50 is the new 30

I’ve been feeling very reflective, of late.

I’ve always been one to do a lot of thinking. Too bad I didn’t have enough gumption to go beyond high school, school wise. I just wanted to be done with school, so it never crossed my mind to try to go to college. I wasn’t a great student, hated to study. In fact I never studied. Not once. I eked by on random memory and lucky guesses.

Saturday morning, it’s foggy outside so that the room is bathed in gentle gray tones. I have fans and a lot of white noise going on. White noise helps me relax, total silence makes my ears ring. It’s perfect for ponderings. My mind jumps around like a whack-a-mole. I tend to think in spurts.

I’m being dragged into October kicking, screaming, latching on to stationery objects. It’s like a giant wind machine is blowing me backwards toward my next birthday. Five Oh, we ain’t talking Jack Lord and Danno here.

Now that I’m here, approaching 50, it ain’t so tragic. I still feel young, mentally. I still have challenges to conquer and unfinished business to see to. Life keeps changing, you can’t set anything in stone, cos you have to roll with the flow.

When my mother turned 51, I made her a “cake” out sugar free lime jello with “Dot” spelled out in cantaloupe balls. (She was newly diagnosed diabetic.) And "LI" (51 in roman numerals, silly) I got Auntie Virg to get Dot and Chris out of the house and I set up the boom box with 50’s tunes and sat out her “Elvis” Bradford Exchange plate collection. Hung some streamers. Auntie Virg, Kat and lil' Chris thought the whole thing was great. I think Dot did too, but something in her personality made her always have a “this is ridiculous, why are you wasting my time” attitude, even though she was tickled with the attention at the same time. (She was a wonderful cook and loved Mel Brooks movies)


I may still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I am a fast learner, um, most of the time. Always something to look forward to, except that gets clouded by something to dread, sometimes. Of course, I’m always busy imagine the worst case scenario, too. A worrier’s work is never done. Everything always smoothes out, eventually, I’ve been lucky that way.


These pics are almost 20 years old, from the “Over the Hill Party” RonDan threw me when I turned 30.

Look Out World....

It’s almost here, May 19th. The day of graduation for the 1978 class of Comeaux High School. 32 years.


Thirty-two years. Oh My Gawd! If I didn’t feel old before, I feel it when I hear numbers like this.

What was I like 32 years ago? Sometimes I miss that carefree 17 year old. The seventeen year old Vi did not think she was carefree, but what did she know? She was just another teenager that thought she was all grown just cos she graduated High School.


I remember that day at Blackum Coliseum in Lafayette La. They herded us through the cow shoots for practice. There was hay everywhere and if I am not mistaken, MUD. The school teachers that were along to assist in our preparation talked to us like children! “If you don’t keep quiet, you will not walk and get your diploma!” Riiight, like you ain’t ready to get rid of us. We’ve been running around all school year being all senior arrogant; time to let the junior class rise to the top.


After they decided we were ready, they let us go and I’m sure me and my BBF Van spent the rest of the day preparing for the most exciting thing to happen to us so far. I don’t remember at lot of details between the practice and the ceremony. I was torn between the excitement of graduation and the sadness that my Mother did not plan to attend. I can’t remember why. We were getting along pretty good, then, but she absolutely refused to go. I was heartbroken. I had lived here four years, but I wasn’t kin to anyone except Mama. I had a very plain high school experience outside of football games and a few after game dances, I was also in Speech Club. But that’s all the extra-curricular actives I enjoyed and two of those we because my BBF Van was in Pep Squad.


So here’s the night, hot and muggy, if I recall, correctly. It’s threatening to rain. We go our little Pomp and Circumstance march in, up through the middle of the seats, around your section to the row you’re on, then go to the end of the row. Seated, I began to search the crowd, hoping Dot had changed her mind. I didn’t see her. Oh, well.


I was supposed to stand at the bottom of the stage stairs until my name was called when the graduate before me was walking off stage. In my excitement, I rushed when then girl on from of me name was called, the ushers stopped me and I stood there while she walked across stage. I was very anxious to be done with it. I was at the very end of the alphabet, W, so it really was over soon after that.


Being back outside, a balmy breeze was blowing and I watched my classmates huddled in groups getting snapshots with family members. You could have knocked me over with a feather when my mother and our friend Mona K walked up. Mona had shamelessly shamed Dot into coming to my graduation, and my mother had been there after all. I wish I had known while it was happening, but it was a good feeling once I did know.


Afterwards Van and I hooked up with a couple of fellow fella grads and went out to eat, then bowling. I had my first real job the next day. I was a young adult, high school behind me, a job. I thought I was pretty cool, but I knew a lot less than I thought I did. Growing up is a humbling experience.

"Scardy Cat"...."Am NOT"......"Are, too!"

What’s scary to you?

I love spine tingling ghosty stories. I love looking at ghost photographs, watching ghosty vids on you tube. Ghosty movies, not that hack and slash crap, but a good ghost story, heck it ain’t gotta be good. There are a plethora of “good” awful ghost movies on Hulu.

