All About Freda

Every time I go to make fried eggs or grilled cheese I am reminded that I lost my last grandparent this past August. It is the teflon scar where the butter charred after I got the phone call that always hits me each time I see it. You'd think I would get used to it, part of me is afraid of exactly such a thing.

My grandmother Freda was one tough cookie. She kept her canned red hair until she moved into her retirement home at the age of 90. I guess at that point she decided to finally give up the illusion of youth. I mean, who are you trying to kid living in an old age home?

She was a widow for my entire life, since 1976 and this stunted her. I can hardly imagine being alone with my own thoughts for one whole day, let alone an entire lifetime. Noone to bounce your ideas off of, tell you your nuts and then make you laugh afterwards. These are the keys to my sanity and I know without them I would also be a challenging broad to spend time with. This led my grandmother to worry about money in a way that drove everyone in my already fairly frugal family bonkers.
This, along with various events occurring prior to my birth solidified a strained relationship between my gramma and my father, her son. And hooey, do kids learn from example. As we grew, we just didn't treat my gramm all that nicely. Ok, maybe nicely, but not warmly, not so much like family.

And then along came my husband and he asked me early on in our relationship why everyone was so mean to gramma, and I really didn't know why. Yes, she was difficult, yes, she was stubborn, but these are not reasons enough. And this alternative view, this newcomer's pointed insight shocked me, and eventually my brother too, out of our stupor. And I'm not saying it was all roses, I still got angry sometimes and lost my temper, and rolled my eyes, BUT I also laughed and hugged and made jokes and enjoyed.

My gramma died in a way that we should all choose to go. She felt lousy on a Wednesday, went into hospital and Friday and died on Saturday. Kaboom. The downside for the living is there is no time to accept, to deal, to ok yourself with the inevitable. But of course, this is a small price to pay, and since she paid the ultimate price here, who are we to quibble.

And so, its important that I put into writing that I loved my gramma. Her prickly edges, her mushy insides, her easy laugh and her nubby knuckles. And she loved me, and she loved my daughter. My fry pan is a reminder of all of these things, so many words to find in a charred teflon surface.

Men. It's Always About the Hormones.

This is the huzbo's take on my insanity. Facts are true, conversation never happened.

Quickhand Sally: I f**n' hate The Huzbo, he's such an a-hole

Coworker: Oh my god, what did he do now?

QHS: He was so annoying at picking me up at the airport last night. I asked him to park and he didn't even park.

Coworker: That is so annoying, so was he late?

QHS: no, he was an hour early.

Coworker: yeah, that's annoying. Did he make you wait?

QHS: no, he was waiting in the lobby as soon as we came out of the doors.

Coworker: are you serious, he didn't come on the plane and take your bags off? I hate men. So if he didn't park, what, he left the car on the shoulder of the 401 and made you guys walk out there?

QHS: no, the car was right in front of the doors that we came out of.

Coworker: That is so business. I hate that, I can't believe he didn't let you walk up the escalator with the luggage cart and across the pedestrian footbridge. I love that footbridge, it's why I travel.

QHS: I know, I was in transit for 12 hours and last thing I wanted to do was get off the plane and get right into a warm car. (the bastard also kept the heat going so we'd melt when we got in).

Coworker: Yeah, so because he didn't park, you must have had to figure out where to meet him and all that.

QHS: no, he took care of that too. But he did make me pick up my cellphone and call him.

Coworker: he WHAT??? speed-dial or no speed-dial?

QHS: speed-dial.

Coworker: Huh?

QHS: But I really stuck it to him. When he was buckling Aviva in, I grabbed the heaviest suitcase I could find and tried heaving it into the trunk. I sighed really loud so he knew just how annoying it was that he was buckling Aviva in. And then I didn't talk to him the whole way home.

Coworker: Maybe you need this apple with a hole in it?

Hi Goose!

So you are two, and I really have to say that you are fabulous. I have never really done this before, write to you, write down what it is you do, how you are, but there is just so much going on with you that I know I won't remember if its not documented somewhere.

