Well, it’s been nearly a week and I figured it probably wouldn’t hurt if I got my butt in gear and put out a post. Yes I know, I’ve been really slacking, haven’t I? This is not all my fault, as I’m just adapting to my circumstances as best I can and am finding it hard to get motivated at all. Anyone been catching the national weather and happened upon the heatwave the Midwest is having? No? It’s been miserable, I’ll tell ya. We’re talking upper nineties with a heat index of 120! ONE HUNDRED TWENTY DAMN DEGREES FOR GOMER’S SAKE! WTF? LIKE HANGING OUT ON THE SURFACE OF THE SUN, I SHIT YOU NOT! ((composure)) A-hem…I’m doing fine. Pissy knows how to adapt. Okay, I lied. The old man broke down and put the air conditioner in the living room window Sunday, but still…I did manage to get through a big chunk of it without.
Yep, it’s been mighty HOT round these here parts. The first sign of some decent weather looks to be coming near the beginning of next week. The old man figured he’d better make my life a little more comfortable, so it would make his life a little more comfortable. I guess you really don’t have to stretch the imagination to come up with a scenario for what life at home is like for him with this middle-aged, moody, menopausal maniac when it gets hot enough she’s confined to her room for days to keep cool, and can’t blog. Oh yeah, he started picking up quick that I use my blog to vent, and if I can’t I’m gonna vent on him. Make mama cool in the livingroom so she can get on the pc and blog, and all is well with the world. Ahhhh…. Unfortunately, although the air in the bedroom and living room is a welcome relief, the rest of the house is still like an oven, and I can’t do dishes, laundry, etc., in either of those rooms so I still have to deal with periodic heat waves. These drastic temp changes have caused me to lose my appetite, I’ve been getting really light-headed when I stand, have no energy, and seem to have little desire to do anything above and beyond what I absolutely have to, including blogging. In a perfect world I would have central air again. In this one, however, I live in an old house the size of a manor that has no insulation whatsoever…and well, we’d like to have money to eat on after bills, thank you very much, so cooling this whole house is just not practical. I’m here now though so lets get on with this post…shall we?
So how did Pissy spend her weekend? Well, given that it was hot enough to bake bread in my living room, I did spend a good chunk of Friday and Saturday afternoon hanging out in my room watching movies, cause I’m a big baby. Not that I didn’t get on the pc at all, but limited my time. I really need to get a laptop so I can take it with me upstairs. I finally ventured outside to hang with the old man Saturday evening after the sun started to go down, and we had the most amazing moon coming up over the cornfields. Wow! It was huge! I tried to get a pic of it, but alas it looks like nothing more than a red blob on my digital. ((sigh)) Anyway, we hung out in the yard, watched the animals running around playing, and threw back some cold ones. Our pitbull, Sully, was zapped of energy so he lay pretty just watching the goings on around him; our Chihuahua, Johnny Cash (we call Hound Dog) was a different story. The kittens now–all ten of them–have gotten big enough that they are absolutely everywhere in the yard, and seem to be easy pickins. This is where I jump in to tell you that he’s a dirty, little, horny bastard that screws anything and everything that moves, and turned our yard Saturday night into his own private Hollywood Blvd of sex and sin.
Me: “Should we do something? I mean, you don’t think he’s actually gonna penetrate any of them do you?” We both take a sip of our beers and pause momentarily watching Hound Dog chasing them around trying to ‘mount’ whichever ones are unlucky enough to come within his reach.
Hubby: “I doubt it. They’re too quick.” He seems unphased by the fact we’re almost sacrificing our kittens in an attempt to break the monotony and somewhat entertain us.
Me: “Doesn’t this make us like bad parents, or something?” I asked, but didn’t wait for an answer because I became preoccupied again with the show.
Hubby: “So have you decided where you’re going to put your new chair?”
The old man went into the city Saturday afternoon, stopped at an auction, and bought me a very pretty, wing-chair recliner.
