Motormouth

      Several people I know have a skewered view of themselves. How they perceive their personalities and how others view them, do not match. I feel I have a pretty good grasp on others perceptions of my true nature. Motormouth, was the descriptive title of an essay my freind wrote about me. It describes me to a tee.

     I must admit--I believe it to be genetics. It started before birth. My mother had me by C- section. It was a saddle- block, as they called it. Which meant she was awake during my delivery. The medical personnel put a curtain up in front of my mother's face during the surgery. As the doctor was working on her, she heard a scream. She asked the doctor what gender the baby was? He replied that he did not know yet, he did not have it all the way out yet. My parent often reminded me that I was making noise before I was even born.

     My brother teased me when we were growing up. One of his favorite lines was,
     " Therese, when you open your mouth, your whole body disappears. "
     In my defense, I was a skinny kid.
Teachers tried various forms of punishment to curtail the never ending prattle that issued forth from my mouth. None were very effective. One teacher asked,
     " Therese, why do you talk so much?"
     I simply replied, "cause I have a lot to say."

     Now everyone, is not a hundred percent anything, I have my quiet contemplative moments. In fact, I relish private and tranquil, alone time. But, reputations follow you. If I am trying to be respectfully silent during others disortations, someone always asks me if I'm feeling okay.
     "Therese, are you sick," they might query?

     It's a good thing I was born in the Western culture, where we believe, "the squeaky wheel gets the grease."

Gratitude

 

Gratitude

Some dread the holidays
They treat it like a malaise

Fearing inflated expectations
Worrying about money limitations
Strength sapping celebrations
Irritating family relations

I look forward them
Like receiving a precious gem

I'm like a petulant child
Anger raging wild

I'm in need of a time out
In the corner while I pout
Let me scream and shout
Time to think about

A grandchild's hug
A coffee filled mug
A warm soak in the tub
A sore back rub

A wrong forgiven
That I'm still liven

That arm around me in my sorrow
The meal I'm sharing tomorrow

Yes I need a Time Out
To adjust my attitude
To remember gratitude

Join me
Blessed Be

 

      I was asked,
     " What's your favorite book? " I consider that a naive question. There cannot
be only one, to an avid reader. You would need to expand the query into categories.
     " What's your favorite Genre? "
     " What book impacted you most? " Even those questions are limited for the voracious reader that I am. I do not have a favorite genre, I'm very eclectic. Books that influenced me came in stages of my life.
      Along with my appetite for reading, I am a reconteur. I have regaled many with tales of my failings in the academic arena as a child. But the journey into reading started with the simple comic book. Under third grade in the 60's I read such classics as; Richie Rich, Little Lulu, Casper The Ghost, and Archie.
     My first foray into self read chapter books came in summer school between third and fourth grade. I loved animals and the assigned book was, Brighty Of The Grand Canyon. It was a ficticious account of a real life burro. That book sparked the flame, that later would  become an inferno of passion for the written word. Books fueled my active imagination. We did not have techno entertainment, so it was easy to become enamored with the adventures books gave. Sometimes I got so involved with a book, it influenced my actions in the real world. After reading, Aventures of Huckleberry Finn, I ran away from home to have an adventure. My excursion was short lived, (only a few hours,) but it goes to show you the power of books. I will say three favorite books of my elementary school age were: Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates, Heidi, and A Light in the Forest.
     At twelve I was visiting my aunt, and while she was cleaning out her attic, she discovered a cardboard box of paperback books. In it was the Tarzan series, and several Harliquin romance novels. She gave the treasure to me. The Tarzan books appealed to the tomboy in me, and the romance novels to the budding young woman. I discovered that summer, that reading was not only for school, but for entertainment as well.
    Junior High and the beginning of High School brought about a distinctive change of litature in the cirriculum. Novels by well know authors such as, Faulkner, Stienbeck, Albert Camus, Hemmingway. Arthur C. CLarke. It seemed strange to me that most our reading had a marked propensity towards dystopian or existential nihilistic themes. Someone with a macabre sense of humor may find it laughable that young hormonal teens were reading so many tragic stories. I personally liked Steinbeck the most, The Grapes of Wrath, and Of Mice and Men. Some I hated like Catcher in the Rye, it was hard for me to relate to a hard coming of age story when I lived a very sheltered naive life. Although sad, I enjoyed, The Glass Menagerie a story of a young woman ostracized from society because of a disability. In the novel she had a menagerie of glass figurines, once again my imagination leapt out of a book and into my tangible world, and I began a collection of glass figurines, complete with the character's favorite, a unicorn.
     My biggest source of amazement was how much I fell in love with Shakespeare.
Although normaly I was not academic, I was the top of my Shakesperean class. I struggled a first trying to interpret old English to modern speech, but once I caught on, I was captivated by Shakespeare's ability to use double entrendres and homophones. Sometimes his puns were humorous even amidst tragedy. I was sick one day from class, and as the teacher quizzed the class on that weeks reading from: A Merchant of Venice, she realized how much the class relied on me answering her queries. When I returned to school, my classmates were mad at me for being absent, and the teacher forbade me from raising my hand the rest of the semester.
     At eighteen my taste turned toward philosophical or semi self-help genres.
Richard Bach author of Johnathan Livingston Seagull drew me in with his book,
Illusions: The Aventures of a Reluctant Messiah. Followed by Dan Millman's, The Way of The Peaceful Warrior.
    
