Crap on a stick! I just realize at 38 I’m grown up. I’ve gone from being carefree and silly all the time to mostly serious, thoughtful and (dare I say it?) almost responsible. Ugh. My evil twin, SINthia, calls it straight-up boring. Carefree rip anyway… She gets everything she wants. Which is where my current, recurrent issues are coming from. Just once I would like to throw a fit and get my way. Dave Ramsey says there is a grocery store kid inside everyone of us.

If I could feed that child within I would say this: I want new furniture. Waaahhh. Not the kind on sale, the expensive kind, with faux leather that’s soft and downy and recliners on each end and a whole room to match. *SINthia on the floor–thrashing about shrieking* I don’t want another piece-a hand-me-down, craigslist crap. Early garage sale is NOT a decorating style. They call it vintage cause it’s old…not she-she. Shabby sheek is just another way of saying ‘my husband won’t give me the freakin’ credit card or the keys to the damn-it emergency fund“.

(As my boys watch in wide-eyed wonder I would continue banging my head against the floor screaming…)

There’s a TV. I wanna TV. I ate all my peas, now give me my TV. I’m tired of that ten-year-old albatross in our living room. I’m sick to death of stomping across the living room to tell the kids for the fourth time to clean their rooms, messing up the TV because of a loose internal connection, then jumping up and down in front of it until the ding dong dang damn it thing stops buzzing and hissing like a giant cockroach…If I had a high def skinny TV I could do my workout DVDs better. Waaaah.

Sniff. Okay. Sniff. I’m done.

Please tell me this sounds familiar. You know what’s even worse? I’ve brainwashed Ben into buying all this Dave Ramsey stuff is a good idea. He now thinks saving money is sexy. He just asked the other day if had enough money to write a check for a new (angels singing) TV and furniture?

Yes.

Where is it?

In the emergency fund.

Oh, so we can’t touch it?

Not unless it’s a true emergency. (Car explodes, natural disaster strikes, someone dies, etc..) Or if we both agree…(Eve dangling the apple…)

Get behind me, Satan, is what he was thinking. Sounds like we need to make an envelope for TV and furniture, is what he said.

*Gah*

I wanted to holler, “Run! Run! As fast as you can, before you get sucked into being a responsible grown-up. Turning 21 was fun, the rest is overrated. Please, run. I’ll martyr myself. Take SINthia with you. Don’t look back, damn it run.”

But alas, the fox had already eaten the gingerbread man and in this story Adam didn’t eat the apple. I was left with the faint smell of bedtime, a hand-me-down fairy tale and a grown up for a soul mate. Shite!

With the child within– without, I went over to our money envelopes and with a sigh, wrote TV/Furniture on one and said to anyone who would listen, “Some days it sucks being a grown up.”

What does your child within want need. A new truck? iPad? A new gun? Banjo? A vacation? What’s your poison? Here’s your chance to whine, you best take it. Thanks for listening.

Simply,

Sis

HELLo dear ones. Notice where the emphasis is on that first word would ya? That is from whence I’m writing, garden hell. An alternate title for this post could be… Bipolar gardening (but then my ding-dang-dong-damn-it evil twin, SINthia, would have to write it–God forbid). She hasn’t been around since she tried shooting that Badger and ended up with a skunk–God bless her. She didn’t even report for our anniversary. Which in all honesty, Ben would have liked. He still laughs about the homemade G string.

Anyway. Where was I? Gardening. Bipolar gardening. When I started this blog I really wanted to share what little knowledge I had about simple living and gardens and such. Now, over a year later I’m thinking the more I garden the less I know. Take for example the garden plan I wrote about here. Great idea, really! I arrived at a plan this year by taking last year’s plan minus those painful broccoli and cauliflower plants plus a few more carrots, peppers and tomatoes. But, like that G string…It looked good on paper, but in reality it was a little crowded. I guess sometimes you gotta get yer hands dirty to figure things out. As I stood back a surveyed my problem, I asked myself what was I thinking?

To which SINthia answered, “Weeds don’t grow well in the shade. Just plant the darn things so we can sun tan.”

That’s a valid answer in my worlds. So I planted every last thing I had to plant from tatters to maters, just as stinking close together as I dared. When I got into my jams I noticed it was supposed to get down to 37 degrees that night. Crap on a stick are you kidding me?

