Amazing Zippered Woman

Maybe some of you remember the post I did about the gigantic spike that grew out of a yucca plant in our front yard. I have some new information regarding this unusual phenom that many of you will be interested in. Before I begin, I would like to ask that we all pause for a moment of silence. The yucca plant that produced this amazing 30 foot appendage has now passed away. It’s decrepit skeleton remains in the yard because the “thing” is still attached to it. It lays there as a symbol for the whole world to see - the symbol of a mother’s sacrifice for her child. Sniff, Sniff.

Anyway, enough sadness. We have finally decided on a name for this rare, towering column. You may remember that several names have been suggested - Spike, Yellah Fellah, and yes, even Dick because of its phallic nature. The name is (drum roll) Dickette. Yes,  she’s a girl - Dickette Marie Brennanyard.

 
This is a current portrait of the amazing young lady.

 
All of her beautiful yellow flowers are being replaced by baby yuccas.  This is how the determination of her true gender was finalized. Everyone knows that male spikes don’t have babies. And they certainly don’t have thousands of babies.

A close-up of just a few of Dickette’s offspring suckling at her ample breast.
Well, maybe not exactly suckling.

A small portion of the nursery that the proud grandpa made for the new babies.

I just have one question. Who is the father of these babies and how did the impregnation happen? I guess these questions will be answered at a later date.

Nothing is ever simple. I’ve been experiencing diminished sight in my right eye for several months. At my last eye appointment, the doctor confirmed that I do indeed have cataracts. It is my understanding that these were probably caused by taking Prednisone. So I can add cataracts (on both eyes) to all the other wonderful things this drug has added to my life - hump back, hair-loss, facial hair, big belly, ugly red marks all over my arms, and also a bad attitude. Or so Tom says. Can you tell I’m pissed and a little discouraged. Monday I went for a pre-surgery cataract evaluation. The young girl who was doing most of the tests kept doing one test over and over. I kept asking if there was a problem and she kept assuring me that there was no problem. She finally announced that she couldn’t put dilation drops in my eyes until the doctor had checked something. I started to get a real strange feeling, so I went to the waiting room and asked Tom to join me in the examination room.

He must have over heard the whole exchange, because as I opened the door to leave he approached me, gave me a small hug, and said, “Don’t worry about a thing. I appreciate a woman with attitude.” Phewwwwww.

I have a few more pictures from my trip to San Bruno that I want to share with my Dear Readers. These babies are growing up fast and I want to capture every moment. I really don’t think that 63,520 pictures for a four-day weekend is exorbanent. After all, taking pictures is harmless. I could have spent all my time drinking and scaring the neighbor children by chasing them with my teeth out.

 
Weezy is sitting in her BUMBO chair. It is designed to help
 children learn to sit up. Please notice the blue
dotted Swiss dress that she is wearing. Another vintage dress.
 We have pics of Katie wearing this at about the same age.

My guy and doll. That delightfully attractive women behind
the children is “yours truly.”

Eloise Grewe is smiling now. When Movy makes snorting pig noises,
she cracks up. Roscoe also loved snorting pig noises at this age.

Roscoe doesn’t miss a chance to hold his baby cousin.
In this picture, he is teaching her proper bink behavior.

 One of those magic moments that last in a memory forever.
Thank you Perpetua.

Very poignant. This makes me cry.

“Mom, take this stinkin’ bow. Chicks who roll with the Roscoenator
don’t wear no bows.”

Every mother’s dream. Enough said.

Party duds for our Perfect, Pretty Princess.

The shoes kill me.

I thank you again, Perpetua - with all our heart.

For those who have not seen the movie, let me explain the concept of a “Bucket List.” This is a compilation of wishes or adventures that an individual hopes to experience before he/she “kicks the bucket.” (I’m impressed with myself. That was a tremendous pun.) By way of illustration, I’m going to share with you ten of my Bucket List entries. Just let me reach in and grab a few.

Okay, here we go. Remember - these are just samples. Also the following are not arranged in any particular order.