    

The Concert

The Flute Concert

I am on the back side of fifty, heading for sixty. I started the Martial arts weapon
Nunchuku, known mostly by the name of Nunchucks, about a year ago.
It is hard to start things that require a sharp mind and body when you are older.
You look on at athletic young people picking up the moves fast, and executing them in lightning fashion. At least that is the case with me. It would be easy for me to say, "Why bother." After I have dropped the damn things for the hundredth time, or hit my self once again on some protruding part of my aging frame. But my belief system is to do something for the pure joy of it and not to worry if you are the best.
Yes, we a love to be recognized, even if just for our efforts, that requires though that you indeed make the effort. You must get out of your box and risk.

A year ago or so, a  friend in the Children's mental health profession asked if
I would put on a Taekwondo demonstration with my students at a state event.
She also had heard me play the Native American flute and asked if I might play something. Now my music knowledge could probably fit in a thimble. Another thing I attempt but fall pitifully short on any real ability. But the cause was worthy, so I accepted the invitation to perform. I could fake my way through a tune.

The time drew near for the event when I received the events flyer through my e- mail. The poster listed the various activities. As I was reading I came to a section,
And read the following announcement:

"Flute Concert By Therese Guy."

What? Flute concert! I can maybe squeak out two tunes on my flute. Panic immediately set in. I thought about calling my friend up and saying I had pneumonia. I calmed down a bit and came up with a plan.

I have a collection of different kinds of flutes from all over the world. This happened quite by accident. Once someone sees the joy you have over some possession, people start giving you those for gifts. You know, like someone who collects salt and pepper shakers. So it has been with me, friends and students bring me flutes back from their travels. Being thus endowed I have become determined to figure out how to play one song on each instrument. I have pretty much accomplished that. One song per instrument. So I decided I would bring around ten of my favorite flutes and play a song on each. Thus making my ability to look far more then it was.

This was so out of my comfort zone!

The day came, and I did manage to play a song per instrument. Impressing a few
wide eyed kids. But I could not deceive, as I received the praise from the audience
I confessed my ruse. To my surprise the applause increased. They realized the courage it took to go out of my box and find a way to entertain, despite my limitations. This is the life lesson I wish to share. You should always strive to write that book, learn that language, run that race, it truly is in the journey not the destination. Most of all, have fun.

 

I'll Make A Man Out Of You

 Make A Man Out Of You ( first day of boot camp )

In the Disney movie, "Mulan" there is a song while troops are in training.
The lyrics go like this, "I'll make a man out of you." The irony is Mulan is a woman.
I can't help but be transported back to 1977 and my experience as the gender minority entering the Army.

First you should understand why I joined. Most people thought it was because I was an avid tomboy and wanted to prove myself. This could not be further from the truth. It was fear, pure unadulterated fear. I had already applied and been accepted at a prestigious catholic college in  Minnesota. True, money was a factor, but the biggest fear was I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I figured going to boot camp and service training would give me time to think. Another big faux pax, in boot camp you barely had time to pee, let alone think!

Often I regale people with tales from my Army days. Others often see these stories as wonderful adventure filled experiences. I guess they get somewhat embellished in the telling. The real truth is that it was a traumatic episode in a previously mundane Midwesterners life.

Somehow I found myself with hand in the air, swearing allegiance  and obedience to
The United Staes Army. I was the only girl in the local group taking the oath that day. We were told to pack only one other set of clothes besides those on our backs and meet at Omaha's Eppley Airfield.

They said, " Your Uncle Sam will provide for your clothing needs now. "

When we met at the airport,  our plane had some maintenance issues, and the next flight the Airlines could book us on would be the following day. Instead of letting us go home for one more night, the recruiter got us rooms at a nearby hotel. They must of figured we might be a flight risk.

The boys who had shorts decided to go down to the hotel pool. I had only the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing and a skirt and blouse in my suitcase. The recruiter came to my door at dinner time and asked me,

"Where are the boys?"

"Down in the pool."

"Please go and get them and tell them to meet me in the dinning room. I have the voucher to pay for your meals."

I did as he requested and headed down to the pool area. The other recruits were letting loose and cannon balling into the pool. I shouted at them what the recruiter said. One of the guys paddled to the edge and held out his hand and asked for help up. I should have known better, I have three older brothers! I offered a hand, and quick as a wink---found myself flying through the air and into the pool. Having only one other set of clothes and no access to a dryer, that is how I ended up arriving to basic training in a dress.

The next day started smooth. There were no plane troubles and we arrived in South Carolina without incident. My first impression was as you would expect on a hot day in July. Sweat was running down my back and we had not even arrived at Fort Jackson yet. A big green bus awaited us and we piled in. I felt somewhat like I imagined a cow did being herded onto a cattle truck going to slaughter.

