Thursday, September 29, 2011

We still have fleas.  I’m not sure who is scratching more, us or the dogs.  We have performed a couple of tests to see if the house is infested and so far we have no evidence.  We put the white napkin on the carpet and waited for the fleas to jump on.  No jumping.  We tried the pie tin of water with the votive candle in the middle.  No heat seeking swimmers.  And while I was told to use Lemon Joy, I tried Dawn dish washing liquid with a bit of lime juice in a saucer…still no fleas.  So, other than washing dad’s bedding everyday because he insists he is infested, we have found no evidence of the insects whooping it up in the house.  Unless, of course, you examine the dogs.

These poor things are covered.  Flea dipped and medicated, still covered.  Yesterday mom and I gave them our version of a flea bath and, what was it mom said? Oh yeah, “the fleas are jumping off Daisy like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”  No, mom was not on the Titanic.  Along those lines however, I think a good freeze is the only thing that is going to help us around here.

Mom, dad and I happened to be in one room, watching a TV show all at the same time.  Dancing with the Stars.  Chaz and Lacy stepped on stage and began dancing away.

Asked dad, “Who’s the Chaz fella?”

Uh oh.

“That’s Sonny and Cher’s son, dad,” I said

“I thought they had a girl?” he quizzed.

“Yes, dad, that’s her but now she’s a he,” I informed him.

“What?”

“Yes dad, Chastity Bono was born a girl yet her whole life she felt as if she was supposed to be a boy so she had a sex change operation.”

“Explain that to me!” my father squawked.

“Dad, look it up on Google.” He stared at me.

“I’m not sure what all happens but I do know she takes males hormones to develop facial hair and they also make her breasts go away.  A surgical procedure creates and attaches a penis to her.”

He asks, “Testicles, too?”

“No dad.”

At this point I was stymied by the whole conversation.  My Father can’t grasp homosexuality and here I was trying to explain transgender to him.  His remaining questions incurred one reply, “Google it, Dad.”  Mom is still shaking her head....

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Got me a foam finger today at the Omaha Night Hawks game.  Daddy and I went to the home opener at TD Ameritrade Stadium.  There is something about football fans.  I was watching guys and gals yelling, baring their chests, and high fiving each other while spilling beer all over.  I’ve seen this behavior before at office Xmas parties.  I just can't make the correlation.

At dinner before the game daddy told me his Fantasy Baseball team – the one he had ME draft while he was out of town – the team that totally SUCKED the first half of the season – The team HE GAVE ME THE STINK EYE over - is now in the playoffs.

I finally decided my parents are only allowed to sleep in their beds.  The other day I discovered my mother asleep in the bathtub.  It was morning.  Scared me to death until I noticed the rise and fall of the book on her naked chest.  Similar experience later in the afternoon.  Dad was home – which is unusual.  We typically don’t see him until cocktail hour.  He was in his chair, watching TV just fine.  A bit later when I walked by his head was slouched to the side, his mouth was a tad ajar and one eye was open.  Sweet Jesus!  That “lean back in your chair and then start to fall backwards” shock TWICE in one day.  No more.  Got me a bullhorn.  Yes, I did.

just a few minutes after the post....

P.S. A BFF quickly commented that her hubby is a freak about pillows since Oprah told us about “the bugs” yet she has won out with the mattress…just getting  right….and their entire bedroom set came from someone who was dead before they were even married!!  Reminded me that ex husband and I slept in a bed made by his father in which all of his siblings, he included, were conceived.  Now you KNOW I insisted on a new mattress…….

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

You know the whole nature vs. nurture discussion?  We learn some behaviors organically (nurture) and some we are hard wired for (nature).  For example, my dad’s sister, Aunt Donna, picks at her fingers, mostly her cuticles as I recall.  Aunt Donna escaped Nebraska early on and has lived in California for I think longer than I have been alive.  Yet, I pick at my cuticles just like she does.  My sister, 14 years my junior, also picks at her cuticles and now that I think about it – and he may not admit it – my brother does too.  It’s a nature thing.

My immediate family has even more in common, but I am confused because I think is a nature thing….not a nurture thing….but…: We all love to sleep with dead pillows.