SINthia just laughed her evil snicker and said, “Better shut off the water…Sure would hate to see icicles hanging off your tomato cages.”

After trekking outside in my undies, and tracking mud back into the house and into bed, I thought to myself, “I thought gardening was supposed to be fun.”

“Isn’t it you that says gardening is cheaper than therapy? Now you need therapy. So much for that theory. ”

“Shut-up, SINthia.”

“Hey I’ve got a theory for ya… what if we took out an ad in the paper for communal naked organic gardening. It would be fun and educational. That would give you something interesting to write about for a change, instead of how to make dirt or how to grow great tomatoes.”

Folks, if this bipolar-diatribe continues throughout the growing season, it will be one of the longest growing seasons in Kansas history. I may have to have one of those mercy killings and bury her remains in the garden, only the black birds and the crows will know about it. Besides, she’s so full it, she’ll make great fertilizer. Now that sounds like a plan.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

PS ~ Don’t tell Sis, but I planted my name in lettuce where the flowers are supposed to be. I’ll be long gone by the time she figures this out. Snicker Snicker. I’m telling you forget all gardening rules and just have fun. Later.

It’s a rainy and cold fall day outside. I love it. Rain makes me happy. Inside this old farm house it’s warm, there’s coffee in my tin cup and the wood stove is stoked. Days like this make me feel froggy. Ribb-it Pabb-it! As I sit and watch the rain fall my mind drifts to the huge gun show we went to this weekend.

I love gun shows. (You know I’m a sniper, right? And even taught Bo to shoot.) Ben loves gun shows too and the kids are starting to think gun shows are the coolest. Ben had a few ideas of what he needed. I was looking for a small pistol with a lot of punch to carry after I get my concealed carry license. (If they’ll even give me one after my episode bailing Russell out of jail.) W was looking for some throwing knives. And Barney, well, you just have to know Barney, he wasn’t looking for anything. He likes to save his ’spend’ money for a rain-er day. His forte at gun shows is visiting with folks and schmoozing them out of some free candy. Different strokes for different folks. Right?

Anyway.

 I found a sweet little shooter for a nice price and decided I probably couldn’t leave the show without it and a concealed carry holster. There are all sorts of holsters you can carry: right hand, left hand, cross draw, inside the pant outside the pant, ankle, shoulder…Well, you get the picture. If you have a body part big enough, you can strap a gun to it.

Since I’m such a petite little thing. *cough cough*  I thought I would try on an inside the pant holster. So I went to a booth with acres of holsters and fake guns to fill them and commenced to looking. It was then I had a realization. The same realization I have every time I try on a swimming suit or underclothes. Did the people the people before me wear underwear? Was is a thong? If so. How many days have they had them on? I started to panic, as I am somewhat of a germaphobe.

While I was panicking…Barney was sticking holsters in every crevice and pocket to practice his quick draw. With a “Hey Mom, watch this…Hands on da hind…Draw, Hippee!…Bap-bap-bap!…Stop or I’ll shoot…Freeze dirt bag!!!”

He watches too much Cops, I thought as I started to get dizzy. Feeling a little sick, I started digging through my purse for some hand sanitizer. That’s when another dilemma presented itself. When I finally find the hand sanitizer, is it appropriate to douse the holsters with it before trying them on? I missed that tidbit in the gun show etiquette class Ben presented us with before going in.

“Can I show you something, Ma’am?”

Oh good Lawd, here we go… 

“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a inside the pant holster with a strong clip.”

“It doesn’t get much stronger than this one. ” He said holding out a holster as he grabbed somewhere below his belt. “It will hold it right in there for you…”

I threw up a little in my mouth.

“Uh, okay. *Glup* Can I try it on?”

That’s when he paused, looked me up and down, at Barney the Deputy, around like we were making a illegal deal and said with a shrug and a whisper…”Uh, yeah…I’ll let ya.”

I was insulted. I wanted to shout, “I’M CLEAN! I WEAR UN-DER-WEAR! FRESH ONES–EVERDAY!”

Instead. I picked up the holster and fake pistol stuffed it into my pants before he changed his mind and commenced to doing squats right there in the middle of the aisle.

Barney was gut laughing joining in squats beside me saying, “This is fun!”