We arrived at our destination. A large cement Tarmac like you would see at an airport. Several men in stiff starched uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats eagerly greeted us. Their faces were scrunched up, and I swear they foamed at the mouth like rabid dogs, as they screamed instructions at us. My legs were shaking so bad I almost tripped stepping out of the bus. I scuttled into a haphazard line next to a couple of other recruits.

It did not take long for one of Drill Instructors to zero in on me. I cannot recall what he first said to me because I was disconcerted by the edge of his hat tapping on my forehead. I just recalled that my brother who was a Marine (this I found out was an important factor) told me to say, Sir, Yes Sir, to everything said to me. So that is what I did!

"Sir, Yes Sir!" I shouted. It became clear that is not the Army way.

"Sir, Sir I work for a living! Get down and give me twenty maggot."

I got down---skirt and all, petrified the others would be looking up my skirt and somehow managed to get twenty push-ups accomplished. As I struggled to my feet I decided an apology was warranted. ( I had no knowledge yet of proper order of rank )

"Sorry Corporal."

"Corporal, Corporal, it's Sergeant trainee! Now get down and give me twenty more!"

Now that Tarmac was about a hundred and twenty degrees and I was still shaking from the first twenty and I was in a dress. Somehow I thought a shaking, tearful, young woman in a dress would elicit some sympathy and whined.

" Bbbut my skirt."

" No special treatment here maggot, this is Soldier training. Now add twenty to that!"

Down I went. I did not care anymore about my skirt, my hands burning on the hot pavement, and my own ragged breath gave me no time to be embarrassed. My only thought was, "I wanna go home." I had only been in basic training two minutes and already blew it three times. This did not bode well.

Something To Brag About

Something To Brag About

One time I was at a Martial Arts Hall of Fame function. I was nominated for induction along with fifty or so other martial arts practitioners. As we socialized in a large hallway, one man stood out. He was around sixty years old,
but looked stout and in good health. I had met him earlier an knew he was a veteran of Vietnam. Since he was a fellow Army vet I felt a kinship at first. Later though I came to the conclusion he was arrogant.

As he he was talking a small crowd gathered around him in a circle. He was the center of attention, both figuratively and literally. He had his arms outstretched with palms up.  I moved closer to hear what was being said. He looked down at his palms and then slowly raised his head. He swiveled his head back and forth making eye contact with each person that surrounded him.

"Wow, he can work a crowd." I thought.

In a slow drawn out voice he said, " I've Killed with these bare hands."

The crowd nodded in acknowledgement of his statement. You could of heard a pin drop in their hushed admiration.

I was appalled. Why would that be something to be proud of? I found myself pushing my way between people to the middle of the circle. I looked the old man in the eye, then outstretched my arms in imitation. I looked down at my open hands, turning them up and down a couple of times. Then emulating his earlier actions raised my eyes and met the the gaze of the crowd. I then said loud and clear,

 "I have not!"

The crowd irrupted  in applause.

I've always admitted my potential for violence, to ignore it seems like a dangerous denial. Recognizing that potential, makes me aware, and gives me the ability to temper it. What I find offensive is reveling or relishing in your ability to do harm.
Hurting others is easy. Controlling yourself is the true test of strength. I hope to pass this on to my children and students.

30/30 month of Poems

Duck, bob, weave
Evade, move, block
Muscles tighten like rock
So I do not receive
That well placed kick
That fated blow
Opponent promises to bestow
Wish I was controlled by a joystick
My administrator skilled
Making me jump, fly, flip
But alas, it is not so
I should have swerved
Instead of dip, if I had
I might have preserved
My dignity and pride
Instead it resides
On the floor, along
With my backside

I set the bar high.
Trouble is I'm a terrible jumper.
I try to fly,
But my wings are clipped.
I cannot deny,
Gravities cruel grasp.
None-the-less I must retry.
To negative thoughts,
I will not comply.
The odds
I will defy
I will levitate and rise
I will modify
Until I soar
I will edify!

Christmas Past

Christmases Past





Tis the season for Christmas movies and in watching Scrooge for the thirtieth time, I decided to take a trip down memory lane to my Christmases past.



I was not surprised that it was not the gifts or lack of gifts that brought out cherished memories, but tiny moments of love or laughter that stood out.



Thought I would share some of those, so others might reflect on similar moments, and perhaps relax enough during this hectic season to take time to appreciate the small things.



# 1 memory “It does not take riches to laugh.”

When I was seventeen my sister lived on an Indian reservation in Northern Minnesota. I drove up to her North shore home for the holidays. Things were tight for my sister. She did not have money for fancy decorations. Getting a tree was an easy task, since my sister lived in the woods. We did not have to spend money for a tree, just the time and energy to cut one down. No fancy ornaments or colored lights, but out came the string and on went the popcorn on the stove. Well, my sister was so poor; she had the pan, but no lid. So when the popcorn began to pop-- it flew all over the kitchen. We chased after the flying popcorn, catching it in our bowls, laughing the whole time. We trimmed the tree with popcorn and cranberries and paper chains. Okay, some of the popcorn went in our mouths, but the point is we did not need fancy trimmings to enjoy each other.



