sags, my ass sags, my boobs are hard-wired, I get lost in the driveway, and can’t remember what I did yesterday, much less the last time I had spontaneous sex. My gnarled hands couldn’t open a jar or pick up a penny if you held a gun to my head. The pain of getting up and down makes me hesitant to sit. I don’t sashay, I waddle on legs stiff as iron pegs with feet, and the popping sound is not my gum, it’s my knees. Sedans (too low) are history. Give me an SUV with GPS; my sense of direction went south with my looks. And, driving at night might as well put Stevie Wonder behind the wheel. I can’t see shit.

My husband in a moment of great wisdom told me, “Honey, God made our eyes so vision would fade as we age.” He removed his glasses. “I can’t see a thing. You’re as beautiful as the first time I saw you.” He’s such a sweet talker; I’m swooning.

Gray hair is beautiful.

A few gray hairs, I can abide, but when I wake up and look as if someone dumped fertilizer on my head while I slept, enough is enough. My hairdresser is on retainer, and if my husband has to skip a meal or two for me to afford a cut and color, well all I can say is, “I’m watching his health.”

It’s better than the alternative (my all time favorite).

Ok, there’s some truth to that statement, but not much. Still, it gives me hope. They say all will be made whole in Heaven and I’m counting on it. Is sex included?

The truth

Aging sucks and someone (my mother) should have warned me. So here are a few words of wisdom from my hard-knock school of aging.

1- Repeat after me Botox is my friend. Your husband won’t notice, remember he can’t see.

2- Put your hairdresser on retainer, Clairol says, “You’re worth it.”

3- Sweating the small stuff will give you wrinkles, so don’t.

4- Invest time and money in yourself. Your husband won’t miss the groceries you’re not buying, and besides, you’ve paid your dues.

5- Enjoy the moments and laugh a lot. If we gotta go, go out with a smile on your face. How you get that smile is up to you.

To be fair.

Aging isn’t all dome and gloom. There are advantages. Life experiences have taught me about people and trust. Trivial things matter less, and I’ve figured out the important things in life. The best thing about growing older, however, is letting go of all the nonsense. Whiners and stupid people best stay back, I’ve lost my tolerance. Grow up, life isn’t fair, and there are no guarantees. Political correctness, I flushed it down the toilet where it belongs. I feel a freedom to say exactly what’s on my mind and without apology, and if someone doesn’t like this old lady, tough shit.

Your turn is coming.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Join the conversation. Talk to me or tell me your story. I’m all ears.