#1
  Someday I want to flag down a car that contains a passenger who I have witnessed throwing trash out the window. I want to drag said passenger out of the car by his/her ear. Once removed from the vehicle, I shall scream, “I don’t want to live in your trash.” I’ll follow this statement with a spray of spit aimed at the eye of the offender.

#2
  I want to spend some time in Darfur and Gaza easing pain and letting these people know that Americans do care.

#3
  I want to live one week as a thin person - eating whatever I want without being riddled with guilt.

#4
I want to have “a little something” done to my eyes so that my eyelids are once again visible instead of being hidden in the folds between my wrinkles.

#5
I want to take my whole family on a cruise for at least a week - just eating, drinking and spending quality time together.

#6
I want to go on the Oprah show and talk about organ donation.

#7
I want to meet my donor family so I can share with them some pictures of me doing things that would have been impossible without their wonderful gift. For example dancing at my daughter’s weddings, watching my son graduate and hugging my grandchildren.

#8
I want to go on a photo safari.

#9
I want to put my tongue in Tom Selleck’s ear.

#10
I want to apologize to Georgia Kirksey for putting a dead mouse down her shirt when I was seven years old.

That’s enough for now. Why don’t you use the “comment” option on this blog and share a few of your bucket list dreams with my dear readers.    

When I’m out-of-town, the Big Irishman can barely cope with his loneliness. He wanders around the house aimlessly, mumbling to himself - totally despondent because Esther isn’t much of a conversationalist.  That’s why I was thrilled when he planned a guy getaway for last weekend while I was in San Bruno with the girls. He invited several friends for a fishing, drinking, camping, drinking, eating, drinking, talking politics, drinking, playing poker and drinking trip. They spent most of the two weeks prior to departure discussing location, planning menus and shopping for new fishing stuff. I didn’t realize that a fisherman needs new “stuff” for every trip. I must say I was quite impressed with their organization. 

Tom was in a real quandary about whether or not to take his loyal companion, Esther. She dearly loves to spend time outside with her dad, but can also be a real pain in the ass on camping trips.  She throws up from eating unidentified yuk. She rolls in foul-smelling wild animal dung. And she insists on being a lap dog around the campfire and sharing a sleeping bag.  But after gentle cajoling from Mama, he decided to risk it and Esther was officially on the guest list.  This decision presented a whole new set of problems.   ESTHER HAD NEVER BEEN IN A CANOE.  Scroll down to see how Tom solved this problem.

 
Esther seems perfectly relaxed sitting in the canoe on a local lake

Esther watches as Daddy maneuvers around a dangerous
outcropping of rock.

 
Notice the dam coming up and the dangerous snakes in the
rocks. Are they rattlers? Esther is prepared to take over
the oars if necessary.

 
A panoramic visual of Lake Brennan. I wonder
what the neighbors thought.

On Monday I returned from five days in San Bruno. Meghann’s company scheduled some business meetings for her on Thursday and Friday mornings. We all decided that I should come too, and make it a girl’s weekend. Or I should say, a girl’s weekend with Henry and Roscoe as the male guests of honor. We spent our time together playing and playing and playing. I was able to rock both my babies to sleep. It just doesn’t get any better than rocking precious angels. Eloise has developed an adorable personality and Roscoe continues to delight all those around him.

One evening we went to Fiddler’s Green  for dinner. It’s an authentic Irish Pub, and it seemed as though we had been magically transported to downtown Dublin. I’m part Irish so that makes my grandchildren also part Irish. I take my responsibilities as an Irish grandmother very seriously. Our trip to the Irish Pub afforded Movy (the grandma name Meghann has selected for me) a wonderful opportunity to begin Irish lessons with the kids. 

IRISH LESSON #1: PUB CRAWLIN’

 
As I began my instruction, Roscoe didn’t seem terribly interested,
but Weezy was hanging on my every word.

Roscoe was unable to finish his Guinness, but sure slammed down those
 shots of Irish Whiskey. (Just kidding - he was a tired little guy after a very 
full day of playing with Cousin Weezy.)