#2 memory “Always stay young at heart.”

One Christmas when I was a teen my church had a Jesse Tree at the front of the church. Then each Sunday during advent, children were to come up and place an ornament on the branches. The ornaments depicted the events up until Christ’s birth.



My dad at the time was sixty-five years old. He was a big man, over six feet, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, and a loud voice to match his stature. The first Sunday of advent I was sitting in-between my mother and father for mass. Imagine my mother’s surprise, and mine, when the priest asked for the children to come up and place their decorations on the tree, and up pops my dad. As the children shuffled up the isle, there was my dad amongst them, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him. There were murmurs in the pews and I slunk down lower in my mortification. He placed his handcrafted decoration reverently on the tree and trekked back to his seat next to me. My mom chastised him all the way home for embarrassing us. Finally after being able to get a word in edgewise, this is what he had to say,

“ Mary” “The priest said, ‘Children come up and place your ornaments on the tree’ am I not a child of God? We should never be too old to celebrate the origins of our belief.“



I still was embarrassed at the time, and yes he continued putting ornaments on the Jesse tree for the rest of the season. I now realize what great insight my dad had, and courage to act upon those revelations.

#3 memory “Don’t take things so seriously”

I married my dad! No truer statement could be made. Asking my husband to go to the store is a fool’s errand. He usually comes back with everything but…what was on the list.

My mom’s experience was much the same.



One Christmas Eve my mother asked my father to go out to the local store and pick up some needed household items. My dad agreed to do the task, and at least mentioned he might take a little longer, since he had last minute Christmas shopping.



He arrived home and took off for the garage to wrap his presents. My mom interrupted his endeavors with an inquiry to the items she had sent him for.

“Oh yeah, I’m sorry I got carried away and must have forgot.”

She was non-to happy at this revelation. The stores were now closed and she continued to gripe at my dad the remainder of the night. Christmas morning we attended church and then returned home to open presents. As my mom opened those labeled with her name she unwrapped a beautiful expensive perfume bottle of Chennel #9. The next package contained light bulbs, the next toilet paper, and the next salt for the soft water machine. All the items she had asked dad for.

“Sy, why did you let me go on last night instead of just giving me the items?”

“Mary, you enjoy nagging, that was my part of my gift.”

My dad said this while joining the rest of us in laughter. That taught me to not always take everything so seriously.



I have many more experiences because I am constantly learning but I think this couple should help you to figure out some of your own and hopefully make you smile.

Secret Santa

SECRET (NINJA) SANTA










“Ahhh!!!”

I hear a scream coming from the living room. As I race down the hall, pain-filled words follow the scream.

“I’m blind, I’m blind,” my ex-Marine husband exclaims. He faces my voice, his eyes squinted shut. He is holding a pair of night-vision goggles.

“What happened? “ I ask.

“I almost had him,” he responds.

“Had who?”

“Our Secret Santa! But the noise-sensitive flood lights came on and blinded me through the goggles.”

We’ve had a Secret Santa leaving presents the last couple of days. The gifts are accompanied by a poem coinciding with the twelve days of Christmas. Now my husband and I had both belonged to a military intelligence unit when we met. We now own and operate a martial arts studio. So, sometimes my husband forgets there is a regular world out there that does not require paranoid surveillance.

“Let’s see what he left,” I say walking to the front door.

“Yeah, I guess its okay,” my husband agrees. “He’s long gone by now.”

It’s five gold napkin rings. “Why is it so important to catch our benefactor?” I ask William, playing with the rings.

“I just hate the idea someone can get one on us.”

“What do you mean get one on us?’

“You know, sneak up on us. We are the sneaks.”

I shake my head, and the stakeout continues. Our Santa never comes at the same time, so it makes things difficult. William becomes obsessed and recruits our daughter into the operation. I come home from the studio to find black construction paper on all the windows facing the front of the house. Eyeholes are cut out and there are no lights on inside except for a red glowing chem. light.

“Where is Ciara?” I ask.

“Shhh, bedroom,” he whispers.

I go to our daughter’s bedroom. There she sits. On a chair. Facing the blackened window. Keeping lookout. Through peepholes.

Now it is my turn to yell, and when I let loose with an “Ahh,” my daughter starts and jumps up from the chair. My husband runs down the hall.

“Did you see something? What direction did they come from? Couldn’t you signal quietly?”

I answer in order.

“No. I don’t know. And I’M TIRED OF BEING QUIET!”

Our daughter returns to her post and softly says, “I think there’s something on the porch.”

My husband then gives me the look, the one that says “Thanks a lot” and really doesn’t mean it.

I privately think, he needs a hobby.

This time it is eleven “Lords a Leaping” ornaments. There’s one day left to catch the Ninja Santa.

This time William goes all out. He dresses in his Army cold weather, all white, gear. He climbs on the roof to settle in for the watch.

