You Poor Baby

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I had no idea Cousin Carol was four years older than my sister Phyllis till she announced her marriage. It sounded like a joke. Less than two weeks ago she’d spent the night with Phyllis. Sixteen was ridiculously young to get married, but back as late as the sixties, many parents felt it was expedient to allow their teenagers to marry. Her sister, Sue, and I were the same age. We were constantly at each other’s house for the night. Their brother, Troy, was the age of my brother, so on weekends, holidays, and in summer, there was always a jumble of kids spread between the two houses. Carol was extremely spoiled for some reason, though I could never imagine why her mother favored her. With her fair skin, black, curly hair and startling blue eyes she would have been very appealing had she not whined, wheedled, and cried till she got her way. At our house, she just pouted and whined. Of course, us younger kids went out of our way to keep her blubbering, since you didn’t usually see that in a girl that age, expecially rewarding since she wore gobs of makeup and we liked to see it run.

Back to the romance, Carol had been going to the picture show with her older sister Yvonne who was slipping around with Donald Duck.(not a joke) Yvonne brought a sweetie along for Carol and they really hit it off. The sister’s romance with Donald Duck fizzled, but within weeks Carol was to be a bride. The whole thing puzzled me. How could she go from being a kid with Phyllis to getting married in almost no time? Soon there was to be another miracle! Carol announced her first pregnancy. From that moment forward, I don’t think I ever saw her not pregnant, claiming to be pregant, or with a newborn. Before she retired from her thirty-year delivery service, Carol had eleven kids and claimed to have had God only knows how many pregnancies. Her first marriage, lasted only long enough to produce three children. She kept hoping to reconcile, so she had about a three year vacation from babying. She was terminally lazy and a rotten mother to boot, so she spent this time convalescing in her parent’s home in South Louisiana, where they’d moved not long after her marriage. She inveigled Aunt Julie’s cooperation in making use of my Cousin Sue as a captive babysitter. If someone else didn’t change the babies, they just sat squalling in sodden, filthy diapers. Her mom still gave over to her crying, whining, and wheedling, much to Sue’s sorrow. My aunt and Cousin Carol would dump the babies on Sue, taking off for hours, leaving instructions to have the house clean when they got back.

We had the misfortune have Cousin Carol land at our house a couple of times after brief attempts at reconciliation with her erstwhile husband. After a week or two of connubial bliss, he’d dump her and the dirty babies off, saying he’d be right back with milk for the babies. (Carol was a slow learner. It happened twice) That milk must have been on Mars since he never came back. Carol figured it out after an hour or two and started blubbering. The baby or babies helped with the crying, since they were hungry. Already furious at being stuck with unwelcome and unpleasant guests, Mother had to dig deep to find money for extra milk, knowing we were stuck with Carol and her squallers for a day or two till her folks could make the trip back up from South Louisiana to get her. Carol was lazy and worthless to start with. On her arrival, all the baby clothes and diapers were dirty. “Linda, change Bobby’s diaper and give him a bottle. You’ll have to put one of your Mama’s diapers on him. Mine are all dirty.” She wasn’t lying about that. She had dragged in a foul bag of diapers and left it on the front porch. I looked to Mother for rescue. Accustomed to being catered to, Carol was offended when Mother expected her to do her laundry and care for her own babies. “I’m sick! I feel an athsma attack coming on!”

“I’ve got two babies of my own and more than I can do. If you are going to stay here till your folks can pick you up, you’re going to have to take care of your own kids.” Carol pouted, but she got up to put a borrowed diaper on Bobby. Poor Bobby hadn’t seen many clean diapers lately. His poor, burned up bottom looked like raw meat. There was even pus running from one sore spot. “Oh no,” said Mother. “that poor baby. You’re going to have to keep him changed. He’s starting to get infected. Linda, go put my diapers on the line so Carol can get hers in the washer right now. This baby’s got to have clean diapers. Here, Carol, put some of this medicine on his bottom.” Grudgingly, Carol washed, medicated, and diapered poor Bobby’s sore bottom.

Unaccustomed to such ill-treatment, Carol angrily dragged the stinking bag of diapers from the front porch, all through the house, to the kitchen eventually reaching the enclosed back porch to Mother’s washer, leaving a malodorous wet-diaper ammonia stream. Furiously, she pulled a mess of heavy, filthy diapers from the mix, dumping them in the washer. Turning it on, she left the rest hanging out of the open bag to perfume to back porch. The stench was pulled into the kitchen by the attic fan till Mother told her she’d had to put the rest in the backyard to wait. Only when the washer stopped did Mother realize Carol hadn’t bothered to rinse the well-seasoned lumps of poop from those diapers. It was all waiting for Mother when she opened the lid. She was critical!

To be continued

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The Honorable Bacon Boy and Puppy Love

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American Eskimo dogs stole our hearts many years ago when George showed up at our house and adopted us. No matter that we already had a Dalmatian and weren’t in the market for another dog. Unfortunately, George left us far too soon. It wasn’t long before another puppy baby puddled up our floors. I gave Bubba a fuzzy white plush toy to comfort him leaving his mom and siblings. He dragged it till it was nothing but dirty body parts. Just before it bit the dust, the UPS man showed up at the door with this plush toy we ordered from Beggin’ Strips. Bubba, like all dogs, believed that UPS man showed up only to steal our stuff, so was frenzied as always. He was overjoyed when we opened the box and he pulled Bacon Boy from the box. It was just as he’d expected, the UPS guy almost got away with the good stuff.
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Sissy, a female Eskie joined us when Bubba as about six. Though she had her own fuzzy white crib toy! she coveted Bubba’s treasure, but was rarely fortunate enough to snag it for more than a minute. I think her finest moments were when Bubba was outdoors, asleep or best of all, had to journey to the vet leaving her to savor an unmolested moment with Bacon Boy. Had Bubba only suspected the raw emotions she shared with Bacon Boy, there would have been Hell to pay.