Is that what you call it? Fun? It reminded me of being in a Victoria Secrets dressing room trying on underclothes while the neon sign flashes *STRIP*, the stripper music plays and the lady outside says…’remember to keep yer panties on…’ Worst day ever was more like it. Fun is not the word I would use to describe sticking something foreign in your pants, contorting yourself into erotic positions in front of thousands of people while your six year old gut laughs and shoots bad guys.

To make matters worse, my self respect, self image and any hopes of dickering well lay scattered around me like the bleeding hoodlums Barney had just shot in his imagination. Today there would be no haggling about money. No dickering. No ‘is that yer friendliest price?’ I had been robbed of my dignity while trying to protect myself.

I paid the asking price and was walking back over to Ben while trying to figure out how long it takes before you know you have some sort of venereal-holster disease.

“Did you get it?’

“Yep.”

“Cool, can I see it? Sexy! You gonna wear it to bed?”

Normally that would be funny, but I threw up in my mouth. Again!

The next day Ben’s friend came over.

“Can I shoot yer new gun Sis? I brought some ammo!”

“Sure, Chucky, go right ahead.”

“Is it okay if I try it on?”

What was I supposed to say? Remember to keep your panties on? I was feeling dirty, like I was some kind of a pistol pimp. I would have to change his name from Dr. Reginald to just plain old Reggie.

“That would be fine, if you would just shoot me first.” I said, looking around for a sword to fall on.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

PS ~ Shoot low, Sheriff, they’re riding shetlands. Yeah Baby! The evil twin is back. (If you haven’t had a taste of my bi-polarness, you can check it out here.) Sis is such a pistol packing panty-waist. That’s why I try to drag her to all the gun shows I can. Lord knows she doesn’t go to Victoria Secrets anymore. The next gun show I drag her to will be like this one…

I regret I didn’t have a camera the day this story took place. (It would have been trampled, anyway.) However, this picture is an earlier one of the boy, the infamous Red Ryder BB gun, and the smallest snake he has ever killed to date. (In shell, not on the hoof, then dug out for picture.) Nice!

To heck with snips and snails…let’s go head long into the snake pit with this six year old veteran snake hunter…

Ya’ll know I love to fish. I mean I love to fish. I must come by it honestly, while I was on my yearly mother’s day fishing trip, my brother, Knothead, was taking my mom fishing for walleye in Nebraska. They caught their limit. Did I mention it was raining? She had a ball. 

In a lake, on a dam, in a river near a clam, I love to fish Sam I am.

Nothing. Few things keep me from fishing. If the weather is nice, I’m going fishing. If my ‘to do’ list is long, I’m gone fishing. If it hare-lips the queen, I’m getting my hook wet. So when Ben came in yesterday and asked if I wanted to go fishing, I was already loaded and honking before he got the words out of his mouth. Who needs clean underwear anyway? Right?

W missed this trip, but Barney was there with BB Gun in hand. He likes to shoot then fish then shoot then fish. Turns out I’m glad he had his Red Ryder….

I was fishing the dam where the grass is tall and the snakes lay in wait.  Barney was hot on my heels as my eyes watched for snakes. It was then, I took the Lord’s name in vain. Real LOUD. “OHMYGOOOOOD, THERE’S A SNAAAAAKE.” (Oh Lord, I do apologize.)

Now, people, I can identify most snakes in this area. I could tell right away this one was a  harmless Northern Water Snake about three foot long and probably 6-8 inches around. Just because I can identify them, doesn’t mean they’re welcome to go fishing with me. Aunt Kate used to call me a fishing whore, cause I would fish with anyone. But, even I have my limits.

Barney, who lives for adventure, stepped around me and stood between me and the snake with his BB gun pointed at the snake’s head (about 4 feet away from us.) He was giggling and said, “It’s okay Mom. I’ve got ‘em, Mom. I’VE GOT ‘EM.” Then he pulled the trigger, shot the snake right in the Eye. In the dad-gum eye.  (Name that movie.)

Just for future reference…Red Ryder BB guns just piss most snakes off. This snake was no different. In fact, he charged us.

I hollered, ran backwards, and hollered “OH GOD, SHOOT ‘EM AGAIN.” (Again. I apologize.) Then I think I may have peed a little bit as I watched Barney (still in front of me) shoot the snake again. The second shot turned him back toward the pond where he took off swimming into deep water.

