Tag Archives: Argument

My Fall From Chaos-Handling Glory to the Wickedest of Witichiness

I’m someone who’s spent their entire existence dealing with the chaos that crops up in life. And, I like to think I did it without too much screaming and yelling

Handled with the tenderness of a teddy bear

Handled with the tenderness of a teddy bear

Older relatives say my ability to handle pandemonium started when I was a little girl. Great Aunt Margie tells of walking into our house, after Mom’s sixth or seventh child, (she’d lost count) and seeing me standing on a stool so I could reach the kitchen sink, washing a mountain of dirty dishes.

Add a couple more brothers, and our house went from confusion to chaos and I handled it all. When I left home I carried the chaos, and the ability to handle it, with me.

I went from living in my parents’ tiny dilapidated farmhouse to living in tiny dilapidated apartments. Some catastrophe or another always befell me  – like the time the building was condemned, or when I discovered the owner going through my underwear drawer, or the place that was haunted by a handsome tennis player (yes, this happened).

I divorced and moved, with my young son in tow, from apartment to apartment…sometimes twice in one year. Our lives were in constant chaos and yet, I dealt with it – without any major meltdowns.

If there were Olympic medals for wrestling with the triathlon of Surprises, Problems and Emergencies – I would have used my well-toned Chaos Muscles and won the gold.

Now, after years in the same chaos-free home, with the same chaos-free husband, we’ve decided to sell and move to something smaller.

Evidently, a short fifteen years of non-use can cause olympic-sized Chaos Muscles to atrophy — to the point where a mere call from the realtor that someone wanted to view our house, sent me into chaos-hating cranky mode.

I loaded up my laptop and headed to Starbucks, cursing all the way. At least, what I consider cursing.

“Darn it,” I swore, “I’ll never get my blog post written now,”

I ordered my cappuccino and after sitting down in a hard wooden chair, realized that my world would be ending soon because I’d forgotten my ear buds or, worse, the mouse! “Fiddlesticks,” I cussed.

Day after day, this happened until…well…ummm…I sorta snapped.

My expletive-loving friend, Kerry – the one who named our critique group WTF so as to cause me constant embarrassment when I tell people the name of it – demanded that I post our recent text conversation.

Well, to quote her directly, she wrote “OMG! Laughing my fucking ass off!!! You need to post that on Crazie Town!!!”

So I am…and what follows is a true-life dialog depicting my fall into the Wickedest of Witchiness.

Kerry wrote: Hey, T.  What’s going on with the house? Any more bites? And where r u moving to anyway?

After massaging my aching Chaos Muscles, I replied:

@#$%!@^$&#$*

@#$%!@^$&#$*

All questions that make me mad at Husband, some of them for no fucking good reason.

Where are we moving to you ask??? Started this whole process because Husband wanted no more maintenance. We start looking at maintenance free places and he fucking doesn’t want to pay the HOA. Wants to look at houses. WE FUCKING OWN A HOUSE!

We had a great offer on the second day but then he added stuff in the contract like “we will not be held responsible…selling property as is…”  She walked away and I was so fucking mad!

Then, we got an offer higher than the lost offer and…I was fucking mad because he’s so fucking lucky and I couldn’t be fucking mad at him anymore!

I fell out of the Crazie tree and hit every branch on the way down – Part Two

Cuckoo Clan

p_v11agy64zae0464This week we start with my parents, Lewis and Virginia. (If you missed last week, click here.)

Mom grew up an only child, an unwanted one at that. My Great Aunt Margie told me that when Mom was little, if you asked her name, she’d say, “No, No, Virginia!” In grade school she was molested by the janitor. She ran home and told her mother who said never to speak about it again.

Mom graduated early from high school and went away to K-State at sixteen.  She said the minute she left her mother’s house, her life began and she rarely returned home.

Dad’s upbringing was the opposite. He had two sisters and was the beloved boy in his family. He served at the end of WWII, but the only danger he saw was while guarding AWOL prisoners.

Escorting a soldier to the privy, the guy stopped in his tracks and said “Would you shoot me if I ran?”

“I don’t honestly know,” Dad said, shaking in his boots. “Should we find out?”

In their last year of college, Dad as president of his fraternity, asked a popular girl to  the fall dance. At the last minute she cancelled so Dad called a young woman that had been hanging around him. Mom was so excited to be going with Dad she wore the name tag with the other girl’s name printed on it through the entire event. (Why I hate name tags.) Dad said Mom set her sites on him and he never had a chance and, besides, he didn’t have the heart to send her back to her miserable mother.

Mom and Kathleen eating popsiclesSo she packed away her taffeta dresses, her girdles, stockings and her high heels and moved with Dad to the family farm. Picture a less glamorous version of the TV show, Green Acres.

Dad neglected to mention to her that farm wives fix dinner (lunch to you city folk) for the men and the hired help working in the fields. The morning after their honeymoon, Mom’s new mother-in-law arrived early to help cook, only to find Mom in bed, reading a book.

Cooking was not Mom’s strong point so I can only imagine what got served that day. After that, Mom was relegated to setting the table and washing dishes while the farm women fried chickens, mashed potatoes, opened jars of their home-canned vegetables and served pie.

Dad with uncles in front yard

This picture of Dad is the way I like to remember him. Tall and lean with a dark farmer’s tan covering his arms. He was a heavy smoker and would roll the bottom of his jeans into a thick cuff where he shook the ashes.

Dad graduated with a degree in agriculture and was chomping at the bit to apply everything he’d learned. Unfortunately, Grandpa liked the old system and that’s the way it stayed.

The land (and the house we lived in) belonged to my Grandpa who would decide, on occasion, to pay Dad a share of the farm income. My entire childhood I heard Mom yelling at Dad, “You go over there and get our money right now!”

I said to my older sister the other day, “Remember mayonnaise sandwiches? I loved those.” She sighed. “Do you remember we had them because there wasn’t any food in the house?”

When Mom and Dad could no longer feed the family on what the farm made, Mom went back to school and became a teacher. Dad worked extra jobs where he could — laying asphalt for the city, helping Uncle Harold collect change from his juke box machines, and one long miserable year as a realtor.

He once applied for a job with a chemical company and they called him in for an interview. He had to take a train to the main office and was gone for a couple of days. Mom cried the entire time, terrified that he would take it because it would mean he would be gone a lot. They offered him the job but he turned it down.

Making money was something Mom and Dad never figured out how to do. But, one thing they were good at, was having kids.

ONE

ONE

TWO

TWO

THREE

THREE

FOUR

FOUR

FIVE

FIVE

SIX

SIX

SEVEN

SEVEN

And a few years later…

EIGHT

EIGHT

Tons of Fun

Tons of Fun

With Dad’s passive personality and Mom’s fiery one, it made for quite a roller coaster ride for us kids, but our parents were devoted to us and I never for one moment, even during my worst teenage years of hating my parents, felt unloved by them. We ran to Mom when we needed a hug and to Dad if we needed an ice cream cone.

It’s true, they didn’t know a thing about making money, but they did know how to make a family.

I would do whole thing over again, exactly the same way.