Things you always wanted to say but were afraid

Archive for the tag “funny”

If I don’t like it, I can walk away!

The story begins with a check we received in the mail.  A $15 check from a hospital that The Man was in over a year ago.  Just a check; nothing else.  It wasn’t worth trying to find out the source or the reason, so I stuck it in my purse to cash it for a little pocket change.  Of course, I forgot about it and got a bit panicky when I thought about it and realized it had been a couple of months since I received it.  Fearing there was some sort of expiration date, I whipped into the bank’s drive thru when, in the little town 13 miles from home, I was picking up The Man’s prescriptions.  I don’t use the bank much; I said I was going to close the account when my favorite officer retired, but as usual I had procrastinated.   Hurrying to the drive-in window, I stopped, turned he check over and signed my name to the back.  The  bank teller asked me for the last four of my Social saying, “Ms. McCoy I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”  (I have only banked there since 1980.) After what I believed to be somewhat of a wait to cash a $15 check, she returned to the window to tell me that they were unable to cash the check because it was made out to The Man, yet I had signed it.  I protested, “We both sign on the account.”  “Sorry, Ms. McCoy, it’s policy.”  Of course, it was too late to just pull out of sight and sign The Man’s name, and I should have just looked at the front before I arrived.  I always sign his name anyway; he never wants to.  (So arrest me;  I don’t think he will testify.) I took the check back out of the little moving box and tore it into approximately 100 pieces and put it back in the little moving box and thanked them for the experience, telling them I completely understood policy and respected their need to follow it.

I pulled around to the front, went in and saw them all huddled together presumably talking about the crazy lady that just came through the drive thru.  Picture this scene:  the entire staff of women were in those Friday football jerseys for the local team – some pink, some gray, some green.  The only person in an office was browsing through a yearbook.  Saying, “You can stop talking about me now; I’m here”, I proceeded to the only teller that appeared to have that color thing worked out (She was in a gray spirit shirt.) and told her I wanted to close the account.  I explained that I had really intended to close the account anyway when my favorite bank officer had retired, so now was as good a time as any.  I could tell they had been well-trained in customer service when she told me that they could reassemble the check (I should have let them do that and then closed the account, but the old brain just doesn’t always think too swift.), deposit it in my account, then I could write a $15 check and get the money that way.  Clever, but too late at that point.  The teller than proceeded to tell me that I should really take that money in the form of a cashier’s check instead of cash. (She should never leave an opening like that.)  I explained that I had already had trouble cashing one check at their bank, so I really didn’t want to take any chances on another check.  Just cash please.

I hope I just made their day more interesting with something more to talk about instead of looking at yearbooks and worrying about the spirit shirt color for Friday night lights. Aww, you’re right; spirit shirt colors are more important.



Rain, rain and glorious rain

Finally, a really good, soaking rain here in drought stricken Texas.  For old farmers that means a great deal.  For example, it means I have had to watch more weather than I want to since I am married to an ole farmer.  It also means I have been relegated to checking the rain gauge several times a day. (Often while it is still raining!) (The Man just can’t do that walk to the rain gauge anymore.) Being raised in the city, I never did either of those things.  I just couldn’t go outside and play when it rained; all outside activities were suspended.  Of course today during one of the information gathering conversations with The Man I asked him why rain gauges were such a funny shape – meaning tapered down to the bottom.  The answer, built in with a bit of smuggery (Is that really my made up word?) was to measure small amounts of rain, such as a tenth or two tenths.  Older rain gauges, back in the “ole farmer days” were flat bottomed.  Then, someone got smarter or someone gave a flip and fixed that. 

Once upon a time, a man we affectionately know as Red (who aggravated the hound dog out of The Man for more than a few years) was complaining about not having a rain gauge.  The Man found one of those old ones and went to Red’s house armed with hammer and PLENTY of nails.  He proceeded to place that rain gauge right up next to Red’s front door as far under the porch as he could get it and attach it with all PLENTY of nails.  Red is long passed away.  Now, The Man and I are wondering if that rain gauge is still on that porch. 