Me: “Huh?” I’m temporarily distracted and have to find my footing again. “Oh…yeah, I’m gonna put it where the rocker is in the living room.”
Hubby: “Then where are you putting that?”
Me: “I don’t know. I guess where my mom’s wing chair is. And don’t ask me where that’s going cause I haven’t a clue. Of course I could always just bring the rocker out here and sit it next to this one.” We had matching, upholstered rockers in the living room, but upon wanting more room moved one out to the garage where my husband always hangs, and he now uses it. “You know, cause that’s not going to look ‘Redneck’ or anything.” I laugh.
We both sit there for a moment as I describe the scene. Our five acre property with long drive that ends at an opened garage where two folks sit sweating in shorts and tank tops in the doorway of it rocking in matching, upholstered chairs, , downing cold beers, with a fat, lazy Pitbull lying nearby, and a Chihuahua trying to violate kittens from behind, while the “Black Keys” plays in the background.
Hubby: “Nah, that’s not going to look ‘Redneck’ at all.” He rises from his chair to fetch another beer. Upon doing so he starts to recite what he’s going to tell his friends at work on Monday, and gets a little ‘twang’ in his voice as he does so. “Know what I did over the weekend? Yep, mama and I just hung in the doorway of the garage and entertained ourselves by throwing back cold ones and watching Hound Dog try and breed with the cats. Should be expecting some ‘Ca-huahua’s’ here real soon.” He says this while taking the walk into the house.
Me: “Hey…grab me another too!”
I don’t know when I/we became rednecks, though I suspect my husband was all along and misrepresented himself in order to woo me in the beginning. Had I known that my life would be reduced to spending Saturday nights sweating outside in a chair guzzling beer while watching fireflies and my dog, I probably would’ve re-thought the whole getting together with him thing. Now it’s become almost second-nature to me. Most things I can deal with okay: The boredom, his hunting and fishing, etc. Others I’m not as responsive too.
Last night the old man came home late. Now this may be commonplace in some of your relationships–I worked at a bar and know men who seen more of the inside of it than they did their own homes–but it’s not commonplace in mine. When my old man gets off work he comes home. He’d better! Sometimes he stops at the store first, but always lets me know if he’s going to do that. I never have to wait for him, or worry about what he’s doing or whether he’s all right. Last night was different. Last night he decided to go ‘noodling’.
Anyone know what noodling is? For those of you who don’t, let me elaborate! ‘Noodling’ as it’s called, is where you go fishing for large catfish with your hands by sticking your arms down into catfish holes in the water and waiting for them to literally start to swallow your hand and arm before you pull it out. Doesn’t that sound like fun? Ummm…NOT! I mean, really…how disgusting is that? The disgusting part I could handle, however ‘noodling’ also comes with the danger of getting bitten or wrapped up by snakes, getting fingers lopped off by snapping turtles, or being pulled under and drowned. My husband knows how I feel about this, which is why he made plans to go after work with his buddies and didn’t tell me! His exact words when he came home were, “I knew you were gonna bitch and wouldn’t let me, so I didn’t tell you.” Guess what? I bitched after anyway! His response was that he had to do it just to know he had the courage to. Well he’d better not come crying to me when he loses fingers on his good hand and can’t ‘pull on it’ in the shower no more. Dumbass! Fortunately he didn’t, but I’m wondering now if he should go in with Hound Dog tomorrow and get his nuts cut too so it’ll keep his ass at home and settle him down. Yep, the little guy is going in and getting his junk ‘tweaked’ so he isn’t so hormonal. I mean, how unfair for the cats, right?
I told the old man that Sully should be next. Although he doesn’t try to sneaky-pee like Hound Dog does occasionally (as if his large ass could sneaky-pee and get away with it), and doesn’t attempt to hump anything, we have a hard time keeping him in the yard, he breaks the chain all the time, and the doc said it might keep him from running off if we get him tweaked too.
That’s right…Mama’s on a roll and she has the white coat to wield the knife and do her bidding. All of the damn men in this house should be very afraid!