I’m sitting inside watching “White Christmas” on the tube when a loud war cry comes from out front, followed by an “oomph.”

I race to the front door to see the pursuit in progress. My husband is chasing a black-clad figure down a couple of yards. I pull on my boots to follow, to keep William in check. The Ninja-Santa jumps a neighbor’s fence, and their large but friendly dog tackles the culprit. William pulls the dog off the figure and hauls him to his feet. He removes the hood on the now very docile St. Ninjalas

It is a young 17-year-old from the Taekwondo school.

“Jeesh, Mr. Guy this Twelve Days of Christmas Secret Santa business has been a tradition of my family for years. But this had to be the hardest mission ever.”

William was grinning ear to ear. “Caught ya, didn’t I? Can’t get one over on me.”

I pat the young man on the back and say, “This was the best Christmas present you could have given him.”

But I hope next year our students just give us cookies.

Eliminating Fear 

“ Trips to the out house

daily routine of elimination

first thing in the morning

last thing at night.”


My sister wrote that poem about her austere way of life in the north woods. People suffer all kinds of disabilities but few rank up there as too embarrassing to discuss. We all associate bowel talk as a subject for the elderly or young mothers potty training their toddlers. Circumstance has changed both my life and my views.

Elimination is a part of everyone’s life; no one escapes it, yet why does it embarrass us so? Maybe because we recognize there are many kinds of toxins that we need to eliminate, not just from the food we eat or the air we breathe. Toxins such as negative thoughts or words that we fail to eliminate and drag us down or stop us from reaching our goals. Living with an ostomy means: I no longer can just appear strong but that I am strong.

A couple of years ago I became very ill with ulcerative colitis. It is a physically painful and embarrassing disease. It started out with; I could not go anywhere there was not a bathroom close by, to not eating for thirty days. I was hospitalized and the doctors could not get the disease under control, thus resulting in an operation. This operation involved the complete removal of the large intestine. I have what they call an ileostomy. Without a bowel I have no normal way to excrete toxins out of my body, “In lay terms I can’t poop.” So part of my intestines is pulled out through a hole that is made in my abdomen and waste exits there in a bag I attach every couple of days. I was told that as an osmotic that I would live a perfectly normal life. There were only a few things I could not do, like: wrestling, football, and martial arts.

Martial Arts! I owned and operated a martial arts school for the last twenty years and was the only breadwinner of a family of four. The doctor said, “ You could easily herniate the intestine with that vigorous of exercise and you must be careful not to receive a blow to that area.”

“ It’s okay’” I said. “I block really well.” Anyway being an A-type personality I continued in the martial arts.

This brings us to living and dealing with the ileostomy. The very act of kicking for me is a risk, not to injury but in an embarrassing situation. The bag that is attached to my stomach is applied simply with a paste similar to denture cream and a sticky tape wafer. I take a chance every time I throw a kick that the apparatus could dislodge resulting in a mess.

Of course this in fact has happened. That perfect day, or so it seemed, over one hundred students came through my school doors. I felt fulfilled, then the sh__ hit the fan or should I say ran down my leg. I closed my eyes momentarily and prayed, “Please. God, just let me disappear now.” I didn’t disappear and as I looked up at my students I knew it was time to put my mental martial arts training into place. I excused myself and went into the bathroom, cleaned up, changed and went back out to teach. I then shared with the class my ailment. In doing so opened up the floor to all sorts of dialogue I had no idea was possible. Some shared with me ailments they had that I did not know afflicted them. As a result of my sharing and my example of continuing in my training some felt inspired to accomplish their goals. I continue to be open, both in an outside of the school. I’m not shy about my ostomy and I have been surprised at how many people know of someone with some type of ostomy or are an ostomite themselves.

I still have bad days because there are a lot of inconveniences to this disability. I generally try to use humor to diffuse them. I make jokes about myself like: I give a whole new meaning to, “I have a gut feeling,” or, the other day when I went to the pharmacy and they asked me, “What kind of bags do you need?”

I had to remember not to say, “Paper!”

Yes, humor helps on those days when I would rather not put up with this disease’s challenge. There are many different avenues of coping as there are people with this problem. I have a few friends who find it difficult to leave their homes or to travel. I look at it this way: I am an ostomite whether I leave home or not, so eliminate fear and live life!

Life On The Rez

Life On The Rez. II

LUCY



Lucille Ball had nothing on my sister and I.

One time while visiting my sister on the Grand Portage Indian Reservation we proved this theory. My sister was living with her husband and child in her mother-in-law’s residence. An unenviable position. It is hard enough for the average daughter-in-law to measure up to her spouse’s mother’s expectations, but my sister compounded this by being twenty years younger then her husband and being white.

Granny (her mother-in-law) decided to lie down for an afternoon nap. While she was napping, we decided to catch up on the laundry. Life on the reservation was hard. Poverty abound, and although it was the early nineteen eighties, conveniences were behind the times.