I’ll ask the people that bought his place at church this Sunday.  Story ending to come after I find out the answer.

Whoops! A red light

Red Light

Dear People, (City of Fort Worth, Automated Red Light Enforcement)

It is plain to see that I ran that red light.  The worst part of the whole ordeal is that my granddaughter was in the car.  We had spent the day shopping for material to make doll clothes and she had said, “Oh Grannie, that light was red.”  Of course, it was too late.  I had desperately tried to get over, but being unfamiliar with the new roads, waited too long.  (No one was being too friendly.)

I do want to say this, ” I was sure the intersection was clear, but could not get even one more look up to check the light.”

So, to sum it all up – I am really sorry for breaking the red light rule.  Here is my punishment along with sending you the knowledge that my granddaughter (who was in a very tragic accident when a drunk driver hit her mother) will probably only remember that her Grannie Pam ran a red light and that, my friends, is a far worse punishment than the fine!

Love to All


Of course, it was my idea.  Aren’t all those brainchildren mine??  She’s a beauty and so smart.  O.K. that’s the problem – too smart.  Skipper (Yes, that’s her name.) can be sooooo sneaky.  I mean, maybe just stubborn; but I had children that were stubborn and eventually it served them well.  I guess that means I shouldn’t give up hope yet.  She brings the paper in, but doesn’t always want to give it up.  She comes, sits,  and stays, but runs off when she gets the opportunity.  She follows me everywhere, but acts like a blithering idiot around other people.  I mean flippin out crazy.  We call her the Beast when anyone comes around.  Her manners are so bad around other people that she is not even allowed to be around anyone else.  I have learned to make her jump on the couch if anyone comes, so I can quickly snap the leash on her and tie her to the refrigerator door!  So far she hasnSkipper on back‘t pulled the fridge out the door!

Today was so bad I threatened her with the pound.  I don’t think she believed me.  Ah I love my dog.

What kind of underwear does a Southern Baptist wear? Not this kind!

It’s a good thing that my faith does not require certain kinds of underwear with little symbols on the boobs and knee and slits across the belly.  Who checks for those things anyway.  Is there an underwear policeman?  I’m having a hard time looking at Mitt and his perfect, good-looking family and imagining this underneath.  Will his white house staff be subject to morman missionaries?  The White House can be a new assignment request for young Mormons.  I really don’t see how evangelical Christians can vote for a Mormon or any other religion they describe as a cult. It appears to me that they must stay home or be labeled a hypocrite, but them one of their problems is how hypocritical they can be.

The Old People’s Olympics

I had to laugh.  My mom and I were having a discussion about all the things we could not do anymore.  It led to talking about what we did well.  With that in mind I would like to enter the Old People’s Olympics.  Here are a few of the events:

How many times you can pee during the night.

How fast can you get your cell phone out and get it answered.

An agility course for the various kinds of walkers.

These were just three that I thought of quickly.  Can you add to my list?



Holiday is over

Home Sweet Home

After a long weekend all alone with the hubby and not much excitement except a knock down drag out about the proper way for him to take his medicine, today was the “you just thought you didn’t work anymore” day.  Not much sleep; the mister was restless.  He had taken a muscle relaxer to help his pain, but he gets so loopy on them that I can’t sleep well knowing that he may go the wrong way to the bathroom.  He also talks in his sleep when he takes a muscle relaxer.  Last night he told me to go hang the clothes on the line about ten times.  I guess I wasn’t going cause he kept telling me.