Barney commenced to emptying his BB gun into the snake until the snake was so tired of swimming and tired of being shot at, he decided to charge back to the shore, and brave whatever else this six year old had for him. By that time Barney was nearly out of BBs and Ben had contained some of his laughter, but the tear streaks were still on his checks when he pulled the trigger on his my six shooter, Elvis, to finish the snake off.

‘And the good Lord done called the poor thing home.’

Mason turned to me and said, “Dang, I thought he was gonna get us, when he charged. Aren’t ya glad I’m here to brotect you, Mom?”

What I want to know is…

What kind of mother lets her six year old son step in between her and a charging snake as long as he is?

All I can say is…

It had to be SINthia.

She sucks as a mom.

Simply,

Sandhill Sis

I hate to shop. I hate to shop, because that’s exactly when SINthia, my evil twin, decides she needs to be seen and heard. (If you haven’t been corrupted by SINthia yet…run..or click here to met her.)

I go SINthia goes grocery shopping once every two weeks with a list a mile long that I have made from a planned menu. If she has a plan and cash she usually spends less money. Usually. She supposed to make three stops, the meat market, Aldis then Wal-mart. Typically she makes those three throws in a couple thrift shops, a garage sale or two and gets home when the milk is about to curdle from the heat. All she thinks about is herself.

If you’ll remember, it was a shopping trip that made her come out last time when Russell got thrown in jail and she came screaming to his rescue. 

Well, just the other day, it happened again, she showed up while I was out doing my bi-weekly shopping trip for groceries.

On this particular day, I had been dodging these foreign speaking out-of-towners, who had more than once stood too close, leaned over my cart to grab some veggies etc… Folks,  crowding someone, when that someone is fairly mentally unstable and is used to a lot of space (like acres to herself) is not the best thing to do anyway. But, SINthia let it slide until the check out line.

I had to wait for three other carts to go through a head of me, then I started unloading. In life there are a few things that have unspoken rules. You don’t pee into the wind, you always pray before you eat, and never I mean NEVER unload your groceries until the person in front of you is done unloading.

Evidently these two bowing, smiling foreigners had missed this nugget in green card class. I had only unloaded the bottom part of my cart, when they set their fruit, veggies, and three bags of pork rinds on the belt, while bowing, nodding and smiling a fake courtesy smile. Grrrrrr.

“Ma’am. Ma’am. Please, take your stuff off the belt, I need to unload my cart.”

Smile-nod-bow. Smile-nod-bow. NOTHING.

So I SINthia pushed their veggies back in to the fruit, sending a cucumber rolling off the belt. Little miss nod and smile caught the flying veggie no problem and turned and whispered something foreign and low in said companion’s ear.

I filled up the small space I had created and said again,  louder this time, and with more authority, “Ma’am. Ma’am.” (Sis being ignored.) “ Hey. You, need to pick up your stuff. I need the space.”

They were ignoring me.

“You do it now, or I’ll have to do it for you.”

Smile. Nod. Bow. Whispering in foreign language behind a hand. Nothing. NOTHING. 

The look on my face was enough to send snickers and some knee slapping through the huge crowd of people waiting to check out behind us. That’s when the dam broke, in more ways than one, and the checking began.

If you have ever been to Aldis you know they keep there prices down by having patrons rent carts for 25 cents, bag their own groceries and pay in cash or with debit card. Speed and simplicity is the name of the game there. Slow, non-responding foreigners just don’t get it.

I was standing there with visions of having to hand the checkout lady one item at a time out of my cart, when SINthia absolutely twisted off.

Like some crazed kamikaze pilot, she took her whole arm and slid the veggies into the fruit SMEARING the vine ripened tomatoes on the belt, SMASHING the bananas into the canned goods, sending the cucumber flying…again, and finally crashing everything into the pork rinds. The three bags turned into pork powder just before their carefully chosen goodies started falling off the edge of the belt. My short nodding, bowing, smiling friends contorted, bending over backwards trying to catch, juggle, and otherwise save their smashed and powdered loot before it all hit the floor.

“When in Rome…you do what the Romans do.” I said louder than I wanted to.

The belt stopped, for the first time in Aldis history…

Crickets chirped. The hollers of foreign anguish were muted by the carnage covering their mouths and were drowned out by an old man who was bent over laughing and slapping his knee so hard I thought he was going to loose his false teeth and his overalls. The rest of the onlookers were sent into hysterics by the whole ugly scene and the foreigners whispered wildly while picking up their mess and giving me their best stink eye.

