I Can’t See a Damn Thing in This Fog

Daily Post Prompt:    Foggy


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

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: Dogs –Bobby George, Pig, Jack, and Carlos;  2  Birds-Renee and Donice;  guinea pig – Penny Gig; Cats –Ester, Ash, Little Bear, Squirrel, Fuzzy, Russell, Loud Mouth, and Nimbus; 2 Chickens – Fluff Butt and Clarabelle, and 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.