Where Ox-like Morons are Feeding

It was a lovely Christmas Day at the Badger house. She had been working in the kitchen since 4 am, preparing all of Badger’s holiday favorites; real cranberries, sliced directly from the can; tossed salad made of ham, cheese, pineapple, onions, cheerios and lime jello; deviled eggs with a deep fingerprint on the top of the filling on each, salsa with eggnog chasers, and for dessert–the pièce de résistance, in his opinion, since it isn’t served at that fancy all-you-can-eat for $7.99 Water Buffalo Buffet, so “it MUST be one of those ‘delicately’ things”–a serving bowl filled with crumbled fruitcake, frosted flakes, corn nuts and strawberry whipped cream from an aerosol can.
And this, my friends, was breakfast. 
She packed it all into a dozen old coffee cans and dragged it into the bedroom where Badger was recovering from a laceration to his face he received by running into the new clothesline she had put up in the backyard. It was a most unfortunate accident; one that may have been avoided if she hadn’t used 20 lb test fluorocarbon fish line. And if she had measured correctly, Badger may not have taken the full impact on his face. Next time, she thought, razor wire, four inches lower.
(To Be Continued)

“Badger, the Ox-like Moron” continues…

Once again, we find Badger in the kitchen, staring into an empty cabinet. In one hand he held a large mixing bowl, filled to brim with milk. The other hand he waved around inside the empty cabinet, clutching at some invisible object. The process of doing both actions at once was taxing to his physical and mental coordination, and soon milk was sloshing out onto the floor.

“Honey, where’s all the cereal? I swear there was 5 boxes of it up here just a minute ago!”

” There was 5 EMPTY boxes there a minute ago. Did you think that by putting the empty boxes back into the cupboard would miraculously cause the boxes to fill up again with cereal?”

She was standing at the stove, stirring a large soup pot of simmering liquid. Next to the stove was a variety of cleaning products, bleach, scouring powder, disinfectant, and ammonia. Each were inscribed in permanent marker “BADGER, USE THESE TO CLEAN UP THE KITCHEN!”. None had been opened, until now.

Badger shuffled across the room, slopping more milk with each step. ” Gosh, you could have told me!” he whined. ” Now I spilled all the milk. Will you clean it up? I gotta get going.”

“Slip, slide, you silly oaf..” she muttered as she opened up the bleach bottle and poured a couple glugs into the pot. Immediately the scent of bleach filled the air.

“Whatever you’re cooking sure smells good, dear.” Badge was wiping the milk on the floor with a plastic shopping bag. ” I just hope I can have some; my diverticulosis is real bad today, and my hemorrhoids are acting up. And it’s still not a very Christian thing to do, talking low when I can’t hear you. ”

She was stirring the pot, and was commencing to add disinfectant to her recipe. ” Badger dear, can you tell me what time it is?” she was looking at a very old sheet of paper, and noted the instructions said to time the cooking after the disinfectant.

The clocks, all four of them– one on each wall– were the large school-room types. Badger, however, chose to use the microwave clock.

” It’s 19:20 ” he said, wiping his hands with the now-dripping plastic bag.

“What time did you say?”

” I SAID, 19:20!”

She turned and peered at the microwave. ” That’s the microwave timer! Can’t you see the word “timer” flashing?” She pushed the button to clear the timer, and the correct time, 6:53 a.m. popped up.

“Well, who the heck set the timer on the microwave?” he shouted indignantly.


to be continued…..


The Adventures of Badger, the Ox-like Moron, Part 1

 ” Is someone going to make some more coffee, please?” he whined as he held the coffee pot under the faucet.
“Yeah, YOU are.”, she muttered under her breath while sharpening the butcher knife. It was a puzzling thing to see, since there was nothing to butcher, no chicken to cut up, no ham to slice.
“But I …can’t make coffee as good as you. And besides, it’s not very Christian to talk with your mouth shut and I can’t hear you.”
His voice was not unlike the sound of sludgy  water dripping  into a pan of old gravy..you know the type, the stuff that’s been in the fridge one day too long, clumpy and with a thick skin on top of it. Or maybe like the sound of a sick mosquito trying to stay alive in a sloth’s ear that is terribly infected and pustulous.
to be continued

Well, if you don’t work here, maybe you need a new profession

A few days ago, my older sister Mag and I stopped at a Catholic Chapel to procure some holy water (which we planned to inflict upon the homes of unsuspecting relatives.)
My sister said every church has a Holy Water Font with a spigot (think Coors Party Ball) where anyone could tank up on Holy Water at no cost. Now, I am someone who sees the word “Free” and take as much as possible…unless the word “Free” is followed by the word “HIV virus” or “Herpes” or “pregnant female cat”.
But I digress…
Well, in this church, we couldn’t find that font of eternal salvation. Just as we were about to leave and look for another[free Holy Water filled] church, a priest walks past. I assumed he was a priest, since he was wearing a long cassock (look it up, heathens) and a clerical collar. A bit unsettling was the Adidas gym bag he was carrying’ but hey, it’s a free country, and the Mouthpiece of God IS entitled to carry any kind of tote he wishes…unless it has “Highway to Hell” silkscreened on it. Or maybe the lyrics to “Blurred Lines”, both of which are true signs of Satanic worship.
But again, I digress.
He hurried past us, but I stopped him with a stern “Sir!”–yes it’s been THAT long since I’ve been a Catholic. It worked though. He turned and said “Can I help you?”, but kept glancing at the “Exit” sign by the entrance.
“Can you tell us where the Holy Water is?”, asked my sister who is oh so Catholic and innocent, although she, in her younger day, smoked more pot and did unmentionable things with other pot smokers than I could have possibly dreamed of doing. And I was quite the party girl back in the day. That says a lot.
Digression, part III…
The priest replied, ” I’m sorry, I don’t work here.”
Feel free to disagree, but I’ve always assumed that a priest, regardless of where “he works”, would know where to get Holy Water. He would also know where to post banns for a marriage or where the closest Planned Parenthood Picketfest is being held. Luckily for us, we weren’t looking for those. Just some @#$5$@&^ Holy Water.
Then he walked away.
A theological question: If someone surreptitiously poured the Holy Water from the little fonts hanging at the entrance into a Tupperware bowl, is that considered stealing? And if so, does that negate the Mojo associated with the Holy Water? Because that’s just what we did. We were kind-hearted enough to leave a little in the bottom of font. Heaven help us if a devout Catholic dipped their fingers into the font and found it dry, condemning them to hellfire and damnation.
On our [suspiciously hurried] way out of the church, we discussed the behavior of the the priest. My sister said he was probably just visiting, stopping by to touch base with the Holy Trinity before venturing on to his new parish (probably located in Tuthill, SD, which is known to be the foremost Den of Iniquity of the central plains). I said, and I still say, he was a burglar, carrying the tools of his burglary trade in that gymbag, and had just robbed the votive candles and collection plates of hundreds, if not thousands, of pennies.
so…what say you?