Sadly, after Bubba went to his reward, Sissy grieved, but comforted herself with her darling Bacon Boy. Sometimes she got so cozy with him, we had to hide him when we had guests. Before too long, we got Buzzy to be her companion. Like the others, he got his own baby, but quickly realized what a prize Sissy had in Bacon Boy, and occasionally got to play with him. Those moments were few and far between.
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The saga continues today with Buzzy’s devotion as Sissy’s sad demise. He can’t sleep without Bacon Boy. As often as he is able, he slips Bacon Boy out to the yard, but we hustle him in as soon as possible after a game of keep away. Bacon Boy is showing his age. He’s lost the bacon strip he was holding on his arrival. I fear his is deaf because of his missing ears, mute and without a sense of smell since his nose and mouth are worn off and blind since his eyes are white with cataracts. I’m sure he has gastric distress as a result of numerous surgeries to replace his tattered innards. His fur is dirty and battered beyond what any washing can handle. I wish human elders were cherished the way Buzzy’s Bacon Boy is. Dogs can teach us something about unconditional love.

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A Jar of Marbles

I admire this woman

RAPHAELA ANGELOU

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We had seen a video on how to make fairy lanterns, and went to a discount store to find the jars, tissue paper and glitter required for our project. I had felt the need to apply a mixture of turquoise, blue and purple to my hair. Now, when you front up amongst a crowd in a quirky manner, certain people gravitate to you. The artists, the poets, the dreamers…They see in you a kindred spirit. I stood in front of an aisle of craft supplies, discombobulated at the wide array, uncertain of which to choose. I noted a lady facing the same conundrum, next to my daughter and I, and smiled at her sympathetically. She was tall, with bohemian clothing and a funky short hairdo. “Excuse me,” she said, “could you help me?” She had a bag of marbles in one hand and a jar in the other…

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Road Rage and Big-Eared Old Fornicators

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'I certainly don't get tailgated anymore!'

‘I certainly don’t get tailgated anymore!’

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Bud likes to road grouch.  I don’t.  I figure people mostly do the best they can, so I just watch out for them.  Bud likes to hurl useless epithets like “crazy old woman of some sort” and “big-eared old fornicator” at men.  The insults are mostly wasted on me, but I have pointed out the high improbability of big-eared old guys meriting the compliment of fornicator, but I guess he is just being generous. Even so, it doesn’t sound fair. Why is crazy or fornicator gender-specific? I do kind of take exception to the limitations on ladies.  I guess he isn’t into equal opportunity.
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When I yelled at God

Amazing story.

A Blog About Healing From PTSD

I have cried out so many times to God, asking Why. Why all the pain, why all the suffering. The only answer I have gotten is that God is love, and I can trust Him.

I went through a couple of years of heavy binge drinking after my dad died in January of 1988. Two years after his death, as I was going through yet another divorce from yet another abuser, I drank all the booze I had, which wasn’t much, maybe two beers. Then I walked out into a freezing snowfall, in coastal Maine where I lived at the time. I walked for 17 miles that night in the snowstorm, along an unpaved road that was so isolated, there weren’t any houses or power lines for most of that distance.

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As I walked, I yelled at God about all the things that are WRONG in this life. I yelled…

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VOTE NOW! Annual Bloggers Bash Awards NOW OPEN

Hurrah. Reblogging Annual Bloggers Bash Awlards! Don’t forget to vote! Especially if you are voting for me!

I am so thrilled to be nominated in the humor category. I’d love to have your vote!

Sacha Black

VOTE NOWThis is it. The waiting is finally over.

The Bloggers Bash Awards are now open for voting.

We had a HUGE number of nominations, over 350, so thank you to everyone who took the time to nominate.

Voting Closes June 9th at 12pm. The winners will be announced on June 11th at the Bash. If you can’t make it then a winners post will go live at 5:15pm on June 11th.

Choose carefully, you can only vote ONCE per category. There are 10 awards, (so it’s a long post) make sure you vote in them all.

Good luck to all the nominees.

Disclaimer: The committee has done their best to coordinate the nominations and to ensure, where possible, we gave nominees a choice of which category they wanted to be in. Due to time constraints and limited resources this may not have always been possible.

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Try to Hit This Shovel

BubbaBubba and Boudreau were digging a ditch. It was hot. They were sweaty and miserable when they looked up and saw  Boss Man sitting under a tree, drinking a cold beer with his arm around a girl. It made them furious.

“This just ain’t right!” Bubba said. “I’m gonna have it out with him.”

He jumped out of the ditch and stomped over to the boss demanding, “Hey, this ain’t right. How come we’re workin’ like dogs down in the ditch an’ your sittin’ up here in the shade with a girl drinkin’ a beer and makin’ the big bucks?”

“Coz I’m smarter than you. Here, I’ll prove it. Give me your shovel.” Boss Man stood up in front of the tree and held the shovel in front of his face. “Now, try to hit this shovel as hard as you can.”

Bubba balled up his fist and swung hard as he could.  Just before he connected, Boss Man jumped back and Bubba hit the tree, full-force, busting up his hand.

“Now, that’s why I’m the boss!”  Boss Man laughed.

Bubba stumbled back down in the ditch, nursing a broken hand.

“What did he say?” Boudreau asked.

“Lemme show you,”  Boudreau replied.  “Gimme your shovel.”  He looked around, realizing there was no tree down in the ditch, so just held the shovel in front of his face.  “Try to hit this shovel.”