I washed bed linens today and while we all have the regulation two pillows (or more if you’re getting fashionable MOM) per bed, ONE IS OURS and then there is the other one.  The ONE THAT IS OURS is a flat pancake.  Mom, dad and I – all flat. 

Mom’s is an old Pan-Am airline pillow.  It was small to begin, but now it is pancake flat and she covers it with a “those cotton boxers are so thin you can see through them” white cotton pillowcase.  Dad’s, and I get verklempt here (I’ll tell you later), is a feather pillow.  I believe it was originally Goose down, king sized and now it is chick fuzz, baby bear bed size. My pillow is an inherited, poly fill that has been folded incessantly from my new bedroom, new life restless sleep patterns.  It’s getting to be just right.

I now texted my sister to see if she’s still up.  If she is, I’m asking about her pillow preference.  I’d text my brother, too, but he is a typical brother and does not normally respond in the same decade.

While we wait, I will tell you the story of my emotional abuse at the hands of my ex husband.  In the late ‘80s when we moved to Atlanta, we lived in an apartment complex that backed up to a stream and forest.  For those of you who do not know, Atlanta is in the middle of a national forest, so this geographic location of our apartment is not unusual.  My husband gave me grief about my pillow.  Always did.  Especially when I brought it on our honeymoon.

Similar to daddy’s today, it was a king sized, Goose down pillow that had been reduced in size from my snuggle love.  I cherished that pillow.  Maybe it was jealousy, I’m still not sure.  When we moved from that apartment into our first home together, my husband (former baseball catcher) threw my pillow into the stream in the forest.  In front of my eyes.  And he laughed.  It still hurts.

Have not yet heard from my sis, she must be in bed because it is 10pm here, 11pm there and she is a pregnant working nurse practitioner.  However, my brother just called!!!!  I’m running to the phone now….

“What is your sleeping pillow of preference?” I asked.

“What” he reacted?

“What is your sleeping pillow of preference?” you know what I said, I thought.

Thinking to himself my sister is in the drink again, he politely replied, “I try to sleep on my back.  When I sleep on my back I do not use a pillow for I find it uncomfortable.”  For I find it uncomfortable, this is verbatim.  My brother speaks like I would imagine a person of royalty would speak.

“However,” he continued, “when I sleep on my side, as I oft do, I prefer my flattened pillow, folded in half.”

“Ah ha!”  I exclaimed! “It is NATURE!” and I explained my theory.  He told me to get off the wine and go to bed.  As I shall but not before I make this point:

We were not told, showed, forced, or else ways introduced to the love of and preference for a flat pillow.  Yet, the five of us that comprise our nuclear family all prefer dead pillows!  Yes, my sister did not reply, but I believe she is enjoying the recuperative sleep only a gestating mother can enjoy….on a flat pillow.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

There is someone new in my life.  Last night I was serenaded and wooed into to the wee hours of the morning and at about 8:00am I had had enough and wanted to kill that damn cricket.  I can’t tell exactly where it is...somewhere between my laundry basket and my dry cleaning pile.  I don’t recall being as annoyed when camping, yet I doubt there was a cricket chirping two feet from my head either.

Now the glass half full side of me is feeling pretty good about herself.  My basement companionship is growing.  I now share my space with two spiders, a mouse and a cricket!  Oh and, maybe fleas….

A couple days ago I noticed mom’s male Miniature Schnauzer, Duke, scratching at his belly.  It wasn’t non-stop but it was regular enough that I told mom to take a look at him.  She didn’t see anything.  Next day Duke was downstairs, outside my bedroom door and I could hear the thump, thump, thump of him scratching so I got up to look at him.  Fleas scurrying everywhere.  Good grief.

I announce to mother that he is infested and showed her.  This time she could see them.  Now what to do?  Mom said she would put more Frontline on him.  I wasn’t sure how that was going to help him now, yet mom assured me that once the medicine soaked into his skin, the fleas would die if they bit him.  Ok, whatever.

Next day, Dukie still scratching, under further review, still infested.  I arm myself with trusty Google and search out homeopathic rid flea methods.  Seems lemon juice has something in it fleas don’t like.  The recipe called for a pot of boiling water, a slice or two of lemons and an overnight steep.  Screw that, we all have the skin crawlies, are scratching everywhere and need relief fast.