I’ve had the occasional ghostly experience. Sometimes my mother rattles around, but it’s not scary. I know she is here when I smell coffee brewing and I am not brewing coffee. We catch glimpses of movement in the corner of our eyes. She just drops by from time to time to check up on us. You get used to it after awhile.

I don’t care for clowns. I can only stand 3, Bozo, Ronald McDonald and Fizbo. All other clowns are evil and must be shunned. It’s not so much that I’m scared, I just hate clowns. I don’t trust anyone who won’t show their face. You can’t even trust Jimmy Stewart for cry-eye. Remember that movie “The Greatest Show on Earth”? Jimmy Stewart plays a circus clown hiding out behind the face paint, cos in real life (Real movie life, isn’t that an oxymoron?) he’s a fugitive running from the law for murdering his wife. You can’t even trust George Bailey after he schemers on the clown white.

My cousin, Dood Cuz, has this philosophy regarding clowns. People who hate clowns hate with a real passion. You don’t kinda just hate clowns if you’re a clown hater; you hate them with every fiber of your being, violently and carrying invisible pitchforks. Loathe entirely!

You know what would be the most awfullest thing ever? A Ghost Clown. If the theory that ghosts are lost souls trying to make sense of their deaths is true, imagine how many ghost clowns there could be. Clowns must die in plenty of embarrassing ways. Their squirting lapel flower could get turned around the wrong way and squirt water up their nose and drown them. And, how embarrassing to die in a clown car accident. When you jam that many passengers in a tiny vehicle, the ratio to body parts that intermingle tragically and comically would be very high, I would think. And all those red rubber noses lying around in the debris, it’s just too overwhelming to imagine.

Then, there’s your clown murders. Clowns piss people off, and every now and then they get whacked. Most clown murderers get off, though..crime of passion, justifiable homicide. Clown came at me with a pie, I’m deathly allergic to custard cream and he knew it. It was self defense. He just kept pulling and pulling those silk scarves from his sleeve, it drove me mad I TELL YOU…………..M A D!!! I had to kill him (insert dramatic sobs) I HAD….To…..…..Keel Heem.

When I was little it was one of my mother and step dad’s hobbies to go “ghost hunting”. We would travel the wilds of Rankin Co Mississippi (I think the wilds ceased to exist many years ago) looking for run down abandoned houses to explore. It was mid to late sixties, people didn’t post many “No Trespassing” signs back then. I don’t remember ever seeing a ghost, but it was rich in creepy goodness, just the same. Today, me and my girls enjoy touring antebellum homes in Natchez and The Myrtles in St. Francisville La. We like walking in grave yards.

Mel and I visited our dearly departed today. Mother’s Day is a popular day at cemeteries, we were lucky enough to miss the crowd. This little cemetery is off the main road, very scenic and peaceful. In living in the same place in excess of twenty years you make friendships and sometimes they dissolve at some insurmountable conflict and people stop speaking. Recently, I only found out about a former BBF’s stepson dying by discovering his plot on one our little visits. That rattles you just a little bit. You see tombstones with dates that span too short a life and you wonder “what’s their story?”.

Graveyards don't scare me. I think they are beautiful and peaceful. Back in 9th and 10th grades, I roamed the Sacred Heart cemetery in Broussard La. It was the only place I had to escape an ugliness going on in my home life. I frequently found myself there at night. Graveyards are good places to be alone (although, you're anything but alone) a quiet place to roll some thoughts around in your head. A good place to reminisce and be calm.

Just Like Lookin' In A Mirror

They say, "Everybody has a twin."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



My second ex husband once removed is one of those gentlemen that shave their heads. Not all men can pull off that look but I think he carries it rather well. He uses a product called Bald Guyz.

X2’s Brother from another Mother, Tim, was beboppin’ down the aisles of Walgreens late one Christmas season night. Doing what everyone else does during any shopping season, not really shopping, but keeping an eye out for the perfect gift. They’re easy to find in Walgreens, it’s that kind of a store.


Suddenly, Tim stops, mid epiphany, and says “Well, I have to buy that for X2.” It was sitting there on a shelf, one of those misty sunbeams around it, little cherubs fluttering around. It was as if it had been custom made for X2, it was fate, karma, kismet and just plain iconic.



Well, X2 loved it, he became a regular customer, after emptying his gift, he went to the store and began searching for himself. His little doppelganger on the blue box made him grin. What a find!




Then, as happens so many times, it was over as suddenly as it began. Though his shiny bald guy head moisturizing lotion polish stuff still made him well conditioned, still provided that just right sheen, not glaringly bright, not just naked flesh. It had changed, you know. X2 could see it from down the aisle as he made his way to the Bald Guyz section of Walgreens. He’d been replaced.

It was like they was twins, reverse dimpled twins.

Cuh-ray-a-zee, Daddio

OMG!

Here I am, almost 50 years old and I still get pimples. Another thing, I have no elasticity, skin wise. And I gots enlarged pores. I get little catfish hairs on my chin that must be plucked upon discovery or I will Fweek Owt!!!