He got up at 7 am.  I wasn’t sure if he was sleep walking or awake so I jumped up (woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head) and went to the kitchen with him.  I had to go to the store today and pick up prescriptions and go to the bank.  I got my bags to take to the store, got the post office box key, cell phone, bottle of water, and purse and headed out to the car.  By this time, the Mister was throwing up sick and barely able to walk.  I went back to check on him, got him situated on the couch and went back to the car to hurry to get my stuff done.  The car wouldn’t start.  Battery so dead there was only one click, not even a series of clicks. I knew I had two options – jump it off or get out the battery charger.  I decided on the first and began to see how best to get the truck in to the front of my car.  My car was in the carport.  In front of it was two battery-powered ride on grandkid toys, a patio then a turn to the left has my compost bin, two lawn chairs, two saw horses, various pieces of lumber and a few other things that were not in their proper place of course.  Thinking I would not be able to get the truck through that obstacle course, I opted to push my car back out of the carport just enough to get the truck close enough for the jumper cable to reach.  I had hell getting the car into neutral so I could push it, but finally did and began to push.  There is just enough of a hump at the end of the carport to keep rolling it back the wrong way when it got to it.  I thought about getting out and going to the front to push it over the hump, but if it went over the hump there was an incline  that it would roll right down, and I had visions of me chasing my own car down the driveway right out into the street.  About that time, the mister came outside on the walker with one sock on and one barefoot.  It’s bad enough that he needs the walker to steady himself, but he can’t walk barefoot at all.  Hell, he couldn’t go barefoot when he was a young buck, so his possibility of falling had increased about 200%.  When he saw what was going on, he said the words that changed the world (as usual), “I believe your battery is in the trunk.”  Of course, I had never owned a car with a battery in the trunk, and granted it did make it much easier to get the truck to it, but damn it would have been nice to have had sense enough to know that before I tried to move a car on my own.    Moved the truck; jumped the car and off I go to the mechanic.  I guess the mister has known this mechanic for 50 years, and his parting word to me were, “Go straight to Bill Mechanic’s and tell him to get out there and help you now.”  I don’t have the same force that the mister has so I decided to wait to tell him until after he looked at my car.

I went straight to the mechanic and he checked the alternator – it was fine – then he checked the battery and said it was dead.  He didn’t think that it had ever been changed and it was a 2006 model.  Of course he couldn’t get the battery until the next morning so I will have to go back.  He assured me I could drive it and do my errands as long as I didn’t kill the car.

Off I went to the drugstore, and on the way out ran into an old friend and his wife.  We had a good long talk.  Next to the store, went through quite quick, forgot several things because of the hurry I was in.  Got the unfriendliest checker, and had to sack my own groceries and load the the car.  I like the checker, but I really have to work to get her to talk or smile, and today I was not successful.  Went through the drive thru at the bank to get some change to send all the grandkids a little summer spending money and headed the 10 miles to home. About a mile down the road every electrical thing on my car started doing weird things just like the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  I decided I best hurry, and I put the pedal to the metal to the tune of 90 miles per hours and raced the next nine miles to the house.  I kept thinking a policeman would stop me so at least I would have some help if I got stranded, but of course I could have robbed a bank and had Bonnie and Clyde in the backseat getting it on, and there would have been no police today.  So I made it the 10 miles with aliens having taken over my car.  As soon as I got home the mister was coming to the bed with his “cough up” can. (Kids called it that long ago; you know a nickname for everything, even the can you vomit in.)  “Get me a 7up,” was his first feeble request.  Then he wanted to go back to the couch; then decided not to; then decided to.  Got to the couch and moved all the vomit paraphernalia.  Got the groceries put up.  Mowed the lot across the road from us. Came in with “oh, my aching back.”

The remainder of the day went 7up, chicken noodle soup, answer the telephone, get me a blanket, turn up the air, turn on the fan, more 7up, medicine for upset stomach.  I finally convinced him that if he could find something on TV that would get him interested, it might take his mind off his ailments.  Rockford Files and Heat of the Night did the trick.

Went outside and fed the horse and rubbed him down with fly spray.  He was nicer to me.

Came in and got the mister bathed and tucked into bed.  He is so weak, but sleeping peacefully and now I will to.  And so ends a day of Laurel and Hardy, The Three Stooges and Abbott and Costello come to the Back Alley Stables of the McCoys.