The checker was nervous and wondering if NOW would be a good time to poke the little red button. SINthia was pissed. The rest of the folks looked like they were at a comedy club with a two drink minimum. People were laughing, some holding their crotch, while others leaned on their carts and some on each other in complete hysterics.

“WHY DON’T YOU SAVE THAT LOOK FOR SOMEONE WHO’S IMPRESSED BY IT…..I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU ARE WHISPERING…I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A DAMN THING YOU’RE SAYING, ANYWAY….”

The checker was at a loss and couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “How are you doing today?”

I didn’t answer.

As I was loading my car the two women shuffled quickly to their car as I sang, “Everybody was Kung Fu fighting” at the top of my lungs. 

While I was driving away the old man was making his way to his car, still gut laughing and a waving with one hand as he wiped the tears from his eyes with the other. Glad I could make his day.

Thank God the kids weren’t with me. How do you explain Kung Fu fighting is a bad choice at school, but it’s just fine at Aldis?

HiiiiiYa!

Sandhill Sis

SINthia

PS. Woooo doggies. We did have them high-stepping for their cars after schooling them in American shopping etiquette. After all was said and done, I drove Sis straight to Karate School (while her adrenalin was still flowing good) and signed her pansy ass up for some classes in case those pork rind loving gals ever return to Aldis.  Then I took her cell phone, called my bookie and told him my money was on Sis, at the next match, two weeks from Friday. Let me know if you would like to get in on this deal.

It all started a normal day, for Kansas: watching wheat grow in 60 mph winds. Normal that is, until our power went out.  Barney and I decided a day shopping for shoes would be better than sitting around the house waiting for the lights to come back on. So we left, driving 30 miles to a town with any size and a Kohl’s store.

I hate shopping for shoes. Hate it. I hate shopping for the most part anyway, unless it involves a thrift shop, pawn shop, auction house or something like that, where you can find some unexpected and insane DEALS. Cause, Friend, let me tell you, I love a good deal.

Almost two hours later, we were back in the car. Under the car next to me and there was a little black and white tiger striped kitten sitting staring back at me. I thought to myself, Self, that little guy looks like my Russell at home and drove off.

Russell is just a plain ole run of the mill farm kitten, out of a sick old stray we picked up roaming the streets in town. He isn’t anything special to look at, but has a cute personality and we loved him. When we got home we found Russell was MIA.

The thought of Russell braving 60 mph head winds plus 70 mph stowed away under the car and now being all alone in the big city made me sad.  The more I thought of that, the sadder I got. I’m not a crier by nature, kittens come and go on the farm and I understand that, survival of the fittest and all. But, that night I told Ben how ‘I taught I taw a puddy tat’ that looked like Russell in the city.

“Oh by now, some old lady has picked him up and he’s drinking warm milk out of a bowl in her kitchen, he’s probably forgotten about us.”

“I would rather put him down myself, that to think of him abandon in that town all alone.” With that, a few tears, and a prayer for an unknown old lady, I drifted off to sleep. I rose in the morning on a mission. To find Russell.

When I got to Kohl’s I discovered one of the employees had taken him home to a cat who demanded he be taken to jail the pound. After a brief exchange she said I could find, Max, there. Russell, his name is Russell.

I walked into the pound and found Russell among the other cats waiting for a home. He was big eyed and happy to see me.

“That’s him. Can I just grab him and go?”

“Nope, we got paperwork to do. Name? Address? Phone?”

“Paperwork? You’re kidding me.”

*deadpan look*

“There’s a twenty dollar charge for picking him up, and eight dollars a day to board him, and…”

“But you didn’t pick him up. That lady dropped him off, in fact, he hasn’t even been here 24 hours, more like three. I’m not paying $28 for that. I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”

‘”You can put it on your credit card.”

“I don’t own a credit card.”

“Or your debit card.”

“I PAY CASH!!!  Twenty-eight dollars, is that the best you can do?”

“Yes, ma’am, $28 is our policy. It’s eight dollars a day until five days, that would be $60 total. Then, we would have to put him down if not claimed. (Sniff)”

“Oh for the love of….save it, would ya? I live 30 miles away from here on a farm. Do you think I hauled him to town on purpose to dump him? I would rather shoot a cat in the back of the head, than to dump one in the city and have to think about him trying to survive all the idiots.”