Truth is you weren't always this fabulous. Our relationship got off to a bit of a rocky start. I mean, you screamed a lot, you weren't particularly funny or engaging, you screamed a lot, you really hurt my boobs and you may have screamed a lot, I can't remember because of all the screaming. But we have moved on, and I have begun realize that you weren't actually out to get me. You were just figuring your shit out. And really, we're all just trying to do that but you were less socially refined than others, so you kinda took it out on everyone else, which was rude, but in hindsight, completely understandable.

And now, now you have a beam of hearts radiating out of your chest (when you aren't cranky, tired or being contrary for no reason). Actual hearts! and stars! And I can see them and they hit me in the chest and I want to smush your face and fold you into me, but you don't let me do that, so I suffer. Oh, how I suffer.

Over our horrid holiday season of 2009 you decided to become the chattiest Munkers in the world. You have so much to say. And its all in the way that you say it, because the content often lacks for creativity.

For example, you love it when its "luppertime", you wear "locks" on your feet and each morning after you are dressed you put your hands in your pockets and tell me "pockets". And I am floored each time (I'm also a cheap drunk if anyone's curious).

If I show you a box of Cheerios in the morning you shout "No, hot cereal!" And thus you are shortly served Cream of Wheat with blueberries and jam. You are a high class lady.

You also love broccoli, and I am not convinced that this phase will last so I thought I should document it as proof of your mature palate, temporary though it may be.

You make wise longterm choices. At the doctor's office a few weeks back you handed me a half eaten lollipop in order to play with your sticker. This bodes well for future dental care and all of us but Dr. Wengarten, DDS are happy about that news.

You remain obsessed with Bunny. You blow Bunny's nose ('honk honk'), clean his face and generally crush my heart with your caring soul and kindness. You then uncrush it by throwing a fit about wanting to stand on top of the counter / ending the bath/ not watching Elmo 24 hours a day... I digress.

You are good at throwing fits. I am good at walking away from these and so far we have basically kept them in check. You yell, flail and scream but keep one eye on me and if I'm not into it you are good at moving on with your life. Your dad, he will coddle and presume you are in great pain, but you can't fool me girly, I'm on to your wily two year old ways, I've got your number, toots.

(Side note, how do you spell toots? As in 'nice ass, toots/ tuhts/ tuts'.? Please enlighten)

Basically, you have become a touch human of late and I couldn't love it more. I know the day will come when my coming home from work won't excite you, when you aren't interested in sharing the minutiae of your day with me, when you realize that your dad is not a super hero, but even then I will love and cherish you. And I will buy you a car so that I remain relevant.

Munks, I love you bigger than the whole world.

The Apple Doth Not Falleth Far From the [Petrified] Tree-eth.

We took Ms. Gooseface, age 2, to an indoor amusement park this weekend. And we said "Amuse!". And she did not. She 'fraidy catted all over the place. She became petrified of slides, fearful of bouncy mats and terrified, yet strangely drawn to the horsies on the carousel. So much so that we had to take turns taking Ms. Gooseface on the carousel, but she refused to actually SIT on the horse. She would only be held by said sucker-parent as the evil, yet intriguing horses went up and down and Mama Gooseface felt like puking into a bucket.
And Father Goose? Oh he was livid. He of amateur cliff-jumping (whilst testicle covering) fame, of naked rapid canoeing over Thanksgiving weekend and losing his glasses glory could not believe that he had spawned a 'fraidy cat.
And when he told me that it was all my fault. And I could not agree more.

And there we have one of the first concrete signs that Ms. Gooseface is really mine!

Who the F is This Silly Sally Character?

Hello Folk(s),

This is all a little meta, po-mo for me, writing out into oblivion. Hello nobody! Currently, you (yes I am referring to you, noone) can call me Sally, but that is likely to change, since that is not actually my name, but a mere moniker to suit my current mood.

My blog promises:

1. I promise to always try to capitalize where appropriate because the sheer laziness and neglect of not pressing 'shift' at the same time as another key is what historians believe immediately preceded that whole Fall of Rome (see, my word is gold) thing, and who needs that to happen again?
2. sometimes i will not stick to my word, as it is sometimes a bit more gold plated than 18k.
3. I promise to tell some truths. Or the truth as I see it.
4. I promise never to quit this blog as long as I live.
5. I promise to raise taxes, reduce spending and decriminalize small amounts of marijuana.

So, this is me. Ok, this is my blog persona, but it feels vaguely familiar.

xo, Sal