Back to the post 365 to 30…

Speaking of age.  We were speaking of age, weren’t we?  Anyway, as a young person I saw many people troubled by their age.  My grandmother would absolutely not let me see her driver’s license because she did not want anyone to know how old she was.  My reaction to all this phobia about age led me to a system that has worked very well over the years.

After I turned 25 I began answering the question about how old I was by rounding up to 30.  Then, when I reached 30 I was easy to say because I had five years of practice.  It also had the advantage of people saying how well I looked when I said I was 30 and I was anywhere from 5 to 1 year younger.  That continued with the pattern of when I turned 30 I told people I was 35 and so on.  It really was an easy way to slide into the older milestones and people were really beginning to complement me on my looks when I was 50 and said I was 55.

I heard this tactic reinforced in a different sort of way by my brother-in-law who was quite a flirt anyway.  As he aged and began to decline in health, he would always ask people to guess how old he was.  They might guess or they might get out of guessing, but he would always answer by saying he was 100 or 98 or some other usually much higher number than he really was.  He would say,  “I look pretty good for 100 don’t I?”   People had to agree.  He  also cheated at Wahoo.

You gotta admit I look pretty good for my age!

I wish I could draw – is it anything like writing??

If you have not discovered Mark Fiore, take a look.  He is irreverent, funny, outspoken artistic and just plain entertaining.  What a great way to educate.


Pulitzer-prize winning Mark Fiore, who the Wall Street Journal has called “the undisputed guru of the form,” creates animated political cartoons in San Francisco, where his work has been featured on the San Francisco Chronicle’s web site, SFGate.com, for over ten years.  His work also appears on Newsweek.com, Slate.com, CBSNews.com, MotherJones.com and NPR’s web site.  Fiore’s political animation has appeared on CNN, Frontline, Bill Moyers Journal, Salon.com and cable and broadcast outlets across the globe.

Beginning his professional life by drawing traditional political cartoons for newspapers, Fiore’s work appeared in publications ranging from the Washington Post to the Los Angeles Times.  In the late 1990s, he began to experiment with animating political cartoons and, after a short stint at the San Jose Mercury News as their staff cartoonist, Fiore devoted all his energies to animation.

Growing up in California, Fiore also spent a good portion of his life in the backwoods of Idaho.  It was this combination that shaped him politically.  Mark majored in political science at Colorado College, where, in a perfect send-off for a cartoonist, he received his diploma in 1991 as commencement speaker Dick Cheney smiled approvingly.

Mark Fiore was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for political cartooning in 2010, a Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award in 2004 and has twice received an Online Journalism Award for commentary from the Online News Association (2002, 2008).  Fiore has received two awards for his work in new media from the National Cartoonists Society (2001, 2002), and in 2006 received The James Madison Freedom of Information Award from The Society of Professional Journalists

You need a rooster at your place?

Image Detail

After relocating to the thriving metropolis in Central Texas some 30 years ago, I decided to really immerse myself into the culture.  The first immersion was really just fortuitous.  Having to use the windmill for water, the need to learn simple repairs led me to try to purchase the “rubbers” for my windmill, when actually I needed “leathers.”  That’s an earlier blog.

Having met my closest neighbor, a lovely hard-working woman who had raised four children on her own after her husband had been accidentally killed by an electric shock.  They had a dairy, so she was left to run the dairy and raise the small children.  This she managed to do, and by the time I met her she was remarried to an old high school friend that had returned to the area from Dallas (a bit better off as the head of an electrical company) and made her life much more comfortable.

Neighbor lady had a relative that worked at a local college that experimented on animals to create hybrids.  ThImage Detailey had developed a hybrid chicken that matured in four weeks to be able to butcher in a relative short period of time.  After they had completed their experimentation, they had these leftover chicks and she had access to them.  She asked me if I wanted any.

Well, since I had become such a great little farm lady, I quickly said sure (not realizing exactly what that meant).  The next morning, I found a box with 25 day old chicks on my front porch.  They were making an awful lot of noise cheep, cheep, cheeping and desperate to get out of that box.