I sacrificed the last inch of 409 and rinsed out the spray bottle.  I filled it ½ with bottled lemon juice and added a bit of water.  Mom held Duke and I blasted his belly.  He wasn’t too happy and I guess it was cold.  The black specs fled.

I later read that fleas will scurry to the head area, that we should have put a ring of juice around his neck first to impede their migration.  It’s a day later and Duke won’t let mom or me near him.  We have no idea if it worked, he won’t get close enough to us for us to know if he’s still scratching or not.  I, on the other hand, am itching all over, still.  Dad came home from fishing and after hearing the story asked if perhaps that is why he's been itching for the last few weeks.  I scratched my head, my arm, my face and reached for the wine bottle.

Saturday, September 03, 2011

Mom and I went to a movie and out to eat yesterday.  Dad’s gone fishing for the Labor Day weekend so mom and I decided we would jam in as many movies as we can over the weekend.  Seems movie promoters don’t think Labor Day weekend is a good time to premier new movies.  The only premier this weekend is The Debt.  Our movie wish list is about ten long and NONE of them are starting this weekend.

Retailers think it is a grand time for a sale however.  Mom decided she wanted a fall/winter purse so we tacked purse shopping on the front of dinner and a movie.  This summer I have carried a butter yellow bag, as I interpret it as a “splash of color” from Stacie on What Not to Wear.  Yellow is not a normal color for me and therefore, it complements my wardrobe as a “splash of color.”  Mom wants a splash of color, too.

We went to Charming Charlie’s at Shadow Lake.  Gals, if you haven’t been it is a must.  Total eye candy color palettes of purses, scarves, jewelry and a few togs and shoes.  Divine.  Mom and I ambled in and around all the displays and what we determined to be mom’s splash of color didn’t seem to come in the right hue at Charlie’s.  Or maybe it did but we didn’t like the style.  Very disappointing.  Mother and I are easy shopping marks, yet there was no score at Charlie’s.

That wore us both out – mom from her bad back and walking; me from not being able to even force a purchase…I needed a glass of wine.  We proceeded to the restaurant early to wait for our dates, Joyce and her friend Mary Jo.

Joyce is my mom’s best friend from college.  Mom fixed Joyce up on a date with my dad’s best friend Ted.  Joyce and Ted married, had four girls and we had the best time growing up together – the parents and the kids. If they would have had a boy, I’m pretty sure he would have been my first husband.

Joycey (aka Juice or Juicely) sat next to me in the booth and Mary Jo next to mom.  The best thing about a girl’s night out is that there is no behaving.  We all ordered whatever we wanted off the menu…with dessert to go.  Our conversation was lively…catching up on everything and everyone…while I noticed Joyce’s freshly coiffed hair had a twig or something stuck in it.  I carefully, without wanting to be noticed, tried to pull the twig from her hair.  I didn’t want to embarrass Joyce. 

It seemed to be a bit stuck…maybe by hairspray.  So I tried again from the other end of the twig to see if it would loosen.  Joyce swatted at her hair as if a fly was bothering her yet continued listening to Mary Jo talking about the Bells musical group they both play in at church.  Now being nearly my second mom, I could have just mentioned it to Joyce but still did not want to embarrass her so tried one more time with a swift and quick yank.

“OUCH!” she yelled turning to me wondering what the heck I was doing to her.

With my down-turned mouth and raised eyebrows I meekly stated that she had a twig in her hair.

“That twig, Lori Jo, happens to be a hair fashion feather.  I actually have two of them and they have been anchored in my hair by a bead since June.”

“Oh!  Really?  I’m so sorry……now that you’ve explained, I see it.  Nice, hip fashion statement Joycey!”

“Thank you, I copied it from Stephen Tyler.”

American Idol, if you don’t know this already, you are also influencing fashion for the age 70+ group.

When we got home mom decided she wanted to shop on line for her splash of color purse.  For those who do not know my mother, she has a different outfit for every day complete with jewelry and shoes.  She is a multicolored fashion statement who, like me, trends to blues, greens, and purples because we still believe in the Seasonal color palettes of old.  We are both Winters.  She decided her splash of color should be red.  Well she shopped on line for a while before yelling for me to come and see what she had chosen.  Is was a navy purse, with a big flower in the front and little dashes of colors all over it.