*Blank Stares*

“..I mean, get a clue, do you think I planned for him to stow away yesterday, only to drag back down here today to pay tweeeenty-eight dollars to pick him up? Do the math lady. I’m trying to be a responsible pet owner, here. Trying not to burden you with a stray and you’re charging me for it. That’s ridiculous, I just won’t pay it. Think of how much my kitty would have cost you if I hadn’t shown up to be responsible.”

And with that I turned to go….

Without saying a word Miss Smuggy pants reached and grabbed a citation, and said with a barely audible voice, “Then I’ll have to write you a citation, for animal abandonment.”

And that my friends, was the straw that broke the camels back. I twisted off.

“And if I don’t pay it?”

“Bench warrant.”

Reeeeeeeeeley! Will you send the kitty cops after me? With their taser guns and choking sticks….And when they find me and pick me up…you reckon they’ll stuff me in one of them cat carriers? Be sure and note on my warrant… I’m not current on my shots, I tend to hawk up a hairball once in a while, I refuse to give myself a bath, and won’t use a litter box. But don’t worry, I already have one of them i-dent-i-fa-ca-tion tattoos…and when Ben finds out what an ass I made out of myself and refuses to come and claim me… you can put me and Russell down together and bury us both in the pet cemetery out back then send Ben my wedding band, Russell’s cat collar, and a bill for $120! That sounds like a great plan.

“Animal abandonment? You’re crazy. (Nothing like the pot calling the kettle black…) What do you think I’m here for? I came here to pick up my poor little kitty that rode under my car for 30 miles, spent the night at some strangers house and got dumped off here for some bureaucratic run around. It’s not like he’s a felon and did a quick B and E (breaking and entering) for three hots and a cot…”

Did I mention, I was mad.

When I’m mad I do math in my head really fast. [Court cost $75 plus $25 fine plus another trip to town with the chance of this happening again...or $28?]

It was then I realized they had me. Yes, my friends, they me by the tail and they knew it. I was screwed. 

The day before I came to town looking for a great deal, and didn’t find one. Today was a new day, over a barrel or not,  if it hare-lipped-the-queen I wasn’t leaving until I got a DEAL.

“Is twenty eight dollars the best you can do?”

“Well that’s our policy.”

“I don’t give a ratts, what your POLICY is. I asked, is that the best you can do?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to talk to Don.”

“Great, where’s Doooon?”

Don turned around and said, “Oh my God, WHAAAT? WHAT NOW? ”

Don had been standing with his back to me the whole time listening to all this. He already knew, what now. But, I ran through the WHOLE, what now, story just one more time, in case Doooon missed something the first time.

“Yes, twenty-eight dollars is the best I can do.”

“I’m just trying to be a responsible pet owner. That’s not good enough!” With that, I turned to go.

“Okay, twenty dollars.”

Done.

Forty-five minutes and twenty dollars later, I sprang Russell from the brig.

As I was walking out with my felon, little miss Smuggy Pants quipped, “His nose is kinda runny, he needs a shot of antibiotic…”

I gave her my best stink eye and said, “Yeah, he don’t look very good. I’ll shoot him when I get home…”

(I keep antibiotic in the fridge at home, and that’s what I would shoot him with, but she didn’t need to know that.) HA!

Time stopped again. Some more. The PETA loving bunch looked like they had just given a drunk a drink, a junkie a hit, a killer a victim. But they were so glad to see me leave, they just let me go.

Russell is home again, chasing butterflies, lounging in the sun, telling tales of his time in the pen, and showing off his jailhouse tattoos.

I haven’t seen Sis. She was going to run in the school board election, but, given her cat’s record, she decided she wouldn’t stand a chance. Personally, I think she should pursue a life of a bail bondsman. That would be right up her alley. Instead of Dog the Bounty Hunter, she could be Katt…One Tough Pussy! I went down to the jailhouse this afternoon and gave out her number, I’m sure she won’t mind.

See ya!

SINthia

If you don’t have a persona, feel lucky. Be glad. Commence to doing cartwheels in the street. I should have known, SINthia would be coming around, the hateful rip. It’s been a month and she can’t stand for my life to go well for that long. So of course, she came and reared hear beautiful, ugly, little head…

The phone rang. It was the family who owns our local airport calling to invite W and family, over for a birthday party and a ride in their new aerobatics plane. I hung up the phone feeling grateful for being a part of a small community where people have your back, come together when tragedy strikes and rejoice together in good days. This was a good day.

