I’m Important To Them

They keep telling me I’m important to them.  Over and Over.  I don’t believe them.

They keep telling me about all the wonderful things they want to do for me.  All I have to do is ask.  I don’t think they mean it.

They say it’s almost time, that I will get what I want soon.  It has been a long time and it still hasn’t happened.

They say there are many places I can get what I want. I can’t get to any of those places.

If I ever get through to someone, I wish I could bring up my concerns.  I want to tell them that I don’t feel like I’m really important to them.  I want to tell them that I feel like they are keeping me at arms length.  I want to express that it feels like once they got what they wanted from me, I wasn’t important anyomre.

I wonder why they think that I might be interested in deepening our relationship by letting them do other things for me.  They obviously aren’t fulfilling my needs with our relationship at it current level.  I might be hurt more if we move forward now.

I want to know why they haven’t been responsive to my needs.  I’m crying out for help and they are ignoring me.  I feel like they need to listen to my concerns and address them.  I am alone, I can speak, but no one will hear me.

Why won’t they let me into the places I need to go?  Why are they hiding their cyber life from me? Are there others they don’t want me to know about?  Why can’t I have access to thier website?  I allow them to dictate my every move when we talk.

I’m hurt, alone and scared.  My ability to function has been compromised by something they have sent me, something that was supposed to make things better.  But here I sit, alone, and silent,  on hold.

On hold with customer service.

The More Things Change…

I heard my a-mom cuss once.  Just once. She asked me if I wanted to see my father’s piece of shit.  I had already heard all about my father’s piece of shit, he was very proud of it.  I figured since both felt so strongly about it, I better go see it.

Mom and I got in the car, went to town and she pulled into the driveway behind the store where dad was keeping his piece of shit.  Mom wouldn’t let him keep it at the house. She turned off the car, sat there for a moment, and then said, “Isn’t that the biggest piece of shit you’ve ever seen?”.

I had to admit it was a pretty big piece of shit.  I was looking at a four door 1958 Plymouth Fury convertible, or what was left of a four door1958 Plymouth Fury convertible.   The car had spent the last 20 years or so in a ditch and didn’t appear to have been in great shape at the time of it’s burial.

Dad had wanted me to come along when he recovered it.  I had declined.  He had already told me about the skunk and civet cat living under it.  Dad seemed to think this added to the value of the car somehow.  It was clear to me now that the car did have some value as a home for varmints, but probably not so much as an automobile.

About a year before this dad had decided that he wanted a car like the one he had just after he got out of the navy.  This wasn’t anything like that car.  Dad had owned a 1959 Plymouth Sport Fury Hardtop with the Golden Commando package. He had wrapped that one around a telephone pole.  He did managed to find that very car in the junkyard they had hauled it to in 1960, still in a V shape, and considerably rougher than even the his latest acquisition. This was early on in his car hording, and he decided not to buy his original car back.  I had always thought this was a wise decision, if only for karmic reasons.   Dad always had lousy car karma.

He did manage to find a 1959 Sport Fury in decent condition and have it redone to his satisfaction.   He had won a couple of small car shows with it and decided he was a car guy.  This is the man I had to show where the oil went in on my sister’s Camaro, as in, “It would be the little stopper on the valve cover that says oil, dad.”

His response, “Where’s the valve cover?”.

You don’t have to be able to work on them to love them.  Dad went about a mission of gathering every single Chrysler product produced between 1950 and 1960.  Plymouths, Dodges, Golden Commandos, Golden Lions, and my favorite, the DeSoto Firedome.   He wanted all the cars.

Dad’s passion for the car collecting didn’t sit well my mother.  It bothered her a lot.  I think dad kept buying cars just to piss her off for a while, then he couldn’t stop.  He once asked me to tell mom that I had bought a 1965 Fury the he had just acquired so mom wouldn’t kick him out of the house.  I played along but I don’t think mom ever bought it.  She knew I was smart enough to never buy a product made by Chrysler Corporation. That and the fact that dad was ‘storing’ a perfectly well running car for me when I had plenty of room in my own driveway, was a real tip-off.

Dad still has a lot of those cars.  None of them are finished.  He half ass tries to sell them from time to time, but is convinced they are worth what they would be in good shape.  I heard him quote someone $10,000 on that 1965 Fury the other day.  It hasn’t been started or moved for at least ten years.  Heck it would take a tow truck to get it out of the dirt.  Dreams have a price, but that doesn’t apply to cars.

I’ve never had those kinds of illusions.  I’ve picked up my share of pieces of shit but I always knew exactly what they were.  I never had any illusions about Dodges, Chrysler, or Plymouths either.  Never owned one, probably never will.  Other than a serious look at a Hemi Charger, that I just couldn’t follow through on, I’ve always owned Pontiacs.  I gave the title to the last Pontiac I bought to a very nice man from Kansas City today.  I’ll probably never buy another.  No more GTOs, Firebirds, or Grand Prixs. It’s Ok.  I haven’t had time for the damn things for years anyway.