 
Weezy quickly grasped all the finer points of Pub Crawlin’ - 
especially “Don’t be wasteful. Drink every last drop.”

 
Weezy can’t believe she drank the whole thing.
She didn’t - her mama did.

I must say - my grandchildren caused quite a stir. People kept stopping by the table to comment on how gorgeous they are. Roscoe with his blond curls and huge blue eyes, and Weezy with her olive skin and black hair are a striking contrast. I just sat there smugly, nodding my head in agreement.

NEXT IRISH LESSON: SHAMROCK PICKING 

On Saturday, Judy (of jam fame) and I hosted a bridal shower for little Maren. I arrived at Judy’s house Friday afternoon for party preparation followed by an old-fashioned girlie overnight. (Yes, we talked about boys and made crank calls.) Judy is a gourmet cook and no culinary delight is too much for her to tackle. I, on the other hand, am not a gourmet cook. During the past thirty years I have been able to provide adequate nutrition to grow three children to adulthood. I’ve been able to throw together enough meals to cause stoutness in both myself and the Big Irishman. But “GOURMET” I’m not. I might add that baking is out of the question. My idea of “baking” is picking up the phone and ordering baked goods from bakers who actually know how to bake.

You can imagine my dismay when Judy suggested that we make cream puffs and chocolate-dipped strawberries for dessert. I was under the impression that there are bushes that grow chocolate-dipped strawberries. After several glasses of wine, I reluctantly agreed.

We assembled the necessary ingredients and settled in for an afternoon of cream puffing. I expected Judy to pull pre-formed puffies out of her cupboard, but was sadly disappointed when she started dumping stuff into two pans on the stove. All I can say about the first stage of the process is that it is absolutely essential to stir the hell out of the dough as it’s cooking. It resembled concrete and I’m positive that my right breast is now twice the size of my left breast because my right hand was used to stir said concrete.

 
I call this pic, “puff dough splops.”

 
Pre-pudding puffs.

Perfect puffs surrounded by beautiful berries.

 I can now say that I, Shanlee, have truly given birth to cream puffs. I don’t remember ever being so proud.

I have been postless much longer than anticipated. That “whine/wine” flu hit me really hard - actually it knocked me on my ass.

This is what greeted me when I looked in the mirror this morning. My pink nose bothers me the most.  Seriously, I haven’t been on top of the world. Three weeks ago I began noticing several lumps on my  right leg. As the days went by, the area around these welts became redder and redder. Then one morning I awakened to find a welt above my left eye. In panic mode, I made a Doctor’s appointment. After tests, I was diagnosed with a drug-resistant, systemic staph infection. It apparently settled in the valves in my leg. (I didn’t even know that legs had valves. Can one turn these valves on and release fat?) Because the infection was drug resistant, I had to take two of the new “super antibiotics.” The big fear was that the staph might possibly attack Perpetua. Let me tell you that these pills are called “super” because they make you super sick, but I had no other options I just have two days of medication left. Boo Hoo. It sucks to be me.

Just wanted to let you know that I’m recovering from
the “Whine Flu.” (or is it “Wine Flu”) I’ll be back Sunday or Monday depending on when my hands stop shaking.

Angelina Johnson

Every person in the world collects something - even if it’s just memories. I’m a huge collector. (I don’t mean I’m huge - just that I’m hugely into collecting.) I have many collections; mirrors, antique jewelry, and, in the last few years, all things heart-shaped or adorned. Tom also is a collector. He has an amazing assortment of guns, but probably his most impressive collection is what I refer to as his “garage collection.” This includes anything and everything that can possibly be shoved, stacked, wedged, hung, tied to, or otherwise placed in our garage. Our children have inherited our propensity to collect. Meghann collects panda bears. Katie collects music boxes and pigs. Patrick collects small, insignificant scraps of paper that are totally meaningless to the rest of the world.

Tomorrow I’m starting yet another collection. I’m going to save address labels from magazines and junk mail.