“Therese, get me the basket of clothes from the living room." My sister instructed. As I returned to the kitchen I saw my sister roll out a strange looking contraption from a storage closet. It looked like a white tub with four, three feet tall legs. There was an electronic cord and a hose attached. She plugged in the cord and began attaching the hose to the sink as I exclaimed,

“What the heck is that?”

“It’s a washing machine silly.”

She said this as if we had not grown up in the same household with all the latest modern equipment.

She sighed. “It is the best we have, and it does the job.” She brushed back a lock of wavy black hair behind her ear and continued, “Besides it beats the heck out of a washboard.”

I shrugged my shoulders and began loading the ancient cleaning apparatus. After loading, I turned to my sister and inquired,

“Where’s the laundry detergent?”

My sister’s green eyes widened.

“ Ahhh, opps, we are out.”

“You want me to run down to the trading post?”

“It’s closed. But I have an idea.” My sister said as she bent over and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. She pulled out a bottle of dish soap.

“Soap is soap right? If it can clean dishes, it should clean clothes just fine.”

Sounded good to me. So we poured some into the machine and turned it on. We then retreated to the living room, her to work on a sewing project, and me to play with my nephew. We heard the device agitating and gurgling a bit, and with naivety continued with our tasks. A short time later we went to check on the clothes, and low and behold, the kitchen was filled with bubbles. It was like a scene from a Lucy episode. It was hard to even locate the washer. Panic ensued with the thought of my sister’s mother-in-law coming out and confirming her view of my sister’s ineptitude.

We slipped and slid our way into the sudsy mess and grabbed some bowls from the cupboards. The bailing commenced. We would then run to the bathroom with the containers and fill the tub, rinsing the bubbles down the drain. We were soon soaked and were trying not to be loud. The absurdity of the situation, coupled with the fear of waking Granny, made it difficult not to break out in hysterical laughter. We managed to mop up the remaining mess with towels, just moments before Granny awoke from her rest.

Granny entered the kitchen. Behind her bottle cap thick glasses, her eyebrows arched. The floor sparkled clean and the air had a lemony fresh scent. I think that, along with our disheveled appearance, gave off the wrong impression.

“Oh wah, didn’t know you guy’s were going to scrub the floors, guess your good for something.”

I think that was the first time in my life I was quiet, probably cause I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing. Oh, and by the way the clothes came out clean too, but soap is not always the right soap. Lesson learned.

Pillow Talk (A Valentines Day Up-date)

Pillow Talk


“The titanium screws in my ankle,” he moans. “The arthritis in my knee,” I whine.

It becomes a contest.

“The crick in my neck”

“My lower back”

“My blood sugar is low”

“I think I have a kidney stone”

I finally acquiesced. “You win.”

“I win.” He says as a smile spreads across his face. The smile quickly turns into a puzzled look. “I win what?’

I sigh, and reply, “The last Tylenol with Codeine and a peaceful nights sleep. I’m heading for the living room and the Lazyboy.”

I think I remember what our Pillow Talk use to sound like. You know, before children, or gray hair.

“I Think we need a new mattress, this one is lumpy.”

“Who needs a new mattress when we have each other for comfort.”

“Ohh is that cinnamon lotion.”

“Yea, for one spicy hot woman.”

“Is that the phone I hear?”

“It can wait, our love can’t.”

Then it slowly started to change as the years snuck by.

“ I think they mismarked the mattress, there does not seem to be enough room for both of us on this king sized bed.”

“ Ohh! Honey, is that Tanactrin? Could you rub some on my foot, I think I’m getting a fungus under my left toe.”

“ Is that the phone I hear? ”

“ I’ll get it, it might be Joe about war gamming night.”

My little trip down memory lane is interrupted, as my concerned, loving spouse, comes out to my Lazyboy sanctuary. He brings me a heated rice sock for my neck.

“ Aww, you do still love me.” I croon.

“ Of course Hon,” he replies. “But could you try keeping the snoring down a bit tonight? I think it might help that peaceful night sleep I won.”

I resist the urge to throw the rice sock at him.

“Sure DEAR, but maybe, you could use the ear plugs I so lovingly bought you for Christmas.”

“Good idea.” He mumbles as he ambles back down the hall to the bedroom.

(A Few Days Later)

Well, I’ve come to a conclusion; it may be less heart pounding talk, and occasionally from different pillows, but at least we still talk. I have to sign off now; William and I are having a race. Who can fall to sleep fastest? He misplaced the earplugs somewhere and he cuts the Z’s rather loud himself. I think I have a Bayer nighttime left somewhere.

"Freindship," The Perfect Re-gift

THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING



It’s that time of year again. The neighborhoods are filled with colored lights and plastic blow-up Santa’s. The bell ringers and red kettles are set up in front of the stores.

My favorite radio station is playing carols twenty-four-seven. Traffic has seemed to increase tenfold.