Wow, this is going to be awesome. An adrenalin junkie at heart, I’m always looking for my next buzz. That is exactly why skydiving is on my bucket list. Ben has never been hip on the idea of  me skydiving while he holds our babies and watches from the ground. At least this would be close. 

The pilot was happy, calm and chatty. He didn’t really seem to think it odd when he explained, the only reason he was strapping on a parachute and I wasn’t, was that it made him sit taller in the seat.

He strapped me in double, put my headset on and starting explaining the different buttons and levers. [This is cool. I'm a real copilot. I wonder if he'll let me drive...] Of course, my mind has always drifted at the most opportune times. My first aerobatics plane ride was no different.

“…so, one more time, one is to talk the other is the throttle…”

[Did he say...throttle?]

“Testing Testing 123. Can you hear me, Sis?”

That’s a….ooops…that’s a throttle…that’s a big 10-4, good buddy, come on.  (Shoot, I’m not trucking, I’m flying)…uhhh..yeah, dude, loud and clear, over and out.

“Prop–clear?”

[thumbs-up]

“Okay we are ready for take-off, we’ll stop up here at the end of the runway to power-up.”

“Air controller guy, this is november-four-eight-echo-whiskey, ready for take off on run way one-zero…”

[This is soooo awesome. It's just like Topgun. This is the best day ever. Power up? Why does he need to power up. Maybe I'm too heavy, maybe I shouldn't have eaten all those donuts...] ZOOOOOOOM ten feet down the runway we were up in the air.

Whiskey? Did someone say whiskey? I’ll take a double. Why are we shaking? Why is the plane shaking? Fly dude, why is the plane shaking back and forth? Cuss west Kansas wind. Cuss SINitha. Cuss…

“Okay, we’re up. Sis, you doing okay?”

Well it depends upon what your definition of okay is. I’m Okay, if pee running down my leg is acceptable. I’m not okie dokie if I have to reach over and press the button to talk to you.

[Giggling] “Okay. We’ll start with a deep turn right. Then we’ll do a hammer head, where we’ll go straight up, the engine will stall, and then we’ll go straight down. And we’ll finish up with the loop to loop. Nothing major, everything we do today will keep you pressed back in your seat, so you won’t be left hanging. How does that sound?”

My hands are clammy now, and I am playing with the clip on the seat belt, like some suicidal idiot.

“Sis, you need to talk right into the microphone.”

Uh, yeah, good, okay, sounds fine.

The deep turn was fun. The hammer head was really cool. And the loop to loop was over before I knew what was happening.

“This is your captain speaking…we’ll fly over your house, over town and then land. Are you still doing alright?”

I could barely breathe, my shirt was drenched with sweat, my butt was permanently puckered,  and I could throw up any minute. But only manage to say, “I’m a little nauseous, actually, but I’m okie dokie.”

“I get nauseous, too if I haven’t flown for a while. How about you drive for awhile. I won’t let you get in trouble.”

What? Is this some kind of joke? 

“Do you see the stick between your legs?”

“Yes, I see it.” With any luck, it’s a broom stick, and that, witch, SINthia, drives one all the time.

“Good. Pull back to go up. Push forward to go down. Left for left. Right for right. It’s all yours.”

Confidently SINthia grabbed the control stick, went up fast, down faster, a quick right, a jerk left, and then she bailed out, parachuting to safety, leaving me to fly the damn thing. After about five seconds of flying, my mouth was dry, my muscles were locked up and I barely had enough sense to say, “Okay, I’m done.”

“How are you doing now?”

Nauseous.

“Yeah, sometimes I won’t eat for 3 or 4 hours after flying.”

Good diet plan.

“Air controller guy, this is november-four-eight-echo-whiskey, requesting…”

I didn’t leave the couch the rest of the day. I just laid their dreaming in feverish fits of double shots of WHISKEY, a toilet to throw up in, and shooting my alter ego off of her broom stick next time she does a fly by. I would rethink my bucket list, but am afraid if I took skydiving off of it, she would replace it with an entry in a heavy weight pole dancing contest  in Vegas. She would love that!

May Day! May Day!

Sis

SINthia (Don’t know SINthia? Click here to meet her.)