My husband asked me if I’d like to look at his new piece of shit yesterday.

It’s a 1963 Chevrolet pick-up.

He said if I hate it now, just wait until I drive it.

Guess we will be picking it up this afternoon.

Anybody want to buy a slightly rough Porsche?  I’m going to need some room in the driveway.

The Zucchini Defenders, My Sister, and Bees! Bees! Bees!

First I must apologize to the zucchini lovers of the world.  I was not aware a vegetable could inspire such devotion.  Please know that I meant no offense.  Oh and…

ZUCCHINI SUCKS!

How could my sister not know where I live?  Easy.  I’m surprised she knows I’m still alive.  We are not close.  We don’t even pretend to be.  We just don’t have a thing in the world to say to one another.

She was the perfect natural child, I was the infertility cure that became obsolete.  I do have to give her credit for recognizing that from the get go.  I didn’t catch on, not really, until much later.  She has pretty much lived her life as if I didn’t exist.  If you count me, she was the middle child.  She never really believed that, and she was right.  She was my parents oldest child.  That’s alright with me, especially since she was so good at it most people actually think she’s older than me.  Heck, I tell people she’s older.

Papa2Hapa,  this explains the whole yard of the week affair. Trust me, I was as surprised as anyone else.

Now about the bees.

Remember that scene in the Amityville horror and the whole bee thing?

Yeah, that can really happen.  I got a call from my husband Monday saying that there were some bees in the bathroom.  I didn’t understand how many bees were in the bathroom.  He said he got them out.  I didn’t worry about it.

I came home yesterday afternoon and went upstairs and heard this buzzing.  There were a whole lot of bees in the bathroom.  A whole lot of bees.

I like bees.  I’ve even considered keeping bees.  But I really don’t want them in my bathroom.  So I did the only thing a small town person knows to do when presented with a wildlife threat, I called the extension office.  They gave me a phone number for a person who was supposed to come get bees and take them with him.  That sounded great.  I didn’t want to hurt the bees, I just wanted them somewhere else.

It was almost time for Mr. Pray to come home, so I thought I’d let him speak with the beekeeper.  It seemed like a man thing to me, and that it might be best handled man to man.

When Mr. Pray came home, I informed him that we had a bee problem.  He had to investigate and quickly confirmed we did have a bee problem.  I gave him the beekeepers number.  He called.

At first I could tell that the beekeeper was excited about our bees.  That was good.  Mr. Pray explained, in detail, where the bees were, how many bees seemed to be there, how active the bees were.

Then I could tell that something changed.  The conversation ended very quickly.  Turns out that the beekeeper was an exterminator.  He just wanted to kill the bees.  We didn’t want to do that.

So we turned to the only other source we could think of, the Internet.  Turns out that bees don’t like moth balls.  Good old mothballs.  Living in the wilds of the edge of town, we knew that many creatures don’t like mothballs.  Bats don’t like mothballs, badgers don’t like mothballs, and raccoons are annoyed, but not fully deterred by mothballs.  We know this from personal experience.  all we needed was a knee high hanging near the bees’ point of entry to make this plan work.

Mr. Pray asked me for an old knee high.  I hadn’t worn a knee high stocking for at least twenty years and knew it was highly unlike that any survived even in my disorganized dressing room.  I looked anyway, no dice.  I headed to the dollar store, no luck there either.  The big discount store by the Hy-Vee did have some, the package was rather dusty, but I figured they would be good enough for mothballs.

I returned home with the knee high, and David broke out the supply of mothballs from the garage.  We always keep them handy.  He went up to hang the mothball bomb from the bathroom window.  I headed on the patio below, cell phone in hand, for a good view, in case if incident.  All went smoothly.

Mr. Pray reported moments ago that we seem to be bee free.  I hope they find a good home.

A Long Weekend

Damn, I had a long weekend.

First, my garden is trying to kick my ass.  Indeterminate, yeah right, every single fucking one of those tomatoes is going to be ready at once.  To make things even better, my canner is crap.  I’m going to have to get another one, or spend about 3 days straight in the kitchen processing tomatoes.  Suck.

My summer squash are taking over the world.  Yeah they are great, I grew the little lemon variety this year, but I’m getting so much competition from everybody else’s zucchini, I can’t give the things away.  Why do people grow zucchini anyway.  Everybody hates zucchini, everybody hates zucchini bread.  Everybody.

My car broke down in the store parking lot.  Luckily my a-sister offered me a ride home.  Guess what?  She had no idea where I live.  This is a town of 2000 people, folks.  Apparently everybody doesn’t know everything about everybody else.  I know where she lives.  I’ve never been invited into her house, but I do know where it’s at.  Did I mentioned I’ve lived in my house for 2 years?  That it was on the home tours?  That I got yard of the week this spring?  Sheesh.

Yep, we are a close family.