Although I know it is the advent of the Lord, I soon forget in my panic, with the arrival of relatives you only see once a year. I hear from the various traditional movies played on TV, “Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Man.” Only, in the bible it is worded different, it is, “Peace on Earth to Men of Goodwill.” So, I try to get into the spirit of the holiday. I set up a box for donations to the food bank and challenge my classes to fill it with items the shelters can use. I promise a party to the class with the most donations. The main item donated is of course macaroni and cheese. This is defiantly considered one of my teenagers main food groups, although I wonder how tired the needy get of this particular mainstay. My husband was volunteered to deliver presents from our church to the needy, so starts our preparation for Christmas.

We had a rough year financially, because of some medical bills, so we make a pac to only buy gifts for the immediate family, “ Yeah right!”

All have heard tales of the passed around fruitcake. I have not had this experience, but definately close. In years past I have always received, generously, gifts from my Taekwondo students. Usually years have themes. I have nicknamed them according to the themes. There was the Lotion Year, there was the Potpourri Year (That year I received five potpourri kits) there was the Year of the Candle, and Year of the Picture Frames, but my favorite was fattening, it was the Year of the Cookies!

What has this to do with my financial promise you might ask? Well, it goes like this, I read recently in the manners column of the newspaper a question that was posed, “ Dear Miss Manners,” it said, “When is it appropriate to re-gift? I quickly closed the paper and made up my answer on the spot, now was the perfect, acceptable time, when I’m completely broke and very desperate. My Child comes up with a few of the obligations at gifting such as, her teachers, her barn pals, the horse (He’s easy, a carrot will do.) My husband comes up with a few more; our church party, the in-laws, the best friends. The TV even tries to remind me of more obligations; the postman, the paperboy, the bank tellers, what?

The Dollar store becomes my best friend now. As each new forgotten subject comes up, my search for a cheap thoughtful gift becomes more difficult, and the drawer filled with past-received, non-necessary items, gets more tempting. An old friend calls up and says she is dropping by. I run to the drawer and pick out a coffee mug given to me a few years past. I quickly wrap it up and place a bow on top quite pleased with myself that I did not totally panic. She arrives a few hours later, we chat and catch up on old times.

She hands me a gift and I beam as I return the favor. Oh, she exclaims, “that was not necessary.” We unwrap our presents and my friend starts to laugh hysterically, tears even running down her cheeks. “What?” I ask.

She answers choking down her mirth, “ I bought you this cup two years ago.”

I now drop my head in shame, my face turning scarlet. Seeing my distress she reassures me, “ No, don’t be embarrassed. I’m laughing because I re-gifted too!”

I now join in the laughter. My friends then say, “Well, I’m going over to Sue's later maybe the cup will do.” I offer the scarf on my lap and she sheepishly replies, “ That was from Sue last year.”

We hug and agree the most important gift is our friendship, and we don’t mind that it is a re-gift!

Sleep by Therese Guy

Last Evening I had trouble sleeping and the following poem was inspired by my restless night.

                                           Sleep
My elusive lover,
Robs me of his sweet embrace.
Murders my dreams.
With the stealth of a ninja,
He poisons my system.
And my body twist and turns,
Tangling in my funeral shroud.
My cries to be rescued,
"Sandman"
Go unheeded,
Oh, to feel his loving caress,
To revel in his touch,
Just drift away,
In silent ecstasy.
But he is a no show,
I think we are headed,
For divorce!

Internet Dating

INTERNET DATING


I’m not sure what the statistics are, but as I head for fiftyfour, a great many girlfriends of mine, through the trials of their lives are finding themselves back in the singles category. This category puts them into another category, the looking for love category. In other words dating.

Well things have changed since they were younger, and the fastest most convenient, shopping for a man market, is now done with a modem or high-speed dial up. Enter the world of personal ads and blurry pictures.

One of my best friends has been trying this avenue. Although she has not dialed up love with a mass murderer (we think) her luck has not been great either. I feel there should be a school on interpretation of on-line personal ads. One that teaches you to read between the lines such as:

His statement:

v I like to stay in and watch movies and pop popcorn.

What he really means:

v I’m under house arrest, so we have to stay in.

His statement:

v Occasionally drinks.

What he really means:

v Water, that is, beer is a daily necessity.

He says:

v I share a cozy cottage with a family member.

He means:

v I still live with my Mom.

He says:

v I like taking long walks.

He means:

v I can’t afford gas and the bus stop is two miles from my apartment.

I think you get the drift. Well the last guy she met on the Internet she decided was not for her and he just does not seem to be getting the hint. I think she should try a few of these excuses they might help him get it.

Excuses:

1. I can’t go out right now I think I caught a virus from the computer. Did you use Purex before you e-mailed me?

2. I can’t go out on Thursday that is my dermatologist appointment for my facial wax.

3. Maybe next week, I’m almost finished with the final touches on my sex change operation.

Or she could just tell him the truth, I’m an almost fifty-year-old woman, going through menopause, and I’m not responsible for my hormonal actions that could include murder!

I am not single. However, the other day was a hard marriage day and when contemplating running away, my friend simply reminded me of the modern dating scene and I decided to stay put.

Motor Mouth

May 30th 2012




Motor Mouth

By Therese Guy





My friend posted a very funny and interesting post this week about how she attracts motor mouths as friends. I must say I would have to put myself in the chatterbox category of personalities. My brother use to taunt me with,

“Therese when you open your mouth your whole body disappears.”