P.S. Yep it’s me again. Isn’t this fun? Sis is such a light weight. My next plan is to give her a couple of glasses of wine and talk her into a Snoopy vs The Red Baron tattoo, since she’s such a great pilot. Later!

Disclaimer: Please note. The pilot figured here is a master of his craft, a stand up guy, and a great American. This disertation is my perception of reality, however skewed. Keep in mind, my reality is reliably a half bubble off of plumb, at best. Add to that excitement, fear and a fair amount of poetic license. Welcome to my world.

You’re bound to meet her at some point, so I may as well just introduce you to SINthia. She’s, me personified. My evil twin. My alter ego. SHE is what happens in Vegas. I can’t stand her, even her name drives me crazy. It certainly fits, though, it sounds like the low down slithery snake she is. I think bushwhack and sabotage must be her middle names. There’s a lot of reasons I don’t like her, but the biggest reason is her behavior. She’s totally irresponsible. It just makes me want to twist off. But, what I really hate about her, she has waaaay more fun than I do.

The Redneck G String

Case in point: a couple years ago she decided she was going to be sexy, like a Victoria Secrets underwear model. So SHE took some of My old Wranglers and made them into daisy dukes with cute little frayed edges. Then she cut the back out into some strange G string looking, uummm I don’t know negligee thingy. That’s just the beginning. THEN she took two red bandannas and made some sort of bikini top out of that (don’t ask me how…) Then I didn’t see her for a while. Thank God!

She showed up later, though, after the kids were in bed, of course. When the work is done, here she comes, taunting me to wear that stupid sexy outfit to bed. And I listened to her. STUPID! I should have known where all this was heading, when 30 minutes later I’m lying on the floor of the bathroom sweating all my carefully applied make-up off trying to get her redneck G string and booger bag bikini top on and Ben knocks at the door. SHOOT! I try to calm myself by at least getting up off the floor and opening the door a crack to assure Ben everything is okay.

“…I just need to brush my teeth and th….what’s in your hair…what have you been doing?”

I slammed the door in his face and glanced into the mirror.

Dust bunnies! DANG IT! So much for my french twist up do with sexy little hangy downs.

I’m gonna kill SINthia when I see her again, I muttered. I’ll be out in a minute…why don’t you just skip your teeth tonight, Honey, I won’t tell the tooth fairy…

“Just let me in.”

I grabbed my robe, put it on and opened the door.

“Was that so hard?”

You’ll think hard, later mister, I thought, and stormed out of the bathroom and hurried into our room to light some candles to make this a night he would never forget.

I was right about THAT, he’s never forgotten…When the robe finally came off, and I struck my sexiest pose. (Oh dear) If you picture Ellie May off the Beverly Hillbillies crossed with a retired nightclub dancer….you might get close. The look on Ben’s face was PRICELESS.

“Is THAT what you have been doing in the bathroom all night?”

[HA HA HA HA HA...Ben actually rolling around on our bed GUT laughing--HA HA HA Ben still laughing--HA HA HA--Ben can't breathe for all the laughing] “What IS that thing? Turn around! Where did you get an idea like THAT?”

SINthia, where do you think?

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or fall on my sword. Death was sounding better by the minute. But, I just started taking off SINthia’s LOVE costume and sniffed, You don’t like it?

Ben said, “No…I mean…I love it…I love her…It’s just…I didn’t expect it.” [Ha ha ha] “I told you in the beginning, nothing turns me on more than a pair of Wranglers in a pile by the bed…” [Pausing mid thought to wipe more tears out of his eyes]

All I could hear was SINthia’s slimy snickers. And there’s nothing that kills a mood quicker than that.

To make matters worse. I went looking for my redneck G string to take a picture of it to show you. (I’ve come this far…I might as well.) I didn’t find it. I’m pretty sure SINthia gave it to Goodwill after cleaning out my drawers. She probably wrote my name and phone number in them too, that would be just like her. Now I’m really embarrassed.

Simply,

Sis

SINthia

P.S. That’s right, it’s me. I’ve commandeered Sis’s computer for the day. She caught me posting this and took off for much prayer and penance, I guess, the ninny, I don’t know what she does. What a prude. I guess she doesn’t understand grace. After this little stunt, you probably won’t hear from me for a while. But, I’ll be back. Somebody has got to put some spice in her life.  Later!