Actually, my Freak threshold is pretty low. About 12 years ago I began having debilitating panic attacks. It took 3 years to finally get the right medication to bring me back to sanity. If you’ve never had a panic attack, first of all, congratulations; they feel like a heart attack, which scares you, which makes the panic attack worse. You can’t breathe and your heart races. The only thing you can do is pace and wring your hands. I have been known to scream and beat on the wall during one particular spell.


My mother used to get what she called “sinking spells” and I am sure she was suffering from panic too, now that I understand it. It does manifest itself in different ways. Some attacks have made me only want to lie on my bed in darkness, not speaking. However, when you think you are having one, you need to get on the phone with your BBF or your aunt, and get them to talk you down. There is something so comforting about a familiar voice groaning “OMG, you’re not having a heart attack.”


Thankfully, panic attacks are few and far between these days. Now, something has to trigger an attack, back in the day, they just randomly happened. I have been known to have a meltdown or two, but I do pretty well, I think. I hope my kids don’t remember the times I went a wee bit wonky. I think most of the horror went on inside me. I am cursed with an overactive imagination, and it runs wild constantly. A couple of my co workers have seen me in a pretty emotional state, but we can joke about it now. Read this next part in a French accent, “She was screaming and crying, all over the place.”


I’ve always been a bit of a worrywart, I think too much, I mull, chew over, and contemplate. Sometimes, it builds up until I can feel it. Just writing about it has me a little edgy, so let’s take a deep breath. That really does help sometimes. I worked up a little routine I followed that kept me stable. Take in a breath, deep, breathe in as much air as you can, and then blow it out slowly, until you have to breathe, then rinse, repeat. Concentrate on the sound of your breathing; it takes your mind off the panic. After you feel a little calm, you can go to your “happy place”. I’m serious, that happy place theory is not bullshit. My happy place is the color blue. I do the breathing thing, inhaling deeply, forcibly exhaling slowly, then I just think of blue. A blue pond in a meadow. Blue waves lapping at a beach. You can feel the tide just wash away. The trick is, getting so involved in creating this ideal scenery that you forget to descend into madness. It sounds goofy, but it works for me. Sometimes. But I can’t be too far gone.


If you’ve not experienced this stressful affliction, I hope you never do. I feel certain a few readers will be able relate in some way. You know what helps, chocolate. And TCM. Maybe a tudge of Gentleman Jack chased by ice cold Coke (no ice please). These are not to cure the attack, but to pamper yourself once it’s over and the world is right again. Of course, one must leave out the whiskey if one came by their calm pharmaceutically. One must be responsible and civilized, even when tottering on the brink of madness.

How Ya Like Them Apples?

Well, you can’t please everyone, so you’ll just have to please yourself. Along the way, those who think like you get lucky.


Recently, I was disagreed with in one of my blogs, I offended someone by saying I would come to their state and fly a rebel flag.


Look, with all the dreary stuff going on these days, the worst thing you can think of is a rebel flag? I was born in Mississippi and lived there most of my life. The flag of this state incorporates the rebel flag. I was told that the rebel flag was not a laughing matter and that people in Arizona might not appreciate it. The rebel flag certainly is not a laughing matter. Nothing that means something to anyone is a laughing matter.


“Thousands of people lost their lives to fight what this flag stands for.”


I guess that’s true of many things. For each flag that flies above battling factions, one side is fighting for it, the other side is fighting against it. After the battles are long over and graves of the fallen are consumed by time and progress, later generations fly the flags of their fathers. Years have maybe altered definition and sentiment. Flags and other “symbols” mean different things to different people.


I can’t speak for everyone, of course. For me, the rebel flag means The South and that means Home. If I have a rebel flag bumper sticker on my car, as I have been known to do, I’m telling the world, “I am from the South and I am proud of it.” I wear a silver cross at all times; I’m telling the world “I believe in and love Jesus.” The day before Ash Wednesday, I am wearing green, gold and purple beads, I’m telling the world “I wish I was at Mardi Gras.” March 17th finds me flaunting green letting the world know I am Irish and I’m a pincher. Fourth of July, I’ve got an American Flag pin I like to wear, it says I’m an American and thank God for it. Around the end of October I like to wear whimsical Halloween geejaws. Christmas has its own set of jewelry I use to say “Merry Christmas” without opening my mouth. Sometimes I wear an Ernest P Worrell button, just cuz I wanna.



My inner Redneck, Myrtle May, would like to address the audience.


“Hey. Ah’ll fly whatever flags suits me ‘n them that don’t like it kin kiss mah fat ass.”


Thank you, Myrt.

A Tale of 2 Kittehs

We are now kittified. The newest additions to Joyous Gard are Ninja and Mitzi, littermates. Thanks PRGF. Humans in this house have achieved kitty Zen.

What’s softer than baby kittyfur? Nothing. What’s no fun? Waking up to a baby kitty attacking your legs and looking for a nipple in your hair. Ninja found a mole on my neck and decided that was close enough. It’d be okay if I could get rid of them like that.

N&M think Emma is their wet nurse. Emma is not down with this concept. She is a spinster Aunt, if she’da wanted kittens, she’da had them, Thank You.