I brought them in and sat they on a table.  The middle child was just toddling around and as I tried to figure what I was supposed to do next, he abruptly reached in the box and grabbed a handful, in both little chubby hands, of baby chicks.  Only two were squished before I was able to pry them out of his fat little fingers, and I quickly got them to the barn, got them enclosed, and got a light on them.  Adding the food and water made me think I had pretty much taken care of the baby chicks.

Well, all went well for several days, then as baby chicks tend to do, they began to grow.  Now remember, these were a hybrid that had been genetically altered to mature in four weeks and ready for butcher.

Four weeks came and each hen (and they were all hens) had begun laying eggs.  By this time, I had just turned them loose, and they had a chicken house for the laying and roosting.  Now of course, not all hens lay every day, but out of 24 it was not uncommon to have days with 17 to 20 eggs.  It began to become a bit of a problem what to do with that many eggs.  Remember, this was daily.  We ate eggs, the dogs, cats, and pigs ate eggs, and I began to wonder what my next step should be.  This is where having an experienced neighbor is so valuable.  Her question was, “Why don’t you just put some in the freezer?”  After receiving instructions (before google), I went home to prepare for the butchering.

I was a city kid.  They closest I had been to butchering any animal was purchasing the meat already packed in the grocery store.  Occasionally, I would see some large cuts of meat being whittled down in the back of the store, but certainly not enough to get the butchering certificate.

Now, elderly neighbor suggested wringing the neck or chopping it off, followed by plucking by hand as many feathers as possible, followed by dunking now dead chicken in boiling water in order to get he remainder of the pin feathers (very small feathers that are very gross if you see them or eat them after cooking chicken).  You can then freeze the entire chicken or cut it up before freezing.  Sounds simple enough doesn’t it?  These elderly farm people did it all the time for Sunday dinner, remember?  I don’t either. Image Detail

Out I go to the barn.  I decided that I was incapable of wringing anything’s neck, so armed with an axe I set out to kill me some chickens.  I killed a couple, but no one told me that they kept running around after they had no heads, and to say the least this really spooked me.  I was convinced I was being chase, punished, or haunted by chicken spirits from millions of years past.  My other thoughts were that these hybrids were some sort of bionic, nuclear, radioactive, killer chickens.  Not a pleasant thought.

They finally went down, and I went about following the remainder of the instructions.  I managed to sort of complete four chickens.  There seemed to be a lot of leftover feathers.  I was covered in wet, stinking feathers and the barnyard resembled the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  This would not work.

After traumatizing the remaining 20 hens and having 4 pitiful looking dead chickens, I decided I would just go to the store to get my chicken.  It was a family tradition, but I still had a bunch of chickens, laying a bunch of eggs.

The next plan of attack was to allow the hens to set some of the eggs and hatch some babies.  (Wait for it.)  I was relaying my plan to the elderly neighbor when her obvious shock showed in the tone of her question, “You got a rooster out there?”  “Why no,” I replied, at which point the obvious dawned on me.  “Oh my gosh,” I stammered, turning beet red – no redder.  “Please, don’t tell anyone that I said that, ” I pleaded.  I knew what kind of idiot they would all thing I was.  Remember, I was the one that asked for the rubbers for the windmill.  “Well honey,” she slowly drawled, “You can let them hens set all they want, but without a rooster you won’t ever get any babies.”  She probably got her chuckle for the year or lifetime out of that one.

I know she got on that party line the minute I left her house.  It really was too good a story not to tell.

I pulled up to the little store in the little town several days later.  I was what was referred to as a “grass widow” (divorced) in their neck of the woods, and there was always lots of speculation about what I might be up to out in the country.  I saw as I put the car in park several of the old men in town, one of the old bachelors, standing on the porch.  When I was fully out of the car I heard the comment I had been dreading, “Hey, Mrs. I hear you need a rooster out at your place.”  I just ducked and plowed ahead.  After all, I was fast becoming the entertainment in a town with not much entertainment.

One of those on the porch was the Mr.

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