“Mom?  I thought you wanted red?”

“There’s a bit of red on it.”

“Well, it’s not really a splash of color, this purse is more like an entirely new conversation.”

She’s still looking….

Thursday, September 1, 2011

It is sooo not cheese.  Daddy hosted me to the Storm Chaser’s Baseball Game the other night.  They are the farm team for the Kansas City Royals. 

When I left Omaha they were called the Omaha Royals and they played in historic Rosenblatt Stadium.  Now they are the Storm Chasers and play in a new ball park called Werner Park.  Rosenblatt was also the home of the College World Series of Baseball.  I spent a week there every summer as long as I can remember.  Heck!  I chose to attend ASU for college because their baseball team was good and really cute!  Now, the CWS is held in the new TD Ameritrade Stadium.  The Storm Chaser’s don’t play there but I think Creighton University plays there.  I have no idea where the girls’ softball teams play nor the other small ball teams and am unsure why we all can’t play together but who am I to question? All I know is Omaha has two new fabulous ball parks, and I hear historic Rosenblatt will be demolished with the land given to THE neighboring ZOO.  Now, the Omaha Henry Doorly Zoo rivals the best in the US, but I digress from my story….

This new ballpark I had been to…daddy had not.  When we arrived we got a cocktail and strolled around the perimeter so I could show daddy all the cool kid things, the variety of food and drink available, the different places to sit if you didn’t want to sit in your seat, etc.  Of course, we ultimately decided to get hot dogs for dinner.  Daddy the Omaha dog, me the Chicago dog and to share, chili cheese fries.

“What the hell is this?” daddy asked, looking down on his Omaha dog. 

“It’s cheese, daddy.”

“It doesn’t taste like cheese.”

“I know, and it is all over our fries, too.”

“What the hell IS this?”

“Daddy, remember when we were little and you and mommy hosted Bridge card games at the house?”

“Yes.”

“Remember those little, pretty crackers mommy would make with the cheese, the pimento and the teensy sprig of herb?”

“Yes, I loved those.”

“Well, that was spray cheese in a can.  This is canned cheese that can be sprayed.  In this fast-paced ballpark food environment, speed of service is important.  Speed of food = happy customers = we don’t care if we give them shredded toilet paper, if it can be palatable and is quick.”

We both ordered double Jim Beam and Coke’s from our cocktail waitress.

Dad is a man of few words.  Lord.  Get him on the phone and it is painful.  You’re not sure if he’s died while on line or not…he thinks so much before he speaks.  And, when he does it is in……..short……….two word…….spurts…….of information……as you lean into the phone  in frustration……..waiting to hear what he next says.  Typically, when we kids call, we ask for mom, talk with her and hang up. Mom translates to dad.  We don’t have to deal with it.

Imagine then, me and dad at the game together for five hours.  The above conversation was completely abridged.  I think we truly exchanged 50 words.

“Perfect night for a ball game.”

“That was a solid hit – you hear that crack?”

“That one’s over the fence.”

And the rest, at least from what I could tell, was me muttering to myself about plays, hits, stats, whatever.  Dad is a man of few words.  If I am not a gal of many words, I grunt and mutter.

We left at the 7^th inning, the game was neck and neck but not too exciting.  Good night to daddy, I was down stairs to brush my teeth and go to bed.  Needed a new roll of toilet paper.  The Mouse is back. One of my two remaining rolls was shredded.

*sigh*  I do not want to kill this rodent.  I just want it to stay out of my bathroom cabinet.  Mom suggested I put toxic dryer sheets in there.  Dad suggested an old fashioned trap.  I decided cheese, in a no-kill trap AND went with all three suggestions.  We were out of cheese so I scraped some of the baseball park cheese from the leftover chili cheese fries into my no kill trap.

 I’m still not sure what is working.  All I know is I have lost bathroom storage space for the three “repellents” and my bathroom smells like downy soft, fake cheese.  I’m ready to invite my mouse back.

I’m still not sure what is working.  All I know is I have lost bathroom storage space for the three “repellents” and my bathroom smells like downy soft, fake cheese.