If I were quiet as a child my mother would immediately take my temperature, cause if I was not talking--I certainly must have been ill!

My first grade teacher queried once, “Therese, why do you talk so much?”

My simple answer was, “Because I have a lot to say.”

To top it all off I married a man who can talk as much, if not more, then me. Our children had no chance, between heredity and environment; they could be nothing less then experts in the art of babbling.

I usually win in the duels of disseminating my vast knowledge (yeah right) only because I also inherited my dad’s loud voice. I have the highest amps.

One difficulty with all being talkers is our listening skills leave a little something to be desired. It is hard to focus on what another is saying when your busy thinking of the next thing you are going to relay.

My youngest daughter went through a teenage stage where she did not wish to talk or share information with me. I was so hurt and missed her noise. She is twenty now and has seemed to gotten over that. Trouble is she now wants to share and it usually is at eleven at night when I’m extremely tired and cannot seem to focus.

The other night she tried the above scenario. I tried to use some listening tricks I thought I had perfected. As she talked I interjected a few well placed, “uh-huh’s” and “really’s”. Even a few, “You don’t say’s.”

As she exited my room it took a few seconds to register what she had last said. I guess she recognized my zoned look and decided to be ornery.

She said, “Mom I’m pregnant and my boyfriend and I are broke, so we are gonna go knock off a bank.”

Not focusing I replied, “ That’s nice honey, have a good time.”

It did register though before she had gone too far down the hall and I rallied.

“Hey Erin, if it is a successful heist could you pick me up a pizza on the way home!”

Almost all jesting aside, I feel I have improved with age; I no longer get in trouble at the library, church, and hospitals. Thank God for texting!

Winters Touch

Winter's hand has come calling.
From the eaves--icicle fingers reach.
Their cold touch--like death
Into its grasp I'm falling.

What happened to earth's warm embrace?
Was it all a calumny?
Mother natures vile trick.
Does she mock me to my face?

As the bitter wind does blow,
I endeavor to resist.
To the snow Queen, I will not bow,
Even as the trees bend low.

How will frost's sharp bite I stave?
Indoor sports I will play.
With my lover--beneath the sheets,
I will find the heat I crave.

Hopscotch
By Therese M. Guy
Oct. 2009





Tough economic times are not new to my family. We seemed to have a proclivity toward the lower end of monetary wealth. Being impecunious (flat broke, for you who do not like big words) creates stress. Participating in vacations, sporting activities, and various other entertainment avenues relieves stress, by the average family. This presents our family with a conundrum, (I do like big words) we need to relieve the stress caused by the financial situation, but do not have the funds to participate in those recreational outlets.
Stress coupled with inactivity, and my genetic propensity for procrastination and sloth, could very well lead myself and other family members down that dark road of depression. On the other hand, our reaction to stress can lead us to creative ingenuity.
Most times we take the high road.
My husband William is very artistic. When our girls were younger he would grab sidewalk chalk and retreat to the driveway, girls in tow. They would spend a couple of hours drawing fantasy worlds on our cracked lined parkway. Sometimes William’s artistry combined with the manic side of his personality, and he became ingenious providing diversions from our bleak fiscal situation.
The best example of his ability to amuse on a budget came one balmy Sunday afternoon. Once again he took chalk in hand. He went to the sidewalk and created a hopscotch game that was a work of art. Each numbered square had a beautiful design in it. One was a dragon, another a butterfly. Then he returned inside. He gathered chairs and placed them in front of the big picture window of our living room. The window faced the sidewalk were the hopscotch game was. He indicated us to sit and brought snacks. At first we were puzzled, but it did not take long for the amusement to begin.
It started with an older couple, taking their daily stroll. They approached the hopscotch squares and halted. We could not hear what they were saying, but as they pointed and conversed, it was clear from their expressions that they were happily taking a walk down memory lane. It did not end there, next the sixty-some-year old lady hiked her skirt with a flourish and one leg came up behind. We all held our breaths as she balanced precariously on that one appendage. Then she was off hopping and skipping down the chalked sidewalk, her husband pursued, and his face sported a broad grin.
A short time later a young teen boy wearing faded, ripped blue jeans approached.
He walked with his head bent low, shuffling his duck taped, sneakers clad feet. He had one hand shoved in his jean pocket and the other held a smoldering cigarette. He too stopped at the edge of the colorful display. He studied the game for a couple of minutes. It seemed to me as if he was contemplating if any of the designs would make a good tattoo. He then raised his head and sheepishly looked up and down the street checking for onlookers, luckily he did not check our window. Once again a leg was raised, and off he went, one hop, two hop, two feet down and back to the one-foot hop. The disheveled youth did not seem so menacing at that point, not only were we enjoying the distraction to our daily worries, he too was transported for a moment to more simple times.
I can’t say I’m always so nonchalant about our money woes, but I think next time you are stressed you should remember this story, and take chalk in hand and let your creativity flow.