Another Life

It has been a while since I last blogged….seems like it’s been another life ago. 

And it has.

My husband and I divorced in August 2012.  People change, some for the better; others,not.  This was the man I thought I would live the rest of my life with, but change played a huge role in bringing this marriage to an end.  I have never, and never will again, loved someone as much as I did this husband of mine.  I truly believe counseling and  a heartfelt commitment would have saved us, but when there is only one person willing to put that much energy into a relationship, the outlook is bleak.

I went through a really tough period after he left. I couldn’t afford to stay in the house we had rented –the one with the deep porch and backyard, garden, clothes line, and the gooseberry bush we planted together. Money was so tight, I had to sell almost everything I owned to pay rent and other bills. I had to give my beloved Dachshund Toby away since I couldn’t spend enough time with him. Luckily I found a wonderful couple who took him in and love him as much as I did (and still do).

Moving away from my neighborhood, my friends, my house was very traumatic for me.  I moved in with my sister and her family where I’m still staying. Because I couldn’t bring my cats, Molly and Lamont, with me, my (now former) boss took them in until I can get a place of my own.Things are looking up now.  I was promoted at my job, got a newer car, and have an apartment lined up and plan to move within the next month. I am so anxious to get back into my own place with my cats and get my life going again.

But I have so many regrets.  I regret the things I said to and about my husband, all in anger and frustration. There’s no un-ringing that bell for me. He is back in Ireland, and hasn’t spoken to me since he was getting ready to board his plane from Chicago to Dublin.  I was so relieved when he left; he had changed so much in the past 4 or 5 years, he was a different man. But I have to admit I love him still.  I worry about him, and think about him every day.  His favorite sister (and dear friend of mine) passed away a few days ago, and I needed his comfort and needed to comfort him.  Not a word from him.  

Would I take him back, if that option came up? Who knows. I certainly don’t know. What I do know is that I lost a most precious thing, and I need to move on to another life.

To the Man Who Builds Walls


There was a man, a lonely man
Who lost his love, thru his indifference
A heart that cared, that went unshared
Until it died within his silence

And solitaire’s the only game in town
And every road that takes him, takes him down
While life goes on around him everywhere
He’s playing solitaire

And keeping to himself begins to deal
And still the king of hearts is well concealed
Another losing game comes to an end
And he deals them out again

A little hope goes up in smoke
Just how it goes, goes without saying

There was a man, a lonely man
Who would command the hand he’s playing

And solitaire’s the only game in town
And every road that takes him, takes him down
While life goes on around him everywhere
He’s playing solitaire…

Too soon

I hate to wait.  I grew up in a family where it was a matter of fact that we would be late–for church,  for school,  for almost anything.   My sister,  from tales told,  got an” award” at her Senior High School banquet for being late for school every day of the school year.  Mind you, it was never her fault;   there was always someone lollygagging behind when it came time to drive our large family to school or anywhere else, for that matter.

So, as an adult, I have always tried to be on time, if not a bit early.  This is almost an obsession of mine, as I reckon being late shows lack of moral fortitude and respect.  But lately,  I have seen how being early can be devastating.

A few days ago,  my sister “D” called to say  that her mother-in-law passed away at the age of 82.  You’d think 82 would be long enough for anyone to live, but this woman was amazingly healthy.  Lorraine had lost her son 25  years ago and her husband 10 years ago,  enough to make even the strongest person want to just wait till death  came to carry her back to her loved ones.  But this woman made a point of making every day, every moment of her life,  matter.  She was an avid–to the point of obsessive–bicycler, and was involved in every community project she could volunteer for.  Then one morning, her biking partner came to her home for their usual morning ride, only to find that Lorraine had died in her sleep.  A full life, at age 82?  I say gone far too early.

My own mother-in-law, Alice,  died this way as well.  She was 71, not in the best of health, but so full of life, love, and ambition that the shock of losing her still weighs on my mind almost 30 years later.  She was alive, lively, and living her life one moment, then the next moment a heart attack took that all away.  Words can’t describe the horror and devastation of finding her body.   Words can’t describe the excruciating pain of telling her children she was gone.

When a child dies, it’s  too soon.  When anyone younger than ourselves dies, it’s too soon.  But when someone we love and admire dies, regardless of their age, dies, it will always be too soon.

Alice is with her husband Vic and daughter Eda;  Lorraine is with her husband Phil and son Tim.   Knowing this gives us great comfort,  but losing them was, and always will be, too soon.